"Woods, Stuart - Dead In The Water" - читать интересную книгу автора (Woods Stuart)

that would take him to St. Marks had already left and had to be
summoned back at great expense. He hid reached St. Marks sometime
after 3:00 A.M. Nevertheless, he had been met by the charter agent and
taken to the boat, a Beneteau 36, a roomy French design, and had,
without unpacking, fallen dead into the double berth in the little
owner's cabin.

He got out of bed and stumbled naked into the little galley and found
half a jar of instant coffee in a cupboard. Shortly he had found the
gas tap in the cockpit, boiled a kettle, and made himself a really
terrible cup of coffee. While he drank it he took a stroll around the
interior of the little yacht, a very short stroh indeed. He was glad
there would be only the two of them aboard.

There was a very nice dining table, some books, no doubt left by
previous charterers, and a small television set. He wondered what he
might receive on that. He turned it on and, to his surprise, found
himself looking at CNN.. The marina must have a satellite dish, he
thought. He slid into the navigator's seat, the leather cool against
his naked buttocks, and looked around the chart table. All the island
charts Were there, plus a small Global Positioning System (GPS)
receiver, a VHF radio, and everything else they needed to navigate in
the islands. He found some stale cereal and ate some, watching CNN. A
major snowstorm would reach the New York City area by evening, and
travel was expected to be disrupted. Thank God Arrington is getting
out this afternoon, he thought. He washed his dishes, then unpacked
and put away his clothes. A swim might be nice, he thought; he got
into some trunks and climbed into the cockpit. As he did, a yacht of
about forty-five feet have into. view, under engine. It had a dark
blue hull and teak decks, and her name, Expansive, was lettered on her
bow in gilt. Two other things about the yacht caught his eye: the
mainsail was still up, and in tatters, and it was being steered by a
quite beautiful young woman. She was small and blond, wearing a bikini
bottom and a chambray shirt knotted under her breasts, leaving a
fetching expanse of tanned midriff showing between the two. The yacht
passed within twenty yards of Stone's boat, but she never looked at
him. Oddly, no one came on deck to help her dock. He started to go
and help, but a yellow flag was flying at the cross trees signaling
that the yacht was arriving from a foreign port, and he saw a uniformed
customs officer waiting to take her lines. Stone watched the somewhat
clumsy operation and wished he had gone to help. He'd have liked a
closer look at the woman. He put down the boarding ladder, then dove
off the stern into the bright blue water, which turned out to be
exactly the right temperature--about eighty degrees, he reckoned. Maybe
later today he'd call somebody in New York and gloat. He swam out
about fifty yards into the little harbor, then sprinted back to his
boat, hauling himself up the boarding ladder. He got a towel from
below, made himself another cup of the awful coffee, and settled into
the cockpit to get some sun on his all-too-white body. As he did, he
saw the customs officer leave the yacht and, at a dead run, head for