DrillingDownDeep Read online

  “So they bunk with men.”

  Miss Donald piped up, sounding more subdued than she had on deck or in the control room. “It’s not an issue anyway, since bunkmates are always on opposite shifts. When one’s sleeping or in the cabin, the other is working.”

  He turned to her. “Who’s your bunk mate?”

  “A roustabout named Lenny Krantz.”

  “Roustabout. So what does that mean exactly?”

  She shrugged. “A kid. He’s only twenty-one.”

  “And you’re an ancient…what?”

  She didn’t answer, her eyes narrowing in what she wasn’t bothering to hide was annoyance.

  “Vanny here’s old for her years, Mr. Reynolds. She practically grew up on a rig.”

  “Is your bunkmate sleeping now?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You can show me your cabin. And you can leave those cases. Mick, is it?” Mick nodded, following orders as most people did in Michael’s experience. “Thank you. I may have some questions for you later, but for now, that’ll be all.”

  The older man looked uncertainly toward Miss Donald.

  “The safety officer was supposed to show me around as I understood it,” Michael said deliberately. He nixed his earlier idea of getting another tour guide, at least for now. He wanted to have a talk with this one first to make sure they were on the same page in terms of safety on the rig. He wasn’t going to watch his investment in Transcoastal float off on an oil slick because of somebody’s bad attitude.

  O’Malley nodded. “Sure. No problem. Catch you later.”

  “Shall we?” he asked her when they were alone.

  Her cabin was on the same level and, not surprisingly, proved identical to the one he’d initially been shown to. She leaned against the door frame as he went in.

  Michael glanced around, noting the jumpsuits in the open closet, no indication of gender other than the size, a few considerably larger than the ones Miss Donald must wear. “Your bunkmate, this Lenny, he’s working? I’d like to meet him.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at her coolly. “Why not?”

  “Well, actually Lenny is on an off-shift.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s not on the rig. He’s on his twenty-one-day home stretch. Wyoming, I think. We work fourteen days on, twenty-one days off.”

  “Good. Then I’ll share this cabin.”

  She froze and then ignored the word share. “Okay. I’ll just gather up a few of my things and get out of your way.”

  “No need. I’d like the whole experience. Sharing a cabin and all.”

  “The whole experience is that the bunkmate is not around when you are,” she pointed out testily. “Since I’m supposed to show you around the rig, that doesn’t quite work out. I’ll be going to bed when you go to bed.”

  “I don’t mind,” he responded. When she looked uncertain, he added, “In fact, I insist.”

  She was still wearing her hard hat, but the angle of her chin, jutting out stubbornly, gave him the clearest view of her face he’d had so far. A lovely, golden complexion. That was his first thought. Young was his second.

  “Does your protocol require wearing the head gear,” he gestured toward hers, “in the cabin?”

  “No.”

  He removed the hard hat he still had on. “Good. Let’s take these off.”

  He shrugged out of the windbreaker he’d worn to combat the brisk temperature of the helicopter and held it up with the head gear. “Which bunk is yours? Upper or lower?”

  “Lower,” she said through what sounded like clenched teeth, unexpectedly causing Michael to smile.

  He rarely smiled at an employee during the honeymoon phase. Reynolds Industries didn’t buy companies unless there was at least a little reorganization involved. No matter how well run a company—not that he was saying this one was well run, that remained to be seen—there was always room for improvement in his book, and in his father’s. So Michael usually focused on that in the honeymoon phase, with not much to smile about.

  He tossed his jacket and hard hat on to the upper bunk and turned back to her. She hadn’t taken her hat off. He dropped the smile.

  Even the occasional malcontent didn’t disobey a direct order. “Take it off,” he repeated, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. When she didn’t, still jutting her chin out at him, he said, “I’m assuming Mick or whoever is in charge of you has laid out the current facts of life, or if not, that you can read a newspaper. Reynolds Industries has taken over Transcoastal, for a hefty price tag and with the full consent of the board, right before we kicked most of its lazy members off it, that is. I run Reynolds Industries and now I run Transcoastal. So you know what that means?”

  “Yeah. I know what it means.”

  “Good. I’m the boss. So take the hat off.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “What? Are you going to fire me for not taking my hat off in your mighty presence? Is it some screwed way to show respect? Because where I come from, Mr. Reynolds, men earn respect through their actions, not by snapping their fingers and spending their daddy’s money and acting like some petty dictator.”

  He was not amused. On the other hand, he was not surprised either. She was simply saying out loud what most of his employees thought anyway but were afraid to say to his face. Part of him even admired her for it.

  Of course admitting that wouldn’t help to bring this particular employee in line.

  “I sincerely hope your entire workforce doesn’t have this recalcitrant attitude, Miss Donald. I’d hate to have to snap my fingers and fire everybody. It’d be very inconvenient.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Well, I sure would hate to inconvenience you, Mr. Reynolds.”

  They stared at each other, affording him the opportunity in the fluorescent light of the cabin to notice that her eyes, when they weren’t narrowed in disdain, were really a quite appealing shade of green.

  She whipped her hat off and held it in front of her, as if she actually thought he was demanding it in a show of respect. In fact, he had been trying to get on a less hostile footing with her, although he seemed to be accomplishing the opposite.

  With the hard hat off, she glared at him. He registered that she was a blonde.

  And gorgeous.

  Vanny took a deep breath. Christ. What was her problem? He was never going to recognize her as his one-night stand from two months ago. To reassure herself, she ticked off in her mind the reasons exactly why that was. Her hair was her natural golden blonde and short and curly now, not long and brown and straight. The contacts had hidden her true eye color too. So that wouldn’t ring any bells. And of course her tanned, scrubbed-clean face wasn’t the perfectly made-up pale it had been that night either.

  He probably wouldn’t have remembered her even if she had looked exactly the same. The night had undoubtedly not made the same impression on somebody like him as it had on her. Maybe that was what she was mad about.

  She hated to think she really could not keep her temper for one short tour, which unfortunately now seemed to be morphing into a slumber party. She knew she was lousy at sucking up, but she could be civil when the occasion demanded it. And this was one occasion that sure had demanded it.

  She’d screwed up royally.

  She ran a hand through her short curly hair, shoving it out of her face now that the hat was no longer in place to do so. He stared at her as if she was a bug he was about to step on, but at least without the slightest bit of recognition. And she was. As insignificant to him as a bug he could step on. But she’d be the one who’d be squashed if he did.

  If he fired her, who knew how long it’d take her to get a space on another rig with another company? She was good, but her whole career, her whole life in fact, had been with Transcoastal. Not that that would make a damn bit of difference to Reynolds and his cronies if they wanted to “reduce the workforce” as they so euphemistically called it.
But it made a difference to her. And it made a difference to her father, who was still loyal to the company he’d slaved thirty years for, even after being unceremoniously fired.

  Clutching her hat with both hands, she knew what she had to do. “I’m sorry, Mr. Reynolds. I didn’t mean to sound so disrespectful. Mick was right about us being rough around the edges out here. You’re the boss. We all know that and you won’t have any trouble from me.”

  He continued to stare at her and then his eyes flicked down. Shit, he wasn’t going to insist she take the jumpsuit off too, was he? She had just the briefest tee and shorts on underneath. He was probably the kind of guy who remembered a body better than a face.

  A knock at the open door took their attention. “Everything all right?” Mick asked, holding a steaming cup out to Reynolds. “I thought you could use some coffee before you get started.”

  Reynolds took it. “Thanks.” After a sip, he glanced at her. “We’re fine. I’m going to bunk in here with Miss Donald.”

  Mick turned a panicked face to her and she shrugged.

  Michael had only been half-needling Miss Donald by threatening to bunk with her. Hell, he hadn’t even been certain he was going to stay the night on the rig. But now that he had seen her, he found himself very serious indeed.

  Which just did not happen. Michael Reynolds did not date employees. No matter what. Had never even contemplated it, no matter how lovely the woman. Miss Prentiss, his assistant, was a prime example. Besides being calm and efficient, Miss Prentiss was a plush, polished brunette whom Michael’s friends were always hitting on whenever they visited him in the office. But he’d never even entertained the notion of making overtures to Miss Prentiss. Workplace sex was…messy. And in any event, unnecessary. He got all the sex he needed outside the office. And he most certainly didn’t need the hassle.

  But here disrespectful, resentful Miss Donald took off her hard hat and revealed that tousled head of golden curls and the tanned, perfect set of her cheeks, and he was suddenly contemplating messy indeed. She looked familiar as well, but he supposed that merely meant he liked a certain type. Classic bone structure, flawless skin, wide sensual lips.

  He found himself more annoyed by how lovely she was than he had been when she mouthed off to him. He took another sip of the too-hot coffee, burning his tongue. Maybe that would help. Or maybe a tour of the oil rig, what he was supposed to be here for anyway, would help. He set the cup down on the compact vanity beside the closet.

  “Shall we get started, Miss Donald?”

  “Sure.” Without her hard hat, she seemed to take off some of that attitude as well. Maybe they could play nice and forget about their original rough start. Or the fact he wanted to jump her bones.

  They did, however, need to set one thing straight. “While I have you both in here, though, perhaps this is the time to talk about what happened up in the control room.”

  “The kid just got over-eager,” O’Malley explained. “He read a gauge wrong. It was nothing.”

  “It better be. Because whether you say it out loud or not, the oil spill that must not be named—”

  “I’m surprised you’ve even heard of Voldemort,” Miss Donald snapped. “Studying up on his techniques, were you?”

  “And here you were not two minutes ago acknowledging that I was the boss, Miss Donald. What happened to that?”

  She thinned her lips. In fact, she appeared to be sucking them in, over her little white teeth, probably in an effort to stay silent. She succeeded. O’Malley looked resigned. And scared.

  Good. That was something he was used to dealing with.

  “I don’t intend to have what happened on the Deepwater Horizon happen here or on any of the other rigs Transcoastal owns. Now I’m aware you’ve had a few accidents—”

  “Oh please,” she muttered. “Like you can compare a few loose valves to the Gulf oil spill. Besides, you got your scapegoat, didn’t you?”

  Her silence hadn’t lasted long.

  “It’s precisely that kind of attitude, Miss Donald, that I need to make sure we don’t take at Transcoastal. And if that means slowing down the pumping, or slowing down the time before you get to your off-time or whatever, so be it.”

  “As long as it doesn’t cost more money, I assume.”

  “Oil spills are the ultimate waste of money and should be avoided at all costs.”

  “Eleven people died in that incident, in case you’re interested.”

  “Additional incentive for safety I would imagine.”

  He did know eleven people had died. And he had felt as bad about that as the rest of the country did. In some bizarre way, he almost wondered if he was subconsciously trying to help, to do what he could, by having Reynolds Industries buy Transcoastal.

  Of course the fact that it was a good investment didn’t hurt.

  “Look, is that where all this hostility is coming from, Miss Donald? You’re afraid Reynolds Industries doesn’t sufficiently feel your pain?”

  “I’m not afraid of it. I’m absolutely certain of it.”

  “Then you should be doing everything you can to make sure such an accident doesn’t occur on your watch.”

  “I am, you asshole!”

  O’Malley groaned and Miss Donald herself clamped her mouth shut, as if she wished she could take the words back. She probably did. Being surly with the boss was one thing. Calling him an asshole was another. Not that Michael had never been called an asshole, but it was usually after he fired someone, not as a reason for it. And again, he couldn’t recall being called one by a woman. Not in the workplace at least. Plenty of ex- or about-to-be ex-girlfriends certainly had. But that was another matter.

  He said the first thing that came into his mind. “If you think I’m going to give you special treatment and take that kind of disrespect from you because you’re a pretty girl, Miss Donald, you can think again.”

  Unwittingly, he’d apparently chosen exactly the right thing to say to egg her on to further depths of insubordination.

  “Why, you condescending…” The swearing she started in on made O’Malley shake his head.

  For his own part, he was a little startled by the sight of this angelic-looking young woman spewing such foul-mouthed insults. When he’d been breaking it off with his last mistress, a post-divorce Tiffany Fischer—admittedly after she’d just given him a perfectly competent blowjob—he’d been subjected to some swear words he’d never heard a woman utter before. But Tiffany had nothing on Miss Donald.

  “Enough,” he finally snapped. Thankfully, she stopped. He ran a hand through his hair and then patiently tried again. “I take it from that extremely colorful rampage that accusing you of getting special treatment as a woman is sort of a, ah, sore point with you, Miss Donald.”

  She nodded. “I guess you could say that. And stop calling me Miss Donald. I’m Vanny. Unless I’m already fired of course.”

  “And what are you if you’re already fired?” he asked sarcastically.

  “About to knock you back on your ass, handsome.”

  “Oh Vanny, for Christ’s sake, why don’t you just jump overboard if you’re so all-fired-ready to shoot yourself here?”

  Vanny glanced at O’Malley. “Don’t have a heart attack, old man. I’m not taking you with me or anything.”

  “Would you like me to fire you? Is that it?”

  “No,” she said sullenly. “Except maybe the knocking you on your ass part, I guess.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to counter “As if”. She was tall for a woman, maybe even as tall as some of the models he’d dated and, unlike them, she had some substance to her frame. But if she could knock him on his ass, he’d hang up his testicles. He was six four and had about sixty pounds on her and hard hat or no hard hat, he wasn’t going to let a woman—

  He halted that train of thought abruptly. He wasn’t on the playground here.

  “Let’s take a step back. What I’m trying to say is that it’s safety first with Reynolds Indus
tries, with this acquisition and every acquisition we’ve ever done. Don’t worry about why that is. Just take it from me, it is. Now you’re the safety officer and all I’m trying to ensure is that you’re doing your job.”

  “Why the hell wouldn’t I be? I’m on this rig too. Something goes wrong, it’s my ass, literally, not yours.”

  “Fine. Point taken.” For all he’d said he wasn’t going to give her special treatment for being a girl, he wondered at his willingness to let the argument go. All he knew was that despite her outrageous, unprecedented really, behavior—had she actually called him handsome as casually and dismissively as a guy might say beautiful or babe?—he wasn’t inclined to fire the prickly Miss Donald.

  At least not yet.

  Maybe she should put her hat back on though. Those silky curls she kept batting out of her huge green eyes were driving him crazy.

  He didn’t have to glance at the bare vanity to know she didn’t have a bit of makeup on either. Not a look he usually saw on a woman, even on the rare occasions when he woke up next to one. That she could look so lovely notwithstanding was disconcerting.

  He retrieved his hard hat. “Okay, so how about that tour?”

  “Sure. You need steel-toed boots too. What size are you? Thirteen?” She reached into the closet at his nod. First a bunk bed and now he’d be wearing somebody else’s boots. This trip was turning out to be quite an experience.

  Chapter Two

  Tick, tick, tick… He put the metal casing over the crudely constructed explosive, pleased that it blocked out the slight sound of the timer. In this corner of the mess hall, it was unlikely to garner much notice. Just an unspecified box, which if anybody did notice they would probably assume was for tools or first aid or whatever. The guy footing the bill for all this—whoever the hell he really was since he was just a voice on the phone to him and a deposit in his bank account—had said to set it for a time when he could be pretty certain there’d be nobody near when it went off. And with where he put it, the chances were miniscule someone would open the box before it went off and see the bomb.