Phantom Pearl

by Monica McCabe

  Dallas stepped beside her and offered a glass of Sauvignon blanc. “I had another text from Jane Lassiter. It’s the third one. She wants to know when I’m bringing in the Pearl.”

  They couldn’t get away with stalling forever, as much as she’d like to. “Time to make that decision, isn’t it?”

  “Depends,” he said as he sidestepped the fireplace over to a picture window. Another glorious mountain sunset was on display, but after a quick glance, he turned his back on the view and stared at her. “Has your father’s ghost been laid to rest?”

  She’d like to say yes, that the story of Charles Maddox had come full circle, because from all appearances it had. The few players that remained from the betrayal were facing the swift hand of justice. Eventually she’d find the power to forgive Kai for his role in her father’s death, but she wasn’t quite there yet.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Life usually is,” he replied.

  She glanced at Phantom Pearl. They’d placed her on the hand-crafted oak fireplace mantle, the ancient ivory an unusual centerpiece in the two-story great room. Not exactly the best place if safety was a priority, but Riki had wanted the visual reminder of a choice they’d soon have to make.

  “They know we have her,” Dallas said quietly. “We’ll face legal consequences if we don’t turn her in.”

  She heard the resignation in his voice. And she understood. But it wasn’t that easy. One huge issue stood in the way. What to do with a secret that people had fought and died to find. Including her father.

  “She won’t be safe. Homeland Security will eventually give Pearl back to Cambodia. And when they do, she will be vulnerable to the handful of others who know about the secret. That includes the Yakuza.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” he replied. “I know someone who might be able to read the inscription on the dragon claw. He specializes in arcane languages.”

  “Through Homeland Security?”

  He nodded. “We’ve worked together a few times. He knows how to be discreet.”

  “How much do you trust him?” she asked. “Because this is the kind of thing that changes people.”

  “No guarantees, but he is a friend.”

  She swirled the wine in her glass and stared at the fire’s reflection in the liquid. In reality, there was nothing to decide. He had to hand Phantom Pearl over, and she’d caused enough grief in his career. “We document every square inch of the Pearl first.”

  “That’s a given.”

  “We still have to protect her.”

  “Only one option I know of to accomplish that feat.”

  Her pulse quickened. “We find the horde of stolen art.”

  “It would be a crying shame to allow a crime organization to steal it again.”

  She grinned. Walking away from that kind of challenge was never an option. But for the first time in her life, she didn’t want to do it alone. “Are you proposing we work together for the greater good of Phantom Pearl?”

  “If I was, would you agree?”

  “I’m interested.” A solid understatement if there ever was one. “What about your job at Homeland Security?”

  Dallas took a large swallow of wine and began pacing. She recognized the sign. He did it when thinking through his next moves.

  “Every decision I’ve made in my career has been aimed at one goal. To gain experience, create a network of contacts, and build a foundation for my own agency. I want to create an independent research and recovery service. Art, antiquities, even high-end insurance recovery work, both domestic and international.”

  Shock made her speechless. As agents go, he was one of the best. Not in her wildest dreams would she have believed he’d consider anything else. But what he described, it fit him to a T. And it sounded intriguing.

  “I have proposition for you.” He stopped pacing and faced her. “Join me.”

  Her breath caught. “What?”

  “Our combined forces would all but guarantee success.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say. You and me? Together. In business?”

  “The way I see it,” he continued, “we already have our first job.”

  He pointed to Phantom Pearl.

  Riki sank to the corner edge of the coffee table, not trusting her legs to hold her upright. She wasn’t even sure she remembered how to breathe.

  “We’ll need to get started right away,” he continued. “Of course, I’d be the boss. With your penchant for trouble, you’d have to swear on the chocolate chip cookie that you’d follow my orders, do whatever I say.”

  That broke through her bubble of shock, and she shook her head on a laugh. “Honestly, you almost had me.”

  “Okay. How about I’m still the boss, and you get a nice corner office with company paid coffee service.”

  “You’re getting warmer.” Her mind reeled with possibilities. “Are you serious?”

  “I’ve already written my resignation letter.”

  That sounded fairly conclusive. “We can still monitor Yakuza activity? Maybe beat them to the punch a time or two, just to let them know they aren’t forgotten?”

  “Sounds like fun to me.”

  “And we’d be equal partners, all decisions made together.”

  “Right down to the color of our stationary.”

  During the years spent with Kai, she’d known the kind of happiness that came from a job well done, a fine meal, a pat on the back. But this was different. This was an overwhelming burst of sunshine sparkling on a mountain stream. It was a deep warmth that started small, but bloomed into full-on excitement for the future.

  She was totally in.

  “Okay then,” she exclaimed. “I say yes. A thousand times, yes. So what do we do? Pinky swear?”

  He walked over to her, plucked her forgotten wineglass from her fingers, and set both on the table beside her. When he took her hand and pulled her up to stand in front of him, a flare of anticipation shot through her.

  “How about we decide on a name, then we’ll take an oath.”

  Fair enough. “Anything in mind?”

  “Pearl Enterprises. What do you think?”

  “It has a certain ring to it,” she agreed. “Subtle, relevant. I like it.”

  “There’s another name I’m considering.”

  She liked the first one. It had symmetry and history. A constant reminder of their beginnings. It was perfect.

  Dallas pulled her closer, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. He had that mischievous twinkle in his eye that she loved. He was up to something.

  “So...” A grin crossed his lips. “What about the name Riki Landry?”

  She stilled. She’d been wrong. That one was perfection.

  “I swear I couldn’t love you more, Dallas Landry.”

  He held up his pinky. “You swear?”

  She didn’t hesitate to link her little finger with his. “On my honor.”

  “Is that a yes?” he asked.

  “Every day for the rest of my life.”

  If you haven’t read Monica McCabe’s second book in the Jewel Intrigue series, be sure you do! Emerald Fire is another action-packed romance and on sale now.

  Emerald Fire

  Chloe Larson is a historian obsessed with clearing the name of her grandfather, eight greats back. After his heroic exploits during the Prussian Wars his life slid sadly into oblivion and madness, taking with him the location of a queen’s priceless set of emerald jewels. But the discovery of a cryptic two-hundred year old journal written by a man history declared insane might offer a clue.

  Finnegan Kane is a top-notch marine bounty hunter on the hunt for the Emerald Fire, a 120-foot Sunseeker yacht stolen by Caribbean pirates. It’s the kind of dirty work that keeps his antique restoration business afloat, but that doesn’t mean he h
as to put up with the fiery demands of an admittedly gorgeous historian. But when Chloe offers the one thing that practically guarantees success—the GPS coordinates of the Fire’s location—he has no choice but to forge into uncharted waters.

  With danger at every turn, Chloe and Finnegan must battle against the odds to decipher a historical legacy and settle a score against a family gone mad.

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Chapter 1

  Finnegan Kane adjusted his sunglasses against a brilliant Caribbean sun and scanned the picturesque harbor. Yachts, cruisers, and skiffs dotted the vivid blue water of Castries Bay. A veritable postcard of idyllic island life to a tourist, a complicated crime scene to a marine recovery specialist like Finn.

  Paradise masked a deadly secret.

  “It’s like I said, mon. Nothing to see.”

  St. Lucia’s harbor clerk wore the standard island uniform of shorts, loose shirt, and sandals, but the carefree island attitude was missing. Finn didn’t care. There wasn’t room for sympathy in his budget, and with the kind of money at stake here, he’d make as many enemies as needed.

  But the uncooperative clerk had a point. Piracy troubled the islands, and stolen yachts rarely left a trail. In a span of minutes, lines were cut, security systems disabled, and easy money sailed away.

  Bad odds for recovery, but impossible never had stopped him before. Clues always hid in the details, and he needed a timetable. “When did the Emerald Fire first appear in the harbor?”

  “Four days ago,” the clerk answered. “Pretty boat. Sleek and tricked out. She berthed in Trou Garnier, that upper cove past Pointe Seraphine.” He pointed across the harbor to a deep inlet.

  A stiff breeze snapped a harbor flag above them and stirred the mustiness of wet wood from the city’s industrial pier. Finn breathed deep the familiar calming scent and did the math. The Fire arrived in St. Lucia on Tuesday, was last seen late Wednesday, and Thursday afternoon Boston Marine Insurance received word she’d gone missing. He’d jumped a plane that night and arrived at the Harbor Master’s office Friday morning. That meant thieves had roughly a day and a half head start.

  Discouraging news. The Caribbean was chock full of small islands, hidden inlets, and desperately poor residents more than willing to turn a blind eye. The Fire could be anywhere by now.

  Still, he had a trick or two yet to play. “You questioned all the captains in the harbor?”

  The clerk’s eyes shifted away, giving Finn his answer. His jaw hardened in anger. Not only were local authorities uncooperative, they displayed a total lack of concern for proper procedure. Any missing ship, especially a ten-million dollar luxury yacht like the Emerald Fire, required thorough investigation.

  “Any clues?” he persisted. “Descriptions?”

  “We talked to most of them,” the guy hedged. “Nobody saw, mon.”

  Finn snorted. “You’re lying.”

  He got a drop-dead glare for an answer.

  “Know what I think?” Finn couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice. “You ignore protocol and allow piracy to occur unchecked. You might as well hand thieves an open invitation. Boaters out there deserve to be warned.”

  This time the clerk didn’t hide his exasperation. “Know what happens if I start talking stolen vessels?” He waved his hand with a snap of his fingers. “Tourist dollars go bye-bye.”

  Finn made a fist, fighting the urge to hit something. That was exactly the kind of attitude crime adored and a good portion of the problem in trying to stop it. But that wasn’t his battle. Right now he needed information. “I’ll have a look at your piracy reports now.”

  Based on a resentful go-to-hell expression, his watchdog wanted to argue. But he couldn’t deny an insurance investigator access, not one who could make trouble in paradise.

  “Nothing to see in those books, mon.”

  “Maybe not, but I want to look anyway.”

  Clearly annoyed, the guy pivoted on his heel and marched away from the pier.

  Finn followed, unconcerned. Making people mad went with the territory. Call it an occupational hazard. Say the words ‘insurance adjuster’ and cooperation fizzled. Not that he cared. He kept it in perspective. It was a job, one he was good at and paid well.

  They silently marched across the crowded cargo yard toward an unremarkable wood slat building painted a nondescript harbor gray. It squatted inside the curve of a city street, nearly invisible on the industrial edge of town.

  Once past the front door, however, all that changed. It became a 1950 Panama Jack movie set, complete with bamboo palm ceiling fans, WWII military-issue metal desks, and shuttered windows open to catch island breezes. Finn half expected a khaki-clad bloke with a fedora and dangling a cigarette to ask the immortal question, “What’s up, Joe?”

  Instead, his belligerent clerk rounded the counter, grabbed a thick logbook, and plopped it on the long stretch of Formica between them.

  “St. Lucia waters are safe, mon. No pirates live here.”

  Maybe not, but Finn bet they hung out nearby. Facts didn’t lie. Thousands of ships disappeared each year, marine insurance rates soared, and Caribbean waters were certainly not immune. But he wasn’t here to argue statistics. He let the comment pass, flipped open the log of missing vessels, and began to scan the most recent.

  An argument began filtering in from another room. A feminine voice, smooth and cultured, clashed with a sharp male baritone. Frustration sounded on both sides. Finn ignored it and kept at the piracy reports. Until he heard two words that guaranteed his involvement.

  Emerald Fire.

  He glanced up at the clerk. “What’s going on?”

  The guy shrugged indifferently. “Don’t know.”

  Finn bit back a retort and made a show of studying the reports again, but in reality he strained to hear more. He only caught snatches of conversation.

  “Unimportant…missing boat…log reports…sent alerts.” The man’s voice, clearly exasperated.

  She sounded softer, harder to hear, but definitely arguing the point. Half a minute later, they stood in the doorway of a connected office.

  “Look miss, it really doesn’t matter who called in the report. It’s not our job to investigate missing persons. Talk to the police.”

  “The police sent me here to you!” Anger crackled in the air around her, and Finn blatantly stared.

  “There’s nothing more I can do.” The man tossed his hands up in a move worthy of the theater. “Rest assured, if something surfaces, I’ll be the first to call you.”

  Finn recognized deflection when he heard it. The lying barnacle had no intention of keeping his word.

  She knew it, too, since her full lips compressed into a thin line. But she had little choice in the matter. The interview was over. Straightening to a full five-foot-five, if that, she jotted something down on a piece of paper and handed it to the guy. “My phone number, in case you change your mind and decide to be helpful. Thank you for your time.”

  While she stormed across the lobby, Finn watched her every step. The pearls and buttoned-up blouse screamed proper and conservative, but the fury in those magnificent light brown eyes of hers threatened to burn the house down. She sailed right past him, huffing something about astronomical incompetence.

  As soon as she cleared the front door, Finn smacked the piracy log closed and pushed it back across the counter. “I’ll be around a few more days,” he said to the clerk. “Be seeing you again.”

  The guy looked less than thrilled at the news, but no matter. Right now Finn intended to brave the flames and follow the girl. She wanted information about Emerald Fire, which meant he wanted information from her.

  Outside he slid his shades back on and scanned the cargo yard. Her high-octane stride had her more than halfway across the container field, aiming toward the ship’s landing dock. He watched her h
it the edge of the concrete pier and stop to stare out at the crystal blue waters of Castries Bay.

  For a minute, he debated a direct approach, but quickly decided against it. He needed to act fast if he’d any hope of finding the Emerald Fire, but she needed a minute to cool down. So he made his way to the parking lot where he leaned against the bumper of his rental to wait.

  He’d a direct line of sight on her restless pacing and, based on her short jerky steps, white-hot anger consumed her. Still, she was pretty easy on the eyes, and he enjoyed the view, despite the fact she was clearly the type he tried to avoid. He didn’t go for culture and sophistication, wine over beer, proper and prim society girls. And this one had that look in spades. Even her steps were measured. Four steps left, stop and stare at the water, then four steps right, stop and stare. If he were a betting man, he’d pin her for one of those organized people. Everything in its place, all patterned, tucked, and perfectly pressed.

  She’d never last a day in his world.

  Nearby seagulls screeched, gathering on the tall pylons of a private pier as a fly-bridge fishing boat chugged up to the dock. A deckhand jumped off to rope her in place and tourists began off-loading with their catch of the day.

  She noticed, too, and turned to leave, aiming his way with that supercharged stride. But her eyes were downcast, focus inward, as she rounded a tiny inlet and made for the parking lot.

  In less than two minutes, she drew within earshot, and he made his move.

  “You’re looking for the Emerald Fire?”

  Miss Smooth and Proper froze, then slowly turned to stare at him, all wary and distrustful. “What if I am?”

  “If you are, that makes two of us.”

  Her eyes narrowed. He’d been wrong when he thought they were brown. That description didn’t do them justice. They were the color of topaz, warm, sultry, and strangely compelling. And they glared at him in defiance and suspicion.

  He needed an olive branch, a big one to reach beyond that thorny barrier.