Читать книгу Her Passionate Protector - Laurey Bright - Страница 8

Sunlight slanted through a small high window in the seamen’s chapel at Mokohina. The insistent sound of the sea washing onto the beach backgrounded the bride and groom’s voices as they recited their vows.

In the second row of the pews, Brodie watched the golden light burnish the bridesmaid’s piled curls, inside a coronet of flowers, and turn a wayward strand lying on her graceful neck to an almost ruby red. Something about that slim, pale neck, contrasting with the rich auburn glow of her hair, hinted at vulnerability. A stirring of curiosity kept his gaze focused lazily on her.

He hadn’t seen her face when she’d preceded Camille down the aisle—he’d been riveted by the sudden blaze in Rogan’s eyes as the other man turned to watch his bride approach. The raw emotion of that look had shaken Brodie, waking complicated feelings of awe coupled with a surprising shaft of something remarkably like envy.

Marriage wasn’t something he’d ever thought seriously about, himself. He was pretty sure Rogue hadn’t either until he met Camille, who was gorgeous enough to weaken any man’s resolve, with her green eyes and thick, glossy brown hair, a face that turned men’s heads in the street, and a figure any model might envy.

When the bridal party turned toward the door and the best man—Rogan’s brother, Granger—offered his arm to the bridesmaid, Brodie got his first real look at her.

An almost translucent complexion that reminded him of pearl-shell, delicately arched eyebrows, eyes that were more gold than brown framed by dark, gold-tipped lashes. Which meant their color must be natural, surely. And a mouth made for kissing, with a decided bow on the upper lip, a delicious fullness in the lower one, firmly set together. For a moment he thought he caught a hint of sadness in the golden eyes, and extra sheen. But then, women always cried at weddings, didn’t they? By all accounts they quite enjoyed a good weep.

Even as he watched, the luscious mouth trembled into a smile. Not quite as radiant as the bride’s, but bewitching. He let his gaze slide over her figure—on the thin side, he thought critically. But subtly curved in the right places, her breasts surprisingly well-rounded. Maybe Mother Nature was getting some help there. A man could never tell for sure.

Because her bronze silk dress was quite short, worn with matching high-heeled shoes, he could see she had great legs, the ankles so slim they looked breakable. He reckoned he could easily put a hand around one of them. Picturing it, something more than simple curiosity stirred his blood—something much more carnal. And unsuitable for a church.

Then she swept past with the bridal party and he followed the rest of the congregation outside.

The reception was held in the private lounge of the nearby Imperial Hotel, a two-story white wooden leftover of New Zealand’s colonial past. After the meal and toasts were completed, the cake was cut and the bridesmaid offered pieces to the fifty or so guests now mingling around the room. He followed her progress, having covertly watched her ever since she’d sat down at the bridal table with Camille and Rogan.

Apart from the bride, she was, he’d decided after a quick check, the most watchable woman in sight, intriguing and somewhat perplexing. Most of the time she wore a pleasant but slightly cool expression that only kindled into warmth when she spoke to Camille and now, when she bent to offer a piece of cake to a small, shy boy, giving him an encouraging, full-on smile as he took his time over choosing.

Her position also gave Brodie a chance to check that the temptingly rounded breasts encased in a low-cut cream lace bra were nature’s work alone.

As she straightened, he hastily shifted his gaze to her face. Her smile abruptly faded when she met his eyes, and she blinked before turning to allow a couple of people to take their share of cake.

Finally reaching Brodie, she gave him a quick smile but her eyes seemed to look through him before she lowered her gaze to the platter she offered.

He took a piece of cake with a thick layer of white icing and said, “We haven’t met. I’m Brodie—Brodie Stanner. And you’re Sienna Rivers, the archaeologist who assessed some of the pieces Rogan salvaged.”

She seemed surprised that he knew that, the dark pupils of her eyes almost obscuring the amber glow when she looked up at him. “I did look at some stuff for Camille,” she acknowledged rather warily.

Brodie nodded. “You work with her at the university.”

“Camille’s in the history department at Rusden, but at the end of the semester she’s joining Rogan’s treasure-hunting company.” Her voice sounded disapproving, or perhaps disappointed. Turning away from him, she murmured, “Excuse me.”

She went on wending through the crowd, giving the same nice but impersonal smile to everyone as she dispensed her slices of cake.

Ruefully, Brodie stared after her.

Most women found something at least superficially attractive in his tanned, fit body, his clear blue eyes, the squared-off jaw with its hint of a cleft, and even his thick, naturally sun-streaked hair.

Sienna’s patent disinterest, and the fact that it annoyed him more than was reasonable, made him wonder if he was guilty of having an overinflated ego.

Across the room she tilted her head to the best man as Granger relieved her of the empty platter and handed her a glass of wine, his perfectly groomed dark head bent and aqua-marine eyes fixed on her as they talked, the expression on his undeniably good-looking face attentive.

For the second time that day Brodie envied one of the Broderick brothers.

Tearing his gaze away, he found it caught by a sweet-faced little blonde. She gave him a come-hither smile and did that bashful, fluttering thing with her eyelashes that women sometimes used to signal interest. After a peculiar instant of something that couldn’t possibly have been boredom, he smiled back and began to make his way toward her.

Granger Broderick offered to take away Sienna’s empty cake platter, and as he left her side, she turned and surveyed the room.

The glass in her hand was something to hold and an excuse to stop smiling for a while, giving her aching facial muscles a rest. She took a sip of the wine Granger had poured for her.

Rogan’s brother was carrying out his duties with impeccable courtesy and a certain aloofness that was infinitely reassuring. Quite unlike the unabashed interest of the man with the brazen summer-sky eyes.

She’d thought, before he gave his surname, that “Brodie” might be short for Broderick. But according to Camille, Rogan had only one brother.

Besides, he looked nothing like the Brodericks, who both met the classic definition of tall, dark and handsome—where he scored two out of three. Not that his blond-streaked brown hair was any handicap. She wondered if the streaks were artificial. Although he didn’t give an impression of vanity, his confident manner and assumption that she’d be pleased to stand talking with him argued that he was well aware of his own male appeal.

Men with such obvious sexual self-possession made her uncomfortable, sending out signals that she found too overt, taking for granted that she—or any woman—would be only too happy to return them.

Which most women would, she supposed, being fair. She’d learned the hard way that she wanted—needed—more from a man than good looks and sexual prowess, real or imagined.

Her glance idly passed over the guests. Camille and Rogan were circulating among them, and Brodie had moved to another part of the room, his head interestedly cocked to an animated blonde who was surely delighted to have his attention.

Sienna drank some more wine and reminded herself not to overdo it, especially as she’d only picked at the food laid out on the table. Her appetite hadn’t yet recovered after a virulent bout of food poisoning that had landed her in hospital only weeks ago, followed by an attack of some nasty superbug that had taken advantage of her weakened state and prolonged her stay. It had been doubtful whether she would make it to the wedding at all.

The big room seemed suddenly stuffy. Perhaps the wine wasn’t a wise idea after all, and she’d been on her feet too long.

There were no unoccupied chairs nearby. Cursing the continuing weakness that she’d hoped had passed for good, she turned to put down the glass on the nearest table and experienced a wave of dizzy nausea.

A quick visual search for an escape route revealed a pair of closed French doors leading to the hotel garden and an umbrella-shaded table with canvas chairs set on the grass. She started toward the doors.

They wouldn’t open, and wrestling with the catch she experienced a moment’s panic. Black spots were beginning to float before her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to cause a sensation by passing out at her friend’s wedding.

Then a suit-sleeved arm reached around her and pulled down a recalcitrant bolt, a masculine hand pushed the door open and a blessed wave of fresh, salty air stirred her hair and cooled her face. The hand circled her arm as she stumbled onto the grass, and a rough-timbred, urgent voice said in her ear, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she lied, but her voice was almost inaudible, and she was infinitely grateful for the chair the man thrust her into. She rested her elbows on the table and let her head fall onto her raised hands until the dancing spots disappeared and the breeze cleared her swimming head.

Looking up, she saw Brodie Stanner had seated himself and was watching her, his eyes darkened to cobalt with concern. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m fine.” She would be in a minute or two. “Thank you.”

“Fine, huh?” Concern changed to patent disbelief. “You look like death.”

“It was hot inside. I’ll be all right now.”

Ignoring the hint, he ran a disparaging glance over her. “Are you dieting or something?”

“I don’t diet!”

“You didn’t eat much in there.”

“I’m not very hungry.” He’d taken note of how much she ate?

“Why not?”

The look on his handsome face didn’t encourage her to think he’d let the subject go until he was satisfied. She finally said, “I’ve been sick recently, but it wasn’t life-threatening and I’m perfectly all right now, only I haven’t got much appetite yet.”

“I thought you were going to faint.”

So had she, but fortunately that hadn’t happened, mainly thanks to him. Recognizing a fatal tendency to gratitude, she said distantly, “It was kind of you to open the door for me, but don’t you want to go back to your…companion?”

For a moment he looked blank. Then he said, “I only just met her—she’s not likely to miss me.”

Sienna might have disputed that. No woman could be immune to so much blatant masculinity, and the blonde had been quite clearly smitten.

She looked down at her hands, clasped tightly on the table, and deliberately loosened them. “I’m all right now,” she reiterated. “Really.”

He reached out and touched the back of his fingers to her cheek, bringing a quick, unexpected heat flaring under the skin, a tiny shock of pleasure setting warning bells off in her mind. “You’ve got a bit more color,” he said, “but you’re still pale.”

“I’m naturally pale,” Sienna argued. “It comes with my hair.”

“It’s fantastic,” Brodie said. “The color, I mean.”

“Thank you.” The words came out clipped, and she pretended not to see the curious look he cast her. “Excuse me, Camille might need me.” He was altogether too attractive. Sienna knew to her cost how easily she could fall victim to compliments and concern. Especially when allied with such a good-looking face and a calendar-hunk body that even a formal suit couldn’t hide. She began to rise from her chair.

Brodie’s hand immediately pinned hers to the table, his palm warm, slightly roughened and very firm. He glanced past her to the hotel. “Camille doesn’t need anyone but Rogue right now. They’re still talking to people. You should rest a while. You don’t want to go all woozy again.”

He was actually right. Even her sudden movement had made her head spin a little.

Despising the alarming melting sensation in her midriff evoked by his clasp on her hand, she tried to pull away, but he retained his grip and held her gaze until she stopped resisting, though her eyes showed her resentment.

Brodie slid his hand from hers and said calmly, “Just relax, and tell me if there’s anything you want. A glass of water or something?”

“Nothing, really.” Unsettled by his steady regard, she carefully turned her head to admire the blue-green water across the road and the boats riding at anchor in the harbor. Making conversation, she said, “Mokohina’s a pretty little town.”

“I like it.”

“You live here?”

“I’ve knocked about the world a bit, but this is where I’m based. I own the local dive shop.”

She might have known he was a diver. Not quite as tall as his friend, he shared Rogan’s broad-shouldered physique, and had the look of someone who spent a lot of time near the sea. She’d have guessed a surfer if it hadn’t been for his connection with the Brodericks.

“Are you related to Rogan and Granger?” She supposed he could be a cousin or something.

He shook his head. “Nope, but Rogue and I have been hanging out together off and on since primary school. He’ll look after Camille, don’t worry about that.”

Her gaze flew back to him. How had he known she was concerned for her friend, who had fallen in love with a man Sienna couldn’t help thinking was all wrong for her? A man Camille herself had admitted was the very antithesis of what she’d thought was her ideal.

He said, “There’s no news about the stolen shipwreck items?”

She supposed if they were such old friends it was natural for him to be in Rogan’s confidence. She’d been asked to keep very quiet about the antique coins, jewelry and watches she’d been entrusted with. She’d explained when Camille enlisted her expertise that she’d have to take the head of the archaeology department partially into her confidence so she could use the university facilities, but she’d told no one else. “The police don’t seem to have any ideas.”

She felt unreasonably guilty about the theft, although Camille and Rogan had been very understanding. It wasn’t her fault that the laboratory where she’d been painstakingly removing a century and a half of verdigris and various accretions from the artifacts recovered from a wreck site somewhere out in the Pacific had been burgled while she was in hospital. Fortunately not before she’d taken full sets of photographs.

Other things had been stolen. Sienna’s students had been excavating a recently discovered pa site. The palisaded Maori village from which tattooed warriors had once defended their families against attack had long gone, leaving only a grassy terraced hillside. The dig had yielded priceless jade and bone ornaments and weapons to be studied before finding suitable homes with tribal descendants of the original owners or in museums. But these precious artifacts had now disappeared.

“Nothing’s been recovered,” she told Brodie.

“Well, I guess there’s more treasure under the sea, where Rogue found that lot,” Brodie said. “And Pacific Treasure Salvors will be back there as soon as the divers and equipment are ready, hopefully before anyone else gets to it.”

Although the Brodericks had done their best to keep quiet about their discovery and refused to talk to the media, it was an open secret that the Sea-Rogue had found a treasure ship, and rumor was rife about the new company’s plans. Even the name they’d given it was a dead giveaway. She supposed they’d seen no point in trying to disguise its purpose, since the secret was out anyway.

Sienna bit at her thumbnail, a frown creasing her forehead. Despite Camille’s assurance that the salvage would be carried out with due regard to the wreck’s historical importance, she wasn’t at all sure her friend hadn’t been dazzled by her dashing new husband into a false sense of security. Apparently the Broderick brothers’ father had been obsessed with finding a treasure ship, and Rogan looked to be following in the old man’s footsteps.

“What’s the matter?” Brodie asked curiously.

She dropped her hand. “I’m not sure about this company—disturbing a historic wreck.”

Brodie folded his arms, his eyes assessing her. “You want the ship to remain on the bottom of the ocean, untouched, until it rots away?”

“I’d just like to know that nothing of archaeological significance is lost because of ignorance or greed.”

Brodie’s eyebrows lifted. He said in a deceptively mild tone, “Don’t you trust Camille to make sure that doesn’t happen? She’s the official researcher and a qualified historian.”

“She’s in love!” Sienna shot back at him. “It tends to skew people’s thinking.” As Brodie cast her an inquiring look, she said hastily, “I’m sure she’ll do her best, but archaeology isn’t her specialty, and…”

“And you’re afraid that Rogan will influence her.” Brodie appeared slightly amused. “Don’t you realize the guy is crazy about her? He’d do anything for Camille. She only has to lift her little finger.”

“That may not last.” A shadow touched her heart, but she tried to keep it from reaching her face.

His expression was quizzical. “Cynic,” he accused. “A bit young for that, aren’t you? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-seven.” She was well aware that he was fishing. He’d be about Rogan’s age, presumably—thirtyish. “Age has nothing to do with it. I’m being realistic.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Something inside her quivered. “Of course. Haven’t you?”

Brodie looked past her, and his eyes glazed. He said slowly, “Not…like that.”

Involuntarily she turned to see what had taken his attention. Camille and Rogan were framed in the open doorway, holding each other’s hands and for the moment alone. And it wasn’t the sun that lent that almost blinding glow to Camille’s face, or kindled the fierce light in her new husband’s eyes.

The picture held Sienna spellbound for a second, and an unaccountable lump rose in her throat. Rogan said something to his bride, and she gave him a smile that positively dazzled. He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers. It looked like an act of homage, and Sienna recalled the words from the traditional marriage service he’d spoken in the chapel earlier, “With my body I thee worship….”

She experienced a return of the poignant sense of desolation that had unexpectedly pierced her when a radiant Camille and blazingly proud Rogan had turned from the altar to begin their married life.

Brodie said softly, “You don’t think that will last?”

Wrenching her gaze away, Sienna lifted a shoulder. “Who knows? All I’m saying is I wouldn’t count on it.” For Camille’s sake she fervently hoped it would, but experience made her cautious of such predictions.

Brodie’s blue gaze was suddenly penetrating. “Want to bet on it?”

Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t gamble.”

“That figures.”

It sounded like a derogatory comment, but she didn’t reply, instead shifting her attention again to the moored boats. “Is one of those the Sea-Rogue?” Camille and Rogan planned a short honeymoon on the boat they owned, before its refitting was completed and they put it to work as a dive tender for Pacific Treasure Salvors.

“She’s farther round the bay,” Brodie told her. “At the old fishing wharves.”

Sienna nodded. She looked away from the boats and started to get up. This time Brodie didn’t stop her.

“Well, nice talking to you,” she said distantly as he too rose to his feet.

He cocked his head, his questioning eyes openly doubting her sincerity, but he didn’t follow when she made her way to the now empty doorway.

Sienna found Camille who said, “I might go up and change soon. Are you all right? You look a bit flushed.”

“I’m fine,” Sienna insisted. “I’ve been sitting out in the sun.” Although Brodie had made sure she was under the shade of the umbrella.

“Oh, yes. Granger was hunting for you but he said Brodie seemed to be looking after you.”

“I don’t need looking after!”

Camille smiled at her vehemence. “You do look a bit fragile, and I suppose it brings out the protective instinct in the male of the species.”

“They can keep their instincts to themselves as far as I’m concerned.” A long time ago Sienna had learned there was no sanctuary in a man’s arms. That the only person she could rely on to look after her was herself.

Regarding her thoughtfully, Camille evidently decided not to comment. “It’s only about two weeks since you came out of hospital. You would have said, wouldn’t you, if you weren’t up to being my bridesmaid?”

“I told you,” Sienna replied, “it’s a pleasure. I didn’t want to miss it.” In truth, the pleasure was mixed with concern on her friend’s behalf. Impressed despite herself by Camille’s steadfast certainty, she hadn’t dared voice her own reservations.

A little later they went upstairs and Camille shed her wedding gown in favor of more practical cotton pants and a shirt. Most of the wedding party then decamped along the foreshore to see the newlyweds aboard the Sea-Rogue for their short honeymoon cruise, and as the boat slipped out of its berth some of the onlookers threw streamers across the widening gap and Camille tossed her bouquet to the wharf.

Sienna stepped back, her hands resolutely at her sides, but Granger deftly caught it, and when he presented it to her with one of his grave smiles and a faintly lifted eyebrow, she could hardly refuse to take the flowers.

Back at the hotel Granger told Sienna, “I’ve booked us a table for dinner here at seven-thirty. Camille’s mother and some other people will be joining us.”

Supposing that entertaining Mona Hartley was part of her bridal-attendant duties, Sienna said, “I’ll get changed and meet you in the dining room later.”

In her bathroom she freed her hair from its knot of curls and brushed it out, hoping it wouldn’t spring back into its usual wild corkscrews too quickly. The floor creaked as she crossed the old kauri boards to her suitcase and pulled out a plain sand-colored skirt and a sleeveless cream top embroidered with amber beads. The mirror in which she checked her appearance before going downstairs had a heavy carved wooden frame on which stylized Maori patterns were mixed with depictions of roses and lilies.

At the foot of the stairs she saw Brodie, one hand thrust into a pocket of his dark trousers, his collar open and his jacket slung across one shoulder. He watched her descend, his gaze swiftly encompassing her from head to toe and returning to her face with a gleam of masculine appreciation lurking in the vivid depths, and she wished she’d thought to take the old elevator instead, but for only one floor it hadn’t seemed worth it.

“Ready for your dinner?” he asked her.

“I’m having it with Granger,” she said coolly, fighting a ridiculous sense of pleasure at the way his hair gleamed in the light from a chandelier overhead, the blond streaks turning to gold.

“I know. Me too,” he replied, walking at her side as she made for the dining room. “I offered to wait for you.”

She wasn’t late, but when they entered, two women already sat with Granger at the round table—Camille’s mother and another middle-aged woman.

Mona looked pinched and put upon—not unusual in Sienna’s experience. The other woman, whom Granger smoothly introduced as Mollie Edwards, a good friend of his and Rogan’s late father, was cozily rounded with brass-colored curls framing her rather overpainted face, and a wide smile.

Sienna took to her immediately, but to help Granger out—and also to avoid having to talk too much to Brodie, whose presence she was all too conscious of at her side—she devoted a good deal of her attention during the meal to Mona. The woman had just seen her only child marry a man Sienna had a strong hunch she didn’t approve of. Though it seemed that Mollie’s presence had more to do with Mona’s offended air than did the loss of her daughter.

Granger occasionally caught Sienna’s eye with a hint of grateful appreciation in the turquoise depths of his, and attempted to keep the conversation general around the table.

Brodie had discarded his suit and wore casual gray pants and a T-shirt. When his bare arm brushed against hers as he reached for salt, Sienna felt as though the tiny hairs on her skin had been charged with a current of electricity. It must be the dry seaside air, she thought, confused. The same phenomenon that caused her clothes to crackle sometimes when she shed them.

Mollie was excited that Rogan and his brother, along with Camille who had inherited half of the Sea-Rogue, were planning to raise the treasure their late father had discovered. “Barney always knew he’d find it someday.” She wiped a small tear from her eye with her table napkin.

Mona gave a scornful little laugh. “I have my doubts about this whole thing.” She speared a piece of fish on her plate. “Camille won’t even tell me what all the excitement is about. After all,” she complained, “my husband was Barney’s partner, I think I’m entitled.”

Granger studied her for a moment, then said quietly, “I’m sure you can keep a secret, Mona. Rogan’s already recovered coins and a few pieces of jewelry from the wreck Barney found. The cargo, if we can recover it, could be worth a great deal.”

Brodie swallowed a mouthful of his rare steak. “Even passengers’ effects might bring in quite a lot of money, coming from a historic wreck.”

Mona sniffed. “What difference can that make?”

Granger explained, “Sunken treasure accrues value from its history. A romantic shipwreck story and a certificate of authenticity make for a better price at auction.”

Sienna commented, “It’s an artificial inflation. Part of this whole business of commercial treasure hunting.”

Brodie turned to her. “Can you give an expert opinion,” he asked her, “on the possible worth of the pieces Rogan had?”

She had to meet his eyes, finding them blindingly blue and disconcertingly close. She could see her own face reflected in them, giving her an odd feeling of unwanted intimacy. For a moment she couldn’t recall what the conversation was about. Pulling herself together, she said, “The brief I was given was to try to find out where and when they were made, to help identify the wreck. I’m sure Rogan and Granger will get the highest prices possible.”

Mollie’s look at Sienna was disappointed. “You sound as though you disapprove.”

Brodie said, sounding amused, “Sienna’s suspicious of treasure hunters.” His eyes teased her, still holding her gaze until she wrenched it away as Mollie spoke to her.

“Why?” Mollie asked. “You’re too young to be bitter and twisted about it.” She directed a meaningful look at Mona, who almost choked on another morsel of fish.

Granger’s gaze went to Sienna. “I’m sure you have good reasons. Would you like to tell us what they are?”

Sienna suspected he knew very well, or could at least make an educated guess. But the men obviously hoped, by throwing Sienna into the arena, to avoid open female warfare.

Ignoring the over-respectful look that Brodie turned on her, she said, “Old shipwrecks contain a lot of information about life in former times. Ships might remain preserved in mud or sand for centuries, until someone disturbs that protection and leaves them open to decay.”

Beside her Brodie moved slightly, and she heard him take in a breath as though about to say something, but without giving him the chance, she continued defiantly, “Nothing should be removed from a wreck before an archaeological survey is conducted and the site properly mapped.”

Mollie looked dubious. Brodie tipped his chair and hooked one arm over the back of it to lazily study Sienna. He said, “It costs a hell of a lot to salvage a wreck properly. Even archaeologists aren’t keen on going ahead without hard evidence that it’s going to be worthwhile. And most of them don’t have the money or expertise to do it.”

Mona gave a genteel snort, perhaps of corroboration.

“It seems to be a constant dilemma,” Granger agreed, confirming Sienna’s suspicion that he hadn’t needed to be informed of the problem. “It’s only by bringing in investors that anyone can exploit a remote, difficult wreck—and investors expect a profit.”

Sienna acknowledged that reluctantly, glad to concentrate on him instead of Brodie. “Only, irresponsible divers can ruin a heritage that belongs to us all. Priceless objects have been melted down for their metal. It’s criminal!”

Brodie was still regarding her, his gaze turning curious. “Not all treasure hunters are looters and vandals,” he told her. “And your colleagues can be so pigheaded that in the end no one benefits.”

“Pigheaded?” She flashed him a hostile look.

“What’s the point of barring salvors from exploring wrecks that are breaking up and being scattered all over the seabed? Or due to go under earthworks in harbors and be buried for all time?”

“I hope that wouldn’t happen.”

“It has happened. And that’s criminal, surely? Salvage is damned hard work.” Brodie let his chair drop back to the floor and leaned toward her, one strong forearm on the table. “Dangerous too, with far more disappointments than successes. Most of what divers recover goes to museums or private collections, where they’re cared for and available for people like you to study.”

“But treasure hunters’ primary concern is money,” Sienna objected. She gave him a challenging stare, her passion for the subject making her bold. The prickling sensations running up her arms must signal antipathy for his argument, she thought.

He looked at her almost pityingly. “It’s not a sin to be paid for what you do. And guys who dive for treasure aren’t in it just for the money. There’s a thrill in finding something precious that’s been under the sea for a hundred or even a thousand years. You’d know that.”

“Of course!” She knew how it felt to unearth a Victorian china cup or a pre-European carved Maori implement, and speculate who had owned it, who had crafted it, how they had lived so long ago, how and when they had died.

Granger regarded her thoughtfully across the table. “I know you have a secure position at the university, Sienna,” he said, “but I wonder if you would consider joining Pacific Treasure Salvors as our official archaeologist?”