by Sarah Monzon
Her brow furrowed. What was that supposed to mean? She glanced down at what she was wearing. Fitted shirt with a Peter Pan collar, dark skinny jeans, and ballet flats. Did her outfit scream cautious and collected? What about Trent? His white V-neck shirt hugged corded biceps. Jeans ripped at the knees, and the black leather jacket hung haphazardly across the back of his chair definitely lent to his adventurous spirit and bad-boy persona.
She lifted her chin. “I'm just as adventurous as the next person.”
He smirked in response.
It was on the tip of her tongue to argue with him, to prove that she knew how to have adventures, but then she clamped her jaw shut. What was the use? She'd already verbally disagreed with him on a number of things that day, and she'd lost every argument. She’d said no to getting coffee and no to him paying for said coffee, but where was she? Sitting in the corner of her favorite coffee shop, cradling a free vanilla latte in her hands. It wasn't worth the energy to disagree with him again. Especially since she was sure he'd somehow end up getting his way once more.
Lifting his hand, he ticked off two fingers. “Not for the money and not for the adventure. Are you going to reveal your motivation, or am I going to keep guessing all of the reasons it wasn’t?”
The stubborn man wouldn’t let up. “Fame.” Okay, not the real reason, but something he’d understand. Maybe that would appease him.
His brows flattened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. The motion tugged his shirt down a tad, and she had to look away from the blond tuft of hair peeking out from the V of his shirt. Good grief. She'd grown up in Florida and spent half her life on the beach. She'd seen plenty of men completely shirtless. So why did the display of a small patch of skin have her mouth going dry?
“I don't believe you. Fame isn't in the direction of your moral compass either.”
Okay, moment of attraction over. This guy was far too perceptive for his own good. It was downright irritating. In fact, everything about him irritated her. The way his blue eyes danced like the waves, reaching out to her and pulling her in. The way his half grin made her stomach feel funny, not unlike being out to sea in a small raft after a big storm. The way he seemed to look at her and see her. Not a Photoshopped version of who she was, but the real, unfiltered Summer Arnet. The man was totally and completely irritating.
He smiled at her again, and she almost rummaged through her purse for some Dramamine. “You might as well spill it. You know how stubborn I can be. If you want to get back to your studio and finish whatever it was you were working on, just tell me why you changed your mind.”
Hmmm…she'd forgotten about those photos that still needed editing. “Fine. It's always been my dream to have a photo selected for Our World magazine. I thought the great white photos would be well received with the editors, but they were rejected with instructions to find a more edgy approach for their subscribers.”
“Edgier than a great white?” His incredulous look made her laugh.
“Pretty much my reaction.”
“So you’re hoping photos of a four-hundred-year-old sunken ship will be edgy enough for them.”
Summer nodded. “That's the plan.”
A plan she'd better imprint in the soft tissues of her brain. No deviations. No detours. No entanglements.
Especially not with Trent Carrington.
Chapter Eight
"Flight 5250 to Detroit will now depart from gate A24."
The conversations held in the terminal resumed as the announcement ended and the light music started once again over the speakers.
Summer checked her watch. They'd be boarding in less than half an hour, and Mr. Hotshot still hadn't shown up. She peered out the large window covering the majority of the exterior wall. The plane was parked at the gate, the accordion attachment bridging the aircraft’s door to the Jetway.
"Worried he won't make it?"
Jonathan leaned closer from his seat beside her and bent his head toward her ear. He smelled fresh. Like Irish Spring soap. Nothing overpowering. Was it weird that she could tell the difference? Probably not, unless the fact every time she went shopping—mostly as a teenager, but occasionally now too—she'd detour to the soap aisle and sniff the contents, conjuring up an image of a father she'd never met.
Jonathan waved a hand in front of her face. "Yoo-hoo, earth to Summer."
Heat infused her cheeks as she blinked. "What? Sorry."
One eyebrow rose, but he let it go.
Bless him. No one needed to know how pathetic she was.
He nudged her with his elbow. "So, if he doesn't show, you want to have the pilot marry us and make this our romantic Bahaman honeymoon?"
Always a kidder. Well, she could play along.
"Absolutely. Your mom would forgive you for eloping in about ten years."
Jonathan shrugged a shoulder. "Nah. You've always been like a daughter to Mom. She'd kiss me for making you an official part of the family."
Summer wrinkled her nose. "If I'm like a daughter to her, then that makes you my brother, and incest is illegal, last time I checked."
"What's illegal?" A deep voice resonated from behind, and Jonathan and Summer swiveled in their chairs.
Trent looked more ready for bike week in Daytona than plane travel, with his clunky black boots, ripped jeans, oversized belt buckle, and red-and-black plaid button-up under a black leather jacket. Summer preferred her men more GQ—what girl wouldn't swoon over a tailored suit?—and a little less Hell's Angels. But if that were the case, why had her mouth suddenly gone dry?
"Glad you finally made it." Jonathan's voice held an edge of steel.
She considered Jonathan out the corner of her eye. The muscle in his jaw ticked. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to have invited him along after all. Playing referee was going to get old fast. But what was his deal? Why the animosity?
"Miss me?" One corner of Trent's mouth tilted up.
Trouble. With a capitol T. The song from The Music Man crescendoed in her mind. She’d need to do a better job of steering clear of this smooth talker than Marian did of Harold Hill.
Summer stood, her long maxi skirt tickling her ankles. "Like a dog misses fleas." She tugged the bottom of her teal tank top. "I'm going to find a real bathroom before it's too late. Excuse me, boys."
***
Trent watched Summer walk away. People came to Florida all the time for the view, and right now he couldn't blame them.
"You’re not her type, you know."
Of course, the state did boast annoying insects as well. This one of the human variety.
The leather of Trent’s jacket crinkled as he crossed his arms. "Oh yeah? And what type is that?"
Behind his square hipster glasses, Jonathan's eyes never blinked. "The type that think they're God's gift to women. That the rules don't apply to them." He paused as a mother and young child squeezed their way past them to the other end of the row of seats. "I bet you've been with a dozen women at least but haven't had a single lasting, meaningful relationship." He pointed a finger at Trent's chest. "You can't use Summer like that. I won't let you."
Trent splayed his hands in front of him. "Dude, you need to chill. Seriously. I haven't ever forced a lady to do something she didn't want to do, and I'm not about to start now."
"Good. Because if you—"
"Hey, guys, you coming?" Summer called and motioned them into line.
When had they started boarding?
Trent stood and pulled out his boarding pass from the front pocket of his laptop case before stepping into line beside Summer.
She angled her head his way. "What seat are you in?"
He held out his pass so she could see while he zipped his bag closed. "6B."
"I'm 6A, so I guess that makes you 6C, Jonathan?"
Trent didn't need to turn around to see Jonathan's face, because he could feel the heat of the other man's glare through the back of his head. Trent’s lips threatened to curl into a smirk. Feigning a cough, he
covered his mouth with his hand. The seating arrangements had been a perk of making the reservations. It might not be within his means to stop the third wheel from coming on the exploration, but he jolly well didn’t have to sit beside him on the hour flight across the Atlantic.
“No. Apparently I’m all the way in the back of the plane—28B.”
Perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose high up Summer’s forehead. “Really?”
She turned her gaze to Trent, expectant.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. It’s a packed flight. There weren’t three seats available together when I booked it.” Little white lie, but I couldn’t bear the thought of spending more time in your friend’s company than absolutely necessary wasn’t going to win him any brownie points.
Full lips pressed into a thin line. “No problem.” The little minx turned and held her boarding pass out to Jonathan. “You can take my seat, and I’ll sit in the back.”
Trent snatched the pass out of her hand and gave it to the airline worker scanning them into the computer. “No can do. We need to discuss the dive.”
Nostrils flared on her button nose. “Fine.”
It was amazing she got the word out past her clenched teeth.
The trio walked down the Jetway and stopped as the line clogged just before entering the aircraft. Summer reached out and touched Jonathan’s arm. “Maybe the person in the seat beside us will be willing to switch with you so we all can sit together.”
Jonathan gave Trent a hard scowl before his eyes softened and he looked to Summer. “I doubt anyone will want to give up their seat close to the front to sit near the back, but thanks.”
The line resumed, and Trent smiled and nodded at the flight attendant welcoming the passengers. The woman’s gaze raked over him, a spark of interest in her eyes.
Funny. There was no answering fire in his belly raising his body temperature. No desire…for her. He took a second look, and her lips parted. Bad idea. Now she’d think there was an interest when there wasn’t. But why wasn’t there? The airline’s uniform shorts exposed long, well-shaped legs, and the tailored top tucked in to a trim waist. Thick, wavy brown hair framed an oval face, and intelligent hazel eyes followed him as he entered the aisle. She looked like she wouldn’t mind getting to know him better—his usual prerequisite to pursuit—so why did that thought hold no appeal for him?
His hip bounced off a seat to his left. He felt like a human pinball machine as he shuffled down the aisle. Ahead of him, Summer’s long red hair fell from over one shoulder and tumbled down her back as she turned her head and looked up at the seat numbers posted under the overhead compartments. Milky white skin dotted with adorable freckles peeked behind the thin strip of her tank top strap along her shoulder. His breath hitched, and his fingertips tingled with the urge to trace the line along the curve of her neck.
Could she be the reason the flight attendant hadn’t stirred any cravings inside him?
Summer sank into the gray cushioned seat, head back and eyes closed. Trying to ignore him? He took his place beside her and pushed his canvas laptop case under the seat in front of him.
People continued to shuffle along the aisle, carry-on cases getting shoved into overhead compartments. A baby started to cry somewhere near the rear. Trent pulled a hand across the back of his neck. This could be a long hour.
An overweight gentleman squeezed past rows of seats by walking sideways. He paused beside Trent and looked up.
Oh, please, no.
The man fell into the seat beside Trent with a puff of breath. A puff of rancid onion breath.
So this was to be his punishment for banishing Jonathan to the back of the plane.
Seat 6C shoved in a pair of earbuds and opened a creased paperback. At least Trent wouldn’t have to endure holding his breath over small talk.
Glancing back over to Summer, he leaned his elbow on the armrest between them. The woman scooted away even farther. Another inch and she’d be taking this flight sitting on the wing of the plane.
She couldn’t avoid him forever.
His eyes snagged on the small rectangular window. The plastic shade had been pulled down. He grinned. Come to think of it, the cabin was a little dark. With deliberate movements, he leaned over Summer, his arm skimming hers, and tugged the covering up. He paused as he leaned back to his side. Summer’s green eyes narrowed to thin slits. Trent winked, and her eyes widened, her cheeks infusing with color.
So, she wasn’t immune to his charms after all.
The revelation brought an unexpected lightness to his chest. It was as if he had been holding his breath since meeting her and now his lungs were able to work to their full capacity again. Interesting. What was it about this woman that affected him so?
Summer pulled out an in-flight magazine and flipped through the pages.
A flight attendant stood at the front of the aisle and began going through the safety information. He’d heard it a thousand times. Life vests under the seats, put your own oxygen mask on before helping a child, yada yada yada.
“Cabin crew, please prepare for takeoff.”
The engines roared to life, and the plane gained speed on the runway. Soon the force pushed him back against the seat, and the plane was in the air.
Summer’s nose was still buried in that stupid magazine. There couldn’t possibly be anything in all that junk advertised that she actually would consider buying. He had to hand it to her. She was pretty good at the silent treatment.
“Can I get y’all something to drink?”
Trent looked over to find the pretty flight attendant in the aisle. 6C ordered his drink, and then the attendant turned her eyes on Trent.
“And how about you, sugar? What can I get for you?” Her words were innocent enough. Probably the same two questions she asked all the passengers. But the way she said it. The look in her eyes and the tilt of her head. Oh yeah. She was asking for much more than what he wanted to drink.
Twin holes burned into the back of his head, and he knew Summer was glaring. He gave himself a little mental high five. Someone completely indifferent wouldn’t care a twit that another women was flirting with him. But it obviously bothered Summer. Which meant he had a chance.
“I’ll take a water, thank you.”
The flight attendant turned to Summer after a few more beats of solid eye contact. “And for you?”
“Water.”
Summer jammed the magazine back into the seat pouch in front of her. She crossed her arms and stared out the window.
Man, but she was cute. Time for a little peace offering though. An hour on a plane with nothing to do and no one to talk to would seem like a lifetime. Trent reached into a pocket in his jacket and pulled out a pack of gum. He held it out to her, letting his arm brush against hers.
“Want a piece?”
She turned slightly. Looked at the gum and then at him.
“For your ears.”
She took a piece, and the lines around her mouth softened.
Finally.
The gum wrapper crinkled as she unwrapped it. “So what are you hoping to find in this ship of yours?”
Good question. “That depends. If the galleon was traveling from Spain to the New World, then it would be loaded down with tools, books, clothing, and other European-made luxuries. On the other hand, if the ship was headed to Spain, the possibilities are a little more monetary. A galleon in the treasure fleet could theoretically hold two million pieces of eight.” He paused. “You do know what pieces of eight are, right?”
Slender arms folded over her chest, and her lips pursed.
Man, it was fun to rile her.
“Like anyone born and raised in Florida, I know my share of Spanish history, Trent. Pieces of eight are silver coins, also known as Spanish dollars.” Her arms unfolded. “You know the galleons in the Spanish treasure fleet carried other cargo besides gold and silver though. Many carried tobacco, sugar, silk, even lumber. None of which would be valuable now, and all of which would
be ruined. What if we go through all this trouble and you’re left with an empty ship?” She glanced away and muttered under her breath, “If there’s even one there.”
Doubter. Well, she didn’t have to believe a piece of history lay in that specific spot in the ocean, but he did. He could feel it in his gut.
The plane suddenly dipped, and Trent’s stomach shot to his throat. Reflexes had him white-knuckling his armrests. Summer screamed beside him and gripped his arm. Her fingernails dug into the skin surrounding his bicep. Too bad the situation was too dangerous to relish her closeness.
The plane shook and bounced more than the wooden roller coasters he used to ride as a kid. A thousand times scarier though. His palms grew sweaty, and he couldn’t rein in the speed of his pulse. Prayers could be heard throughout the cabin as well as chants of “We’re gonna die. We’re gonna die.” Up and down they bounced before the plane plunged again and the air masks dropped in front of their faces.
The chanters had been right. They were all going to die.
Chapter Nine
In the Middle of the Atlantic, 1689
Metal clashing pulsated the air surrounding the ship. Isabella whipped her head around, her hands wrapping tighter around the handle of a swab.
Ting. Ting. Grunt. Zing.
What was going on? Curiosity propelled her forward. Two men stood on the main deck, feet braced and swords flying. The captain looked poised as his arm arched behind him, sunlight reflecting off the brass buttons on his doublet. His dark hair bounced around his shoulders as he thrust his rapier at his opponent.
The challenger swung his own sword downward, successfully deflecting the offensive strike. He moved back, but the captain did not follow.
Isabella’s breath hitched as she watched the standoff. Who would attack next? Sweat beaded off the sailor’s forehead, his lightweight shirt clinging to his back. His chest heaved from exertion, while Captain Montoya didn’t even appear winded. The man juggled the hilt of his sword in his hand, and with a primitive roar, lunged toward the captain, the tip of his rapier aimed at the heart. Isabella covered her mouth and the gasp trying to escape. Was this mutiny? Should she try to find help?
