by Neesa Hart
“I’ve spent my career looking for the Isabela.” He hesitated. He rarely discussed this. He’d been informed by some very knowledgeable people that he sounded far too intense. Frighteningly intense. “This is one more piece of the puzzle.”
Cora frowned. “And that will bring every fortune hunter and relic seeker in the world to Cape Marr, hoping to beat you to the treasure.”
Her tone was pure censure, condemning and condescending. He couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice. “The fact that my research is more accessible to the general public doesn’t make it any less valid than yours.”
She gasped. “I didn’t mean—”
“I’m not interested in the treasure,” he said harshly. “It’s not about that.”
“But you can’t deny that its allure would bring chaos. This is a small town. The kind of people who hunt sunken treasure for a living aren’t known for their high moral code, you know. I don’t think downtown Cape AMR is ready to host the international cutthroat convention.”
“It won’t happen. I can stop it from happening.”
“Are you kidding?” she shot back. “You draw reporters and attention like honey draws flies.”
“With me,” he insisted, “and with my involvement in the project, you not only get access to my fund-raising team, you get my PR firm, as well. They’re very good at keeping reporters out of my hair.”
Becky tucked her feet beneath her legs and looked at Cora. “It’s true, Cora. Don’t you remember reading how annoyed the press was because they didn’t have access to the Argo project until after the ship was raised?”
“Because the Greek military protected the site as a matter of national interest,” Cora said, then looked at Rafael. “What are you going to do? Make a phone call to the Joint Chiefs of Staff?”
She wasn’t going to back down, he realized, and found himself unaccountably pleased by her candor and resistance. He’d been too long without a challenge. “Not quite, but I can assure you that my PR people will take the headache out of this.”
Cora shook her head. “Not if Henry Willers has anything to do with it. The man never saw a camera he didn’t like.”
Becky agreed. “He turns everything into a circus.”
“The secret,” Rafael said, “is to make sure you control the press, instead of the other way around. There will be attention. There’s no way to avoid it.”
“Lovely,” Cora muttered.
“But we’ll direct it, instead of letting it direct us.” He paused. “I already told Willers that after tomorrow he’d better stay the hell out of my business, or I’d make sure he regretted it.”
Cora pulled off her glasses to rub her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. “God, this is giving me a headache.”
But she wasn’t arguing, he noted, and decided to press his advantage. “I’ve been looking for the truth about del Flores since I was seventeen years old.” At her skeptical look, he nodded. “It’s true. I left home because my brother, Zack, and I weren’t getting along. I came down here to work my way through college and discovered the del Flores story. I’ve been hooked ever since.” He leveled his gaze at her. “And if you think about it, I can actually help make all this easier on you. Because of my connections, I can raise the money you need, but because of my family, I can help you with something else.”
“What now? You know the cure for the common cold?”
He laughed. Lord, the woman fascinated him. He found himself increasingly preoccupied with the idea of how all that mental acuity would affect him during sex. Would she approach lovemaking with the same intellectual intensity, or could he coax her to flagrant passion? Or both, he thought, the idea definitely tantalizing. “Nothing that dramatic,” he finally assured her. “But I did some checking today—” he held up a hand to forestall her interruption “—and your nieces are running you into the ground.”
“They are not.” She looked indignant. “They’re just a little…active.”
“Cora, they’re hellions,” Becky said.
Cora gave her a reproving look. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You’ve gone through three baby-sitters this week alone,” Becky countered.
Cora squirmed. “They’re having…It’s been a difficult adjustment.” She looked at Rafael. “My sister is notoriously self-absorbed. They felt as if they got dumped here when she went…when she left. I’d be expecting too much if I thought they wouldn’t act out some of that frustration.”
He nodded. “And it doesn’t help any that you’ve got your course load to handle, the pressure of a major research project looming over your head and the responsibility for the entertainment, care and feeding of three kids. I’m not criticizing you—just sympathizing.”
“If you think harassing me about my nieces is going to win you any points—”
“I’m not harassing you. I’m here to offer you a solution.”
Becky raised an eyebrow. “Boarding school?” she quipped.
Cora frowned at her. Rafael shook his head. “I’m just going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“I doubt it,” Cora retorted.
He ignored her. “You give me access to the house for the next two months, and I’ll solve your child-care problem. Two adults and three kids are much better odds than the ones you’re playing now.”
“You’re going to baby-sit? Are you insane?”
“I wouldn’t call it baby-sitting,” he said. “More like riot control.”
“It would never work.”
“Sure it would. I’d move in with you and—”
Cora gasped. “Move in?”
“You want to live here?” Becky said.
He nodded. “This is where Abigail lived, where she wrote.” He gave Cora a piercing look. “Where she made love with del Flores. I can learn from the atmosphere if I move in.”
“Move in, as in your clothes in my closet, your toothbrush in my bathroom?”
The mere thought made his blood pump faster. All he had to do was picture what Cora would look like in the morning—rumpled, warm, addictively soft—to feel himself getting aroused. He could see them stretched languorously amid tangled sheets and scattered pillows, exhausted and sated from an arduous night of sizzling, mind-blowing sex. And it would be with her, he knew. It most definitely would be.
He realized that Cora was watching him, saw the heightened color in her face, the awareness in her eyes, and knew she was thinking along similar lines. She didn’t want to, but couldn’t stop herself. A satisfied smile touched his lips. “I hadn’t planned,” he said softly, “on sharing a bathroom.”
The insinuation that he had definitely planned on sharing other things—like a bedroom—wasn’t lost on her. Her color deepened, but she sat perfectly still.
Becky, sweetly oblivious to the undercurrent, was nodding, thoughtful. “You know, Cora. There is the room on the top floor.” She looked at Rafael. “It has a separate entrance,” she explained.
He knew that already. Cora usually rented the room to a student during the regular term. One of the secretaries in the college administration office had revealed that to him. “Does it?” he asked casually.
“Yes,” Becky assured him. “You’d have some privacy that way.”
Privacy wasn’t what he’d planned, but he and Cora could argue about it later. “I’m sure I would.” He kept his tone bland.
Becky turned to Cora. “You haven’t rented it for the summer, have you?”
Cora frowned. “Becky—”
“It could work,” Becky insisted. “You do need help.”
Rafael added, “You’d have more time for research.”
Becky had warmed to the idea. “Think about it, Cora. If you didn’t have to constantly worry about coordinating schedules and transportation, you could work all day.”
“How much time do you lose by not being able to run off to the library for an hour or two because you have to worry about what you’re going to do with the girls?” Rafael asked
.
“I’ve worked it out,” Cora said tightly.
“And how many times have you been totally immersed in Abigail’s writing and had to stop to resolve a sibling crisis?” he went on.
“That’s not—”
“There are three of them and one of you.” He pressed his hands to his thighs and leaned forward to drive home his point. “You need help. And I can give it to you.”
“By living with me?”
“I don’t have to.” He watched her closely. “I could live in town and come by during the days, but it suits my purposes better to be here, and it helps you more if I am. We both win.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I do,” Becky said.
“It’s an excellent idea,” Rafael insisted. “I could be there during the day while you’re tied up in classes. And face it, you’ve got to do something with the girls before they drive you crazy.”
“Something like turn them over to you? What could you possibly know about three little girls?”
“I’m the second oldest of thirteen children. I have nine sisters—all younger. I know a lot about girls.” He leaned closer. “Of all ages.”
Cora snorted. “You know, if you ever decide to give up ocean archeology, you might want to consider stand-up comedy. You’ve got a comeback for just about everything, don’t you.”
Becky looked at Cora. “This is the perfect solution, Cora. You know it is.”
She visibly wavered, then looked at Rafael. “This is exactly why I said no to your first letter,” she told him. “I didn’t want this kind of disruption.”
“It’ll work out, Cora. You’ll see,” Becky assured her. “In the long run, if he’s handling the media, you’ll have more time for the diaries. Everyone wins.”
He saw her indecision and realized he was holding his breath. Finally she sighed, a weary sigh of surrender. “Since there’s no reasonable way to stop this now,” she told him, “then I at least want your promise on one thing.” She paused. “I haven’t had the chance to fully examine the diaries, but they’re…intensely personal. I’d prefer not to see Abigail’s private thoughts printed for public consumption without my consent.”
Rafael felt a surge of satisfaction. She had a strong desire, he realized, to protect Abigail’s privacy. Dared he hope that she felt a connection to Abigail and del Flores similar to his own? “Fine,” he agreed.
She held his gaze a moment longer, then dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, God,” she groaned. “What have I done?”
Chapter Three
She always charms me, this passionate, consummate lady of mine. How they misread her, I’ll never know. The lot of fools sees only what they look for. I’m grateful, really. The world may see her proper outward appearance, but I, alone, have seen the fire beneath the ice.
Juan Rodriguez del Flores
Captain’s Log, 10 April 1861
“Dr. Prescott,” the wiry-looking man in the front row of the university auditorium clutched his notepad with journalistic fervor, “why the change in policy? Sources say you’ve turned down over a dozen other joint projects on the Conrad diaries.”
Cora could practically feel Jerry gloating as she faced the roomful of inquisitors the following morning. He sat behind her on the dais, flanked by Henry Willers and the chairman of the Rawlings College board of trustees. Rafael and Becky had left her home at two o’clock that morning. After too little sleep, Jerry’s phone call had awakened her. He’d informed her of the press conference in a gratingly cheerful voice that had Cora wanting to spit nails. By the time she’d gotten the girls ready—amid Kaitlin’s complaining, Molly’s incessant questions and Liza’s insistence that Benedict Bunny come along—Cora’s mood had disintegrated from bad to rotten. She had a pounding headache and a serious inclination to tear Jerry’s head off.
Summoning her dignity, she glanced at her nieces where they sat in the front row with Becky. They’d seen enough episodes, she reminded herself, of their mother, sans dignity, to last them a lifetime. They didn’t need to see it from her.
The only person conspicuously absent from this circus was Rafael. He was late, and when she got the chance, she’d kill him for it.
Cora gripped the edge of the podium and forced herself to concentrate on the question. “My priority,” she told the young reporter, “has always been to conduct my study of the Conrad diaries in a manner that will glean the most information in the most responsible manner. On consideration of Dr. Adriano’s proposal, I decided—”
“—that she can’t live without me,” came his low drawl from the wings of the stage. He flashed her a bright smile as he strode toward the podium.
Predictably his arrival caused a flurry of interest. Cameras popped. Reporters began hurling questions at the stage. A microphone, suddenly adjusted too high, squealed feedback into the house. Rafael seemed oblivious to the commotion as he walked toward Cora in long, ground-eating strides. He stopped when he reached her.
“You’re late,” she said in a taut whisper.
He gave her a heated look “Miss me?”
Cora clenched her teeth. “You’re creating a spectacle.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Liza smile broadly at him and give him a slight wave. The innocent act left Cora feeling oddly betrayed.
He bent his head closer. “The better to dazzle you with,” he retorted with infuriating cheer. “Watch and learn.”
Cora glared at him. He gave her a cocky grin, then faced his audience with aplomb. For the next several minutes he volleyed their questions, expounded on his research goals, gave eloquent testimony to her work with Abigail’s diaries and generally charmed the audience’s collective socks off.
He flirted, flaunted and flashed his million-dollar smile until he had them eating out of his hand. Cora watched, torn between amusement and irritation. Even her three nieces sat uncharacteristically still during the discourse. Several times Becky sent her telling looks. No wonder, she thought, that she’d had to work so hard to dig beneath the charismatic mantle he wore to glimpse the passionate man she’d seen last night. His armor was so thick he seemed undaunted by the occasionally blatant accusations that came his way from the handful of reporters who seemed determined to resist his charm. When one asked if he deliberately courted wealthy history buffs and thrill seekers for access to their money, he smiled and said with disarming nonchalance, “Whom would you suggest I court?”
And the crowd laughed appreciatively. Even Henry Willers, whose notoriously sour expression was the constant fodder of cartoons in the student paper, chuckled.
Another reporter captured his attention by asking, “Coming off the Argo find, isn’t Cape Marr going to be anticlimactic?”
Rafael nodded. “I certainly hope so. You can understand how an expedition of that sort can be exhausting.”
“Of course,” the man persisted. “But your career is peaking, and our readers would like to know why you’d choose to invest your time on something as seemingly innocuous as the Conrad diaries.”
“The del Flores story has been a career-long interest of mine. I’m eager to work with Dr. Prescott and learn more.”
“Any reason you can give us,” yelled a woman from the back, “for why you haven’t been able to find del Flores’s ship yet?
From the corner of her eye, Cora saw Rafael tense. He seemed to carefully consider the question, but she sensed a fine tremor of energy in him. In a deceptively casual move, he propped one arm on the podium and leaned forward. “Sometimes,” he said softly, “the sea is a tantalizing adversary.”
An unnatural hush seemed to fall on the room as they waited for him to continue. “In some ways,” he went on, “exploring the ocean’s mysteries is like courting a woman. It can be elusive and mysterious. It’s mercurial and unpredictable.”
Cora could almost feel the audience falling under his spell. And who could blame them? He was weaving a delicate wave of evocative images designed to entice and fasci
nate. She resisted the urge to wipe her suddenly damp palms on her skirt.
Rafael seemed lost in thought now. He absently stroked the outer edge of his eye patch as he continued, “The ocean is the source of life for the world. The mother of the earth, if you will. In her womb, she still carries the remnants of the earliest forms of life.”
Cora swallowed so hard it was audible. If he noticed, he didn’t look at her. “It’s full of secrets that it hides beneath a calm surface. Like a woman, the ocean can be as warm as a tropical breeze or as cold as an Arctic current.” A suspiciously strangled cough escaped her.
“Something about that fascinates me,” he said. “I especially like to find warm currents of water where the weather pattern demands frigid temperatures. The sea is a paradox. Always changing, always moving. You can never predict what the ocean will do. She can be calm as a breezeless day one minute, and catch you in a violent storm the next. She’s fathoms deep. Passionate. Alluring.” He rolled the last word off the tip of his tongue. “I love the mystery, and I love the challenge.”
He glanced momentarily at Cora. Their gazes met. Her body temperature went up a notch. He flashed her a slight smile that said he knew exactly what she was thinking, then turned back to his audience. “Nothing compares,” he drawled, “to that brief moment of mindless euphoria that always follows the climax of an expedition.”
The crowd sat in stunned silence. Cora resisted the urge to strangle him. A fine sheen of sweat had beaded her forehead, and as much as she’d like to blame it on the stage lighting, she suspected it owed more to an increased pulse rate. Damn the man, she thought irritably.
As rumbles began in the audience, one reporter, a strikingly attractive woman in a lipstick-red tailored suit, managed to shoulder her way through the crowd of photographers near the edge of the stage. She had dark hair and an olive complexion that gave her an exotic look. “Dr. Adriano,” she said, and Cora saw an unmistakable smirk on her full mouth, “while that’s all fine and good as the reason for your, uh, passion about your work, we’d still like to know why you’ve been looking for del Flores’s ship specifically for the past twenty years.”
