Twelfth Sun

by Mae Clair

  She doubted that. For one thing he didn’t look remotely similar to the boys she and her popular friends had routinely avoided. The ones more interested in science, computers and math. This self-professed geek had the long, curling hair and electric blue eyes of a male model, the deliciously toned body of a track athlete. Why hadn’t her uncle told her he was so young? And so distressingly good-looking?

  “If the ‘Doctor’ tag on my name is bothering you, let’s just say I was in college when most kids were still busy being kids.” Elijah leaned back in his chair, entirely too relaxed. “The only time I use it is when I write or lecture. It’s pretentious, but it lends credibility, and at my age that’s a necessity. Most of my contemporaries are considerably older.”

  “Morning, folks.”

  The waitress arrived with Elijah’s coffee. With a bright smile, she asked if they were ready to order. Reagan mumbled a request for a whole-wheat bagel and mixed fruit, then retreated into a state of shock. Certainly her uncle wouldn’t expect her to work with this man after what happened last night. In the span of eight hours, her companion had gone from potential sex fiend to respected academic.

  “Excuse me.” She pushed her chair back and stood. “I need to use the rest room.”

  What she needed was time to think, gather her scattered wits and start acting like a professional businesswoman rather than an intimidated adolescent. In the bathroom she splashed warm water on her cheeks, trying to restore a hint of color to her pale complexion. She looked at herself critically in the mirror. The long hours of the past few days had taken a toll. Her green eyes were overly large beneath the loose waves of her red-gold hair, her face drawn and pinched, certainly not ideal for projecting poise and confidence.

  So what if she’d seen Mister PhD Marine Archeological Expert naked? It was a tantalizing memory, but they were both adults and sex had nothing to do with their roles in obtaining the log of the Twelfth Sun. Elijah Cross was far younger and sexier than she’d anticipated, but he was only twenty-five. As the more mature adult, she should have no problem setting boundaries for their relationship. She owed it to her uncle to make the best of the situation.

  He’d been there for her through many of the hurdles in her life, taking on the role of substitute father when she’d lost her own at fourteen. He’d cheered for her at softball games and dance squad, changed the flats on her bike, packed her and her mother off to the movies at least once a week, and encouraged her starry-eyed dreams of owning her own business. When the bank had insisted her fledgling interior design firm have a secure partner, it was her Uncle Gavin who stepped forward and took the risk. Six years later when the business became solvent, he signed his share over as a gift. She owed it to him to ride out the rough spots, even if it involved working with a flippant, stuck-on-himself egghead.

  An egghead who looked like an Adonis.

  It didn’t matter. She’d tough it out, get Dr. PhD to do his thing with the logbook, then chalk the whole thing up to a learning experience. Feeling better, she returned to the dining area. The waitress had already brought their food by the time she arrived.

  “Welcome back.” Elijah was busily slathering butter on a heaping stack of pancakes. “I was thinking of sending out a posse.”

  She overlooked his attempt at humor and came straight to the point. “It seems we’re stuck together for a while, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make any more comments about last night. Let’s do what we came for. In a few days we’ll be able to go our separate ways.”

  “Which is?”

  Reagan picked up her fork and prodded the fruit in her bowl. “What do you mean?”

  “Your separate way. Home. Where do you live?”

  “Oh.” She saw no reason to tell him it was Baltimore. “It doesn’t matter. I’m more interested in how you met my uncle.”

  “He attended a lecture I gave last summer. A mutual acquaintance introduced us and we’ve been friends ever since. He talks about you a lot.” He grinned extravagantly and reached for his coffee. “But he never mentioned your fondness for pink.”

  She bit her tongue. Friend of her uncle or not, he deserved to be skewered and roasted over an open pit. Slowly. Keeping her voice cool, she sent him what she hoped was a frosty glare. “I’m sure you find it humorous to keep dwelling on what happened last night, but any mature adult would have moved on by now. Then again, you are only twenty-five.”

  “Ouch!” His lips curled upward in a crooked grin. “And I suppose you’re ancient? Fossil material.”

  The man had no concept of tact. “Dr. Cross.”

  “Elijah. And I should probably mention I have a tendency to be immature.”

  “That’s obvious.” Reagan made a show of looking at her watch, relaying her impatience. “Maybe we could discuss the Twelfth Sun, since we’ll be meeting Eric Sothern in a few hours.”

  “Fair enough.” Elijah reached for a bottle of maple syrup. He drenched his plate in a sea of liquid sugar, then used his fork to break off a chunk of soggy pancakes. “What did your uncle tell you about the ship?”

  Reagan watched as he made short work of the pancakes, his appetite as extensive as his cache of irritating remarks. At least he was focused, ready to discuss business rather than continuing his game of innuendo. How could anyone so cavalier be so gifted? He’d obviously held his doctorate degree for more than a few years, which placed his intelligence on a genius level. Yet here he sat, downing pancakes and tossing around veiled remarks like a high school adolescent.

  Geek.

  Reagan cleared her throat. “Uncle Gavin didn’t tell me much.” That wasn’t entirely true. Her uncle had rambled on about the Twelfth Sun, but she hadn’t paid attention. She’d simply agreed to drive to Connecticut and retrieve the logbook from Eric Sothern. She’d been more concerned with completing the task, so she could return to the roster of customers she’d put on hold. “I don’t know much about the ship other than it was a frigate.”

  “A schooner. A frigate was a warship. And when you’re referring to a vessel, you should use the gender-specific ‘she.’ Sailors and seamen are particular about that mode of address.”

  Reagan pressed her lips together but didn’t reply. She had the feeling he enjoyed correcting her.

  Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, he craned his neck to glance at her plate. Half of the fruit she’d ordered remained untouched. “Are you going to eat that?”

  “Yes.” Deliberately, Reagan speared a chunk of pineapple and popped it into her mouth.

  “Nice.” Elijah mimicked a salute. “Next time try to do it without the fire-breathing dragon stare.”

  “Dr. Cross.”

  “Getting back to the Twelfth Sun,” he continued as if her interruption were of no consequence. “She was built in the 1790’s when Baltimore led the nation in shipbuilding, and came out of Fells Point like most clippers.”

  “I thought you said she was a schooner?”

  “Pretty much an interchangeable term. The Twelfth Sun was owned by the Wheeler Shipping Company and captained under Samuel Storm. During the war of 1812 she turned privateer and was responsible for single-handedly sinking or capturing ten British vessels. When the war ended, she floundered. The clipper era was on the wane. Changing maritime conditions and economic trends combined to make it almost obsolete.”

  Reagan tilted her head. She vaguely recalled her uncle saying something along the same lines. She’d always viewed old sailing ships as poetic, romantic images, but had never taken the time to learn their history.

  “Wheeler Shipping fell on hard times and sold to a pair of brothers out of Massachusetts,” Elijah continued. “The Rooks were wealthy, but inexperienced. Samuel Storm stayed on as captain of the Twelfth Sun and continued making cargo runs. In 1836, Chester Rook sent his younger brother Jeremiah along as the shipping company’s onboard representative.”

  “The Twelfth Sun sank in 1836.” That much she did know.

  Elijah nodded. He eyed her fruit again. “Are yo
u really going to eat that?”

  Exasperated, she pushed the plate across the table to him. He grinned broadly and attacked the pieces of cantaloupe, honeydew and pineapple with relish. Munching contentedly, he continued his tale.

  “The voyage was doomed from the start. Chester Rook ordered the ship to launch on a Friday in direct opposition to Samuel Storm’s wishes.”

  Reagan waited, expecting to learn there’d been a horrible gale or unstable weather conditions.

  Elijah simply let the sentence hang.

  “So?” she prompted, annoyed by the lapse.

  “Friday, Reagan. Anyone familiar with sailing lore knows you never begin a voyage on a Friday. It’s bad luck.”

  She bristled. “Ms. Cassidy, please.”

  “A little too proper for first names?”

  “Just tell me what happened.”

  He finished the last of the fruit and drained his coffee. Slumping back in his chair, he folded his arms over his chest and stared at her across the table. The thick black line of his lashes made his eyes intensely blue, as vibrant as cut glass caught in the sun. Dark brown hair curled in long, riotous waves against his collar.

  For one unsettling minute, Reagan had the insane desire to lace her fingers through it. Disturbed, she sat straighter and lowered her eyes. She’d always had a weakness for men with tousled, unkempt hair, but so what? Elijah Cross might be good-looking, but he was also a royal pain in the posterior.

  She pretended interest in her tea. “I know the Twelfth Sun sank when it struck the wreck of a submerged frigate off Horsehead Island. I also know the only one to survive was Jeremiah Rook, who escaped in a lifeboat.”

  “With a personal journal.” Seeing the waitress across the room, Elijah waved her to the table. “Could we have the check, please?” Once she had gathered their plates and left, he turned back to Reagan.

  “Samuel Storm’s log was never found, so there’s no account leading up to the wreck. It’s not the captain’s logbook we’re after, but Rook’s journal. He survived at sea for forty-five days before he was picked up by a cutter out of Gloucester. Rumors–credited rumors,” he corrected, “indicate Rook had a personal journal with a detailed account of the Twelfth Sun’s voyage. For over a century there’s been no knowledge of its whereabouts.”

  “And now Eric Sothern claims to have it?”

  “Exactly. Why Sothern would offer it to your uncle isn’t exactly clear. I’m guessing his reputation as a collector of maritime artifacts is what prompted Sothern to make contact.”

  Reagan spared another glance at her watch. They had a fairly lengthy drive ahead of them to reach Eric Sothern’s estate, located on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The solicitation to purchase Jeremiah Rook’s log had come with an attached invitation to lodge at Sothern’s expansive, and reputedly sumptuous, seaside estate for the weekend. Reagan still had to check out of the North Shore and guessed Elijah did as well.

  “Should I meet you at Sothern’s home, or follow in my car?” She was all business again, crisp and efficient. His gaze had grown too friendly and inviting. “I still have to check out of the North Shore.”

  “Room No. 1.”

  She refused to rise to the bait. Fishing through her purse, she removed a handful of bills and placed them on the table. “That should cover my part of the tab. Wait for the check if you want, but I’m going to the inn. I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour.” This time she did look at him.

  He grinned slyly. “A morning rendezvous. I like the sound of that.”

  He was an impossible man, vain and self-centered. “Get over yourself,” she snapped.

  Elijah laughed. “If only I could.”

  She turned and strode briskly from the restaurant. Seething, she stepped outside and ducked beneath her umbrella. Every hour she’d be forced to spend in Elijah Cross’s company was an hour too many. Her uncle was going to owe her more than his standard I’m in your debt, lass, for this particular favor. Fortunately, once Elijah verified the authenticity of Jeremiah Rook’s log, she could bid the egoistical marine archeologist a permanent goodbye.

  That moment couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter 2

  Two and a half hours later she parked directly behind Elijah’s dark blue Jeep on the inner curve of a horseshoe-shaped driveway. Eric Sothern’s home was located on a private stretch of rocky beach sixty miles north of Shipwright Landing. Reagan sat a moment, studying the mammoth structure through her rain-misted windshield. The house jutted from the horizon, banked by sand, rock and sea. White siding and gray stone fused with a vast expanse of windows for a blend of traditional and contemporary styling. Upper level sundecks and widow-walks were positioned at the rear and south of the property, overlooking the blue-gray waters of the Atlantic.

  Lost in her inspection, she jumped when someone rapped on her window. She looked over her shoulder to find Elijah standing outside, one arm braced on the roof of her car. The rain had dwindled to a barely perceptible drizzle and left a fine mist clinging to the brim of his black fedora. “Need an escort?”

  Ignoring the invitation, Reagan collected her purse. The luggage for her weekend stay would come later after she’d met her host. She stepped from the car, tugging the collar of her jacket up around her neck. “Have you met Eric Sothern before?” she asked, curious about the man who lived in such a lavish estate.

  Elijah shook his head. “I don’t know the first thing about him, but it looks like he’s got a nice shack. You could do wonders with the interior design.”

  She frowned, disturbed he knew her business background. What else had her uncle told him? As they stepped onto the sprawling porch, banked by elaborate white columns, Reagan noticed four cars parked to the side. More guests? Had they inadvertently interrupted a social call or a business gathering? Sothern’s invitation indicated they were welcome to arrive as early as eight AM.

  Elijah rang the doorbell and, within moments, a middle-aged man appeared. He gave them a quick once over through close-set gray eyes. “You must be Dr. Cross and Ms. Cassidy.” He studied Elijah discreetly, as if unable to reconcile the professional title with his age. “You’ll do, I suppose. Mr. Sothern is expecting you.”

  “How nice.” Elijah’s voice carried a tight edge Reagan hadn’t heard before. “And you are?”

  “Felix Pellar. I oversee Mr. Sothern’s staff.” He ran a hand down the sleeve of his immaculately tailored jacket, fastidiously straightening his cuff. “The others are in the solarium. This way, please.”

  “Others?” Reagan asked, but Pellar merely beckoned them inside.

  Not pausing to see if they followed, he walked crisply through a marble-tiled foyer into a hallway overlooked by a soaring loft. Reagan trailed slowly, Elijah a step behind. A grand staircase made a sweeping curve to the right, rising to the upper level in a lavish serpentine twist. Plush, foam-colored carpeting padded their footsteps, so dense it felt like walking on air. The glass-enclosed solarium was framed by a high cathedral ceiling and banked by walls of windows on three sides. A panoramic view of ocean, shoreline and sky created a startling backdrop of sea-washed blues and greens, steely grays, and earthy tans.

  A number of people were already gathered in the room. A young couple chatted quietly in the corner, their heads bent close together. Nearby, a black-haired woman sipped a thick, fruity drink while flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine. A blond man sat beside her, casting an occasional glance over his shoulder when something caught his interest. Farther away, a bald-headed man stood gazing out the window. He had a pale complexion, thick black mustache and a goatee.

  “Mr. Sothern will be here shortly,” Pellar announced, eyeing her and Elijah as if they were a matched pair. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll have someone bring refreshments.”

  Reagan moved to object. “Thank you, but I don’t want–”

  Pellar was gone before she could finish. Exasperated, she clamped her mouth shut. Her eyes returned to the members of the g
roup, who were all now openly staring. She felt like a specimen under a microscope. A flush of heat rose to her cheeks.

  “It’s always awkward being the last to arrive.” The blond man left his companion and approached with a breezy smile. He looked to be a few years older than her, his complexion smooth and bronzed as if he’d recently vacationed on a tropical island. His eyes were amber and lightly lashed, but his smile, near perfect and dental-white, was easily his best feature. He gathered her hand, gallantly raising it to his lips.

  “My heart just skipped a beat,” he said smoothly. “I’m Brody Simpson. World-traveler, antiquities buyer, modern day knight in shining armor.”

  Reagan pulled her hand free. His charm had all the earmarks of being manufactured. “Reagan Cassidy. Is that your resume or your wish list?”

  “It’s his brain structure, ranking up there with putty.” Elijah removed his hat and dragged a hand through his loose curls. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Brody. Tarvick too.” A nod indicated the bald man. “Does this mean we’re in competition again? It’s getting to be predictable.”

  “You’d miss it if it weren’t. Too bad you’re destined for the losing end.”

  “That’s what St. Croix wants you to think. Aren’t you tired of being his lap dog?”

  “Aren’t you tired of championing ivory halls?”

  Both men grinned simultaneously.

  “Excuse me,” Reagan interrupted, feeling left out. “Could someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  “Just some friendly rivalry,” Brody explained. He clasped Elijah’s hand and slapped him on the back. “It’s good to see you, Doc, but I’m going to tromp all over you. Gerald St. Croix wants Rook’s journal, and he’s given me carte blanche. I’m going to outbid whatever paltry sum you’ve got tucked up your conniving Mensa sleeve.”