She peeked out from the comforter to see Con filling up the doorway, a dark expression on his face, dried blood over his eyebrow from a cut he’d sustained in the windmill.
“Con.” She barely breathed the word.
He just looked at her, his eyes narrowed, his chest rising and falling. No smile. No greeting. Nothing but waves of intensity rolling off him and threatening to flatten her.
He kicked the door closed behind him and dropped a box of some sort on the floor with a clunk. All she could do was stare at him, gripping the duvet in her fists as her heart rate climbed with each second.
He ripped off his T-shirt and threw it on the floor.
Her stomach took a roller-coaster dip.
He unsnapped his pants, kicked off his shoes, and pushed his jeans down, naked and fully erect underneath.
She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out.
He stepped out of the pants and closed the space between them, the only change in his expression a tightening of his jaw, dark with whiskers and smudged from the battle with the windmill.
“Whatever you have on under there,” he said gruffly, “it’s coming off.”
She dropped the duvet cover, letting it fall to her waist.
His gaze burned her bare breasts and he took a slow, deep breath. “That’s a good start.”
She removed the cover deliberately, exposing more and more of her bare skin.
A whisper of a smile curved his lips. “That’s even better.”
“Con … what … why. …”
“Lizzie, what is obvious, why should be obvious, and anything else, you can ask later.” He set something on the nightstand that she hadn’t even realized he held. A condom.
He put a knee on the bed and then straddled her, his hard-on pulsing over her stomach, his chest looming like a rock wall. He cupped her cheeks as he lowered his whole body onto hers, holding her gaze.
“This,” he said as he closed in for a kiss, “is the last gentle thing I’m going to do until after you scream.”
He kissed her mouth with… love. That was the only way she could describe the tenderness, the sweetness of the kiss. His eyes stayed open, locked onto hers, both of them lost and completely connected.
Her heart hammered, and so did his. Their tongues touched in a caress, a delicious silent overture that made her body warm and achy. She closed her arms around his shoulders, pulling him against her, opening her legs to get every inch of him against every inch of her.
He finally lifted his head, lasering her with his intention as he took her arms from around him and pinned them with one hand over her head.
His smile was dangerous as he licked his lips, tasting her kiss, then coming down for another—much hotter, much more demanding. If the first one was love, then this kiss was pure sex, burning, wet, slanted, deep, mouth-to-mouth fever.
And he didn’t stop there. Still holding her wrists in his hands, he trailed fiery kisses down to her chest, making her gasp and moan as he licked one nipple to a peak, then the other. She pushed against his hand, dying to have hers free so she could guide his head, dig her fingers into his hair, somehow have some control, but it was impossible.
He suckled and kissed her breasts and flesh, his left hand sliding down her waist and over her hip.
He cupped her buttocks and moaned as he kneaded the flesh, and she bowed her back in helpless response, his hot hands making her rock with need for more. He finally slid his fingers between her legs, letting out another groan of pleasure when he touched her wet, swollen center.
He murmured her name, circling his finger over her clitoris, then rolling it gently, kissing her just to make her completely insane. He slid his tongue between her lips the very second he slipped his finger into her, in and out in precisely the same rhythm but in opposite strokes. Tongue in, finger out. Tongue in …
And she couldn’t touch him. He still hadn’t released her wrists, heightening the sensation of being taken by him, maddening her, torturing her, blissing out every pleasure center in her body.
“Con, let me touch you,” she urged when he returned his mouth to her budded nipple.
He just looked up, a smile threatening as he shook his head. Moving to the other side, his fingers curled inside her and twisted more pleasure out of her.
“This is me …” He stroked her flesh. “Doing you.” He nibbled her nipple. “And you …” He thumbed her clitoris. “Coming apart.”
“I am,” she admitted.
“Not yet, you’re not.” He flattened his tongue over her breast, then sucked again, shooting sparks behind her eyes, in her belly, between her legs. His thumb twirled over her, his fingers flicked and fluttered, over and over until the need to free her hands was long forgotten, her brain only able to focus on bits and pieces.
The smell of salt on his skin. The achy thrum in her core. The zing of her nerve endings, the tickle of his leg hair, the wetness of his kisses, the moans from his chest, the feel of flesh against flesh, mouth against mouth, man against woman. His erection pressed against her thigh, burning and branding and making her beg to touch him—but he didn’t relent.
“Now you come apart.” One more shocking kiss. “Now.”
The demand was incendiary, intoxicating, impossible to ignore as he stroked her inside, licked her outside, fired her everywhere.
She panted breathlessly as the shudder started low inside her and built, the orgasm almost within reach.
Her eyes closed, she couldn’t think, couldn’t let go of the sensation about to overtake her.
She felt his fingers withdraw, heard a condom packet rip, and opened her eyes to see him position his hardon between her legs. He thrust into her, all the way, shocking her, taking her, owning her.
He plunged in again, holding perfectly still, suspending them both, then pumped fast and furious until her orgasm exploded deep and intense and long, making her cry out.
Then he finally let go, releasing himself into her with crushing, insistent strokes and a sweet, sweet moan of satisfaction.
Lax and spent, he laid on her, their breathing labored and ragged, their skin heated from the rush.
After they finally quieted, he said, “Now you can ask questions.”
She smiled. “You answered them all.”
Con shifted to his side. “But I need to tell you something, Lizzie. I shouldn’t have waited, but I couldn’t help it.”
She put her hand on his lips. “Don’t.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“It doesn’t matter what you’re going to say. I want to say something first, without you making any speeches or statements or confessions or announcements.”
He fought a smile. “You’d like the one I’m about to make, trust me.”
“You’ll like the one I’m about to make,” she countered, sliding over him to pull his whole body into hers. “It doesn’t matter.”
He waited for her to continue. “That’s it?”
“What else is there? The past is past? You’re clearly doing everything to change your life?” She stroked his cheek gently. “Your colors are true, Con. You risked your life to save my sister. You couldn’t have shown me what you’re made of better than that.”
“Funny thing. I was thinking the same thing about you.”
She smiled. “We’re a good pair.”
“We are.”
“And you …” She just had to know this. “You aren’t planning to take my scepter and diamond and give it to Paxton.”
“No.”
There was just enough hesitation to give her a squeeze of doubt. “Con? Are you lying?”
“No, I’m not. That was my plan, but not now—I swear it. The truth will come out. I promise.”
She saw nothing but honesty in his eyes. “Then you’re going to prove it.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you who has it. I’m going to trust you with that information, and you’re not going to do anything with it.”
“All right.”
“I gave it to Sam Gorman.”
“And he’ll keep it safe?”
“Of course. He certainly won’t give it to Paxton. He’s on my—our side.”
“I give you my word I won’t touch it.” He kissed her softly.
She smiled. “We are a good pair. Now, what were you going to tell me?”
“You know that box I brought in?”
She rose up a little to see it on the floor. “Yeah. What is it?”
“The original manifest of El Falcone. Letters between Bettencourt and Captain Dare. Proof that your great-times-many-grandfather was legit. Everything you need to clear his name when you take your scepter and diamond on its exhibit tour.”
For a few seconds, she couldn’t even process what he was saying. “Letters? Proof?”
“And if the other one is ever found, then you have a claim to it, wherever it is.”
She pushed herself up, the words still barely sinking in. “You have proof and you didn’t tell me when you walked in?”
He smiled. “I knew that once you opened that box, you’d forget all about me.”
She nearly shoved him off her, rolling out of the little bed and landing on her feet, pouncing on the box. She kneeled in front of it, staring, then turned to Con.
He sat on the bed, as naked as she, grinning. “Go ahead. Open it.”
She did, almost afraid to touch the parchment papers inside. She lifted the first one, the words swimming as if they were underwater, the Spanish slowly making sense.
El completos manfiestan El Falcone, Aramis Dare, el capitán. Sin registrada.
She blinked, sending a tear down her cheek, and she automatically moved the paper so it wouldn’t get wet.
“I told you you’d forget about me when you saw it.”
She looked up at him, another tear escaping. “No, Con. Nothing in the world could ever make me forget about you. I believe in you. And I know you’d never do anything to break that trust.”
“No.” Con’s smiled wavered, then disappeared. “I wouldn’t.”
“I have to tell Bree. I have to show this to her.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take it. I need to hit the shower anyway.”
As she stood, her gaze fell on the open bag near the foot of the bed, her Gold Digger baseball cap tucked into the side pocket. Scooping it up, she bounded over to the bed.
“Here you go, sweetheart.” She placed it on his head, tugging on the bill. “For ‘first hands’ on the best recovery of the trip so far.”
He just smiled. “Thanks.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
FOR A LONG time after Lizzie left, Con sat on the bed folding the cap in his hands.
How did this get so freaking complicated?
Was it when he agreed to accept Lucy’s challenge and get that scepter from Lizzie and give it to Judd Paxton? Or just a few hours ago, when he found the second one, and cooked up a scheme that suited his needs but no one else’s?
Life was easier before he grew a conscience. Life was easier before Lizzie.
Empty, quiet, lonely, boring, and bland—but easier.
The bottom line was that as long as he gave either scepter to Judd Paxton, he was lying to her. And he cared too much for her to do that anymore.
Lucy wasn’t going to like it, but—
The phone vibrated in his hand, and he swore when he read the ID. He wanted to call her first, damn it.
“Hey, Luce. I was just about to call you.”
“It’s getting late and Avery has compiled a lot of information for you. I spoke with my contact at the Azorean police, and you’ll be cleared to leave there this afternoon.”
“Fine, we can do that, but I have to tell you something. There’s been a change—”
“Yes, there has, because I’m not finished.”
Damn, the woman liked control.
“Solange Bettencourt’s husband, Jaeger, is the man Judd Paxton has lined up to buy the scepters and diamonds should they be recovered from El Falcone.”
“Really.”
“In fact, he financed this dive, because he is the person who first found the map that pinpointed the location. Clearly there is a connection between his wife’s awareness of the recovery effort and her death.”
“There’s a connection, all right. She had the other scepter.”
“Excuse me?”
“I found it, hidden in her windmill.” It wasn’t how he’d wanted to tell Lucy, but all his plans seemed to implode the minute Lizzie forgave him his past.
“You’re serious?” Lucy said when he didn’t offer any more details. “You found it there?”
“Along with original documentation that supports Lizzie’s theory that Bettencourt tried to rob Aramis Dare, and in the process the scepters got separated.”
“Are you sure it’s authentic?”
“We can have it checked, but it looks real. And it explains a lot.”
“Like what?” Lucy asked.
“My guess is Jaeger Bettencourt didn’t know that one of his treasures had never made it to that ship, and that his ancestor had hidden it. Then, his estranged wife found it. And I don’t think she killed herself. Unless the police are complete morons, they are going to figure that out when they examine the body. I don’t know how long she was dead when we found her, but there was no one around, and no one passed us on the road down. I don’t know who could have been up there—”
“I do. The phone calls she made to the U.S. were to someone on El Falcone.”
“Who?”
“Sam Gorman.”
Sam… who had the other scepter. “How does he know Solange?”
“It’s not clear he did. But Charlotte Gorman did some conservator work for the Bettencourts’ art collection, and they may have stayed in touch. But there’s another connection that troubles me even more.”
“What’s that?”
“Recently, the Gormans donated a considerable amount of money to sponsor a diving expedition off the coast of Mexico.”
“Is that unusual?” Con asked.
“The expedition was run by Dylan Houser, the man who was with Malcolm Dare on his last fatal dive. So, what’s unusual is that the Gormans and Houser have at least a monetary connection. And the Bullet Catcher research database showed at least one other identity for Houser: a Douglas Haberstroh, who checks out as a freelance diver, mostly out of the country, where he allegedly is now. None of this proves anything, of course, but it all makes me uncomfortable—especially since Sam and Charlotte Gorman are on Corvo Island right now.”
“What?”
“They flew in directly and went through customs early today.”
“Then they couldn’t have killed Solange.” But the fact that they were there made him want to race to be sure Lizzie was safe.
“They still need to be brought in for questioning. I want you to find them and get them to the authorities, and arrange for them to be transported back to the States.”
“Will do.”
“And congratulations on getting both scepters,” Lucy added. “Judd will be thrilled. Great work.”
He was already checking his weapon and pulling a shirt over his head with one hand. “I’m not giving them to Judd Paxton, Lucy,” he said simply. “They belong to Lizzie Dare. The docs I found prove that. She’s keeping them.” End of discussion.
“The documentation has to be verified as authentic,” she said coolly. “And one was located during a dive sponsored and managed by Paxton Treasures.” She waited a beat. “Have you changed your mind about working for me?”
“I have had a change of heart, period. I’d very much like to work for you, but my position on this isn’t going to change.”
“That’s very noble, Con, but in this company, I call the shots. If you can’t work within those parameters, then you can’t work for me.”
“Fine.” The Bullet Catchers weren’t the only game in the world. Just the best.
He heard Lucy’s soft sigh of disappointment. “You told me you could do this. And I believed you wanted to dig deep and find the good man that lived inside a thief’s body.”
He laughed softly. “I did, Lucy. Only you weren’t the right woman to help me with that.” He hung up, and set off to finish the job—his way.
“You’re awake!” Lizzie peeked into the only patient room in the back of Corvo’s tiny clinic. “How do you feel?”
Her sister turned slowly, obviously still in pain. “Like I was shot at and blown into a gristmill.”
“Well, you were, sweetie.” Lizzie sighed with relief and love. Leaving the door open in case she needed a nurse, she approached the hospital bed, taking in Bree’s pale skin and heavily bandaged arm.
Bandaged and hurting, but alive. Once again, she closed her eyes and thanked Con.
“What’s that?” Bree asked, her gaze on the box.
Lizzie grinned and lifted it. “A little something to improve your mood.”
“Painkillers? Massive amounts. Street grade. Throw in a martini, and I’ll be happy.”
Lizzie laughed. “Okay, I’ll ask the nurse for meds.”
“Don’t worry, she just left to get them. What is it?”
“You will not believe what Con found.”
Even in her weakened condition, she managed a raised eyebrow. “Where did you find Con? That’s the question.”
“I told you, on the Gold Digger. And he’s not just another diver, Bree.”
“No shit. He’s a really hot diver.” “He’s a consultant for a security company. Like a high-end bodyguard and protection specialist.”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
She grinned enough to answer the question.
“So you got to go on the dive, find the most amazing treasure, and do some Greek god while I sifted through Daddy’s paperwork? That was fair.”
“Your sifting days are over. This is the real treasure.”
Bree tried to sit up and cringed in pain. “What is it?”
“Proof that everything Dad believed about Aramis Dare and El Falcone was absolutely true.”
She got up then, eyes widening, broken ribs forgotten. “What? How did you get it?”
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