by Helen Brenna
Annie hazarded a glance at Claire and D.W. Her tentative allies seemed to be losing faith, and she couldn’t blame them. “You’re right. You’re completely justified in being angry.” She looked Jake in the eye. The tension in his jaw eased imperceptibly with the acknowledgment. But that didn’t change the fact that she had to do this. “When will we get to the first site?”
“Late afternoon.”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” she said, keeping her fingers crossed in the hopes she wasn’t setting herself up. “Give me tomorrow. If I’m not diving by the end of the day, I’ll stay in my cabin until it’s convenient for you to drop me off somewhere.”
“Seems reasonable,” Claire interjected, handing Annie a towel.
As Annie dried herself off, she watched Jake deliberating. “In the water tomorrow,” he said. “Diving by day’s end. No second chances.”
He turned and issued orders to the other crew members, who’d appeared at the first sign of a commotion. “Everybody except Claire, D.W., Ronny and Simon, pack your gear and make yourselves useful on the other three survey ships. Ronny and Simon, over here. See the rest of you guys in a few weeks.”
The two men joined their group as the remaining crew dispersed in varied directions. “Ronny. Simon.” Jake held a hand toward each man in turn. “Meet Dr. Annie Miller.”
Ronny appeared to be the oldest crew member. “It’s a pleasure, Annie.” He held out a hand, the skin tanned nearly to the point of leather. With a handle-bar mustache and his long, slightly graying hair gathered in a ponytail, Annie wondered if Ronny had a Harley waiting for him back in Miami. All he needed was a bandana and black leather chaps.
Simon, probably only a few years younger than Ronny, nodded cautiously at her over the silver rims of his fashionably small glasses. Annie wasn’t sure if he was uncomfortable around women only or new people in general. “Hello, Simon,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Annie’s OEI’s new on-board marine archaeologist,” Jake continued, a sarcastic edge to his voice. “Don’t get too attached to her. She won’t be here for long.” He turned and strode across the boat deck. “Claire, I want to be diving before dinnertime. Let’s shove off.” With that, he went below.
“My brother-in-law the charmer.” Claire smiled at Annie.
“Ahh, cut him some slack,” Ronny offered. “We’ve all been working hard. He’s a little tense.”
“Humph,” D.W. mumbled. “If that’s tense, I’d hate to see stressed out.”
“D.W.,” Claire said, hitching a hand onto her hip, “why don’t you keep your comments to yourself? Nobody here cares.”
“That, Claire-belle, is certainly obvious.”
Annie watched the twinge of hurt quickly turn his warm blue eyes steely. Claire seemed oblivious. Simon quietly moved back to the stern and continued fiddling with a small engine in pieces on the deck. Ronny followed him, saying over his shoulder, “We’ll be eating lunch in a few hours. Dinner’s at six.”
“Make yourself useful, D.W., and do some safety checks on the equipment.” Claire made for the lower deck. “Come on, Annie. I’ll show you to your cabin. You can change out of those wet things.”
Annie reached for her bag.
“Here ya go, sport.” D.W. beat her to it and held the duffel toward her. The glint returned to his eyes. One eyebrow arched mischievously. “You just follow the old barracuda there and watch out for that razor sharp bite.”
“I heard that,” Claire yelled from below deck, a singsong lilt to her voice.
“You were meant to,” D.W. returned with a little melody of his own. With a wink at Annie, he hauled diving equipment from various storage compartments.
Hiding a smile, Annie crossed the upper deck and familiarized herself with the sway of the boat under her feet. She followed Claire down the ladder-steps too steep to qualify as a staircase—and below deck.
“Here’s the head.” Claire walked through the narrow hall, pointing here and there. “Back there’s the engine room and some equipment storage. Next we got a couple empty cabins, and here’s Simon’s. And there’s D.W.’s.” She indicated the first two cabin doors on the left and, after that, the next two on the right. “Ronny’s next, and mine’s last. You’re across the hall from me, and Jake has captain’s quarters at the bow.
“We can fit twelve crew members on board, so at half-staff, it’ll feel pretty spacious for once. This is it.” She stopped at the last cabin port side, opened the door and stood back. “I told Smitty to get it good and clean when I found out you were coming. If he didn’t, he owes you a pitcher of Bud when we get back to port.”
“Looks great.” Annie stepped over the threshold into the small cabin. She’d grown through the years, or boat cabins had shrunk in size. Either way, the space seemed confining. Antiseptic white and utilitarian in design, there was little to like or dislike. She set her bag on the bunk and tested the firmness of the narrow mattress.
“Hard as a rock.” Claire shrugged. “This isn’t a cruise ship.”
Annie didn’t have the heart to tell her she wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter. Claire was probably a little overdue for some female companionship and, for that matter, so was Annie.
Claire hesitated at the door, a haze of unanswered questions shading her eyes. Finally, she said, “We’ll be shoving off in a couple minutes. Make yourself at home.” She disappeared up the ladder.
Annie shut the door and turned the lock, thankful for the reprieve. Moving back to the bunk, she unzipped her duffel and stared at the bundle sitting on top of her clothing, wishing she could heave the thing over the side of the ship, wash her hands of it once and for all, and return to Chicago.
But that would only be trading in one set of handcuffs for another. If she was going to do this, she was doing it right. She owed at least that to Aaron.
Her fingers shook as she grasped the object and drew back the cloth covering. Natural pearls of uncommon luster encrusted the full length of a twenty-four-karat, hand-tooled gold chain. Emeralds, large and virtually free of inclusions, filled an eight-inch-long by five-inch-wide gold frame. The infamous Santidad Cross. So beautiful. So lustrous. If one could look at it without fear.
All Annie felt when she held it was heartache and pain, all she saw was blood. Aaron dead. An Aztec village annihilated, its people slaughtered without remorse and innocent Spanish sailors sacrificed for the glory of gold. Not to mention the two most important people in her life gone. Forever. Nothing more, or less, than a trail of death in its wake. Even so, treasure hunters around the world would give anything for this cross, the single most valuable item onboard the Concha.
“Ready!” The shout from topside made her jump.
The Mañana’s engines fired to life as the boat was untied from the pier and the gangway stowed. Within seconds she felt the boat’s motion as they left the marina.
This was it. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears and adrenaline rushed through her as the Mañana cleared the harbor and gathered speed. It’d worked. Her plan had been set in motion.
She looked through the small porthole in her cabin and swallowed hard when both engines of the powerful boat hit cruising speed. The Florida coast dissolved into a barely discernible line, and an odd combination of dread and elation churned in her stomach.
The Santidad Cross drew her gaze. “You’re going back where you belong,” she whispered, stuffing it under her mattress. “Where all the treasure hunters in the world, including Captain Jake Rawlings, will never find you.”
JAKE SAT AT his narrow desk and studied the aerials Harold had taken of the north shore of Andros, comparing them to maps on the screen of his laptop. The wood-paneled walls of his small, neat cabin surrounded him with the comfort of familiarity. A balmy breeze from the open porthole blew fresh ocean air across his face. The Mañana’s engines droned their reassuring tune as the crew navigated toward Andros Island. And in a matter of a few hours he and his crew would be diving for the Concha. If Dr. Annie�
��s research was correct, his crew was poised, quite possibly closer than they’d ever been, for the discovery of a lifetime. Life didn’t get any better than this, right?
Wrong.
Thump. Bang, thump. The sounds of Dr. Annie Miller bumbling around in the cabin adjacent to Jake’s momentarily distracted him from the screen. The boat made a sudden shift, and she slammed into the wall.
A marine archaeologist afraid of water. Sam would have gotten a hearty laugh over that one, and then, no doubt, tucked her firmly under his wing. Jake chuckled to himself in the quiet of his cabin, but guilt fluttered at the edge of his conscience. It was, after all, his fault she’d fallen in the water. He’d goaded her, and when she’d faltered, he hadn’t been able to get there fast enough to catch her.
Damn leg. Surgery may have repaired most of the physical damage from the accident, but the remaining stiffness in the muscles and tendons definitely slowed him down.
Reality forced away the guilt. Their new archaeologist had lied to them. What if the logic behind her research was flawed? What if he dragged his company and all of its employees further down bankruptcy road with her wild-goose chase?
You worry too much. Sam’s constant admonishment still haunted Jake after all this time.
He found his favorite photo of his brother on the overhead bookshelf. Claire had caught Sam and him tipping a few on the beach in front of Jake’s house. Sunset on a rare night, a night when they’d both been completely content in each other’s presence. No need to do anything, except talk and laugh. A night when Jake had completely loosened up with Sam. He hadn’t felt the need to set an example for his younger brother, to prove anything, to be anything. And Sam hadn’t felt the need to keep up, let alone surpass his older brother.
Almost a year and a half after the accident, and Jake still couldn’t believe his little brother was gone. One minute they’d been diving beside each other, and the next it was over. Jake’s foot started cramping. He stretched out his legs and forced his shoulders to relax. If only Jake had been able to save Sam. If Jake had been stronger. Smarter. Faster. If only…
Thump. There Dr. Annie went again.
For one quarter of a split millisecond, Jake softened toward her. He didn’t know her story, but it couldn’t be a happy one. He found himself torn between chuckling at the absurdity of the mess she’d landed herself in and having a discussion with the helmsman about making this transition a little smoother for their new crew member.
Smoother? Why not make it as rough as possible? She’d made her bed. She could lie in it, or bump into it, whichever she preferred. Let the helmsman toss her around a little. If she were half as smart as she sounded, she’d eventually figure out she didn’t belong on a boat.
Especially not his boat. His boat ran precisely by the numbers. His crew was the best. A mistake could mean the difference between life and death. This wasn’t the type of business that allowed for second chances. Dr. Annie, on the other hand, would need a third, fourth, maybe even fifth chance. Aside from being afraid of water, she had no boat-sense and questionable diving experience, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He returned to the aerials and marked the coordinates where he wanted to begin diving in a few hours. They’d be at the first site before dinnertime, and he couldn’t wait to hit the water. By sunset, if they were lucky, they might find something—a cannon, an anchor, anything—to give some credence to Dr. Annie’s theory. With any luck, the tropical storm Harold worried would strike in a few days would bypass them entirely.
She hit the wall again, this time accompanying the thud with a short little screech. That was it. No longer able to concentrate, he flipped the laptop closed and locked the aerial photographs in the safe under his bunk. Repositioning his baseball cap low on his brow, he stepped into the narrow hall and rapped on her door. “What are you doing in there? Remodeling?”
“None of your business. Go away.”
“All you have to do is say the word, and we’ll take you back to Miami. You could be back on solid ground in no time.”
“I’m fine right where I am, thank you very much.”
The boat hit a wave, shifted and something sounding an awful lot like a body part hit the wall inside her cabin. He leaned against the doorjamb and smiled. “Sounds like a panic attack to me.”
“I’m attempting to get sheets on this stupid bunk. Okay with you, Captain?” The door swung open.
Damn. If this was what she called invisible, she definitely needed a full-length mirror in her cabin. Although she’d replaced baggy black pants with just as baggy cutoff jean shorts, those long slender legs put a big crack in that Annie Hall facade. The gray sweatshirt, zipped only halfway, did little to repair it, considering the cleavage beneath the scooped neckline of her black swimsuit. Her reading glasses were gone, and she’d drawn her hair back off her face, revealing a healthy pink glow attempting to break through her pale skin. He’d been right about her, looking all curvy and soft. Tongues were going to wag.
“Every time I try to tuck under the sheet corner,” she continued, “the boat lurches and I lose my balance. We’re in open water. Who do you have at the helm, anyway?”
He grinned. “Probably Simon. He’s never been known for his steady hand.”
He glanced past her into the cabin, looking for clues to this enigma. Back in Harold’s office, he’d sensed she’d held something back. Was it only her fear of water? Or was there something more? Curiosity getting the better of him, he squeezed his way into her cabin.
“And where, exactly,” she said, glancing up at him, “do you think you’re going?”
CHAPTER FOUR
JAKE RAISED HIS EYEBROWS at Annie. “Want help with your bunk, or not?”
“Not,” she said. “I’ll manage.”
“Without putting a hole through the wall?”
At that, she stood back, if it was possible in an area about half the size of his cabin. There was barely enough room for them to stand side by side, and it certainly hadn’t taken much for her to personalize the small space. A radio, clock and a bestselling paperback sat on the dresser, along with a framed photo of two middle-aged adults. He picked it up. “Parents?”
She nodded, impatiently crossing her arms.
“They back in Chicago?”
She looked as if she might not answer him, and then, reluctantly, she shook her head. “They passed away—died—years ago.”
He wondered if she had brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins. Speculated about her fear of water, but he bit back the questions. “‘Passed away.’ Hmmph. Can’t stand that phrase.”
She tilted her head, as if surprised they’d something even so slight in common. “Death’s rarely quiet or peaceful.”
“You got that right.” He thought of his father’s last-minute struggle for breath and the look on Sam’s face, under water, knowing it was over. When similar losses seemed mirrored in her eyes, it threw him. Don’t think about that. He let go the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding and set the picture frame back on the dresser.
A further survey of her cabin revealed a stack of clothing piled on top of her bunk with a lacy white bra in clear view. He quickly glanced away to find a navy blue windbreaker and pale pink robe hung on the hooks along the wall. She’d thrown a cozy fleece blanket over the only chair in the room, and covered her pillow with a floral printed pillowcase. Goodbye Smitty, hello Dr. Annie. The small room already smelled like her, warm and feminine. Powdery even.
His gaze gravitated back to the bra, and his head filled with alternating visions of white lace and black Lycra cupping full, creamy breasts. If he wasn’t careful, his tongue would be doing the wagging.
As if she’d tracked his body signals, she snatched the bra, balled it in one fist and held it behind her back. “I hadn’t, as yet, completed my unpacking.”
There she went sounding all snooty again. Somehow she’d managed to pull off the stuffy curator bit in Harold’s office w
ithout a hitch. Now he wasn’t buying it for a minute. That uptight voice contradicted her down-to-earth looks. “Always talk fancy when you’re nervous?”
She straightened her shoulders. “Absolutely not.”
“’Course we are surrounded by water.”
“I…it’s…” she sputtered.
“As defense mechanisms go, it’s a fairly harmless one.”
Her brow furrowed, and she pinched her mouth shut.
Chuckling to himself, he ducked under the overhead drawers, kneeled on the bunk and wrapped one fitted corner under the mattress. She scooped up the rest of her clothing as he moved to the other corner. The boat slowed and she landed against him, all softness and warmth. He reached out and grabbed her arms, steadying her.
“Thank you,” she said, their faces only inches apart.
“No problem.”
“I…suppose I should thank you, as well, for saving my life earlier.” They stood close enough for her breath to fan his cheek. “I imagine…I might have otherwise drowned.”
“And I imagine D.W. wouldn’t have minded getting wet. Especially if it involved mouth…to mouth.” He glanced at her lips and wondered how a real kiss would feel.
He felt himself move ever so minutely toward her. Her lips parted, pink and tempting. He stopped. Man, oh, man. Maybe Harold had been right, and they should have held off leaving for Andros. A few nights of shore leave would have done him some good.
Suddenly aware of how tightly he held her arms, he cleared his throat and set her back away from him. He pointed at the rails above her head. “Until you get your sea legs, hold on to those when you’re moving around in here.”
“Excellent advice.” She dropped the clothing back on top of the bunk and reached for the rails. The boat motors stopped altogether, and she wobbled. Again, he reached out to steady her, and his hands connected with her waist. An uneasy sound escaped her lips. “What…what is Simon attempting to accomplish?”
“He must need a break and can’t find anyone to take over.” He found himself rooted to the spot, studying her face, her lips, holding his hands around her waist, a little longer than necessary, reluctant to let her go.