by Ann Charles
“Ah, mi amor. I told you we weren’t really filming, just testing out a new lens.”
“Promise or I’ll tattle.”
Chester grunted. “You sure know how to piss in an old man’s punchbowl.”
“We promise.” Manny sat back. “But we can’t speak for Señorita Jess.”
Kate heard a muffled, high-pitched giggle from just beyond the end of the porch. “Crap!”
“I’m think I’m gonna be sick.” Claire groaned, leaned over the porch rail, and heave-hoed the contents of her stomach onto Ruby’s bed of desert lavender.
* * *
Sunday, August 22nd
Claire stared down at the yellow Post-it note, her eyesight blurring.
After spending most of last night draped over the toilet rim, she’d dragged her hung-over ass to each of the park’s bathrooms at the butt-crack of dawn. Hours of scrubbing God-knows-what from the stall floors left her wanting to curl up in a dark closet and just practice breathing until the juggernaut in her skull stopped swinging his sledgehammer around.
“What are you doing down here?” Mac’s deep voice snapped her out of her trance.
Blinking several times, she looked up from where she sat behind Ruby’s desk in the basement office.
Mac stood with his shoulder resting against the doorjamb, wearing a faded red T-shirt and a pair of jeans worn white on the knees and thighs, the ends of his hair curled with dampness. His hazel-eyes dropped to the Post-it note and then the open pages of Treasure Island.
There was no use lying. Besides, her brain hurt too much to even attempt a fib. “Trying to figure out what Joe meant by these clues.”
The chair creaked as she leaned back and rubbed her eyes, which felt like she’d buffed them with steel wool.
Claire heard the door click shut. She opened her eyes as Mac rounded the desk, leaned over, and dropped a kiss on her lips. He tasted minty and smelled shower-fresh, whereas she felt like something wrung out of a dirty mop.
“You doing okay, Slugger?” He moved behind her and started massaging her shoulders.
“I feel like I’ve been kicked in the head by a mule.”
“Kate said you spent the night riding the porcelain bus—her words, not mine.”
Kate or anyone else for that matter had better not have mentioned anything else about last night, or Claire would string them up, slather them with honey, and let the yellow jackets have at ‘em.
Another memory from last night flashed in her mind. “I thought Kate had a date this morning.”
“So did she, but the phone rang while I was eating breakfast, and Jess informed everyone in the room Butch had to cancel. Something about him having an emergency in Phoenix and he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. I left the kitchen in the middle of your mother’s anti-Butch tirade.”
He squeezed the knotted muscles at the sides of her neck, making her wince slightly. “What brought this on?”
“Mom’s tirade or Kate’s date?”
“Your hangover. You know your limit.”
“What time did you get in?” Claire skirted that question.
“Changing the subject?”
“I’m tired of thinking about puking.”
“A little after three.”
Claire’s head drooped as his hands worked on the tension in her neck. “Were you up at the Lucky Monk all that time?”
“Most of it.”
“What were the boards and paint for?”
“Somebody broke through the barrier I put up at the entrance to Socrates Pit mine, so I boarded it up again and painted No Trespassing warnings on the wood. Then I checked the warnings posted on the barriers for the other mines and nailed up a few more Private Property signs.”
“What was in the tube?”
Mac chuckled, his fingers massaging her scalp. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
“Not when it comes to you.” She did her best to keep from sliding to the floor, landing in a pile of flabby flesh. Mac’s talent with his fingers rivaled his tongue most days … and nights.
“I found the tube in the attic yesterday with some old maps of Two Jakes, Rattlesnake Ridge, and the Lucky Monk.”
“How old?”
“Early 1900s.”
“So you spent half of the night traversing the Lucky Monk, comparing reality to paper?”
“Pretty much, yep.”
“And?”
“There were a few variances.”
“And?”
“And I still have more evaluating to do.”
“I want to come with you.”
“You have an R.V. park to run.”
“Kate can take over for the day.”
“You’re in no shape to traipse through a mine, Claire. Not with that hangover.”
He had a point there. “I don’t like you going up to the Lucky Monk alone.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What if someone follows you up there?”
“I’m careful.”
“They could slit your throat and shove you down a shaft.”
He worked his way down her shoulders to her upper arms. “I appreciate your concern, Claire, but trust me, I take precautions now. I learned a memorable lesson last spring.”
Claire looked up at him. “But what if—”
Mac tilted her chair back and covered her mouth with his, effectively ending her rebuttal. Claire let him work his magic on her, moaning as he increased the pressure and deepened the kiss. He pulled away way too soon, leaving her winded and wanting, aching deep inside with anticipation for the relief she knew he could deliver.
“Now tell me about these clues.” He stood upright, pointing at the Post-it note.
Claire hesitated. Knowing Mac, he’d find a way to logically explain every clue, and she wanted to dally in her kooky world of maybes and what-ifs a little longer. “What’s in the package Gramps had you bring back from Tucson?”
“Claire.” Mac’s eyes narrowed as he sat facing her on the desktop, his leg brushing her arm.
Unable to resist, she reached out and ran her palm up his thigh. Maybe just a touch or two would ease her …
He grabbed her wrist, barring her entry into the fun zone. “No distractions, siren. Now spill.”
She sighed. “Fine. Tell me about the package and I’ll tell you about the clues.”
“Swear?”
“Every chance I get.”
His grin surfaced. “I don’t know what’s in the package. I didn’t open it.”
“Where did you get it?”
“He sent it to me at work.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Who’s it from?” Claire asked.
“Someone named R.L. Goebel from Phoenix.”
Who was that? Claire needed a Phoenix phone book. Damn that library warden for barring the only access Claire had to the Internet. “Is the package heavy?”
“Not really.”
“How big is it?”
He indicated the size with his hands—a mid-sized package.
“That could be anything. “Was it hard or soft? Where is it?”
“I don’t know; I didn’t treat it like a Christmas package. Harley happily took it off my hands the night they eloped.”
“Shit.” Another road block.
“My turn.” Mac picked up the Post-it note. “Explain this.”
Claire stared at the note, now clearly able to read it after deciphering Joe’s messy scrawls. She wasn’t sure where to start.
“I found this note in Joe’s first edition of Treasure Island.” No need to mention Jess or Porter at this point. Both names would land her in one form of trouble or another.
“And you think they are clues to what?”
She might as well just say it. “A treasure.”
Mac stared at her, the dimple in his cheek almost showing. “What makes you think these lead to a treasure?”
At least he hadn’t laughed aloud at her … yet. B
ut this was where things got sticky. It was Porter’s actions that had led her to this, but telling Mac that her reason for suspecting Porter had to do with gut instinct would go over like a concrete blimp.
“Well, Kate has a theory,” Claire fibbed.
“Kate does, huh?” Mac played along like a good boyfriend.
“Yeah.” Claire continued. “She thinks that the artifacts we found in that wall safe are more clues.”
“You’re referring to the mummified hand, right?”
Claire nodded.
“And why does Kate think the artifacts are clues?”
“Because why else would Joe have that stuff hidden in his wall safe? Where did he find it?”
“Maybe he bought it from somebody.”
“It smells like a mine.”
Mac’s eyebrows rose. “You … I mean, Kate, thinks the bag of goodies came from one of Ruby’s mines?”
Claire nodded again.
“Just because of the smell?”
“No, because of the smell and this clue here.” She pointed at the first line on the note and read it aloud in case Mac couldn’t read Joe’s scribbles. “Shiver my timbers.”
Mac eyed the words. “So the timbers refer to those that shore up the mines.”
“Yep.”
“Maybe the hand was just buried in dirt somewhere else.”
“I thought that very thing, but this clue links the hand even more to the mine.” Claire pointed at another line on the note. “Flint’s pointer.”
“Flint was the dead pirate who buried the treasure on the island, right?”
“Yes. Do you remember the actual name of the island?”
“Skeleton Island.”
“Exactly.”
She grabbed the book and flipped to the page number she’d noted on the Post-it note next to the clue.
“And Flint’s pointer refers to the skeleton of a man Flint killed and then used as an indicator to where the treasure was hidden. Right here it reads that the man lay ‘perfectly straight—his feet pointing in one direction, his hands, raised above his head like a diver’s, pointing directly in the opposite.’ And then a little further down, ‘The body pointed straight in the direction of the island, and the compass read duly E.S.E. and by E.’ Long John Silver goes on to say that the skeleton is a pointer that leads to the ‘jolly dollars.’”
His brow furrowed, Mac pointed at the next line on the note. “What’s this say? Pieces of what?”
“Pieces of Eight. It’s the treasure.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “So, you think Joe hid a bunch of Spanish silver dollars somewhere in one of the mines?”
“Maybe.” When left alone to ponder the clues, it all made perfect sense, but having her suspicion voiced aloud by Mac made it sound like she’d been sniffing glue again.
He nodded down at the note. “And that last line?”
“It says, ‘Pipe up and let me hear it.’”
“How is that related to the treasure?”
Claire leaned back in the chair. “I have no idea. I was just sitting here trying to figure that one out when you walked in.”
“If it said ‘pipe down,’ I’d guess it referred to a mine shaft.”
It was Claire’s turn to raise her brows. “You mean you actually believe this theory of mine?”
Mac faked a surprise gasp. “I thought you said it was Kate’s theory.”
“That was before you heard me out and didn’t laugh when I finished.”
Taking her hand, he traced the lines on her palm, his fingertip calloused, scratching lightly.
“Claire, I’m not going to deny that this whole thing sounds a bit far-fetched, but I thought your theories last spring were off the deep end, and look how that all turned out.”
She closed her fingers around his, then rose from her chair. “It’s times like this when all I can think about are the nefarious, sweaty, naked things I’d like to do with you.”
Chuckling, he pulled her snug between his thighs. “So, what are you going to do?”
“Find the body. The treasure must be close to it.”
He lifted the hem of her Sylvester the Putty Tat T-shirt and slid his hands under it. “I meant with my body. Let’s explore your naked thoughts.”
His fingers skimmed her stomach, making her inhale and lean into him for more. “Here? Now?”
“Claire, I’m not sure if you’ve been picking up on my signals since I walked in that door, but I came to see you for one primary reason.” His gaze was filled with R-rated intentions which she really wanted to see him follow through on.
What about the others upstairs? Her sister? Her mother?
Mac’s fingers inched northward, brushing away all of her hesitations.
Cocking her head to the side, she asked, “You think I’m easy or something, Mr. Garner?”
“I think you can be quickly persuaded with the right technique.” Pushing her hair to the side, he nibbled on the sensitive skin running from her ear down her neck.
She shivered under his mouth. “Is this your ‘right technique’?”
“It’s part of it.” His thumbs skimmed the undersides of her breasts. “Tell me what you want, Claire.”
“You inside of me, coinciding with some mutual moaning,” she whispered, closing her eyes to imagine the scene. “Maybe a bit of muffled screaming.” She took a shaky breath. “Definitely multiple moments of muffled-ness.”
His chuckle warmed her ear. “You taste salty today.”
It was called sweat. “I should shower first.”
“There’s no time for that.” His fingertips made her quiver clear down to her ankles. “Shut up and kiss me, woman.”
She obeyed, sinking into him as she teased a groan from his lips with some strokes of her tongue and a few well-placed rubs.
Enough was enough. Patience was never on her list of virtues. She reached for the waistline of his jeans. “Take your pants off.”
His hands stopped hers. “You first.”
She wasted no time. Pants tossed aside, she waited in her underwear, watching as Mac pushed down his jeans.
“Don’t forget these.” She tugged at the waistline of his boxer briefs.
“I’ll get to those in a minute. Your shirt needs to go.”
He helped her remove it, his hands getting preoccupied with her breasts as she unclasped her bra.
Covering his hands with hers, she held him still. “Your shirt now,” she ordered, and helped him pull it over his head.
Tossing his T-shirt aside, she hopped up on the desktop. “Come here.” She reached for him, breathy with excitement for all that she knew he had to offer.
But he held back, staring with an intensity she could almost feel.
She leaned back on her hands, pulling her shoulders back in hopes of adding a tantalizing little lift to her girls. “What’s the hold up? Did you forget how this goes?”
“No, I’ve been thinking about it for days, but my version doesn’t involve the desk.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her to her feet.
“Oh, yeah?” Running her finger down the middle of his chest, she paused just above his navel. “Tell me more.”
“How about I show you?” Spinning her around, he pinned her against the wall next to the door, shoving her back against the cool surface. “Wrap your legs around me.”
She hesitated. “I’m not exactly a featherweight fighter, Mac.”
“We already had this conversation in the shower weeks ago, remember? If I can handle you when you’re wet and slick, I think—”
She stood on her toes and covered his mouth with hers. While she wooed him with her lips and tongue, she captured his hand and led it down to where her body throbbed and ached. “Handle me again.”
His fingers slipped inside the elastic of her underwear, teasing, making her writhe and moan.
“I want you,” he breathed in her ear.
“Please, Mac,” she said between gasps, moving against him to build more friction.
He dropped to his knees, yanking down her panties, his lips feathering down from her belly button.
Her knees threatened to buckle.
All it took was one perfectly placed kiss and touch and she fell to pieces around him, her body pulsing. She squeezed his shoulders as her world tipped on its side.
“Damn.” She tugged him upright when her head returned from the moon. “I really missed you.”
He flattened her back against the wall, lifted one of her legs, and pressed against her.
“Show me,” he said and shoved into her.
She shifted her hips, encouraging him further. “When you imagined doing this to me the last few days, did I tell you how great you feel and then bite your earlobe like this?”
When she bit, his body trembled in response. He shoved harder.
“Did I scratch you here?” She clawed down his back.
He moved faster. “Do that again, Claire, and I’ll be finished before we even get rolling.”
“Did I tell you that I want more of you, harder and faster?”
“Yes.” His words blended into a groan as he buried himself fully, then pulled back, slamming her up against the wall again and again.
Panting, her own body tightening again, she leaned her head back. The scent of Mac and sex filled her, winding her up higher. “Did I cry out your name when I peaked?”
“Yes!” he said, his voice raspy.
She slid her fingers into his hair, pulling his lips toward hers. “Mac?”
“What?”
“Here it comes. Kiss me now.”
As soon as his mouth covered hers, her body began to convulse around him, this second time stronger, more core shaking. His mouth absorbed the sound of her cries of pleasure.
As soon as she finished, he dragged his lips away, muttered something incomprehensible along with her name, and thrust into her a few more times before shudders rippled through him.
When his breath slowed, he said, “Holy shit, woman.” He leaned his forehead against the door over her shoulder. “When you say that kind of stuff to me, I lose it.”
“Why do you think I say it?” Knowing she could make Mac lose control was a turn on all on its own.
Claire clung to his shoulders until both feet were firmly on the carpet again. Her legs felt shaky, her body spent.
“Next time we do this,” Mac said, “I want to—”
Someone knocked on the door.