Contents:
Prologue
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© 2004
Prologue
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A skeleton isn't an unexpected thing to find under the sea near a sunken ship, and this wasn't the first one Brodie Stanner had come upon. But when he saw the whitened rib cage rising from the sand and a small, gleaming fish shooting out of one of the shadowy eyeholes of the skull, he felt a chill of instant gooseflesh inside his wet suit. The sound of his breath, amplified by the air valve of his scuba tank, was suddenly louder.
Twenty minutes ago, with his diving buddy Rogan Broderick, he'd stepped from the deck of the Sea-Rogue into the warm embrace of the Pacific Ocean, emptied air from his buoyancy compensator, and began to glide down in the tropical water, the tank on his back becoming weightless. Some distance away the uneven wall of the reef shimmered with color—purple, blue, orange, green, red—corals and sponges and layered sea fans crowded together in fantastic shapes; seaweeds and giant anemones weaving gently in the current while iridescent jewel-like fish darted in and out among them. Rogan was at his side, a stream of tiny glittering air bubbles from his breathing apparatus expanding as they floated upward.
The water became almost opaque, then cleared. The divers swam up an incline toward the reef, skimming above white sand littered with dead pieces of coral, shells and less recognizable objects encrusted with marine growths. Huge crabs danced daintily over the seafloor, and a bright orange starfish stirred its arms, raising a small puff of sand.
A low curve arched from the seabed, and even before Rogan pointed, Brodie recognized part of a ship's side, studded with barnacles and festooned with seaweed, the rest of the wreck covered in a blanket of soft sand.
They tried with gloved hands to sweep away some of the sand, perhaps identify the bow where there was a slim chance the ship's name might still be visible, but in the time they could safely stay underwater they hadn't made much progress before Rogan indicated they should surface.
The current was stronger than Brodie had realized, carrying them to the reef and some way along it. Then he'd seen the unmistakably human bones huddled by the coral wall.
The lower part of the skeleton was either buried in sand or missing, but the rib cage seemed intact, as was the skull with its huge, empty eye and nose-holes and macabre death-grin. When he paused and waved a hand over the pathetic remains, disturbing the sand, a gleam of white arm bone showed before the cloud of grains started settling again.
One last look, then he finned upward to join Rogan at the first decompression level on their buoy line. They made the remainder of the ascent, taking a couple more decompression stops on the way to clear nitrogen from their systems and prevent the dreaded bends—which could cripple or kill a diver—from attacking them when they surfaced.
Back on board, Brodie took his mouthpiece out and said, "Did you see the skeleton down there?"
Rogan lowered his air tank to the deck and fastened it into a storage clip. "The Maiden's Prayer went down with all hands. We might find a few more skeletons, even after a hundred and fifty years."
"It doesn't look right."
"Someone died." Unzipping his wet suit, Rogan gave him a quizzical look. "That never looks right. Of course your skeleton might not be from our particular wreck. This reef would have caught quite a few ships over the centuries, specially before it was properly charted."
The clippers carrying nineteenth-century miners and their newly acquired wealth from the Australian gold fields home to America hadn't had modern navigation instruments and satellite systems to guide them. The Maiden's Prayer wasn't the only one reported sunk without a trace, taking a fortune in gold and goods to the bottom of the sea.
Brodie and Rogan finished mapping the site of the wreck as far as they could define it with their sonar and magnometer supplemented by visual inspection, and noted the exact locations of the few artifacts they'd recovered. Rogan's initial survey had been interrupted when he'd discovered the sunken ship some months ago, and they hoped on this trip to find conclusive evidence that it was, as Rogan believed, the Maiden's Prayer.
Eating fresh-caught crab on the deck of the Sea-Rogue, Rogan said, "I didn't have time for a thorough inspection when I was here before, but we picked up coins and ship fittings and pieces of jewelry. There just doesn't seem to be as much here now as I would have expected." He stared at the three palm trees on a strip of white sand that marked the edge of the reef.
"Maybe you found all there was on the surface. And things shift and get reburied in storms—you know that."
"Yeah," Rogan agreed halfheartedly. "I hope we haven't had poachers on the site while we've been busy confirming our legal claim to the wreck and organizing a proper recovery operation."
"We haven't seen any other boats around since we got here. And if some fisherman or recreational diver did get lucky enough to find a few bits and pieces scattered about, they haven't broached the wreck. They'd need proper equipment and a professional team of divers, and you know how long it's taking to set that up yourself."
Rogan cracked open a crab leg and removed a morsel of white flesh. "Right. Even if the location of the site has leaked out somehow, probably the worst that can happen before we get to the real treasure is a bit of pilfering." He popped the bit of crabmeat into his mouth. "Well, our last dive is tomorrow."
"Yeah." Brodie grinned. Rogan had to be back in port for his wedding. "Better get you to the church on time."
They dived early, found a couple of coins and some glass bottles that might help date the wreck, and then Brodie spotted a few inches of something curved. Something metal and man-made—green, and almost invisible under the sand. Maybe Rogan's porthole, he thought, digging his fingers into the seabed to clear the object.
He signaled Rogan and they excavated it and took it to the surface, hauling it on board. It was a ship's bell, tarnished and half covered in corals and sponges. But after scraping those away, faintly the two men could discern some letters just above the rim.
"Eureka!" Rogan exclaimed softly, turning the bell to read the inscription. "Maiden's Prayer. My dad was right. He found his gold-ship. Let's go home. But we don't mention this to anyone."
Brodie looked up from his awed contemplation of their find. Abruptly he said, "I want to have another look at that skeleton."
Rogan gave him a curious look but said, "Sure, okay."
He stowed the bell in the master's cabin, and when they'd been out of the water long enough for a second safe dive, they donned their gear again and swam to the reef wall.
It took a while to find again the place where the skeleton lay, apparently undisturbed, and by then their time was nearly up. Brodie looked down at the empty eye sockets—almost accusing with their blank, black stare—and peered inside the skull.
There was sand in there, not unexpectedly. But … dimly he discerned a faint raised lump. A brief hesitation, then he stripped off one glove, gingerly poked two fingers into an eyehole, and withdrew a small, dully gleaming object. A bullet.
Chapter 1
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Sunlight slanted through a small high window in the seamen's chapel at Mokohina. The insistent sound of the sea washing onto the beach backgrounded the bride and groom's voices as they recited their vows.
In the second row of the pews, Brodie watched the golden light burnish the bridesmaid's piled curls, inside a coronet of flowers, and turn a wayward strand lying on her graceful neck to an almost ruby red. Something about that slim, pale neck, contrasting with the rich auburn glow of her hair, hinted at vulnerability. A stirring of curiosity kept his gaze focused lazily on her.
He hadn't seen her face when she'd preceded Camil
le down the aisle—he'd been riveted by the sudden blaze in Rogan's eyes as the other man turned to watch his bride approach. The raw emotion of that look had shaken Brodie, waking complicated feelings of awe coupled with a surprising shaft of something remarkably like envy.
Marriage wasn't something he'd ever thought seriously about, himself. He was pretty sure Rogue hadn't either until he met Camille, who was gorgeous enough to weaken any man's resolve, with her green eyes and thick, glossy brown hair, a face that turned men's heads in the street, and a figure any model might envy.
When the bridal party turned toward the door and the best man—Rogan's brother, Granger—offered his arm to the bridesmaid, Brodie got his first real look at her.
An almost translucent complexion that reminded him of pearl-shell, delicately arched eyebrows, eyes that were more gold than brown framed by dark, gold-tipped lashes. Which meant their color must be natural, surely. And a mouth made for kissing, with a decided bow on the upper lip, a delicious fullness in the lower one, firmly set together. For a moment he thought he caught a hint of sadness in the golden eyes, and extra sheen. But then, women always cried at weddings, didn't they? By all accounts they quite enjoyed a good weep.
Even as he watched, the luscious mouth trembled into a smile. Not quite as radiant as the bride's, but bewitching. He let his gaze slide over her figure—on the thin side, he thought critically. But subtly curved in the right places, her breasts surprisingly well-rounded. Maybe Mother Nature was getting some help there. A man could never tell for sure.
Because her bronze silk dress was quite short, worn with matching high-heeled shoes, he could see she had great legs, the ankles so slim they looked breakable. He reckoned he could easily put a hand around one of them. Picturing it, something more than simple curiosity stirred his blood—something much more carnal. And unsuitable for a church.
Then she swept past with the bridal party and he followed the rest of the congregation outside.
The reception was held in the private lounge of the nearby Imperial Hotel, a two-story white wooden leftover of New Zealand's colonial past. After the meal and toasts were completed, the cake was cut and the bridesmaid offered pieces to the fifty or so guests now mingling around the room. He followed her progress, having covertly watched her ever since she'd sat down at the bridal table with Camille and Rogan.
Apart from the bride, she was, he'd decided after a quick check, the most watchable woman in sight, intriguing and somewhat perplexing. Most of the time she wore a pleasant but slightly cool expression that only kindled into warmth when she spoke to Camille and now, when she bent to offer a piece of cake to a small, shy boy, giving him an encouraging, full-on smile as he took his time over choosing.
Her position also gave Brodie a chance to check that the temptingly rounded breasts encased in a low-cut cream lace bra were nature's work alone.
As she straightened, he hastily shifted his gaze to her face. Her smile abruptly faded when she met his eyes, and she blinked before turning to allow a couple of people to take their share of cake.
Finally reaching Brodie, she gave him a quick smile but her eyes seemed to look through him before she lowered her gaze to the platter she offered.
He took a piece of cake with a thick layer of white icing and said, "We haven't met. I'm Brodie—Brodie Stanner. And you're Sienna Rivers, the archaeologist who assessed some of the pieces Rogan salvaged."
She seemed surprised that he knew that, the dark pupils of her eyes almost obscuring the amber glow when she looked up at him. "I did look at some stuff for Camille," she acknowledged rather warily.
Brodie nodded. "You work with her at the university."
"Camille's in the history department at Rusden, but at the end of the semester she's joining Rogan's treasure-hunting company." Her voice sounded disapproving, or perhaps disappointed. Turning away from him, she murmured, "Excuse me.
She went on wending through the crowd, giving the same nice but impersonal smile to everyone as she dispensed her slices of cake.
Ruefully, Brodie stared after her.
Most women found something at least superficially attractive in his tanned, fit body, his clear blue eyes, the squared-off jaw with its hint of a cleft, and even his thick, naturally sun-streaked hair.
Sienna's patent disinterest, and the fact that it annoyed him more than was reasonable, made him wonder if he was guilty of having an overinflated ego.
Across the room she tilted her head to the best man as Granger relieved her of the empty platter and handed her a glass of wine, his perfectly groomed dark head bent and aquamarine eyes fixed on her as they talked, the expression on his undeniably good-looking face attentive.
For the second time that day Brodie envied one of the Broderick brothers.
Tearing his gaze away, he found it caught by a sweet-faced little blonde. She gave him a come-hither smile and did that bashful, fluttering thing with her eyelashes that women sometimes used to signal interest. After a peculiar instant of something that couldn't possibly have been boredom, he smiled back and began to make his way toward her.
Granger Broderick offered to take away Sienna's empty cake platter, and as he left her side, she turned and surveyed the room.
The glass in her hand was something to hold and an excuse to stop smiling for a while, giving her aching facial muscles a rest. She took a sip of the wine Granger had poured for her.
Rogan's brother was carrying out his duties with impeccable courtesy and a certain aloofness that was infinitely reassuring. Quite unlike the unabashed interest of the man with the brazen summer-sky eyes.
She'd thought, before he gave his surname, that "Brodie" might be short for Broderick. But according to Camille, Rogan had only one brother.
Besides, he looked nothing like the Brodericks, who both met the classic definition of tall, dark and handsome—where he scored two out of three. Not that his blond-streaked brown hair was any handicap. She wondered if the streaks were artificial. Although he didn't give an impression of vanity, his confident manner and assumption that she'd be pleased to stand talking with him argued that he was well aware of his own male appeal.
Men with such obvious sexual self-possession made her uncomfortable, sending out signals that she found too overt, taking for granted that she—or any woman—would be only too happy to return them.
Which most women would, she supposed, being fair. She'd learned the hard way that she wanted—needed—more from a man than good looks and sexual prowess, real or imagined.
Her glance idly passed over the guests. Camille and Rogan were circulating among them, and Brodie had moved to another part of the room, his head interestedly cocked to an animated blonde who was surely delighted to have his attention.
Sienna drank some more wine and reminded herself not to overdo it, especially as she'd only picked at the food laid out on the table. Her appetite hadn't yet recovered after a virulent bout of food poisoning that had landed her in hospital only weeks ago, followed by an attack of some nasty superbug that had taken advantage of her weakened state and prolonged her stay. It had been doubtful whether she would make it to the wedding at all.
The big room seemed suddenly stuffy. Perhaps the wine wasn't a wise idea after all, and she'd been on her feet too long.
There were no unoccupied chairs nearby. Cursing the continuing weakness that she'd hoped had passed for good, she turned to put down the glass on the nearest table and experienced a wave of dizzy nausea.
A quick visual search for an escape route revealed a pair of closed French doors leading to the hotel garden and an umbrella-shaded table with canvas chairs set on the grass. She started toward the doors.
They wouldn't open, and wrestling with the catch she experienced a moment's panic. Black spots were beginning to float before her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to cause a sensation by passing out at her friend's wedding.
Then a suit-sleeved arm reached around her and pulled down a recalcitrant bolt, a masculine hand pushed the
door open and a blessed wave of fresh, salty air stirred her hair and cooled her face. The hand circled her arm as she stumbled onto the grass, and a rough-timbred, urgent voice said in her ear, "Are you all right?"
"Yes," she lied, but her voice was almost inaudible, and she was infinitely grateful for the chair the man thrust her into. She rested her elbows on the table and let her head fall onto her raised hands until the dancing spots disappeared and the breeze cleared her swimming head.
Looking up, she saw Brodie Stanner had seated himself and was watching her, his eyes darkened to cobalt with concern. "Can I get you anything?"
"No, I'm fine." She would be in a minute or two. "Thank you."
"Fine, huh?" Concern changed to patent disbelief. "You look like death."
"It was hot inside. I'll be all right now."
Her Passionate Protector Page 1