“But very soon the summer storms will be upon us. The winds will ravage this island and the seas around it, spreading the treasure and making salvage futile.”
“I know that too.” A pit of dread took root in Bartolome’s belly.
Rosario placed a hand on his forearm. “Then what are we to do, Captain?”
Bartolome swallowed, the task before him daunting. But if twenty years at sea had taught him anything, it was that all things were possible through determination, hard work, and the help of God. “We find a way to raise the treasure ourselves,” he said, his jaw stony with resolve. “And then we bury it.”
Chapter 1
Present day
4:12 p.m.…
Brando “Bran” Pallidino blinked and reread the email in his inbox for the third time.
Hi, Bran!
This Thursday night I’m chaperoning those three scholarship recipients I told you about on a camping and snorkeling trip to the Dry Tortugas. The park is pretty close to Wayfarer Island, right? Any chance you could sail over? The students would love to hear about your search for theSanta Cristina. And I’d love to see you!
Maddy
Thanks to the hellacious storm that had blown through the Straits of Florida over the weekend and knocked the satellite dish off the roof of the rickety two-story island house, this was the first time Bran had been able to check his email in nearly five days. Which meant Thursday was today. And Maddy Powers, the woman he’d met three months ago on a mission he should have never been on, the same woman who since then had filled his thoughts during the day and his dreams at night, was a mere fifteen nautical miles away.
So close…
The memory of the kiss he’d stolen right before he hopped overboard from her father’s yacht blazed through his brain. Soft lips. Sweet breath. An eager tongue that stroked his until—
Oh, eh! Was that his heart beating a rhythm to do a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade proud? Were those his ears buzzing? Was the idiot in his pants swelling with the memory? To his dismay, the answer wasyesto all questions.
Funny how he could remain cool as the proverbial cucumber when he was forced to assemble an M4 in the dark under heavy fire. But put him within spitting distance of one miniscule, sassy-mouthed Texas-tornado-of-a-blond and he turned into a total chump.
Madison “Maddy” Powers…
Even her name was enough to have butterflies fluttering drunkenly inside his stomach.
Reaching for the glass of water near his hand, he took two big gulps, hoping to drown the mothersuckers. Then he cocked his head, listening, when the slamming of the screen door was followed by the echo of voices and theclickety-clackof scrabbling dog claws.
“Everyone has catnip. That certain something that drives them wild. That one specific thing they just can’t get enough of.” Alexandra “Alex” Merriweather’s words drifted into the kitchen from the living room.
“Are you still talking?” Mason McCarthy’s voice sounded like a bass drum following Alex’s squeaky soprano.
“Mine isSex and the City,” Alex admitted, ignoring Mason’s question. “My field of study requires that my nose be buried in books all day long. So when I relax I want mindless, wanton entertainment. I want Sarah Jessica Parker and her gal pals. I want boobs and booze and boinking.”
Boinking?
Despite the drunken—and now sodden—butterflies in his stomach, Bran felt a grin tugging at his lips. Alex had only been part of their crew for ten short weeks, but she’d wiggled her way beneath their skins.Kinda like a damned chigger.In no time, they’d grown to love her like a kid sister.
“I have the first season downloaded onto a thumb drive,” she continued. “If Bran didn’t get the satellite dish working, what do you say to watching aSex and the Citymarathon with me?”
“No,” Mason replied, never one to use ten words when one worked just fine.
“Why not?” There was definite pique in Alex’s tone.
“Because I have robust mental health and I don’t want that to fuckin’ change.” Mason was a Southside Boston boy, so his speech—when he actually spoke—tended to be liberally sprinkled with f-bombs.
“Oh, ha-ha. Very funny,” Alex said just as Mason appeared in the doorway.
Mason wasn’t a tall man, topping out at only 5'11". But what he lacked vertically, he made up for horizontally. With hulking shoulders and massive arms, he looked less like the SEAL he was—they might have officially snapped their final salutes to the Navy, but once a SEAL, always a SEAL—and more like he should be guarding the gates of hell. Slobbering and panting noisily near his feet was Meat, the English bulldog that followed Mason around like a fat, furry, excessivelywrinklyshadow.
