“Kind of like you did,” she shot back. “What were you doing in there, anyway?”
A pretty treacherous little thief, with beautiful pink nipples that were beading up like pebbles before his eyes. “I heard you go in.”
“There’s no way,” she said under her breath.
“There’s a way,” he assured her. No matter how silent she thought she’d been, Con could hear. He’d heard her breathe when she passed the bunk. He’d heard the key in the lock. And she, of course, never heard him follow her.
Could it be this easy? Could he have found his target less than three hours after he climbed on board?
“Other arm, Lizzie.”
Her cunning eyes narrowed, forming a delicate crease that pointed straight to a pixie nose and a heart-shaped face that looked far too innocent and appealing to be a criminal’s. Looks could be so deceiving.
Hesitantly, she stretched out her arm for washing. “How do you know my name?”
“I was given a list of crew members when I signed on.”
“There are four women on this boat.”
“And only one is five-four and a hundred and ten pounds.” A hundred and ten well-distributed, nicely proportioned, sweet little pounds of trouble.
“The list had our heights and weights?”
“I’m thorough.” Water sluiced over her breasts and down a clenched stomach. “This leg got hit, didn’t it?” he asked. “There were holes in your pants on your right leg.”
“Yes.” She offered him her thigh, and he studied it for signs of burn dots. He saw none and his gaze moved up to the narrow strip of darkened hair between her legs. Beautiful, feminine, and wet.
No surprise, his cock stirred.
“Turn around,” he said sharply, using his free hand on her shoulder to get her in the other direction.
When she did, he lingered over her back, taut and toned, straight down to a high, round ass.
“At least you’re smart enough to take the treatment and not go all modest on me.” So he could be equally smart, and not let his body respond to the visuals.
“I live on boats with divers for months at a time. Most of them are men, and all of our days are spent in bathing suits. I lost my modesty years ago.”
He called up his mental file of Elizabeth Dare. Daughter of famed salvager Malcolm Dare. Highly skilled SCUBA diver with a recognized expertise in treasure hunting. Thirty, single, and commonly known as Lizzie.
It didn’t say anything about smart-mouthed, prettyfaced, or smooth-assed. And Lucy thought she was so damn thorough.
He aimed the spray right between her legs, drinking in the curves of her heart-shaped behind.
“It’s a shame I have to turn you in tomorrow morning.”
“Turn me in?” She spun around, eyes on fire. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
He just lifted a brow and turned the spray to his shoulder where a few drops of the acid had splashed on his T-shirt. “You were breaking and entering the cleaning lab and about to help yourself to the treasure. Define wrong for Mr. Paxton.”
“Paxton?” She rolled her eyes. “That explains it. And I thought you might be one of the good guys.”
“You thought wrong.”
She grabbed the spray nozzle. “Here, let me get your back.”
He relinquished the showerhead, turning so she could see if he had any acid burns on the back of his shoulder. “Any spots?”
“Guess I missed,” she said dryly.
He glanced back and caught her checking out his backside exactly as he’d studied hers. “Looks like I saved both our asses.”
She lifted her gaze from his, not the least bit coy about having looked. “What the hell else should I have done?” she asked. “I thought you were going to hurt me.”
“Someone has to stop a thief.”
“I know you’ve made up your mind about this, but I wasn’t stealing anything.”
He turned to face her. “Yeah, right.”
She aimed the water right in his face. “Any burns there?”
He blinked, dodging the spray, spitting water as he seized the nozzle. “Not for lack of trying.”
“You got that right,” she said, disgust rolling off her like the water cascading over her rock-hard nipples. “How was I supposed to know you were the new diver?”
“If I had been there to attack you, you moved fast and smart. Good thing I’m faster and smarter.” He glanced down to his dick, which was dangerously close to coming back to life. He sprayed it, watching her eyes follow the water.
“Did I get you there?” she asked, nothing like apology or worry in her voice.
“Damn close.”
The intensity of her stare and the iciness of the water canceled each other out, keeping his arousal at bay. But it wouldn’t last much longer if he spent much more time in a two-by-two head naked with Lizzie Dare.
“Listen,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “What you saw was not what it looked like.”
How many times had he been in her situation, faced with an accuser, forced to manufacture some wild-ass excuse? A few.
“So, let me take a guess. You left something in there, woke up in the middle of the night, remembered, and went back for it?”
“No.”
“I know,” he said, snapping wet fingers and pointing to her. “You had a sudden urge to polish the silver.”
“No.”
Their gazes locked, their bodies close, their breaths matching. One more step and they’d touch.
But his orders were to get close to the crew. He might have the thief, but did he have the potential leak?
“Then what were you doing in there?” he asked.
She couldn’t back up, so she jutted her chin up, pink lips pursed in defiance. “Can I trust you?”
“Honey, we’re naked in a shower, a water drop apart, and I haven’t laid a hand on you to do anything but make sure you’re not hurt.” He tilted his head to the side and gave her a lazy, inviting smile. “Of course you can trust me.”
Lizzie blinked through the water on her lashes to study him more intently. This man was a study in contrasts.
His eyes were the color of a winter sky set against olive-toned skin, and his ebony hair was short enough to qualify for the military, but he certainly didn’t seem … safe. He’d jumped her like a man bent on killing, but saved her in one smooth, slick move. Despite a threatening body jacked with muscles and high-octane testosterone, he’d been positively protective since the moment she’d met him.
And he was right. They were naked and close, and the nitric acid wasn’t the only chemical combustion going on between them. Still, he hadn’t done anything but check her out.
He looked bad … but seemed good.
Could she trust him? Not with everything, but just enough to test his loyalties. “I just wanted a picture of something we recovered today.”
“A picture? Then why not take it in the middle of the day, on the deck, with witnesses?”
“Because we’re not allowed to take pictures of the treasure, of anything,” she told him. “Didn’t Paxton tell you that when you took the job?”
He shrugged, noncommittal. “I know things are a little different on this dive.”
That was one way of putting it. “Do you know why they are different?”
“Security reasons,” he said, parroting what the crew had been told.
“Right.” She snorted softly, still assessing him.
He was a perfect stranger who could be sworn to loyalty by Satan or his stepson, and even if he believed her and wanted to help, he’d think she was nuts. But if she didn’t tell him the truth—or at least part of it—he was going to rack up Brownie points with the boss by turning her in.
Then she’d be off the dive before her work was done.
“I’m trying to preserve history before Judd Paxton sells it on the open market, and uses the money to build another monument with his name on it.”
He didn’t react, but
stared her down, considering that.
“I was trying to get some shots of the treasure before it disappears to a private collector,” she explained.
“So you’re just breaking the terms of your contract, not robbing our boss blind.” He speared her with a smoky look that sent heat coiling through her, doused when his words hit her.
“Our boss?” One ding for the hot diver. “So you have been bought and brainwashed by Judd Paxton already.”
“I’ve never even met the guy. I just take the paycheck—which, as you know, is better than most.”
She surveyed his face, trying to read his indecipherable expression. Impossible.
“Come on,” she finally said. “We’re de-acidified. I want to get dressed. I’m freezing.”
“You can’t put those clothes back on,” he said. “They still have traces of nitric acid on them. I’ll get you something to wear.”
“Fine.” She tried to get by him but he grasped her elbow.
“After you tell me why you want to take pictures, Lizzie.”
“In case we get caught out here. This dive is illegal. I don’t know if you know anything about Paxton, but he’s made his millions selling most of what his dives recover to private collectors. He gets to pocket a lot more if it’s not reported. Not to mention that, without a claim or lease, we’re a ghost ship out here. No one knows we’re here. That’s dangerous. Pirates—real ones—could board us at any time.”
“So you’re going to fight them off with pictures?”
“If that chain happens to disappear somewhere between this boat and the processing lab in Sebastian, then so does a little piece of history. Do you care about that, or are you just in this for the money, like Paxton?”
His gas flame eyes sent a blood rush from her toes to her ears. “So if you hate the company owner, resent his rules, and already have credentials, why did you take the job?”
For reasons he’d never get her to admit. “I needed the money,” she said easily. “There’s not a lot of salvage action in the winter, this beats cleaning heads on a ship in dry dock, and … it seemed like an intriguing opportunity.”
He took another long, slow look at her body. “We better go get your camera, then, before someone finds it.”
Hope surged. “Does that mean you’re not going to turn me in?”
“That means I’m going to keep my eye on you.” He stepped to the side, opened the door, and nudged her out. “And I like the rear view very much.”
She was lying. Lizzie Dare had an agenda as sure as she had a blistering hot body, and he intended to find out a lot more about both.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much you can wear,” he said, glad he’d stashed his bag under the bunk, so all that she could see was a backpack and the clothes he’d shed when he arrived.
He grabbed them, pulling on khaki shorts and a shirt. He had a plan, and she needed to be undressed for it to work.
Taking a towel from a rack next to the head, he held it out. “Small, but it’ll cover the essentials until I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Your cabin to get you clothes. Is it unlocked?”
“No. The key’s in my sweatshirt in the lab.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t think she’d run down the hall in that tiny towel, giving him enough time to do a quick search of her room.
In the lab he carefully gathered the clothes—which did include a camera in the pocket, as well as two keys—and dropped them into a plastic bag he found next to the sink where they’d washed. Carrying it out, he locked the lab using one of the keys she’d obviously stolen, and headed up to the quarters deck to her cabin.
He knew where every one of the crew slept; Lucy’s file had a full layout of the boat. Lizzie’s cabin was between the brother divers, Kenny and Walt Brubaker, who shared a double bunk, and the conservator and diver couple, Charlotte and Sam Gorman.
Would he even have to interview the other divers, or did he already have the person he’d come to find? She certainly hated Judd Paxton, and every excuse she gave was riddled with guilt and lies.
If things kept going his way, he’d be signing a contract with Lucy by the end of the week.
He slipped the key in and entered her cabin, far more spacious than his. The bed was unmade, the room just disheveled enough that he wouldn’t leave any evidence that he’d searched it.
Dropping the plastic bag, he headed straight to the small built-in dresser next to the bed. The drawers were a jumble of bathing suits and underwear and tank tops, but nothing incriminating. Maybe the small work desk.
On top, a few paperbacks with two dive magazines, all well read. He flipped open each drawer, one with odds and ends, the next, a little makeup, some simple jewelry. The third, a deep file drawer, was locked.
Promising.
With a penknife, he opened it easily. Inside was a photograph of an older man on the deck of a boat, a gold trinket hanging from his hand, and another photo of the same man on another boat with two little girls about ten and twelve, each displaying huge smiles and shiny gold coins.
Either girl could have been Lizzie, especially the one with lighter hair, more curls, and the sweetheart face. Beneath the pictures were a few pages of computer printouts about treasure hunting. Then an article about Judd Paxton, torn from Time magazine.
And the flimsiest piece of cheap pressboard at the bottom of the drawer, not even close to the wood stain of the desk. A pathetically bad false bottom. It snapped right out of place, and under it he found a brown leather notebook.
He fluttered the pages, full of sketches of jewelry, brass buckles, a porcelain jar, some hand-drawn charts, notes in the margins in scratchy, shaky handwriting, and then, on the last pages, the large block-letter heading: El Falcone.
Gotcha, Lizzie.
Although it wasn’t irrefutable proof that she was leaking the information. He studied the last few pages of sketches: a cross with jewels, a religious pendant, and an elaborate cup encrusted with gems. On the next page, no pictures, just three words. The Bombay Blues.
Oh, man. He definitely had his target.
He toyed with the idea of taking the notebook, but that would alert her and she was smart enough to know he had to have taken it. He returned it, feeling around for anything else and touched something hard, plastic, and thin.
A cell phone.
This really was ridiculously easy. He’d caught her red-handed and found the phone she wasn’t supposed to have. How long it took her to discover it was missing would tell him just how badly she wanted it. He pocketed the phone, then replaced the false bottom.
He didn’t have absolute proof that she was the thief, though. No treasure was hidden in her room.
He grabbed the first pair of shorts he saw, a top like the strappy one he’d stripped from her, and hustled back to his cabin, opening the door just in time to find her rifling through his backpack.
“Still looking for treasure, Lizzie?”
Not that it mattered. He’d hidden the Bullet Catcher dossier on the assignment the minute he got in the room, and nothing in that bag could incriminate him.
“Just trying to figure out who you are.” She held up a book. “Besides a guy who reads—and annotates—The Odyssey.”
“Greeks are brilliant.”
“Exactly what I would expect a man named Constantine Xenakis to respond.” She fluttered his passport. “You’ve been a lot of places, Mr. X.”
“Here you go.” He tossed the clothes at her, giving her long, bare legs an open appraisal. “Don’t rush dressing on my behalf.”
She stood up and dropped the towel, a plucky expression on her face. “Thanks.”
“Good thing you didn’t burn that body,” he said, taking a nice long time to appreciate the curves and angles of a well-toned woman, the dive suit tan lines drawing his eyes to the most private parts, the impact on his lower half exactly what she must have wanted. “Be a damn shame to wreck … per
fection.”
As she stepped into the shorts she smiled, her hair falling over her shoulders. “Now you’re going to compliment me? Why do I think you have to have an ulterior motive?”
“Because thieves never trust anyone.”
She stood, zipping the shorts, facing him as she reached for the top. “I’m not a thief, but I see there’s no way to convince you of that.”
He lapped up the last flash of pink nipples before they disappeared. “There might be a way.”
She yanked the top on. “Forget it. I’m not going to screw you so you don’t rat on me.”
“That’s not what I was thinking.”
She notched her chin toward the bulge in his shorts. “No? Looks like you were.”
“So I’m human. And you’re hot. But I wasn’t suggesting sex.”
She flipped her curls out from under the tank top straps and shook her head a little. “So, what then? What’s it going to take to buy your silence?”
“Maybe a cut of what you’re getting?”
Her jaw loosened. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Take in a partner on this dive.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” She laughed softly. “I don’t need a partner, because I’m not stealing anything. I’m taking pictures so when Paxton’s treasures ‘accidentally’ disappear before the state of Florida even finds out we were diving for them, there’s proof that they existed. No cut, X. There’s no buyer for my pictures.”
Was it possible she was telling the truth? There was something… oddly innocent about her, despite the feisty act.
“You been salvaging long, Lizzie?”
At the sudden change of topic, she shot him a sharp look. “I was practically born on a boat. My father was a marine archaeologist, and he took my sister and me on plenty of dives.”
“Was?” He knew from her file that her father had died fairly recently, and the pain on her face said the grief was still pretty raw.
“He passed away a few months ago,” she said, tucking some stray curls back from her lightly freckled cheek. “Diving accident.”
That he didn’t know. “What happened?”
She took a breath, tried for a casual shrug. “I don’t know, I wasn’t there.” The ache was clear in her voice. “Nitrogen narcosis.”
MAKE HER PAY Page 3
