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No one would put up his boat and services for less than a daily charge, despite offers of prospective fortune and paid expenses.
    â€œHello? Is anyone home?” she called out, knocking on the low rail of the stern deck.
    No answer.
    â€œPerhaps we should have checked the Cantina Gaviota first.”
    â€œHe said he’d be here.” Gingerly placing a foot on the deck, she boarded the vessel with an easy spring. “Well, come on,” she said, waving at Remy. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
    â€œBetween the pages of a good book,” he replied, looking as if she’d just asked him to jump off a cliff without a parasail.
    â€œHello?” Jeanne shouted again as she climbed the short steps to the pilothouse level and knocked on its partially closed door. “Is anyone home?”
    Through the film-covered glass of its weathered wooden doors, she could see that what the Fallen Angel lacked in money spent on aesthetics, she more than made up for in technical equipment. Eager to get a closer look, she called back to Remy. “Maybe he was called away and left the boat open for us.”
    The sliding door hung at first, but with a little more exertion, Jeanne opened it. “Jeanne, honestly,” Remy whined from the deck. “What if that beast is aboard?”
    â€œKnock, knock, anybody home?” she said above Remy’s protest. From what she’d seen of Nemo, he was more playful than fierce. And besides, the dog would be barking if he were on board.
    Her attention was immediately drawn to a bridge that would make any marine enthusiast drool. There was a state-of-the-art radar system, depth sounder, GPS Plotter, autopilot, a VHF radio, and other gizmos that Jeanne had never seen. Pablo hadn’t told her that Gabe Avery was a techno-addict—another plus in the tall-dark-and-dashing’s favor.
    Not that the tall, dark, or dashing part mattered, she reminded herself. This was business, nothing more. Gabe Avery could look like Ichabod Crane and she’d be just as glad to have him.
    â€œI should hate to have to bail you out of some south-of-the-border calaboose for trespassing, Dr. Madison.”
    Oh dear. Remy is getting seriously impatient. But he’ll get over it, Jeanne thought, noting the large navigation table. Overhead was a rack filled with charts. As for the salon part, a tatty canvas-upholstered sofa lined the starboard bulkhead, while its mate, judging from the shadow on the sun-bleached wood on the opposite wall, had been removed and replaced by a homemade combination storage chest with a padded seat for a lid.
    Must be for his diving parties , she thought, tempted to see if there were tanks stored inside. But that would be going too far . . . although a peek couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t as if she intended to make off with them. Tiptoeing over, she lifted the lid. Sure enough, there was Gabe Avery’s diving equipment. Nothing skimped there either, she mused, recognizing the name brands.
    Unable to resist, Jeanne bent over for a closer examination when a husky voice sounded behind her.
    â€œSweetheart, you’d best have good reason for rummaging about on my boat.”
    With a start, Jeanne pivoted away from the chest, the lid slamming down behind her. In the companionway, a bare-chested, sleep-ruffled Gabe Avery peered at her, eyes narrowed against the assault of bright morning light. Most of his raven-dark hair had escaped his ponytail and framed his scowling face.
    â€œWhere’s N-Nemo?” Jeanne stammered as he fully emerged from below. Thankfully, the rest of his magnificent torso was clad in low-hanging sweatpants. “I did knock,” she said, backing away from the one-eyed peek of his navel over the waistband. She tore her wayward gaze away. “It’s me, Captain . . . Jeanne . . . I mean, Dr. Madison.”
    Not trusting his ears, Gabe shaded his eyes from the light blinding him through the open