Twelfth Sun

by Mae Clair

  He snorted, sprawling back against the booth, one arm draped across the backrest. His cagey agitation fled in a heartbeat. “What? You mean some guy I’ve never heard of–Eric Sothern–is going to drag all of these people together with the promise of a nineteenth century ship’s journal, just so he can toss around some clues about my childhood? I’ve never even met the man. We have no connection whatsoever. Why would he want to dig around in my past? No…someone’s messing with my head, hoping to foul me up on the hunt and, as much as I hate to admit it, the only person who could do that is Brody. He’s got to be working with Pellar, but I can’t figure out why.”

  Reagan shifted uncomfortably, still not convinced. There were too many gaps and coincidences. “Look at it another way. No one has ever seen Sothern. From the start he’s been anonymous. Maybe you do have a connection you don’t realize. You had an unusual childhood and an advanced education. You have a regular lecture circuit, go on countless diving expeditions, and have been all over the world in pursuit of antiquities. You’ve encountered hundreds, thousands of people. You might not remember all of them, but I bet most would remember a twenty-something PhD who looks more like a club musician than an academic.”

  Elijah flushed.

  Reagan paused, secretly pleased she could rattle Dr. Elijah Cross. He might be cocky on occasion, but she’d never known him to wave his credentials around. She found that streak of humility almost as sexy as the man himself.

  Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. “Elijah, you know something isn’t right about this. From the start none of it has made sense. The treasure hunt, Sothern, Pellar. Maybe we haven’t seen Sothern, but the people of Serenity Harbor have to know him. Let’s ask one of them. The watchmaker, jeweler, or how about the guy who owns this cafe, Dennis Billings? Sothern must have left the soda and clue for round three. Maybe Billings can tell us something about him.”

  It was worth a shot, or so she thought, but Elijah’s brows drew together and he shook his head. “Sothern’s out of town, remember? Pellar probably left the clues and packages or had someone else do it.”

  “Pellar says Sothern is out of town,” Reagan insisted. “Are you going to take his word for it?”

  She’d struck gold with that one. If anything in the whole convoluted mess was concrete, it was the certainty Pellar rubbed Elijah the wrong way. “Okay,” he agreed after a minute. “Score one for the House. Let’s see if Billings is in. After that, we get back to Blackbird Rock and Lightship 12.”

  Reagan nodded, pleased she’d convinced him. Of what, she wasn’t certain, but at least it was a step in the right direction.

  * * * *

  Unfortunately Billings wasn’t able to tell them anything about Sothern. As Elijah had surmised, someone from Sothern’s staff had dropped off the clue with the instruction it be delivered, accompanied by a grape soda. And in the roundabout scheme of things, grape had been the feature flavor at the wax museum, the destination where the clue led them. A less suspicious person than Reagan might believe it had absolutely nothing to do with Elijah, mere coincidence. Except there were too many of them.

  “I’ve never seen Mr. Sothern,” Billings said when they prompted him further. “Everyone knows he lives in that big house up the coast road but, to the best of my knowledge, he never comes to town. Must be a recluse. You know, the Howard Hughes syndrome. Eccentric billionaire who likes his privacy. The house only went up last year. Had the whole town talking when it did.”

  They thanked Billings politely, but Reagan felt disappointed. She was suddenly certain all of their unanswered questions tied back to Sothern and, somehow, Sothern was connected to Elijah. But there was no middle ground to fill the gaps. Elijah dropped the matter, but she could tell it worked in the back of his mind, the eerie coincidences of clues growing spookier by the moment.

  “What do we do about Blackbird Rock?” she asked as they walked toward his Jeep.

  Elijah slipped his hand into hers, startling her with the contact. His palm was warm, prompting a vivid memory of his fingertips softly stroking her flesh last night. The thought of his body intimately twined with hers made her stomach clench. She could still feel the electric pulse of his skin against hers as they’d made love in the rooftop pool, his long, curling hair dripping wet, his body banded by strips of moonlight and shadow. Somehow she’d gotten caught up in the strings of love. As careful as she’d been and, despite all her silly ground rules and delaying tactics, he’d walked away with her heart.

  Elijah raised their interlocked hands and kissed her knuckles. “Hmm. Having you this close has me distracted. Blackbird what?”

  Damn, and double damn. For a twenty-five-year-old, he could be a devastatingly, old-fashioned romantic at times.

  He pulled her nearer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, dipping his head close to hers. His breath was warm, whisper-soft and intimate. His lips brushed her earlobe, sending an electric shock straight to her soles. Old-fashioned romantics didn’t make a spectacle of themselves in a public parking lot, but convention be damned, he was too irresistible to resist.

  She leaned into his embrace, laying her palm on the flat of his stomach. A slight tilt of her chin was all the invitation he needed to kiss her. The spicy-sweet trace of grape soda lingered on his tongue, dangerously seductive when meshed with the heat of his lips. What was she going to do when the week was over and he left, taking that heady warmth with him?

  Elijah drew back. Grinning, he popped the door on the passenger side of the Jeep, holding it open while she climbed inside. “Okay, just so we’re straight. I’m thinking about blackbirds now, not black bras and panties.”

  “They’re green,” she said automatically.

  His grin grew mischievous. “The color of marsh grass.” Folding his arms on the open window, he leaned forward. “Promise a peep-show later tonight?”

  Reagan arched a brow, amazed he could shift gears from old-fashioned romantic to playful predator in the span of a few heartbeats. No wonder she was enthralled with him. She had a feeling life with Elijah Cross would never be boring, even when his nose was buried in archaic maritime histories.

  She gave him a quick kiss. “Only if you put that brilliant mind of yours to work now. I don’t know the first thing about lightships.”

  Sighing theatrically, Elijah dropped his forehead to his folded arms. “I bet Tarvick doesn’t have to jump through hoops to get what he wants.”

  “Tarvick wants Rook’s journal. He could care less about green panties and bras.” She giggled. “At least I hope so. I have no plans of spending an evening with him.”

  He raised his head. “So you are going to show me?”

  She rummaged up an appropriately pointed frown. “Why are we always discussing my undergarments? What about yours?”

  “Blue. With some kind of vertical stripe or diamond-thingamajig.” He started to unbuckle his belt. “Wanna see?”

  Reagan gave a startled yelp. He had his belt open and the snap of his jeans undone before she managed to catch his hand. “Elijah!” He’d been unpredictable since she’d known him, but would he really drop his pants in a parking lot? Old fashioned romantic, my ass! “Get in the Jeep, Doctor. You can show me your, um…credentials later.”

  He grinned ear-to-ear, boyish delight and seductive charm rolled into one. “Deal.” Whistling light-heartedly he skirted the back of the Jeep, buckling his belt as he went. Reagan watched as he climbed behind the wheel and turned the ignition over. “Okay. Blackbird Rock.” He slipped on his sunglasses. “Let’s drive up the coast and see what we find.”

  Chapter 16

  Their ‘easy’ clue became more difficult as the morning progressed. Geared to watching shops and businesses, they paid special attention to every eatery, retail store, and tourist attraction they could find. Nothing clicked remotely with lightships or the name Blackbird Rock. Elijah called his contact at the university again, dug a tablet and pencil from his glove box, then had the man relay all the information he could
dig up on Light Vessel 12. After fifteen minutes of scratching notes in shorthand apparently only he could understand, Elijah thanked his friend and ended the call.

  “Anything?” Reagan asked.

  He shook his head, passing her the tablet. He’d pulled off the road halfway between Sothern’s estate and Serenity Harbor. Once again the day had warmed as morning bled into afternoon. Shortly after they’d left the Soda Shack, Elijah had lowered the top on the Jeep, allowing cooling ocean breezes to wash over them. Reagan loved the tangy smell of salt and brine, the moist kiss of air against her cheek. In a few more days she’d be able to put the treasure hunt behind her and enjoy the coast for the simple pleasures it offered.

  Including one incredibly gorgeous marine archeologist, she thought with a wicked smile. When the time came to say goodbye, she was going to get her fill of the man before she let him walk out of her life.

  Forcing herself to concentrate on the problem at hand, she tried to decipher Elijah’s scribbled notes but couldn’t make heads or tails of his strange abbreviations. She sent him a sideways glance as he eased the vehicle into the flow of traffic. “Where are we going?”

  “Lunch. It’s almost one o’clock and I’m getting hungry. How about that place on the Boards up by the South Jetty?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Reagan nodded, randomly flipping through page after page of scribbled notes. He wrote as sloppily as he sometimes dressed. Apparently MDs weren’t the only doctors with indecipherable handwriting. Sighing, Reagan leaned back in the seat and gazed off to the side, watching street signs and houses race by.

  Nothing compared to Sothern’s lavish estate, but the homes were far from ordinary, many sporting rooftop sundecks, three or four garages, and glass enclosed solariums. Each small residential community was obviously carefully planned, most with gated entrances and signs that proclaimed Private Road. No Beach Access. Even the street names had an upscale coastal feel: Mystic Tide Lane, White Egret Road, Breakwater Cove, Ravenstone Tidal Drive, Gull’s Nest Circle–

  “Elijah!” Reagan swung around in her seat, craning her neck to see the rapidly passing sign. “Turn around. Quick!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Back there.” She pointed the way, still craning to see, the name bouncing around the inside of her head like a flashing neon sign: This way. X marks the spot. “I saw a street sign for Ravenstone Tidal Drive.”

  He looked at her blankly, still keeping to his original course. “And?”

  “Ravenstone!” she repeated more emphatically. “As in Blackbird Rock. How much do you want to bet there’s a house back there with the number 12 on the mailbox?”

  The tires squealed as Elijah hung a U-turn in the middle of the road. The momentum sent Reagan sliding toward the open side, and she gripped the dash to hold on. She caught his grin, his hunger apparently forgotten as his latched onto the clue all over again.

  “You deserve a kiss for that. Maybe two dozen.”

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” she returned, but slid her hand onto his leg and leaned toward him on the pretext of looking for the road sign. Her fingers crept higher on his thigh. She hadn’t realized how much fun it could be enticing someone, or how thrilling that enticement would feel. There was something exhilarating, even edgy to their continued flirting. Come evening chase would give way to capture and they could both share in the rewards. If nothing else, she planned on finding out for certain whether it was vertical strips or diamonds on his blue boxers.

  “There.” Reagan pointed toward a narrow drive cut between two rows of expensive homes. Her hand had somehow lodged in the crease of his leg and she realized his breathing had changed, growing deeper and faster. Elijah pulled down the road, which turned out to be a cul-de-sac, and killed the ignition at the crest of the circle. A sprawling home with weathered blue T-111 siding was fronted by a white mailbox with the numeral 12 in large black numbers.

  Elijah drew a long breath. Watching his profile, Reagan saw his lashes close behind the dark lenses of his glasses. In the next second he turned in his seat, wrapped an arm around her neck and kissed her. Not the gentle, questing kind of kiss they’d shared in the parking lot of the Soda Shack, but a deep, soulful, can’t-stand-another-moment-without-touching-you kiss. It took her breath away and made her go limp in his arms. As her hand slid from his thigh, she suddenly realized she was the culprit for his abruptly amorous mood.

  She raised a hand, slipping it behind his head, the scrape of his loose curls soft against her fingers. He had wonderfully thick hair, and a deliciously toned body she wanted to familiarize herself with all over again. If they weren’t sitting in front of someone’s house, she might even toss aside her reservations about making love in a Jeep.

  “Elijah.” She drew back. The stick shift was bound to get in the way. “I…I think we should go see who lives here.”

  “Now?” He took his glasses off, his face flushed. His jeans were tighter than they’d been before, and the sight of that arousal aroused her. It wasn’t so much sex she wanted, but to snuggle in his arms and feel the engulfing flood of his warmth as he made love to her. In another lifetime, a storybook lifetime, she might believe that passion could bind them for eternity. She had no doubt he was passionate, but whether he was capable of love she didn’t want to contemplate.

  “Okay.” He gripped her chin and kissed her lightly this time. “We’ll see who lives here and what their connection is to Sothern and the clue.” His fingertips ghosted down her arm, sending glorious shivers to the base of her spine. His lips tipped up in a crooked smile. “But if we solve this with time to spare, I can think of a few ways to keep us busy.”

  “Let me guess.” Reagan’s mouth was dry. “You want to teach me about lightships over crab cakes and fries.”

  Elijah laughed. “Keep thinking that way and maybe you’ll be surprised.”

  They left the Jeep together and walked up a high flight of steps composed of treated lumber to a wraparound front porch. The house, like most others along the beach, was raised on pilings, hoisting it above the flood plain. White wicker baskets brimming with colorful violets, petunias and marigolds hung from the porch railing. Around the side, a hammock was strung between the railing and the house, tucked beneath the roof overhang in an inviting patch of shade. Someone had left a magazine lying face-down and open in the center of the hammock, a pitcher of iced tea and a half-empty glass on a small table nearby.

  Before Elijah could ring the bell, a woman appeared in the doorway, stopping abruptly on the threshold when she realized she had guests. “Hello.” A hesitant smile curved her lips. “Can I help you?”

  She looked fiftyish, trim and tan, with short blond hair and dark green eyes.

  Elijah stuffed his hands in his pockets, apparently undecided how to broach the subject of the clue. “Um…I’m Elijah Cross. This is Reagan Cassidy.” He indicated Reagan with a tilt of his head, his voice polite and casual. “We’re guests of Eric Sothern. He has an estate down the road.” He hesitated. “Do you know Mr. Sothern?”

  The woman chuckled and stepped onto the porch. “Dear boy, everyone in Serenity Harbor knows Eric Sothern. You might say he’s the Rockefeller of our town.”

  “Then you’ve met him?” Reagan asked. Encountering someone who knew Sothern personally would be a stroke of luck and a step in the right direction. Maybe they’d be able to make some sense of the treasure hunt and its strange tie-in to Elijah’s past.

  Unfortunately, the woman shook her head. “I only know him by reputation. But I’ve met his estate manager, Felix Pellar, several times. Yesterday, he dropped off a package and asked me to give it to anyone who might stop by inquiring about Mr. Sothern. Just a moment. I’ll get it for you.”

  Before either of them could protest, the woman disappeared inside. Seconds later, she returned with a wooden box, no larger than a bar of soap, and handed it to Elijah. “I suppose this is for you. Felix asked me to hold onto it as a favor for Mr. Sothern. He said someone would be by to colle
ct it today.”

  Elijah accepted the box with a frown. “Didn’t that strike you as odd?”

  The woman laughed. “Everything about Mr. Sothern strikes me as odd, but I didn’t see any harm in such a simple trinket. Felix showed me what the box contained, a small gem carving of a blackbird. Cut from onyx, I believe. It’s quite pretty.”

  Elijah slid back the top of the box to peer inside, and Reagan looked over his shoulder. As the woman had said, a small stone carving of a blackbird was nestled inside, stark in contrast against a bed of red velvet.

  “This goes with it.” The woman passed Elijah a sealed envelope. “By the way, my name is Alice Martin. When you see Felix, thank him for picking up my mail last week while I was out of town. The man is such an angel.”

  “Angel?” Elijah sent her a skeptical sideways glance. Clearly, anything remotely heavenly had not crossed his mind as a description for Sothern’s overly prim estate manager. Reagan bit away a smile as he nodded politely, diplomatic doctor persona firmly in place. “We’ll do that, Ms. Martin. Thank you for the package.”

  With a hand under Reagan’s elbow, he guided her off the porch. When they were back in the Jeep and he’d left the small residential community behind in favor of the main thoroughfare, Reagan asked the obvious. “Aren’t you going to look at what’s in the envelope?”

  Elijah nodded. “I didn’t want to do it back there.” He found a small turnoff with beach access and pulled the Jeep onto the sand. The four-wheel-drive vehicle rolled through the open terrain as if driving over fine powder. A few feet from the ocean, Elijah killed the engine and passed Reagan the envelope.

  “You read it.” He stood in his seat and stretched, leaning forward to brace his arms on top of the windshield. The ocean breeze blew his long hair back from his face, giving Reagan a clear glimpse of his profile. He seemed agitated.