Her Secret Treasure
Cindi Myers
“Let’s make the most of the time we have together now.”
Sandra looked into Adam’s eyes, feeling the familiar surge of arousal he so often called forth. He fascinated her, frustrated and confused her. He couldn’t be good for her, but she couldn’t stay away from him.
As he pulled her into the welcoming shadows, she draped herself around him, her lips locked to his in a kiss that made her forget everything short of her own name. Adam’s hands slid down her back to cradle her bottom, and he pulled her closer still.
“Let’s go to your yacht, where we can be alone,” she said in a voice made low, husky by his kisses.
Without a word he took her hand and led her down the beach to explore a different world—one of shadows and secrets and sex….
Dear Reader,
I had so much fun on Passionata’s Island with the characters in At Her Pleasure that I couldn’t wait to revisit the island in this book. There’s just something about sun, sand, sex—and pirates!
As part of my research for this book, I visited the Titanic exhibit that has been touring throughout the United States. One section of this exhibit was devoted to the process of locating and salvaging the ship’s wreckage. I was amazed at the hard work that went into recovering and preserving artifacts. And several years ago I was lucky enough to tour an exhibition devoted to the pirate ship Whydah, a wooden sailing vessel much like the one I imagined for Passionata. Both of these exhibits, I hope, helped me bring my own shipwreck to life.
Many thanks also to my friend and fellow author Emily McKay, who helped me with my many questions about diving. Any mistakes in this book are mine, not hers.
Of course, once all the research was done, it was time to put my imagination to work. That’s where the real fun began. I hope you’ll enjoy Adam and Sandra’s story as much as I did. Let me know what you think by e-mailing me at cindi@cindimyers.com, or write to me in care of Harlequin Enterprises, 225 Duncan Mill Rd, Toronto, Ontario, M3B 3K9, Canada.
Cindi Myers
HER SECRET TREASURE
Cindi Myers
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cindi Myers’s dreams of sailing away to an island paradise with her own swashbuckling pirate have been quashed by rampant seasickness and a tendency to sunburn easily. So she settles for drinking umbrella cocktails and letting her imagination run wild on the sun-washed beaches of her books.
Books by Cindi Myers
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
168—GOOD, BAD…BETTER
180—DO ME RIGHT
215—ROCK MY WORLD* (#litres_trial_promo)
241—NO REGRETS* (#litres_trial_promo)
274—FEAR OF FALLING** (#litres_trial_promo)
323—THE MAN TAMER
333—MEN AT WORK
“Taking His Measure”
360—WILD CHILD† (#litres_trial_promo)
419—AT HER PLEASURE
HARLEQUIN ANTHOLOGY
A WEDDING IN PARIS
“Picture Perfect”
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
1182—MARRIAGE ON HER MIND
1199—THE RIGHT MR. WRONG
HARLEQUIN NEXT
MY BACKWARDS LIFE
THE BIRDMAN’S DAUGHTER
HARLEQUIN SIGNATURE SELECT
LEARNING CURVES
BOOTCAMP
“Flirting with an Old Flame”
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
1498—A SOLDIER COMES HOME
This one’s for Tammy
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
1
THE DREAMS HAD BEGUN on her first visit to the island—strange nighttime fantasies she could never clearly recall, which left her confused and strangely aroused. Sandra Newman was not a person who indulged in superstition or whimsy, but those island dreams haunted her, leaving her with the sense that understanding them would reveal the secret to unfulfilled longings she hadn’t realized she possessed.
The memory of those dreams was with her now, as her yacht sailed within sight of the palm-covered atoll. Passionata’s Island was named after the female pirate who had headquartered there in the early days of the eighteenth century, a pirate queen known for her successful attacks on merchant ships that ventured too near her sanctuary, and acclaimed for her skill as a seductress.
“Jonas, I want a good shot of the island as we approach,” she directed her cameraman, who obligingly aimed his handheld video camera over the ship’s bow. “I’m thinking this is our opening,” she continued. “Maybe with some mysterious music and a voice-over talking about the reputed curse on the island.” Oh, yes, this place even had a curse. Talk about a made-for-television story. Passionata was a tragic-romantic figure who had left behind treasure worth millions—perhaps even billions—of dollars. She smiled, imagining the network head, Gary Simon’s eyes popping when he saw the numbers for audience share when Sandra Newman Presents Passionata’s Treasure, aired next fall. He’d be tripping all over himself to offer her a new, more-lucrative contract.
As the yacht rounded the reef at one end of the island and headed toward the deeper harbor on the west side, two other vessels already anchored there caught Sandra’s attention. The larger one, the Caspian, was unfamiliar to her. The ship bristled with cranes, lifts and a flotilla of smaller dinghies and motorboats.
The smaller ship was anchored nearer the island—a graceful sailing yacht with a white hull and gleaming teak deck. The sight of it made Sandra’s pulse race a little faster.
Right on cue, a burly blonde dressed in nothing but faded blue swim trunks emerged from the cabin to watch her approach. She couldn’t decide if she was glad to see that Professor Adam Carroway had arrived safely, or annoyed that she was going to spend the next few months in close proximity to the aggravating academic. The memory of the intense yet brief affair they’d enjoyed months ago added to her ambivalence about him.
Adam was a single-minded professor who focused on his quest for the Eve, Passionata’s flagship that had sunk in 1714. While he was working, he neglected everything else, even forgetting to eat, and wearing the same worn clothes for days at a time. He was also a supremely masculine, energetic lover, very different from the smooth, sophisticated men she preferred. So why did she find Adam Carroway so…distracting? For whatever reason, the scruffy professor stirred something in her. She’d enjoyed the few days—and nights—they’d spent together when he’d visited her in Los Angeles last year. They’d parted as friends, with no talk of the future.
But now the future was here, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about seeing him again. Yes, it might be fun to pick up where they left off and enjoy a summer fling. Yet Adam had a way of getting to her that no other man had. She’d never admit that to him, but maybe it would be better in the long run to keep things strictly business between them. Allowing herself to be vulnerable had never brought her anything but trouble.
Twenty minutes later, when Sandra’s yacht was safely anchored, Adam was climbing aboard. Still wearing only swim trunks and dark sunglasses, his blond hair tangled by the wind, and several days’ growth of beard fringing his chin, he could have been one of Passionata’s contemporaries. The kind of man who was sure to thrill her television audience, Sandra reminded herself, ignoring the shiver of arousal that rushed through her at his approach.
“Hello, Sandra,” he said, nodding by way of greeting. Despite the dark glasses, she could almost feel his gaze on her.
“And how are you, Professor?” She gave him her most charming smile. “The trip from Jamaica went smoothly. Thank you so much for asking.”
He crossed his arms over his barrel chest, biceps bulging in a way she found unnervingly distracting. “Are you all set to begin filming?” he asked. “We’re starting work first thing in the morning.”
“I’m ready.” She’d been waiting months for this chance to prove to the network that she was still a star.
“Remember, we have an agreement,” Adam continued. “You and your crew will stay out of our way while we’re working on the wreck. The last thing I need is to worry about one of you getting hurt.”
She struck a seductive pose against the railing. “Why, Adam, I didn’t know you cared.”
His mouth twitched. She wished she could see his eyes, could read the expression there. Was he remembering those hot nights in L.A.? “I care about this salvage operation going as smoothly as possible,” he said. “I don’t want anything—or anyone—getting in my way.”
Was this his way of telling her there’d be no resumption of their physical relationship? As if the decision was entirely up to him? She straightened and kept her voice even, her emotions in check. “I’ve paid a lot of money for the privilege of recording your every movement over the next few months,” she said. “I’m every bit as invested in this operation running smoothly as you are.”
She’d had to fight hard for the funding to make this trip, and she couldn’t afford to return to the States empty-handed. Her last production had tanked in the ratings, through no fault of her own. The powers-that-be at the network had decided to air her show opposite the most hotly contested Super Bowl in two decades, then had the nerve to blame her for the failure to draw a big audience. They’d told her expensive documentaries were out of style now and had made clear that Passionata’s Treasure was her last chance to prove herself.
That was nothing new, she reminded herself. She’d spent her career—her entire life, really—proving herself to those who underestimated her.
“Good.” He turned and started toward the rail. “I’ll see you later. I have work to do now.”
“Adam, don’t go.” Maybe they wouldn’t be lovers again, but she’d be damned if she would let him continue to keep her at a cold distance. “We’re going to be spending months together,” she said. “I want us to be friends. The last thing I want is to interfere with your operation. I know you have a job to do—don’t resent me for doing mine.”
Did she imagine the softening of his expression, a relaxing of the stiff line of his shoulders? “All right,” he said gruffly.
She took a seat on a chaise and motioned for him to sit across from her on a similar lounge chair. “Let’s have a drink and talk for a minute. Tell me what work you’ve done so far on the wreck of the Eve.” She signaled to a waiting steward, who nodded and disappeared belowdecks.
“We only arrived at the island yesterday, and we’re still waiting on a key piece of equipment.” He sat on the side of the chaise, carefully, as if he feared it might collapse beneath him. “Tomorrow we’ll start mapping the wreck site with GPS. It’s important to pinpoint the location of the items and their relationship to one another before we begin bringing anything to the surface.”
As he spoke, she saw him relax, the tight lines around his mouth disappearing, his whole posture less rigid. He was in familiar territory now—the professor lecturing an ignorant student. She was content to play along if it got him to open up to her. “How soon before the actual salvage work begins?” she asked.
“From a few days to a week. It depends on how many items we have to map.”
The steward reappeared with their drinks—a beer for the professor and sparkling water in a champagne glass for her. It was too early in the day for her to begin drinking, but she had a reputation as a diva to maintain. Was there any field where image was more important than television? She smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “You won’t even know I’m here.”
His face flushed. “Sorry I came on so strong earlier. I’d just found out the water dredge I ordered has been delayed. Every extra day costs my backer money, so I’m feeling under the gun.”
“How many people do you have working for you?”
“I have three interns from the university, and I’ve hired two brothers, Sam and Roger Murphy, to run most of the heavy equipment.” He sipped the beer, then continued. “They’ve worked other wrecks like this, so they know what they’re doing.”
“And you think the Eve could be even more valuable?” She leaned forward, eager to hear more about the riches he expected to find. This was what her viewers wanted, and the kind of footage she was after.
His frown returned and she could almost feel the chill radiating from him. “I’m more interested in the historical value of the artifacts,” he said. “The Eve is an important piece of maritime history. The items we recover can give us a clearer picture of life aboard a privateer vessel in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.”
“You mean, a pirate ship. And don’t tell me the thought of all that gold and silver and jewels doesn’t make your heart jump a little. I know the university doesn’t pay you enough to be totally unconcerned about wealth.”
He looked away. “I never said I wasn’t interested in money, only that it’s not my primary interest.” He drained the beer and set the mug on the deck beside the chair. “I’d better be going.”
“Just when our conversation was getting so interesting?”
But he didn’t answer, and she made no attempt to delay him further. She sat back in the chaise and sipped her drink, and pondered why her question about money had upset him so. Was it because as an academic he thought he ought to be above common greed? Did he make a habit of denying his vices—jealousy, greed…lust?
She sighed. It was going to be a long summer if he insisted on being so standoffish. As long as they were on this island together, no reason they shouldn’t enjoy themselves. Of course, there were other men here who’d be willing to amuse her, she was sure, but she wanted Adam.
ADAM LEFT SANDRA feeling more annoyed than he’d been when he arrived. Why did that damn woman always rub him the wrong way? She hadn’t been in the harbor an hour, and already it was happening—he ought to be focused on the salvage operation, and all he could think of was her.
He never should have let himself get involved with her last fall, but she’d caught him at a weak moment. He’d told himself this summer would be different. He’d be too focused on his work here on the island to let her tempt him. But five minutes in her company and she’d proved him wrong.
He hated complications in his life and in his work, and she was a big one, a diva who was clearly accustomed to men hopping when she said “jump.” He didn’t have the time or energy to waste on her, no matter how much his libido begged to differ.
Instead of returning to his own yacht, he steered his Zodiac to the Caspian. The 120-foot research vessel would serve as the main workboat for the expedition, as well as home to the interns and the Murphy brothers.
“Adam, I’m glad you’re back.” One of the interns, a twentysomething named Brent, who wore his black hair in a long ponytail, greeted him as soon as he stepped on deck. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“What do you need?” Adam forced himself to assume a more pleasant expression. He liked Brent and the other interns, Tessa and Charlie. They shared his passion for history and were willing to work all summer for low wages and the chance to make a little history of their own.
“I’ve got some bad news. The magnetometer is broken.”
“What? It can’t be.” The magnetometer measured changes in the earth’s magnetic field that indicated the presence of iron and other minerals that could point to artifacts beneath the layers of silt and sand on the ocean floor.
Brent looked grim. “Afraid so. When we unpacked it this morning, we discovered the glass was shattered. We’ll have to send it back to Jamaica to be repaired. The captain of the Caspian already radioed for someone to come pick it up.”
“We can’t wait for it to be repaired. Send a message for the courier to bring a new one with him.”
“Sure. That’s a great idea.” Brent hesitated. “How should I tell them we’ll pay for it?”
“Charge it to Merrick.” Damian Merrick, a science nut who also happened to be the heir to the Merrick semiconductor fortune, had agreed to finance the salvage of the Eve. In exchange, Adam had reluctantly agreed to send regular reports of the expedition’s progress. He’d drawn the line at having Merrick as part of the operation. It was bad enough having Sandra hanging around. He didn’t need two amateurs to babysit.
Adam and Brent made their way to the stern, where Tessa and the Murphy brothers were sorting diving equipment and other gear. Roger Murphy looked up at their approach. He was a short, stocky figure with faded red hair that looked as if it had been styled with a machete. “Hi, Professor,” he said. “Checked the weather report?”
“No. Why?” Adam braced himself for more bad news.
“Looks good for the next few days, but there’s a low-pressure system building off the coast of Africa that could bring trouble later in the week.”
“Or it could be nothing,” Adam said.
“I make it a point to keep an eye on the weather,” Roger said. “I got caught in a hurricane off the coast of Haiti five years back and it’s not an experience I care to repeat. I was nearly killed and the expedition lost almost everything.”
“We’ll be fine,” Adam said. “When I was here last summer, it scarcely rained.”
“Yeah, well, that was last summer.”
Adam made no answer. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t concerned; his research had revealed that major hurricanes had hit the island in 1850, 1910 and 1941. Even a relatively minor storm would delay their operation by days, possibly weeks. But there was nothing he could do to control the weather, so he saw no profit in fretting over it.
“Any word on the water dredge?” he asked, changing the subject to a more pressing concern. “Is it here yet?”
“It arrived in Kingston today,” Roger said. “It should be here day after tomorrow.”
“We’ll have to start the survey without it,” Adam said. He addressed the interns. “Are you all ready to dive tomorrow?”
“I can’t wait.” Tessa, the only woman on the expedition, grinned up at him. “Just the thought of seeing the wreck up close makes me so excited.”
Charlie muttered something under his breath. Adam thought it was something along the lines of I’d like to get you excited.
“What did you say, Charlie?” Tessa glared at him.
Charlie coughed and reached for a weight belt from the pile on the deck. “Just that I’m excited, too. About the wreck.”
Adam rubbed his hand across his face in an attempt to wipe away a smile. He supposed he’d better have a talk with Charlie about sexual harassment, though the combination of raging hormones, scanty bathing suits and a summer in paradise almost guaranteed that various members of the crew would be hooking up. He only hoped the scarcity of women didn’t lead to fighting among the men. Tessa and Sandra were the only available women so far, unless Sandra had someone on board he didn’t know about.
“How’s our resident celebrity?” Sam Murphy spoke around the stub of an unlit cigar that was a fixture at the corner of his mouth.
“Celebrity?” Tessa raised a questioning look to Adam.
“That television babe, Sandra Newman,” Sam said. “That’s her yacht that just arrived. She’s here to make movie stars of all of us.” Sam laughed at his own joke, a harsh barking sound.
Tessa’s eyes widened. “For real? Sandra Newman? Here?”
Adam nodded. “She’s making a documentary about Passionata and her treasure. But she’s promised not to interfere with our work.”
“We’ll get to meet her, won’t we?” Tessa asked. “I saw her special on Art Collections of the Rich and Famous. She was awesome.”
“What’s she like?” Charlie grinned at Adam. “Is she as hot in person as she is on TV?”
Adam had the urge to wipe the leer off the kid’s face. “Stay out of her way,” he said. “She’s got a job to do, and so do you.”
Charlie executed a crisp salute. “Aye, aye, Captain. Didn’t mean to poach on your territory.”
“She’s not my territory!” Heat flushed his face. Sandra had made it clear last fall that she viewed him as nothing more than a pleasant diversion, a sentiment he’d shared. He didn’t have time for that sort of distraction while he was working, though he was having more difficulty putting her out of his mind than he’d anticipated. He didn’t need Charlie—or anyone else—reminding him of what he was missing.
“She’s not part of our crew,” he continued. “The less we have to do with her the better.”
Roger let out a low whistle. “I think we get the picture. So what did this Sandra woman do to get you so hot and bothered?”
“She didn’t do anything.”
Anything except throw him completely off balance from their second meeting. Their first meeting didn’t really count; he’d been high on pain pills, still reeling from a nasty encounter with a shark while he’d been raising a demiculverin from the Eve. He rubbed his thigh where the scar still glowed an ugly white against his tan. When Sandra Newman had sailed into the harbor last summer aboard her fancy yacht, he hadn’t known or cared who she was. He’d seen her as just one more interruption to his work.
But the next day, she’d shown up at his yacht when he was there alone, and the full force of her presence had hit him. From her gleaming fall of brunette hair to her red-painted toenails, Sandra Newman was a woman who screamed sex. Frankly, after a summer of celibacy watching his friend Nicole and the island’s other occupant, an Englishman named Ian Marshall, make eyes at each other, Adam had probably been more vulnerable than usual to Sandra’s come-ons.
“If you’re not interested, maybe I’ll row over and say hello.” Sam winked at his brother, who chewed on his cigar and smirked. “In my free time, of course,” he added.
“You’re not going to have any free time,” Adam said. “We start work first thing tomorrow.” He turned and headed for the bridge to let the captain know he wanted to be at the wreck site at first light. But the men’s laughter and comments about Sandra followed him.
The comments rankled because he knew more than mere lust lay at the root of his attraction to the beautiful reporter. When she’d wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips to his, he’d felt a shock of recognition. As if he’d kissed this woman before. Many times. And liked every one of them very much.
Which was ridiculous. He’d never laid eyes on Sandra before they’d met on the island last summer, and she definitely wasn’t the type of woman he ever associated with. He liked simple, uncomplicated women. Women with whom he enjoyed quiet, low-key affairs until it was time to move on. Women who didn’t interfere with his work, who understood his devotion to both teaching and his treasure-hunting hobby.
Sandra was none of those things. One look at her perfect manicure, designer clothes and movie-star smile and any man with half a brain knew immediately that she was complex, complicated, demanding and self-centered. In Sandra’s world, everything revolved around her. And the last thing Adam would ever be was a planet in someone else’s orbit.
2
FAINT STREAKS OF PINK and gold painted the underside of low clouds the next morning when the dive boat anchored a short distance from the wreck site. Adam and his helpers carefully unpacked the equipment they’d need to begin mapping the shipwreck—grids, GPS unit, cameras and measuring sticks. The plan this morning was to begin documenting the debris field, measuring and photographing the area and plotting every possible artifact.
Adam, Tessa and Sam made the first dive, Adam leading the way toward the underwater canyon where the Eve had lain for over three hundred years. His heart raced and his breathing was loud and rapid in his ears as he swam toward the site he’d last seen ten months ago. Last night he’d dreamed he’d arrived at the canyon and the Eve was gone.
He kicked harder, rushing forward, Tessa and Sam on his heels. The three of them shot out over the canyon then floated, hovering over the remains of what Adam hoped to prove had been the Eve.
To the untrained eye, there was nothing remarkable below them—a pile of rocks, oddly shaped chunks of coral and protruding bits of rusted metal. But to the treasure hunter, these were the signs of a shipwreck. The wooden hull of the vessel had long since rotted away or been eaten by shipworms, but the rocks were the cobblestones once used as ballast in the ship’s hold, the metal was the remains of anchor chains and keel bolts and the coral hid no telling what manner of treasure.
Tessa looked at him, eyes wide with excitement. Adam grinned and nodded that he understood. The thrill of touching a part of history never faded for him, even after all this time. Sam headed down toward the wreck and the others followed and set to work. They sank grids into the ocean floor, carefully brushed sand from artifacts and took dozens of photographs.
Adam was soon so absorbed in his work that when Sam tapped his shoulder, he jumped. He glared at the older man, who merely pointed across the canyon. Three dark figures hovered just above them.
He blinked, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him in the murky water. But the figures swam closer and now he could clearly make out Sandra with two men. One held a massive spotlight, the other a camera.
He handed Sam his own camera and went to intercept Sandra and her crew. Grabbing her shoulder, he motioned for her to surface with him so they could talk. She frowned and shook her head, but he nodded and once more pointed up.
As soon as they broke the surface of the water, Adam spat out his regulator and pushed down his mask. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
“I’m filming. That’s why I’m here, remember?”
“I know that, but there’s nothing to film yet. We’re doing our preliminary measurements and photography.” He had counted on having a few more days before he had to deal with her constant, distracting presence.
“My intent is to chronicle the salvage process,” she said. “This is part of it, isn’t it?”
He forced his eyes away from the top of her wet suit, where the zipper strained across her breasts. The suit fit her like a second skin, emphasizing every curve. If he had to look at her like this every day for the rest of the summer, he might very well go mad. “Since when do you dive?” he asked.
“Since now. I took lessons in preparation for this trip.” She leaned toward him, one hand on his shoulder. “I take my job very seriously, Adam. And I’m sure my viewers are interested in seeing every aspect of your work.”
“There’s nothing to film right now,” he said again, the awareness of her touching him making him more loquacious than usual. If he could find the right words, maybe she’d leave him in peace. “This is the most boring part of the whole process. Though most of it’s boring, really. Measuring. Sifting dirt—things like that.” He gained confidence with every word. “In fact, what you should probably do is wait until the treasure is all up top. It will look much better up there, especially after it’s cleaned up.”
To his astonishment, she smiled—a dazzling smile that made him feel light-headed. “I know what you’re doing,” she said. “And it won’t work. You won’t get rid of me that easily. I’m staying for the entire salvage operation.”
He was defeated. He knew it, though he’d never admit it. “When the salvage operation truly begins, I promise you’ll get footage for your documentary. Until then, you’re wasting film. Even I think this part is dull, but it’s necessary.”
She studied his face, her blue eyes searching, her lips slightly puckered, as though she were about to kiss him. The memory of other volcanic kisses they’d shared had him breathing hard—and his wet suit was getting uncomfortably tight below the waist.
She must have decided he was telling the truth. She took her hand from his shoulder and retreated a little. “When does the exciting part of the work begin—when will I be able to show actual treasure to my viewers?” she asked.
“Several days at least. Maybe as long as a week.”
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” Her tone was cool, all business.
“I don’t know. Explore the island. Work on your tan. This is a tropical paradise. Take advantage of it.”
“I didn’t come here for a vacation,” she said. “I came to work.”
“So did I.” He made a show of checking his watch. “And I’d better get back to it.”
He started to fit his mask over his eyes again, but she put out her hand to stop him. “I’ll leave you and your crew alone for now on one condition,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“You have dinner with me tonight and fill me in on your progress so far. And provide a similar report every day until the actual salvage work begins.”
He had a sense of how the fly felt when invited for tea by the spider. “I don’t have time for that,” he protested.
“We have to work together, Adam.” She rested her palm flat against his chest and leaned closer still, her mouth next to his ear. “So make time,” she whispered.
Stunned, he watched as she pushed off and swam away, toward the Zodiac anchored nearby. In a moment the cameraman and his assistant surfaced also and the trio left. Sandra sat in the stern and waved as they motored away. “See you tonight,” she called.
He shook his head, trying to clear it. If he believed in nonsense like witches, he’d say Sandra was one. She’d clearly cast a spell on him. He credited himself with being smart enough to avoid obvious hazards, including the wrong women. He couldn’t think of a woman more wrong for him than Sandra, but he wasn’t having any success in avoiding her.
“What was that about tonight?”
He looked behind him and was startled to see Sam treading water. “How long have you been listening?” Adam asked.
Sam smirked. “Long enough. Looks like our sexy reporter has the hots for you, you lucky dog.”
Adam refused to take the bait. “What are you doing up here?” he snapped.
“Time to switch out crews.”
Tessa joined them and they returned to the boat. Charlie, Brent and Roger went down to resume the work.
Adam was in the bow, changing his air tanks when Sam joined him. Adam glared at the older man. One word about Sandra and I’ll punch that smirk right off his face. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Just one question.” Sam crouched in the bow beside Adam. “Do we know for sure this is the Eve?”
Adam knew what Sam was getting at: any number of ships reportedly sank off the coast of Passionata’s Island, the victims of either storms or attacks by the female pirate’s gang. Adam was relying on a combination of research, hunches and instinct that told him this was Passionata’s flagship. But instinct and hunches didn’t carry much weight in the scientific community, and the research materials available were few. In his search for funding, he’d been careful to emphasize the historic nature of the material they were likely to find, while never stating that he was absolutely sure the wreck was that of the Eve.
“We don’t know for sure what ship it is,” he admitted. “That’s one of the things I intend to find out.”
“You think Ms. Newman will pitch a fit if she’s gone to all the trouble of bringing a film crew down here and it isn’t the Eve?” Sam asked.
“I don’t give a damn what Sandra Newman thinks,” he said. “And don’t you go stirring up trouble by saying anything about it. As far as she’s concerned, we’re salvaging the Eve.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Sam saluted, then rose and sauntered away, whistling under his breath.
Adam turned back to the task of fitting his regulator to the new tanks. Yes, Sandra would no doubt create quite a scene if she thought he’d deceived her about the nature of the wreck. But as far as he was concerned, he had found the Eve. He’d felt it with a certainty that had been unshakeable ever since he’d first laid eyes on the debris scattered across the ocean floor, as if something in him had recognized the vessel. Call it instinct or memory or a sixth sense; it wasn’t scientific or logical and he’d have never breathed a word to a soul that he harbored such thoughts. But he couldn’t shake free of the belief. Like his fascination with Sandra, it hung around his neck like an albatross, a seaman’s curse he’d have to learn to live with until he was proven right or defeated in his quest.
SANDRA FASTENED the necklace and stepped back from the mirror to check her outfit. The red silk gown draped softly over her breasts, nipped in at the waist, then fell in smooth gathers to the floor. A tiny golden globe glinted from its gold chain at her throat, and simple diamond studs glittered at her ears. The look was simple, elegant and sexy. She dared Adam to ignore her tonight.
She’d tried relating to him as a businesswoman and professional, but that clearly wasn’t working. The air around them crackled with barely suppressed desire whenever the two of them were together. They might as well clear the air and give in to temptation. Some no-strings-attached hot sex would be just the thing to allow them to concentrate on their work—while passing their off hours in a most enjoyable manner.
It was just as Passionata had written in her autobiography, Confessions of a Pirate Queen: if a woman wanted to control a man, she should use all the gifts in her power, including her sexuality. The pirate queen had certainly done well following this philosophy, if even half of what she’d written was to be believed. And since Sandra and Adam were visiting Passionata’s Island, well, when in Rome…
A knock distracted her. She hurried from the mirror and draped herself across a chair facing the door. “Come in,” she called.
Adam had to duck to pass through the low cabin door. As he did so, he looked around warily, like a wild beast suspicious of a trap. “Hello, Sandra,” he said, his gaze shifting to her then quickly away.
“Hello, Adam.” She rose and took his hand. “Come inside and make yourself comfortable.” She led him to a chair next to hers.
“I brought wine,” he said, and thrust a dusty bottle toward her. “This prosecco was the closest I had to champagne.”
That he’d remembered her preference surprised her; maybe the professor wasn’t as absentminded as she’d thought. “Thank you. I love prosecco.” She carried the wine to a sideboard, opened it and poured two glasses.
“How did the rest of your survey work go today?” she asked.
“Slow.” He sat back in the chair and sipped the wine. “It’s not my favorite part of the job,” he admitted. “I’m anxious to get to the real work of discovering and cataloging artifacts.”
“I looked at the footage we shot this morning,” she said. “You were right, it isn’t very exciting. But I’ll probably use a few seconds of it, to give viewers an idea of the scope of the job.”
“I don’t know much about television, but I don’t see how there’ll be enough of interest here to fill a whole hour or however long this show will be,” he said.
“Given time for commercial breaks, about forty minutes.” She settled in the chair beside his and tucked one leg under. “I think we’ll have trouble covering everything in that time frame. I’d like to devote a portion of the show to Passionata and her story. If readers know about her, then her ship and its contents will seem that much more interesting to them.”
“Why are you so interested in this wreck?” he asked. “Seems to me there are a lot of other things you could film a documentary about.”
“I’ve made a name for myself filming stories about exotic riches—rare jewels and art, the lifestyles of the rich and decadent. What’s more decadent than a sexy female pirate’s treasures?”
“So it’s the treasure that drew you.”
She sipped her wine, trying to decide how honest she could afford to be with him. “The treasure, the larger-than-life characters, the drama of the salvage operation—all of that drew me. I needed something to dazzle the viewers, and the network.”
“You mean, you alone aren’t enough to dazzle them?”
The flattery startled her, until she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. She sighed. “Laugh if you want, but the ratings on my last special weren’t as spectacular as the network wanted. And this project gives me the chance to do more. I’m not only reporting, I’m doing all the writing, directing and editing.” The station had agreed to this plan because it saved them money, but she wanted to prove they’d underestimated her talent. She was more than just a pretty face and figure to pose in front of the camera, someone they could cast aside in favor of a younger and even more beautiful candidate. She hadn’t clawed her way up from the weather girl on the third-ranked station in Oilton, Oklahoma, to let that happen. There was more than money or fame at stake here; her pride was on the line.
She fingered the charm she wore on a gold chain around her neck—a tiny golden globe. A reminder from her grandmother that the world could be hers, but she had to seize it. “No one hands you anything in this life,” her grandmother had cautioned her as a child. “If you want something, you have to take it.” Even as a young girl, Sandra had wanted more than the dull, small-town life she’d been born into. She’d worked hard to earn the wealth, glamour and excitement she’d longed for, but even that was never quite enough.
Another knock signaled the arrival of their dinner. “I thought we’d eat in here,” she said as the steward wheeled in a white-draped table and an array of covered dishes. “It’s much more private and intimate.”
A muscle twitched in the corner of his mouth at the word intimate, and he shifted in his chair but remained silent.
When they were alone again, Sandra uncovered the food and invited him to sit. “I thought it would be fun to recreate the meal Passionata served the Duke of Brunswick-Luneburg,” she said. “Oysters, roast beef, lobster pies, fried beets and potatoes.” In Confessions, Passionata had claimed this was a meal designed to arouse and to provide strength for the night ahead.
“I doubt much of Passionata’s—or as she was born, Jane Hallowell’s—so-called autobiography was actually written by her,” Adam said as he sat across from Sandra at the table.
“You do?” She didn’t try to hide her surprise. “I thought Confessions of a Pirate Queen is what led you to the island and the shipwreck.”
He shook his head. “I’ve read the book, of course, and I’m sure there’s some fact there. But most of it is so sensationalized—like the account of her dinner with the future King George.” He shook hot sauce onto an oyster and tossed it into his mouth.
“Then who do you think is the author?” she asked. She served herself some of the potatoes and some of the roast beef, avoiding the raw oysters—though she could admit a certain fascination in watching Adam swallow them with such relish.
He helped himself to another oyster before answering. “I think the book was probably written in the late eighteenth century by some unknown writer out to make a quick buck—much like the American dime novels. He—or she—had heard some stories about the notorious lady pirate and made the rest up. The addition of all the sex practically guaranteed a bestseller.”
“So even in the 1700s, sex sold.” She sliced into her roast and shook her head. “I don’t agree that the book isn’t Passionata’s. I think the account rings true. At least, I believe it was written by a woman who knew what she was talking about.”
“So you believe all that about women’s power over men?” He looked amused, or perhaps that was only the effect of his second glass of wine.
“Don’t you?” She laid aside her knife and fork and looked him in the eye.
“I believe women like to think they have that kind of power over men, but most of us aren’t as susceptible as that.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. She could practically feel the heat arcing between them.
He took another long drink of wine and pretended interest in his food, though she was sure every part of him was as aware of her as she was of him. “Not that I didn’t enjoy our time together before,” he said. “But when I’m working, I work. I don’t have time for anything that doesn’t involve the salvage of the Eve.”
“There’s always time for sex,” she said. “It’s like eating or breathing.”
“Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I scarcely take time for those things when I’m involved in a project.” He pushed his empty plate away and crumpled his napkin beside it. “Thanks for dinner. Now I’d better get back to work.”
“But you haven’t had dessert,” she said. She stood and walked slowly back to the chairs where they’d started the evening, aware of his eyes on her, caressing her back and gliding over her hips. Smiling, she sat and removed the cover from a small dish on the table between the two chairs. “Strawberries,” she said. “My favorite.” She selected a large, ripe fruit and bit into it, her tongue darting out to lick the juices that dripped from her chin. “You must stay and have some,” she said, her voice pitched just above a whisper, so that he had to lean forward to hear her.
“I’d really better go,” he said, but made no move to leave.
“Please don’t,” she said. “Stay a little longer.” The words were a line she’d rehearsed in her head, but even she heard the earnestness in her voice when she spoke them. The truth was, she did want Adam to stay. As rough and even rude as he sometimes was, he fascinated her.
And tempted her. While her intent had been to arouse him, she was more than a little turned on herself. Somewhere between the first glass of wine and the disappearance of the last oyster, he’d become not merely a man she wanted to control, but a man she wanted.
EVERY INSTINCT told Adam to bolt for the door, but he remained fixed in place, mesmerized by the sight of Sandra’s moist, full lips caressing the ripe fruit. Her every action was incredibly over the top, yet intoxicatingly alluring.
With one finger she caught a drop of juice that dripped from the berry, and sucked it from her finger. He drew in a sharp breath and felt his groin tighten. Their eyes locked and the raw wanting he saw there rocked him.
He shoved himself out of the chair and lurched toward the door. “Good night,” he muttered, avoiding looking at her as he passed.
“No, wait.” She caught him by the wrist, her fingers tightening around him. “I…” She released him and touched her temple. “I don’t feel so well.”
At first he suspected another ploy to delay him, but one look at her had him doubting that anyone could be such an accomplished actress. Her skin had turned dead white, and her eyes held a distant expression. “What is it?” he asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I…” Before she could complete the sentence, she slumped forward in the chair.
He lunged to grab her before she slid to the floor. He tried to prop her up in the chair once more, but she’d gone completely limp, unable to support herself. He ended up cradling her in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. He looked around for some bell or button to use to summon help, but saw nothing. He could step into the corridor and shout, but that would mean leaving her and he was afraid to do so for even that little bit.
At least she was still breathing, her chest rising and falling steadily. He was relieved to see that some of the color had returned to her skin, her cheeks flushed a soft pink. At this close proximity, the soft floral scent of her hair engulfed him. Her lips were slightly parted, her lashes a heavy fringe just brushing her cheeks. Inert like this, her face without its usual animation, she looked surprisingly small and delicate.
Vulnerable.
Desirable.
He pushed the thought away. Maybe she was suffering from too much to drink, though like him, she’d only had two glasses of wine. Unless she’d had some before he’d arrived.
In any case, he had to make her more comfortable. Settling her more firmly in his arms, he searched the cabin for someplace to lay her. He spotted a door to his right and pushed it open.
The small stateroom was awash in red—red draperies, red wallpaper, red floral comforter on the bed. Adam laid Sandra on the bed and wondered if he should loosen her clothes. The thought of undressing her made him feel shaky. Better not go there. Her dress fit her well, but it wasn’t overly tight.
Very carefully, he sat on the edge of the bed and took her wrist in his hand, feeling for her pulse. It was rapid but strong. Should he call someone? But who? There was no doctor on the island. He wished his friend Nicole was here. Not only was she another woman, she was a nurse. She’d know how to handle the situation.
He touched Sandra’s cheek, so soft and smooth. She really was the most beautiful woman…Resolutely, he pulled his thoughts back to more practical matters and patted her jaw. “Sandra,” he said. Then louder, “Sandra, can you hear me? Wake up.”
Her eyes fluttered and she stared at him, her pupils dilated, her breathing more rapid than ever. “Thank God you’re here,” she whispered.
“I didn’t do anything but keep you from hitting your head when you fell. What happened?”
“Happened?” She blinked. “Nothing’s happened. Yet.” She smiled and slid her hand up his arm. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Missed me? I’ve been right he—”
His words were smothered by her lips on his. With surprising strength, she pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around him, opening her mouth to him. She was so warm and soft and willing…For a moment he forgot where he was. Who he was. He wasn’t an almost-forty-year-old academic who preferred study to socializing, and research to relationships; he was a hedonist who knew what it was to make love to a woman until they were both fully sated and exhausted. A man whom a woman like Sandra would beg to be with.
She squirmed beneath him, and he put out a hand to steady her, encountering the soft, supple curve of her breast. He shaped his hand to her and squeezed gently, her soft cry of delight recalling him to his senses.
He pushed out of her embrace, horrified at his actions. What was he doing fondling a woman who was clearly out of her head? As much as he’d previously enjoyed sex with Sandra, he wasn’t going to take advantage of her when she wasn’t in her right mind.
“Frederick, don’t go!” She protested. “Don’t leave me when I want you so badly.” She arched her body in flagrant invitation.
Adam was having trouble breathing. Who the hell is Frederick? he wanted to ask. Was she so drunk she couldn’t remember his name?
But she didn’t act drunk exactly. She acted more—crazy. She stared at him with unabashed passion. He couldn’t remember when a woman had ever looked at him that way, and once again he was tempted to strip off his clothes and join her on that red comforter.
“Frederick, please,” she moaned, and the words brought him back to his senses. Even he wasn’t desperate enough to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get his name right. Though right now Adam could admit he was jealous of Frederick, whoever he was.
“I’ll send someone to check on you,” he said as he backed out the door. Tomorrow she might have a hell of a hangover, but he hoped for both their sakes, she wouldn’t remember any of this had happened.
3
FOG SURROUNDED Sandra, obscuring her vision, clouding her thoughts. She had a vague memory of sitting in a chair, drinking wine with…someone. She couldn’t remember. Then she was sinking into oblivion, waking yet not waking to the sensation of strong arms wrapped around her, carrying her to a bed.
Deft hands undressed her. Masculine hands, with strong fingers that caressed her naked breasts and stroked her bare thighs with a shocking possessiveness. She opened her mouth to protest, but could only sigh as his touch aroused a pleasure unlike any she had ever known. She reached for him, calling his name. “Frederick.”
How did she know his name? She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t bring it to mind. Yet his touch was familiar to her. More than familiar, it was something she craved, needed, in a way she had never needed anything before.
He stretched beside her on the bed, naked also. She had a sense of muscular limbs, of the weight of him pressing her into the comforter, his hands parting her thighs, stroking her, fingers plunging inside her. She arched to him, shamelessly begging for more.
He reached one hand to fondle her breasts, plucking at one nipple, then the next. Desire lanced through her, sharp and urgent. She raised her head, desperate to see his face, but saw only a shock of blond hair.
He was skilled and masterful, anticipating the touch that would arouse her most, his fingers playing across her clit, bringing her to the edge of release but no further. She writhed beneath him, wild with wanting, beyond caring who he was or how he knew her, wanting only the ecstasy he promised yet withheld.
Then he was pushing her back again, spreading her legs farther, plunging into her with a force that stole her breath. He filled her completely, perfectly, the rhythm of advance and retreat sending her spiraling upward again. She clutched handfuls of the comforter beneath her, the silky fabric bunching in her hands as he rode her, his face still lost to her in the haze she couldn’t shake.
She gave up fretting about it, surrendered everything to the tension growing within her. He moved faster, thrusting harder, and brought his hand down to fondle her clit once more.
At his touch, she shattered, crying out as heat and light flooded her, leaving her trembling, fully sated. She felt the clench and release of his muscles as he met his own climax, and held him tightly as he shuddered in her arms.
A profound weariness filled her, and she closed her eyes and slept, still clinging to her mystery lover, praying he would never leave.
SANDRA WOKE TO SUNLIGHT spilling from the porthole in her cabin, a dull ache in the back of her head, her thoughts a kaleidoscope of broken images. She frowned, trying to concentrate. She’d had dinner last night with Adam. They had drunk the wine he’d brought and then…
Heat flooded her face as memories of wild sex with a faceless stranger filled her. Had that been Adam?
She sat up, alarmed, and discovered she was still dressed in the red gown she’d chosen last night and that she lay on top of the comforter, which had half slid to the floor. There was no sign of the professor—no note, no indentation on the pillows other than her own.
Had it all been a dream, then? She pushed her hair back from her face and tried to concentrate. The fog, the faceless man, her own passiveness—they all pointed to a dream. Though one of the most vivid and erotic dreams she had ever experienced. She was sure she’d climaxed. Was that even possible? Men had wet dreams, but could women?
She shook her head and carefully crawled out of bed. The headache was already abating, and she felt none of the queasiness that signaled a hangover. But she had no memory of anything after she’d begun to eat the strawberries she’d chosen for dessert.
Had Adam put something in her wine to knock her out? One of the date-rape drugs she’d reported on that rendered their victims helpless? But why would he do that? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already been a perfectly willing partner….
She stumbled into the bathroom and stripped off her clothes, checking carefully for any sign that she’d been molested. But her underwear was still in place; she bore no bruises. And beyond all that was her conviction that Adam wouldn’t do something like that. He had to know that if he wanted her, all he had to do was ask. He had no need to drug her.
She turned on the shower and stepped inside, raising her face to the hot spray. Maybe she’d had a bad reaction to something they’d eaten. She’d heard certain toxins could cause hallucinations. Could they also cause erotic dreams? She smiled. If so, maybe she should figure out what food had been the culprit and eat it again. She didn’t know if she’d ever had a real sexual encounter as intense as the one she’d dreamed.
She poured shampoo into her palm and lathered it into her hair. The dream had been odd in others ways, too. Disturbing even. Her dream self had been completely dominated by the mystery man, content to let him take charge, eager even to submit to him. The idea that such desires hid in her subconscious annoyed her. She wasn’t a passive woman and had no wish to be. If anything, she preferred to take the lead in her relationships with men. In her experience it was the only way to keep them from underestimating her.
She rinsed her hair and body, then stepped out of the shower, her thoughts turning once more to Adam. She’d have to ask him for his version of last night’s events and see what he had to say. She checked the clock and saw that it was after ten o’clock. Too late to question Adam now. He’d be at the wreck site, continuing his survey. A survey she hoped he’d finish soon. She was anxious to get to work.
What was she supposed to do with herself in the meantime? She looked around the stateroom, hoping for something that would strike her interest, but found nothing. Then her gaze rested on the view through the porthole—a vista of Passionata’s Island. That was it then; she’d explore the former pirate’s stronghold, maybe even take along a camera and get some footage of the tower. If she found anything particularly interesting, she could send Jonas to film more later.
Cheered by the idea, she dressed in an orange bikini, then added khaki shorts and a shirt over that. With tennis shoes and hat, she was ready to discover what it was that had attracted a woman like Passionata to this beautiful but desolate place.
ADAM RESISTED THE URGE to visit Sandra’s ship and make sure she was all right after the strange events of the previous night. He couldn’t think of any way to do so without calling attention to himself among the crew; they were already giving him a hard enough time about having dinner with the celebrated news personality.
He tried to ignore their jibes and off-color comments. He’d been around long enough to know he made an easy target. He was a workaholic, careless of his appearance—an unlikely choice for a glamorous woman like Sandra.
But there’d been no mistaking her physical interest in him. He couldn’t deny the idea flattered him. Intrigued him. He wasn’t a man who’d lacked for female companionship, but Sandra was definitely in another league from the quiet, bookish types he preferred.
In any case, he hoped she was all right. He had no intention of mentioning her odd behavior of the night before. Maybe she had been drunk.
As soon as he was out on the water, headed to the wreck site, he put all thoughts of Sandra aside. This was what he’d lived the past ten months for, this chance to touch a part of history, to uncover things no one else had seen in three hundred years, to make all the words written in the books lining his office at the university come to life.
As an only child whose parents worked long hours, Adam’s chief amusements had been reading and exploring the stretch of woods behind the housing development where his family lived. He’d occupied himself for entire summers imagining elaborate scenarios where he discovered dinosaur bones or lost civilizations. To realize those boyhood dreams as an adult was the greatest thrill he could enjoy. That the pursuit of that goal had left him little time for long-term relationships with women hadn’t mattered to him so far. Work had given him everything he needed in his life.
“Who makes the first dive today?” Roger asked as he anchored the dive boat.
“I’ll work with Tessa,” Charlie volunteered.
Tessa made a face. “I’d rather work with Adam.”
“You and Charlie and Brent should work together,” Adam said. “Continue marking the grid on the east side of the debris field.”
“What are you going to be doing?” Roger asked.
“I’m going to get a better look at the far side of the canyon,” he said. “We haven’t done much exploring there yet. There may be artifacts spread out in that area, as well.”
When he was satisfied the interns had everything they needed to do their job, Adam headed for the far side of the underwater canyon where the bulk of the wreck rested. The ocean floor sloped down, and as he swam deeper the water grew cooler and darker. He switched on the spotlight he carried and played it along the ocean floor, searching for anything out of place. An odd-shaped rock could be a sediment-covered bottle, a glint of metal might reveal a coin and a bump on the ocean floor might turn out to be a cannonball. He had discovered early on that he had a good eye for these oddities, and a sixth sense for what was treasure and what was trash.
As the spotlight cut through the dimness, revealing brightly colored fish and the undulations of the underwater terrain, Adam felt a deep peace settle over him. This was the part of his work he loved most, losing himself in new discoveries, seeing things as few others saw them.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glint of something and quickly focused the light in that direction. At first he saw nothing, but as he swam closer, he noticed an irregularity in the ocean floor. He reached down and carefully fanned away the top layer of sediment, revealing a jeweled dagger. It lay in the gravel as if only recently dropped there by some passing sailor, its blade darkened, the red stone in its hilt glowing dully.
His heart raced as he fumbled with his free hand for his camera. He snapped a few pictures, then took out his GPS to read the coordinates. These noted, he finally allowed himself to pick up the dagger, scarcely breathing as he cradled it in his hand.
It was heavy, yet perfectly balanced, the blade long and tapered. Cleaned and sharpened, it would be a deadly weapon, as well as a work of art. Through layers of grime, he thought he detected engraving, and filigreed metal surrounded the stone.
It was exactly the sort of thing Sandra would love to show her viewers.
That he would think of her in such a moment startled him so much he almost dropped the dagger. He gripped it more firmly, and tried to get a grip on his emotions, as well. This was a testament to the degree the sexy reporter had insinuated herself into his life in such a short time.
So far he’d been successful in keeping thoughts of last night away, but now the memories flooded back. The way she’d looked at him after he’d carried her to bed, as if her very life depended on him making love to her, had unnerved him. The Sandra he knew was not the type to humble herself to anyone, yet in those moments he had sensed she would have done anything he asked. And he couldn’t deny that he’d wanted to ask. His desire for her had been overpowering, conquered only by his knowledge that he’d be taking advantage of a woman who clearly wasn’t right in the head.
Walking away from her last night was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done, and chances were she wouldn’t even remember his act of chivalry. Worse, he had no confidence he’d be as strong the next time she came on to him. His reluctance to get involved with Sandra while he had so much work to do was no match for the fierce physical pull he felt for her, whether she was out of her mind or not.
SANDRA BEACHED the Zodiac and made her way along the shore, searching for the path that led into the jungle. The wind had come up, and she had to hold on to her hat with one hand to keep it from being snatched away. Sand sifted into her shoes, so she took them off, sinking her toes into the hot, powdery beach. Maybe instead of exploring, she should take Adam’s other suggestion, and work on her tan.
But the idea of sunning on the beach held little appeal with no beach chair or umbrella, no one to fetch her drinks and no one to lie with. She glanced toward Adam’s yacht, anchored in the harbor. There was no sign of movement on the tarp-shaded deck. She thought of going aboard and waiting for him. What would he think if he returned from a day of diving and found her there? What if she were naked in his bed? Would he dare turn her away then?
She clenched her thighs against the rush of desire this fantasy produced. And she thought again of her dream last night. Had the skillful lover she’d imagined been Adam?
She shook her head. No matter what games her subconscious played, when she and Adam had made love before, it had been as equals. She would never play the shivering virgin for any man, and certainly not for a sloppy—though sexy—professor.
She spotted the path and stopped to put on her shoes. Despite her disdain for all the scary stories Adam and his friends had once told her about the dangerous wildlife on the island, she had no desire to step on one of the ever-present land crabs or, worse, a spider.
Once she started down the path, the dense undergrowth muffled the sound of the wind and blotted out all but the weakest rays of the sun, which filtered through the canopy overhead, bathing her in a watery green light. The air was heavy and humid, redolent with the scent of growth and decay. Though last summer the jungle had been hacked away to allow space for the passage of two people walking side by side, new growth crowded in on both sides, so that Sandra could barely squeeze through in places.
As she neared the center of the island, the noise of the birds increased, a cacophony of screams and whistles and honks louder than any freeway gridlock or rock concert riot. Along with the noise came the stench of the thousands of birds that nested and fed on the rocky heart of the island. Sandra covered her mouth and nose with one hand and held on to her hat with the other, the video camera swinging from the strap at her wrist, hitting her shoulder with every step.
Passionata’s Tower rose from the center of the clearing, a squat, crenelated fortress three stories tall, built of the same gray volcanic rock as its surroundings, the surface pocked with white bird droppings. On an elevated platform beside it sat a large tank to collect rainwater, the only source of fresh water on the island. Last summer, some visitors had constructed a gravity-fed shower beneath the tank. It had provided a nice alternative to the cramped bathing quarters on board ship, and helped to conserve the fresh water they’d brought with them.
Sandra paused at the edge of the clearing and focused the camera, pleased with the shot of the tower rising up against a dramatic bank of threatening clouds. One of the afternoon squalls common during the summer months was blowing in. Exactly what was needed to add interest to her video.
Satisfied she’d captured some good exterior footage, she darted across the clearing to the shelter of the tower entrance. Birds whirled and screamed around her, and she resisted the urge to run away from them.
Once in the tower things were better, though the stench was worse than ever. She pulled her shirt up over her nose and mouth and turned to investigate the three-hundred-year-old structure.
Interest soon displaced distaste as she surveyed the space in which she was standing. A short passage from the doorway opened into a spacious round room or hall. Weather-worn rock provided both flooring and walls, but Sandra could imagine a time when the rock had been covered with tapestries or velvet drapes, the floor strewn with rugs woven in India and Turkey.
A stone stairway hugged the far wall. After filming the first floor, Sandra started up the narrow risers, following them around the outer wall to a second room that was almost as large as the first. Empty except for a few pieces of driftwood and a pile of shells some previous visitor had left behind, this would have been the public rooms that served as an office/living/dining area for the pirate queen. A single rectangular window six feet tall and three feet wide provided a spectacular view of the bay. From here Passionata could have seen the approach of any ship, whether friend or foe. She’d have welcomed the return of her own fleet, and prepared for battle with her enemies.
Sandra raised her camera to her eye and filmed the stark interior, imagining it furnished with a heavy carved table and chairs, and cushions on the window seat. She could almost smell beeswax candles burning.
With growing anticipation, she hurried up the final flight of stairs to the room at the top of the tower. This would have been Passionata’s bedroom, she was sure. This room was smaller than the other two, but featured two windows, one looking out on the harbor, the other in the direction of the coral reef just offshore.
She stepped into the room as lightning flashed and rain began to fall. Large drops pelted the tower and splashed through the windows to pool on the concrete floor. Thunder shook the air and Sandra startled and backed up against the wall. Laughing at her own jumpiness, she raised the camera and began filming this room, as well, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of red, and lowered the camera to look. But only gray stone met her gaze. Blinking, she shook her head, suddenly dizzy. The sweet scent of lavender filled her nostrils. Did lavender grow on the island? Had the rain brought the scent into the room?
She closed her eyes a moment and leaned against the wall, trying to regain her equilibrium. She put one hand down to steady herself, then recoiled at the sensation of some soft fabric, like a brocade.
She opened her eyes again and stared at a massive canopy bed that occupied the center of the room. It was draped in mosquito netting, the mattress covered with a red satin comforter much like the one she had on the ship. The concrete of the floor was obscured by a thick layer of red and gold rugs, and red draperies fluttered at the windows.
Her heart raced, and she struggled to breathe as she stared at the scene. None of this had been here seconds before. Was she hallucinating? She pinched her thigh, hard, but though she flinched at the pain, the room remained richly furnished. The scent of lavender was stronger now, almost overwhelming in its intensity. Her head began to throb, and she rubbed her eyes. What was happening to her?
She opened her eyes again, and choked off a scream. Gray stone walls and gray concrete floors surrounded her. The rain continued to pour in through the window, bringing the scent of mud and fish and tropical foliage. But no lavender.
She turned and raced down the stairs, moving as fast as she dared down the narrow risers, heart thudding painfully, fighting panic.
It was raining hard by the time she emerged from the tower. The birds were silent, roosting, the only noise the wind rattling the palm branches and raindrops splattering on the rocks. Within seconds, she was drenched, but she scarcely noticed. She had to get away from here, back to the safety of her ship.
She started toward the path, but a blinding flash of lightning and crack of thunder stopped her. One of the tall coconut palms split in two, crashing at her feet, green coconuts falling around her like bombs.
Her scream rose above the sound of the storm, and once she’d started, she couldn’t make herself stop. Shrieks rose from her throat, an almost welcome release of the panic she’d been fighting. She was soaked through, shaking and absolutely terrified. The only consolation was there was no one here to see her falling apart.
“Sandra! What are you doing out here in the storm?”
The shouts startled her. She whirled and saw a man advancing toward her, a tall, broad-shouldered figure, his features blurred by the rain. Unsure whether this was another hallucination, she squinted, trying to bring him into sharper focus. He was closer now, and she made out dark-blond hair plastered to his head—hair like her dream man’s. Her gaze moved across his shoulders, down his chest…he was naked, rain running in rivulets across well-defined muscle, glistening on the dusting of hair on his chest and between his thighs.
“Sandra, what are you doing here?” he demanded again. “Are you all right?”
He took her by the arm and shook her gently, and for the first time she realized this was no phantom of her imagination, but Adam, and he was very wet. And very naked.
4
ADAM SHOOK Sandra’s shoulder again. She was starting to scare him, she looked so out of it. “What are you doing out here in the rain?” he asked.
She blinked at him, then seemed to pull herself together. “A better question is what are you doing out here, naked?”
He let go of her as if he’d been scorched and tried to look dignified—not an easy task considering he was indeed naked. “I was taking a shower,” he said. “We had to knock off early because of the weather. When I heard you scream, I ran out without thinking.”
“How gallant of you.” She pushed a dripping strand of hair out of her eyes.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “Let’s get out of the rain.” Not waiting for her answer, he took her by the arm and led her to the shower underneath the tower’s cistern, where he grabbed his swim trunks and now-sodden towel. Then he pulled her toward the tower.
She balked at the door. “I can’t go in there,” she said.
“You can’t stand out here in the rain, either,” he said, and tugged her inside.
While he pulled on the swim trunks, she stood just inside the door, hugging herself and looking around apprehensively. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I promise if any spiders or rats live here, they aren’t interested in you.”
“I’m not worried about spiders and rats.” She looked up at the ceiling. “This place gives me the creeps.”
He moved closer and stared at her intently. Her face was pale, her eyes slightly dilated, as if she was terrified—or on something. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You’re acting strange.”
This comment earned him an angry look. “I’ve been feeling strange since last night,” she said. “Did you put something in my drink? A drug or something?”
He stared at her. “You think I drugged you? Glad to know you have such a high opinion of me. Just because I refused to sleep with you again doesn’t make me some lowlife degenerate.”
“What am I supposed to think when I was fine before you showed up for dinner and ever since I’ve been…” Her voice trailed off and she looked away.
“You’ve been what?”
“Not myself.”
That was one way to put it. “You were acting oddly when I left you last night,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d had too much to drink.”
“I’d only had two glasses of wine. The wine you brought.”
“I had that wine, too, and I’m fine.”
“What exactly was I doing when you left last night?”
“You don’t remember?”
She shook her head. “I don’t really remember anything after eating the strawberries.”
“You called me Frederick.”
She frowned. “I don’t know anyone named Frederick.”
“Are you sure? No old boyfriend?”
“I’m sure. I don’t even know anyone named Fred.”
“That’s definitely the name you used.”
“That’s all that happened? I called you Frederick?”
He tried to keep back the smile but couldn’t. The memory of her writhing on that red satin comforter and begging for him was too pleasant. “You tried very hard to get me to come to bed with you.”
She wet her lips, her eyes searching his. “Did I succeed?”
“The offer was tempting, but I decided not to take advantage of a woman who was obviously out of her head.”
She turned and began pacing, agitation evident in every movement. “I had a very vivid dream last night. I was with a man whose face I couldn’t see. And then this afternoon, here in the top room of the tower…”
“What happened?”
She stopped with her back to him, her head bent. “I had a hallucination. One moment the room was bare, the next it was furnished, with a bed and red draperies and carpets. It all seemed so real.”
He frowned. “Do you think it was something you ate? Some hallucinogenic toxin in food?”
“You ate the same food—except the oysters. Have you been hallucinating?”
“No.” He’d been fantasizing about her, but that wasn’t the same. “Has anything like this happened to you before?” he asked.
“Never.” She whirled to face him. “And if you tell a soul, I’ll insist it’s because you drugged me.”
“I won’t tell anyone.” It stung that she’d think him that low. “You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of me,” he said. “First you think I’d drug you, now you think I’ll go telling your private business to the world.”
She bowed her head and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this. I really don’t know what to think about any of this.”
“Maybe you should go back to the States and have a doctor check you out.”
“Why? Because you think I’m cracking up? Or because you’d love not having me and my film crew in your way?”
Again she made him sound like a jerk. Though maybe he had been a little bit of a hard-ass about her filming him. The truth was, he’d agreed to the documentary and accepted her station’s money, so he had no right to complain. “When you know me better, you’ll learn to ignore anything I say when I’m focused on a job,” he said. “I really don’t mind having you here. And my intern, Tessa, probably appreciates having another woman around.”
“I haven’t met Tessa yet. In fact, I haven’t met any of your interns or crew.”
“I guess we should have some kind of get-together where we all can meet.” He scratched his head. “I’m not used to having to think about these things.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “There has to be more in your life than work,” she said, relaxing. “Tell me about what you do when you’re not teaching or sailing.”
“I read and do research. For the past two years I’ve been searching for the Eve and planning this trip.”
“But what do you do for fun?”
He’d known she wouldn’t understand; few people did. “I enjoy my research,” he said, trying not to sound defensive.
“But don’t you have a social life? Friends. Women?”
“Of course I have all those things.” He went out with other professors at the university, and people like his long-time friend, Nicole, though she was in England with her new boyfriend, Ian, now.
“So you have a girlfriend waiting back home?”
“No. I’m not seeing anyone in particular right now.” His last serious relationship had been with one of the secretaries in the dean’s office, a single mother who took night classes with the intent of earning a degree in accounting. It had been a low-key affair. He never spent the night at her house because of her children, but he’d sometimes show up early on Saturdays and fix things around the house or they’d all spend the day at a ballpark. He’d been comfortable with her until she’d started hinting at wanting to make their situation more permanent. He couldn’t see himself in that role, and they’d broken things off. Since then he’d been too busy to date. “Most women don’t like to compete with my work,” he said.
She looked at him intently, as if she could see past his outer self to his very thoughts. He began to feel nervous and had to fight the urge to step away. “So you don’t believe there’s any woman who could distract you from your work,” she said.
“I didn’t say that.” She’d been distracting him plenty lately.
She moved closer, her voice low. Seductive. “You said you were tempted to take me up on my invitation to come to bed with me last night.”
“Yes. You’re a very tempting woman.”
She laid her hand on his chest, her palm flat over his heart. “Then why are you so set against us enjoying ourselves while we’re on the island?” She laughed. “I’m not expecting you to marry me, for goodness’ sake.”
“I told you. I have a lot of work to do. I don’t like to be distracted.”
“I’d think being horny all the time would be far more distracting than knowing you had a good time waiting at the end of the day.” She moved her index finger up and down, stroking him. “We had a good time together last fall, didn’t we?”
He couldn’t think straight when she was so near. Her argument sounded so logical, his so lame. His first instinct was to tell her he hadn’t come to the island to have fun, but that made him sound like the worst sort of dork—someone he’d never hang out with and certainly not someone he intended to be. Besides, if they both accepted that they’d be together only for the duration of this project, they could avoid messy complications.
She moved her hand up higher, caressing his neck. “You can’t deny there’s a certain chemistry between us. A connection. I can’t explain it, but then, I don’t see any need to. Why not just enjoy ourselves?”
Why not, indeed? Away from her, he’d probably be able to think of a dozen reasons, but here alone with her, the rain walling them off from the rest of the world, his body had overwhelmed all attempt at reason. He wanted Sandra more than he’d ever wanted any woman.
She stood on tiptoe and pulled his head down to hers. When their lips met, his arms automatically went around her. There was nothing frantic in this embrace and nothing tentative. It was the leisurely kiss of experienced lovers, though perhaps lovers long parted; he couldn’t deny the urgency with which he delved his tongue between her lips, or the strength of his desire as evidenced by the erection that swelled the front of his swim trunks.
In his arms she was pliant and playful, everything about her fascinating. When he began to unbutton her shirt, she stepped away from him, teasing him with the slow unveiling of her body. First the shirt, one button at a time, until he was all but panting to see what lay underneath.
Then the shorts, sliding oh-so-slowly down her shapely legs. She kicked off her sandals, then slid her thumbs in either side of the bikini bottoms. “Should I take them off?” she asked.
“If you don’t, I will.”
She removed her thumbs and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know. I think you should go first.”
“Fine by me.” He untied the drawstring of the trunks and shoved them to his ankles, then stood before her, naked and aroused, and feeling only a little like a piece of merchandise on display, waiting to see if he met with her approval.
The way she looked at him was worth any momentary embarrassment, though. He’d never had a woman look at him with such an expression of awe and wonder—as if she’d never seen a naked man before. Which was absurd. And it wasn’t as if he was hung like a horse or something. He was a perfectly average man. Then again, maybe she’d been dating a lot of losers lately.
“What do you want me to do now?” she asked.
At first he thought she was teasing again, then he saw her whole posture had changed. She was standing sideways to him, trying to cover herself with her arms, as if she was truly embarrassed.
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