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“Judd Paxton is my client.” His voice was low, calm, deadly. “The woman on the phone was my boss. She runs a security and investigation firm called the Bullet Catchers. Judd Paxton hired her to place an undercover representative on the boat to track and secure the treasures, and discover who on the crew was tampering and stealing them.”

  She blinked, speechless. In her chest, something shattered. Her heart, no doubt. Her pride. Her faith in mankind.

  As he ducked out of the cabin she lunged at him, seizing his arm to yank him around.

  “You liar! You bastard! You helped me under false pretenses, taking everything I’ve told you right back to Judd Paxton.” Rage caught in her throat, stealing her breath. “You slept with me, letting me think you were some kind of … of … hero.”

  “I never told you that. I never, ever said those words.”

  “I did, and you didn’t correct me.”

  “I didn’t confirm or deny. You went off on some kind of—of fantasy.”

  “And you let me.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t exactly put your hand over my mouth, shut me up, and say, ‘Hey, Lizzie. I work for the enemy.’”

  He turned, put his hands on either side of the opening, and hoisted himself up to the deck. She stayed kneeling on the cushions where they’d just made love, clutching the underwear that she’d just begged him to take off her.

  What an idiot! She smacked the cushion so hard a jolt ran up her arm, and then remembered Alita. Mourning and disbelief replaced anger, making her ache, making her relive the loss of her father.

  And suddenly she missed her sister so desperately, it hurt more than anything else.

  Shaking a little, she started to get dressed. If she was feeling sorry for anyone, it should be for Alita. She could save her own pity party until Flynn Paxton was in jail.

  The reality of that hit her again as the engines started and the boat took off, knocking her backward. Swearing as she stabbed her arms into her sleeves, she fumbled with the buttons he’d flicked off with ease, then yanked on her hoodie.

  This would all take Judd Paxton down a peg or two. Now he’d have to come clean about salvaging El Falcone and—

  Oh God. The scepter and diamond. Con knew where they were!

  She turned to his backpack. The engine noise covered the sound of the zipper as she opened it and stuck her hand in, rooting around for the velvet box that held the medallion. She found it and pulled it out. This medallion belonged to her—not that bastard Judd Paxton.

  She opened the lid to hide the treasure in her pocket—

  It was gone.

  She snapped it closed and launched herself toward the deck, yanking herself through the opening to glare at Con.

  “Where is it?” she demanded, her pulse soaring. “Where did you put my medallion, you lying thief!”

  He stared straight ahead. “It belongs to Mr. Paxton. He financed the salvage effort and he will file a legitimate claim with the state for it.”

  She hated him. Right down to the bone, she hated him. “You’re going to give him the scepter and the diamond, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  He turned to look at her. “If you’re not careful and we don’t get Flynn Paxton into the hands of the authorities, you might be right about that.”

  She threw herself on the passenger seat, wrapped her arms around her knees, and refused to respond. He might have the medallion, but he’d never, ever get the scepter or diamond. She swore it on her father’s grave, even if she had to throw it back into the sea.

  Judd Paxton would never get his hands on her treasures, and neither would Constantine Xenakis.

  The Coast Guard investigated the boat, but the FBI was handling the people. The federal agent assigned to the case was kind enough to give Con his FBI sweatshirt, and Con repaid him with a two-and-a-half-hour interview, turned over the medallion, and gave him enough information to build a compelling case, plus zero in on a black-market collector as a side bene. By the time he finished, agents had already been dispatched to detain and reinterrogate Flynn Paxton, and he assumed someone would be watching Gerry Dix, too.

  At the end of his interview, with dawn on the horizon, Con had walked through the Gold Digger, offering detailed bits of information to the investigators and showing them the tampered air intakes. None of the other crewmembers were still there, including Lizzie. Especially Lizzie.

  She’d been stone, cold silent on the ride back. The water in her eyes as she stared ahead could just have been from the cold air, but he suspected the impact of a crewmate’s death and the shocker news he’d dropped on her might have drawn a few tears.

  Which made what he had to do before that afternoon’s meeting with Paxton, and possibly Lucy, even more difficult. When he finished his interview he’d learned that her interrogation had ended well before his. And she’d obviously driven home, since this had been the port of departure for the Gold Digger.

  One of the agents offered to give him a ride up to Sebastian to get his bike, which he took. He figured Lizzie never mentioned the scepter and diamond in her interviews with the FBI, and neither had he. They weren’t part of the investigation; no one on the boat knew they existed yet.

  As the sun rose to his left over the ocean, he rolled back down the beach highway, following the route to her sister’s house, laying out a mental plan for how to convince her to hand it over.

  He wouldn’t use force, and he sure as hell couldn’t seduce them out of her.

  Maybe she wouldn’t be home yet, and he could just steal them.

  He rumbled down the side street to the stucco ranch house that sat among palms and live oak trees, and tensed at the sight of a Scion in the driveway. He couldn’t steal the goods, then.

  At least he’d get to see her one more time. Parking the bike and bracing for a fight, he went straight to the front door and knocked.

  Nothing.

  He headed down one side of the house, peeking in windows, seeing no sign of life, then walked around to the back patio. The sliders were locked, as was every window. He pounded on the glass, peered into the dark kitchen, and began to think about a new plan.

  Breaking in.

  A few minutes later, he climbed through the kitchen window and over the counter to land silently on his feet.

  “Lizzie?”

  There was only silence, one that only a person with hearing like his could sense. Not a breath, a scuff of a foot, nothing.

  Peering into the shadows, he walked through the tiny living room and paused at the dining room, listening. He peeked into the office, but it was still and dark.

  “Lizzie!” His voice bounced through the empty house.

  Frustration built, along with dread that she’d beaten him at his game, and he marched straight back to her bedroom. He twisted the brass knob, but it didn’t turn.

  She’d locked herself in her room with the treasure?

  “Lizzie!” He pounded once and pressed his ear to the wood, listening for any sound. Nothing.

  The room was vacant, or the person in it wasn’t breathing.

  Her car was in the driveway. The house was silent. Maybe they hadn’t gotten Flynn in custody yet …

  With one mighty shove of his shoulder, he splintered the door open. It popped wide and slammed against the wall.

  Empty. Something damn close to a rush of relief rolled through him. Better she was gone than dead.

  He opened the closet, then turned to the antique bed, high enough off the ground that she could easily have crawled under there.

  He lifted the skirt, peered into the shadows.

  Flattening himself on the floor, he shimmied in, able to turn partially on his side before his shoulder hit one of the wooden slats that held the box spring in place. Everything looked untouched, just a normal box spring—but he was sure of what he’d heard. When he maneuvered onto his back, his hands ran over some grit, a few pieces like rock. Digging into the carpet,
he grasped a small chunk and examined it.

  Purplish. Sandy. Coral.

  He pressed his hands slowly over every inch of the box spring and slats to find some kind of hiding place. Then he realized that most box springs were covered with sheer gauze, leaving the inner springs visible.

  But this one had a quilted fabric sewn on it, so well done that it looked perfectly normal. He started palming every square of the material until he found it.

  A snap, sewn in to be invisible. He yanked at it, opening it, then another. Between the two snaps was a long nylon zipper. Exactly the high-pitched zip he’d heard when he’d listened outside the room.

  He slowly dragged it open, half ready for the scepter and diamond to fall down on his chest.

  But nothing fell. Behind the zipper was a large metal holding area, like a safe with no door. He reached all the way in to the back, then ran his hand from one side to the other.

  Completely empty.

  Forty minutes later, he was parked in the lot outside the Paxton Treasures Salvage Museum, ten or so miles north of the development he’d robbed the day before, when a limo pulled in, taking up three of the four spaces.

  It was either Paxton, Lucy, or both. Climbing off the bike, Con ambled over as the driver came out, nodded to him, and opened the back door.

  “Go ahead. She’s waiting.”

  He slid into the cool car, squinting into the tinted-window dimness to see Lucy in the far back, her legs crossed in pale silk pants, her one foot quietly tapping a three-inch stiletto, a phone at her ear, her dark, Asian-tilted eyes on Con from the second he dipped into the car and took the seat across from her.

  She held up one finger. “Judd, I realize this is a terrible blow to you and your wife.”

  So he’d get to hear the client’s reaction firsthand.

  “You wanted to know the truth, and now you do,” Lucy continued, giving Con a long look.

  “I’ll see you in a few minutes, then,” Lucy said, snapping her phone closed, her eyes narrowed into ebony slits as she shook back thick, shoulder-length black hair. “Do you have the scepter and diamond?”

  “No. Does Judd think I do?”

  “I never mentioned them, in the off chance that you failed.”

  “I just don’t have them yet.”

  “Then when?”

  He rubbed his hands over his face, exhausted, frustrated, disgusted. “Soon.”

  “Do better than that.”

  “Very soon?” He shot her a smile, but didn’t get one in return. “I’ll find her, Lucy.”

  “I’m not interested in your finding her. I want the scepter and diamond that belong to my client.”

  “She has them. And she can’t go too far. I’ll get them. Today.”

  “You better.” She leaned forward, her expression clear. “Or I will assume you stole the treasure.”

  His jaw dropped open. “What?”

  “Your track record doesn’t support any other theory.”

  “Fuck my track record, Lucy.” He slapped his hands on the leather seat. “I didn’t take them, just like I didn’t keep the medallion, which would have been very easy to do.”

  “Give me your bag.”

  He burned her with a look, venom boiling in his veins as he tossed it to her. “Suit yourself. The FBI has the medallion, and you won’t find anything in there but tools of my trade.”

  She opened the pouch and rifled through his personal items, then the rest of the bag. “Consider it a test,” she said. “Produce the scepter and diamond, and I’ll know what you’re made of. If not, I’ll also know what you’re made of. The former is a Bullet Catcher. The latter … a fake.”

  The venom turned cold and he just stared at her, vaguely aware of another car pulling into the lot.

  “Here’s Judd. I think I’ll handle him alone.” She set the bag on the floor between them. “I’m sure you’ll need some of the things in there to work your magic. For instance, the pack of condoms. I see there’s one missing already.”

  She didn’t look at him as she glided out of the car, leaving him with the knowledge that he only had one possible course of action. He had to screw Lizzie Dare again, in more ways than one, and prove without a shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t the man she thought he was.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  JET LAG MUST have hit her hard. Brianna turned on the lumpy down mattress, blinking against the sunshine that warmed the third-floor bedroom of the farmhouse. From the looks of the light, it was darn near afternoon in the Azores.

  Good Lord, how late had she slept? She pushed up on her elbows, squinting into the brightness to make out the view of an ancient windmill through the dusty panes of glass. Far, far from home and not a soul knew she was there.

  The adventurous thrill that gave her was tempered by a splash of guilt. At some point she’d have to tell Lizzie where she’d gone, but right now …

  She stretched, wiggled her toes under the puffy down comforter, and drank in the heart-stopper of an ocean view.

  Mrs. Bettencourt had been chilly at first, but then she warmed to the mission and promised to help today. She did have a library—all these old houses did—and maybe the final piece of proof that they wanted would be there.

  In the meantime, Lizzie could explore and sightsee. Not that there was a whole lot to see. Too bad Carlos Bettencourt wasn’t from Monaco, or somewhere slightly more exotic than godforsaken little Corvo.

  Still, she was free and unencumbered and doing her part for Dad, instead of just sifting through the mountain of papers that just made her miss him more.

  “Ms. Dare?” The call was accompanied by a soft tap on her door. “It’s Gabby, with coffee. Our kind of coffee, American.”

  “Just a second.” Brianna threw off the fluffy comforter and went to the door in her thigh-high T-shirt. “Oh, you’re a lifesaver, Gabby. I crave my caffeine fix.”

  The woman, easily five foot nine and the size of a truck, nodded and barreled into the room, setting a tray on the ancient dresser. “No need to thank me, hon. The madame,”—she said in an affected British accent to drag out the word—“would have my head if I didn’t.”

  Brianna smiled, moving some personal items on the dresser to make sure Gabby had room for the tray. “She seems like she might be …” A total bitch. “Tough to work for.”

  The other woman shrugged. “I’m just stepping in for a few days because she’s desperate and I can gouge her for extra cash. Not that I’m trying to exploit the circumstances, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “She didn’t tell you? You haven’t heard?”

  Brianna shook her head. “Heard what?”

  “About her nurse, Ana. She liked to call her a housekeeper, but the whole island knew that Ana was a nurse hired by Mrs. B’s husband to keep an eye on her.”

  Brianna looked up from the coffee she poured, intrigued. “What happened? And why does she need someone to keep an eye on her?”

  Gabby pointed to her temple and made the universal twirl for nutso. “She’s a little …”

  “Off her rocker?”

  Gabby smiled. “That’d probably be the medical term for it.”

  She didn’t strike Brianna as crazy, but who knew? “What happened to Ana?”

  Gabby made a face. “It’s so sad. She killed herself.”

  “That is sad.”

  “Right there.” She pointed to the gray stone windmill perched at the cliff’s edge, the rotors circling rhythmically. “Threw herself right over the cliff.”

  Brianna’s eyes flew open. “Oh my God. When?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Seriously?” A chill shot the hairs on the back of her head to a stand. “How old was she?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  Brianna’s heart turned over. My age. She shifted her gaze to the windmill, suddenly more ominous than picturesque. “That is so, so tragic. Did you know her?”

  “Eve
rybody knows everybody in Corvo. There’re like three hundred and fifty people in the whole place, all of them related somehow, going back two centuries. The whole island is devastated.”

  Brianna sipped, studying the sturdy woman who looked as though she belonged on a farm in Iowa. “How did you end up here?”

  “Well, for one thing, I didn’t ‘end’ up here; I’m leaving as soon as this job for Mrs. B is over. I was about to leave when I heard about it. But to answer your question, I’ve been traveling around Europe for a year, after a miserable divorce from a cheating … Never mind, it’s a cliché. I’ve been here in Corvo for about two months, ’cause I think it’s one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen. I was just about to head off to Spain when I heard about Ana, and figured I could scare up some cash working for this lady who apparently never made her own bed in her life.”

  “Wow, it sounds like a fun adventure.”

  Gabby laughed, fluffing the comforter into place. “I had to get out of Indiana, that’s for sure. When my husband left I was all weepy and miserable, with nothing but half of the cash from selling our split level. Then, one of my friends gave me this book about a lady who went and lived in Italy and India, trying to find herself after a divorce. I thought, why not? I’m fifty and I’ve never been east of Pittsburgh. So here I am.”

  Brianna gave her a warm smile. “I love adventurous spirits.”

  “How ’bout you? Is that research project the only thing that brings you to our lovely rock in the ocean?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is Mrs. B involved?”

  “Her genealogy is involved, and I was hoping to have access to her library. She said there’s one in the house.”

  “I don’t know if I’d exactly call it a library, but there is a room with some books.”

  “How did Mrs. B end up here?” With a nurse, no less.

  “There are a lot of rumors about that, but I’ve become friendly with a cousin of a friend of the man who was Ana’s fiancé…” She laughed at how that sounded. “Trust me, you live here long enough and you know everyone. Anyway, evidently her husband is some big-time Wall Street guy whose family has owned this property forever. She apparently tried to kill herself more than once, so he sent her here.”