LUCAS FORTUNE HAD BEEN in worse situations in his thirty-six years.
Heat baked the walls of the tiny cell, and he’d stripped off his shirt in hope of some relief, but there was none to be found. The sun blazed orange through the small rectangular window at the top of the west wall, and the iron bars cast interesting shadows on the foot of the rusted bed frame, amplifying the particles of dust that hung in the air. There was no mattress, so he’d used his torn cargo jacket as a buffer to keep himself from frying like bacon on top of the bed frame. It was better than sitting on the dirt floor with cockroaches the size of dinner plates.
He hadn’t been there too long—maybe five or six hours. The bastards had sucker punched him into unconsciousness. There was a hazy memory of being jostled inside a crowded car trunk, and then he was in the cell, his jaw aching and his head pounding before fully regaining his senses. He’d realized soon enough that standing at the bars and yelling for someone to let him out was futile. There wasn’t a sign of anyone—inside or outside—and he figured he needed to save his anger. He was a big believer in conserving his energy for the important things. And planting a fist in Damian Hunter’s face had quickly moved up on his list of “important things.”
Chinks of mortar were missing from the concrete blocks they’d used to build the jail. Or what he assumed had once been a jail. By the layers of dust and disrepair, it didn’t look like anyone had stepped foot inside in quite some time. The only recent sign of occupancy was the shuffled footprints from the door to his cell and back again. He was surprised the iron bars still stood, but he’d shaken them, looking for weakness, and hadn’t found any.
Sweat trickled down his spine and ran in rivulets from his temples into the scruff of beard he hadn’t bothered to shave in a few days. Served him right for taking a vacation. All he’d wanted was a hammock, the sand and surf, a beautiful woman or two to keep him company, and if he was lucky, a little gold to line his pockets.
Lucas didn’t have any tools to pick the lock of his cage or to chisel away the mortar on the outside wall. Damian’s men had relieved him of the items he habitually carried—a Swiss Army knife, a small roll of dental floss, a compass, the emergency cash in his sock, a needle and thread, and the gold doubloon he’d gotten on his first find that he kept for good luck. The bastards had gone too far with that one.
He’d learned over the years that an opportunity for wealth and fame could come at any moment, but only to those who were prepared. Most treasure hunters lived by the same basic rules he did. Those who didn’t … well … they didn’t last long. It was a brutal and addictive lifestyle, and only the strongest survived. Damian Hunter wasn’t the strongest or smartest or most talented treasure hunter, but he was the most cunning. And he was definitely the most ruthless.
Lucas perked up at the sound of muffled voices and footsteps coming in his direction, and he got up quickly, looking for something—anything—he could use as a weapon. To no avail—even the rusted iron bedframe was solid and too heavy to tear apart.
The voices quieted as they got closer and he settled himself on the bed, trying to look non-threatening and still weakened from the blow they gave him earlier. Not an easy accomplishment for a man who was six foot two in his bare feet and built like a brawler. His fists had gotten him out of more than one sticky situation. Learning to defend himself had been a priority once he’d realized hunting treasure left him with a target. The six-inch scar on his back from a knife was as much of a reminder of his first find as the gold doubloon now missing from his pocket.
He was a hell of a poker player, and that ability was the only thing that kept him seated and looking bored as two of Damian’s men charged in, dragging another prisoner behind them. And dragging her was exactly what they had to do. She wasn’t going to make it easy on them. He almost smiled at that. Miranda George had never made things easy. She was a hundred and twenty pounds of pure fire and prickly temper. And she’d once been all his.
“Let me go, you son of a bitch,” she said between gritted teeth.
“We don’t get paid enough for this bullshit,” one of the men said. He had four distinct claw marks on the side of his face that oozed blood.
“Shut up, Ryan,” the other man said. “I told you to knock her out. It’s your own fault for not wanting to hit a woman.”
“I didn’t see you volunteering to do the job,” Ryan spat. “You were the one going on about it being a shame to ruin a face like hers.”
“That was before I realized what her mouth was like. Never in my life have I heard such a foul-mouthed banshee of a woman.”
Lucas did grin at that. It sounded like Miranda hadn’t changed much over the past couple of years.
Miranda hadn’t seen him yet, and the hired guns had their hands full dealing with her. It would be the perfect time to spring into action. Miranda dug her feet in and went limp, making Ryan stumble. The other finally picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He got an elbow in the head, and her tiny fists pounded at his kidneys hard enough that he’d probably be pissing blood for a few days, but he took the abuse stoically. Lucas knew instinctively he was the more dangerous of the two.
The old cell used a skeleton key of some kind, and Lucas figured they either didn’t know where it was or didn’t want to chance that he’d be able to pick the lock, so they’d wrapped a very modern and sturdy chain around the bars and fastened it with a padlock. Ryan fumbled with the keys and eventually got the padlock undone and the chain unwrapped. The cell door swung open with a rusty creak and the man holding Miranda tossed her into the cell.
She landed with an ummph, and the fall must’ve surprised her because she sat there looking stunned instead of hopping up to fight. Lucas had shifted his weight to attack the men as soon as the door opened, but Miranda was in the way, and he didn’t want to take the chance of her getting hurt. They had the gate closed and the chains on and locked before he’d come up with another plan.
“How long is Damian going to leave us in here before he tells us what he wants?” Lucas asked. “I’m assuming he thinks he’s got a lead on some treasure and actually needs people with skills to do the dirty work for him?”
He saw Miranda’s body tense at the sound of his voice, but she didn’t turn around to look at him. She just stared at the two men who stood on the other side of the bars.
“Or maybe he wants to see the two of you rot in a cell?” the one that wasn’t Ryan said. “You’ve cost Mr. Hunter millions in lost acquisitions.”
“You mean we found the treasure and wouldn’t let him steal it from us like he’d planned?” Miranda asked, her voice saccharine sweet. “I’m sure all those museums are weeping at the thought of Hunter’s lost millions. What’s it feel like to work for a loser?”
“Shut up,” Ryan said, his face going dark with a scowl. “You’ll find out why you’re here soon enough. Should’ve gagged you. Done nothing but yap the whole trip here.” They turned and headed for the door. “Enjoy your night. I hear the rats start coming in as soon as the sun goes down.” Their laughter trailed behind them as they disappeared.
“You’re always bringing out the best in people,” Lucas said after they left.
Miranda snorted out a laugh and stretched her muscles, rubbing at her sore backside. He shouldn’t have watched. He’d always been partial to her backside—partial to all of her if he was honest.
His eyes skimmed over her, taking in the subtle differences that two years had made. She’d been softer then. She’d always been in great shape. You had to be to get through some of the situations they’d found themselves in. But there’d still been a softness about her—not the lean, muscled wildcat that was standing in front of him ready to fight.
She’d cut her long red hair so it lay in choppy layers around her face, making her sea green eyes seem larger and more mysterious. He knew by looking at her that she’d been worki
ng when they’d taken her. Doctor Miranda George was a creature of habit. She wore thin cargo pants for a hot climate and the same hiking boots she’d had for as long as he’d known her. A red bandana hung from her pocket, and her nails were grimy from digging in the dirt. The navy tank top she wore had smudges of dirt on the front where she’d sometimes wipe her right hand if she wanted to touch an artifact. She could get more out of feeling an object than most people could get from looking at it through an X-ray. She had a gift.
The past two years had been miserable, though he’d tried his damnedest to forget her. In all honesty, he couldn’t remember why they’d fought to begin with, but it was always a variation of the same argument. Only that time she’d had enough and packed her bags, saying she needed to be closer to the excavation site. She’d never come back. And he hadn’t gone to find her.
Lucas lived for the rush, for the feel of diamonds as they trickled through his fingers or tarnished pieces of eight as they were pulled from a watery grave. He always wanted more, to push harder, to take more risks for the ultimate find. And for their cut of the profit to be larger. They had to make a living after all.
But he’d never understood how a woman with such a hard head could have such a soft heart. Miranda hunted for the thrill, just like he did, but she did it for the love of every little piece of history she held in her hand. In some ways, they should’ve balanced each other perfectly.
“I should’ve known the second they nabbed me that you’d be involved,” Miranda said, walking a perimeter around the cell and looking for any weak points, just as he’d done. “Damian told you to watch your back two years ago.”
“No, he told us that we’d better watch our backs,” he argued. “If we hadn’t thought to call in the news cameras so the find was on live TV, Damian would have shot us and left our bodies for shark food off the coast of Jamaica. We knew going in he was going to try to take the credit for finding the pirate treasure that disappeared when Port Royal sank. But it was you and me, babe. Like always.”
“Yeah, like always,” she said distractedly. “You blow your reward money already?”
He gritted his teeth through a smile. “Yeah, on fast cars and fancy women. Just like I want them.”
“You always did have more ambition than sense, so I’m not surprised.”
And there it was right there, he thought, the memories of that last fight rushing over him. She’d never believed that he’d loved her as much as he loved the hunt. As much as he loved the treasure, riches, or glory. He’d been damned tired of trying to convince her, so he’d let her walk. If she couldn’t take his word for it and trust him, then there was no reason for her to stay.
Adrenaline and tempers had been running high after the Port Royal find, and the threat of Damian coming after them was always hanging over their heads. If they hadn’t had national news coverage, they’d both be dead. But as it stood, Jamaica’s government had allowed them the bounty for recovering not one, but two of the ships that had sunk with the island, and they’d allowed Miranda to continue with the excavation team. But even after they’d split, he knew Damian had been watching them both, biding his time.
Damian never did anything without a reason. He was a planner, and he was patient. If he’d gone to the trouble of kidnapping both of them, it was for a specific reason. He had a job only they could do.
“Yeah, well, I guess we should focus on getting the hell out of here, so I can return to living the high life,” he said. “It’ll be dark soon, and I have no desire to share this cell with the rats.”
Lucas sulked at the reality of having preferred spending the night with her than pretending to escape from her.
MIRANDA WOULD’VE RATHER BEEN anywhere else.
She wasn’t ready to see Lucas. She hadn’t prepared herself for it. He’d broken her heart and left her holding the pieces, and when she’d left after the Port Royal excavation, he’d shrugged his shoulders and told her to have fun. And then he’d hopped on a flight to Poland to search for Nazi gold as part of a treasure hunter show on The Travel Channel.
Ancient history. All that mattered now was getting out and getting away from him. She’d kept busy the past two years, and she’d just started feeling like she was almost whole again. Still cracked in places, but at least all the pieces were there.
“You were working when they got you?” he asked.
Looking at him hurt more than it should have, and she turned, searching for a way to escape. But she couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of her eye. He sat on a rusted bed frame, his arm propped on his knee and his body relaxed, though she knew he could spring into action unexpectedly. His dark blond hair was sun streaked and hung below his ears, and a couple of days of growth of beard shadowed his face.
By the looks of him, he’d been in the cell for a while. Rivulets of sweat trickled down the contours of his chest and abs. She’d dreamed of that body for two years. Woken in the middle of the night aching and sweaty and needing his touch so badly she could hardly stand it. The physical had never been the problem between them.
“Yeah, they found a mass grave off the coast of Florida. It dates to the seventeenth century, so they asked if I’d help catalog the find. Looks like it was a massacre of Spaniards, and there might be more to Ponce de León and the Fountain of Youth than we thought.”
“No way,” he said. “You’re barking up the wrong tree there. All the evidence we found indicated it’s somewhere in Puerto Rico, not in Florida as everyone assumes.”
She shrugged and stuck her finger through one of the holes in the mortar, scraping it with her nail to see how soft it was. It wasn’t. It had petrified over the years.
“I guess we’ll see. The sooner I can get out of here, the sooner I can get back. They grabbed me last night after dinner on the way to my tent. They must’ve tranqued me because the next thing I knew I was on a private plane with Tweedledee and Tweedledum and a hell of a headache. They shoved me in a car and took every back road they could find for the next three hours. I think they were trying to disorient me. Idiots.”
“At least they let you ride in the back seat. I ended up in the trunk.”
“For some reason, people always assume the worst of you,” she said sarcastically.
“It’s a blessing and a curse,” he said soberly, and she wondered if there were some hidden meaning in the way he’d said it. “I don’t suppose you know what Damian wants with us?”
“We’re in a ghost town just outside of New London, Connecticut,” she said. “Why do you think he has us here?”
The surprise on his face quickly turned to calculation. One thing Lucas was not was stupid. No one knew legend and lore of lost treasure like he did. It was why he was the best at what he did. He had the skills for the hunt, but he also had the brains for all the tedious research and fact-finding. Not bad for a guy who’d dropped out of college after his first semester. Some people weren’t meant for classrooms, and Lucas Fortune was one of those people. Still, she’d learned more from him over the years than she had in most of her postgraduate work.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “That idiot. Hunter thinks he’s found the Thanksgiving Treasure. And he wants us to be the ones to sneak onto reservation land to retrieve it.”
“Bingo,” Miranda said, standing in front of him, hands on hips. “I overheard them talking in the car when they thought I was asleep. Apparently, Damian did his own half-assed research and came to the conclusion that the gold was buried on Pequot reservation land.”
“Well, to give him the credit he deserves,” Lucas said. “It was, at one time, buried on the Pequot reservation. But like always, Damian is late to the party unless he has someone else driving him there.”
Miranda snorted out a laugh and then pressed her lips together to stifle it. The story of the Thanksgiving Treasure had always been one of her favorites. To think that most people in th
e United States thought they celebrated Thanksgiving because the settlers and Native Americans were at peace with one another and wanted to celebrate the occasion was laughable, when in reality, Thanksgiving was declared a holiday to celebrate the massacre of the Pequot tribe.
There had been one peaceful meal celebrated between the British settlers and Native Americans, and then the British thanked them by hauling them to England and enslaving them, then wiping out most of the tribe with smallpox. It was the Pequot tribe who’d refused to let the English onto their land once they returned to America for more, taking their resources and spreading their diseases. Then, on the day the Pequot tribe gathered to celebrate their harvest, known as their Thanksgiving day, the Puritans invaded and murdered more than seven hundred men, women, and children, so they could stake their claim to land that was never theirs to begin with.
Any survivors went into hiding or were taken into slavery, and the Puritans used the captives in their search for gold. The gold was eventually found and scheduled to be shipped to England aboard three different ships. But the gold disappeared from the camp before it reached the ships, and no sign of it was ever discovered. The Pequot slaves who had helped discover the gold were killed and Pequot were hunted and interrogated, but the gold was never found.
It had stayed hidden for hundreds of years, until fact became legend and the Pequot numbers dwindled down to nothing. It wasn’t until Lucas Fortune had come along that the gold had been found again. She knew about his discovery but never approved of it.
The Pequot gold was only one of the things they’d argued about over the years. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I kept your secret. Besides, there’s nothing left of that gold to find, is there?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. “I’m amazed you stayed with me as long as you did with as little as you think of me.”
SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION Page 25
