MAKE HER PAY

by Roxanne St Claire

  It’s just that ever since she’d brought him into her plan, he’d taken over everything. Including her thoughts.

  He slid down to the diving platform, and she handed him the air hose.

  “Yank three times when you have it in your hand,” she said.

  “More important. Yank two times if someone comes on the deck. You know what to say.”

  Night diving was not unheard of, although it was generally done during the warmest months. The only person who would be truly furious was Dave since, as divemaster, he had to grant permission and log any dives.

  “Just hurry.” She handed him the hose.

  In an instant, he disappeared into the black water, the slice of moonlight offering almost no chance to see him, or even the bright yellow air hose.

  So, she just stared at her watch.

  When she reached the five minute mark, she looked over her shoulder to check the air compressor, which still hummed along quietly. The hose stayed still in her hand. One more minute and a man with so little body fat in sixty-degree water would be in trouble.

  At six and a half mintues, she set the hose down and walked to the compressor, just to make sure it was working properly. The belt was moving. The relief valve was open, which would be normal. The reserve tank was doing its job cooling the air. The …

  “Oh my God.” She stuck her hand around the remote air intakes. Gone. Both of them. He was breathing carbon monoxide.

  Snapping the motor off, she didn’t even take a minute to think. She had no time to harness or set up a clean air system. No time to get a wet suit on. Grabbing a light hanging by the closest locker, she popped over the side, slid to the platform, took a huge breath, and threw herself into the water.

  The scepter. He couldn’t drop the fucking gold scepter. But ever since Con had it in his hands, he’d been disoriented. It was heavy, even in the water. He dropped his flashlight but didn’t care, knowing there was only one way to go now. Up.

  He kicked. He breathed. He spun around. Was he even going up?

  A sharp pain stabbed his head at the same time his heart rate ratcheted up.

  Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew what was going on. But he couldn’t lose the scepter. She’d be furious. Disappointed. Down here after it herself.

  Lizzie. He blinked and saw her face.

  Lizzie …

  Then she was there. With no mask, no suit, her mouth clamped shut, her cheeks exploded with a held breath. In one move that seemed both sudden and slow, she twisted his regulator, cutting off the air.

  What the hell?

  She yanked him, kicking the water, kicking him. Pulling him. He squeezed the scepter. Couldn’t drop it. Couldn’t. But he couldn’t fight her, either.

  They rose. He started to tread water, more out of instinct than anything. He let out a bubble of air. She did the same, her eyes, sparking from a flashlight she carried, burned on him, her insistence clear. Swim, those eyes said. Swim harder.

  And he did. Harder, faster, then slamming through the surface and gulping in air as she did.

  “Con!” Her voice was a harsh whisper. Or maybe she screamed. He couldn’t tell.

  Damn it!

  He shook his head, sucked in more air. Held onto the gold and blinked at her, still treading, still swimming. And so freaking cold.

  “Are you okay? Con? Are you?”

  He held up the scepter. “I got it.”

  She nodded, water sluicing from her hair over her face, fury and fear over every feature.

  “Carbon monoxide. You got that, too,” she said, tugging him toward the boat, yanking his mouthpiece out for him. “Do you know that?”

  His head spun a little, but he kicked along with her, the first cohesive thought finally taking hold of his dis-oriented brain.

  Carbon monoxide. Of course that’s what this was. How?

  “Just swim. Stay with me,” she said, her teeth cracking against each other.

  God, she must be so cold. She was so small and thin. He kicked harder, staying with her, oxygen finally seeping through his body and blood along with a determination to take over, to swim for her, not with her.

  And not drop her damn scepter.

  She yanked him to the boat, hoisting herself up the dive platform first, then turning to him. He lifted the scepter to her, and she barely looked at it, taking his arms in her hands instead and pulling.

  “Just get up here, damn it.”

  He threw his body onto the deck, and only then did she take the scepter with one hand, pulling his mask off with the other.

  “Are you all right?” Her whole body shivered so hard she could hardly say the words. “Do you know your name? The date?”

  “Your lips are blue,” he said. “Inside. We have to go inside.”

  “Your name?” she insisted.

  He ignored her, standing and helping her up, his brain almost clear but for the sharp, stinging headache and the cold that felt like it went right into his spine. “Turn the compressor off.”

  “I did.”

  “I’ll pull in the hose. You get in a blanket.” He turned, tugging at the air hose, which they had to coil up again. And he had to move the compressor back, leaving no evidence of what they’d done.

  Holding the scepter in one hand, she thrust the hose back to the deck. “Let it go. You want to die? Who cares if we leave it? Dave’ll go batshit tomorrow. Inside, Con. Now!”

  “I never leave …” He almost said “evidence,” but his head was clear enough to stop, and she was right.

  With a cursory glance around the deck, and fairly certain no one was around, he followed her, but stopped at the air compressor.

  “How’d you know?” he whispered.

  “The air intakes were removed. When you didn’t come up in seven minutes, I worried.”

  He stuck his hand under the valve and felt the empty slot. Son of a bitch. He’d checked them. He’d checked them both when he moved the compressor, checked the gas level, too.

  Someone took them out while he was getting Lizzie from her cabin.

  She pulled his hand, her body quivering with cold. “Come on. You have to get warm. We both do.”

  He followed her, instantly warmer inside the stairwell, but she was still shivering.

  He was clearheaded enough to close and lock her cabin without making a sound. “Hot shower. Strip.”

  But she was already in the head, reaching into the shower stall, turning on the water in the head with one hand, and pulling at her sopping sweatshirt with the other. He shoved his trunks off as she got the top off, both wet pieces coming at once. She skipped the bra, but was shaking so hard she couldn’t untie the drawstring of her sweatpants, so he just pushed her under the hot water, getting in with her and closing the shower door to keep the heat in, grateful her cabin was more deluxe than his.

  “Are you okay?” she asked again, color finally returning to her lips. “You still didn’t tell me your name.”

  He choked a laugh, pulling her into him so they were both completely under the stream, which wasn’t nearly as hot or hard as he would have liked it to be. “We’ve done this before. Does that prove I know who I am and who you are?”

  She nodded, pressing against him, the warmth finally getting through his skin. And then she put her head on his chest and he felt her whole body relax.

  “I thought I was going to pull up a dead man,” she murmured.

  “You thought I was going to lose your precious scepter?”

  “No.” She looked up at him. “I really thought … never mind.”

  They didn’t move, letting the water warm and soak them. Finally, she looked up at him. Her lips weren’t blue at all anymore. They were pink and wet and parted, and he ached for their warmth. Tunneling into her soaking hair, he pulled her up to meet his mouth and kissed her.

  She folded right into his arms, the only thing between them a stream of warm water and her very wet pants, which molded to his body. She stood on her toes, opened her mouth, an
d kissed him back, still shuddering.

  One hand stroked his face, as if she were kissing him out of continued concern, but her hips nudged forward and her breasts pressed against him in a way that had nothing to do with concern.

  He slipped his tongue between her lips, slanting his head, which only sent more water cascading down their cheeks and into their mouths, the sensation sexy enough to make his whole lower half tighten.

  Flattening one hand on her back, he pulled her harder against him, the heat and wet and womanliness of her body like an elixir, sweet and irresistible.

  She finally broke the kiss, but her eyes stayed closed and she swayed a tiny bit in his arms.

  “Now who’s disoriented?” he asked.

  “I’m just … warm.”

  He kissed her forehead and tilted her face up so that she opened her eyes and he could drink in the whiskey color, her lashes thick with water, her pupils wide with arousal.

  “That’s the idea,” he said. “Body warmth.”

  “This is your cure for hypothermia?”

  He smiled. “Don’t knock it.” Once more, he kissed her, harder this time, not even trying to fight the rush of blood or the response. With one hand, he reached behind her and twisted the knob of the shower, stopping the spray.

  “Don’t move,” he murmured, opening the door and grabbing a towel. He was back in the shower in an instant, as much to get close to her as to keep the warmth and steam captured around them.

  He wrapped the towel around her shoulders like a cape. “Hold this on you.”

  She did, clutching it with both hands as he moved to untie the drawstring of her pants.

  “These have to go. They’re soaked and you’ll freeze in them,” he explained, giving the wet string a good tug and finally freeing the knot. He pushed them over her hips, the sopping material taking her panties with it.

  “You’ve seen me naked twice now,” she said.

  He dipped lower as he dragged the pants down, his face eye level with the towel, and then her hips and the dark tuft between her legs.

  “Gets better every time.” And different. No fear of acid burns this time, no certainty that he had the target of his investigation. This time, he had a woman who’d just risked her life—and her objective—to save his life.

  The thought shot through him, hardening an already stiff erection even more as he crouched on the balls of his feet in front of her.

  He had the pants to her ankles, lifted one of her feet out, then the other. She backed into the fiberglass wall. He didn’t look up. He wanted to, wanted to see if there was invitation or warning in her eyes, but the gentle pressure on his shoulders told him what he’d see.

  He kissed the inside of her thigh, softly, and heard her exhale a slow breath.

  “Con.”

  He kissed the other thigh, this time stroking the flesh with his tongue in a slow, small circle.

  Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, so he licked higher, closer to her center, a long, slow trail of tongue on skin that tasted so sweet and warm he let out a soft groan of his own.

  Her womanhood glistened in front of him. Beautifully pink, slightly swollen, scented with remnants of saltwater and sex. He inched back, looking up to meet her gaze.

  But her eyes were closed, her head was back, and her hands gripped his shoulders as though they were the only thing that could keep her from falling into his mouth.

  Getting closer, he put his fingers on the soft flesh of her inner thighs, easing them further apart, as he took the first delicious swipe over her.

  Her legs buckled, but she hung on to him, rocking her hips forward. He licked her again, curling his tongue in the folds of her flesh, tasting warmth and salty, tangy woman.

  Closing his hands over her hips, he crouched lower, to get under, get his tongue in deeper.

  “Con.” She dug her hands into his head. “What … are …”

  He sucked gently, kissed the inside of her thighs, adjusted his position to kneel right in front of her.

  “Hypothermia treatment,” he said softly, glancing up and letting his eyes do the smiling. “To be sure you’re warm.”

  He curled his tongue inside her again, magnetically drawn to the taste of her, his cock throbbing a full erection from the sight and smell of her woman’s body. He wanted to be inside her.

  “I’m … oh … warm.”

  Snap.

  His head jerked back at the sound.

  “Wha—”

  “Shhh.” He held up a hand to silence her question, rocking back and propelling himself up to a stand.

  The click of a latch was barely audible over the blood in his ears, but Con was up in an instant, using every cell in his body to pinpoint the source of the sound.

  “I didn’t hear—”

  “Don’t move.” He spun and shoved open the head door and stepped into the cabin, his attention on the knob as it turned. He held up his hand to silence Lizzie behind him, walking to the door, wanting the full impact of surprise on his side.

  The hatch slowly creaked open, separating from the rubber strip with a suction sound.

  Charlotte Gorman’s nose peeked in first, then her face, her eyes popping at the sight of Con. “Oh.”

  “Can I help you?”

  Her gaze dropped over his torso, her color rising as she jerked back behind the door in embarrassment. “I was looking for Lizzie.”

  Lizzie bounded forward, the towel wrapped under her arms and knotted now, passing Con with a quick look. “It’s only Charlotte.”

  He held her back with one hand, pointing to the scepter on the bed, the silent message clear. Don’t let her in.

  “Let me just talk to her,” she whispered, nodding to assure him she wouldn’t let her in.

  “She was breaking in.”

  “She has a key.” She stepped to the opening, keeping it cracked just enough to peek out. “I’m, uh, kind of busy, Char. What’s the matter?”

  Con stood right behind Lizzie, glaring at Charlotte, who ignored him. “It’s Sam. He’s really sick.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. He’s been moaning. He has chest pains.” The older woman’s eyes looked pained, with deep circles and a feathering of lines all around. “Can you come and see him, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie glanced over her shoulder at Con. “Would you know the signs of a heart attack?”

  He nodded.

  “Then …” She faltered. “Could you check on him?”

  “Lizzie.” Charlotte reached to take the woman’s hand. “I need you there. Please. I’m scared.”

  Con pulled Lizzie deeper into the cabin, against his chest. “Give us a minute, Mrs. Gorman. One of us will be over in a minute.”

  She finally looked at him, her expression a mix of pain and relief and a little distrust. “Sorry to interrupt. But I’m scared.”

  “We’ll be right there,” Lizzie assured her. “You go stay with Sam. If we need to get him to the mainland to a doctor, we will. We’ll do whatever we have to, I promise.”

  When she left, Lizzie turned, but Con didn’t move.

  “We have to help her,” she said.

  “She was breaking in.”

  “Con, she has a key to my cabin. She’s my friend. And her husband’s sick.” She pushed by him and started lifting up random clothes looking for something to wear.

  “Why didn’t she knock?”

  “Maybe she heard the shower or didn’t want to wake the rest of the crew. Maybe we didn’t hear her. The shower was on, and we were … breathing heavy.” Stepping out of his grasp, she gave him a little nudge. “Please get dressed and we’ll hide that and go see him. The man could be dying.”

  She hadn’t knocked. Con knew that for a fact. He watched the towel fall, leaving Lizzie naked, damp, pink. “You warm enough now?” he asked.

  She nodded and glanced over at him as she pulled her panties on. “You still disoriented?”

  He smiled. “I was just getting there when the
911 call came.”

  “Timing is everything,” she said with a shrug.

  “Yeah. And hers was impeccable.”

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  BRIANNA DARE SHOULDERED her travel bag and powered through the streets of Lisbon. Lizzie was going to kill her, but then she’d throw her arms around her and get all emotional about how she had to watch out for Brianna because they didn’t have a mother. And now they didn’t have a father, Lizzie was worse than ever.

  At the base of the funicular that would take her up a steep hill to another noisy, crazy, insanely gorgeous part of the city, Brianna climbed on board. A man muttered something to her in Portuguese and checked her out. A woman elbowed past her to get onto the Santa Justa elevator to Upper City. Smells and colors and sounds swirled around her, and Brianna couldn’t wipe the smile from her face. Freedom felt so freaking good.

  She was out of Vero Beach. Out of that stifling, suffocating house with nothing to do but organize Dad’s pile of chaos and look for paper clues, while Lizzie had all the fun on a dive.

  She’d left her cell phone at home—it wouldn’t work over here anyway—and hadn’t told Lizzie what she had decided to do. Her sister would be furious, but if she was successful on this trip, Lizzie would forgive her in a heartbeat.

  From his notes, it was clear Dad had wondered about the identity of “BC” and how he or she fit into the legend of El Falcone. Brianna was about to find out, and it was something Lizzie wanted to know almost as much as she wanted the treasure itself. Without that piece of the puzzle, it would be hard to prove their ancestor was anything but a slimy pirate.

  As the car started to ride up the rails, Brianna reached into her bag to double-check the address and directions. Maria Rossos Della Buonofuentes spoke enough English that they could communicate over the Internet, and according to her directions, Brianna was one stop and a quick walk from her destination.

  Off the funicular, she headed up another hill, so steep that the cobbled streets were like steps. Everywhere, her senses were assaulted with foreign beauty and sounds and smells. Creamy stone church spires curled into a blue sky right next to candy-colored storefronts, their balconies festooned with laundry. Vendors and fishmongers cried out as she passed, tempting her to stop and taste and experience it all.