MAKE HER PAY Page 19

Lizzie screamed again, bloodcurdling and helpless. The window was closed and wouldn’t move when he shoved it, so with one solid thwack of his gun he shattered the glass. He ripped at the blinds so hard they cracked right out of the wall, and he thrust his gun through the broken pane.

  Lizzie stood on the bed, flattened against the wall, wailing as she divided her terrified gaze from the window to the bed. The head of a deadly coral snake rose above the mattress and hissed.

  “Hang on, Lizzie— I got him.”

  He pulled the trigger, exploding the snake’s head.

  Then he swiftly smashed the other panes and threw himself against the wooden frame, cracking it with his weight and vaulting headfirst into the room with a roll.

  As he stood, Lizzie collapsed. He pulled her into his arms, a quivering, trembling, boneless mess, and carried her from the room. He laid her on the living room sofa, then knelt down next to her, stroking her hair off her pale, tear-dampened face.

  His own heart hammered with an adrenaline pump and the thought that she had been inches from death. He couldn’t resist a kiss on her forehead, and she didn’t stop him.

  Her eyes shuttered with a sigh as the shock wore off. “If you hadn’t come, I … I …” Realization hit her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you—and I mean it. But we’re finished. Everything is over, done. I’ve given my report to the Coast Guard and Paxton’s closed the salvage site. We’re done with each other.”

  Not quite yet, Lizzie. “I can’t just leave you like that.”

  She surveyed his face, doubt all over hers. “Yes, you can. You were bought and paid for by the man I was working to destroy. There’s the door. Use it. Just… make sure there are no more snakes on your way out.”

  “You’re right about one thing: the job is over. I’m not here on behalf of Paxton or anyone else. I found you because I wanted to see you again.”

  For a flicker of an instant, she believed him, he could tell. It dissolved as quickly as it came. “I don’t have it.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  She skewered him with a look.

  “Not the only reason,” he admitted, stroking her hair. “I really wanted to see you again.” That was true.

  “I don’t have what you want,” she repeated.

  But she knew where it was. “I understand that.” He smiled, rubbing the pad of his thumb on her cheek, liking the sensation and the fact that she didn’t jerk him away. “Where is it?”

  “None of your business.”

  It was the only business he had. “Lizzie, you realize you’re not safe, don’t you?”

  A crease deepened between her eyebrows as her frown intensified. “What do you mean? Isn’t Paxton in custody?”

  “I don’t know for certain. But how did that snake get in, with all the closed windows?”

  “You think someone planted it here? To scare me?” “To kill you. Were you on the bed?”

  “I went to rest, to take a nap after …” She shook her head. “No, it’s preposterous. No one wants to kill me.”

  “Who knows you have that scepter?”

  “For one thing, I don’t have it. And don’t bother to ask, pal, ’cause I’m not telling you. And I’ll be safe enough when I leave.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She started to say, then stopped. “You don’t need to know.”

  “Tell me.” And then he would go with her. It was the only way to get the scepter. Stay with her morning, noon, and night. “When are you leaving?”

  “When are you leaving is the question.” She tried to wiggle her wrists out of his grasp.

  “You don’t really want me to.”

  She snorted softly. “You have some ego. I don’t like you, okay? Can I be any clearer? Sleeping with you was a mistake, and trusting you was an even bigger one.”

  He leaned forward, close to her mouth. “It wasn’t a mistake. It was amazing.” He brushed her lips, but she pushed away.

  “It was an amazing mistake. And one I don’t intend to make again. So go call Judd and tell him I don’t have the scepter or diamond.”

  “He doesn’t know you found them.”

  “You didn’t tell him? Your client?” She plastered some disgust on the word. “Why not?”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her directly in the eye. “Because it belongs to your family.”

  “Yeah—I’m really buyin’ that, Con Man.”

  “I’m serious. And my connections can help you. My assignment is over, but my company has a research and investigation division that would knock your socks off. How do you think I found this house so quickly?”

  She sighed. “I knew you would. I couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

  “Listen—I put my resources on the history trail, and they’ve already uncovered information you’ll want to know about Aramis Dare.”

  She tried to look disinterested, and failed. “What information?”

  “What looks like proof that Aramis Dare was never paid for the bounty that he carried to Portugal in 1861.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “Data from a library in Havana.”

  “Oh, right—”

  He held up a hand to quiet her. “I can give it to you. One of the other men who works for the company spends a lot of time in Cuba on assignment, and his wife is an investigative specialist. She’s been doing some digging; has access to old documents that the government has kept under lock and key.”

  She eyed him. “What did you find?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Are you trying to buy that out of me with some shady promise of information? Forget it.” She pushed herself up.

  “You have a fax machine? I’ll have it sent here in ten minutes.”

  For a second, she almost relented. “You’re a lying son of a bitch, and I don’t need your help.”

  “Yes, you do,” he told her. “Because it will be a road map for you in Portugal. It leads right to a little island called Corvo.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Corvo?”

  “In the Azores. Heard of it?”

  “I know where it is.” She pushed off the sofa, getting away from him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To make reservations. For one. I don’t care what it costs, I’m going. And you’re not.”

  “I’ll just follow you there.”

  He heard her blow out a breath as the computer keys started clicking. He gave her a few minutes, checking out the security of the place, noting that every window and door were locked except the broken one in the bedroom.

  He ended up in the office doorway, watching her type, hearing her moan every time a fare came up. On top of a shelf he saw a fax machine and leaned over to get the number.

  “It’s going to cost me a freaking fortune,” she mumbled.

  “I have access to a private jet.” He sent the text.

  She slid a look over her shoulder. “Of course you do.”

  “Not only do we not know how or when or why someone got in here to plant the venomous snake in your room, but we also don’t know who. And until we do …”

  He walked over and put protective hands on her shoulders, glancing at the long list of flights from Atlanta to Lisbon, all with four-digit price tags and dates three days in the future. “You’re not safe. I think I’ve proven that I can watch your back.”

  A soft ding of an incoming e-mail got her to tap the mouse, revealing a new one from gabbyone@gmail.com. She read the subject line out loud: ‘A message from your sister.’ Finally!”

  “‘My name is Gabrielle Roberts and I’m working in a home where your sister is staying on the island of Corvo.’”

  She stopped to look up at him.

  “All roads lead to Corvo,” he said quietly, his gaze on the e-mail.

  “‘She doesn’t have e-mail or phone but asked that I write to let you know she’s fine. She
asked me to tell you she’s working on Aramis.’”

  “And they also lead to Aramis,” she replied.

  “Read the P.S., Lizzie.”

  “‘She really misses you. This is not part of her message to you,’” she read softly, “‘but it’s a lonely island for an American.’”

  Behind him, the fax rang. While she reread the e-mail, Con retrieved the papers coming from the Bullet Catchers headquarters. Wordlessly, he took the three pages of notes and the manifest list and placed them on the keyboard in front of her.

  “Do you really want to wait three days and spend two thousand dollars to get to Lisbon, then to Terceira, then to Corvo, when I can have you on a private jet, having dinner with your sister tomorrow night?” He reached down and fluttered the papers. “You two have an awful lot to talk about.”

  Her shoulders sagged in resignation. “You win, Con.”

  He leaned closer, put his mouth on her ear, and did what he’d been dying to do since he’d found her. He kissed her, feeling her body tense at the contact. “We both do.”

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  “THIS IS THE last place on earth I’d expect to find my sister,” Lizzie said as the Gulfstream jet banked over jagged volcanic rocks and a whitecapped sea. “I mean, she likes adventure, but she also likes clubs, restaurants, shops, and … people.”

  “Then there must be a very compelling reason for her to be here.” In a matching buttery leather recliner directly across from her, Con ignored the view, his gaze on her. As it had been for the seven-hour flight across the Atlantic and most of the past twenty-four hours.

  Lizzie tried to avoid his steel-blue stare, but it was impossible—and, like everything else about him, unnerving. True to his word, Con had been nothing but protective and helpful for the past twenty-four hours. And still as attractive as he was before she knew his connection to Judd Paxton, damn it.

  But he couldn’t take that treasure from her, and he sure could help her. So she put up with the misery of having to be so close to him and tried not to be attracted.

  She forced herself to look out the window again, drinking in the shocking beauty of a rolling hillside dotted with snow-white stucco buildings, every single one topped in precisely the same coral-colored barreltile roof.

  The runway started and ended with water, guaranteeing a white-knuckled landing for even the most seasoned traveler. Bree probably loved it.

  Lizzie fingered the papers again. Her sister couldn’t have had this information, so what did she know that caused her to leave Lisbon?

  “You are absolutely positive she flew into this place?” Lizzie asked again.

  “When we land, the customs officer has been briefed to show us the records, if that will make you feel any better.”

  It would. Frankly, everything he could do made her feel better. The stuff he had access to was like something out of the movies. Not only could he confirm Brianna’s travel plans—offering proof that she’d flown to Lisbon, then to Terceira, another island in the Azores archipelago, and finally to Corvo—he also produced the identity of one Gabrielle Roberts.

  The woman who’d written to Lizzie was a fifty-year-old divorcée from Indianapolis who’d been traveling around Europe and was staying in Corvo, adding credence to the e-mail. Then, like magic, he had them on a luxurious private jet, zipping directly to the island, cutting out days of travel time for her.

  And best of all, he’d given her the manifest of El Falcone.

  She still couldn’t believe the document was real. But there it was, on her lap where it had been for most of the flight, a scanned image of the original manifest of El Falcone, a stunning find from a library in Havana.

  The same library where her father had gone on that Cuban trip, she was certain. Did he have this manifest before he died?

  “This document confirms everything my father theorized. That although El Falcone was not registered with any country, Captain Dare had paid for almost all the items it carried and had lined up buyers for each— making him not a pirate, but a profiteer.”

  “And one of those buyers was in the Azores.”

  She nodded. “Carlos Bettencourt. The CB from the notes, no doubt. This had to be what brought Brianna here. Because if she can prove this Carlos didn’t pay for his scepters, then Aramis was no thief.”

  “How could she prove that?” Con countered.

  The landing gear touched the edge of the runway with a slight jolt. “I think we’re about to find out. And if she has, then the scepters belong to Captain Dare and his descendants. Not”—she narrowed her eyes at him—“Judd Paxton.”

  “Let’s just find your sister and take it one step at a time.”

  After they got through customs, they left their bags with their pilot and flight attendant to check out Vila Nova do Corvo. The only village on the island, it couldn’t be more than a square mile of charmingly dilapidated houses built right on top of one another along a few cobblestone streets, a large Catholic church at its center.

  “We could walk this from end to end in an hour,” Lizzie said as they crossed the street from the airport to the village tucked into the foothills of the mountainous island.

  “According to our friend in customs, the rest of Corvo is fields, rocks, farms, and lakes. I say we head to wherever people eat and drink. There are only four hundred residents. One of them will know any visiting Americans.”

  She curled her fingers into his, a jumble of emotions fighting for space in her chest. “I still hate you.”

  He gave her fingers a squeeze. “I know.”

  “But I’m very grateful that you’ve done this for me.”

  A donkey-drawn cart of fruit and flowers rumbled by, and Con snagged a violet azalea from a bucket in the back, then handed it to her, tickling her chin with the petals. “Forgive me.”

  “No.” She took the flower, unable to keep the smile off her face.

  He just laughed softly, guiding them up the cobblestone street where a few older women in wheat-colored bonnets and long, dark dresses were coming toward them, talking in Portuguese.

  One of them looked up and smiled. “Bem vindos,” she said, lifting the edge of her hat to reveal twinkling blue eyes. “Turistas?”

  “Do you speak English?” Con asked her.

  Three of them looked at a fourth. “Fale inglês, Marta.”

  A younger girl stepped forward from the back of the group, her eyes so much like the first woman’s, they could be mother and daughter.

  “I speak a little,” she said softly, her gaze on Lizzie and not Con. “What do you look for?”

  “An American woman,” Lizzie said. “Another visitor. Brianna Dare.”

  She shook her head and lifted a shoulder. “Is she related to Corvo?”

  Lizzie took the question to mean does she have relatives there. “No, but perhaps you know Gabrielle Roberts. Another American who has been staying here.”

  The girl’s blank look suddenly changed. “Gabby?” She held her hand up several inches above her head, as if to indicate height. “Tall Gabby? For certain I know her. She is often to be found at Sousa.” She pointed. “On Rua das Pedras. There is room to rent there.”

  The English was choppy but clear. “Sousa is a hotel?”

  “No hotel in Corvo,” she said, shaking her head. “Sousa is …” She made a gesture of eating.

  “A restaurant?” Lizzie supplied.

  “Sim. Restaurant. But no sign on wall. Look for tables by the church.”

  “Obrigado,” Lizzie said, handing her the flower. “Thank you.”

  The walk to the Spanish-style cathedral took five minutes. Every building in the vicinity looked like a private home, until they circled to the front and saw two tables set for dining outside a windowless three-story house.

  Con tapped on a whitewashed door and it opened, revealing a tiny restaurant with a brick oven in the middle. A woman, also dressed in the dark garb of the locals, turned to greet them, the tangy scent of her cooking
wafting toward them.

  “Hello,” Con said from the low-slung door frame, still holding Lizzie’s hand. “Is this Sousa?”

  She just nodded, looking from one to the other. “Eat outside?” she asked.

  “Actually, we’re looking for Gabby Roberts. Do you know her?”

  “Gabby?” She held up a finger, then slowly walked to the back, opening a door and disappearing up a set of stairs. A minute later she reappeared, followed by a tall, middle-aged woman whose easy, familiar smile pegged her instantly as an American.

  “I’m Gabby,” she said, reaching out a hand to Lizzie. “The tourists always find me.”

  Lizzie shook her hand. “Not tourists, I’m Elizabeth Dare. You e-mailed me about my sister.”

  Gabby’s jaw loosened in surprise. “Good heavens, you got here fast.”

  “Can you tell me where to find Brianna?”

  “Of course. She’s up at the Bettencourt farm.”

  “Bettencourt?” Excitement zinged through Lizzie at the name of Aramis Dare’s buyer.

  “Up the hill—there’s only one road.”

  “Who lives there?”

  “The lady’s name is Solange Bettencourt, from New York City. Look up fish out of water, and you should find a real nice picture of her.” She laughed a little. “I haven’t been up there since I sent you the e-mail ’cause Mrs. B called and told me your sister was going to be helping her out with the cooking and stuff. You should find her up there.”

  She’d come here to work for this woman? That was a stretch Lizzie couldn’t even imagine.

  “How do we find the farm?” Con asked. “Do we need a car?”

  “You could hitchhike up the hill. Any one of the thirty people around who have a car will give you a lift. That’s how I get there, or I borrow the Sousa’s scooter.”

  “Can we borrow it?” Lizzie asked. “I’m really anxious to see her.”

  Gabby nodded. “She’s going to be happy to see you, too, I think.”

  Lizzie pictured the copy of the manifest she’d brought to show her sister. “I think so, too.”

  Solange had kept Brianna Dare waiting for more than half the day, then let her into the attic “library” to read some innocuous paperwork about the Bettencourt family tree. Nothing that could support her ridiculous theory that Carlos Bettencourt hadn’t paid for the delivery of treasures he’d ordered. The girl’s ancestor was a pirate, and Solange’s was practically Portuguese nobility.