MAKE HER PAY

by Roxanne St Claire

  He thought about that for a second, frowning. “On a salvage dive? How deep was he?”

  “Not a salvage dive.” She waved her hand, dismissing the subject. “What are you going to do with my clothes?”

  “Destroy them. And after you go to your cabin, I’ll go clean the lab.”

  “So, then …” She gave him a questioning look and let her words fade away.

  “Your secret is safe with me.” He stood slowly, getting right in front of her, as close as he was in the shower. With one finger, he lifted her chin and forced her to look right at him. “For the time being.”

  She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “So, what, you can lord it over me whenever you want something?”

  “That could work.” He lowered his face one centimeter and saw the flicker of response in her eyes. A hint of pink rose in her creamy cheeks, darkening those few freckles, warming the skin under his fingertips.

  Her lips parted to take in a soft breath, drawing him closer.

  She stepped back, keeping the sly smile on her face. “Two can play the blackmail game, Mr. X.” Without breaking eye contact, she reached into the side pocket of his backpack to slide out the satellite phone. “This is banned on the boat, baby.”

  He barely shrugged in response. “I’m keeping it.”

  “You do that. And tomorrow, remember that we’ll be meeting for the first time.” She dropped the phone back in the bag and wiggled her fingers in farewell.

  He had her phone out and had started logging her calls before she’d even reached her cabin door.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  THERE WAS A damn good reason that salvage season took place during the summer, Lizzie thought as she dug through the clean pile to find thick sweats and an ancient University of Miami sweatshirt to pull over her diving suit.

  It was freaking cold at sea in November, even off the coast of Florida.

  The toothpaste was chilly on her tongue and she brushed furiously, working up a lather before she looked into the mirror in her head. She plucked at her wavy bang, which had gone way past needing a trim weeks ago, and let it tumble over her face. Was this how she looked last night, bare naked in a head with one of the most attractive men she’d ever met?

  The thought tightened her belly again, as it had last night when he whipped off his clothes.

  But it wasn’t just the way he responded to that nitric acid—so protective and calm under pressure. Sure, he was a smart-ass, cocky as hell, and determined to paint her as a thief when she wasn’t one—not technically, anyway—but there was something about him. And it wasn’t just his gorgeous face and godlike body, although they didn’t hurt the package.

  She spat in the sink, rinsed her mouth, then checked the time.

  Was it too early to call Brianna? Not that her twenty-six-year-old sister needed to be checked on, but worrying about that impulsive little spitfire had been Lizzie’s job since Mom died when they were little, and the feeling of being the “parent” had intensified when they lost Daddy.

  She yanked open her secret drawer and pulled out all the junk that covered the piece of pressboard she’d laid in the bottom, just in case some crewmember got nosy. It wasn’t a masterful job, but—

  Shit.

  She moved her hand around, flipping out the cheap board to search more thoroughly. Where had she left her phone? She was sure she’d hidden it here the last time she called Bree.

  Then another wave of panic hit her. Daddy’s journal! She stabbed to the back, blowing out a sigh of relief when she touched the leather. Thank God. No one had taken her phone, or he’d have helped himself to the notebook, too.

  So where did she leave it? She scanned every surface, flipping some clothes, books, magazines. She couldn’t even call it, as she did at home when she lost it, because no one else had a phone.

  Well, Constantine Xenakis did. But if she asked him to come to her room and call her phone, then he’d have one more thing to blackmail her with.

  She’d find it later. She had the morning dive so she didn’t have much time, and the only thing she wanted more than to hear her sister’s voice was to drink some of Brady’s morning brew.

  Heading out, she made it three steps down the hall when the stateroom door next to hers opened.

  “Mornin’, Lizzie Lou.” Sam Gorman patted her back so hard, she almost lost her balance. It always gave her a start when he used Dad’s special nickname for her, but she didn’t have the heart to ask him to stop.

  “Hey, Sam.”

  “How’d ya sleep?” He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze, as he had many times on many boats for many years, his gentle blue eyes crinkling from thousands of hours under the Florida sun, his face looking every one of his fifty-some years and more.

  “Eh, you know.”

  “I know,” he said, nudging her forward. “Every day gets easier, dear, I promise. You have to move on. That’s why you’re here, and that’s what Malcolm would want.”

  At her father’s name, her heart hurt. “That and the paycheck, Sam.”

  That wasn’t at all why she was here, but he’d done her a favor by getting her on this dive, and she wasn’t about to tell him her real reasons for taking it.

  “And you know what I smell?” he said as they headed up to the deck.

  She laughed. “Gold.”

  “You got it! I smell gold in that water, Lizzie. And you know what they say?”

  “The blondes find the gold.” They said it at exactly the same time, with the same dragged-out intonation.

  She gave him an elbow. “You haven’t been blond for years, Sam. But I hope you’re right. Will Char be down in the lab later?”

  There might still be a chance to sneak in and get a picture without the big Greek breathing down her neck. Not that having him breathe down her neck would suck—just not when she was in mission mode. And her mission of the moment was to get the lab key back in Charlotte’s room.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But Flynn said he’d be leaving later this afternoon to deliver what we have in the lab to the mainland for processing. Guess who you’re scheduled to dive with this morning?”

  “You. I checked last night.”

  “Shoulda checked this morning.” They reached the deck. “Dave changed the schedule and you got the new guy. Constantine Xenakis. Have you met him yet?”

  She was diving with him?

  “Actually…” The sound of a now familiar voice made Lizzie freeze. “We haven’t had the pleasure,” he finished.

  She turned slowly, and miraculously managed not to let out a “wow” at the sight of him. But, wow. The man was even better in daylight.

  “Hello, Constantine.” She offered a hand, and a secret smile of thanks.

  “Just Con.” He shook her hand, holding it just a little too long with a glint in his eye. “Constantine is kind of a mouthful.”

  Yeah. A mouthful of man. Shirtless, with muscles on full display from broad shoulder to broad shoulder, the top half of his wet suit open and hanging over narrow hips. He added a smile that would melt a glacier and squeezed her hand like they were just going to be the best diving buddies ever.

  “You must be Elizabeth Dare,” he said, not letting go until every possible nerve ending in her hand had been thoroughly … warmed. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  His voice was rich with tease, their secret hanging in the air between them. If there was any air. He seemed to soak up all the air and light and space just by being there. If this really had been the first time she’d seen this dude, she’d break her “no shipboard romances” rule in a hurry.

  “You can call me Lizzie.” She managed to take her hand back, but could still feel the tingle he’d left behind. “And I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but gossip is as plentiful as fish in these waters, so don’t waste your time believing it.”

  “I only believe what I see with my own two eyes,” he whispered, close enough to send a little shiver up her spine.

&nb
sp; She turned to the deck, already alive with action, the scent of seawater mixed with that of bacon and coffee floating out from the galley in the main salon. Along the starboard side, Dave Hawn flipped open the divers’ lockers, air hoses already looped over his arms.

  “Have you met our divemaster?” Sam asked Con.

  “He’s already given me an orientation. And my dive schedule.” He gave Lizzie another direct look. “Looks like we go down together this morning.”

  “Looks like it.” At least she’d have some control over what he did down there. But after last night, he’d probably stick with her like they were tethered to each other. If she found what she was looking for, it could get tricky. “But I need coffee first.”

  “Make it fast,” Dave hollered as she headed to the salon, his shoulder-length blond hair sliding over broad shoulders. “Kenny’s already blown coquina and we want to go right back to where Alita found that chain yesterday.”

  As if on cue, Alita Holloway slinked up the steps, her black hair tucked neatly into a Gold Digger baseball cap, a diving suit barely covering her voluptuous body.

  “Awful early for you, Princess,” Lizzie said, narrowing her eyes to look under the bill at the beauty-pageant face. “And with mascara and everything.”

  Alita shot her a withering look. “Actually, Lizzie, if you haven’t had breakfast yet, I’ll switch shifts with you.” Her gaze shifted to Con and her dimpled smile deepened. “I’m just dying to go back to that spot where I snagged that chain. I’d love to show you, Con.”

  Obviously they’d met already. Which would explain the mascara.

  “Fine with me,” Lizzie said. She could get the key back and her dive would definitely be easier without him distracting her. “I prefer afternoon dives in this weather, anyway.”

  “Don’t screw with my schedule,” Dave called out. “No substitutions. There’s a science to this, you know.”

  They all looked at each other with knowing smiles.

  “The science is that Dave is a control freak,” Sam explained to Con.

  In the salon, Charlotte Gorman, tucked into the corner of one of the two dining booths, looked up from the chart spread in front of her, a frown of concern forming. “You feeling okay, Lizzie? You look flushed.”

  “I’m fine, Char.” As she breezed through the aisle between the tables and headed back to the breakfast buffet, Lizzie reached out and tapped Charlotte’s knuckles. Sam’s wife of less than a year was not only the conservator, making her the one person who would have her hands on every single treasure before it left the ship, she was also the closest thing Lizzie had to a girlfriend on this boat. So the temptation to trust her and even enlist her help was strong, but Lizzie had resisted so far.

  For one thing, if Charlotte assisted Lizzie in getting detailed pictures of recovered salvage and in making comparisons to the drawings in Dad’s journal, then Charlotte would be an accomplice, and Lizzie didn’t want to put her in that position.

  She also didn’t know her as well as she knew Sam. But, without help from someone soon, her whole plan would fall apart. That could happen any day, on any dive.

  So who could she trust?

  A soft breath moved the hair against her back, making her splash coffee mid-pour.

  “Divemaster Dave says he’s ready for us.”

  “I haven’t had my coffee,” she said, turning, bracing for the proximity of Con’s body and the sheer power of his eyes.

  “I returned the lab key to its rightful owner.” His voice was little more than a baritone rumble, the very sound of it like a sexy come-on. She glanced at Charlotte, but the other woman was deep into her charts again.

  “Thanks for covering for me,” she said softly, lifting her coffee mug to her lips. “Keep up the good work and I might let you have first hands on a gold coin.”

  “First hands?” His brow shot up. “I like the sound of that.”

  “Let’s go, crew!” Dave popped his head into the salon with a sharp look at Lizzie. “We got a schedule to maintain.”

  She threw a wistful glance at the coffee and another at the man who made her miss it. “I hope you know what you’re doing down there, Con. I can’t babysit.” She zoomed out to the deck, where she checked the stern blower while she stepped into her suit. Con came right over to her, zipping up and studying the murky water churning below.

  “You ever dive with a blower, Con?” Kenny Brubaker’s sun-kissed curly hair blew around his head in the breeze, but his eyes were blocked by the reflective shades he wore even on cloudy days.

  “Not for a while,” Con replied.

  Lizzie threw a look at Kenny. Great, a rookie.

  “Lemme just give you a primer.” Kenny pointed to the two metal elbow-shaped pipes mounted onto the stern and swung over the prop. “Those are dusting about three feet of sand, and they’ll run the whole time you’re down there. You dive right under them and go to work when you hit the pan—meaning the hard coquina shell under the sand. You’ll have the metal detectors, but stay next to Lizzie while you get the lay of the land down there. We’ll be operating the air hoses and you can signal with them.”

  “What’s the system of pulls?” Con asked.

  “One pull on your hose means stop the blower. Two means start it up, three means you found something. Four means major find.” Kenny grinned. “We like those the best.”

  Lizzie pointed to the air hoses that Dave was readying. “Just remember, we’re down fifty feet and there’s about a hundred feet of line, so feel free to take the tether room. The more we spread out, the better our chances of finding something.”

  Con gave her a knowing look. “You really don’t want to dive with me, do you?”

  “Just spelling out the guidelines,” she said.

  “Stay within sight of each other,” Dave interjected. “Which is close, because it’s bright enough to see a few feet away, but at this time of year, distance visibility is low.” He nudged them toward the dive platform. “Use those detectors, and put your masks to the pan—especially the outer edge, where you’ll have the best luck. If it shines or sparkles or makes that thing ding, we want it.”

  Kenny brought the metal detectors over to them. “First one to touch a treasure gets credit in the books, a Gold Digger baseball cap, and the biggest piece of Brady’s celebration cake.”

  “That’s ‘first hands,’ I take it,” Con said.

  “First hands aren’t important,” Dave replied, humorless as always. “And, just for the record, the second hands are mine or Flynn’s; from there the goods go to Charlotte. We’re not on this dive for caps or cake.”

  “I know why we’re here,” Con replied, giving Lizzie a meaningful look.

  She pulled her mask down and shimmied to the dive platform, resentment burning. “If you have beginner’s luck, I swear I’ll kill someone,” she murmured.

  Con got closer to her. “Who says I’m a beginner?”

  “Hookahs in!” Dave hollered. “Let’s get to work, troops!”

  Lizzie snapped her hose, checked it, then slid into the icy cold water. A second later, a warm, strong body was next to her, as close to her face as he could be with the air hoses separating them.

  She knew it. She’d be wearing him on this dive.

  Behind his mask, he winked, took her free hand with his, and pulled her deep into the murky water.

  Con hated to dive. He could do it, and had, many times since that bad, black mission in Quezon City. But every time he submerged, he remembered that night, that save, that choice, and what it cost him.

  Everything. It cost him fucking everything. So he hated to dive, which was probably one of the many reasons Ms. Machiavelli picked this job as his Bullet Catcher test.

  They dropped straight down through the sandstorm blowing under the set of pipes that directed the prop-wash to the bottom. Con kicked through it, heading toward a two-foot-high pyramid-shaped ballast pile. These black stones were proof that they had found a bona fide shipwreck, since the pile of wei
ghted rocks used to center the vessel was probably all that remained of the actual ship. There could be cannon down there and, of course, the cargo.

  Lizzie started to swim to the edge of the pan, and he stayed right next to her, still highly suspicious of her, even though there hadn’t been anything incriminating on her phone. The only person she’d been in contact with since she’d gotten on board was Brianna Dare, whom he assumed was a sister, though he hadn’t asked the Bullet Catchers investigative team to verify that yet. Still, he wasn’t about to let his little thief out of his sight underwater.

  For one thing, the notebook she was hiding in her room proved she knew exactly which shipwreck they were salvaging. She was his number one target for the moment, which was why he’d subtly convinced the divemaster to let him dive with her.

  If he wanted to steal treasure on a dive, he’d forget the stuff being recovered and processed. He’d take it right from the bottom of the ocean and no one would be the wiser.

  Lizzie slithered in front of him, took his arm, and yanked him away from the ballast pile, using her metal detector to point forcefully at the perimeter of the coquina-shell pan.

  He followed her lead, working tirelessly for almost an hour, recovering nothing but a nail, which she slipped into a zippered pouch on her weight bag. Periodically she checked the ballast pile, probably gauging a direction or specific spot where something had been found.

  In one place, she mimed the line of a necklace around her neck. That must be close to where Alita found the chain. She pointed for him to go several feet away and start detecting while she worked where she stood.

  In other words, go out of visibility distance.

  Not a chance. He shook his head and she dropped her shoulders and glared at him in disgust. Then she tapped her dive watch, hard, and made a gesture of frustration. They were running out of time, she was trying to tell him. Meaning the discovery, if there was to be one today, might be made by the next dive team.

  Reluctantly, he nodded, pointing to a place he’d go, still within visibility of her. She agreed with a half shrug, then flicked her hand as if to say, Move it! He swam there, splitting his attention between the sand on the pan and the woman who was now turned so he couldn’t see if she dropped something into her weight bag.