The House Lost at Sea

by R. J. Blain

  “Nonsense. I’ll have Edwardo pick me up when needed.”

  “Fine.” I turned to Bensen and canted my head, arching a brow. “How about you?”

  “I would not object to seeing your car. I was under the impression you only had a motorcycle, darling. How intriguing.”

  “Her car makes ours look uncouth. We’ve been outclassed, Franklin. Next, she’ll tell me it’s all original, and that we’re heathens for even asking to touch it.”

  Laughing because it was expected of me, I shook my head and headed for the doors. “I’ve had to do some repairs to it over the years, but it’s as original as it gets.”

  “What is it, anyway? It’s a Rolls-Royce of some sort, but what model?”

  “It’s a 1955 Silver Cloud.”

  “Where have you been all my life?” Bensen demanded.

  “I saw her first.”

  The pair started bickering, waging war with their accounts to prove to the other who held the majority of my attention. At the rate they challenged each other, maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about my boss’s wrath in the morning. If they didn’t try to one up each other by expanding their investments under my control by the end of the day tomorrow, I’d eat my hat and squawk like a parrot.

  One day, maybe the absurdities of the modern-day nobility wouldn’t startle me. When I got technical about it, I had the wealth to be one of them, although I hoarded mine in a cave like some long-lost, ancient dragon ready to breathe fire at anyone who got too close to my treasures.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if Bensen’s chef had a chef, a butler, and whoever else the excessively rich hired to make their lives as pleasant and easy as possible. I expected a house—maybe not one as rundown as mine, but still a house. Instead, I visited a mansion, one so large my entire home could fit in the garage.

  At least my Silver Cloud felt right at home beside the newer Rolls-Royce on display at the end of the chef’s driveway. I liked mine better. Something about the modern version lacked the quiet elegance of my car. Then again, if I had my way, I’d blitz my way right back to 1690 where I belonged.

  For almost three hours, I left my comfortable, sparse reality, stepped into a dream world where men with more money than any god served me, and crossed the chasm separating the elite and those who labored beneath them. The chef was a British import named Tyler, and I got the feeling late-night dinners happened more frequently than I initially would have believed thanks to one old man’s enthusiasm.

  Maybe Tyler held the rank of Bensen’s personal chef, but he ate with us, laughed with us, and had no problems with making fun at their expense. Had I even dreamed of indulging in such easy-going and relaxed behavior with my boss, I would’ve been packing my desk within an hour due to my new status as unemployed.

  Well aware I’d have to drive home, I indulged in only one beer before dinner, but in exchange, Benny gave me a second batch of cookies. By the time I got home, the first hints of dawn brightened the distant sky, and I wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week.

  Instead, I returned my Silver Cloud to its rightful place in the garage, trudged my way inside my home, and got ready for work, taking a shower so cold my teeth chattered. It woke me up, and I pulled out my daily planner to check over my schedule. Once the Bensen account was settled, my work could be distributed between other members of the team for a few weeks.

  I could take a two-week vacation, fly to South Africa and the Cape of Good Hope, and go for a swim. It wouldn’t take too long to reach the Calico’s final resting place, eight days if I took my time and lingered with the wreckage, leaving me with enough time for the edge to wear off from hunting the oceans as a shark. If I chartered a ship, I could make the journey in a day.

  If I secured the Bensen account expansion, the acquisition bonus would more than cover my expenses without me having to loot my hoard until I had acquired both halves of the key. Excitement shivered through me, the one I associated with finally returning to sea after too long on shore.

  Anticipation of reclaiming what was rightfully mine kept me awake through my dawn preparations. I applied my makeup with far more care than usual, erasing the fading ink stains from Maximus’s escape back to the ocean. The patter of rain outside convinced me to drive the Rolls-Royce, and I chanced parking it beneath the bank.

  The garage guards gawked, and I waved my pass to gain access to the employee level. Enough people worked in the building they didn’t know me by name, although I expected rumors would spread of an antique car visiting the lot.

  Armed with coffee enough for three, I made it to my desk with three minutes to spare. My boss stormed in, her fury a match for the time she’d caught one of the other investors rubbing pennies together, making extra dollars, and making off with more than his fair cut of the bounty.

  “Do you care to explain?”

  While I ranked high enough in the fold to have an office, my spot wasn’t far from the open concept cubicle farm, and everyone stopped what they were doing to stare. At least modern society frowned upon taking pistols or swords to work; the temptation to run the woman through might have otherwise caused an incident, a very bloody and lethal one.

  Of all the tricks I’d learned over the years, I selected a sweet, pleasant smile as my weapon of choice. “I wasn’t aware Mr. Bensen was attending the exhibit until after my arrival, ma’am. He seemed quite upbeat last night. Hopefully, he’ll—”

  My phone rang, and as though my words had summoned the devil himself, I recognized Bensen’s number. I held up a finger to indicate I needed to take the call, swept the phone off its cradle, and held it to my ear. “Good morning, Mr. Bensen. How can I help you?”

  “Cathy, darling. It’s been far too long since we’ve spoken.”

  I glanced at my cheap little desk clock. “Sir, you saw me several hours ago.”

  “Far too long, my dear. I’ve been looking over the proposal you sent over yesterday. I have a question about the African investment account.”

  Files upon files littered my desk, each one labeled with the client and the portfolios the bank pursued on their behalf. I grabbed Bensen’s foreign investments summary folder and pulled out the appropriate page. “Yes, sir?”

  “Can you expand the sea-trade investments account by two-hundred thousand? I have particular interest in the tourism industry surrounding the Cape of Good Hope.”

  Normally, when a wealthy client called asking to spend more money, it was going to be a good day. His desire to expand close to where the Calico rested beneath the waves, however, worried me. “I can look into it, sir. What sort of tourism were you considering?”

  “Deep water dives for shipwrecks between South Africa and India. Submarine exploration, shipwreck analysis, documentation, and recovery. Expect a call from Benjamin later today, dear. We’re following some interesting leads.”

  “Should I classify this as luxury adventure tourism, sir?”

  “That will do, Cathy darling.”

  The first thing I needed to do was buy myself a little time. If Bensen’s discovery of the Terrier spurred the men into a wild goose chase through the ocean depths, the Calico was at risk, and while she hadn’t been officially found, too many had known we’d sailed those waters. “You’re going to need a larger budget if you want to break into that market as anything other than a spectator, sir. If you want to do more than just grow your options, you’re going to need at least one direct business partner in the industry.”

  “Make it happen,” he ordered before hanging up on me.

  I set the phone in its cradle.

  “Explain,” my boss ordered.

  “Mr. Bensen wishes to expand into tourism around the Cape of Good Hope, and I think he has mistaken our investments office as a business acquisitions firm. While I could make arrangements to buy out stocks of existing companies, so he could become a majority stockholder, that’s not necessarily our specialty.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  When opportunity knocked, I r
efused to turn a blind eye. “I’ll have to do some research, ma’am. I will need a first-hand look at the products he’s wishing to invest in. This is far beyond our usual scope.”

  Our usual scope involved sitting behind a desk crunching numbers and obeying investor demands for the movement of stocks, bonds, and other financials rather than proposing expansions into specific industries with an expectation of hands-on participation.

  If looks could kill, my boss was moments away from murdering me in my own office. “And what’s the problem with that?”

  “The research required would send me to South Africa to the Cape of Good Hope to see if what he wants actually exists, ma’am. It’s very specialized.”

  “Will it secure the account expansion?”

  I picked up my phone, dialed Bensen’s number, and connected the call. He answered after the second ring. “News for me already, Cathy darling?”

  “Will a full proposal on potential expansion options, including the proposals for potential stock acquisition of promising companies, secure your other investments? It will require a great deal of research to put together an action plan, so if I can push the rest of the investment portfolio out the door to the other managers on the team, I will be freed to pursue these interests for you.”

  “I will write in a modification to your original proposal to separate out the South African tourism project and have signed copies to you later today.”

  Why did people always hang up on me? At least he gave me the answer I wanted, although I hoped he wouldn’t regret his reckless decision later. Then again, with the amount of money the man had to burn, I doubted he cared if he lost half a billion dollars on a whim.

  “He’s going to remove the South African portion of the proposal from the account and send over the signed copies later today, ma’am.”

  “Book your flight. I’m expecting good things from you. How long will you need to handle your research?”

  “Call it three weeks, and I’ll take a week vacation out of my personal days.”

  “Approved. Don’t disappoint me, Corona.”

  I fully intended to disappoint a lot of people with the South African expansion gambit, but with a little luck, no one would discover I worked hard to ensure no one looked too closely at the specific stretch of ocean hiding the Calico. And, if I could find something of use for Bensen somewhere away from my ship’s sunken ruins, I would work miracles for him.

  But my crew would not be found. Not by them. Not by anyone.

  Six

  What sort of pirate wore lace panties?

  It took two days to get my affairs in order so I could abandon ship and fly to South Africa, one day of which I spent transferring every piece of coral from my living room aquarium to a rental truck for transport to a store willing to take everything for their display tank. The store’s manager even provided the containers, heaters, and pumps required so nothing would die during the two-hour drive.

  The fish went, too, and it pained me to catch the seahorses, my favorite of my new acquisitions. Some pirate I had turned out to be. I’d gone from man-eating shark and scoundrel of the sea to a woman incapable of allowing twenty-dollar fish to die unnecessarily. Pirates with any sense of compassion didn’t last long.

  They became pirate hunters or privateers on a mission.

  With several hundred million reasons to be happy with me, my boss had tacked on the two days for preparations to the three weeks I had requested, fully paid. The all-expenses-paid trip came with a new company phone and laptop, too, although I recognized those as the double-edged swords they were. My transition from investment manager to scout left a lot to be desired, but it worked for my plans—at least for the moment.

  The first week I would spend scoping out potential businesses, indulging in every luxury tourism event I could find so I could build a potential portfolio. The next week I’d claim as my vacation, returning to the Calico to retrieve my captain’s half of the key. The third week I’d use to find everything South Africa had to offer for me to use to lead Bensen away from the location of the shipwreck.

  I would’ve preferred to go straight to the Calico, but patience would better serve me. Benny’s interest in my watch and pistol worried me almost as much as Bensen’s choice of locations for his diving project. I wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating either one of them again. Both had the funds to hire someone to watch me.

  If someone was monitoring my activities, I’d spot them.

  As a precaution, I stopped at a bank and left my cutlass, pocket watch, and pistol in a safe-deposit box. To make things even harder for anyone wanting to access it, I locked the key in a different box at another bank. I had seven more such boxes, and I made a point of visiting them all and hiding their keys around my home.

  My satisfaction over my efforts to frustrate any would-be thieves lasted all the way from JFK to Cape Town, a nineteen-hour flight with a single layover. I planned to work myself into a state of exhaustion so severe by nightfall it’d take a crane or an explosion to get me out of bed.

  Ships were so much better; they allowed a gradual adaptation to time zones rather than flying’s swift punch to the gut. Returning to the United States would hurt just as much, although it’d be worth the price. I would have the first half of the key in hand with my eye on the rest of my prize.

  I made my way through the airport, stifling yawns and dragging my ridiculous wheeled bag behind me, one the luggage salesperson claimed paired elegance and sophistication with function. It, like the leather bag from hell my boss insisted I pack my laptop in, fit the requirements of a proper businesswoman, as did every last piece of clothing I’d brought at her recommendation, right down to my lace panties.

  What sort of pirate wore lace panties?

  The only person who might appreciate the lace panties had died hundreds of years ago, and he would’ve been more baffled by them than anything. It wouldn’t have taken him long to remove them from my person, and I suspected their fragile nature would have encouraged him to use his teeth rather than other methods of removing troublesome pieces of clothing preventing us from indulging in each other.

  The thought both disgusted and amused me all the way through the airport to the line for cabs, where I joined at least thirty other people looking to escape hell in a hurry. No matter how much effort my boss invested in dressing me up for business travel, she’d need a miracle for me to rise above plain at best. Brawn and brain I could do in plenty, but I let others worry about being pretty. It worked well enough in my favor; they enjoyed making themselves beautiful. I didn’t begrudge anyone from enjoying the fruits of their labor.

  Beautiful things deserved to be admired. While I wasn’t beautiful, Ricardo had liked me plain.

  I couldn’t go a single damned day without thinking about the damned man. Obsessing over him was even worse of a curse than my actual curse, and there was jack shit I could do about it. All trying to drink him away did was leave me with a splitting headache and a bad temper. Forgetting didn’t work.

  Time refused to work its magic on me.

  I had enough trouble considering my uncontrollable shapeshifting into a shark.

  To try to distract myself from the realities of my life, I admired the men and women who captured their beauty and showed it off. A woman sauntered by, headed in the direction of the limousines parked farther down the line, and the sway of her hips warned me of a woman who knew exactly how good she looked and didn’t mind gracing the rest of us with a good, long look. My boss had the wrong idea completely; lingerie better suited the leggy, gold-highlighted brunette in her black pencil skirt. The silk blouse caressing every last one of her curves didn’t hurt, either.

  Damn. I needed to find someone worth taking a tumble in a hammock with. Who knew finding someone smart, beautiful, challenging, and mutually interested could be so difficult? Even if I tried to open the playing field a little, the mutual interest part always shot me in the foot.

  Maybe three hundred years ag
o taking what I had wanted worked, but times had changed, and so had men and women. Three hundred years ago, it had taken very little effort to find someone willing enough. Challenging and smart had taken work, but even a brawny wench like me had been able to hunt someone interesting down with little effort or protest.

  I’d ruined myself with snatching Ricardo and taking my time convincing him I was worth spending time with. In the years after his death, I had indulged in a kidnapping or two to try to find a new flame. It hadn’t worked, but pirates had a reputation to maintain, and I always returned my partners in good health, even the ones smart and challenging enough to put up a good fight. None of them had worked out. Half the time, none of them had been interested in a dalliance with me, and I’d sent them on their way without having scratched any itches at all.

  Beauty was usually the first of my criteria to be sacrificed in pursuit of a relationship, whether I wanted it for a night or a little longer, something I needed a heady dose of soon. As usual, I got ahead of myself. Forget putting the cart before the horse, I needed a cart or a horse before I worried about either of them.

  A blur of motion drew me out of my thoughts, and a chauffeur opened the limo door for the woman, who turned to slide into the vehicle. With her skin tanned from long exposure to the sun and her eyes darker than even mine, she reminded me of those who had set sail long ago.

  I appreciated the honesty in her frown, and while I waited for a cab, I wondered about her.

  Maybe one day I would understand the banker mentality. While I classified as an investment manager and moved money in high quantity, in the grand scheme of things, I ranked pretty low. I never met most of the clients I served; my boss usually took the glory of my preparations and left me in the shadows. In a way, it reminded me of my job as a first mate.

  The captain took the glory, and I made certain everyone fell in line. I did my work best when I stood in the shadows, watching and waiting for the moment I needed to step in and bash heads together. I had taken command often enough, but when I did my job right, I didn’t need to be hovering for my influence to be known.