Bran wasn’t sure why, but he slammed the lid of the laptop and felt color rise in his cheeks. Mason glanced at the computer, then at Bran, lifting a brow. To Bran’s relief, Mason said nothing.
He couldn’t say the same for Alex. Standing next to Mason, she looked diminutive—diminutive and about twelve years old, thanks to her riotous mop of curly red hair and the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The first words out of her mouth were, “I take it you got the satellite dish up and running.” Thenextwords out of her mouth were, “So, are you catching up on your daily dose of porn or what?”
Daily dose of…Bran choked.
“No judgment here.” Alex held up her hands. “Just…” She glanced around the kitchen, wrinkling her nose. “Not where we eat, okay?”
Bran shook his head and gave her a long-suffering look. “It wasn’t porn.”
Alex’s expression telegraphed her disbelief. “What else would make you slam the lid on that thing like you were trying to keep a barrel full of snakes from popping out of the screen?” Her green eyes flashed behind the lenses of her tortoiseshell glasses.
Uh-oh.Bran knew that look. He didn’t like it one bit. “Don’t do it,” he warned.
“Do what?” She blinked innocently.
“Whatever it is you’re contemplating that’s likely to piss me off.”
“Oh.” Alex nodded sagely. Then, proving she wasn’t the least bit scared of him—and that she had the reflexes of a ninja—she snatched the laptop from him, dancing out of his reach when he tried to lunge over the kitchen table to retrieve it.
“Ah, ah, ah!” She cackled like she was auditioning for the part of Cruella de Vil while turning her back on him and holding the laptop away.
“Fungule, Alex!” he cursed. The New Jersey Italian boy came out in him when he got worked up.
“You know the rules.” She tsked. “We have to share.”
Wayfarer Island was a remote spot of land between Cuba and Key West. It was officially owned by the U.S. government, but for the last century or so it had been leased to LT’s family—LT being Bran and Mason’s former commanding officer, the one who had invited them to join him on his hunt for the legendary ghost galleon when they bugged out of the Navy.
To recap, for months now Bran had lived on this island with endless sun, cerulean waters, and a cooling breeze that rustled through the palm trees and a person’s hair. Sounded pretty good, right? In fact, what could be better?
Well, Bran could list a few things that were better.For starters, how about some damned cellular service?Unfortunately, that was a pipe dream since they were hell and gone from the nearest cell tower. They had to rely on their marine radios and one lonely satellite phone to communicate with the outside world by any means other than the laptop.
So, how about some damned electricity?Okay, to be fair theyhadelectricity. But the solar panels attached to the roof of the rambling house supplied just enough juice to keep the refrigerator, the Wi-Fi, and a few other items working. Which was why they allshareda laptop, taking turns watching movies or sports, or emailing friends and family back on the mainland.
“I’m dying to see what you were looking at that made you blush to the roots of your hair,” Alex said, plopping into the ladder-back chair across from Bran. She shoved her glasses up on her pert nose and grabbed the silver tin of biscotti next to the salt and pepper shakers. Prying open the lid, she took out a biscuit and bit off half, talking with her mouth full. “If not porn, then what? Ooooh, the mystery! It must be solved!”
A crumb of biscotti flew from her mouth to land on the table. She absently brushed it onto the floor where Meat was waiting to lap it up like it was manna from heaven.
Alex was a historian by education, a translator of centuries-old scripts by training, and a savant when it came to inane trivia, which she tended to offer up without encouragement and much to the annoyance of everyone around her. Three months ago, Bran, LT, Mason, and the other three guys from their SEAL Team—now the owners of the Deep Six Salvage Company—had hired her to translate the historical documents housed in the Spanish Archives that pertained to the hurricane of 1624. They’d hoped she could give them a leg up on their hunt for theSanta Cristina.
Two weeks later, Alex had surprised them by insisting that theringed islandwritten about in the old documents was, in fact,notthe Marquesas Keys, where treasure hunters—including LT’s father—had always assumed the grand ol’ ship went down, but their own Wayfarer Island. Then she’d surprised themfurtherby requesting to come onboard the venture. Not to share in the treasure once they found it, but because she wanted to base her doctoral dissertation on the search for and excavation of the famed shipwreck.
At the time, Bran had thought it was a win-win situation. For room and board—which, let’s admit, isn’t much on Wayfarer Island—they got their very own on-site historian and translator, andshegot a story that was sure to get the lettersP,H, andDprinted right after her name for the rest of her life. But now, as Alex took another huge bite of biscotti and lifted the lid on the laptop to read the email glowing there, Bran seriously considered changing his opinion on that whole win-win thing.Anotherthing about Alex: She was nosy by nature. She made sure to get her fingers in every pie that was ever cooked up on the island.
“I’m sorry.” He frowned. “Have you never heard of the wordprivacy?”
“Thursday is today,” Alex said, ignoring his question and pointing at the laptop’s screen.
“No shit, Sherlock,” was his totally mature reply. He felt color rising in his cheeks again.Damnit.
“Sooooo…” Alex dragged out the word, wiggling her eyebrows. “You planning to go see her or what?”
Bran opened his mouth to respond withOr what. His relationship with Maddy was perfect in that it wasn’t really a “relationship” at all. Sure, they exchanged emails every day—sometimes more than a dozen. Sure, they had the occasional three-hour satellite phone conversation. But the nature of the Internet and the distance between them created and maintained an inherent casualness. A natural informality.Which is exactly how I like it.He was thwarted from responding, however, when Mason asked, “See who?”
“Madison Powers.” Alex singsonged the name, making Bran grit his teeth. “Apparently, she’s camping on the Dry Tortugas tonight with three scholarship recipients.”
“Mmmph,” Mason muttered, walking over to scoop kibble out of the bag they kept beneath the farmhouse-style sink.
Woof! Woof!Meat barked in canine fervor, his claws scrabbling on the floor as he raced over to Mason, his nub of a tail swinging back and forth. The only thing Meat loved more than Mason was food. Any food. All food. Even some shit that wasn’t food.
