by Liz Johnson
The way her eyes widened, it was clear she did. Whoever had sold her a tall tale about some riches hidden at the Chateau had fully convinced her. That didn’t mean he needed to be as gullible. He’d read nearly every book about this old property, and then he’d taught a class about it. History 103: “Georgia’s Past to the Present.”
Sure, every now and then a rumor emerged about lost treasure in the area. There were even a few rumors of buried treasures dating back as far as the heyday of pirates, but every single one of them had been debunked. There was no treasure here except fifteen bucks an hour. And he wasn’t about to give that up.
“Look, lady.”
Her eyebrows darted together, a storm cloud rising.
He quickly modified his comment. “Millie, I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. You’re clearly not where you’re supposed to be, and that’s grounds for termination. You know that.”
Gaze darting toward the floor, she nodded. The landmark’s supervisors were pretty clear about actors only going where they were assigned—the parlor and pool deck mostly. It was about preserving the historical integrity of the old house as long as possible. Even without extra foot traffic, the carpets had begun to wear in strange patterns. And peeling patches of fabric wallpaper would soon require repairs, another piece of history gone.
“I know. But can’t you make an exception?”
“No.”
He sounded like a jerk. Maybe he was a jerk. But what if he let her go and someone found out? He couldn’t risk that.
Trying to keep his grip firm but gentle, he gave her a small tug. “Come on. We’ll get this sorted out at the office.”
“Please.” There was a tremor in her voice, as though more than a fictional gold chest was at stake, but her spine remained straight, her chin at a stubborn angle.
“Let’s go.”
Her feet slid along the rug, its maroon and gold thread already thin in patches, and he almost stopped so she wouldn’t damage the original carpet. Almost. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she let out a faint sob and pointed toward a book on the floor. “It’s all in there. In the diary.”
A boulder dropped in his stomach.
“And I’ll split it with you.”
Well, that was interesting.
three
So what happened? Did you get sick or something? You missed your whole last act!”
Ben risked a slow look out of the side of his eye at Millie as she took her manager’s scolding, the older woman clearly doubtful about her subordinate’s claim. Millie’s long arms were wrapped around her middle, her eyes glistening with something that certainly looked like tears. They had the strangely unfocused look of someone truly ill, although she’d never even hinted that she wasn’t feeling well. And her shoulders twitched with the uneven rhythm of shivers. Or maybe she was just nervous under the firm eye of her boss. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have guessed she really had the flu rather than a case of the nerves.
Juliet Covington, the manager of all the talent at the Chateau, sucked on her front tooth, her dark gaze moving from Millie to him and back again. “And you just so happened to find her.” Skepticism dripped from her words.
“Yes. I was looking for the woman the little boy saw. It must have been Millie.” His voice nearly cracked on the last word, and he could have shot his own foot. He was botching this performance. Juliet didn’t believe them. Or rather, she didn’t believe him. Millie could have convinced the world she was Princess Anastasia—a century late and blonde to boot.
What had he been thinking? He never should have agreed to any of this. It was a ridiculous plan. And the chances of there actually being any treasure on this property—besides the gold-plated tiles in the swimming pool and other adornments—were beyond slim.
Stupid. Foolhardy. Reckless.
He was banking everything—his job, his reputation, and maybe even his position at the college—on a silly story from Millie’s grandmother and the evidence in an old journal. And all for what?
A chance to repay the people he owed.
The truth struck him like a punch to the gut. It didn’t matter how many times he reminded himself of what he owed them. It always hurt. It always stole his breath.
Paying back those people was worth it. It had to be. And at least if he was along for the ride, he could keep an eye on Millie and make sure she didn’t walk away with anything that didn’t belong to her.
He sucked in a quick breath as Juliet’s gaze traveled from him to Millie and back again. He should just give the journal to Juliet. His hands itched to reach for the book carefully tucked into the back of his waistband, covered by his black security jacket, but he fisted them at his sides instead.
“Uh-huh.” Juliet huffed and leaned back in the chair behind her desk, which was twice as large as it should have been for an office so small. “You two just happened to be in the same place. And you lost track of time.”
The way her gaze volleyed back and forth left little room to wonder what Juliet was thinking. She assumed that when single co-workers disappeared, they were taking advantage of one of the hundreds of dim corners or shadowed alcoves. She assumed they’d been up to something.
And they definitely had been—just not what she assumed.
“Well, I knew what time it was,” Millie said. “But I was answering Mr. Thornton’s questions.”
He shot her a hard stare. She made him sound like he was eighty. Well, he wasn’t. Just because he liked to follow the rules—normally—well, that didn’t mean he was an old fuddy-duddy.
He caught another glimpse of her profile, all smooth lines and porcelain skin. But she wasn’t as young as she looked. There was an understanding in her eyes that reminded him of the pleading in her voice when they’d met in the library. She needed that treasure for some reason. She needed it badly enough that she was willing to share what she found. And she needed help to find it—his help.
Millie lifted her chin under Juliet’s scrutiny, firmly setting her jaw. Most girls would have blabbered on, but Millie handled the weighty gaze with quiet solemnity.
Maybe it was because she knew that the journal was safely tucked away. But if she was fired, she wouldn’t be free to search the grounds. Then it would be up to him to . . . what? Find a treasure that never existed?
He cringed at the thought. This was all a mess, and he’d gone and gotten himself wrapped up in it like a fool. If he ended up on the wrong side of the law, he wouldn’t be in a position to repay all those names on his list.
Juliet squinted at him. “What are you two up to?”
Millie bit her lips until they disappeared, and Ben crossed his arms over his chest. Then dropped them to his side. Then crossed them again. Juliet’s eyes followed every movement.
With a tap of the wooden desktop, Juliet said, “I should have you both fired.”
Millie let out a little peep of anguish, and he had a sudden urge to put his hand on her shoulder. Of course, that was crazy. He didn’t console women he didn’t know. And he didn’t have time to know many women. Besides, Juliet was threatening his job too.
“But . . .”
He let out a little sigh.
“I’ve barely gotten you trained, and I don’t like to waste my time.” Juliet stood to her full height, nearly as tall as Ben, and waved one finger at them both. “This is your only warning. Do you understand me? Next time you’re not where you’re supposed to be, I’ll personally kick you off the property—both of you.”
A knot in his chest that he hadn’t even realized was there suddenly unraveled, and he gulped a deep breath.
“Yes, ma’am.” Millie’s voice dipped into a thicker, deeper accent in those words that every Southern child knew. Ben could only nod.
Juliet dismissed them both. Her mouth said, “I’ll see you for your next shift.” Her tone said, “I’ll be watching you.”
No doubt that would be true, which would not make searching for a treasure on the grounds easy. That is, if
there even was one.
He backed out of the office and followed Millie toward the women’s locker room. “I need to change and get my purse,” she said. Her sapphire gaze was sharper than he’d ever seen it in the exactly thirty-two minutes he’d known her, and it was rather unnerving.
Actually, everything from this night was a little bit out of his norm and a whole lot out of his comfort zone.
“Do you know Coastal Coffee by the pier?”
He nodded.
“Let’s meet there in about twenty minutes.”
His forehead wrinkled so hard he could feel it, but her gaze never wavered from his.
She glanced toward his side, and after a brief moment, she gave a decisive nod. “You can keep the journal until then if that makes you feel better.”
It didn’t. Taking an antique book—even a handwritten one—off the property made his stomach feel like it had taken too many loops on a roller coaster.
The slow traffic across St. Simons Island didn’t help the matter. By the time he pulled his car into the almost empty parking lot of the island’s coffeehouse, loved by locals and generally missed by tourists, he’d decided this had all been a terrible mistake.
Millie had nearly gotten him fired, and he didn’t hold out much hope that he’d be able to hang on to the job as long as he was running around with her. He couldn’t work with her. But if he didn’t, she was going to hunt on her own. What kind of trouble would she get into then?
Besides, if the diary did belong to her great-grandmother, then she was entitled to it. Right? He didn’t exactly know the rules for these things—forgotten treasure and all that.
This was a bad idea. Terrible. The very worst. Maybe it wasn’t too late to back out now.
Yet his hand had no problem resting on the journal riding shotgun in his coupe. There was no telling the mysteries this book might reveal. It was a window into the Chateau at its most luxurious. It was an important piece of history.
And he wanted it for a stupid treasure map.
He pressed his forehead to the cracked steering wheel and took a deep breath. The cool summer air carried the scents of the sea, water, and fish. And home. But it did little to calm the speeding train threatening to run off his mind’s track.
God, I think I’m in over my head here. I have no idea what to do now.
Two sharp raps on his window jerked him upright, and he stared into that blue gaze.
Whether Millie was an answer to prayer or just had uncanny timing, he’d never know.
Millie picked up her small black coffee and slipped into the corner booth. The blue vinyl cushion stuck to the back of her legs, and she suddenly missed the sleekness of silk. Her costumes all made her feel like she could slide through the eye of a needle. Should she ever need to.
But she’d left her silks at the Chateau, and apparently she’d deserted her good sense long before that. Whatever had convinced her to offer to split the reward they found had left behind only regret in its wake. What had she been thinking?
Oh, that’s right. She hadn’t been. She’d let her mouth run away with her because she’d been backed into a corner and couldn’t see any other way out. But that didn’t excuse her behavior. And now she was stuck. Stuck with a partner she didn’t know. Stuck with a journal she had barely touched. Stuck with a clock that wouldn’t stop counting down.
Sixty-three days. That’s all she had left to find a miracle.
As Ben slid into the seat across from her, he laid the brown journal onto the table between them. It took everything inside her not to snatch it up and begin reading her great-grandmother’s story and searching for the map Grandma Joy had said it contained. But the heavy weight of Ben’s gaze kept her hands wrapped around her paper cup.
“So . . .” he began.
Back in the library she’d promised him the truth, but now that the moment was here, she wasn’t quite sure it wouldn’t sound a bit ridiculous. Actually, she was absolutely sure she would sound ridiculous. There just wasn’t any other way around it.
“You see, it all started with my grandma.”
His eyes shot toward the journal. “I thought you said she was your great-grandma.”
“No. Yes.” Millie rubbed her forehead, trying to figure out how to explain only the parts he needed to know—and there were certainly plenty of those—in a way that would make any sort of sense.
But there was also information he didn’t need. Like the conversation she’d had with Grandma Joy. The news that Henry wasn’t Grandma Joy’s biological father. The realization that they might be heirs of a wealthy guest at the Chateau.
Ben, with his gaze that seemed to see straight through her, did not need to know about all of that. And he definitely didn’t need to know that the most famous guest of the Chateau the summer of 1929 had been Claude Devereaux.
As Ben stared at her with unmoving eyes, every line of his face turned tight and expectant.
He’d said he was in. But somehow she knew if she didn’t impress him right now, she was going to lose everything he could offer her search—the protection of a security guard on the grounds and the help of another set of eyes. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to lose his help. But if she didn’t know he was on her side, she couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t spill her secrets.
Under Juliet’s watchful gaze, Millie would have to be extra careful not to be found out. And that’s where Ben could help. A lot. Even if working with him meant sharing the money, there was more at stake here.
Her gut twisted as she thought about the secrecy it would take to search the estate. Grandma Joy would be appalled. Millie was nearly there herself. Sneaking around places she knew she wasn’t supposed to be in wasn’t how she would have chosen to find the treasure. But she hadn’t been given a choice.
Grandma Joy needed a safe home—a permanent one. And she’d do whatever she needed to make that happen.
“My Grandma Joy was telling me stories about her mom—my Great-Grandma Ruth—a few weeks ago.”
He nodded, scratching at his chin with his thumb.
“She—I mean Ruth—was a guest at the Chateau the summer of 1929.”
His lips pursed, and he let out a low whistle just as his coffee reached his mouth. He tilted the cup up but never looked away, and her skin broke out in goose bumps under his scrutiny. But he said nothing else.
He clearly didn’t need to be reminded that that was the last summer before the stock market crashed and the Great Depression settled over the country. He didn’t need to be reminded that the guests had enjoyed every luxury money could buy. And he definitely didn’t need to be reminded that the Chateau had never been the same after that summer.
“Grandma Joy said that her mom had mentioned a lost treasure at Howard Dawkins’s home. Jewelry and diamonds and such.”
His jaw locked, and he shook his head. “I’ve been studying the history of the barrier islands for more than a decade, and those are only rumors, old stories that have been tossed about for years. No one’s ever proved there was anything on the property. What makes you think your grandma is telling the truth?”
Millie chewed on her lip and spun her coffee in a slow circle. What did make her think Grandma Joy was telling the truth? Especially given her diagnosis.
Sure, it was easier to believe that this was just another story concocted after a sleepless night or one too many prescriptions. But that didn’t explain the most important element.
“She knew about the diary. It stands to reason she could be telling the truth about its contents too.”
His blue eyes darted toward the book as his dark eyebrows pinched together. Three little furrows appeared above his nose, but he didn’t speak for several long seconds. Finally he said, “You really think there’s a map in there?”
“Only one way to find out.” Inordinately proud of how confident she sounded, she reached for the diary.
He pressed his hand over hers to stop the movement. “Be careful.”
“I know.�
� Her voice had picked up a little tremor in the previous minute, and she clamped her lips closed to keep anything else from coming out. To keep anything else from giving away how very unsure she was about everything that had happened in the last two hours.
She’d discovered the journal, and now she had an accomplice on her mission. But she still hadn’t read even one line of the book. Only God knew what she’d find in it.
With a steadying breath, she slipped her hand from under the heavy weight of his and eased the diary across the table. The supple brown leather glided over the wooden tabletop, and she slowly flipped the cover open. Page after page revealed only the narrow script of Ruth Holiday’s penmanship. There were no drawings, no “X marks the spot” indicators.
With each turn of the page, her heart sank a little lower. It was in her shoes by the time she reached the last page.
Nothing. It wasn’t a treasure map after all.
Grandma Joy had been wrong, and this had all been for nothing.
Her dejection must have shown across her face, because Ben reached toward her hand again, stopped short, and then drummed his fingertips next to his cup. “Maybe it’s in there.” He tried—and failed—to keep his tone light, and his words hit almost as hard as the truth had.
She shook her head, her chin bowing and her hair falling over her shoulders and across her face. Something deep in her chest longed to deny the truth. But it was like she’d woken from a dream right in the middle of it. Now she could only imagine how it might have ended. But she’d never know for sure.
Always a dream. Always past the tips of her fingers.
This diary had meant hope. And now . . . Now she was exactly where she’d been when the doctor had said there was no cure.
“Maybe she wrote out the directions to the treasure.” Ben shrugged. “She could have been a terrible artist.”
Her head snapped up, the weight on her shoulders instantly lifting. “In the words. Of course!”
He grinned, his smile a little lopsided but filled with satisfaction.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Because she had a lot more on the line than he did, and the absence of a drawn map didn’t define him.
