Читать книгу Treasure - Helen Brenna - Страница 10

ANNIE MET Jake’s gaze, scraping together as much nerve as she could muster. False bravado was better than no bravado at all. “I’m ready now. Everything I need is in my car.”

The atmosphere in Harold’s office charged with the static of Jake’s unspoken questions. Mistrust churned in those dark brown eyes of his like a summer storm brewing across a calm lagoon. He knew she was keeping something from him. Too bad.

She needed OEI, the most respected treasure-hunting firm in the industry, and Jake was their main man. If she told him the whole truth, he’d never take her to Andros Island. She wouldn’t be able to face her fears, squash those puny little buggers once and for all, and put the past to rest so she could go back to Chicago, back where she belonged, where everything would finally be right with her life. A real life. Not some immature, treasure-hunting, thrill-seeking, travel-the-high-seas kind of life.

Besides, Jake Rawlings would get what he wanted. He’d find his precious Concha. What was left of it.

“Like that. You’re all ready to go.” He narrowed his eyes. “A little on the anxious side, aren’t we?”

He had no idea.

“Jake, don’t you think you and the crew could use a break?” Harold cut in. “Maybe a few nights of shore leave?”

“We don’t have time. If the Concha’s at Andros, I want at it before we get too deep into hurricane season.” Jake turned back to Annie. “You’ll be allowed one bag for personal belongings. You got any kitty cats or boyfriends slinking around, you better have already made arrangements.”

Boyfriends. Yeah, right. “No problem. Anything else, Captain Ahab?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Anyone else know about your theory on the Concha?”

“No.”

“Not back in Chicago?” Harold asked. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

There was no one back in Chicago, not since Aaron had died. There was no one of significance anywhere. Even when she’d made the monumental decision to take a sabbatical from work, she’d had no one to tell except a couple of coworkers. She had no close friends. She leased anything she didn’t have to buy. She couldn’t bring herself to settle into a house and had moved to a different apartment almost every year for the past ten years. She still didn’t have a regular dentist, for Pete’s sake.

All these years she’d been able to convince herself she simply appreciated variety. Until that box of Aztec artifacts came across her desk, until Aaron had been killed, and the truth hit her square in the face. Now that she knew what she had to do, everything would be different. She’d begun to crave a sense of permanence as if her body had been long deprived of an essential nutrient. And she was going to get that stability, by golly. Come hell or high tide.

“Except for telling my sister-in-law, Claire,” Jake continued, “this information doesn’t leave this room.” He pointed to the stack of documents on Harold’s desk. “Do you need these to find the Concha?”

“No—”

“They stay here with Harold.”

That definitely wasn’t a good idea. What if Harold decided to take a more serious look at them? Although some of it was legitimate, the majority was gobbledygook. She’d had to bring something to make it appear as if she’d spent years compiling her theory. “I’d prefer leaving them in my car on the way out. I did, after all, expend a great deal of effort—”

“Look, Dr. Annie. There are modern-day pirates all over Miami. Spies. Bugs and phone taps. Sabotage. You name it, it’s out there. Last month Mitch Westburne stole the Anémona practically right out from under my nose. A loose mouth on anyone involved in this and, with stakes as high as the Concha, we’ll have every treasure hunter from here to China, including Westburne, descending on the Bahamas.”

“I’ll keep them in my office safe,” Harold offered.

“Fine,” she agreed. Arguing would only draw further attention to the papers.

Jake grabbed the aerials off Harold’s desk. “I’ll keep these with me.”

She nodded.

“Let’s transfer your stuff to my truck. I’ll take you to the pier.” Jake headed for the door. “I’m giving this two weeks, Harold. If we find it, I’ll radio in to have you send out the salvage vessel. If we don’t, I’ll be rejoining the other survey ships.”

“Deal. And Jake…” Harold stood, looking almost as though he might come out from behind his desk. “If the tropical storm intensifies, your mother and I will feel a lot better if you and Claire are back here long before it hits.”

Jake said over his shoulder, “Tell her we’ll be fine.”

“Don’t push it. The Concha’s waited four hundred years. It can wait another season.”

“OEI can’t.” Jake took off down the hall.

“Thanks for giving me a shot at this.” She beamed at Harold.

“I don’t know if you should be thanking me yet. You might want my head in another few weeks.” He laughed. “Better get a move on. I wouldn’t put it past him to leave without you.”

With that, she practically ran to keep up with Jake and his long, determined strides as he bolted down four flights of steps. That was when she noticed his slight limp and the scar running from below the hemline of his khaki shorts down the length of his calf, only to disappear beneath his socks. For a man with that kind of injury, he sure covered a lot of ground.

On leaving the air-conditioned building, the muggy Miami heat hit her like a steam wall, and she squinted against the bright sunshine. “Treasure hunting tends to be a family business,” she said after him. “How do you and Harold fit together?”

“We don’t.”

In spite of his prickly demeanor, she chuckled. “You two are rather…adversarial.”

“That what you’d call it? Well, Annie Hall, while I’m in such an adversarial mood—”

“Miller. It’s Annie Miller.” She frowned. That was twice he’d called her that. “What are you implying, anyway?”

“We need to get something straight.” He stopped in the middle of the parking lot, totally ignoring her question. Heat rose in waves off the black surface, warming the bare skin on her sandaled feet. “You’ll be on my boat. You follow my orders. In my book—the only one happening to matter on board the Mañana—you’ve already got three strikes against you.”

“Let me guess. The first one being I’m a woman,” she said, feeling rather flippant.

“You’re also an archaeologist.” He continued through the parking lot. “And you’re inexperienced.”

Though facing off with Jake Rawlings drained her more than she’d expected, she could deal with his animosity. It took her mind off the challenge to come. “Is that all?” She stopped and picked up a duffel bag from the backseat of her Honda. Another one of those things she leased in life.

“Amateur treasure hunters are dangerous.” Jake’s stern voice brought her back to the matter at hand. “You cause any accidents, whether someone’s hurt or not, you’re on your way home. You got it?”

“Yes, sir.” She mock-saluted him with one hand and clutched the bag to her chest with the other. No one could see what she carried inside. No one.

“I hate smart alecks. Stay out of my way.”

“No problem.”

“While you’re at it, stay away from the other male crew members. I don’t want any distractions on my boat.”

He’d nothing to worry about on that count. An attachment to a sea-faring man was the very last thing she wanted. “I’ll be invisible.”

A satisfied look on his face, he climbed behind the wheel of a white OEI pickup. Annie scrambled into the passenger side, and they traveled to the pier in silence.

She kept herself occupied studying the cab’s meager contents. No fast-food wrappers littered the floor. No coffee cups or pop containers in the holders. Maps, papers and CDs were filed neatly in the console. Surreptitiously, she studied the musician names and recognized only a few. He listened to everything from hard rock to jazz.

Before she had the chance to ask him if this was indeed his vehicle, he drove into the harbor lot and hopped out. “I need to stop in the harbormaster’s office,” he said. “Meet you at the boat.”

“But…but…” she stammered ineffectively, having planned on his presence to distract her.

“Slip fifty-five. The Mañana. Don’t talk to anyone.”

With those orders, he disappeared, leaving Annie alone with her scattered thoughts and foolish insecurities. She stared out the windshield, unsure of how to proceed. A group of seagulls circled in front of the truck and landed by a flattened pile of French fries. The gulls cawed and fought over the fries in the muggy late morning heat.

Absently, she fingered the small charms on her bracelet, and purpose seeped into her fingertips. Thinking wasn’t good. Momentum was good. “I can do this,” she said aloud, her voice reverberating strangely in the cab. “I didn’t bring my butt all the way here only to crawl back to Chicago with my tail between my legs at the first snag.”

Don’t think. Just do it.

In one motion, she climbed out of the truck, slung the duffel over one shoulder and slammed the door. With her head down she took off toward the docks, keeping her sights firmly on land. One glimpse of the ocean and she’d be a goner. Upon leaving the parking lot, she passed a row of weathered boathouses and forced her feet to continue moving, keeping her head up, focusing on anything ahead of her. Four men having quite a heated discussion stood a short distance ahead.

Good. Concentrate on them.

Her feet hit the wooden dock and sensation overwhelmed her. The sound of her shoes on the wood. The noisy seagulls. The boats rocking against the dock. The salty air hitting the back of her throat. The persistent hum of waves crashing against the break wall. They were sounds and smells so familiar on one level and so frightening on another. Memories threatened, and she froze.

The image of the men in front of her swam as her vision blurred. Panic set in. With each labored breath, sweat trickled down her back. Her duffel bag dropped from her shoulder, landing with a thud on the dock. It was all she could do to breathe.

“Need some help there?” One of the men appeared in front of her, while two others stood back several feet, looking rather disgruntled. The fourth seemed to have disappeared.

She beaded in on the red and blue stripes of the first one’s knit polo shirt. The lines cleared. She ventured a look at his face and swallowed a deep breath. It was an attractive face. She took another deep breath. Blond hair. Blue eyes. “That bag looks mighty heavy.” His slow Texas drawl fit right in with the heat and humidity.

She felt her shoulders relax. Talk to him. Talk. “I…I guess the heat’s getting to me more than I expected.”

“Not from around here, huh?” He smiled, his teeth a brilliant white against his tanned skin.

“No.” She blinked, hoping to better focus her vision. “Chicago.”

“Mitch Westburne.”

Though the name sounded familiar, she was too distracted to decipher the connection. “Annie Miller.” If she kept talking to him, maybe she’d be okay.

“Takin’ a little vacation?” Mitch asked.

“Actually, a new job. Marine archaeologist with OEI.”

He cocked his head to the side and laughed. “I don’t believe it. The old codger finally talked him into it!”

“Excuse me?” She did her best to ignore the water surrounding the dock.

“Pardon my manners.” He turned toward the two dark-haired men behind him. “My partner, Manny Carrera, and his associate, Enrique.”

“Ms. Miller.” Manny’s voice sounded smooth, yet laced with a distinctive bite. Enrique only nodded, his scowl deepening with the effort.

“Annie, here, is OEI’s new archaeologist.”

“Is that right?” Manny’s gaze intensified, making her even more uncomfortable.

“I’m going to help her to the Mañana,” Mitch said to his partner. “Meet you back at the Wild Rose?”

“Five minutes.” Manny flipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. “Enrique and I’ll be waiting for you.”

Before she could object, Mitch took her bag and walked down the dock. “Follow me.”

“I can take that.” Keeping her focus on the profile of his face, she hurried after him.

“It’s kinda strange having all OEI’s boats in port this time of year,” he said, keeping one step ahead of her. “Must be something big cookin’ in the pot. You folks fixin’ to head out soon?”

“I’m not sure what the plans are.”

“Where ’bouts you headed?”

Her father’s old warnings popped into her head. Never trust anyone. “Oh, they don’t tell me that kind of stuff,” she said. “I’m along for the ride.”

“Treasure hunting’s a nasty business with pirates at every pier.” He glanced back at her and grinned. “Is that it?”

“Something like that.” She smiled, following him.

“Well, whatever you do, don’t spend too much time around Jake Rawlings. Might end up as paranoid as him, and you’re too pretty for that.” He focused on something behind her. “Speakin’ of the devil himself.”

Annie swung around to find Jake folding his arms over his chest. “Hello, Mitch,” he said.

Mitch dropped Annie’s duffel. “Jake.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Accusation tinged Jake’s voice. He looked slowly from Annie to Mitch, making it unclear to which of them the question had been directed.

“Don’t be so touchy. I was only being cordial,” Mitch jumped in, obviously having no difficulty in assuming responsibility. “Your new archaeologist needed some help with her bag.” He enunciated each syllable of her title slowly. “This must be a sizable wreck if you called out the big guns, eh?”

“Completing more surveys. That’s all.”

Annie watched, fascinated, as the two men squared off. Approximately the same height, their eyes met in a silent challenge. Different in appearance as night and day, each man emanated a unique kind of menace.

“Shoot, Jake.” Mitch backed down first. “You still sore about the Anémona? I’m telling you, we’d been researching that site for months. I can show you my aerials. The dates are right on ’em.” He scratched his head. “Or is it Valerie? Man, that was too many years ago to count. Besides, I probably did you a favor. She took me for more than she took you.”

“The Anémona was my find.”

“You know what they say. Early bird gets the worm. Or is it finders keepers, losers weepers? I forget. Man, I didn’t know you could be such a bad sport.”

“What I can’t figure out is why you have to sneak around chasing everyone else’s leads. There’s enough gold out there for all of us. If you can’t find the wrecks on your own, you’re in the wrong business.”

Mitch snorted.

“I don’t know who you bribed for the information on the Anémona, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Good luck,” Mitch said, smiling. “With your surveys, I mean. Miss Annie.” He nodded in her direction. “You watch yourself around this slave-driving fortune hunter. I’ve gotten it from someone close to the source, he just ain’t no fun.” He headed back down the dock.

Jake squinted at her. “Let’s go.” He turned for the boat. “I told you not to talk to anyone. What did you say to him?” The tone of his voice implied he’d judged her guilty.

“Nothing.” Animosity again. Good. She hiked the bag onto her shoulder and trudged after him. That was exactly what she needed to propel her down the dock. “He asked where we’re going, but I’m not an idiot. Who was that, anyway?”

“My ex-business partner.”

“Who’s Valerie?”

“My ex-wife.”

He stated that fact without the slightest bit of emotion. Either he’d completely reconciled his feelings for the woman, or this man had none to begin with. Looking at him now, Annie thought the latter more likely. With his tanned skin and scruffy beard, he looked every inch the pirate suggested by the skull-and-crossbones flag on his Buccaneers baseball cap. That curly black hair of his, hanging dangerously close to the collar of his T-shirt, only added to, rather than softened, his threatening image. Of course, she was forced to admit, he did have a certain he-mannish appeal. And since when had she become the type to notice such a thing, let alone care?

Refusing to analyze her feelings, she quickly sought the relative comfort of hostility. “You seem to have a lot of exes in your past.”

“With any luck, I’ll soon be adding ex-marine archaeologist to my list.” He stopped and stared at her. “We’re here.” He jerked his head to the side. “Your new home for two weeks.”

Though pristine white with crisp blue stripes and lettering, there was nothing luxurious about the Mañana. The ship was about a hundred feet of pure working boat, with the helm and galley sitting forward on the upper deck, leaving an ample area at the stern for divers and their gear. The spacing of the portholes told of adequate room for cabins below deck, and all machinery and equipment appeared clean and well-maintained. She couldn’t have picked a more seaworthy vessel if she’d had one custom built.

“Hey there, Jake.” A dark-haired woman ambled down from the Mañana. Annie envied her ease. “Harold radioed to fill me in. You must be Annie, our new crew member.” She extended her hand. “I’m Claire Rawlings.”

Annie found her hand swallowed by the other woman’s more than competent grip. “Jake’s…sister?”

“In-law.” She reached for Annie’s bag.

Annie was about to protest and then gave in. Everyone seemed to want to get their hands on her duffel.

Claire hopped easily back onto the boat. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

Annie really wanted to follow her, only there was one problem; the water between dock and boat. The blood drained from her face, and she felt Jake studying her.

“You don’t look so ready for this,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You can always stay back, you know.”

“Absolutely not.”

“All right.” He held out his arm for her to proceed. “Let’s go.”

She couldn’t get her feet to move, could only concentrate on keeping her eyes averted from the sight of water. First Jake’s face. Then the Mañana. Then the grain of wood on the dock.

“Well, I’ll be,” Jake whispered. “You’re afraid of the water.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She forced herself to look off the dock and into the wavy depths below. A dizzy rush made her stomach flip-flop. Her body seemed to tilt toward the left. Toward the edge of the dock. Toward— Oh, no! She tried taking a step forward, tried making it to the relative safety of the boat. And lost her balance.

“Son of a—!” Jake lunged for her arm.

Annie reached for him. Too late.

She dropped backward into the water. Coolness, startling in its entirety, engulfed her. She sputtered and choked on the saltwater flowing into her mouth and nose, and coherent thoughts deserted her. Struggling to keep her head above water, her arms and legs flailed ineffectively. Within seconds, she started sinking. The dock posts drifted out of sight, and the surface of the water moved farther and farther away. As the last bubble of air escaped her lungs, her limbs grew heavy.

Memories, painful ones, flooded her senses. She closed her eyes to them, forcing them from her mind. Only darkness took their place.