Being careful to keep his voice low, soothing, he recounted the details her father had given him. “I know the bombing of the coffee shop wasn’t coincidental, that the explosion was really meant for you.” Her arms loosened slightly, and he pressed her closer in response. “I know the terrorists knew you’d be at the coffee shop because they hacked into your cell phone and intercepted a text message you sent to my sister, telling her the time and the place to meet you. I know they targeted you specifically to try to make a point to your father, because he’d always been so vocal in his vow to go after extremists with the full might of the American military should he ever become president.” Her trembling had softened, her sobs reduced to sniffles as she listened. “And I know your father and his party decided to keep the truth of all of that under wraps, out of the press, because they thought it would hurt his chances of winning the election. Because they thought the American public, in light of the incident, would view his outspokenness as a giant come and get me to terrorists the world over.” Her little fingers bunched the material of his shirt into fists. “I know the only reason you were saved from sharing Rosa’s fate was because you were running late. And I know”—he ran a hand over her ponytail, reveling in the silkiness of her hair—“that your father made you promise to tell me none of this.”
She pushed back from him, her face a soggy, beautiful mess. “Did you also know that my Secret Service agents had warned me about sending specifics in my text messages?” she demanded. “And that I just…forgot and did it anyway?”
He cupped her jaw in both hands and used his thumbs to brush the tears from her soft cheeks. “You were a busy college student doing what every busy college student does. It wasn’t your fault, Abby. It just wasn’t.”
“How can you say that?” she implored on a harsh whisper. “If only I’d—”
Poor little neña. Poor little wrong-headed neña. “Do you blame your father for speaking out so harshly against extremism?” he interrupted.
She swallowed, drawing his attention to the lovely length of her neck. Even red and splotchy, it still tempted him, made his lips itch to bend down and taste her sweet flesh. “N-no,” she said. “Of course not.”
“Do you blame Rosa for not catching the fact that you’d forgotten about not sending out personal info by text?” he asked, moving his hands along her jaw until he could softly massage the back of her neck with the tips of his fingers. She was wound tight as the tough little stainless steel springs used in craniofacial reconstruction surgery. “Your security detail debriefed her, debriefed us both, about what protocols to use when corresponding with you. So…is it her fault?”
“No.” She shook her head jerkily, her voice barely a whisper. Then, more forcefully, she said, “No. Of course it wasn’t Rosa’s fault. How could you—”
“Then whose fault was it?” he asked gently, still holding her lovely jaw in his hands. “Where does the buck stop, Abby? Who is ultimately responsible for Rosa’s death that day?”
Something happened then. Her eyes widened and she stopped breathing. Some people liked to call it an “aha” moment. Steady leaned more toward the phrase “lightbulbing it.”
“Who killed Rosa?” he prompted again.
“Th-the…” She stopped to lick her lips, and the pink dart of her tongue worked on him the way the smell of a frying T-bone worked on a hound. Suddenly, he was ravenous. But instead of bending down to claim her unconscious offering, he simply adjusted his stance to better accommodate the erection now straining against his fly. “The terrorists,” she finally managed, her lower lip quivering.
“Sí.” He smiled down at the comprehension in her eyes, at the hesitant joy as the guilt she’d been misguidedly carrying around all those years lifted away. “Just like the blame for those deaths in Malaysia falls squarely on the JI’s shoulders. You, Abby…” He used his thumbs to brush away the remnants of her tears. “You are innocent.”
She sucked in a breath, shaking her head as if she were struggling with the revelation. But struggle or no, she did understand. Finally. And now that they’d worked through that, he had a very important…the most important…question to ask her.
With his heart full of love, and hope no doubt shining in his eyes, he laid it all on the line. “Do you love me, mi vida?”
* * *
Overwhelmed. Elated. Hesitant. Dizzy…
Abby felt all those things as her heart beat wildly and her thoughts spun crazily. But the moment Carlos asked that question, the question, everything inside her screeched to a stop. Seriously, it was as if every single one of her cells applied the brakes at once and trillions of tiny errrts sounded between her ears.
Did she love him? Did she love him? What was he? Crazy? Of course she loved him!
But when she searched his face, his uncertainty was shining like a neon sign. “Oh, Carlos.” She tightened her arms around his waist. Was that…? Yep. The man was fully, beautifully, largely erect. Bless him. A surge of warmth bloomed in her womb, and her nipples tightened as a result. “I’ve always loved you. Since the first day I met you and every day since. You’re the one. You’ve always been the one. Don’t you know that?”
And she wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, but Carlos’s firm jaw trembled and one lone tear leaked from the corner of his left eye. She knew in that moment that whoever coined the phrase and the truth shall set you free had only gotten it half right. Because it was the truth and love that had finally broken the bonds of doubt, guilt, and sorrow shackling her heart.
“That’s good,” he said choking a little on emotion and quickly dashing away the teardrop. Then his expression turned devilish. And when he smiled, the sight of his dimple, his beloved dimple, instantly had her blood running hot. “Now”—he put his hands on her waist and pulled her close until there was no mistaking the insistent throbbing of his erection—“show me your tongue…”
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Chapter One
Present day
10:52 p.m.…
“And La Santa Cristina and her brave crew and captain were sucked down into Davy Jones’s locker, lost to the world. That is…until now…”
Leo “The Lion” Anderson, known to his friends as LT—a nod to his former naval rank—let his last words hang in the air for a heartbeat before he glanced around at the four faces illuminated by the flickering beach bonfire. Rapt expressions stared back at him. He fought the grin curving his lips.
Bingo, bango, bongo. His listeners had fallen under a spell as deep and fathomless as the great oceans themselves. It happened anytime he recounted the legend of La Santa Cristina. Not that he could blame his audience. The story of the ghost galleon, the holy grail of sunken Spanish shipwrecks, had fascinated him ever since he’d been old enough to understand the tale while bouncing on his father’s knee. And that lifelong fascination might account for why he was now determined to do what so many before him—his dearly departed father included—had been unable to do. Namely, locate and excavate the mother lode of the grand ol’ ship.
Of course, he reckoned the romance and mystery of discovering her waterlogged remains was only part of the reason he’d spent the last two months and a huge portion of his savings—as well as huge portions of the savings of the others—refurbishing his father’s decrepit, leaking salvage boat. The rest of the story as to why he was here now? Why they were all here now? Well, that didn’t bear dwelling on.
At least not on a night like tonight. When a million glittering stars and a big half moon
reflected off the rippling, dark waters of the lagoon on the southeast side of the private speck of jungle, mangrove forest, and sand in the Florida Keys that one of his forefathers had leased from the government nearly 150 years ago. When the sea air was soft and warm, caressing his skin and hair with gentle, salt-tinged fingers. When there was so much…life to enjoy.
That had been his vow—their vow—had it not? To grab life by the balls and really live it? To suck the marrow from its proverbial bones?
His eyes were automatically drawn down to the skin on the inside of his left forearm where scrolling, tattooed lettering read: For RL. He ran a thumb over the pitch-black ink.
This one’s for you, you stubborn son-of-a-gun, he pledged, flipping the lid on the cooler sunk deep into the sand beside his lawn chair. Grabbing a bottle of Budweiser and twisting off the cap, he let his gaze run down the long dock to where his uncle’s catamaran was moored. The clips on the sailboat’s rigging lines clinked rhythmically against its metal mast, adding to the harmony of softly shushing waves, quietly crackling fire, and the high-pitched peesy, peesy, peesy call of a nearby black-and-white warbler. Then he turned his eyes to the open ocean past the underwater reef surrounding the southern side of Wayfarer Island, where his father’s old salvage ship bobbed lazily with the tide. Up and down. Side to side. Her newly painted hull and refurbished anchor chain gleamed dully in the moonlight. Her name, Wayfarer I, was clearly visible thanks to the new bright white lettering.
Dragging in a deep breath, the smell of burning driftwood and suntan lotion tunneled up his nose, and he did his best to appreciate the calmness of the evening and the comforting thought that the vessel looked, if not necessarily sexy, than at least seaworthy. Which is a hell of an improvement.
Hot damn he was proud of all the work he and his men had done on her, and—
His men…
He reminded himself for the one-hundred-zillionth time that he wasn’t supposed to think of them that way. Not anymore. Not since those five crazy-assed SEALs waved their farewells to the navy in order to join him on his quest for high-seas adventure and the discovery of untold riches. Not since they were now, officially, civilians.
“But why you guys?” The blond who was parked beneath Spiro “Romeo” Delgado’s arm yanked Leo from his thoughts. “What makes you different from all those who’ve already tried and failed to find her?”
“Besides the obvious you mean, little mamacita?” Romeo winked, leaning back in his lawn chair to spread his arms wide. His grin caused his teeth to flash white against his neatly trimmed goatee, and Leo watched the blond sit forward in her plastic deck chair to take in the wonder that was Romeo Delgado. After a good, long gander, she giggled and snuggled back against Romeo’s side.
Leo rolled his eyes. Romeo’s swarthy, Hispanic looks and his six-percent body fat physique made even the most prim and proper lady’s panties drop fast enough to bust the floorboards. And this gal? Well, this gal might be prim and proper in her everyday life—hell, for all Leo knew she could be the leading expert on high etiquette at an all-girls school—but today, ever since Romeo picked her and her cute friend up in Schooner Wharf Bar on Key West with the eye-rolling line of, “Wanna come see my private island?” she was playing the part of a good-time girl out having a little fun-in-the-sun fling. And it was the fling part that might…scratch that, rewind, did account for the lazy, self-satisfied smile spread across Romeo’s face.
“I’m serious, though.” Tracy, or Stacy, or Lacy, or whatever the hell her name was—Leo had sort of tuned out on the introductions—wrinkled her sunburned nose. “How do you even know where to look?”
“Because of this.” Leo lifted the silver piece of eight—a seventeenth century Spanish dollar—from where it hung around his neck on a long platinum chain. “My father discovered it ten years ago about two miles off the coast of the Marquesas Keys.”
Tracy/Stacy/Lacy’s arrowed blond eyebrows telegraphed her skepticism. “One coin? I thought the Gulf and the Caribbean were littered with old doubloons.”
“It wasn’t just one piece of eight my father found.” Leo winked. “It was a big, black conglomerate of ten pieces of eight, as well as—”
“Conglomerate?” asked the brunette with the Cupid’s-bow lips. Tracy/Stacy/Lacy’s friend had given Leo all the right signals the minute Romeo pulled the catamaran up to Wayfarer Island’s creaky old dock and unloaded their…uh…guests. It’d been instant sloe-eyed looks and shy, encouraging smiles.
Okay, and confession time. Because for a fleeting moment when she—Sophie or Sophia? Holy Christ, Leo was seriously sucking with names tonight—sidled up next to him, he’d been sorely tempted to take her up on all the things her nonverbal communications were offering. Then an image of black hair, sapphire eyes, and a subtly crooked front tooth blazed through his brain. And just like that, the brunette lost her appeal.
Which is a good thing, he reminded himself. You’re gettin’ too old to bang the Betties Romeo drags home from the bar.
Of course, being the topnotch seaman he was, he’d known not to throw a pretty little fish like the brunette back once she’d been good and properly hooked. So, he’d gently steered her toward more accommodating seas.
Enter Dalton “Doc” Simmons and his nearly six and a half feet of homespun, Midwestern charm. Sophie/Sophia’s gaze lingered on his face when he said in that low, scratchy, Kiefer Southerland voice of his, “Unlike gold, which retains its luster after years on the bottom of the ocean, silver coins are affected by the seawater. They get fused together by corrosion or other maritime accretions. When that happens, it’s called a conglomerate. They have to be electronically cleaned in order to remove the surface debris and come out looking like this.” Grabbing the silver chain around his neck, Doc pulled a piece of eight from beneath his T-shirt. It was identical to the one Leo wore.
“And like this,” Romeo parroted, twirling the coin on the chain around his neck like a two-buck-chuck stripper whirling a boa.
Their first day on the island, Leo had gifted all his men—damnit!…his friends—with one of the coins, telling them their matching tattoos were symbols of their shared past and their matching pieces of eight were symbols of their shared future. Then, in typical SEAL form, they’d proceeded to celebrate that shared future by getting piss-assed drunk.
Leo tipped the neck of his beer toward Doc. “Maritime accretions, huh? You sounded like an honest to God salvor, my friend.” Doc smirked, which was as close to a smile as the dude ever really got. If Leo hadn’t seen Doc rip into a steak on occasion, he wouldn’t have been all that convinced the guy had teeth. “But even a conglomerate of coins wouldn’t be enough to guarantee the ship’s location,” he added, turning back to the blond. “My father also found a handful of bronze deck cannons. All of which were on La Santa Cristina’s manifest. So she’s down there…somewhere.” He just had to find her. All his friends were counting on that windfall for various reasons, and if he didn’t…
“But, like you said, your dad tried to find this Christy boat for”—Leo winced. Okay, so the woman seemed sweet. But the only thing worse than mangling the name of the legendary vessel was referring to it as a boat—“like twenty some odd years, right?”
“And Mel Fisher searched for the Atocha for sixteen years before finally findin’ her.” He referred to the most famous treasure hunter/treasure galleon of all time. Well, most famous of all time until he and his the boys made the history books, right? Right. “In shallow water, like that around the Marquesas Keys, the shifting sands are moved by wind and tide. They change the seabed daily, not to mention after nearly four centuries. But with a little hard work and perseverance, you better believe the impossible becomes possible. We’re hot on her trail.” Her convoluted, invisible, nonexistent trail. Shit.
Doc slow-winked at the woman by way of agreement, twirling the toothpick that was perpetually sticking out of his mouth in a circle with his tongue. It must have dazzled poor Sophie/Sophia, because she sucked in a
startled breath before batting her pretty lashes and sidling her lawn chair closer to him. Throwing an arm around her shoulders, Doc turned to wiggle his eyebrows at Leo. Just like the others, Doc was never one to pass up an opportunity to feed Leo a heaping helping of shit. Par for the course considering Leo was—fuck a duck…used to be—their commanding officer; a prime target for all their ass-hattery.
Yeah, yeah, Leo thought, quietly chuckling. So, I pulled the Roger Murtaugh, I’m-gettin’-too-old-for-this-shit bit. And you think I screwed up royally when I passed her off to you, you big corn-fed douche-canoe. So, go ahead. Rub it in.
“Why do you need to find that old treasure anyway?” the blond asked. “You have a private island.” She motioned with her beer toward the rippling waters of the lagoon, tipsily splashing suds into the fire, making it hiss angrily. “Aren’t you r—” She hiccupped, then covered her mouth with her fingers, giggling. “Rich?” she finished.
“Ha! Hardly.” Leo rested his sweating beer bottle against the fabric of his swim trunks. Here in the Keys, shorts and swim trunks were interchangeable—unlike his possible bed partners, apparently.
Come on, now! Why can’t you get Olivia Mortier out of your head?
And that was the question of the hour, wasn’t it? Or more like, the question of the last frickin’ eighteen months? Ever since that assignment in Syria…
“But if you’re not rich,” the blond insisted, “how can you”—hiccup—“afford to own this place?”
No joke, Romeo had better double-time her up to the house and into his bed. One or two more brewskies and she’d be too many sheets to the wind for what the self-styled lothario had in mind for her. Romeo may be a horndog extraordinaire, with more notches on his bedpost than Leo had sorties on his SEAL résumé, but like all the guys, Romeo was nothing if not honorable. If Tracy/Stacy/Lacy was even the slightest bit incapacitated, Romeo would do no more than tuck her under the covers with a chaste kiss on the forehead. And as their SEAL team motto stated: Where’s the fun in that?
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