Книга - Treasure

Treasure
Helen Brenna


Treasure hunting is in his blood…Jake Rawlings has been searching for the Spanish galleon Concha his whole life. And he's paid a heavy price. Suddenly he's saddled with Annie Miller, a marine archaeologist who claims she can take him to it.All she wants is a home, family and a white picket fence…Annie has her own reasons for going back to the Concha. Before their sudden deaths, her parents found the Santidad Cross–an artifact–on board. Since then the curse of the Santidad Cross has ruined her life. Now she wants to bury the cross at sea–and her bad luck with it.As they set sail for the Bahamas, maybe the real treasure is staring them in the face….









Dr. Annie turned toward him. “How about you, Jake?”


He stuffed his hands into his pockets and fiddled with the seventeenth-century gold coin he carried everywhere. His first real find, the coin had always seemed to help him center and refocus his priorities. Turning the coin over and over between his fingers, he contemplated the aerials and the stack of research she’d accumulated. The idea of a landlocked museum curator putting together pieces of a puzzle that had stumped hundreds of men for hundreds of years was absurd.

She had a secret. Jake glanced at her face. Eyes that sparkled with mischief. Features that grew prettier every time he looked at them. Most likely, she was another amateur treasure hunter with big dreams.

A stranger, an archaeologist, a woman. And those lips… He’d be crazy to bring her onto his boat. Then again, for a chance at the Concha, he’d be crazy not to.

The coin warmed in his hand. This one was for Dad. And Sam. “When can you be ready to head out?”


Dear Reader,

I had so much fun writing Treasure. The idea for it came to me after I read a newspaper article about a tenacious and visionary man named Mel Fisher. After many years of searching, he, his family and his crews finally discovered the real mother lode of all Spanish galleons, the Nuestra Senora de Atocha, that sank off the coast of Florida close to four hundred years ago. The Atocha eventually yielded $450 million dollars worth of gold, silver and gems. Wow!

But the more I researched, the more I realized that Mel Fisher’s discovery hadn’t come without a price. He devoted sixteen years of his life to this venture, and near the end lost his son and daughter-in-law in a tragic accident. No doubt I’ve oversimplified the treasure-hunting process and pushed the limits of poetic license, but I hope I’ve succeeded in giving you the sense that treasure hunting is an all-consuming, complicated and dangerous undertaking. This is Jake and Annie’s world. May they become as real to you as they are to me.

I’d love to hear what you think of my first book. You can e-mail me at helenbrenna@comcast.com, check out my Web site at www.helenbrenna.com, or chat with me and several other well-established authors on ridingwiththetopdown.blogspot.com.

Enjoy,

Helen




Treasure

Helen Brenna





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Helen Brenna grew up the seventh of eight children in central Minnesota. Although as a child she never dreamed of writing books, she surely assimilated the necessary skills from her storytelling brothers.

With a B.S. in accounting, she started career life as a CPA and thought she’d end career life as an old CPA, but the decision to stay home with her kids made all things possible.

She lives near Minneapolis with her husband, two children, two dogs and three cats and would love hearing from you. E-mail her at helenbrenna@comcast.com or send mail to P.O. Box 24107, Minneapolis, MN 55424.


For Mark, my moon

No writer is an island. I can attest to that more than most. My sincerest appreciation goes out to everyone who has ever supported and encouraged me along this decade-long, often boulder-strewn road.

In the beginning there was Susan Kay Law, Connie Brockway, Taylor Kristoffe Jones, Judi Phillips and Nancy Leonard. They taught me how to write and, boy, did I need them. Then along came the princesses, Rosemary Heim, Becky Klang, Christine Lashinski, Monica McClean, Mary Strand, Tina Plant, Katie Quay, Roxanne Richardson, and Sara Tieck. They taught me how to enjoy writing and help me enjoy life.

I’d also like to thank Rosalie Brenna and Connie Lillibridge for their unflinching support through the years and for being good liars. If they’d told me the truth about my first amateurish, awful attempts at writing you wouldn’t be holding this book in your hands.

Big, sloppy thanks to my agent, Tina Dubois Wexler, and my editor, Johanna Raisanen, for believing in my work. You two are the best!

A lot of research went in to writing Treasure. If I’ve made any mistakes with the scuba diving details, you can blame Kurt Wahl. He won’t mind. Any other mistakes are solely mine.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE




PROLOGUE


“BLOOD,” the Aztec prince whispered in the twilight. “The gods will require it.”

I knew then his intention to make a sacrifice.



Annie Miller, a curator at Chicago’s Field Museum, sat at her desk engrossed in the Spanish soldier’s nearly four-hundred-year-old diary. A group of coworkers approached the hall outside her office, and she prayed they wouldn’t stop to make the requisite once-a-month lunch invitation. Though they tried including her in their outings, even amidst this group of introverts Annie was a bit of an oddity.

She leaned over the ancient book, letting her long brown hair fall like a privacy fence over her face. Thankfully, they passed by, and, in no time, the office white noise all but disappeared. She was lost in the wild jungles of Veracruz, Mexico. 1621.

The right place. The right time.



“Huitzilpochti!” The prince softly summoned his god of war and raised his arms to the sky. “Hear me. Defend your people!”

Hidden amidst the brush, I was both mesmerized and frightened. Duty demanded I stop the prince, and yet had I not borne witness to the heinous crimes perpetrated against his people? Native boys and men, beaten and slaughtered. Women, raped and enslaved. Did this man not deserve a measure of revenge?

“Make all who would have this gold,” the prince cried, now uncaring as to who might hear him, “those greedy of heart and wicked with intent, know your wrath and die! Make them suffer as they have made my people suffer!”



Annie swallowed. All these years she should have known. She might not be dead, but in looking at her life she might as well be.



I watched in horror as he set his shoulders and dug a sharp rock across each wrist. Thick, menacing clouds swirled above my head as he poured his lifeblood over a golden cross. His blood oozed over the pearls and emeralds set within the cross’s frame, casting the largest, clearest stones I had ever beheld in deep, red glory.



Gold. Pearls. Emeralds. Annie’s neck tingled with dread. The Santidad Cross. It had to be. She wasn’t crazy after all.



Having heard the disturbance, several guards came quickly to find the prince collapsing to the ground. Lieutenant Sanchez kicked over the dying man and seized the cross. The storm gathered strength. Rain fell hard and fast. Lightning split a nearby tree, scattering the guards, but I remained rooted to the spot, watching as a large limb sundered from its trunk and crushed Sanchez, the cross still in his grasp.

The gods had listened.



Annie closed her eyes. Gripping the diary in her shaking hands, she remembered another time, another place. Other deaths. The curse was real, and this proved it. She picked up the diary, drew a small, heavy box from her briefcase and went in search of the head curator. He had to see this.

“Aaron!” She knocked on the way into his office, a large, white space filled with artifacts, book after oversized book and curious pieces of what most normal people considered junk. “I need to show you something from these newest acquisitions.”

A prime focus of her work at the museum, many called it an obsession, involved acquiring Spanish artifacts from Central America. She was always searching, always hoping. Upon hearing of the death of an elderly man in the area who’d brought back many relics and such from his travels to Belize and surrounding countries, she’d jumped at the opportunity to acquire his collection.

Aaron stood behind his untidy desk pulling on his suit coat. “You made it through that stuff already?”

Annie nodded. “A lot of what he owned belongs in antique stores,” she said, “but this—”

“Annie, I’m sorry. I’m already late for a lunch meeting.”

“Read this one passage. Please?” She held out the diary. “It’ll only take a second.”

Sighing, he scanned the excerpt and handed it back. “Intriguing. Let’s talk about this when I get back.” He didn’t believe her. No one did.

Unwilling to give up, she followed him down the long, antiseptic hall. “I’ll walk out with you.” Though the museum was filled with rich historical artifacts and lavish decorations, its administrative offices lacked a speck of personality.

“You’re thinking Santidad Cross,” he said, “aren’t you?”

“What else could it be?”

They reached the outside grounds and were greeted by a perfectly warmed summer day. As they came to Aaron’s parking spot, he slowed to face her. “I thought you’d decided to quit obsessing over that cross.”

“This is it, Aaron.” She glanced up at him, squinting against the noonday sun. “The validation I’ve been looking for all these years.”

“Annie.” He reached for her cheek, stopped, and instead squeezed her shoulder. “This…fixation is ruining your life.”

What life? She had no life to ruin, but it was sweet he cared. She’d tried caring back, really she had, but as attractive, intelligent and financially stable as Aaron was, she felt nothing romantic toward him. There had to be something wrong with her.

“We don’t even know if there is a Santidad Cross.” He tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat of his convertible.

“Did you read the soldier’s description?” She jabbed the old book. “No other such cross existed at this time.”

“You can’t accept it, can you?” Clearly frustrated, Aaron ran both hands through his light brown hair. “The Santidad Cross and its curse are myth. Speculation. Rumor. The cross isn’t listed on one single manifest, let alone the Concha’s. There’s no port master’s record of it. No ship record. Nada.”

She held out the diary. “What about this?”

“No official document ever mentions the Santidad Cross!”

“Maybe it wasn’t listed on anything official because no one wanted to scare the crew of the ship carrying it. News of the curse could easily have spread from one port city to the next.” She shook the book in his face. “And because of the rumors, the Concha’s captain may very well have kept the cross hidden in his private quarters.”

“Annie.” He gripped her shoulders with both hands. “The cross…doesn’t…exist.”

Her breath lodged in her throat. She’d known he’d say this, but all the same it blindsided her. She’d allowed a part of herself to hope Aaron, of all people, would believe her. He was her friend. And he’d given her no choice.

As he climbed into his car, she loosened the string on the box she’d been carrying. “Here.” She drew back the cloth coverings. “Look at this.”

He put the keys into the ignition and, obviously humoring her, glanced halfheartedly at the contents of the box. In an instant, he grew completely transfixed, didn’t tremble, didn’t breathe. Only his hair ruffled slightly from the breeze blowing in off Lake Michigan. “Have you shown this to anyone else?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Aaron, we have to lock it away at the museum. Put it somewhere no one can touch it.”

“This is yours? You came by it honestly?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want it?”

“No!”

He grabbed the box and tossed it on the seat. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Aaron, don’t!”

“We’ll split it.” He started his car and revved the engine. “Fifty-fifty.”

“No—”

He grinned at her, pointing to his ear as if he couldn’t hear her, and zoomed out of the parking lot.

“Wait!” She raced after him, hoping to catch him at the red light. The stoplight turned green before she got to the intersection. He sped across Columbus. She saw the truck. Heading north. The driver wasn’t slowing.

“Aaron!” she screamed, running.

Tires screeched. Metal crunched. Aaron’s body flew across the road. He hit pavement with a sickening thud. Cars slammed on brakes. The busy street hit gridlock in seconds.

“No, no, no!” She reached Columbus and bent beside his still body. His blood poured onto the hot, dry asphalt. Frantically, she tried stopping the flow. Brushing away the tears clouding her vision, she felt his wrist. No pulse. Felt his neck. Nothing. “Aaron! Oh, Aaron!”

It was starting all over again, and the truth hit her with sickening awareness. She was the only person who could stop it.




CHAPTER ONE


“WHY DID YOU PULL IN all four survey ships?” Jake Rawlings strode into Oceanic Exploration’s largest corner office and slammed the door behind him.

Harold Puttlim, OEI’s head honcho, glanced up from the maps and surveys strewn in front of him. “You tell me, Jake.” He tossed his pen aside and leaned back in his chair, folding his bent, arthritic fingers over the small paunch of his stomach. “For two months you’ve been running all four ships practically nonstop looking for the Concha. What have you got for me?” He nailed Jake with his characteristic show-me-the-money gaze. “Are you any closer to finding it than you were two years ago? Ten years ago?”

No. Jake couldn’t truthfully make that claim. But then neither could anyone else. Treasure hunters had been climbing all over themselves looking for the shipwrecked Spanish galleon Concha since it went down in a hurricane off the coast of Florida almost four hundred years ago. With a main cargo hold loaded with enough gold, silver and gems to fetch close to a billion dollars, no shipwreck was more coveted, none more elusive.

“I made a promise,” Jake said evenly. “Don’t stand in my way.”

Harold seemed to chew on that, his cool gray eyes warming with sentiment. “Your dad and I were partners long before you owned your first set of flippers. I know how much he wanted the Concha.” He paused, all trace of emotion draining away. “But a personal promise made on a death bed holds no place in business.”

He knew Harold was right. Still, there was the little matter of that smile on his dad’s grizzled face after Jake had sworn he’d find the Concha. The glint of pride in the old man’s eyes as he lay in that hospital wasting away had stuck with Jake like barnacles on the hull of an old wooden boat.

“We were close this time.” Jake resisted the urge to slam his fist against the antique mahogany desk. “I know it.”

“How do you know?”

“Trust me, Harold. I know. The way a man knows his best friend just slept with his wife.”

Harold raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Considering that happens to be your area of expertise and not mine, it doesn’t do me much good, now, does it?”

Jake bit back a nasty comeback and walked across the plush gray carpet to the wall of windows, keeping his gait as normal as possible. His ankle was aching to high heaven today, but he wasn’t about to show any manner of weakness to Harold, or anyone else for that matter.

“The fact is you’ve exhausted your crews,” Harold continued. “Pissed off everyone from cook to captain. Spent millions this summer. And all you’ve got to show for it is a feeling you’re close.”

Flipping back his baseball cap, Jake said quietly, “I never said this search would be cheap or easy.”

“You did commit to finding it this diving season. With that tropical storm brewing and another one right behind it, you’re running out of time.”

“I’m doing everything I can.” Since his dad had died, responsibility for OEI and its employees nipped at Jake’s heels like sharks after bloody prey. He’d pumped most of his savings into the company and quit taking a salary months ago, but the debt continued growing. They had to find the Concha. Soon.

Several seagulls fighting over a washed-up fish carcass distracted him for a welcome moment. Although this time of year the surf still rolled gently onto the sand, it was already the end of August, well into hurricane season. They were diving on borrowed time.

“If my survey crews chart for four hours—” Jake paced, edgy to get back on the Mañana. To do something, rather than talk “—I chart for six. If my divers are under for six, I’m under for eight. What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to open up that hard head of yours and consider another approach.” Harold rested his knobby fingers on the desktop. “The right on-board marine archaeologist, someone with a history background, might help locate the Concha.”

So that’s what this was about.

Jake stopped in the middle of the room. “We’ve been having this discussion for years. Archaeologists do nothing but slow down operations. They want you to document everything. Pick up everything. Pottery, utensils, wooden planks, every piece of crap. I can’t afford to waste time salvaging anything that doesn’t pay the salaries at this company. We’re looking for gold, silver, gems. Period.”

“Well, I got news for you. Milly and I agree on this one. Period.”

Jake couldn’t believe his mother agreed with the old coot about anything, much less planned on marrying him. Jake’s dad hadn’t been gone that long.

Harold threw his pencil onto the desk. “You think you’ve got to prove something since Sam died—”

“Don’t,” Jake said, thrusting out his hand, “bring Sam into this.” At the mention of his younger brother, the pain in his foot turned to all out throbbing.

Now it was Harold’s turn to sigh. “I miss him as much as you, Jake, but you’d better hose down the fire in your belly, or it’s going to burn right through you and everybody else in its path.” He picked up his phone, dialed an internal extension and said, “Come on in here and bring your stuff.”

“You’ve already hired somebody?” Jake asked.

“Three days ago.”

“Great.” Jake ran his hands over the stubble on his cheeks. “Just great.”

If Sam were here, he’d have old Harold sweet-talked out of this archaeologist nonsense in the time it took to form a simple hitch knot. Sam had been the charmer in the family. Charismatic and easygoing, men, women, young and old, had followed him around like puppies eager for a scratch behind the ears. He’d been the star, the risk-taker and, although it had been unspoken, the one expected to find the Concha.

Jake, on the other hand, had always been OEI’s backbone. A responsible, if not boring, workaholic by most people’s standards, he was known for his calculated precision and clocking long, hard hours. And that was before the accident. Since then, no one seemed to understand the forces driving him. He worked hard…so what? The way he saw it, he merely did what he said he was going to do, and said what was on his mind, straight up, no embellishments, no sugarcoating.

With Jake, you always knew where you stood. With Sam, you’d have liked standing where he put you.

Sam. Oh, Sam.

A soft tapping sounded on the door, yanking Jake back from his thoughts. The archaeologist in question walked into the office, carrying an armload of oversized charts and other documents.

“Annie, come on in.” Harold stood and smiled in a fatherly kind of way, surprising Jake. Harold never smiled at anyone. Except Jake’s mother and occasionally Claire, Sam’s widow. “Jake Rawlings, meet Dr. Annie Miller.” The old man’s gruff voice mellowed a notch.

“Hello, Jake.” She reshuffled her load and extended a hand.

Jake considered ignoring her. There was no point in making nicey-nice. OEI couldn’t afford her salary let alone the time she’d cost them. But then base-level manners took over, and he shook her hand.

When she turned to Harold, Jake took the opportunity to size her up. Mousy-brown, shoulder-length hair. Tortoiseshell reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. Short-sleeved white linen shirt and black pants. No earrings, no necklace. Only a barely noticeable silver bracelet on her right wrist and a serviceable watch on her left.

Annie Miller, hell. Annie Hall was more like it. Except for those lips. They belonged on a Victoria’s Secret model. As for the rest of her, he couldn’t tell exactly what form hid beneath the baggy clothing, but with the way she moved, the way the fabric slipped over her skin, he had the distinct impression she’d be a killer in a bikini. With all those hormones in such close quarters, no doubt she’d wreak havoc aboard his boat.

Harold cleared his throat and said, “While Annie was a curator at the Field Museum in Chicago—”

“The Field Museum?” Jake snapped his head back toward Harold. “What do they have to do with marine exploration?”

“I know it isn’t the typical route—”

“Not typical? That place’s about as far away from marine life as an archaeologist can get.” The last thing Jake needed was an inexperienced woman on his boat during hurricane season. “Harold, we need to talk about this. In private.”

“Anything you need to say can be said in front of Annie.”

Jake hesitated. “Find someone else.”

“Dr. Miller’s perfect for your crew. She has degrees in both marine archaeology and Spanish history.”

“I don’t care if she can hold her breath under water for ten minutes a shot,” Jake said. “Give me a week and I’ll find an experienced archaeologist.”

“No, you won’t. Not with this kind of research.”

Annie dropped her armload onto Harold’s desk. “Can I say something?”

“No!” They both turned on her in unison.

“Look!” She faced Jake. “I have no problem with making my employment provisional. Give me two weeks. If I don’t succeed in enhancing your operations within that time frame, you can deliver me to the nearest island, and I’ll secure my own way home.”

Damn. She not only looked the stuffy museum curator part, she talked it. In spite of himself, he gave her credit for standing her ground.

“That’s reasonable, isn’t it?” she asked.

Whoever said he was reasonable?

“Jake…” Harold prompted.

“Fine, Harold. You want to throw Annie Hall here into the shark’s den, I’m not saving her. Just remember it was your idea.”

“Annie,” Harold said. “Show Jake what you showed me the other day.”

She spread maps and charts on top of Harold’s desk. “There were six ships in the Concha’s flotilla, and all except the Concha have been found within this vicinity.” She leaned over and pointed at a spot near the Florida coast. “You’ve been performing magnetometric surveys in a ten-mile radius surrounding this area. Correct?”

He walked to the desk and stood next to her, close enough to feel the heat emanating from her pale skin. At this very moment Jake’s four crews sat idle in the harbor, waiting for him. “If you got a point, make it.”

Turning toward him, she rested her hands on her hips, as femininely defiant a gesture as he’d ever seen. “You haven’t located the Concha because it didn’t sink with the rest of the flotilla. You’re off the mark in excess of a hundred miles—”

“Impossible,” he interrupted. “Historical eyewitness accounts state that all six ships, including the Concha, went down in 1622 in a hurricane off the coast of Florida.”

“If you’d give me a minute, I could explain.”

Jake closed his eyes for a moment and used every ounce of his badly worn patience to speak calmly. “The combined experience involved in laying out this search adds up to more than one hundred and fifty years. Harold here was in the treasure-hunting business before Jacques Cousteau invented scuba equipment. What makes you think you know better?”

“Research.”

Dang, but she riled him. “That the thing ya’ll do with books and them things called computers?”

“Jake…” Harold cautioned.

Jake folded his arms across his chest. “Look, Dr. Annie, research only goes so far, then you’re forced to rely on actual diving experience. Quirky stuff about past wrecks you’ve found. Ocean currents and past storms. The fact the Concha carried a significantly heavier load accounts for why we haven’t found it closer to the other five ships. That alone wouldn’t take it out of this search area.”

“What if the eyewitnesses were wrong?” Her calm green eyes turned animated. Cute little dimples carved excitement onto her cheeks.

She’d gone from frumpy Annie Hall to energized beauty in seconds. He flashed a look at Harold to see if the old man noticed the change. No reaction. Jake had to have imagined it.

“It was a hurricane,” she continued. “They couldn’t see clearly. They saw masses of wood and sails floundering in high winds. In order to appease the Spanish salvage officials, the eyewitnesses told them exactly what they wanted to hear. That the six ships from Veracruz were still together when the hurricane hit.”

“Your archaeologist is jumping to conclusions, Harold. Time-consuming, expensive ones.”

“She has her doctorate in Spanish history.” Harold rested his chin in his hands. “Hear her out.”

“The Concha’s captain was a man named Molinero,” Annie continued. “By all accounts he was a maverick. A man with his own agenda. And a man in dire financial straits. I have copies of letters he sent to his wife back in Spain, explaining he had plans to rectify everything.

“He knows he’ll be traveling during hurricane season. He knows his ship is carrying more treasure than any in Spanish history. He also knows if he makes it back to Spain when no one else in the flotilla does, he gets rewarded. Handsomely. Then again, maybe he planned on hijacking the ship himself. I don’t really know. But if that isn’t enough,” she said, her refined features turning suddenly serious, all trace of her earlier enthusiasm immediately dissipating, “there’s always the curse of the Santidad Cross.”

Jake had never considered himself superstitious. Still, more than once he’d wondered if their inability to find the Concha had anything to do with that cross. Since the day the ship had left the port of Veracruz hundreds of years ago, supposedly with the Santidad Cross aboard, it’d been rumored a curse would forever follow the cross, the Concha and its entire flotilla. Some natives had even claimed the entire country of Spain would go down with that curse.

“You don’t honestly believe that crap?” he said, frowning.

“Whether I believe or not is immaterial.” Her eyes remained carefully shuttered. “What matters is what Molinero thought. If he gave any credence at all to the curse, it may have affected his course of action. He could easily have broken from the flotilla and taken cover from the high winds on the leeward side of any of these islands.” She pointed to the Bahamas.

“None of these islands would have afforded much cover from a hurricane.”

“I have research substantiating the possibility.” She pointed at the stack of papers she’d set on Harold’s desk. “I have copies of documents claiming the Concha sunk with its entire flotilla. They’re sketchy and ambiguous. I also have copies of eyewitness accounts claiming a ship the approximate size and design of the Concha was seen near Andros Island in the Bahamas.”

Jake glanced at the pile of papers and wondered what a Chicago Field Museum curator was doing with this level of maritime research. It didn’t make sense. He reached for the top paper.

In an oddly protective gesture, she put her hand over it. “Don’t worry. It’s all here.”

“Mighty big stack of research. You didn’t put that together in the last three days.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been contemplating this for some time.”

“How long?”

“Long enough.”

Man, she didn’t give much away. “Okay. Let’s assume you’re right. Andros is still the biggest island in the Bahamas. We could spend years surveying the outlying areas. And if the Concha fell off the reef on the east side, into the Tongue of the Ocean, forget it. There’s no point in looking. We’d never find it.”

“Based on historical accounts, I believe the ship stayed on the island’s north side and away from the Tongue. I’ve narrowed our search to the most probable wreck spots. Harold had one of your pilots fly out there and take aerial surveys. I think we should check out these sites, starting with this one.” She pointed at a spot on the photographs.

Jake eyed the location. Even if he had time to pour over her research in order to argue her logic, he couldn’t dispute the possibility in the aerials. “You’ve looked at all of this, Harold? Read all of her research?”

“Only some of it. It would take me weeks to go through all this. Besides, what she says makes sense.”

“It’s already August,” Jake argued. “If this turns out to be a wild-goose chase, I’ll never have time to finish our surveys. Another year goes by without finding the Concha.”

“You check out Andros,” Harold said. “I’ll send out the other three survey ships to pick up where you left off.” Sighing heavily, he leaned way back in his chair. “I can’t help thinking this is a gamble worth taking.”

Jake could almost hear Sam’s deep, lazy voice urging him on. Go for it, man. What have you got to lose?

Dr. Annie turned toward him. “How about you, Jake?”

He stuffed his hands into his shorts’ pockets and fiddled with the seventeenth-century gold coin he carried everywhere. His first real find, the coin had always seemed to help him center and refocus his priorities. Turning the coin over and over between his fingers, he contemplated the aerials and the stack of research she’d accumulated. The idea of a landlocked museum curator putting together pieces of a puzzle that had stumped hundreds of men for hundreds of years was absurd.

She had a secret. He glanced at her face. Eyes that sparkled with mischief. Features that grew prettier every time he looked at them. Most likely, she was another amateur treasure hunter with big dreams who’d somehow managed to tow old Harold along in her wake.

A stranger, an archaeologist, a woman. And those lips… With her fair skin they stood out like fire coral against white Aruba sand. He’d be crazy to bring her onto his boat. Then again, for a chance at the Concha, he’d be crazy not to.

The coin warmed in his hand. This one was for Dad. And Sam. “When can you be ready to head out?”




CHAPTER TWO


ANNIE MET Jake’s gaze, scraping together as much nerve as she could muster. False bravado was better than no bravado at all. “I’m ready now. Everything I need is in my car.”

The atmosphere in Harold’s office charged with the static of Jake’s unspoken questions. Mistrust churned in those dark brown eyes of his like a summer storm brewing across a calm lagoon. He knew she was keeping something from him. Too bad.

She needed OEI, the most respected treasure-hunting firm in the industry, and Jake was their main man. If she told him the whole truth, he’d never take her to Andros Island. She wouldn’t be able to face her fears, squash those puny little buggers once and for all, and put the past to rest so she could go back to Chicago, back where she belonged, where everything would finally be right with her life. A real life. Not some immature, treasure-hunting, thrill-seeking, travel-the-high-seas kind of life.

Besides, Jake Rawlings would get what he wanted. He’d find his precious Concha. What was left of it.

“Like that. You’re all ready to go.” He narrowed his eyes. “A little on the anxious side, aren’t we?”

He had no idea.

“Jake, don’t you think you and the crew could use a break?” Harold cut in. “Maybe a few nights of shore leave?”

“We don’t have time. If the Concha’s at Andros, I want at it before we get too deep into hurricane season.” Jake turned back to Annie. “You’ll be allowed one bag for personal belongings. You got any kitty cats or boyfriends slinking around, you better have already made arrangements.”

Boyfriends. Yeah, right. “No problem. Anything else, Captain Ahab?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Anyone else know about your theory on the Concha?”

“No.”

“Not back in Chicago?” Harold asked. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

There was no one back in Chicago, not since Aaron had died. There was no one of significance anywhere. Even when she’d made the monumental decision to take a sabbatical from work, she’d had no one to tell except a couple of coworkers. She had no close friends. She leased anything she didn’t have to buy. She couldn’t bring herself to settle into a house and had moved to a different apartment almost every year for the past ten years. She still didn’t have a regular dentist, for Pete’s sake.

All these years she’d been able to convince herself she simply appreciated variety. Until that box of Aztec artifacts came across her desk, until Aaron had been killed, and the truth hit her square in the face. Now that she knew what she had to do, everything would be different. She’d begun to crave a sense of permanence as if her body had been long deprived of an essential nutrient. And she was going to get that stability, by golly. Come hell or high tide.

“Except for telling my sister-in-law, Claire,” Jake continued, “this information doesn’t leave this room.” He pointed to the stack of documents on Harold’s desk. “Do you need these to find the Concha?”

“No—”

“They stay here with Harold.”

That definitely wasn’t a good idea. What if Harold decided to take a more serious look at them? Although some of it was legitimate, the majority was gobbledygook. She’d had to bring something to make it appear as if she’d spent years compiling her theory. “I’d prefer leaving them in my car on the way out. I did, after all, expend a great deal of effort—”

“Look, Dr. Annie. There are modern-day pirates all over Miami. Spies. Bugs and phone taps. Sabotage. You name it, it’s out there. Last month Mitch Westburne stole the Anémona practically right out from under my nose. A loose mouth on anyone involved in this and, with stakes as high as the Concha, we’ll have every treasure hunter from here to China, including Westburne, descending on the Bahamas.”

“I’ll keep them in my office safe,” Harold offered.

“Fine,” she agreed. Arguing would only draw further attention to the papers.

Jake grabbed the aerials off Harold’s desk. “I’ll keep these with me.”

She nodded.

“Let’s transfer your stuff to my truck. I’ll take you to the pier.” Jake headed for the door. “I’m giving this two weeks, Harold. If we find it, I’ll radio in to have you send out the salvage vessel. If we don’t, I’ll be rejoining the other survey ships.”

“Deal. And Jake…” Harold stood, looking almost as though he might come out from behind his desk. “If the tropical storm intensifies, your mother and I will feel a lot better if you and Claire are back here long before it hits.”

Jake said over his shoulder, “Tell her we’ll be fine.”

“Don’t push it. The Concha’s waited four hundred years. It can wait another season.”

“OEI can’t.” Jake took off down the hall.

“Thanks for giving me a shot at this.” She beamed at Harold.

“I don’t know if you should be thanking me yet. You might want my head in another few weeks.” He laughed. “Better get a move on. I wouldn’t put it past him to leave without you.”

With that, she practically ran to keep up with Jake and his long, determined strides as he bolted down four flights of steps. That was when she noticed his slight limp and the scar running from below the hemline of his khaki shorts down the length of his calf, only to disappear beneath his socks. For a man with that kind of injury, he sure covered a lot of ground.

On leaving the air-conditioned building, the muggy Miami heat hit her like a steam wall, and she squinted against the bright sunshine. “Treasure hunting tends to be a family business,” she said after him. “How do you and Harold fit together?”

“We don’t.”

In spite of his prickly demeanor, she chuckled. “You two are rather…adversarial.”

“That what you’d call it? Well, Annie Hall, while I’m in such an adversarial mood—”

“Miller. It’s Annie Miller.” She frowned. That was twice he’d called her that. “What are you implying, anyway?”

“We need to get something straight.” He stopped in the middle of the parking lot, totally ignoring her question. Heat rose in waves off the black surface, warming the bare skin on her sandaled feet. “You’ll be on my boat. You follow my orders. In my book—the only one happening to matter on board the Mañana—you’ve already got three strikes against you.”

“Let me guess. The first one being I’m a woman,” she said, feeling rather flippant.

“You’re also an archaeologist.” He continued through the parking lot. “And you’re inexperienced.”

Though facing off with Jake Rawlings drained her more than she’d expected, she could deal with his animosity. It took her mind off the challenge to come. “Is that all?” She stopped and picked up a duffel bag from the backseat of her Honda. Another one of those things she leased in life.

“Amateur treasure hunters are dangerous.” Jake’s stern voice brought her back to the matter at hand. “You cause any accidents, whether someone’s hurt or not, you’re on your way home. You got it?”

“Yes, sir.” She mock-saluted him with one hand and clutched the bag to her chest with the other. No one could see what she carried inside. No one.

“I hate smart alecks. Stay out of my way.”

“No problem.”

“While you’re at it, stay away from the other male crew members. I don’t want any distractions on my boat.”

He’d nothing to worry about on that count. An attachment to a sea-faring man was the very last thing she wanted. “I’ll be invisible.”

A satisfied look on his face, he climbed behind the wheel of a white OEI pickup. Annie scrambled into the passenger side, and they traveled to the pier in silence.

She kept herself occupied studying the cab’s meager contents. No fast-food wrappers littered the floor. No coffee cups or pop containers in the holders. Maps, papers and CDs were filed neatly in the console. Surreptitiously, she studied the musician names and recognized only a few. He listened to everything from hard rock to jazz.

Before she had the chance to ask him if this was indeed his vehicle, he drove into the harbor lot and hopped out. “I need to stop in the harbormaster’s office,” he said. “Meet you at the boat.”

“But…but…” she stammered ineffectively, having planned on his presence to distract her.

“Slip fifty-five. The Mañana. Don’t talk to anyone.”

With those orders, he disappeared, leaving Annie alone with her scattered thoughts and foolish insecurities. She stared out the windshield, unsure of how to proceed. A group of seagulls circled in front of the truck and landed by a flattened pile of French fries. The gulls cawed and fought over the fries in the muggy late morning heat.

Absently, she fingered the small charms on her bracelet, and purpose seeped into her fingertips. Thinking wasn’t good. Momentum was good. “I can do this,” she said aloud, her voice reverberating strangely in the cab. “I didn’t bring my butt all the way here only to crawl back to Chicago with my tail between my legs at the first snag.”

Don’t think. Just do it.

In one motion, she climbed out of the truck, slung the duffel over one shoulder and slammed the door. With her head down she took off toward the docks, keeping her sights firmly on land. One glimpse of the ocean and she’d be a goner. Upon leaving the parking lot, she passed a row of weathered boathouses and forced her feet to continue moving, keeping her head up, focusing on anything ahead of her. Four men having quite a heated discussion stood a short distance ahead.

Good. Concentrate on them.

Her feet hit the wooden dock and sensation overwhelmed her. The sound of her shoes on the wood. The noisy seagulls. The boats rocking against the dock. The salty air hitting the back of her throat. The persistent hum of waves crashing against the break wall. They were sounds and smells so familiar on one level and so frightening on another. Memories threatened, and she froze.

The image of the men in front of her swam as her vision blurred. Panic set in. With each labored breath, sweat trickled down her back. Her duffel bag dropped from her shoulder, landing with a thud on the dock. It was all she could do to breathe.

“Need some help there?” One of the men appeared in front of her, while two others stood back several feet, looking rather disgruntled. The fourth seemed to have disappeared.

She beaded in on the red and blue stripes of the first one’s knit polo shirt. The lines cleared. She ventured a look at his face and swallowed a deep breath. It was an attractive face. She took another deep breath. Blond hair. Blue eyes. “That bag looks mighty heavy.” His slow Texas drawl fit right in with the heat and humidity.

She felt her shoulders relax. Talk to him. Talk. “I…I guess the heat’s getting to me more than I expected.”

“Not from around here, huh?” He smiled, his teeth a brilliant white against his tanned skin.

“No.” She blinked, hoping to better focus her vision. “Chicago.”

“Mitch Westburne.”

Though the name sounded familiar, she was too distracted to decipher the connection. “Annie Miller.” If she kept talking to him, maybe she’d be okay.

“Takin’ a little vacation?” Mitch asked.

“Actually, a new job. Marine archaeologist with OEI.”

He cocked his head to the side and laughed. “I don’t believe it. The old codger finally talked him into it!”

“Excuse me?” She did her best to ignore the water surrounding the dock.

“Pardon my manners.” He turned toward the two dark-haired men behind him. “My partner, Manny Carrera, and his associate, Enrique.”

“Ms. Miller.” Manny’s voice sounded smooth, yet laced with a distinctive bite. Enrique only nodded, his scowl deepening with the effort.

“Annie, here, is OEI’s new archaeologist.”

“Is that right?” Manny’s gaze intensified, making her even more uncomfortable.

“I’m going to help her to the Mañana,” Mitch said to his partner. “Meet you back at the Wild Rose?”

“Five minutes.” Manny flipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. “Enrique and I’ll be waiting for you.”

Before she could object, Mitch took her bag and walked down the dock. “Follow me.”

“I can take that.” Keeping her focus on the profile of his face, she hurried after him.

“It’s kinda strange having all OEI’s boats in port this time of year,” he said, keeping one step ahead of her. “Must be something big cookin’ in the pot. You folks fixin’ to head out soon?”

“I’m not sure what the plans are.”

“Where ’bouts you headed?”

Her father’s old warnings popped into her head. Never trust anyone. “Oh, they don’t tell me that kind of stuff,” she said. “I’m along for the ride.”

“Treasure hunting’s a nasty business with pirates at every pier.” He glanced back at her and grinned. “Is that it?”

“Something like that.” She smiled, following him.

“Well, whatever you do, don’t spend too much time around Jake Rawlings. Might end up as paranoid as him, and you’re too pretty for that.” He focused on something behind her. “Speakin’ of the devil himself.”

Annie swung around to find Jake folding his arms over his chest. “Hello, Mitch,” he said.

Mitch dropped Annie’s duffel. “Jake.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Accusation tinged Jake’s voice. He looked slowly from Annie to Mitch, making it unclear to which of them the question had been directed.

“Don’t be so touchy. I was only being cordial,” Mitch jumped in, obviously having no difficulty in assuming responsibility. “Your new archaeologist needed some help with her bag.” He enunciated each syllable of her title slowly. “This must be a sizable wreck if you called out the big guns, eh?”

“Completing more surveys. That’s all.”

Annie watched, fascinated, as the two men squared off. Approximately the same height, their eyes met in a silent challenge. Different in appearance as night and day, each man emanated a unique kind of menace.

“Shoot, Jake.” Mitch backed down first. “You still sore about the Anémona? I’m telling you, we’d been researching that site for months. I can show you my aerials. The dates are right on ’em.” He scratched his head. “Or is it Valerie? Man, that was too many years ago to count. Besides, I probably did you a favor. She took me for more than she took you.”

“The Anémona was my find.”

“You know what they say. Early bird gets the worm. Or is it finders keepers, losers weepers? I forget. Man, I didn’t know you could be such a bad sport.”

“What I can’t figure out is why you have to sneak around chasing everyone else’s leads. There’s enough gold out there for all of us. If you can’t find the wrecks on your own, you’re in the wrong business.”

Mitch snorted.

“I don’t know who you bribed for the information on the Anémona, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Good luck,” Mitch said, smiling. “With your surveys, I mean. Miss Annie.” He nodded in her direction. “You watch yourself around this slave-driving fortune hunter. I’ve gotten it from someone close to the source, he just ain’t no fun.” He headed back down the dock.

Jake squinted at her. “Let’s go.” He turned for the boat. “I told you not to talk to anyone. What did you say to him?” The tone of his voice implied he’d judged her guilty.

“Nothing.” Animosity again. Good. She hiked the bag onto her shoulder and trudged after him. That was exactly what she needed to propel her down the dock. “He asked where we’re going, but I’m not an idiot. Who was that, anyway?”

“My ex-business partner.”

“Who’s Valerie?”

“My ex-wife.”

He stated that fact without the slightest bit of emotion. Either he’d completely reconciled his feelings for the woman, or this man had none to begin with. Looking at him now, Annie thought the latter more likely. With his tanned skin and scruffy beard, he looked every inch the pirate suggested by the skull-and-crossbones flag on his Buccaneers baseball cap. That curly black hair of his, hanging dangerously close to the collar of his T-shirt, only added to, rather than softened, his threatening image. Of course, she was forced to admit, he did have a certain he-mannish appeal. And since when had she become the type to notice such a thing, let alone care?

Refusing to analyze her feelings, she quickly sought the relative comfort of hostility. “You seem to have a lot of exes in your past.”

“With any luck, I’ll soon be adding ex-marine archaeologist to my list.” He stopped and stared at her. “We’re here.” He jerked his head to the side. “Your new home for two weeks.”

Though pristine white with crisp blue stripes and lettering, there was nothing luxurious about the Mañana. The ship was about a hundred feet of pure working boat, with the helm and galley sitting forward on the upper deck, leaving an ample area at the stern for divers and their gear. The spacing of the portholes told of adequate room for cabins below deck, and all machinery and equipment appeared clean and well-maintained. She couldn’t have picked a more seaworthy vessel if she’d had one custom built.

“Hey there, Jake.” A dark-haired woman ambled down from the Mañana. Annie envied her ease. “Harold radioed to fill me in. You must be Annie, our new crew member.” She extended her hand. “I’m Claire Rawlings.”

Annie found her hand swallowed by the other woman’s more than competent grip. “Jake’s…sister?”

“In-law.” She reached for Annie’s bag.

Annie was about to protest and then gave in. Everyone seemed to want to get their hands on her duffel.

Claire hopped easily back onto the boat. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

Annie really wanted to follow her, only there was one problem; the water between dock and boat. The blood drained from her face, and she felt Jake studying her.

“You don’t look so ready for this,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You can always stay back, you know.”

“Absolutely not.”

“All right.” He held out his arm for her to proceed. “Let’s go.”

She couldn’t get her feet to move, could only concentrate on keeping her eyes averted from the sight of water. First Jake’s face. Then the Mañana. Then the grain of wood on the dock.

“Well, I’ll be,” Jake whispered. “You’re afraid of the water.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She forced herself to look off the dock and into the wavy depths below. A dizzy rush made her stomach flip-flop. Her body seemed to tilt toward the left. Toward the edge of the dock. Toward— Oh, no! She tried taking a step forward, tried making it to the relative safety of the boat. And lost her balance.

“Son of a—!” Jake lunged for her arm.

Annie reached for him. Too late.

She dropped backward into the water. Coolness, startling in its entirety, engulfed her. She sputtered and choked on the saltwater flowing into her mouth and nose, and coherent thoughts deserted her. Struggling to keep her head above water, her arms and legs flailed ineffectively. Within seconds, she started sinking. The dock posts drifted out of sight, and the surface of the water moved farther and farther away. As the last bubble of air escaped her lungs, her limbs grew heavy.

Memories, painful ones, flooded her senses. She closed her eyes to them, forcing them from her mind. Only darkness took their place.




CHAPTER THREE


“COME ON! Come on!”

Through the syrupy blackness Annie felt warm lips on her mouth, something pinch her nose and air flow down her throat. She felt pressure on her chest, a hard pumping rhythm, working fast. Once, twice, three times, four. She lost count.

As if from a great distance, she heard the command, “Breathe, Annie! Breathe!” A forceful touch under her chin, tilting back her head, and the warm lips again, hard and insistent, on her mouth.

She struggled to open her eyes and found Jake’s face an inch from her own, his gaze focused with intent. Startled, she sucked in a breath and coughed out a bit of seawater.

Jake sat back on his heels, his legs straddling her. “Can you hear me? Annie?”

She nodded, sucked in another breath, and coughed some more. His genuine concern surprised her. After all his blustering in Harold’s office, she would have guessed her drowning would have solved every one of his problems.

“Should we get a doctor?” a woman asked from somewhere to the left. Annie glanced up to find Claire Rawlings hovering nearby. Somehow, Annie had gotten on board the Mañana.

Jake cupped Annie’s cheeks and made her look into his eyes. He assessed her breathing, took her pulse and then urged her to a sitting position. The instant he seemed satisfied all was clear the scowl returned to his face, and he stood. “She’ll be fine.”

Annie coughed again, causing Jake and Claire to turn in her direction. She dragged in a deep breath and a man appeared above her, blocking the sun. His bluer-than-blue eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Hiya, sport. I’m D.W. Need more mouth-to-mouth?”

“Knock it off, Romeo.” Claire thwacked D.W. on the arm. “Give her some room.”

“Worth a try,” D.W. said, winking. He helped her to her feet, and Annie noticed the words Divers Do It Deeper emblazoned in red on the front of his gray T-shirt.

She smiled and coughed again. “Thanks, D.W.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Claire asked.

“A little damp.” Annie tugged at her wet linen shirt, the now translucent white cloth leaving little to the imagination. “Otherwise, I’m fine.”

“She’d give you a run for your money in a wet T-shirt contest, Claire-belle,” D.W. added with a low whistle.

Claire narrowed her eyes at him, and the whistling immediately stopped. Her arms crossed, she turned toward Jake. “What’s going on here?”

Every trace of Jake’s earlier concern for Annie’s safety completely disappeared. “Our marine archaeologist is afraid of water.” He glared at Annie. “That’s strike number four.” Water dripped from his soaked shorts and T-shirt onto the boat deck. Apparently, not only had he administered CPR, he’d also dived in after her. “You’re going back to Chicago. Where you so obviously belong.”

Annie spun toward him. The swift movement brought another dizzying rush to her head and she faltered, taking a full breath. “Harold hired me,” she finally managed. “He’s the only one who can fire me.” One look at his face told her he wasn’t validating that with a response. Somehow, she had to make this work. “You said you’d give me two weeks.”

“That was when I thought there was a possibility you could do your job. Whether you’re afraid of water, or you can’t swim, there’s no point in having you around. I have your charts and aerials. Whatever deal you cut with Harold, I’ll double it.”

He’d clearly mistaken her fear of water for a character flaw. Arrogant, treasure-hunting pirate. “I can swim, and I can do my job,” she said with renewed determination.

“How?” He raked his hand through the dark, dripping curls hanging across his forehead. “Am I the only one who sees a problem with this?” He glanced from Claire to D.W., then back to Annie. “Can you even dive?”

“I used to.”

“Used to?” He cringed. “What if we can’t get an artifact onto the boat? What if we need you to dive and examine it? What then?”

Annie hazarded a glance at Claire and D.W. Her tentative allies seemed to be losing faith, and she couldn’t blame them. “You’re right. You’re completely justified in being angry.” She looked Jake in the eye. The tension in his jaw eased imperceptibly with the acknowledgment. But that didn’t change the fact that she had to do this. “When will we get to the first site?”

“Late afternoon.”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” she said, keeping her fingers crossed in the hopes she wasn’t setting herself up. “Give me tomorrow. If I’m not diving by the end of the day, I’ll stay in my cabin until it’s convenient for you to drop me off somewhere.”

“Seems reasonable,” Claire interjected, handing Annie a towel.

As Annie dried herself off, she watched Jake deliberating. “In the water tomorrow,” he said. “Diving by day’s end. No second chances.”

He turned and issued orders to the other crew members, who’d appeared at the first sign of a commotion. “Everybody except Claire, D.W., Ronny and Simon, pack your gear and make yourselves useful on the other three survey ships. Ronny and Simon, over here. See the rest of you guys in a few weeks.”

The two men joined their group as the remaining crew dispersed in varied directions. “Ronny. Simon.” Jake held a hand toward each man in turn. “Meet Dr. Annie Miller.”

Ronny appeared to be the oldest crew member. “It’s a pleasure, Annie.” He held out a hand, the skin tanned nearly to the point of leather. With a handle-bar mustache and his long, slightly graying hair gathered in a ponytail, Annie wondered if Ronny had a Harley waiting for him back in Miami. All he needed was a bandana and black leather chaps.

Simon, probably only a few years younger than Ronny, nodded cautiously at her over the silver rims of his fashionably small glasses. Annie wasn’t sure if he was uncomfortable around women only or new people in general. “Hello, Simon,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Annie’s OEI’s new on-board marine archaeologist,” Jake continued, a sarcastic edge to his voice. “Don’t get too attached to her. She won’t be here for long.” He turned and strode across the boat deck. “Claire, I want to be diving before dinnertime. Let’s shove off.” With that, he went below.

“My brother-in-law the charmer.” Claire smiled at Annie.

“Ahh, cut him some slack,” Ronny offered. “We’ve all been working hard. He’s a little tense.”

“Humph,” D.W. mumbled. “If that’s tense, I’d hate to see stressed out.”

“D.W.,” Claire said, hitching a hand onto her hip, “why don’t you keep your comments to yourself? Nobody here cares.”

“That, Claire-belle, is certainly obvious.”

Annie watched the twinge of hurt quickly turn his warm blue eyes steely. Claire seemed oblivious. Simon quietly moved back to the stern and continued fiddling with a small engine in pieces on the deck. Ronny followed him, saying over his shoulder, “We’ll be eating lunch in a few hours. Dinner’s at six.”

“Make yourself useful, D.W., and do some safety checks on the equipment.” Claire made for the lower deck. “Come on, Annie. I’ll show you to your cabin. You can change out of those wet things.”

Annie reached for her bag.

“Here ya go, sport.” D.W. beat her to it and held the duffel toward her. The glint returned to his eyes. One eyebrow arched mischievously. “You just follow the old barracuda there and watch out for that razor sharp bite.”

“I heard that,” Claire yelled from below deck, a singsong lilt to her voice.

“You were meant to,” D.W. returned with a little melody of his own. With a wink at Annie, he hauled diving equipment from various storage compartments.

Hiding a smile, Annie crossed the upper deck and familiarized herself with the sway of the boat under her feet. She followed Claire down the ladder-steps too steep to qualify as a staircase—and below deck.

“Here’s the head.” Claire walked through the narrow hall, pointing here and there. “Back there’s the engine room and some equipment storage. Next we got a couple empty cabins, and here’s Simon’s. And there’s D.W.’s.” She indicated the first two cabin doors on the left and, after that, the next two on the right. “Ronny’s next, and mine’s last. You’re across the hall from me, and Jake has captain’s quarters at the bow.

“We can fit twelve crew members on board, so at half-staff, it’ll feel pretty spacious for once. This is it.” She stopped at the last cabin port side, opened the door and stood back. “I told Smitty to get it good and clean when I found out you were coming. If he didn’t, he owes you a pitcher of Bud when we get back to port.”

“Looks great.” Annie stepped over the threshold into the small cabin. She’d grown through the years, or boat cabins had shrunk in size. Either way, the space seemed confining. Antiseptic white and utilitarian in design, there was little to like or dislike. She set her bag on the bunk and tested the firmness of the narrow mattress.

“Hard as a rock.” Claire shrugged. “This isn’t a cruise ship.”

Annie didn’t have the heart to tell her she wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter. Claire was probably a little overdue for some female companionship and, for that matter, so was Annie.

Claire hesitated at the door, a haze of unanswered questions shading her eyes. Finally, she said, “We’ll be shoving off in a couple minutes. Make yourself at home.” She disappeared up the ladder.

Annie shut the door and turned the lock, thankful for the reprieve. Moving back to the bunk, she unzipped her duffel and stared at the bundle sitting on top of her clothing, wishing she could heave the thing over the side of the ship, wash her hands of it once and for all, and return to Chicago.

But that would only be trading in one set of handcuffs for another. If she was going to do this, she was doing it right. She owed at least that to Aaron.

Her fingers shook as she grasped the object and drew back the cloth covering. Natural pearls of uncommon luster encrusted the full length of a twenty-four-karat, hand-tooled gold chain. Emeralds, large and virtually free of inclusions, filled an eight-inch-long by five-inch-wide gold frame. The infamous Santidad Cross. So beautiful. So lustrous. If one could look at it without fear.

All Annie felt when she held it was heartache and pain, all she saw was blood. Aaron dead. An Aztec village annihilated, its people slaughtered without remorse and innocent Spanish sailors sacrificed for the glory of gold. Not to mention the two most important people in her life gone. Forever. Nothing more, or less, than a trail of death in its wake. Even so, treasure hunters around the world would give anything for this cross, the single most valuable item onboard the Concha.

“Ready!” The shout from topside made her jump.

The Mañana’s engines fired to life as the boat was untied from the pier and the gangway stowed. Within seconds she felt the boat’s motion as they left the marina.

This was it. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears and adrenaline rushed through her as the Mañana cleared the harbor and gathered speed. It’d worked. Her plan had been set in motion.

She looked through the small porthole in her cabin and swallowed hard when both engines of the powerful boat hit cruising speed. The Florida coast dissolved into a barely discernible line, and an odd combination of dread and elation churned in her stomach.

The Santidad Cross drew her gaze. “You’re going back where you belong,” she whispered, stuffing it under her mattress. “Where all the treasure hunters in the world, including Captain Jake Rawlings, will never find you.”



JAKE SAT AT his narrow desk and studied the aerials Harold had taken of the north shore of Andros, comparing them to maps on the screen of his laptop. The wood-paneled walls of his small, neat cabin surrounded him with the comfort of familiarity. A balmy breeze from the open porthole blew fresh ocean air across his face. The Mañana’s engines droned their reassuring tune as the crew navigated toward Andros Island. And in a matter of a few hours he and his crew would be diving for the Concha. If Dr. Annie’s research was correct, his crew was poised, quite possibly closer than they’d ever been, for the discovery of a lifetime. Life didn’t get any better than this, right?

Wrong.

Thump. Bang, thump. The sounds of Dr. Annie Miller bumbling around in the cabin adjacent to Jake’s momentarily distracted him from the screen. The boat made a sudden shift, and she slammed into the wall.

A marine archaeologist afraid of water. Sam would have gotten a hearty laugh over that one, and then, no doubt, tucked her firmly under his wing. Jake chuckled to himself in the quiet of his cabin, but guilt fluttered at the edge of his conscience. It was, after all, his fault she’d fallen in the water. He’d goaded her, and when she’d faltered, he hadn’t been able to get there fast enough to catch her.

Damn leg. Surgery may have repaired most of the physical damage from the accident, but the remaining stiffness in the muscles and tendons definitely slowed him down.

Reality forced away the guilt. Their new archaeologist had lied to them. What if the logic behind her research was flawed? What if he dragged his company and all of its employees further down bankruptcy road with her wild-goose chase?

You worry too much. Sam’s constant admonishment still haunted Jake after all this time.

He found his favorite photo of his brother on the overhead bookshelf. Claire had caught Sam and him tipping a few on the beach in front of Jake’s house. Sunset on a rare night, a night when they’d both been completely content in each other’s presence. No need to do anything, except talk and laugh. A night when Jake had completely loosened up with Sam. He hadn’t felt the need to set an example for his younger brother, to prove anything, to be anything. And Sam hadn’t felt the need to keep up, let alone surpass his older brother.

Almost a year and a half after the accident, and Jake still couldn’t believe his little brother was gone. One minute they’d been diving beside each other, and the next it was over. Jake’s foot started cramping. He stretched out his legs and forced his shoulders to relax. If only Jake had been able to save Sam. If Jake had been stronger. Smarter. Faster. If only…

Thump. There Dr. Annie went again.

For one quarter of a split millisecond, Jake softened toward her. He didn’t know her story, but it couldn’t be a happy one. He found himself torn between chuckling at the absurdity of the mess she’d landed herself in and having a discussion with the helmsman about making this transition a little smoother for their new crew member.

Smoother? Why not make it as rough as possible? She’d made her bed. She could lie in it, or bump into it, whichever she preferred. Let the helmsman toss her around a little. If she were half as smart as she sounded, she’d eventually figure out she didn’t belong on a boat.

Especially not his boat. His boat ran precisely by the numbers. His crew was the best. A mistake could mean the difference between life and death. This wasn’t the type of business that allowed for second chances. Dr. Annie, on the other hand, would need a third, fourth, maybe even fifth chance. Aside from being afraid of water, she had no boat-sense and questionable diving experience, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He returned to the aerials and marked the coordinates where he wanted to begin diving in a few hours. They’d be at the first site before dinnertime, and he couldn’t wait to hit the water. By sunset, if they were lucky, they might find something—a cannon, an anchor, anything—to give some credence to Dr. Annie’s theory. With any luck, the tropical storm Harold worried would strike in a few days would bypass them entirely.

She hit the wall again, this time accompanying the thud with a short little screech. That was it. No longer able to concentrate, he flipped the laptop closed and locked the aerial photographs in the safe under his bunk. Repositioning his baseball cap low on his brow, he stepped into the narrow hall and rapped on her door. “What are you doing in there? Remodeling?”

“None of your business. Go away.”

“All you have to do is say the word, and we’ll take you back to Miami. You could be back on solid ground in no time.”

“I’m fine right where I am, thank you very much.”

The boat hit a wave, shifted and something sounding an awful lot like a body part hit the wall inside her cabin. He leaned against the doorjamb and smiled. “Sounds like a panic attack to me.”

“I’m attempting to get sheets on this stupid bunk. Okay with you, Captain?” The door swung open.

Damn. If this was what she called invisible, she definitely needed a full-length mirror in her cabin. Although she’d replaced baggy black pants with just as baggy cutoff jean shorts, those long slender legs put a big crack in that Annie Hall facade. The gray sweatshirt, zipped only halfway, did little to repair it, considering the cleavage beneath the scooped neckline of her black swimsuit. Her reading glasses were gone, and she’d drawn her hair back off her face, revealing a healthy pink glow attempting to break through her pale skin. He’d been right about her, looking all curvy and soft. Tongues were going to wag.

“Every time I try to tuck under the sheet corner,” she continued, “the boat lurches and I lose my balance. We’re in open water. Who do you have at the helm, anyway?”

He grinned. “Probably Simon. He’s never been known for his steady hand.”

He glanced past her into the cabin, looking for clues to this enigma. Back in Harold’s office, he’d sensed she’d held something back. Was it only her fear of water? Or was there something more? Curiosity getting the better of him, he squeezed his way into her cabin.

“And where, exactly,” she said, glancing up at him, “do you think you’re going?”




CHAPTER FOUR


JAKE RAISED HIS EYEBROWS at Annie. “Want help with your bunk, or not?”

“Not,” she said. “I’ll manage.”

“Without putting a hole through the wall?”

At that, she stood back, if it was possible in an area about half the size of his cabin. There was barely enough room for them to stand side by side, and it certainly hadn’t taken much for her to personalize the small space. A radio, clock and a bestselling paperback sat on the dresser, along with a framed photo of two middle-aged adults. He picked it up. “Parents?”

She nodded, impatiently crossing her arms.

“They back in Chicago?”

She looked as if she might not answer him, and then, reluctantly, she shook her head. “They passed away—died—years ago.”

He wondered if she had brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins. Speculated about her fear of water, but he bit back the questions. “‘Passed away.’ Hmmph. Can’t stand that phrase.”

She tilted her head, as if surprised they’d something even so slight in common. “Death’s rarely quiet or peaceful.”

“You got that right.” He thought of his father’s last-minute struggle for breath and the look on Sam’s face, under water, knowing it was over. When similar losses seemed mirrored in her eyes, it threw him. Don’t think about that. He let go the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding and set the picture frame back on the dresser.

A further survey of her cabin revealed a stack of clothing piled on top of her bunk with a lacy white bra in clear view. He quickly glanced away to find a navy blue windbreaker and pale pink robe hung on the hooks along the wall. She’d thrown a cozy fleece blanket over the only chair in the room, and covered her pillow with a floral printed pillowcase. Goodbye Smitty, hello Dr. Annie. The small room already smelled like her, warm and feminine. Powdery even.

His gaze gravitated back to the bra, and his head filled with alternating visions of white lace and black Lycra cupping full, creamy breasts. If he wasn’t careful, his tongue would be doing the wagging.

As if she’d tracked his body signals, she snatched the bra, balled it in one fist and held it behind her back. “I hadn’t, as yet, completed my unpacking.”

There she went sounding all snooty again. Somehow she’d managed to pull off the stuffy curator bit in Harold’s office without a hitch. Now he wasn’t buying it for a minute. That uptight voice contradicted her down-to-earth looks. “Always talk fancy when you’re nervous?”

She straightened her shoulders. “Absolutely not.”

“’Course we are surrounded by water.”

“I…it’s…” she sputtered.

“As defense mechanisms go, it’s a fairly harmless one.”

Her brow furrowed, and she pinched her mouth shut.

Chuckling to himself, he ducked under the overhead drawers, kneeled on the bunk and wrapped one fitted corner under the mattress. She scooped up the rest of her clothing as he moved to the other corner. The boat slowed and she landed against him, all softness and warmth. He reached out and grabbed her arms, steadying her.

“Thank you,” she said, their faces only inches apart.

“No problem.”

“I…suppose I should thank you, as well, for saving my life earlier.” They stood close enough for her breath to fan his cheek. “I imagine…I might have otherwise drowned.”

“And I imagine D.W. wouldn’t have minded getting wet. Especially if it involved mouth…to mouth.” He glanced at her lips and wondered how a real kiss would feel.

He felt himself move ever so minutely toward her. Her lips parted, pink and tempting. He stopped. Man, oh, man. Maybe Harold had been right, and they should have held off leaving for Andros. A few nights of shore leave would have done him some good.

Suddenly aware of how tightly he held her arms, he cleared his throat and set her back away from him. He pointed at the rails above her head. “Until you get your sea legs, hold on to those when you’re moving around in here.”

“Excellent advice.” She dropped the clothing back on top of the bunk and reached for the rails. The boat motors stopped altogether, and she wobbled. Again, he reached out to steady her, and his hands connected with her waist. An uneasy sound escaped her lips. “What…what is Simon attempting to accomplish?”

“He must need a break and can’t find anyone to take over.” He found himself rooted to the spot, studying her face, her lips, holding his hands around her waist, a little longer than necessary, reluctant to let her go.

The sound of steps pounding down the ladder snapped him back. Something was wrong. He headed into the hall and found Simon on his way down. “What’s going on?”

“Transmission’s overheating.” Simon took off for the engine room at the stern.

“What do you think it is?” Jake followed Simon with Annie close behind. Though he noticed she’d zipped her sweatshirt, she hadn’t covered those long, bare legs. Why couldn’t she stay in her cabin for the duration of this excursion? That would solve at least one of his problems.

“Could be a ruptured cooling line.” Simon messed with the engine.

Jake looked around the other man’s shoulder. “Can you fix that?”

“Don’t have the parts.”

He turned, took a deep breath and calmed himself. “I wanted to be diving this afternoon. We could have covered a big chunk of the dive site.”

No comment from Simon.

“Now what happens?” Annie asked.

“If we have to shut one engine down, we move at a snail’s pace. Won’t be able to go faster than twenty, maybe thirty knots.”

Given that Simon was meticulous with maintenance and Jake couldn’t remember when they’d last had engine trouble, this seemed an awfully untimely coincidence, especially with the Concha in their sights. He moved closer to Simon and whispered, “While you’re in there, look for signs of tampering on that line.”

Simon silently glanced at him and nodded.

“You think someone did this on purpose?” Annie’s eyes widened.

“Just covering all our bases.” Considering the situation, Jake waited impatiently while Simon examined the engine. After a few minutes, Claire, D.W. and Ronny appeared outside the engine room. D.W. sidled right alongside Annie and said, “Hey there, sweet lips. Come here often?”

Ronny grinned, about to claim her other side.

“Knock it off.” The words slipped out of Jake’s mouth before he could stop them. Normally, he didn’t mess with employee relations. Letting his crew find their own level of interaction generally worked best.

“What’s with the engines?” Claire asked.

Jake recited the quick version on the transmission trouble.

“We could turn around, go back to Miami,” she offered. “Get another boat.”

Jake shook his head. “They headed south to finish the surveys.”

“Where are we off to anyway?” D.W. asked.

“Yeah,” Ronny added. “How much farther we have to go will affect what we do about the engine.”

Jake hesitated. One good look at the Global Positioning System and any one of his crew could discern exactly where they were heading. “We’re going to Andros Island, and since we’re more than halfway there it doesn’t make sense to head back.”

“What’s at Andros?” D.W. asked.

“When you need to know, I’ll tell you.”

Ronny raised his bushy gray eyebrows. “Must be bigger than the Concha for you to break from those surveys.”

Simon moved away from the engine, wiping the grime from his hands, and Jake turned abruptly to avoid Ronny and D.W.’s inquiries. “Well?” he prompted.

“Ruptured cooling line.” Simon began putting the engine back together.

The only thing worse than a stalled treasure hunt was no treasure hunt at all. “I’ll have Harold send someone out with a new cooling line. In the meantime, we’ll putt along with one engine. We should be there sometime in the middle of the night. I want everybody except Annie ready to dive bright and early in the morning.”

“You got it, Jake,” Claire said. “Why don’t you all get some lunch?”

“About time. I’m starving,” said D.W. “Come on, Annie. I’ll escort you to the galley.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “I’ll join you guys in a minute.”

Annie, D.W. and Ronny filed out of the room. Jake held Simon back. “What do you think?” he whispered.

With his head down, Simon swiped at the grease on his hands. “The line broke, Jake.”

“Did someone help it along?”

“Maybe,” he mumbled. “Maybe not. Too hard to tell with a break near the compression fitting. That’s where they usually happen.”

Simon shuffled out the door, leaving Claire and Jake alone in the small room. “You’re thinking sabotage?” she asked.

“It’s possible. I’ve heard rumors about Westburne getting in deep with a loan shark. And he was on the dock when I came back from meeting with Harold.”

“That could explain the Anémona,” she said.

“Keep your eyes and ears open, okay?”

“Always.” She nodded. But one look at the thoughtful furrow creasing her brow and Jake knew there was something else on her mind. Most likely, it didn’t have anything to do with business. If he didn’t move fast he’d be getting an earful of—

“There’s something else I need to talk about,” she said.

Damn. Too slow.

“When’re you going to accept Harold as part of this family?”

“Claire, I don’t have time for this.”

“Make time.” She planted herself in front of the door. Though she’d married Sam, Claire had never felt like an in-law to the Rawlings family. She’d been the daughter Jake’s mother had never had, more sister to Jake than sister-in-law, mothering, and sometimes bullying, him all the same. “You’ve disapproved of Harold since Milly’s first date. Are you jealous of him, having a hard time with someone replacing your dad, or what?”

“I’m not thirteen. Give me more credit than that.”

“Is it Harold?”

Jake thought about it. “Now that you mention it, she could do better.”

“You don’t get to choose for her. It’s your mom’s life. Vic’s dead, remember?”

He remembered, all right. “Eight months,” he stated the fact with all the grief and anger of every hour of each and every day piled up inside. “You’d think she could have waited a little longer before running off and marrying someone else.”

“So that’s what’s bugging you? That she didn’t wait long enough?”

“Part of it.” This whole issue unsettled him more than he cared to admit to Claire, Harold or his mother. A man worked hard his whole life, built something from nothing. You’d think his death would have some kind of impact on the world. Instead he was just gone.

Jake looked away and took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. The pungent smell of oil and fuel permeating the air in the small engine room brought forth a flood of childhood memories, memories of his dad smelling like this room if he’d come home after tinkering with an engine. If he’d been on the water, the scent of fresh, salty air had hung on his clothes and in his hair. Sometimes his breath had smelled like coffee, other times whiskey, but to Jake, his dad had always smelled like life, the big, burly, fit-everything-in kind. The kind that would go on forever.

“How long do you think Milly should have waited before getting married?” Claire asked.

Sometimes, Jake wanted to shake her senseless for digging into other people’s business when she should be concentrating on her own. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “You tell me. If anyone should be moving on, it’s you. Sam died almost a year and a half ago, and you still haven’t had a date.”

“Jake, everyone’s different. Sam and I were…I don’t know…two parts of the same soul. Neither one of us remembered a time without the other and he died suddenly—”

“A massive coronary’s about as sudden as you can get. Forty years of marriage, and Dad was gone within days. Is waiting a year too much to ask?” The one good engine rolled over, and the Mañana moved ahead. Jake closed the engine cover to douse the sound.

“I don’t think you have the right to ask anything from her. She gave you, Sam and your dad everything she had. Now it’s time to let her do what she wants. Anyone can see that your mother’s the light of Harold’s life. He’d drop anything to be with her.” Claire set her hands on her hips. “After all those years with Vic, doesn’t she deserve that kind of attention?”

His neck prickled defensively. “Dad loved her.”

“In his own way.”

“You may have practically lived at our house, but you didn’t see everything.”

As a next-door neighbor and somewhere in the middle of a family of eight, Claire had claimed the Rawlings family as her own quite early on. She used to say she got more attention in one day at the Rawlings house, than a week at her own. She’d do her homework at their house, claiming it was quieter. Watch TV in their living room, saying she and Sam enjoyed the same shows. She’d even spent weeks with them out on the boats in the summertime.

“Sometimes an outsider can see things best.” She paused, her mouth pinched with worry. “If your dad ever had the choice of time with Milly or heading off for a new wreck site,” Claire said, “which one did he always go for?”

“What’s your point?”

“The fact that you don’t get it.” Her frown deepened. “Jake, wake up. Your mom spent half her married life without the husband she loved. How happy do you think she was?”

While he’d been growing up, his mom had seemed cheerful and competent, despite raising two boys virtually on her own. The fact that she may not have been happy during that time confused and angered him, put a crack in his foundation. The type of crack he didn’t want to look at, let alone fix. He eyed the door, needing out of this conversation.

“She gave your dad the best years of her life,” Claire continued. “Let her move on.”

Wasn’t his surrogate sister a good one to talk? “Maybe it’s time you quit meddling in everyone else’s life, Claire.” And take a good look at your own, he added to himself.

Her surprised expression turned guarded.

He pushed past her and yanked open the engine room door. “What Mom does is her own business. She doesn’t need your endorsement. Or mine.” Jake reached his cabin and secured the door behind him. Mom unhappy. Was that possible?

He forced the useless musings out of his mind. This was no time for family or personal bullshit. He had more important things to think about, like figuring out if his engine had been sabotaged and, if so, who was behind it. He walked straight to the safe, analyzing the possibilities.

Time to take some precautions.



CLAIRE STOOD ALONE in the engine room, staring at the equipment and sundry tools clamped along the wall, trying to slough off the sting of Jake’s accusation. Milly wouldn’t think she was meddling in everyone’s business. Jake was a jerk, always had been. OEI’s entire staff would attest to that.

She took a deep breath and the truth bubbled to the surface. No, that wasn’t true. As brother-in-laws go, Jake was irreproachable, treating Claire like an integral part of his family. Steadfast and protective, Jake would bend over forward, backward and any which way he could for the people he cared about. Lately though, he hadn’t been himself, a man in need not used to needing. Maybe Ronny was right and she should cut him some slack.

She reached for the door, the boat rolled on a wave and a heavy pipe wrench swung from the wall. Claire, baby. Hand me that wrench. The memory of Sam’s deep, raspy voice filled her head. His image swam before her and loneliness engulfed her, the kind of loneliness that made her chest ache, made her want to curl in her bunk and sleep for a thousand years.

I don’t know how to be without you, Sam. I miss you. Your voice. Your laugh. The way you leaned your forehead against mine and looked into my eyes. The way your neck felt under my lips, my tongue. The sweet way you’d kiss my tummy every time we made love in case we’d made a baby. I wish we’d had a child. I’d have a piece of you. To hold.

Her hand flew to the gold chain around her neck, Sam’s chain, the one she’d given him for his eighteenth birthday.

I miss you. So does Jake. Sometimes I think he’s going to blow from locking up all that pain. And D.W., too, though he won’t talk about it. At all.

Oh, Sam, how D.W. misses you. Something funny’ll happen and we both laugh and turn to tell you about it. Instead, we’re looking at each other. Lost. His smile fades, and I can see it written all over his face.

Like it was yesterday, she could see them, standing next to each other. D.W., fair-haired and rangy, towering above Sam’s dark head and stocky frame. They’d been inseparable, at least for the summers when D.W. had lived in Florida with his dad. During the school years when D.W. went back to Texas to live with his mom, she and Sam had always felt as if something was off-kilter. Their three-legged stool had lost a leg. Like now. Only their other leg was never coming back.

D.W. Oh, Lord.

It just wasn’t fair! She was barely over thirty, in her sexual prime. She had needs and wants, natural and right. But D.W.? Could life get any crueler?

Closing her eyes, Claire hugged herself and her stomach grumbled loudly. She’d forgotten breakfast. Again. One flippered foot in front of the other, she repeated in her mind—it had become her mantra. There’d be company in the galley. Annie would be having lunch. If Claire could get her alone, it’d be a good time to dig out her story.

Jake’s admonishment about her meddling ways niggled at her conscience. “Oh, for crying out loud. Annie needs a friend on this ship. That’s all.”




CHAPTER FIVE


IN THE GALLEY, Annie helped D.W. and Ronny pile an assortment of meats, cheeses, fresh fruits, condiments and chips onto the table for lunch. They’d nearly finished with the task when Simon joined them, leaned over the sink and silently scrubbed engine grease from his hands.

Annie sat down at the table across from D.W. and followed his lead by throwing together a sandwich. After all the fresh air, she was starving. Ronny was about to take his first bite of his own concoction when Claire came in and asked, “Whose turn for a shift at the helm?”

“That’d be me.” Ronny jumped up and headed to the control room with his full plate of food.

Claire dropped down next to Annie. She grabbed an empty plate, but stared at the luncheon fare as if making her own meal required too much effort.

“Claire, honey, you got to eat something,” D.W. said.

“I know.” She didn’t move a muscle. D.W. took two slices of wheat bread, smoothed on a thin layer of mustard, slapped on several slices of turkey and finished it off with a few leaves of crisp, green lettuce. “Enjoy this fresh stuff while you can, Annie,” he said, breaking the awkward silence. “When it’s gone, it’ll be back to canned tuna, boxed mac-and-cheese and that god-awful powdered milk. I don’t think anybody ever drinks that swill. Don’t know why we stock it.”

Claire sniffed. “When you buy your own boat, D.W., you can stock the galley any way you please.”

“Can’t be soon enough,” D.W. mumbled before setting the sandwich he’d made in front of Claire. “Just the way you like it, so eat.” He went to work on his own lunch.

“D.W.?” she asked. “Do I butt into other people’s business?”

A chip caught in D.W.’s throat, and he coughed. “God, no, honey. Who told you that?”

“Never mind.” Claire picked up the sandwich and took a bite.

Annie hid her smile behind a glass of fresh, cold milk and took a swallow. Simon finally finished cleaning up, sat next to D.W. and hastily put together his own lunch. By the time Claire got around to her second bite, Simon had already wolfed down most of his food. He stood, dropped his garbage in the bin and left.

“He doesn’t talk much, hmmm?” Annie peeled a banana.

Claire poured herself some milk. “When I was a kid, Simon was the best uncle any kid could hope for. We played cards together, hide and seek, hangman. I turned thirteen, developed breasts and poof. He’s hardly looked at me since.”

“And he’s missing one fine sight, if you ask me.” D.W. smiled at Claire.

“No one did ask you,” Claire said, scowling back at him.

“As a matter of fact,” D.W. said, barely missing a beat with a wink at Annie, “I believe Simon’s missing two fine sights.”

Claire’s scowl deepened before she glanced past Annie and nodded toward the stern. “There he goes. Like clockwork.”

Annie spun around to find Jake, minus a shirt and the ever-present baseball cap, striding across the deck. In one swift and obviously practiced movement, he hopped over the rail and dove off the boat. She gasped and jumped up.

“It’s okay.” Claire laughed, grabbing her wrist to settle her back down.

“What’s he doing?”

“He gets antsy and needs to let off a little steam,” Claire explained. “Whoever’s at the helm reduces speed, and he swims alongside the boat until he burns out. Believe me, we’ll all be a lot happier for it.” She popped another bite of sandwich in her mouth.





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