Eyes of Fire

Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author

Heather Graham

“Graham shines in this frightening tale. Paranormal elements add zing to her trademark chilling suspense and steamy romance, keeping the pages flying.”

—Romantic Times on Haunted

“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead

“An incredible storyteller!”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Demonstrating the skills that have made her one of today’s best storytellers, Ms. Graham delivers one of this year’s best books thus far.”

—Romantic Times on Hurricane Bay

“A suspenseful, sexy thriller…Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay

“A roller-coaster ride…fast-paced, thrilling…Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end. Captivating.”

—Literary Times on Hurricane Bay

“The talented Ms. Graham once again thrills us. She delivers excitement [and] romance…that keep the pages flipping quickly from beginning to end.”

—Romantic Times on Night of the Blackbird

“With the name Heather Graham on the cover, you are guaranteed a good read!”

—Literary Times

HEATHER GRAHAM EYES OF FIRE

To Don Stelzen, surely the world’s nicest and best driving

instructor, with thanks for always being so great and patient.

To my son, Shayne, for being my first “biddy”

and learning with me.

To Sam Lawson, one of the world’s greatest classmates,

for his tolerance of so many scheduling changes.

And to Underwater Unlimited, one of the world’s most

wonderful dive shops; to Charlie Matthews,

Chuck Beltran and all the folks there—thanks!

Prologue

Dead men tell no tales.

Or so he had heard.

Yet these dead men seemed somehow to cry out in silence, noiselessly shrieking out a story that had been kept secret for nearly four hundred years. Their skeletal remains lay about eerily, some held together by remnants of rusted armor, one with its head uncannily perched on a bookcase while the disjointed body sat on the desk beneath it. The sword that had probably brought about his death lay at his side. Perhaps it had once pierced through him, through flesh and sinew and organs; perhaps it had once been bathed in blood. Now the sword lay on the handsomely carved desk where the pieces of the dead man remained, side by side with the small bones of what had been a human hand, almost as if it was waiting to be used again. To be picked up and wielded in some form of ghostly revenge.

Dead men tell no tales….

But this one shouted silently of his own murder.

A tiny yellow fish, a tang, darted in and out of the cavernous eye sockets of the long-dead man. The diver moved closer, then pulled back, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears as a moray eel suddenly shot its head out from one of the cubicles in the growth-encrusted shelving. Sea fans wafted over oak. Anemones rose against the rotted core of an inkwell.

Another skeleton startled him into a weightless jump. This skeleton lay by the side of the desk, shadowed in darkness. Though time and pressure had blown out the master’s cabin window of the Beldona, the ship was down deep enough that the sun’s rays offered little light inside. The diver flashed his light at the skeleton and nearly shot through the roof, ceasing to breathe.

Because the skeleton looked at him.

Looked at him…

Stared at him like a demon, a devil, dead hand drifting, fingers seeming to point…

Stared at him with blazing red eyes that seemed to blind him. He ceased to breathe, forgetting the first rule of scuba diving—breathe continuously. Experienced diver that he was, he forgot, but oh, God…

The skeleton was staring at him with eyes of fire. A dead man. A pile of bones. Nearly one hundred feet beneath the surface of the sea.

Get a grip, man! he warned himself.

Nitrogen narcosis, he thought. A diver’s disease that could cause absurd giddiness, a state of well-being, a state of panic. A state in which a diver might well see hallucinations. Described by Jacques-Yves Cousteau as rapture of the deep. A danger any diver knew existed beyond depths of one hundred feet, sometimes before, certainly after, no matter how immune a man claimed he might be.

That was it—he was seeing things. He knew enough not to be doing what he was doing, especially at these depths! His rashness was taking its toll. He didn’t dare stay much longer, but, oh, God! The lure had been too great.

He was seeing things.

No, he wasn’t.

The dead men were there.

Even the dead man with the eyes of pure fire.

Sweet Jesus, but he hadn’t been expecting such an eerie haunting from the past. So often, especially at these depths, time and pressure and the sea herself ate away the pathetic, mortal remnants of man, down to the bone itself.

She was a dangerous mistress, the sea. Days, weeks, years, centuries, played havoc beneath the waves. Salt, pressure, currents and sand all swept around the treasures, living and otherwise, captured by the wicked whimsy of the sea. Swept around dead men left behind.

And so often kept them from telling their tales.

His head was spinning, his thoughts careening into fantasy.

Breathe! he commanded himself, sucking air through his regulator at last. He went back to the basics he had learned, had taught. Breathe continuously. Regain control, respond, react.

It’s just a skeleton. This poor fellow has been dead forever and ever. He’s no danger to me….

The thought didn’t help. He imagined that any second the skeleton would raise its hand higher, that the bony fingers would point straight at him, that the bones would begin to rattle and talk….

It was a dead man, for God’s sake!

Just a dead man. With gems where his eyes should have been. He was a well-preserved dead man with remarkable ruby eyes, and that was that.

Regain control, respond, react. Fool! Didn’t he teach those very words almost daily?

He didn’t know what trick of pressure or temperature had kept these skeletons in such uncannily good shape, but they were miraculously here, inside what must have been the captain’s cabin of the galleon. And though the windows had burst and the denizens of the sea had moved inside, perhaps the fact that the cabin walls had withstood the sea so well had helped preserve the dead who had perished within.

How they’d come to be here, he didn’t know. But they had nearly done him in, nearly drawn a silent scream from him, and he had very nearly succumbed to a watery death himself. In fact, he was certain that his hair would be white from shock when he reached the surface again.

None of that meant anything to him at the moment. Nor did the fact that he should never have been diving alone, despite being an expert diver with several thousand hours of diving time under his belt. It was because of that that he should have known better. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had come down a mere thirty feet instead of the nearly one hundred he was down now, he shouldn’t have been diving alone. He taught the buddy system strenuously in his classes.

But he’d never imagined a morning like this one. The culmination of a dream. He had at last come across something in his research that had set off a light in his mind, and that light had burned so brightly that he hadn’t been able to wait. He hadn’t even been able to wait to tell Sam, to give her a clue, even knowing how much it would mean to her. She had been with Jem and some first timers and bubble watchers out on the Sloop Bee. With beginners, it would be some time.

And this…oh, God! With the right information, the answer had been so simple, and once he had realized it, he hadn’t been able to wait.

Sam. Sam should have known. Sam should have been with him. Sam, with her ever-trusting, encouraging smile. Sam who never found fault, who believed, who laughed and teased and made life easy. She should have been here with him now. He couldn’t repay her for not being here, not even with every single bit of treasure he found.

He simply hadn’t been able to wait to test his theory.

His dreams had sent him flying across the waves. Intrigue and fascination had brought him here, near the Steps.

The Seafire Isle Steps.

The Steps, of course, were a mystery in themselves. They began a mere thirty feet below the surface in the water northwest of Seafire Isle; they deepened with the ocean floor for another twenty-five feet, then simply disappeared. Just like stone steps in other areas of the sea that were supposed by some to lead the way to Atlantis. Others thought them a doorway in the wicked mystery of the Bermuda Triangle. He was quite certain that there were logical answers for every mystery beneath the sea. Just as there was a logical answer to the mystery of the Spanish galleon Beldona, the prized ship of King Philip, which had sailed the golden corridor between the New World and the old so many years ago. Historians had thought for years that she had gone down in one of the vicious storms that raged across the seas, a hurricane of deadly proportions.

There was an answer to everything. An explanation.

Just as there had been an explanation for the fact that a skeleton had stared at him with burning eyes….

He could still see them blazing. Eyes of fire.

Nitrogen narcosis, he warned himself. He was seeing things. But the eyes did truly seem to burn. He bent low, studying them more closely….

There was something different about the skeleton. He should have been able to place his finger on it. He should know the truth about the ship.

His ship, as he thought of her.

The Beldona. He had found her! Sonar had missed her, radar had missed her. Shifting currents and restless sands had hidden her beneath a coral shelf.

Suddenly something about the skeleton caught his eye. He leaned closer, laughter bubbling in his chest.

Whoa, he thought. Stay calm! He warned himself.

But once again, far beneath the surface, he couldn’t wait.

The magnitude of his discovery suddenly hit him. No, he couldn’t wait. This was pure vindication.

He couldn’t wait to tell her. Couldn’t wait to share these secrets, deeper than any he had ever imagined. He’d discovered the past, and so much more. Many people had mocked him for being a dreamer. Very few had believed. And now…the laugh would be on them.

She would know that he’d been right to fight for the discovery. Maybe the time had come when he could divulge a few of his own secrets. Maybe this would make the time right.

He closed his eyes.

Or did he?

Because he was seeing things again.

The sea was playing tricks on him.

It was as if she was suddenly with him.

She couldn’t be. But he could see her.

He could see her, hair waving like a banner, eyes as brilliant as those orbs of fire that had so shocked him. In his mind he could hear her throaty laughter, feel what they shared.

He blinked.

She remained.

She was there with him, her eyes glittering behind her scuba mask.

No…

He blinked again, this time closing his eyes tightly. He had known better—much better—than to dive alone, especially this deep. But it didn’t matter now. He knew the truth. He had solved the mystery, and there was so much more to it than they had ever begun to imagine….

He had to regain control.

He opened his eyes again.

He was alone.

Bubbles surrounded him. His own, he assured himself. He was all alone.

Alone with a bunch of dead men.

Nitrogen narcosis…

He needed to go up. Now.

Because he needed help, of course. Needed Sammy and Jem, and probably others, too. But for now his ecstasy was like something ready to explode inside him. He wanted to share his sheer joy.

They would have to guard the secret until they were safe. There was so much more than just the treasure involved. If the wrong people knew what he had discovered…

He was going to need help. The truth was going to have to come out, and once that was done, they would be able to bring up the treasure.

By God, the treasure!

He turned, listening again to the sound of his own breathing, a continual hiss and heave against his ears in the confinement of the cabin. He tried to assess the magnitude of what he had found.

He was startled from his thoughts when something suddenly fell against him. He shifted his light around.

Another dead man. But this one…

Once again a scream rose in his throat.

It was swallowed by the depths…. And then he felt…something.

He turned. Saw.

Terror greeted him in the form of razor-honed steel. He wanted to scream and scream and scream….

Blood flowed, joined with the water. Miles beyond the ship, sharks sensed the blood and began to swim toward the Beldona with predatory interest.

Bubbles rose from his regulator. And then they ceased.

His unseeing eyes stared out at the shadowy phantoms inside the cabin of the long-dead ghost ship.

He had solved so many mysteries, had so much to say, but…

Dead men tell no tales….

1

T here she stood.

Samantha Carlyle.

It had been a long time. Yes, a long, long time since he had seen her.

Hank had never actually described her, but from the moment he saw her, even from a distance across the water, he knew it had to be her.

Hank had described her with great enthusiasm without describing her at all. In his scholar’s mental, metaphysical lust, if there was such a thing. It didn’t matter. Adam had never mentioned in his correspondence that he could easily imagine Samantha Carlyle now because he doubted if she had changed a bit in the nearly five years since he had seen her.

She was one of those women who was simply riveting. Looking half-naked in a two-piece cobalt suit that was actually rather decent, considering how little women’s bathing suits consisted of these days. It didn’t matter. It was what was inside the suit that made it so compelling. She was tall, regal, legs wickedly long, slim, shapely. Honey-gold tanned. Rounded buttocks, flat stomach, skinny waist. Breasts…enough to create mysteriously shadowed cleavage against the constraints of the bikini bra. Good collarbone, nice long throat…

His eyes slipped down again.

Breasts. Very nice.

Body…very sensual. Long, slim, an athletic build that was still enhanced with…curves. Yeah, curves. Breasts…

Eyes up, old man, he told himself. Study her face. Her eyes. That’s where the changes in a woman appear.

She wasn’t wearing a hat or sunglasses, so she was easy to assess. She was standing on the bow, waiting to tie up at the dock. The boat came nearer, nearer; the engine cut. She was absolutely gorgeous, almost pagan, barefoot and perfectly balanced on those long, wickedly long legs. Her hands were on her hips as she waited. She defied nature, the wind, the water, like a goddess from the sea, Venus rising, red hair blazing in the wind, whipping behind her with the pride and majesty of a battle banner.

Her face…

Yes, her face.

Sophisticated. Beautifully boned, lightly tanned. Eyes large, bright, an extraordinary vibrant green that both clashed wildly against her hair like a winter’s storm and yet seemed to complement it, and the defined features of her face, majestically. Her nose was perfectly proportioned and dead straight. Her face was nearly oval, with just the hint of a heart shape to soften perfection to beauty. Lips sculpted, arrestingly defined. Brows arched, a slightly darker shade than the blazing auburn that topped her head. Standing against the wind, she compelled attention and admiration. She was so dignified.

And yet somehow…

She reeked of sensuality, as well, he realized somewhat irritably, everything that was so perfect and serene about her blending with the fire in her eyes and the wicked length of her…

Yes, this was Samantha.

He hadn’t expected to see her quite so soon, nor had he expected her to be quite so vividly arresting. He’d been younger himself, the last time he’d seen her. Too young, maybe. Too impetuous, too quick to rise to anger. Strange what the years, time and circumstance could do to a person. But then, years ago she had been way too proud herself. And she still had that cloak of pride about her now, so it seemed. Ah, yes, she had a look about her. Men probably still fell flat in her path, and she probably still stepped right over them. Sometimes, maybe, she chewed them up, spat them out.

He knew. He’d been chewed up.

Spat out.

Something suddenly seemed to squeeze in his chest. The past hurt. No, seeing Sam hurt. Some part of her had stayed with him, no matter where he had gone, what he had done. Now Justin was gone. And Hank was gone.

And it hurt to wonder, not to know, to envision what might have been.

Well, he was back. And no matter what she wanted this time, she was going to have him on her like a leech.

No spitting him out.

Not this time, baby, he thought. This time, she was going to have to pay attention to him.

Because she had to have the answers he wanted. He knew it.

And she was going to give them to him.

He gritted his teeth, locking his jaw. He was determined that he wasn’t going to give a damn how he got his answers.

Because she was in danger.

She didn’t know it, and he didn’t even know just how or when it was coming. He just knew it was coming.

Soon.

Very soon.

He came off the mail boat, arriving at four-fifteen on a Tuesday afternoon. Sam would never forget the time, because she had been returning with her small group of intermediate divers, standing at the bow, ready to hop ashore to tie up.

Instead she plummeted into the water, missing the dock at the sight of him.

He was back.

Amazingly, she didn’t recognize him at first.

She just saw the mail boat pulling into the Seafire Isle dock at the same time as the Sloop Bee. Then she saw the man, standing in the aft section of the boat.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t fairly secure in herself, nor was it that Seafire Isle didn’t draw its share of men, many of them single, and many of those handsome, adventurous, good-looking—even nice.

She’d just never seen anyone quite like him arrive at all, ever—or so she thought at first.

He was dressed casually, a tailored jacket worn loosely over a knit shirt against the wind, soft, worn jeans, sneakers. He carried a duffel bag, no more. It lay at his feet while he stood in the aft of the approaching mail boat, arms crossed over his chest. He had the easy stance of a man accustomed to boats, to the sea; his feet were set apart, and he stood balanced against the waves and rocking of the sea.

He was a good six-foot-three—Sam could easily judge his height, since she was almost five-ten herself. Half the heartbreak of her school years had been in trying to find a boy who wasn’t eye level with her breasts at the dances.

He carried himself extremely well. His shoulders were attractively broad; his chest appeared well-muscled, his waist very trim, his legs long and powerful. She found herself imagining what he would look like undressed. Not that undressed, of course, but in swim trunks.

“Hey, Sam! The line!” Jem called to her.

“Got it!” she called back, leaping out right before she fell in. Luckily for her, she’d spent the majority of her life on the island, with much of her time on boats and in the water. She could recover quickly—even as she wondered if she had actually been gaping and if the new arrival was laughing behind his Ray-Bans at the way she had so nearly fallen for him.

Because he was watching her, she thought. She couldn’t see his eyes because of the dark glasses, but the tilt of his head was toward her. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but there did seem to be the slightest curve to his mouth. A generous mouth, very sensual, well-defined and beautifully shaped. His cheekbones were high and broad, somehow both cleanly hewn and rugged in appearance. His jaw was square, firm. His hair was dark, almost ebony, touched at the ends by a natural reddish tinge given by the sea and salt air to hair, no matter how dark it might be, when the body to which it was attached spent too much time in the sun and water. His face was almost bronze from the sun as well.

Men could, perhaps, be more conventionally handsome, but she’d never seen anyone so completely electrifying and compelling in all her admittedly somewhat sheltered life.

Never seen…except for once.

Oh, God! It couldn’t be….

Beneath the Ray-Bans, his eyes were blue-gray, a color that could be like mist, like metal; it could warm, cut, pierce, demand, burn with silver flames….

No, it couldn’t be him. But it was.

Dear God, it was.

Her entire body seemed to twist into knots, to freeze.

And it was then, at precisely that moment, that the Sloop Bee banged softly against the dock and she was unbalanced and tossed cleanly into the water.

“Sam?” Jem Fisher, the tall, ebony-dark Bahamian who had been her best friend the majority of her life as well as her partner in most things, called from the deck of the Sloop Bee.

Sputtering, furious with herself, Samantha surfaced, caught hold of the end of the wooden dock and pulled herself up.

The water had been good. It had washed away the shock.

And the startling pain, she assured herself.

She didn’t glance toward the mail boat as she slicked back her newly soaked hair, waving a hand toward Jem. “It was just so hot!” she called. “Too much sun. I thought I’d cool down a little.”

Jem arched dark brows over his deep brown eyes, his handsome black face set in a mask of puzzlement.

It was obvious that she’d fallen in. She was lying, and he knew it. The rest of the passengers stared at her politely, trying to pretend that the wind on the way in hadn’t been cool enough to combat the heat of the sun.

It didn’t matter. She lowered her eyes quickly, tying the bow rope to bring the Sloop Bee to rest at the dock, then scampering to tie the stern rope and wait while her guests stepped from the boat with whatever personal equipment they had brought aboard. The mail boat docked behind the Sloop Bee. Zeb Pike, the mailman, offered her a casual wave, tossing the mail packet on the dock. He looked tired and seemed to be in a hurry today. Apparently Zeb wasn’t coming ashore.

But he was.

Definitely.

The back of her spine seemed to stiffen, and she determined to absolutely ignore him. Actually, at the moment, she had little choice. Her dive party was disembarking from the Sloop Bee, her Seafire Isle guests demanding her attention.

“It was great, it was beautiful!” a very attractive young brunette told her with glowing eyes. The woman was accompanied by a young man with glossy blond hair and equally bright eyes. He smiled and nodded at her words. The Emersons, Joey and Sue, on their honeymoon. They hadn’t looked at a thing beneath the sea except for each other.

Sam smiled. “I’m so glad you enjoyed the outing.”

“Oh, we did!” Joey Emerson assured her.

“We’ll see you for cocktails,” Sue said.

Sam nodded. I’ll bet, she thought. They were headed off for one of the cottages that flanked the main house of the Seafire Inn. Despite her own suddenly slamming heart and rising temper, she smiled, watching them go.

She didn’t imagine anyone would see them until the next day, and late the next day, at that.

“We could have stayed down a little longer the second time.”

Sam started and turned. She was being addressed by a guest in his mid to late forties, a tall, taut, well-muscled fellow with iron-gray hair, nearly black eyes and a stern, sun-leathered face. He probably did know diving—but if so, he should have known that she was going by all the proper rules and regulations.

“Mr. Hinnerman, we’re a commercial enterprise, out to entertain you. We go by the dive tables, and that’s that. I’m so sorry if we disappointed you.”

“I didn’t say I was disappointed,” Hinnerman said, inhaling heavily. “I just said we could have stayed down longer.”

“Perhaps we could have, sir, but we shouldn’t have, I’m afraid. Do you need some help with anything?”

“Help?” He arched a brow. The look told her that he found the idea of needing help with anything ludicrous. And he probably didn’t need help with anything—unless it was his personality. Strange man. Tough as nails. Yet his girlfriend—still sleeping up at the main house when the dive boat had left that morning—was just the opposite. Though Sam couldn’t quite determine her age, she decided that Jerry North couldn’t be very young, perhaps near forty, or even older. It didn’t matter. Jerry North was extremely attractive and would probably be so to her dying day. She was pure froth. Slim, small—just adorable. A blue-eyed blonde who didn’t do anything that might mar her manicure. She loved Seafire Isle anyway, or so she said. She liked to lie around the pool and walk on the beach. She liked cocktail hour, and the fact that they built fires in the parlor of the main house at night against the slight chill of the air after sunset.

She seemed to be a very nice woman, but, like Hinnerman, she sometimes made Sam uncomfortable.

She always seemed to be watching Sam.

“Mr. Hinnerman—”

“Liam,” the man corrected.

“Liam,” she agreed, and forced a smile, “I do hope you enjoyed what you were able to see.”

One of those flashes of unease Hinnerman could evoke in her swept through Sam as his gaze moved over her. Almost like a touch.

Just innuendo, never anything more. Still, she felt little shivers upon occasion, wondering what the truth about her guests might be. Perhaps they were just moderately kinky voyeurs. The looks Hinnerman gave her were definitely sexual.

But Jerry North’s weren’t. They were strangely sad, if they were anything at all.

So she was sad and kinky, Sam thought.

“I enjoyed it, all right,” Liam Hinnerman said, smiling at her broadly. “I always enjoy being with you. You are an excellent dive mistress.”

“Sam!” To her relief, Brad Walker, a lanky, green-eyed, freckle-faced thirteen-year-old with stylishly half-long-half-shaved reddish hair, the youngest diver aboard, came rushing up. “Sam, that was neat!”

“Neat,” Hinnerman muttered, and moved on.

“I loved it!” Brad continued to enthuse. “Especially that World War Two ship. So sad, huh? Do you think there are bodies in it?”

She shook her head, smiling. “No bodies, Brad.” To Brad, World War Two was as much past history as the American Revolution, yet she still had divers who came to see the navy wreck because they remembered comrades who had perished aboard it.

“Sorry, Brad. Luckily, most of the men escaped when she sank. The navy went after the few who didn’t. But they left the ship there, and it’s a memorial to all of them now.”

“It was cool. So cool,” Brad said.

“He’s just immature.” Brad’s slightly older sister, Darlene, a very pretty strawberry blonde with a nicely budding figure and who was fifteen going on thirty, sauntered lazily up beside him. She shook her head at Sam, as if they shared a knowledge regarding the total immaturity of men at any age. Sam had to grin—agreeing with Darlene’s secret assurance to some extent. “It wasn’t cool, Sam, it was an enormously gratifying experience.”

“It was cool,” Brad insisted.

“Just so long as you both enjoyed it,” Sam said.

“It would have been more fun if I’d had a real dive buddy,” Darlene said.

“I’m the one without the real buddy. Thunder thighs here kept tugging at me the whole trip, squealing every time there was a barracuda within a mile,” Brad said contemptuously.

Darlene shook her head in disgust. “There’ve got to be real men somewhere, don’t you think, Samantha?”

“I’m sure there are a number of them,” Sam murmured. Where was he now? She jiggled Brad’s baseball cap. “There are lots more wrecks out there. We’ll do some different ones tomorrow, huh?”

“Coo—el!” Brad agreed, running happily off, dragging his heavy dive bag along with him. The Walkers had been on Seafire Isle four days, but inclement weather had made this the first time they had been able to dive.

Darlene shook her head again. “It can be so trying, you know. These family vacations…” she murmured.

Her folks came up behind her. Judy and Lew Walker. They were very young for having half-grown kids. Judy had confided in Sam one night that she’d been just a junior in high school when she’d found out that she was going to have a baby. She and Lew had split up, gotten back together, discussed abortion—then run away and had the baby, Darlene. They’d spent the next few years struggling, but they’d been lucky. Both sets of parents had stepped in to help, and they’d both made it through college by working part-time. “The most miraculous thing, really,” Judy had told her, “is that we made it as a couple and that we didn’t totally destroy one another.” Then she had gone on to say, “This vacation means so much to all of us. We struggled for so many years that it’s extra-special now to have the beach, the moon, the sand, the fishing, the swimming. It’s heaven!”

“Sam, a great trip,” Lew told her. He was lean, sandy-haired, still a big kid himself. A big responsible kid, Sam thought. She had liked both him and his wife—and their family—right away.

“Super!” Judy told her. Judy was very tiny and thin to the point of skinny. She had freckles, sandy-red hair and dimples. She was in constant motion, pretty in her vividness, sweet as could be.

“Super!” Sam agreed. She tried to keep smiling, but it was difficult when she didn’t know where he was. “Is that like coo—el?”

“I think. No, I’m certain,” Lew said. He slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Their dive bags were on wheels. They only needed one hand each to drag them behind them, leaving the other hand free for each other.

Sam doubted she would be seeing the elder Walkers for cocktails, either. “Thanks,” she said.

“Super, cool—and I had the best dive partner,” came a husky male voice.

Jim Santino. Darlene called him “Romeo” and giggled all the time when he was around. He was good-looking, with a charming smile and blond hair that was long enough to fling out of his face frequently, something like a mating ritual. She’d partnered up with him today because Liam Hinnerman had gone with Sukee Pontre, who was right behind Jim now. Sukee was in her early twenties, with short dark hair and eyes and flawless ivory skin. Her father had been French, her mother Vietnamese, and Sukee had benefited from both. She wasn’t just attractive, she was exotic. She had told Sam that she had come to Seafire Isle because she had heard that not just guys but rich guys came here for vacations. She was the kind of woman who would probably have made other women hate her except that she was so blunt and funny and forthright.

“Really, handsome?” Sukee drawled to Jim. “And here I had thought you might consider me to be the perfect partner.”

“Um, er…” Jim stuttered.

“It’s difficult when there’s so damned much perfection around, isn’t it?” another voice cut in.

Sam’s eyes were drawn upward, over Jim’s shoulder.

It was him. The man from the mail boat.

Adam O’Connor.

Smiling below his Ray-Bans, his voice husky, deep, resonant. Somehow mocking.

He lowered his glasses and locked eyes briefly with Sam—an antagonistic look, yet one that somehow warned her that he didn’t intend to acknowledge the fact that he knew her.

Nor did he want her to recognize him.

Jim turned, looking up at the newcomer. He seemed to acknowledge some kind of competition—he had to, the way Sukee was staring at the man—but he was quick to redon his charming manner. “The perfect guest, the perfect hostess.” He smiled at Sam, then at Sukee, then stared at the new addition to their number once again. “You’re right. So much…perfection.” He offered a hand to the man. “Jim Santino,” he said. “Welcome to—”

“Perfection Isle?” Adam drawled. He smiled, accepting the handshake in a friendly manner.

He’s a snake, Jim, Sam longed to say in warning. Yet, somehow, she managed to keep from doing so, despite the fact that each time Adam spoke, she could hear a slight, slight underlying tinge of mockery in his voice.

The others laughed. Sam wasn’t sure Adam had meant to be amusing, even though he kept smiling. A killer smile. He had a dimple. Just one, in his left cheek.

Adam looked at her then, smiling innocently. “You must be the perfect hostess, I imagine?” He stretched his hand out to her.

If only she could bite the damned thing.

“Welcome to Seafire Isle,” Sam said smoothly, offering her own hand. She took note of his when he gripped hers. Large, powerful. The nails were bluntly cut, clean. She had very long fingers. His engulfed hers.

She drew her hand back quickly.

“Thanks,” he told her.

“Have you come to stay, or are you with the dinner party coming in tonight from Freeport?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m staying.”

“Really?” She forced herself to sound interested. “Do you have a reservation?”

Why was she playing this game? she asked herself.

“No, but your agent back at Freeport—Miss Jensen, is that right?—said that it’s slow season and you’d surely have one room left, at the least.”

“Did Miss Jensen say that?” Sam murmured. She could imagine how happy Miss Irma Jensen would have been to say it. Sam had only recently hired her to book newcomers, dinner parties and day trips to Seafire Isle. She was a sixty-year-old spinster who was certain that Sam needed to marry soon—or become a hopeless old maid herself. Irma was always delighted to book single men onto the island. She was convinced she was eventually going to make a match.

Not this time, Irma, Sam thought.

“Are you a diver, Mister, er…” Lew Walker began.

The newcomer nodded his dark head. “O’Connor. Adam O’Connor. And yes, I dive.”

“You’ll love the trips. The reefs are magnificent. And the wrecks are fascinating.”

“Wrecks are always fascinating.”

“Yes, but these are special. Sam entertains us with the history of each wreck before we reach it,” Judy said.

“Sam is always entertaining—I imagine,” Adam said politely.

“Best dive vacation I’ve ever taken,” Sukee offered. She smiled. “Mr. O’Connor. The best,” she ended sibilantly. It had a nice sexy sound to it. She’d come to flirt with all the free males—and maybe a few who were not so free. She’d concentrated on Jim so far, but now it was evident that she’d discovered a new quarry to pursue. “I just know you’ll enjoy Sam.”

Adam stared at Sam, those damned Ray-Bans back in place. “I’ll do my best,” he said politely.

She wanted to slug him.

God, she’d last seen him so long ago….

And the way she felt hadn’t changed a whit. Yes, yes, it had, she assured herself. She still wanted to kill him, still wanted to…

That was it. She simply wanted to throttle him. She was no longer crushed. She wasn’t a young woman barely turned twenty-one who was still madly, hopelessly in love with a slightly older man. A man with whom other women had been in love with as well. She wasn’t broken, desperate, longing for his touch, wanting to be held in his arms….

She felt her cheeks reddening. She remembered the first moment she had seen him today, not knowing then who he was, wondering almost academically what he would look like minus most of his clothing. Well, she knew, and…

She was over the bastard, she assured herself. Had been for a very long time now. A dozen things had happened in the years since that had made her forget him. Okay, not forget him, exactly, but relegate him to the past. Where he belonged.

Still…

If she’d never seen him before, she would have thought he was the type of man a woman might turn to in times of trouble—even if she was a woman confident in her own abilities. He had a touch of machismo about him. In fact, as she knew all too well, he could be damned irritating.

But that didn’t alleviate a woman’s urge to get close to him. To touch him. Feel his warmth, his energy.

Like a moth to a flame, she ridiculed herself. And her wings had been badly scorched.

Just be cool, she warned herself now. Be mature.

Darlene would certainly recommend maturity.

“Well, Mr. O’Connor, I’m sure Yancy will see to all your needs at the reception desk.” She turned to the others. “I think I’ll shower for dinner if you’ll all pardon me.”

Adam was the only one looking at her; the only one who seemed to notice that she was excusing herself. Jim, Sukee and the Walkers continued to watch Adam with interest.

Jem, who had pulled out the hose to wash down their equipment, was staring at her curiously over Adam’s shoulder. In fact, he was grinning, damn his hide. The hell with them both. No, the hell with men in general. She’d only ever met one who was simply honest and sweet, and he…he was gone.

Hank.

Hank, with his open blue eyes, his continual search for knowledge. His determination, his enthusiasm, his honesty, his naiveté, his nose always on a map, in a book.

What the hell happened, Hank? she wondered, the question a silent scream within her mind. Why did you let it happen? Why didn’t you let us help you? What happened, what happened…?

What the hell had happened?

And where the hell had Adam O’Connor been when Hank had disappeared? Not to mention when her father had disappeared?

Was that part of what hurt so badly now? He’d gone, yes, and left her. But when she’d been desperate, she’d sent for him. She’d thought that enough feeling, enough history, had remained between them that he would come to help.

But he hadn’t. Her pleas had gone unanswered.

She bit her lower lip and turned swiftly, anxious to put some distance between herself and Adam as quickly as possible. Damn him. This wasn’t fair. It was the surprise of seeing him that was throwing her so badly now. Definitely not fair. But then again, when had he ever played fair? He surely had the advantage today. Coming here, he’d known that he would see her.

Sweet Jesus, she could have used some warning. It would have been nice if Irma Jensen had given her a call.

Why? she taunted herself. What did it matter? Come on, come on, she was an adult, a big girl, and he was history, ancient history.

She started walking quickly, heading toward her private beach house off the south side of the main lodge.

First her father…

Then Hank.

And all over a cache of pirate gold.

Or had it been? Had they disappeared…had they died for another reason?

Adam O’Connor chased live men. Present-day pirates. And Adam was on the island.

Why the hell was he here?

Sam suddenly stopped in her tracks, staring at the smooth concrete path that began where the wooden decking ended. She had come about halfway up from the docks and stood between the docks and the main lodge. And she was looking down at a trail of drops on the smooth concrete.

A trail of crimson drops, bloodred drops….

Oh, God.

Adam was back in her life, on her island.

And there were drops on the walkway.

Red drops.

Blood?

2

S am quickly bent down to study the crimson drops. She reached out a finger, touching one.

“Sammy!”

She jumped, coming to her feet. Ahead of her, in the doorway of the lodge, stood Jerry North, Liam Hinnerman’s exquisite little doll. Her blond hair was a riot of soft waving curls around her gamine face. She was dressed in slinky white, a chiffon halter-dress creation that bared her shoulders and formidable cleavage and a fair length of her slim tanned legs. Her feet were encased in stiletto heels despite the sometimes tricky terrain of the island.

“Sammy, how was the dive?”

“Nice, you should try coming one day!” Sam called. She bent down, reached out, touched a red drop.

Studied it.

Was it blood?

“You should try one of my drinks! I make a mean Bloody Mary!” Jerry called to her cheerfully, lifting her right hand. She was holding a glass. A big, tall glass. A celery stick was rising above the rim of a glass that was practically overflowing—with something red.

A Bloody Mary.

Sam almost groaned aloud, wiping her finger on the grass by the path. She stood, smiling at Jerry, feeling like a fool.

Tomato juice had become drops of blood in her own slowly decaying mind.

It was because that damned man was back.

“Oh, did I spill? I’m so sorry!” Jerry called contritely.

“Just a drop, no problem. It’s nothing.”

“Still, I’m sorry. Everything is so immaculate here.”

“Nearly perfect,” Sam muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing. It will rain soon, a few little drops of tomato juice are no problem,” Sam said.

“Thanks. Still…I can get something and clean them up.”

“Jerry! We’re outside! Trust me—the birds never apologize for what they do to the walks.”

Jerry smiled and laughed softly. “You really grew into a beautiful young woman.”

“What?”

“You’re just a sweetheart,” Jerry said. “The island is great, and you do a wonderful job here.”

“Thanks.”

“Must have been a good dive. The others are right behind you. They look tired.”

“It was,” Sam agreed. She wanted to escape. She needed time alone, and Jerry, as usual, wanted to draw her into conversation. Most of the time she liked Jerry. Just not now.

“Those little cuties are all scattering to their own cottages. A few of them will be coming our way soon, I imagine. Come join me before they get their hands on you. I’ll make you a Bloody Mary.”

“Thanks, but I really want to bathe and change first. You go on in. I’ll join you soon.”

Still feeling like a fool, Sam waved Jerry inside and started walking quickly away once again.

In a pleasant room inside the lodge, a phone rang.

He quickly picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“You’ve got company.”

“O’Connor?”

“Yes.”

“I know. He’s already arrived.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“He came in on the afternoon mail boat right when the dive party was returning.”

“Hmm. Did he say why he was on the island?”

“A dive vacation.”

“Right. What else?” There was a moment’s silence. “What was Miss Carlyle’s reaction to his appearance?”

“No reaction.”

“She was polite?”

“She pretended not to know him.”

“O’Connor is never anywhere unless something is going on. The stakes have just doubled. You’ll have to keep your eyes wide open. What did he bring with him?”

“Not much. A duffel bag.”

“No electronic equipment?”

“Not so far as I could see.”

“Check it out.”

“Sure. I like grabbing a tiger by the tail.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid?”

“Let’s say I have a healthy respect for the man.”

“Healthy respect or—”

“Don’t worry. I’m on it.”

“He’s one man. He can’t be everywhere at once.” Again there was a brief silence. “Remember that. He’s just one man. Human. Things happen. And when they don’t, people make them happen. Do you know what I mean?”

“You’re suggesting something could happen to O’Connor?” There was a note of derision in the question. “He’s one of the best divers in the world.”

“Justin Carlyle was one of the finest divers in the world, too. The sea ate him up. It can happen to anyone. Bear that in mind.”

“Justin Carlyle was a marine biologist who loved the sea. O’Connor has been both a Navy and a police diver. He’s here with his guard up, you mark my word.”

“You mark my word. No man is invulnerable. Especially when you go through a woman to reach his Achilles’ heel. You stay awake there, you hear?”

“Yeah. Who is O’Connor working for?”

“It’s the damnedest thing—I don’t know. Not yet, anyway.”

“Great.”

“Give me time. I’ll find out.”

The receiver went dead.

He replaced it slowly, then stood and walked into the bathroom, dropping his clothing as he went. He paused before the mirror, pleased with what he saw. Naked, he shoved aside the toiletries in his overnight bag until he revealed a dark velvet bag that might have carried men’s cologne or talc. But it didn’t. He ran his hand carefully over the outline of his specialty custom-made thirty-two-caliber pistol, a small weapon, easily concealed, but one that packed a deadly punch nevertheless.

Assured, he locked the door to the bath, his overnight bag on the commode, within arm’s reach of the shower. He started the water and swore vociferously as it shot out at him, steaming. He adjusted the temperature, still swearing.

Well, hell, that was just it, wasn’t it? They were all getting into hot water now.

But didn’t they always tempt the devil?

For big payoffs, you had to take big risks.

He began to lay his plans as he quickly showered.

Don’t think about him, Sam warned herself. Humph. Might as well tell herself to quit breathing. Not that it meant anything. She was hardened. Older. Mature.

Burned.

But she still wanted to know….

What the hell was Adam doing here? Go with the obvious, she advised herself. He was after someone or something—he was not on a pleasure trip, that was certain. He’d been with the Metropolitan Dade County Police the first time he’d come here, searching for a drug runner out of Coconut Grove reported to have gone down about two miles off the island. He’d found the sunken speedboat—and arrested the two men who were pretending to be sports fishermen while visiting the island in their attempt to recover their lost treasure. In the meantime, he’d made a conquest on the island—her.

Sam didn’t head straight for her refuge. She walked quickly along the concrete path, skirting the front of the lodge, still feeling like a fool. Anything could have been on that damned path. Anything. It led from the docks, first skirting the white sand of the beach area on the northward slope of the island, then winding through the manicured lawns toward the lodge itself.

Hibiscus grew along the path in flowering beauty, while palms lent shade, and crotons and wild orchids added deep slashes of color along the way.

With Jerry having disappeared into the lodge, Sam paused in the center of an orchid-covered gazebo near the far corner of the lodge, catching her breath and looking at the inn.

The main lodge itself was Victorian. It had been built by Sam’s great-grandfather in 1880. Cosmetic touches and several major additions had been built on over the intervening years, but every member of the family since her great-grandfather’s day had remained true to the integrity of the Victorian era. The lodge house was painted a soft coral with white balconies, porches and gingerbreading. It was encircled by a magnificent broad porch and sat atop a small knoll. She loved the house, and she loved the island, just as she loved the water and the breezes, the boating, the diving. It was a fantasy life—hard work, but a fantasy. She enjoyed living it and working it. This had been her home as long as she could remember, except for the three years she had spent at St. Anne’s Fine Arts College for Women.

Too bad it had been an all-girls school, she reflected sourly. A little more exposure to men and she might have been better prepared for Adam when he had arrived on the island. At the very least she might have had a more accurate perception of her own weaknesses and inexperience.

Well, it was all in the past now, and though Justin Carlyle had disappeared over four years ago, she still had Jem Walker with her, and Jem was great. He was as close as a brother could be, her best friend, her partner in all things.

Her life and the island were damn near perfect.

Except that now Adam was back.

She stared at the house, inwardly swearing and breathing deeply to calm herself. She heard voices, guests returning to their rooms. She closed her eyes, hoping she was concealed by the healthy tangle of orchids. The voices faded.

Only two or three. Had Adam’s been among them?

She slipped out of the gazebo, looking toward the dock.

The entire group was now gone. Amazing what his damned appearance had done to her. She’d rushed away, imagined she’d seen blood on her walk, then walked around like an idiot while everyone who’d left the docks after her was probably already relaxing in a hot tub.

Even Jem had finished up with the business of rinsing down the equipment and was no doubt comfortably submerged in heat and bubbles in his cottage.

Everyone had disappeared.

Disappeared. God, how she hated that word!

Don’t start thinking about disappearances now! she warned herself.

This was customarily a quiet time on the island, after the daily dive trip and any of the other activities and lessons, and before the traditional cocktail hour—unless you were Jerry and liked to start cocktail hour early. Though the island was a casual vacation destination, people always had a tendency to dress up for cocktail hour and dinner, at least a little bit. Her guests napped, bathed and indulged themselves—and one another—during this quiet time, as she thought of it after talking with one guest, a kindergarten teacher.

Quiet time. She needed a little quiet time of her own, with an early start on the cocktail hour thrown in.

She turned away from the empty dock and hurried along the path, anxious to reach the calm refuge of her own abode. Once her house had been a kitchen for the lodge, but with the installation of smoke detectors and a sprinkler system, the one-time kitchen had been adapted into a charming cottage. There was a central living area, a sunken office off to one side, a small kitchenette, and then her bedroom and bath, the latter huge, with a separate shower stall that offered a dozen jets and a huge Jacuzzi set high atop elegant, tiled steps. It was surrounded by glass, with privacy shutters built along the outside wall. From the bath, she looked out onto a garden area with purple bougainvillea twining over the shutters and a small fountain with a graceful Venus pouring water onto concrete flowers.

Sam carefully locked her door. She didn’t want to assume that Adam’s being on the island meant he intended to come anywhere near her, but then, she knew the man, and if he wanted something, he would come after it.

She checked the lock, then leaned against the door, studying her living room walls.

They were laden with paintings and prints. A few were period pieces and very valuable. Galleons, warships, privateers, all lined her walls, along with some beautiful charts and maps.

There was a map of Seafire Isle with its surrounding coral reefs and shelves. Once upon a time, the small island had been a dangerous place, teeming with pirates. It had been passed between the Spanish and the British a dozen times. Because of the coral reefs surrounding it, the island was accessible only by smaller ships, and in days gone by, many a poor vessel had been wrecked on her reefs. This map had been sketched in pen and ink during her great-grandfather’s day. It showed the more modern pleasures of the island, the lodge, the scattering of cottages, the docks, the beach, the tennis courts and the golf course. It was quite charmingly drawn, and little had really changed since it had been done.

But Sam’s eyes were drawn from the Seafire Isle map, and she moved across the room, looking at her father’s favorite. It was a treasure map, drawn in the early eighteen hundreds, encompassing Florida with all its islands, the Gulf Coast and the Caribbean. There were stars and notes attached to every possible “treasure” trove—or sunken ship—location in fine, minuscule handwriting. “Here lyeth the Santa Margarita, the Ghost Galleon, sunk in the Year of Our Lord 1622, in the Eyes of a Storm, may she rest in peace.” The treasure recovered from the Santa Margarita had an estimated worth of about twenty million. She had sunk at nearly the same time as the more recently discovered Atocha, a ship that had yielded its own trove of treasure, both fiscal and historical.

Closer to Seafire Isle, west of the south Florida mainland, was the mark for the Beldona, her father’s love, his great passion—the mistress of his life.

The Beldona had, in the end, claimed him, or so it seemed. And without giving up a single one of her secrets. She’d gone down in 1722, also in “the Eyes of a Storm,” and she’d carried her crew, her prisoners and her treasure to a watery grave from which there had been no reprieve. She’d been something of a mystery ship from the very beginning, a British ship carrying secret documents as well as a doomed crew of Spanish privateers. No one had ever been able to tell a pirate tale like Justin Carlyle. No one. No one had ever been able to weave such a spell of magic, adventure and chills. And no one, perhaps, had ever been so caught up in the spell of his own lore.

Justin had also been an excellent diver, strict regarding the rules of safety.

But Justin had followed the Beldona. And he had never returned.

Strange, for all his hard, contemporary tactics and cool determination, Adam had been as seduced by her father’s tales as any other man. He had sat up hour after hour with Justin, while they had drunk cheap whiskey together, laughing, imagining, weaving tales of what had happened the night of the storm. And they had speculated as to where the ship might have gone down. Yes, Adam and her father had been great together.

She inhaled raggedly again, backing away from the map. Great. Just great. She had gone from wondering about Adam to agonizing over her father, and now she couldn’t stop remembering them both.

No, she would never waste time on such a rotten bastard again, and that was that. She turned toward the kitchen, walking slowly at first. Then more quickly.

Her walk became a run. She reached into the refrigerator and, more desperately than she wanted to, dragged out a bottle of zinfandel. She poured herself a glass, her hands shaking. She gulped down the wine.

She shuddered, her entire face puckering. Wine was not meant to be guzzled. She poured herself a second glass, determined not to think about Adam. She decided, as she made her way into the bathroom to start hot water running into the massive Jacuzzi, that he had one hell of a lot of nerve, thinking that he could just walk in here and expect her not to betray him.

Maybe she’d misread him and he really didn’t care if she betrayed him or not. Maybe he was really on vacation.

No. Never.

By the time the Jacuzzi had been filled, she had her third glass of wine at her side. She crawled into the tub and leaned back, determined to relax, to unwind. Impossible. She laid her head back, feeling the water pulse against her back, her neck.

Damn him. What was he doing here now? Where had he been when things had gone badly for her, when her father had disappeared, when Hank had followed the exact same way? She’d been desperate enough then to write to him, to beg him for help, and he hadn’t shown up. Where the hell had he been, and what possible right did he have to come now?

She sipped her wine, feeling its effects at last, soothing her body if not her soul. Great. She was guzzling zinfandel. Trying to get sloshed on wine. She hadn’t done anything so stupid since she and Jem and Yancy had been sixteen and downed a bottle of cheap burgundy they had gotten hold of in Freeport. Think how sick she’d been….

No, she wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

Right, she taunted herself. Her wine wasn’t cheap anymore.

She shook her head, warning herself to slow down. She had a business to run. She didn’t want to get sloshed at all—couldn’t afford to—but his presence on the island was really getting to her. And she was usually so moderate. She hadn’t overimbibed in wine or anything else since she had gotten so carried away that night when they had first…

She heard a noise behind her and tensed, sitting up straight, her fingers curling over the rim of the tub, listening.

She had imagined it, she told herself. She sat very still, barely breathing, listening once more.

Nothing….

Had she imagined it?

No, no…a few seconds later, it came again. Like a whisper through the air. Movement.

She gritted her teeth furiously.

Adam.

He’d been like the sun coming into her life, all powerful, blazing, the center of her universe.

She’d been like a stick of gum to him. Easily spat out and forgotten, exchanged for another.

And now he thought he could saunter in again, and she would be the same obliging innocent she had been before.

The noise was coming closer.

How had he gotten in? she wondered. The bastard. She spoke at last, controlling her contemptuous tone to the very best of her ability. “You son of a bitch, I don’t know how the hell you got in here, but you can get out of my private quarters right this second!” she snapped.

He didn’t reply. Not a word. Not a whisper of laughter, not a breath of mockery.

“Damn you!”

Furious, she twisted around. To her absolute amazement, it wasn’t Adam.

At least, she didn’t think it was Adam.

It was a figure in black. Completely in black—down to a black ski mask.

Sam was so stunned that she didn’t even think to be frightened at first, just curious.

A ski mask? Nights on the island could be cool, but never cold enough for…

Oh, God. She was an idiot.

“What on earth…” she began to murmur. Then she realized that the figure was coming toward her, carrying some kind of a black cloth in its black gloved hand.

She stood up, drawing in breath she could expel in a shriek as she tried to leap from the tub and escape. But she was cut off from the doorway by the figure, left standing there naked, dripping.

She made an attempt to sidestep the figure and leap for the door. No luck. She stared at it hard. Male, she thought instinctively. Tall—no chest. But that was it. There was nothing else she could tell about her silent attacker.

For seconds they just stood, staring at one another.

Then she realized her situation. She was naked, unarmed, and an intruder was in her bathroom, completely camouflaged and staring at her.

“Help!” she screamed. Her cottage wasn’t that far from the main house. And there were other cottages near hers. Someone might be walking on the beach. Someone…

This was ludicrous. A black-clad figure in a ski mask on a Caribbean island—attempting to attack her!

“Help!” she shrieked again.

The figure lunged for her.

“No!” she cried, beating her fists against his chest, kicking him. He grunted as one well-aimed kick connected, then seemed to find his own spurt of fury. He grasped one of her arms, and she was drawn, still kicking and screaming, against his body. He struggled to force the cloth over her face. She kept struggling to keep it away. She tried not to breathe. She could already smell the sickly sweet scent of the drug that soaked the cloth.

“Help!” she shrieked again, still kicking. The cry cost her what little breath she had left. She had to breathe. Had to inhale….

The scent was awful. Filling her nose, her lungs, seeping into her blood, deadening her limbs. She couldn’t keep fighting, couldn’t force her arms to move the way she wanted them to. She tried to claw, to scratch his eyes with her fingers.

Oh, God, she was losing her strength. She was being attacked…assaulted….

Murdered?

She still couldn’t believe that an intruder had come here for her. This was her damned island!

Blackness…stars…weakness…

That awful, sickly sweet smell, closing in around her, filling her…

She was starting to go limp in the fierce hold of her attacker.

Suddenly the arms that held her were wrenched away. She was dimly aware of a thudding, crunching sound as a blow was thrown and connected with flesh and bone. She heard a groan, footsteps taking flight….

All in a matter of seconds.

“Sit!” someone snapped at her. “I’ll be back.”

She reached out blindly. “Ca—can’t!”

She lacked the strength to stand, yet she couldn’t manage to tell her limbs to set her into a sitting position. She was going to fall against the unforgiving tile.

“Damn it!” she heard someone say. “He’s going to get away.”

She didn’t fall, she was swept up. She blinked furiously against the effects of the drug, trying to fight again.

“Damn it, Sam, I’m trying to keep you from killing yourself!”

Her vision started clearing. It was Adam. Right in front of her. No, holding her. She was still so dizzy. The room was spinning. No, he was walking. Carrying her. Laying her down on her bed.

He left her for a minute and the darkness began to recede. She drank in the fresh, salt-tinged night air that whispered over the island. She tried her fingers. They moved. Her toes. They wiggled.

There was a sensation of weight as he sat down at her side. Cold, as he pressed a washcloth rinsed in cool water over her face.

She inhaled through the cloth and felt her temper reviving the rest of her.

Adam was in her room—and she was stark naked.

He lifted the cloth from her face. His eyes were burning and sharp, his features tense, yet his lips seemed to curve in a mocking smile.

She struck out wildly, her palm swinging toward his cheek.

“Stop it, Sam! It’s me. Adam!”

The Ray-Bans were gone. She could see his face clearly, if she could only focus. She blinked, making the attempt. She saw the silver glitter of his eyes against the striking, angled lines of his profile and tried to strike out again. He caught her hands, leaning over her, his weight bearing her down, preventing her from attacking him.

“Sam, damn it, it’s me!”

“I know perfectly well who it is!” she cried out. Still struggling furiously, she managed to free a hand and tried again to strike him.

Once again, before her blow could land, her wrist was captured.

And she realized that she was lying naked and completely vulnerable…with Adam O’Connor not just back on her island, but lying on top of her in her bed.

3

“F ine! Next time a stranger is trying to drug you, kidnap you, maybe even kill you, I’ll remember to keep my distance,” Adam said evenly. His tone was husky. Angry.

His eyes were directly on hers, gleaming. A knife-like silver. Not giving away an iota of emotion.

Only his voice hinted of his feelings.

She stared at him. Not moving, not breathing. Not daring to, because the slightest motion would bring her bare flesh into closer contact with him.

He’d aged nicely over the years. He was even more attractive in his mid-thirties than he’d been in his late twenties. His voice had deepened; his chest had broadened. Even the lines in his face gave it the character that men seemed to achieve so easily, while women battled the ravages of age with expensive creams and potions. His dark hair was longish, collar length. It was tousled now from the fight he’d put up. One dark wavy strand had fallen over his forehead, where it looked too damned good. Sexy, sensual. Very masculine. It was great hair. Very thick. She knew, because once-upon-a-very-long-time-ago, she had run her fingers through it. She was tempted to touch it right now.

She would like to touch it and yank it right out of his head.

He’d changed clothes for dinner, making her current, uncomfortable situation seem all the more ludicrous. He was dressed in casual evening attire, black pants, jacket, bone and crimson vest over a dress shirt. He was in absurdly good condition. He wasn’t breathing hard—only his hair had been mussed. Even his tie had remained straight, helping to maintain his look of casual elegance.

She was going to die, she realized, if she didn’t breathe soon.

She might have died! She’d never been afraid on the island, never even thought to be afraid. What might have happened if…?

She inhaled, trying not to gasp too deeply for air. She couldn’t gush out a thank-you-for-my-life. She just couldn’t do it.

“He—he shouldn’t be a stranger anymore,” Sam gasped, rallying. “You should have caught him. You should be after him right now rather than humiliating me.”

“You’re humiliated?” he demanded, silver eyes cool.

“Adam—”

“Humiliation has never been your strong suit.”

“What would you know about my strong suit? You don’t know me at all. You passed through my life years ago. Hundreds of people have passed through it since.”

“Hundreds with whom you’ve had affairs? In this day and age? Shame on you, Samantha. Really.”

She stared at him with all the careful restraint she could manage, eyes narrowed. “Get off me and get out of my bedroom. Now.”

“Yeah. You’re welcome. But please, don’t deluge me with any more gratitude. I can’t deal with it. It would just go straight to my head.”

“God forbid. If anything else went to your head, it might explode.”

“Oh, really?”

“Damn right!”

“In contrast to the Queen of the Seven Seas here, eh?”

“O’Connor!”

He rose—carefully, ready for her to start swinging again.

She wouldn’t have minded doing so. Except that it wouldn’t have gotten her anywhere. Because he would have been right back on top of her. And that would not have been good. Because it was amazing just how vividly memory could serve—even when half a decade had passed.

He stood above the bed, looking toward the door to her room. The room was shadowy; dusk was falling. She was grateful for the darkness, since she didn’t seem to be able to move and get any clothes.

It just seemed so absurd for him to be here. She should have forgotten him; he should have forgotten her. They were hardly friends now. They hadn’t exactly parted on good terms. The words that passed between them now had quickly become sarcastic, scathing, when they should have been casual. But something remained after all that time.

Bitterness. Anger. And more. Things left unresolved. Being near him was like entering an energy field where slashes of lightning cut furiously through the air.

He was still in her room. Too close. Far too close.

Some things changed. Chemistry stayed the same. And she was still…frightened. She could strike out at Adam, or cling to him.

No. Oh, no.

“You should be going after him!” she said.

He looked at her again. She was sorry she had spoken. She felt as if her entire body was blushing, as if her skin was burning right down to her feet.

“What if it was a her?” he demanded.

“What?”

“It could have been a woman.”

“It was a man. The height—”

“They’re making taller woman these days. Whoever it was, they weren’t much taller than you.”

“It was a man.”

“Because the chest was flat?”

“How amazing! I hadn’t thought you were aware that female chests could come in flat.”

He leaned over her again, a half smile curving his mouth. “You’d be amazed at the amount of wonderfully sensual, sexy women who come in size small.”

“Your tastes have broadened.”

“Ah, let’s see, I just passed through your life and know nothing about you, but you can judge my tastes?”

She smiled, determined not to cringe or allow him to realize in any way that her nudity in front of him made her feel as vulnerable as a day-old kitten.

“I know that when you left here, the woman you left for was incredibly well-endowed. Not particularly tall, but—well-endowed.”

“You’re mistaken. But then, you so often are.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“How could you possibly know my taste in breasts?”

“I’m only familiar with my own observations, of course.”

“Very mature ones,” he commented. “But then, you were just past being a child back then, weren’t you?”

There was something disturbing about the way he asked the question.

Just past being a child…. She had been in her early twenties at the time. He’d just been accustomed to a faster crowd. Women who knew what they were doing.

Well, he had seen to her education.

“I do apologize,” she said coolly. In perfect control. “We’re certainly both adults now, and this has to be one of the most ridiculous conversations I’ve ever had. Whether that was a man or a woman, you should have gone after them.”

“Oh, really? I get beaten up for saving you, and then I’m supposed to go after the intruder anyway?”

“You don’t look beaten up.”

“Trust me, I am.”

“You—”

“Not only was I struck by the intruder, but then I got you throwing punches, as well.”

“Aftershock,” she said evenly.

“Um.”

“That doesn’t matter now.”

“It doesn’t matter to you because you weren’t on the receiving end.”

“You are not hurt! You should be chasing—”

“Chasing who—and where?” he demanded curtly. “Your cottage is surrounded by others, and by the main house. All that intruder had to do was shuck the ski mask and black pullover and slip on a shirt or a jacket and you’d never recognize him or her in a thousand years.”

“It couldn’t possibly be a guest!”

“No, a large stork delivered him to the island!”

“Well, you should have caught him!”

“Silly me. I should have let you crack your head on the tile so I could chase the intruder. Fine. Next time I’ll let you crack your damned head!”

“What kind of a cop are you? You could at least look for clues.”

“I’m not a cop anymore.”

“No? Then what are you doing on the island?”

“Vacationing. Boating. Diving.”

“Lying.”

“Do you subject all your guests to the third degree?”

“Only you.”

“I’m here to dive.”

“The hell you are.”

“I love to dive. This is a great location.”

“So is Aruba.”

“I like the diving off Seafire Isle—and the dive mistress here has quite a reputation. I hear she’s perfect—and perfectly entertaining.”

“Do you think you could possibly remove yourself from my room?”

“Do you think you can quit questioning me long enough for me to get out?”

Her eyes suddenly narrowed on him. “How did you get in here to begin with?”

“The same way your attacker did, I imagine.”

“I was careful today. I locked the door.”

“Not good enough, Sam.” He pointed to where one of her bedroom window curtains was floating inward on the breeze. “The window, Sam. Easy access.”

He turned to leave the room, and she started to shiver.

She rolled quickly under her bed covers, hoping he wouldn’t realize how much he had unnerved her. But he was leaving the room without glancing her way. She wondered if he had actually taken a look at her to begin with.

If he’d even noticed that she was naked, or, if he had, if he’d cared in the least.

Wonderful. She’d been attacked, nearly…what? Kidnapped? Murdered? Yet here she was, worrying about Adam. What in God’s name was the matter with her?

She leaped up when he was gone, hurrying to dress. She threw on panties, a bra, black pumps and a long-sleeved black knit dress. When she was dressed, she drew a brush through her not-really-washed-and-half-damp-hair, wincing as she hit the tangles. She told herself to toughen up, dragging the brush through her hair until it had a semblance of neatness to it, then hurried out of her bedroom—anxious to see if he had really left her cottage.

She didn’t think he had.

And he hadn’t.

He was seated in her living room, comfortably leaning back in the deep Victorian brocade sofa. Despite his evening attire, he’d managed a pose of casual ease, his feet propped up on the cherrywood coffee table. There was a bottle of beer in his hand, and he sipped it slowly, reflectively, as he stared at the treasure map on the wall. He lifted the bottle, indicating the map. “I’m surprised you keep that.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Your father.”

“I’d have to discard the entire island if I couldn’t bear memories of my father.”

“I didn’t mean the memory,” he murmured. “I meant—he disappeared searching for the Beldona, right?”

“Yes,” she said.

His eyes suddenly seemed more veiled than her own. “He loved that ship.”

“He didn’t love the ship—he couldn’t love the ship—he never found her. He just loved the sea, the adventure. And he loved the island. Look, forget my father for now, what about tonight? Should I call the mainland police? Make out a report?”

“You could.”

“Could? What does that mean?”

“Well, the police will come out, question you and question all your guests. You won’t find out who attacked you, and you might well empty the island.”

She hadn’t thought of that. “But—but what about the danger to my guests?”

“I’d bet my life that the attacker is very specifically after you.”

“Great. Then I’m in danger.”

“Yes. You’ll have to be extremely careful.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Stay close to me.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “That could be difficult when you’re running around with your well-endowed—and not-so-well-endowed—women.”

“Did I arrive here with a woman?”

“No, but they always seem to appear around you.”

“But I’ll be watching you.”

“But—”

“Look, if the police come, they won’t be able to do a damned thing but file a report. Your innocent guests will leave the island. And you’ll still be in danger.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“You’re right. That’s my opinion. Hank Jennings disappeared searching for the Beldona, as well, didn’t he?”

She frowned, thrown by his abrupt change of subject—or determination to return to the original one. “Did you know Hank Jennings?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“I heard about his disappearance,” he said, his eyes on the map once again.

“Naturally you heard about it. I wrote to you, asking for help. You didn’t come. But then, you didn’t show up after my father disappeared, either, and you’d become bosom buddies with him.”

He didn’t offer her a sarcastic reply, which she might have expected. He didn’t even remind her that she had asked him to leave Seafire Isle.

He just shook his head, taking a long swallow of beer. “I didn’t get your letter for nearly a year after your dad disappeared,” he told her. His voice seemed a little husky.

The beer, she thought.

“I was down in the Everglades on a sting operation when it came.”

“Well, that would have been years ago now. Are you always so quick with your correspondence?”

“A neighbor was picking up my mail. The letter wound up on her counter, then fell behind her stove, and she finally found it over a year later, and by then…” He shrugged.

It sounded like one of the worst stories Sam had heard in her life but, oddly enough, she believed him. Not because the story was believable, but because of the way he told it.

“She was picking up your mail, huh?” Sam murmured.

“She was sixty-six. I don’t think there was any ulterior motive behind the accident. If you’d really wanted me, you could have called.”

“It’s difficult to call someone who has ignored your rather desperate appeal for help.”

“You know damned well I would have done anything I could to help your father.”

“Well, at least I don’t have to feel like such a fool for attempting to reach you last year when Hank disappeared. But what happened then? Was your neighbor collecting your mail again?”

His glare assured her that he didn’t find her amusing. He shook his head, lifting the beer, taking another long swallow. Then he looked at her, his eyes silver and very sharp. “I was out of the country last year, working for private concerns. My mail was all held at the South Miami post office—feel free to check on that.”

“Oh.”

He exhaled in exasperation. “I was in Africa, river diving for industrial diamonds.”

“I didn’t ask you for a detailed explanation.”

“You don’t seem willing to believe one, either.”

She shrugged. “So what are you doing here now?”

Once again he lifted his shoulders, and she knew she was going to receive an evasive reply. But he suddenly stared directly at her. “Unusual things have been happening in this area with some frequency.”

“My father disappeared, Hank disappeared. Other than that, not a damned thing besides your run-in with the drug dealers years ago has happened here.”

He arched a brow. “Nothing unusual has happened? What about just now? Or was that your usual evening? Were you just indulging in some kind of kinky sex in there tonight? Should I have kept out of it?”

Sam refused to dignify that with an answer. She walked across the room to the treasure map, studying it as she spoke. “I haven’t had the first unusual thing happen here—until your arrival.”

“Your father’s disappearance wasn’t unusual?”

She spun on him, fighting a wild tug-of-war to keep her emotions under control. She had loved her father. She’d never even known her mother; Justin had been all she’d had. And he had made her the center of his universe. When he had first disappeared, she had refused to believe it, yet as the days went by and no sign of him was found, she had known that he was dead. He would never have stayed away from her if there had been a breath of life left in him.

“My father is dead,” she said softly.

He didn’t deny it. He merely asked quietly, “And don’t you want to know why?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “I do know why! The sea is a vengeful mistress.”

“What about Hank?” Adam demanded. “Didn’t he disappear just the same damned way—without a trace?”

She threw up her hands. “They both went out alone in small boats. Adam, the sea doesn’t always give up her dead.”

“Yeah, well, if I understand things correctly, she didn’t give up so much as a jagged piece of lumber after the disappearance of either man.”

“Adam, you know that massive ships have disappeared completely. The ocean is huge.”

“Sam, you’re being blind. And things are getting worse. There’s more to this picture than you realize. People have been dropping like flies all around you.”

She swung around, staring at him. “What are you talking about?”

He leaned forward. “Three different sets of divers—ostensibly sports divers—out from Key Largo, Coconut Grove and Fort Lauderdale—have disappeared entirely in the past year.”

“But we’re not in South Florida—”

“Oh, right. We’re on an island not far from it. In all three cases, they were headed for the waters right around Seafire Isle.”

“You just said you weren’t a cop anymore.”

“I’m not.”

“Then…”

“I’m working for private concerns,” he told her.

She lifted a hand in exasperation. “Okay, so your divers were heading for these waters. They could have disappeared anywhere. We’re within the boundaries of the so-called Devil’s Triangle out here. Pay attention to me. Ships have disappeared. Whole fleets of airplanes. I’m sorry about the divers, but I don’t understand why that should suddenly make you show up on Seafire Isle. Especially on the night I just happen to be attacked in my bathroom. Then again, it’s incredibly good luck that you just happened to be at hand, ready to come through my window after the intruder.”

He smiled then, lifting the beer, swallowing. “I heard your scream. I couldn’t get in the front door—it was locked. I came around the house. Found the window. No great mystery.”

“Okay, then. The great mystery is why someone would suddenly want to attack me because you’ve come to the island.”

“I’m sure I had nothing to do with someone attacking you.”

“I’ve never been attacked before.”

“There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

“I’m still convinced that this first time has something to do with you.”

He shook his head, finishing the beer. “Nice attitude. God knows what might have happened to you if I hadn’t been here, and I still haven’t heard a ‘Thank you, Adam, for saving my life.”’

“But what if I was attacked because of you being on the island? Am I supposed to thank you for having put my life in danger?”

He leaned forward suddenly, with startling speed and agility that reminded her how dangerous he could be when he chose, that any time he gave the impression of casual relaxation it was just that—an impression.

“Samantha, use some damned sense, will you? Your father disappeared because he got close to something. And then Hank disappeared.”

She swallowed hard. “My father knew that no matter how good you were, it was never safe to dive alone. A dozen things might have happened. He could have had a heart attack. He might have gotten excited about a discovery and tried to come up too quickly. I’ve had to accept the fact that he probably drowned.”

“Where’s the body? Where’s the damned body?”

“You’re not listening. You’re refusing to see the obvious! The sea doesn’t always give back her dead, you know that!”

“Oh, Sam, come on! You’re trying to say that your father and Hank both disappeared because of some Devil’s Triangle bullshit.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything strange or mystical! People have disappeared—”

“Yes, and there were sea monsters before men discovered the truth about giant squids and whales. There’s an explanation for everything. You know it, and I know it.”

“Right. Like there might be a real explanation for the fact that you’re here.”

“You are persistent.”

“I’m in danger, or so you say.” Sam waited for him to say something reassuring. He didn’t.

“I just told you that three groups of divers—”

“Disappeared during the last year. Hank disappeared just over a year ago. So that’s four disappearances. I have an older gentleman here right now who can quote you statistics regarding all the disappearances here. Even some scientific experts believe that there might be magnetic poles or something like that in the waters around here. Why should your missing divers have anything to do with my island?”

His silver eyes were sharp, and he groaned in exasperation. “Pay attention, Sam. They were all heading for waters just north of Seafire Isle.”

“I head for waters just north of Seafire Isle almost every day.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I haven’t seen or heard a single thing that was the least bit strange.”

“I’d say your father did.”

“My father has been gone for years.”

“A long time, yes. But we’ve just agreed that Hank and the other divers all disappeared within the past year.”

“So what the hell do you know about Hank?”

“He was looking for the Beldona, wasn’t he?” Adam demanded.

“He—he…”

“Well?”

“I don’t know exactly what he was doing. I had already gone the day he disappeared. He took one of the little motorboats and his diving equipment, and he never came back. Neither did the boat.”

“Are you trying to tell me that Hank Jennings just decided to motor away?”

She stared at him, folding her arms over her chest. “No, I don’t believe that he just motored away.”

“Was he looking for the Beldona?”

“I just told you—”

“What was he doing on the island?”

“He—he was a researcher. He studied the Steps and everything beneath the sea.”

“The wrecks?”

“Of course.”

“The Beldona?”

Samantha let out a frustrated cry. “Yes, yes! He was as fascinated by the stories of that stupid ghost ship as my father was! She’s sunk beneath the sea, hidden, exactly where she belongs, and I wish to hell that people—especially people around me—would leave her alone where she lies!”

“You probably know more about that ship than anyone else on earth. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’m not a researcher or a marine biologist. I run a resort, and I don’t know everything there is to know about that ship, and I don’t want to know anything more than I do about her.”

“No one knows everything. But I imagine a lot of people consider you to be the current expert on her. You are your father’s daughter, after all.”

Sam sighed in complete exasperation. “When did this conversation start being about me? I want to know what you’re doing here, and you’re switching everything around so that you’re questioning me! It’s not going to happen. If you’d just tell me—”

He stood up suddenly, impatiently. Almost violently. She took a step back, but he didn’t even seem to notice. His empty beer bottle clinked on the top of the coffee table as he set it down. He dragged his fingers through his dark hair, staring at her. For a moment, just for a moment, she saw a flash of passion within him, yet she couldn’t begin to pinpoint exactly what that passion was for.

“All right, Sam. Someone on the island has been corresponding with SeaLink for several days now.”

“SeaLink?” Sam murmured, confused. She knew the name, but she couldn’t place it right away. “The marine supply company?”

“Marine supply company!” Adam muttered.

“They are a marine supply company, aren’t they? A big one. They sell boats, scuba equipment, maps, electronics.”

“Yes, yes. It was founded in 1970 by James Jay Astin. He’s also a treasure hunter. He and his employees have managed to dig up a fair amount of salvage from at least a dozen of the ships that have gone down off the coast of Florida.”

“I read an article about him in one of the diving magazines. He turns his finds over to the government, endows all sorts of museums—”

“And he keeps what he wants in his private collection, or sells it on the black market around the world.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him when she didn’t really know anything about Astin—except that he appeared to be a model citizen.

“Astin was friends with your father.”

“How do you know?”

“They went diving together once when I was here. I didn’t know who Astin was myself at the time, but I’ve had the opportunity to meet him since.”

Sam shook her head stubbornly. “I never met him. My father had his own life, and when he was alive, I didn’t necessarily meet and greet all the guests. So this Astin knew my father. Lots of people did. And it’s not illegal for Astin or his people to be visiting the island.”

“I didn’t say it was illegal. Just curious.”

“Besides, you’re not a cop anymore.”

“No.”

“So what is it to you?” she asked coolly.

“I told you, I’m working for private concerns.”

“And what do I know about your ‘private concerns’? I still think you’re at the center of all the trouble.”

“He was trying to drug you, not me.”

“I give up. You’re trouble, and you’re impossible.”

“Want to try throwing me off the island?” he asked pleasantly.

“Cause enough trouble, and I will.”

“This is a public vacation spot. I could sue the pants off you.”

“I could have you arrested for breaking and entering.”

“That’s what I get for trying to save your ass!” he exclaimed, hands on his hips. “Tell me, Sam, are you going to throw me off again?”

“I never threw you off the island.”

“You asked me to leave.”

“Your interests were elsewhere.”

“So, are you?”

“Like you just said, Seafire Isle is a public vacation spot.”

“I’m glad you see it that way. Because I don’t give a damn what you think, or what you want—I won’t be leaving until a few mysteries are cleared up.”

“Is that so?” she inquired politely.

“And you should be glad.”

“Really.”

“Yes—damned grateful, in fact.”

“Then thank God for your presence,” Sam muttered.

“Sam, my love, you can be one stubborn bitch,” he said wryly. He took the few steps needed to come close to her, lifting her chin. She managed to keep herself from wrenching it away.

“You bet!” she promised him softly. “The worst bitch you’ve ever come across if you’re trying to put something over on me.”

He smiled suddenly. “Aren’t we getting just a little bit carried away here? I didn’t come to pick up the pieces of an old argument right where we left off. And I probably did save your life.”

“Okay. Thank you for saving my life. Now, will you please get the hell out of my house? Maybe I can’t throw you off the island, but I know damned well I have the right to throw you out of here!”

“Miss Carlyle, you need me.”

“I do?”

He shrugged. “Well, if you do decide to try to throw me off the island, you’ll have to hope someone else is around the next time you’re in trouble.”

“I thanked you, didn’t I? Of course, it would have been helpful to know just who was attacking me, but then, you’re not a cop anymore. You couldn’t possibly have been expected to nab the attacker as well as save my life.”

“Okay, the next time you’re about to fracture your skull, I’ll consider you expendable in the pursuit of justice.”

“Will you please get the hell out?”

“Nice. I should just leave you to the next ski-masked attacker who crawls into your bathroom.”

“Look at it my way. I haven’t seen you in years. The next thing I know, my bathroom is filled with strange men.”

“Strange men?”

“I consider you very strange.”

“Maybe you’d better consider me dangerous, instead,” he warned her suddenly, softly, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he studied her.

“Maybe I should,” she murmured, agreeing. “Damn it! I just want to know exactly what you’re doing here.”

“All right. Fine. Tell me, do you know exactly who all your guests are?”

“You know how the island is run. My father is gone, so yes, of course, I meet all my guests.”

“I didn’t ask you that. I asked if you knew who they were.”

“I’m not a cop. People don’t have to fill out their life histories on arrival. I don’t have dossiers on everyone who sets foot on Seafire Isle.”

“I didn’t think so.”

He sounded so damned self-satisfied.

“You do, of course? Have dossiers on my guests?”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Well, I don’t exactly have dossiers. But I imagine I know a great deal more about them than you do.”

“All right, who’s on my island?”

“You really have no idea?”

“I really have no idea.”

He stared at her, then smiled suddenly, cocking his head. He turned away from her, heading toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Out?”

He paused, looking back. “You wanted me out, right?”

“Damn it! That was before—”

“I’ll see you at cocktail hour, Sam.”

“Damn you, you didn’t answer my question!”

“I didn’t, did I? But then you haven’t been particularly cooperative either, have you?”

“Cooperative! Are you insane?”

“See you later, Sam. Maybe we can exchange some information then. Go in and close that window in your bedroom. Unless you want to take the chance of having a few more strange men enter.”

“Damn you, Adam!”

“Sam, pay attention. Make sure you close and lock that window. And when you leave your cottage from now on, make damned sure that you lock it carefully. You need an alarm system, actually.”

“This is an island! We’ve never needed any kind of alarm system!”

“Maybe you never did before.”

“Adam, this is ridiculous! What we’ve had has always been sufficient. Normal hotels don’t have alarm systems in every room.”

He arched a brow. “Yeah, well, a lot of your big guys have some kind of video surveillance. That’s beside the point now. You should think about moving into the main house for a while, maybe. For your own protection. Yancy lives in the main house, right? And Jacques?”

“I don’t want to move into the main house. I’m quite comfortable where I am—”

“With strange men in your bathroom?”

“Damn you, Adam, you have no right to do this! Talk to me, tell me—”

“Sam—”

“You know, Adam, that’s the basic problem with you. You always want something for nothing. You don’t seem to have the concept of give and take down yet.”

“Sam, so far, you haven’t given me a damn thing.”

“Son of a bitch! I always gave you everything.”

“Wrong, Sam. You never gave me a chance to give you anything before—”

“What?”

“You never gave me a chance to give you anything—”

“Like what?”

“Like explanations! So this time, you’re just going to have to ask and ask damned politely when you want something. I didn’t give, is that it? I went through one hell of a wringer.”

“Adam—”

“You took a hell of a lot more than you ever seemed to know, Miss Carlyle,” he interrupted.

“Damn you, Adam!”

But he walked away and the door closed firmly behind him.

4

T he bar in the main house where the guests gathered before dinner was old-fashioned, very Victorian and very comfortable. There was a huge double-sided fireplace running the length of the far wall; it connected with the dining room. The hardwood floor was covered with numerous thick Persian carpets in shades of burgundy and mauve; the bar itself was carved oak; and high-backed, brocade-upholstered chairs and love seats were set about at intimate angles. Beyond the velvet over linen drapes, wicker chairs with similar upholstery lined the porch.

When Sam came into the bar via the porch, Yancy was just setting out crystal bowls filled with nuts. Sam didn’t speak to her at first; she went behind the mahogany bar to uncork a bottle of her favorite Chablis. She poured herself a glass and stared at Yancy, who was watching her with condemning eyes in return.

“Go easy on that. You’re not a good drinker, Sam Carlyle. Especially not with wine.”

“Excuse me, are you my keeper?”

“No, I’m not,” Yancy assured her. Like Jem, though, Yancy had grown up with Sam. They were best friends. They had laughed together, matured together, weathered all their losses together, survived together. Sam and Yancy were almost exactly the same age; they’d been born a month apart. Sam had always considered Yancy to be one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. She was Sam’s height, with black hair she kept cropped almost to her skull, olive eyes, and skin the color of pure honey. Her father had been a Creole sailor, her mother, Katie, had been from Trinidad, and she had been the first chef Sam’s father had hired when old Jimmy had passed away. Jimmy had been in his nineties, still ruling the kitchen, when he had suddenly expired while making gumbo. They had all mourned him deeply—they had by that time rather come to believe that he would live forever. But then Katie had arrived with Yancy, and Sam, three at the time, had quickly come to understand that Jimmy had lived a long, fruitful and happy life, and that it was okay to love Katie, as well. In addition, Sam had found herself thrilled to have another little girl to play with, so Yancy had become the sister she’d never had, and Katie, who was patient and gentle, had certainly done well in the mother department. Years later, when Katie had died of heart failure, they had both felt as if they had lost a mother. In the same way, Yancy had shared every bit of pain, anger, frustration and loss when Sam’s father had disappeared without a trace.

“I simply love a sip of good wine,” Sam told Yancy defensively.

“Careful. It might love you back a bit too much. And I think that you’ve had more than a sip already.”

“Yancy!”

“Oh, don’t worry. No one else will be able to tell. I simply know you.”

“Yancy, damn it—”

“Don’t you go yelling at me. I didn’t tell him to walk back into your life.”

Sam poured the wine, set the cork in the bottle and walked around the bar. She headed to the set of chairs directly before the fire, leaving her glass on the counter. Yancy came over and sat down beside her. Sam stretched her hand out. Yancy took her fingers and squeezed them.

Sam had to smile. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. He just took me by surprise. But, Yancy, that’s not the worst of it! You wouldn’t believe…” She hesitated, wondering how much she should say. Then she remembered that she was talking to Yancy. “Yancy, someone just attacked me in my bathroom.”

“What?” Yancy nearly shrieked.

“Sh, sh!” Sam said. “You’ll have everyone checking out.”

“Well, girl, they should be checking out if that’s what’s going on. Who attacked you? Not—oh, I don’t believe it!”

“No, no, Adam didn’t attack me. He stopped the man who did.”

“Out of the past and straight to the rescue,” Yancy murmured. “But who…?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“He was wearing a ski mask.”

“A ski mask!”

“Sh!”

“No one is here. You were attacked by a man wearing a ski mask—on a Caribbean island?”

Sam nodded, turning around to make sure that Yancy was right and that they hadn’t been joined as yet. “I was in the tub when this guy appeared, dressed all in black, trying to drug me, I think.”

“You think,” Yancy murmured skeptically.

“Yancy, he had some kind of a cloth in his hands.”

“Black?”

“Right. Damn it, Yancy, this is serious.”

“I’m sorry. So tell me—”

“He was definitely trying to drug me. I can still recall the awful scent of the cloth. I was nearly knocked out, but then the guy in the ski mask was pulled away—”

“Adam?”

“Yes.”

Yancy was quiet for a minute. Then she shrugged. “Well, he is useful,” she said.

“Yancy…”

“Okay, so did you try to breathe wine because of the attack, or because of Adam?”

“Yancy!”

“Ah, because of Adam,” Yancy said.

“Yancy….”

“He did save you, right?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And you said thank you.”

“More or less.”

“Sam!”

“Yancy, you’re missing the point.”

“I’m not missing the point. There’s a dangerous whacko running around the island. We don’t want everyone to check out of the hotel, but neither do we want anyone else attacked by the whacko.”

“It’s strange, but I don’t think this particular whacko is a danger to the general public.”

“Now you’re losing me.”

“I don’t think our guests are in danger.”

“Why not?”

“The whacko is one of our guests,” she said, evading a direct answer to the question. She didn’t want to admit that she was relying on Adam’s judgment.

“My, my, my. What is the world coming to? Imagine. We’re letting the riffraff onto Seafire Isle.”

“Yancy, it isn’t funny.”

“Of course it’s not funny. You could have been…hurt. Or worse. Maybe we should call the mainland police.”

“I—I decided not to.”

Yancy arched a brow. “Did Adam suggest that you not do so?”

“Not exactly. He pointed out that it might not do me much good, and that I might wind up in greater danger.”

Yancy lifted her hands and let them fall back on the armrests of the chair. “Why?”

Sam didn’t answer her. She frowned suddenly. “Yancy, where’s the baby?”

Yancy smiled. “Upstairs. Lillie Wie is staying overnight because of the dinner party. She and Brian are napping right alongside each other.”

“Oh!” Sam said, leaning back into the chair with relief. Brian was six months old—and the love of all their lives. He had his father’s blue eyes and toffee brown hair, and the most winning smile known to man. Lillie was one of the day maids. There were four of them altogether; they came in the morning from Freeport and usually left with the mail boat in the afternoon, along with the two grounds keepers. Sam hadn’t been quite twenty-two when her father had disappeared, but between herself, Jem Fisher and Yancy, they had divided the duties on the island in a manner that had worked well right from the very beginning. Jem supervised maintenance, tennis, golf, lawn care, pool and beach care, and any repairs that became necessary. There were only two tennis courts, and the golf course was only nine holes. There was also only one pool, so Jem didn’t find his responsibilities overwhelming. Jem’s younger cousin, Matt, had taken a job with them during the last year, as well, acting as lifeguard, scuba instructor and jack-of-all-trades, but he only came over on weekends, when his college schedule allowed.

Yancy managed the main house, the reservations, the kitchen and the household staff. Sam was dive mistress, scuba instructor, social director and official hostess. It all fell together well. Yancy had always loved the house, which worked out well, because now she usually had the baby at her side, no matter what task she was up to.

“Were you afraid somebody might be after the baby?” Yancy asked her.

“I guess not. I’m just…unnerved,” Sam told her. “Is dinner all set up?”

“All set and ready to go,” Yancy said. “Jacques has everything in control.”

Jacques Roustand was the only other live-in employee on the island. He’d been their chef since Yancy’s mother had passed away eight years ago. He’d found himself in a sad position at first, of course, but he’d been so different and so entirely unique that Yancy herself had been the first to fully accept him. He was in his mid-thirties now, and appeared almost a caricature of the typical French chef, down to a slim, twirling mustache he had worn continuously ever since his arrival. He wasn’t exactly French, for though he had attended school in Paris, he had been born and bred a Louisiana Creole. Sam was convinced that it was more his mother’s influence than the French school that had made him a great chef. He never ran out of different ways to prepare crawfish, shrimp, Florida lobster or any creature they pulled from the sea. His dishes were colorful, exotic and could always be prepared for each individual guest in either a spicy or mild manner. She, Jem and Yancy all considered him invaluable—and any one of them was customarily willing to drop anything he or she was about to do when Jacques called. If he wanted garlic chopped, they chopped. Glasses filled, they filled them. Silver polished, they polished. Sam had once told Jem that she might own the island, but Jacques indisputably ruled it.

“Good evening, ladies!”

They both jumped up, turning to greet their first arrival for the evening.

It was Avery Smith, an elderly gentleman visiting the island on his own. He was tall and very slim, with a full head of iron-gray hair and iron-gray eyes to match. He was intelligent and charming. And wealthy, Sam assumed, judging by his impeccable clothing. He was very fond of Versace, elegant gold cuff links and silver-handled canes. He never appeared for dinner in less than a complete tux.

“Mr. Smith,” Yancy said. “Good evening to you. Would you like your customary brandy, sir?”

“I would indeed, my dear young woman.”

As Yancy went to get his drink, he smiled at Sam. “I wish I were just a few years younger. I would love to join one of your dive parties. I could hear the children laughing—so excited!—when they returned this afternoon.”

“I hope they didn’t disturb you,” Yancy said, giving him a snifter of brandy. “I tried to make sure I gave you and the Walkers cottages far enough apart.”

He sipped his brandy, waving a hand her way. “I like the sound of laughter.” He smiled again at Sam. “They say you are very, very good, like a fish in the water and charming with your tales atop it.”

“Thank you. I enjoy the water very much.”

“Every day?”

“Every day.”

Brad and Darlene Walker chose that moment to come scampering in, both asking Yancy politely for soda.

“Play you in backgammon, Sam?” Brad queried hopefully.

“Later, okay? Play your sister for now.”

Darlene groaned. “He cheats.”

“I do not!”

“Where are the parents of these little hellions?” demanded Liam Hinnerman, entering the room in a handsome tweed suit, Jerry North, small, fragile and lovely at his side.

“Liam!” Jerry murmured.

“Where are your charming parents?” Liam said.

“Oh, they’re coming along!” Brad said cheerfully, sliding into one of the big chairs that encircled an antique gaming table. “I’m red,” he told his sister.

“Yancy, I’d just love a Bloody Mary,” Jerry said, smiling graciously.

“And I’d kill for Scotch on the rocks,” Liam muttered, still eyeing the children balefully.

A deep, masculine voice suddenly spoke out. “Let’s get the man a Scotch before he decides to kill!”

Sam swung around. Adam had come into the room. He smiled at Hinnerman, walking around behind the bar himself, something the guests were more than welcome to do if they chose. He set a tall glass and a short one on the antique bar.

“Um—hello,” Jerry said, blue eyes wide as she stared at Adam.

Liam Hinnerman stared blankly at him.

“Hi,” Adam replied pleasantly to the two of them.

“You haven’t all met as yet,” Sam heard herself say smoothly. “Jerry North, Adam O’Connor. Adam, Jerry. Liam Hinnerman, Adam. Adam, Liam.”

The three exchanged greetings, both Liam and Jerry staring at Adam.

“Sam,” Adam murmured, “this must be your wine here, huh?”

“Thanks ever so much,” she murmured, coming for it. Their fingers brushed as she took the glass, and he smiled mockingly. She drew away quickly, retreating across the room, seeing Avery Smith by the fireplace. He was watching Adam, as well.

“Oh, Adam, this is Mr. Avery Smith. Avery—”

“Yes, yes. Mr. Adam O’Connor,” Smith said, stepping forward with graceful dexterity to shake Adam’s hand. “How do you do, sir? A pleasure.”

“Thank you, but the pleasure is mine.”

“Come join us,” Smith said, indicating the chairs surrounding the fireplace.

As they chose seats, Sukee and Jim Santino arrived. More pleasantries were exchanged, and Sam was somewhat annoyed to realize that all her guests seemed fascinated by Adam.

And which one of her guests had entered her room, attempting to drug her, at the very least…and for what reason?

“I really can’t tell you how much you’re going to enjoy the dive trips,” Sukee said, drawing a chair close to Adam’s. He smiled, seeming to enjoy her company.

“Sam is an excellent dive master,” Hinnerman noted.

“She sure is,” Avery Smith said, eyes sparkling, “but then, taking nothing away from our hostess, you must think about the waters she travels.”

“The Bermuda Triangle—the Devil’s Triangle!” Brad—who had apparently been engrossed in his game—provided for them.

“Precisely!” Smith said with pleasure.

“You don’t really believe in all that crap, do you?” Hinnerman asked him.

“Liam,” Jerry murmured.

He looked somewhat abashed. “I mean—it’s all just stories.”

Sam glanced at Adam. He wasn’t saying anything. Arms crossed idly over his chest, he sat comfortably in the plush chair, awaiting Avery’s answer with interest.

“True stories.”

“Mr. Smith knows!” Brad told them, turning around, his eyes wide.

“Ghost stories,” Yancy murmured.

“I love a good ghost story,” Sukee drawled. “Please, Mr. Smith, the fire is crackling, the lights are low. Tell us about the Devil’s Triangle.”

“We could all become afraid to dive!” Jerry warned.

“You don’t dive anyway,” Brad reminded her dryly.

“Please, let’s hear the stories,” Darlene said.

Avery Smith offered them a rueful grin. “I imagine that Mr. O’Connor there, Sam and Yancy, maybe even you others, have heard a few of the tales about the Devil’s Triangle. And, yes, we are in it. The triangle stretches from Miami to Bermuda to Puerto Rico. It’s been responsible for the losses of ships, planes and human lives since man first began to traverse it. All the way back into the 1600s, Lloyds of London came to realize that they were paying dearly for ships that went down in the particular area known as the Devil’s—or Bermuda—Triangle. Before that, Christopher Columbus reported disturbances with his ship’s compass when he was in the area of the triangle. He made note, as well, of something that the astronauts have seen from space—strange, eerie streaks of white water appearing within the typical azures and deep blues of the sea.”

“Perhaps,” Sukee whispered mischievously, “the long-lost continent of Atlantis sits beneath the triangle, and ancient electronic equipment pops on and off to suck in a ship now and then.”

“Or,” Jim suggested, “Atlantis is now populated by alien beings, and they reach out giant tentacles to slurp up human men and women to bring back to their dying world.”

“I think, Mr. Santino, that you watched too many B movies as a boy,” Avery Smith said, still smiling, unoffended by the sarcasm his story was drawing. He wagged a finger toward the gathered company. “Whatever the cause, I promise you, history tells a stranger tale than ever a man could weave! There are over three hundred Spanish wrecks in the waters of the Bermuda Triangle, and that’s just the beginning. Coming far closer to contemporary times, of course, is one of the strangest disasters, that of the planes that disappeared in 1944.”

Brad had forgotten his backgammon game and turned his chair toward the adults, one of his game pieces curled in his fingers. Even Darlene seemed awed.

“You’re referring to the navy planes?” Adam said.

“I am.”

“Well?” Liam demanded.

Adam shrugged, looking at Avery Smith as he spoke. “Five torpedo bombers left the Fort Lauderdale Naval Air Station at two in the afternoon on December 5, 1944. A routine patrol that was to have lasted about two hours. They were in radio contact with the base at all times, as well as with one another. An hour and forty-five minutes into the flight, when they should have been heading back, the patrol leader radioed in to say that they were off course, that they couldn’t see land. They couldn’t figure out which way was west, but they should have found west very easily, just following the sun.” Adam paused to breathe.

“What happened?” Brad demanded anxiously.

Adam shrugged.

“They all died, kid,” Liam said.

“Liam,” Jerry remonstrated softy.

“Well, they did, didn’t they, O’Connor?”

“They kept in contact with the base for another half hour or so. They said that the ocean didn’t even look the way the ocean should look. A different pilot took over talking to the base. He said something about it looking like they were entering into ‘white water,’ that they were completely lost. Then there was no more contact with the pilots. None at all.”

“Whoa,” Darlene murmured, wide-eyed.

“And that wasn’t the worst of it, was it, Mr. O’Connor?” Avery Smith asked, still smiling, a little gleam in his eyes.

Adam grinned at him—a knowledgeable skeptic. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Do tell us what happened next!” Sukee demanded.

“A rescue plane was sent,” Adam said.

Avery picked up the story. “A huge plane called a Martin Mariner flying boat was sent out just as soon as it was established that all contact was really lost. The plane had all kinds of equipment aboard, everything that might help in the rescue of the pilots if they could be found. Only they weren’t found. And…”

“And?” Brad asked.

“And the rescue plane was lost, as well,” Adam said. “She vanished. Disappeared without a trace. The Coast Guard was called in, and nearly three hundred thousand square miles were searched. The beach was combed from the tip of Florida to St. Augustine. The largest rescue effort ever put together was in force, and nothing was found. Nothing. Not a body, not a fragment of a single plane, nothing, absolutely nothing at all.”

“That’s right,” Avery said, still seeming both pleased and amused. “Several times in recent years, people have thought they located the planes on the ocean floor. But it was never them. They’re still just as missing as they ever were. But those planes are just a part of the mystery. There have been hundreds of incidents. Thousands of them, perhaps. Another one of the more major incidents occurred when the coal ship Cyclops disappeared in 1919. She was five hundred feet long, nineteen thousand tons. She vanished with three hundred and nine men aboard, and, once again, not a man, a bone, a fragment of the ship was ever discovered.”

“Then there is, of course, the story of the Carroll A. Deering,” Adam said, still watching Avery Smith. He smiled at Brad. “You’ll like this one—it’s definitely a ghost story. The Carroll A. Deering was discovered wedged in the sands off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, in 1921 within the angle of the triangle. There had been absolutely no storms the night before, and the ship was discovered in very eerie shape—the tables were all set, and half-eaten meals remained on the plates. Food still waiting to be served was in pots on the stove. The lights were on, bunks were made, books were lying about. Everything about the ship spoke of life—except that there was no life to be found aboard her. Not a sign of a survivor existed anywhere. Nor was anyone ever found who had been aboard her. Yet, as she remained trapped in the sand, people from the nearby shore swore they could hear screams and creaks and groans by night, coming from the haunted ship.”

“Wow,” Brad said, his eyes round.

“And we’re in this Devil’s Triangle?” Darlene asked on a squeaky breath.

“Dead center,” Sukee told her.

“Well, I’ve yet to hear of an entire island disappearing,” Yancy said matter-of-factly.

Smith cleared his throat as if to contradict her.

“An island has disappeared?” Sukee asked skeptically.

“Not really,” Smith said reassuringly. “But there is Bouvet Island, in the South Atlantic. I’m sure Mr. O’Connor can tell you about it, as well.”

Adam grinned, looking at Smith. “Named for Jean Bouvet, the French explorer who discovered it in…1750 or thereabouts?” He looked questioningly at Smith.

“Thereabouts—1739,” the older man said.

Adam turned to Sukee. “It’s appeared and disappeared several times since it was discovered. Naturally it sinks, but exactly why it rises and falls isn’t really known as yet.”

“And there are no disappearing islands anywhere near us, dear girl,” Smith assured Darlene.

“I know, but when we dive—” Darlene began.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be diving, then,” Liam suggested dryly. He grinned, lifting his nearly empty glass toward the children. “The triangle is one thing—bet you don’t know where the word cannibal comes from.”

Brad shook his head, eyes bright. “Where?”

“Roast loin of people, boy, roast loin of people. Columbus found these fellows with piles of bones and skulls in their homes in the Lesser Antilles. The folks called themselves Canibales, though they were really Caribes—just had a different dialect than some of the others. Columbus went on home, and soon flesh eaters everywhere were called cannibals.”

“Ooh! That’s disgusting!” Darlene said.

“True story,” Liam said, pleased that she was turning pale.

“How about another soda, honey? It’ll calm your queasy stomach,” Yancy suggested, rising and seeming to break the spell that had fallen over the group.

Sam rose, as well, slipping behind the bar with Yancy. As she did so, Judy and Lew Walker sauntered into the bar, arm in arm. They were starting to greet the others, but were interrupted when Darlene leaped up from her chair, ran to meet them and threw herself into her father’s arms.

“Darlene, what on earth…?”

“Do I have to dive, Daddy? Do I have to dive?”

Lew Walker stared at Sam, puzzled and indignant. “What have you told her, Sam?”

“Me? I haven’t said a thing,” she protested.

Adam was up, shaking his head apologetically. “I’m afraid that I’m at fault here,” he began.

“Damned right,” Liam muttered.

“Along with Mr. Hinnerman and Mr. Smith. I’m afraid I’m a bit skeptical regarding mysterious phenomena, and Mr. Smith and I indulged in a few historical tales. Sam had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, Dad!” Brad said. “Mr. Smith and Mr. O’Connor know so much neat stuff! And Mr. Hinnerman’s an expert on cannibals.”

“Ooh!” Darlene moaned again.

“You’ve been telling my daughter about cannibals?”

“Right before supper, yum, yum,” Yancy murmured.

Sam elbowed her in the ribs. Yancy sucked in a breath and shrugged innocently.

“The part about the cannibals was really cool!” Brad said.

Lew looked at his daughter, perplexed. “Honey, you’re not going to meet any cannibals diving under the water,” he assured her.

“Who knows? People seem to disappear so completely, they might have been eaten!” Darlene said.

Sam came around the bar, walked up to Darlene and took her by the hand. “Darlene, I’ve been out thousands of times, and I promise you, I’ve never lost a single diver to a cannibal.”

“Have you lost any to anything else?” Adam inquired politely.

“No!” Sam snapped.

“Will you buddy up with me tomorrow?” Darlene asked her.

“Sure.”

“What about me?” Jim Santino teased.

“It looks like it’s going to be you and Liam tomorrow,” Sam said evenly.

“What about Adam?” Liam demanded.

“Hey, Mr. O’Connor! How about being my buddy?” Brad asked excitedly.

“Sure.”

“That leaves Sukee,” Jim noted, eyes and smile flashing.

“Sukee can choose where she wants to make it a threesome,” Sam said.

“Hands down, I’m going with the boys,” Sukee said huskily.

“Which boys?” Yancy demanded.

“I haven’t decided yet—they’ll get to find out in the morning!” Sukee said, laughing.

Joey and Sue Emerson, the honeymooners, sauntered into the bar. “What’s happening in the morning?” Sue asked.

“We were discussing tomorrow’s dives,” Jim said. “Don’t worry—no one had any idea of splitting up the two of you.”

“Or joining the two of you,” Sukee murmured.

“Where are we diving tomorrow?” Sue asked.

“Away from the cannibals,” Darlene said.

“Cannibals?” Joey repeated. “I know there are sharks out there, but cannibals?”

“Yes, there are sharks,” Adam said idly.

“Sam?” Darlene said nervously.

“Darlene, I’ve been diving my entire life, and yes, I’ve seen sharks, but no, I’ve never been bothered by one.” She cast a frown toward Adam, who had the grace to look instantly contrite. She knew that he hadn’t been referring to Darlene’s kind of shark, but the damage had been done.

Adam stood and came over to Darlene. “Did you know that swimmers and especially surfers are sometimes attacked, but that divers are almost never attacked?”

“Really?”

He nodded. “They’ve done extensive experiments out in California. A lot of scientists think that the sharks see people on surfboards and in their minds, the surfer looks like a sea lion, which is what the shark normally likes to eat. You’ve got much more of a chance of being struck by lightning than you do of being attacked by a shark.”

“Really?”

“Really. Sharks are actually fascinating creatures. Many of them are quite harmless to man. And you know, they’re related to skates and rays, like the giant mantas you see sometimes when you’re down. You know, if you’re careful and gentle, you can catch a ride on a big manta.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be so bad to dive with, either, Mr. O’Connor.”

“You can call me Adam.”

She grinned at him slowly. “You could dive with Sam and me, you know.”

“Hey!” her brother protested.

Sukee was quick to smooth his ruffled feathers. “Maybe I’d enjoy a younger man as a dive partner for the afternoon,” she said.

“Oh!” Brad said. His mouth remained in a circular shape. Even his parents laughed.

“Why don’t we work all this out in the morning?” Sam suggested, a brittle smile curving her lips. Leave it to Adam. He’d charmed Darlene. He still had the touch.

His eyes met hers. She realized that she still had questions for him. And apparently he still had questions for her.

Odd. She’d known him for only a few months, a very long time ago. She had changed since then, matured. Maybe. But everything about him was disturbingly familiar. Everything she should have forgotten. She knew just how determined he could be. That he had come for something. He wanted something.

And she knew that he would get what he wanted.

“Perhaps Miss Carlyle would be willing to show the dive party the Steps tomorrow,” he said.

“The Steps?” Liam queried sharply.

Adam nodded, looking at Sam. Then he glanced at Darlene, smiling. “There are wonderful, fascinating things beneath the sea as well as the scary ones,” he told her. “Off North Bimini Island, just a little more than thirty feet down, are huge blocks that form some kind of an ancient foundation. No one knows what civilization set them where they are now. A construction company used some of them in Miami in the 1920s, I think.” He glanced over to Smith.

“Yes, it was the twenties.”

“Anyway, scientists think that the blocks are definitely man-made, and that they may be over ten thousand years old.”

“But we can’t go to North Bimini, can we?” Brad asked.

“Not in a four-hour dive trip,” Sam said tensely.

“But,” Adam said, “Sam could take us to the Seafire Steps. Which are…”

He looked at Avery Smith.

Smith laughed. “There are a lot of strange man-made structures beneath the sea, and most of them make for fascinating mysteries,” he said. “Just a bit northwest of Seafire Isle are a set of steps. They begin at a point that’s just thirty feet beneath the sea, then they dive deeper until they suddenly just disappear.”

“So where did they go?” Darlene asked.

“No one knows,” Avery told her. “But, like the Bimini Blocks, they’re supposed to be very ancient, and naturally, they’re very intriguing. Maybe, if Miss Carlyle takes you out there, you can discover where they go and solve one of the great mysteries of the deep.”

“What do you say, Sam?” Adam asked her.

She hesitated. She had been diving the Steps since she’d been a small child. She, Jem and even Yancy had made up stories about them when they were growing up. They led to Atlantis, or to a different, even higher civilization. On really whimsical days, they had imagined that they led to a secret doorway that would take them to a place where there were princes and princesses, maybe a magical bubble island in the sea, where pirates still ruled, or a unique island-within-the-sea where a Middle Eastern society flourished and all the tales told in the Arabian Nights came to life.

Of course, she’d been a child then.

She was older now, and looked at the world through eyes that had been narrowed greatly.

There was nothing all that mysterious about the Steps anymore.

She had avoided the Steps since her father’s disappearance. He had loved them, had been fascinated by them. It hurt to go there. But though she no longer felt their enchantment, it did exist for children. Still…

“There are sometimes underwater currents there,” she said, stalling.

“There are sometimes underwater currents almost everywhere,” Liam said. “Would you actually consider it an unsafe dive?”

“No, no….”

“Sounds fun to me,” Sukee said.

Sam still hesitated, uneasy, though she didn’t know why.

Yes, she did.

She thought that her father might have been diving near them the day he had disappeared. He had been talking about them with so much excitement right before they had parted that day. He had been drawn to the damned Steps, almost as if both he and the Steps had been controlled by some strange magnetic force. Hank, too, had found them fascinating.

“The Steps sound cool,” Brad said.

“I’d really love to see them, Sam,” Darlene told her earnestly.

“I…well, sure. We’ll dive the Steps tomorrow, then,” Sam said.

“Not tomorrow,” Yancy told her. “Not if the weathermen are right. They say it’s going to rain all day.”

“Well, then, we’ll all sleep in tomorrow and dive the Seafire Isle Steps on Thursday.”

“No diving tomorrow?” Brad said, disappointed.

“We’ll just have to sleep late,” Joey Emerson said to his wife. He spoke with such passion in his voice that Sam felt as if she was intruding on their privacy just by having heard him.

“A morning to sleep in,” Sukee murmured.

“Then the Steps. Great!” Jim Santino applauded as he swished his long hair out of his face.

“Skol!” Liam Hinnerman said, lifting the Scotch he had just refreshened in a toast to the rest of them. “Know where that expression came from, young Mr. Walker? It’s believed that the Vikings drank to victory from the skulls of their slain enemies, then raised those skulls in salute to one another.”

“Oh, that is disgusting!” Darlene said.

“Neat, it’s neat!” her brother insisted.

“Really, Mr. Hinnerman,” Judy Walker admonished.

“Nothing he couldn’t learn right in his own school, and not half as bad as the news these days,” Hinnerman said.

Jerry North, at his side, was silent. She was staring at Sam, her lips taut. She appeared anxious. Unhappy, perhaps.

Suddenly Sam wondered why Jerry never went diving with them. Sam had never even asked her if she was certified, or if she wanted to take lessons on the island.

“Jerry, are you certified?” she asked.

“Certified? She’s got certifications up the kazoo!” Liam said.

Sam arched a brow to Jerry, who nodded.

“Not just open water,” Liam said. “She’s an advanced diver. An expert with nitrox.”

Nitrox allowed a diver to stay deeper for longer periods of time.

“Good for you. How come you haven’t come diving with us?” Sam asked.

Jerry shrugged. “I lost my taste for the sea.”

“She nearly drowned a few years ago,” Liam said casually.

“Pretty serious,” Adam said sympathetically.

Jerry offered him a broad smile of thanks.

“She’s all right,” Liam asserted.

“She doesn’t have to dive if she doesn’t want to,” Sam said firmly.

Sam continued to watch Jerry, but she turned away quickly when she felt a little trickle of warmth along her spine. Adam’s eyes, she thought. She looked toward him. She’d been right. He was studying her.

And he was smiling. Just slightly.

Adam had indeed come to Seafire Isle for something. And he was going to get what he wanted. In fact, he was already on the way to doing so, she realized.

Because Adam was just as eager as everyone else to dive the Seafire Isle Steps.

Why?

The question burned inside her.

5

“A h, here comes Jem to lead us in to dinner!” Yancy exclaimed.

For another several seconds, Sam continued to stare at Adam. What was he up to?

And which one of her guests was dangerous? Who had been in her bathroom? Oddly enough, she realized, all of her male guests were of a similar height. Tall. Six-one, six-two. All about the same build.

She glanced quickly from Adam to Jim, then to Liam, before moving on to Joey Emerson and Lew Walker. Even Avery Smith stood a good six-one.

She looked at Adam. He was still watching her. Reading her thoughts. She turned quickly away from him, telling herself that she had a busy evening ahead. And in fact, for the next several hours she was so busy that she didn’t dare take time to think.

Jacques summoned her to the kitchen, along with Yancy and Jem. She poured spoonfuls of the delicate white wine sauce on the dinner plates in an assembly line just before Jem slipped servings of the perfectly baked snapper Jacques had prepared atop them. Yancy served.

When it was actually time for her to sit down and eat, she found herself beside Jim Santino. As she ate, she couldn’t help but notice that Sukee had maneuvered into position beside Adam.

The evening wound down slowly. The Walkers—all four of them—were the first to retire for the evening. Jerry seemed more interested in staying at the main house than in the concept of a return to her cottage—with Liam. Liam, however, seemed tired, irritable and ready to go, so Jerry went along.

The others slowly followed suit; Sukee, Jim and Adam holding out the longest. Sukee and Adam seemed to be getting along quite well.

Sam finally gave out herself, wondering if Adam would make an attempt to follow her.

Surely he’d feel compelled to keep her safe.

“Good night, all,” she said, suppressing a yawn. “Don’t forget, we all get to sleep in tomorrow. But for those who want to see the Steps on Thursday, remember that breakfast is from six-thirty to nine, and the dive boat leaves at nine-thirty sharp.”

“I’ll be there,” Sukee promised. They were in the bar at that point, and she had a brandy snifter in her hand. She swirled the liquid in her snifter as she leaned close to Adam. Jim leaned closer, as well.

Pretty soon, Sam thought, the three of them would crash into each other and knock each other down.

The hell with them.

“Well, then…good night.”

“G’night, Sam. Thanks for another great day,” Jim told her, winking.

He tossed his hair back. She was sure that he saw it as some kind of a strange compliment to her.

She nodded.

“Good night, Miss Carlyle,” Adam said. He, too, had a brandy. He lifted his glass to her.

She lifted a hand and exited the bar by the porch, muttering to herself as she started across the lawn toward her cottage.

“That rat bastard supposedly saves my life—years after destroying my heart and any belief I might have had in my own sex appeal—then drinks brandy with Sukee all night. Is this fair? Why is he back in my life? Dear God, is this necessary?”

She thought she heard a rustling in the hibiscus bush at her side. She spun around, staring into the shadows created by the blaze of night-lights on the paths around her.

She felt the whisper of the night breeze. Nothing more.

She started walking again, drawing her key from the slim pocket in her knit dress. When she reached her door, she opened it quickly, stepped inside, closed it, locked it, then leaned against it.

She walked through the living room, the kitchen, growing more nervous as she did so. She needed a weapon, she told herself. Just in case Ski Mask came back.

She opened the huge old secretary that stood beneath her father’s treasure map. The secretary had once graced a captain’s cabin on a ship; it had been one of her father’s favorite pieces of furniture.

She found his Revolutionary War flintlock musket. No ammunition, of course—should she know how to manage the antique flintlock to begin with. Still, she could use it as a bludgeon to protect herself if necessary.

It would be better than nothing.

She opened closet doors. She went into her bedroom—then her bath.

Every window was still closed and locked. Her cottage, she was convinced, was empty.

She started turning off lights, then froze as she began to close the living room shutters.

There was a figure standing on the path that led to her cottage. Tall and dark. Watching her cottage.

Watching her.

She inhaled, exhaled. Then she lightly bit her lower lip. The figure was walking calmly down the path, making no secret of the fact that he was coming to the cottage.

Adam, she thought.

She half-smiled, leaning against the wall. She’d been right—he’d had to come back.

He had to protect her. He had come to her island. After someone or something, true, but he had managed to come into her cottage at just the right time.

And now he was coming back.

To protect her. He would insist, of course, that he couldn’t leave her alone. That she had to be protected, and that there was no one who could protect her the way he could.

He would want to move in.

Well, she would tell him what was what. She would get him this time. He wasn’t coming anywhere near her.

The knock she’d expected sounded on her door.

She threw it open.

And gaped.

It was Jem.

Tall, dark and handsome, all right.

“Jem!”

“Who were you expecting?”

“I, uh…”

“Adam, right?”

“Are you coming in or not?” she snapped. Adam, it seemed, was apparently spending the night with Sukee.

He smiled. “You bet I’m coming in. I’m sleeping on the sofa.”

“Oh, Jem, that’s not necessary.”

“It sure as hell is. You were attacked right here, and I didn’t have the least idea.”

“How could you have? Don’t be silly.”

“Adam suggested that you shouldn’t be left alone. I agree.”

“But, Jem…”

“I’ll be on the sofa, Sam.”

“Great. Make me feel guilty about you getting a sore back sleeping on my sofa.”

“I can’t sleep in the bedroom, Sam. Too kinky. It would be like sleeping with my own sister.”

“Cute.”

Jem grinned. “Go to bed, Sam. You have the opportunity to sleep in, thanks to the weatherman.”

“That much will be nice. If I can get to sleep at all.”

“You’ll sleep. Go to bed.”

She wouldn’t sleep, though. She would lie there, wondering.

She smiled suddenly, ready to laugh at herself. Okay, so she’d wanted the chance to turn down Adam O’Connor and she hadn’t gotten it. So what? Jem was just as good as a brother, and it was wonderful to have a friend who cared so much.

She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll get you a couple of pillows and some blankets.”

She did so, then retired to bed herself, where she tried to sleep.

She kept tossing and turning, tossing and turning.

Adam was back in her life.

Back in her life….

And it felt as if he’d never left. As if she knew him still.

She didn’t know him at all! she reminded herself.

She jumped at a sudden shrill ringing, then realized stupidly that it was the telephone by her bedside. She lifted the receiver.

“Hello?”

“You’re all right?”

Adam.

She was annoyed to feel a subtle warmth rise to her cheeks. “I was sleeping,” she lied.

“Jem’s there with you?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“My cottage. I believe it’s the one you call Paradise.”

“Um.”

“Want to know about your guests?”

“Are you…alone?”

“Checking up on me? Worried about me? Miss me?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Were you imagining that I had Sukee here beside me?”

“It would be completely your own affair if you did, Mr. O’Connor.”

“Then why did you ask?”

She made certain that he could hear the depth of her very impatient sigh. “I was attacked this evening. Naturally I want to know as much as I can about who’s where on the island.”

“Interesting. Since you know so little.”

“Thank you for that assessment.”

“Do you want to know about your guests or not?”

“Do I?” she demanded. “You’re not going to hang up on me if I say yes?”

He laughed softly. She gnawed on her lower lip. Just the sound of his laughter seemed to brush sensually into her soul.

And other places.

“Talk!” she told him.

Amazingly, he obliged. “Your Mr. Avery Smith isn’t a Mr. Smith at all.”

“What?”

“Mr. Smith isn’t Mr. Smith.”

“Then who is he?”

“James Jay Astin. Founder and chairman of the board of SeaLink.”

Then, having made certain that Sam couldn’t possibly sleep all night, Adam clicked off.

The Walkers had a two-bedroom cottage on the opposite side of the main house from Sam.

The kids were tucked into bed. Judy was being silent. The kind of silent Lew Walker just hated in his wife. Her lips were pursed. She’d changed into her nightgown, a long silky thing that should have been nice and sexy, just right for an island vacation for a man and his wife. However, as she pulled the covers neatly down on the bed, she kept up her silence—creating a killer chill within the room. Any excitement he might have been feeling withered in his BVDs as he watched her.

Finally the silence got to him.

He walked behind her and slipped his arms around her body. She stood very stiffly, not fighting him, just casting that awful chill.

“Judy—”

“It’s not right,” she said. “What we’re doing—it’s just not right.”

“Judy, we need the money,” he said.

“There are other ways to make money.”

“We have two children. We have to survive.”

“We have two children. We’re supposed to teach them right from wrong.”

“We’re not really doing anything wrong.”

“The hell we’re not.”

“The way you see it, maybe.”

“Lew, just don’t touch me right now, all right?”

He froze himself, then released her. He walked around to his own side of the bed and slid beneath the covers, keeping his back to her.

Judy turned off the lights. Once she got into bed, she kept her back to him, as well.

The chill, Lew thought, had turned into a regular ice storm.

He sighed and tried to sleep.

The day after tomorrow, the Steps.

Jerry North sat, legs curled beneath her, in a wicker rocking chair on the small porch that surrounded their bungalow. She looked out at the night. The sky was velvet black, dotted with unbelievably bright stars.

Beautiful.

The island was beautiful. Peaceful, elegant, casual. A perfect place to call home.

How ironic, how sad.

She felt Liam coming out to stand behind her. “You’re going to have to go diving soon,” he told her.

She shrugged.

“I can dive, but it won’t help.”

“You’re the only one who really knows.”

“I don’t know anything. I didn’t know what I was doing then, and I surely won’t have the least idea now.”

“Well, who knows? Anything is worth a try. Adam O’Connor is here. You know damned well he has to be working for someone.”

“Maybe he’s just after the truth,” she murmured.

“What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, really…”

Liam was silent, thoughtful. “You still haven’t learned anything from Samantha?”

“Samantha doesn’t know anything.”

She heard him sigh. He was getting insistent. She bit her lower lip. She could just leave now. Leave Liam. Surely he would let her go….

And maybe not. Maybe what she did or didn’t know, could or couldn’t remember, mattered to him far more than she imagined. Well, almost everything else she’d ever done in life had been a mistake, why not this, too? Liam wasn’t bad. He never pretended he didn’t appreciate other women, nor did he ever pretend to love her. He was blunt, curt, rude, temperamental, aggressive. He could be violent—he was one of those men who believed a man had a right to knock a woman around a bit if she needed it—but never to the extent that he really hurt her.

And maybe she’d taken so many knocks in life that she’d grown to expect a few now and then.

Still, Liam had a strange honesty about him, at least where she was concerned, and she felt that if nothing else, at least she was playing the game with a full deck of cards. In that particular sense, she was getting more from him than he was getting from her.

She shivered suddenly, fiercely. No one could ever know the whole truth. No one. Partly it just hurt too damned badly. She couldn’t bear to have the scar ripped open.

Not for Liam. Not for anyone.

“Samantha knows something,” Liam insisted.

“She knows how to dive, and she knows the ship exists somewhere, and that’s about it,” Jerry insisted.

“You’re wrong. She lived with her father. She listened to him day in and day out. She knows something.”

“She doesn’t even like to talk about the Beldona.” Jerry hesitated, then shook her head. “Don’t you understand? She loved her father. He died because of that damn ship.”

“He disappeared.”

“He’s dead.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know, I—I just don’t believe he would ever have left his daughter intentionally.”

Liam leaned over her. “You’re alive,” he said softly.

She shook her head, moistening her lips. “Justin Carlyle has to be dead. And you can’t blame Sam for not wanting to talk about the ship.”

“That’s why she needs some gentle encouragement.”

“Well, I’ve been encouraging her just as gently as I can,” Jerry said. She rose, anxious to get away from him to recover her calm. She left him on the porch and walked on into the cottage. She headed straight for the bath, took off her makeup with petroleum jelly, then washed her face with cold cream. She’d performed the same acts religiously for years and believed with good reason that the very simplicity of her regime had kept her skin young and supple all these years.

She never told anyone quite how many.

She slipped into the slinky red nightgown hanging on the door hook. For a moment she studied her face in the mirror and wondered how she’d managed to make such a mess of things. Wondering wouldn’t help. She’d already done it.

She left the bedroom. Liam was already in bed, in his boxers, staring up at the ceiling, his hands folded behind his head. He was in excellent shape—she had to hand him that.

She slid in beside him, her back to him.

“Tired?” he asked her.

“Mmm.”

“Lounging around can be exhausting.”

“The sun is hot. I spent the day at the pool.”

“You’re going to have to dive. Soon,” he told her.

“All right, soon.”

“You don’t understand the stakes,” he told her.

“No,” she said quietly, “you don’t understand the stakes.”

She felt his hands on her shoulders, then his lips against her nape.

She didn’t want him, but she didn’t stop him. There had been too many men in her life. She stared at the wall in the darkness, felt his hands on her hips, heard his grunts. So much for romance. Liam had some mean appetites, and his idea of foreplay was a tap on a shoulder. Yet he was good to her, in his way….

Once upon a time there had been a good man in her life. One who cared, who laughed, who gave her flowers, who let her see the world through new eyes. But that had been long ago, when things had seemed important. Having things, going places, living the good life. She’d seen too late that one fresh flower could be worth a dozen diamonds, that one crooked smile could light up the world when the dazzle of gold failed.

She’d come so close to finding what was good again, only to have it grabbed from her hands. She’d come to know that love was precious, but life itself could be the grandest prize.

She felt silent tears forming in her eyes, sliding damply to her cheeks. Liam would never notice.

And even if he did, she wondered if he would care.

Jem had just settled down on the sofa when he heard a soft tapping at the door. For a moment he froze.

Already! he thought. Already, already, already. The danger was coming already.

Then he told himself it was unlikely that danger would knock on the door, and he rose, walking to the door, pausing just behind and to the side of it. He hesitated, but the caller on the other side apparently realized that he was standing there silently.

“Jem, it’s Adam.”

Jem opened the door, letting Adam O’Connor in. He grinned, shaking his head as he studied his old friend. “I still can’t get over the fact that you’re here. Of course, I’m damned glad, even if I have no idea what the hell is going on.”

“Is she sleeping?” Adam asked, inclining his head toward the bedroom.

Jem shrugged. “I guess.”

Adam walked in. He’d changed into swim trunks, a short-sleeved shirt and deck shoes.

“You can take the sofa,” Jem offered, realizing that Adam had come to stay despite the fact that he had asked Jem to watch Sam. Jem wasn’t insulted. Adam wasn’t doubting his ability to keep Sam safe. In fact, Adam probably wasn’t sure exactly why he was there himself.

Jem knew, but he sure wasn’t going to try to tell Adam.

“No, no. I’ll be fine on the chair.”

Jem tossed him a pillow. “You really think Sam’s still in danger? I mean, this guy must know you’re looking after her now.”

“Someone wants her, at almost any price. Someone who thinks she knows something.”

“About what?”

“The Beldona.”

“Damned old shipwreck! What could she know about it?”

“Where it is, for one thing.”

“There could be more?”

“I think there’s got to be more,” Adam said.

Jem cocked his head, watching Adam. “You know, I’m damned glad to see you. I was sorry when you left. I thought you and Sam both lost something really good. But I’ll tell you bluntly, I can’t quite figure out how the hell you managed to come back at just the right time.”

“I didn’t manage to come back at the right time,” Adam said flatly, lifting his hands, palms up, to Jem. “Sam’s father disappeared, then that researcher out of Massachusetts she was involved with.”

“Hank,” Jem said softly. But he wasn’t going to be sidetracked. He and Sam and Yancy had been friends for too long. They were family. “So how’d you happen to be back here tonight?”

“That I was here at exactly the right time—luck,” Adam said grimly. “That I’m on the island now…well, I’m after the Beldona, as well, I guess. I’m working privately. Following in the footsteps of other divers who’ve been after the ship. And there are several people on the island now who are also working for people interested in the Beldona.”

“First things first,” Jem said. “Who are you working for?”

Adam stared him in the eyes, but hesitated. “Jem, I’m not in a position to tell you that yet. If it becomes necessary, I will tell you. That’s a promise.”

“All right, then what the hell is happening on the island?” Jem demanded.

Again Adam hesitated.

“Adam, you’ve gotta give me something,” Jem insisted.

Adam grinned suddenly. “Frankly, I don’t quite know where the hell to start!”

“We’ve got a long night ahead of us,” Jem said, crossing his muscled ebony arms over his chest.

Adam smiled and took a seat in one of the big Victorian chairs. He folded his hands behind his head and settled back. “Yeah, I guess we do. Does she keep any brandy around?”

“I imagine,” Jem said.

“Well, go get it. I’ll do my best to start at the beginning. And I’ll tell you what I can.”

6

T he promised rain started very early, at about five o’clock in the morning.

Adam awoke when the rain began.

He sat in the chair where he had slept, listening to it pound against the roof of Sam’s cottage. Then he tried to move. He winced, feeling a dozen cricks in the back of his neck. He stretched, then rose, walking awkwardly around the room, glad that Jem wasn’t awake yet. Chairs were just not the way to go.

He moved silently down the hallway, slipping into Sam’s room.

She was sleeping. Soundly, or so it seemed.

She was curled on her side, hands folded prayer fashion before her, her profile against the pillow, her hair splayed out like wild tongues of fire upon it. She had fantastic hair. So deep a red. It matched her so completely.

The covers were mostly over her. Not completely. One long leg lay exposed all the way up to the thigh. So what? he taunted himself.

He’d rescued her stark naked. Held her naked in his arms.

It had been a mistake to come here, God knew. A mistake to come back. He’d left, Hank had come, and now…

No, it hadn’t been a mistake. She might have been killed last night.

Or taken. But where?

He didn’t know yet.

By whom?

He couldn’t answer that one, either, even though he had a few suspicions.

For what reason?

Well, he had no guaranteed answer to that one, either, but he would damned well be willing to bet that someone wanted to find the Beldona badly enough to kill.

It seemed, however, that someone must have found it already. Someone who’d caused the disappearance of anyone else who came anywhere near it.

No, it hadn’t been a mistake to come. He had to be here. And he had to find the answers.

It was, however, a mistake to stand here, watching her sleep. It caused knots inside of him. It caused…

He muttered an expletive beneath his breath and turned away, starting down the hallway. Jem woke when he returned to the living room, and started to rise from the sofa.

Adam brought a finger to his lips. “I’m out of here,” he murmured.

“It’s pouring.”

“I know. I’ll dry.”

Jem grinned.

“Stay with her?”

“You bet.”

“I’m going to wash up, then I’ll be at the main house, studying in Justin’s library.”

The rain came in buckets.

It was pleasant, Jim Santino thought. He’d slept deeply, in absolute comfort.

Of course, the fact that Sukee had arrived somewhere around two o’clock had added to that comfort. He hadn’t been expecting her; she made no bones about the fact that she was a woman with her own mind, a woman of the world. She’d been with O’Connor when he’d last seen her.

But apparently, Jim thought with amusement, that hadn’t quite worked out. O’Connor was interested in their hostess, it seemed. Not a bad idea. She’d intrigued Jim, the more so the more he saw of her. He grinned. Maybe it was just the challenge that made her so darned appealing. He was a good-looking guy himself, young, in good shape. And if that wasn’t enough, he was as rich as Midas—as long as he remained red-blooded, heterosexual and loyal to his father, that was. Not a bad bargain. His father could buy him anything he wanted in life, and so far, Dad had bought him quite a bit. Things—and people.

It was amazing. Lots of people were for sale.

Like Sukee.

Not that she would ever admit it.

Sukee was something—just no challenge. She left nothing to the imagination. Nothing whatsoever.

But as the rain continued to pour down outside his cottage, Jim was glad of the musky warmth of her body next to his. She was insatiable. And she would do damn near anything.

Anything at all.

With that in mind, he turned toward her. She was slim and sensual, a small package, but a good one. He ran his finger down her back, rounded his hand over her tight buttocks. She moved nicely at his touch.

Sukee stretched and yawned, her back still to him. She turned then, her small hand reaching straight for his aroused sex organ in a no-nonsense fashion.

“Mmm. Not bad,” she murmured.

“I am accustomed to a bit more enthusiasm than that,” he told her.

She rolled on top of him, resting her hands on his chest and her chin on her hands as she stared into his eyes. “That’s because you’re a deviant and you’re hearing whatever you’ve paid some poor whore to say.”

He laughed, unoffended. “And you’re not a well-paid whore?”

She crawled against him, straddling his hips, rubbing her sex against his.

“I’m a whole lot more than that. A whole hell of a lot more.” She leaned against him. Licked his lips. Rose again, staring into his eyes. “And you know it.” She smiled, feeling the growth of his arousal. “Just think, we ought to be out on those Steps today, sniffing around every move made by everyone. Of course, I know where you’d like to be sniffing,” she murmured.

He laced his fingers behind his head, amused. “Cleaner scent than what I’m accustomed to,” he told her.

“Personally, I think you like dirt,” Sukee told him.

“Every boy likes to play in the dirt,” he told her. “But then, you know, come mealtime, he usually likes to clean up.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Sukee told him. She leaned down again, pressing her lips to his, running her tongue over them. “And maybe that redheaded fantasy of yours is doing just what I’m doing, and more, with O’Connor.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“With all the same body parts.”

“More or less the same,” he said flatly. “I don’t imagine hers have been quite so widely used.”

Sukee laughed; he thought, though, that he might have struck a nerve.

“That was nasty,” she told him.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right. I like nasty. I even like your red-haired fantasy. We could make it a threesome.”

He cocked his head. “Actually, I think you like my red-haired fantasy’s gray-eyed macho man.”

“Okay, we can make it a foursome,” Sukee said.

“Over their dead bodies,” Jim said.

Sukee shrugged. “That can probably be arranged,” she said. She arched her back, stretching against him, using him like a post against which to sleekly rub her body. Just like a cat.

“You’re all mouth, Sukee,” he told her.

“That can be arranged, too,” she whispered. She pouted suddenly. “Tomorrow, the Steps. Diving with all the little darlings, searching out their secrets. But today, stud, it’s breakfast in bed.”

“Ooh. Feed me, baby.”

Sukee smiled. And obliged.

At noon the rain was still falling. And they were still lying in bed.

And no matter how damned good—or bad—Sukee was, he still found himself wondering if Samantha Carlyle and the newly arrived Adam O’Connor were shacked up out of the rain, as well.

There were things he needed to know about O’Connor.

Easy enough. He knew the right people to ask to find out just about anything. Anything at all.

Even if he’d finally found a fantasy he couldn’t quite fulfill, Jim determined, it was good being who he was.

He’d almost had her, he told himself. Almost. And besides, like Sukee was so fond of saying…

Things could be arranged.

Sam had been sure that she was never going to sleep. And yet she did. Very deeply.

When she awoke, her room was filled with gray light. She lay in her bed, stretched and thought that the weathermen had been right on the money this time—it was definitely raining.

She rolled over, looked at her watch and saw that it was past noon. Startled, she crawled out of bed and quietly inched her way down the hall, curious to discover what was going on in her house.

Jem was in the living room, engrossed in a magazine. He looked up as she came down the hallway, and Sam was touched to realize that he was listening for every move that was made within the house. He meant to protect her.

“You must be bored silly, waiting around all day for me to wake up.”

“You did sleep in,” he commented dryly.

She grinned. “Sorry.” She wandered into the kitchen. It was noon, but it felt like morning. She needed coffee. High-test coffee. Sleeping late hadn’t made her bound right out of bed. She felt as gray and misted-over as the day.

“You know,” she called to Jem, “it is noon. I’m probably quite safe now.” When the coffee was starting to brew, she came into the living room, walking over to where Jem sat on the sofa and looking down at him. “Jem, I’m sure it would be okay if you got on with your own life—”

She broke off, because he suddenly lifted a hand, pointing toward the door.

She stared. The knob was turning, being tested.

“Jem…”

He stood, lifted a finger to his lips and mouthed, “It’s locked.” He motioned her to move out of the way. She did so, flattening herself against the wall as he strode to the door and flung it open.

He stood dead still. His shoulders slumped.

“Jem?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “No one there. I could have sworn I saw…” He shrugged again. “I’m going out.”

“In this rain?”

“It’s a trickle now.”

“Jem, don’t—”

But he was already gone.

Yancy sat in front of the fireplace in the bar. The fire was blazing beautifully. The rain hadn’t actually made the day cold, but the fire took the dampness away.

Adam had lit it for her when he’d come in this morning. Despite the fact that the majority of the guests would sleep in and have something to eat in their own cottages, Yancy had been down early to set out the buffet. Breakfast in the main house happened even if the staff were the only people on the island.

Jacques had come down to cook, then retired. Adam had built the fire, gone for coffee and an egg sandwich and disappeared into Justin Carlyle’s old office.

Lots of guests liked the office. Justin had collected all sorts of books about the ocean, books on shipwrecks, diving, wind patterns, geography, natural phenomena, the Devil’s Triangle and more. He kept a beautiful antique globe in his office, and deep comfortable leather chairs. It was a natural enough place for guests to go.

The fire snapped and crackled. She suddenly had the strange feeling that someone was behind her. For a moment she froze, feeling as if the damp, gray mist of the stormy day held something mysterious. As if sodden ghosts could rise from the sea and swirl into the dampness of the day to face her there in the bar. She jumped up defensively, turning around.

She was alone.

Uneasy, she left the room. The registration area and parlor were joined to the dining area and bar by symmetrical doors. She passed through the dining area and down the opposite hall, toward the door to Justin’s office.

Adam O’Connor was there, his handsome dark head bent over a journal. He heard her, though, and looked up. “Hi, Yancy.”

“Hi. Need anything?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine.” He leaned back. “Have you seen any other guests this morning?”

“Avery Smith had coffee, then left.”

“Bad weather for an elderly gentleman,” Adam commented.

Yancy shrugged, then heard Lillie calling her name from upstairs. Lillie had stayed over because of the dinner party. She’d been happy to play with the baby all morning, since she couldn’t get into the cottages to clean with everyone sleeping in.

“Why don’t you get some coffee and join me for a while?” Adam suggested.

“I…” Yancy hesitated. Not this morning. Lillie must be calling her because she needed a break from baby Brian.

And something more than he was telling them had brought Adam here, Yancy thought. She didn’t understand it yet, but she was certain Adam was going to want an explanation for Brian as soon as he knew of the child’s existence.

She bit her lip.

He would see Brian eventually. She would just put that moment off as long as she could. She wasn’t emotionally prepared to explain Brian to him this morning.

“Maybe I’ll join you soon,” she said. “I’ve got a few things to see to upstairs.”

“Okay.”

She turned to leave, then paused and told him honestly, “It’s really good to see you again, Adam.”

He smiled. “Thanks, Yancy. Thanks a lot. It’s good to see you, too.”

She nodded. There was more to say, but it wasn’t time yet. She smiled, waved and left him to the journal.

Great. Jem had left her. If there was one thing Sam had learned from her father’s love of the old black-and-white horror flicks, it was that you never left the girl alone.

Never mind the fact that the girl was a screaming idiot who would watch bony fingers reach for her or a hatchet fall and not even make a move to get away. You weren’t supposed to leave the girl alone.

She stepped onto the porch. It wasn’t exactly raining, but the moisture in the air was so heavy it seemed that the entire island was blanketed in fog. It wasn’t an unusual weather pattern here. Most of the time the sun was shining and the weather was beautiful. A storm came, it got gray, it rained—and the next day, the sun came back.

She wished it was the next day.

“Jem?” she called.

She’d just made another mistake. The stupid girl always left behind a place of safety and walked right out where she would be most vulnerable.

What to do? Turn around and walk into the cottage? What if her attacker had slipped in behind her back and was now waiting for her to return to what she hoped would be safety, where she would lock herself in with the danger?

“You’re taking to flights of fancy, Samantha Carlyle!” she murmured out loud. “It’s this island living. Surely I wouldn’t be quite so influenced by Mr. Adam O’Connor if there was a normal amount of healthy young males in my life. Not that men don’t come here. They just come and go so quickly. Never a chance to get to know them. Never a chance to ask pertinent questions, like you are in good health, right? The men I do know are like relatives. Jem is like a brother, and where the hell are you, Jem! Jem!” She screamed his name.

Then she spun around, hearing a rustling in the hibiscus bush flanking the cottage to her left. She opened her mouth to scream. Something—someone—large, very large, was coming out from behind the bush.

“Oh, my—Jem!”

He stood up, pressing his palm to his forehead. A small trickle of blood ran down from his scalp.

“My God, Jem, what happened? If someone hurt you, he’ll pay. I’ll—”

“Sam, I’m supposed to be protecting you, remember? And besides, there was no one out here. I ran into the privacy fence around your bathroom while I was trying to be quiet and sneaky,” he said ruefully.

She stood back, frowning. “But you’re hurt.”

“It’s just a scratch. I’ll wash it off. If you want to go over to the main house, I’ll walk you over, then go to my own cottage and get some sleep.”

She smiled, got him a clean washcloth with ice to hold against the bump and quickly changed into jeans and a T-shirt. They started to walk to the main house together. Jem paused as they left her cottage behind, studying the ground by the bushes.

“What’s the matter?”

“Look at all these footprints,” he said. “Some of them are mine, and some are probably yours,” he added with disgust. He shook his head. “Did that doorknob really turn? I’m feeling like an idiot. There was definitely no one there.”

“Maybe not,” Sam said.

“Let’s not mention this, huh?”

She agreed. “Let’s not.”

He left her at the door to the main house. She went in and found the living room, dining room, kitchen and bar all empty. She hesitated, wondering how the entire house could be empty, then wandered into her father’s office.

Adam looked up as she entered. He was in black jeans and a black T-shirt. The color complemented his dark good looks, the ebony sleekness of his hair, the gray of his eyes. The shirt even seemed to make the muscled bronze of his arms more appealing.

“Dismal day, huh?” he said.

She nodded.

He stretched out an arm. “Come in and join me. I don’t bite.”

“Really?”

“Not unless I’m invited to.”

She would have liked to dispute those words, but he was telling the truth—she knew from experience. It would be a lie to suggest that she hadn’t invited what had happened between them when they first met.

“What are you doing?” she asked him. He was seated at the big old seafarer’s desk. She chose one of the big leather upholstered chairs on the other side of it, curling her feet beneath her as she sat.

“Studying charts, notes, references.”

“Find anything?”

“Lots of things.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “I’ve studied almost everything in this room, and I never found anything. Except the obvious. Charts—dozens of charts. Books on the building of the Beldona, her cargo, her crew, her purpose in the New World. Speculation on the Steps. Advice on sailing through storms. Theories on the disappearances in the triangle.”

“Your father’s notes?” he suggested.

“I’ve read them.”

“Hank’s notes, as well?”

She nodded.

He stood, pushing a journal toward her. It was written in her father’s handwriting. He tapped an entry made the morning Justin had disappeared. Sam leaned close to read the scrawl her father had left in the book. She squinted. It read, Study ocean floor.

She sat back, shrugging. “I know all the dive sites. I’ve visited them all my life. I can see the ‘ocean floor’ at all those sites with my eyes closed.”

Adam seemed disappointed. “All right,” he said, after a moment. “I’ve got another one for you.” He stood, taking another ledger from behind the desk, setting it down.

She thought that his fingers trembled slightly as he turned the pages of the book.

Hank’s book. A diary he’d kept on his research. Every page seemed to be filled. He’d listed crew members by name, sails, masts, guns, ship’s silver and china, glassware, cutlery. Then suddenly, as if it had been an afterthought, he’d written, Things not what they seem?

“What do you make of that?”

“I don’t know. Hank was…obsessed.”

Adam closed both books, staring at her. She wanted to return his stare, but she felt her gaze falling. She studied her hands. “It’s a dismal day. Jem has gone back to his place to sleep. Jacques will be starting dinner soon. I wonder if anyone will even make it in to eat. I hope the weather clears for the morning.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. Everyone is so anxious to dive.”

“You’re not.”

She shrugged, suddenly wishing she hadn’t come in here. It was disconcerting to be here. On the one hand, it was oddly comfortable to be alone with Adam. On the other…It was torture.

Adam leaned forward suddenly. “Sam, you’re like an ostrich. You want to hide your head in the sand so you won’t have to realize that your father is dead.”

Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back. “You’re wrong. I do realize my father is dead. I know it all too well.”

He stared at her, shaking his head sadly. “All right. You accept that he’s dead. But you don’t want to know how he died. You don’t want to think that Hank Jennings found the same brutal end.”

She lifted her hands in a dismissive gesture. “You’re wrong. No matter how they died, it had to be brutal. Drowning can’t be easy. A heart attack, a—”

“It would be a little too convenient for both men to die of undersea heart attacks, don’t you think?”

She sat very still, then closed her eyes for a moment, leaning back. She looked at him again. “When my father disappeared, I spent a week sleeping out on the dock, praying that he’d come back. Yancy and Jem finally convinced me that my sleeping on damp wood wasn’t going to help anything. I still spent the majority of my time on the dock. I stood there, I sat there, I waited. I took the Sloop Bee out day after day. I talked to the Bahamian police, the Coast Guard, the FBI—divers, salvagers, you name it. I—”

“You wrote to me.”

She nodded, looking away. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. So sorry.”

She shrugged. “It’s been a long time now.”

“Not so long since Hank disappeared.”

She shook her head, wishing he would go away. She didn’t want to think about things that hurt so badly.

“The point is, Sam, something happened to them. You’ve got to come out of your shell. We owe it to them to find out what the hell happened.”

She hesitated, then leaned over the desk. “Give me a journal.”

“You said you’ve read them both.”

“I have, but…” She shrugged and admitted, “I missed both those entries you just showed me. Or, if I saw them, I didn’t think anything of them. And it’s a rainy afternoon. What the hell else is there to do?”

Adam passed her a journal, arching a brow, but her head was already lowered over the book he had passed her.

He smiled anyway, lowered his own head and tried to concentrate once again.

At around six Yancy came in. She’d made them Jamaican coffee, rich with sugar and whipped cream. She wound up staying, perched on another chair, and reading about the Spanish prisoners taken aboard the Beldona.

Jem joined them at six-thirty, having gotten some sleep. The bump on his head was all but invisible. Sam kept her head studiously in her book while he explained that he’d gotten the bump from the medicine chest over his sink.

Jem read with them for a while. They exchanged books and read some more.

At seven-thirty Jacques—his chef’s hat perfectly in place, his mustache perfectly twirled—stuck his head in. He cleared his throat, winking at Adam. “Mon Dieu, ma cherie! There are real guests here, as well, you know.”

Sam looked up, startled. She glanced at her watch. “My Lord, I’ve forgotten—”

“Mais oui! But I have not!” Jacques said proudly. “Your guests have made themselves drinks and are now in the midst of an Italian buffet.”

“Oh. Pizza night,” Yancy said.

Jacques rolled his eyes. “Pizza night! Where is the respect due?” he moaned.

“Thanks, Jacques. You’re great!” Sam called as he disappeared down the hallway. “Well, I guess I’ll see to the guests,” she said, rising.

Yancy followed her. “Can you help Jacques? I left Brian asleep. He’ll probably be waking up soon, and Lillie went back on the mail boat this afternoon despite the rain.”

“I’ll do dinner. Take a break if you want.”

“Thanks.” Yancy went upstairs.

Neither Jem nor Adam emerged from her father’s office. Sam found the Emersons, the Walkers and Liam and Jerry munching on pizza, pasta and salad in the dining room. She joined them, noting that neither Avery Smith nor Jim or Sukee had chosen to come to dinner. All the cottages had little kitchenettes, and they were kept stocked with the basics. No one had to come to a meal if he didn’t choose to. Sam imagined that Sukee and Jim were together and had things other than food on their minds. What Mr. so-called Avery Smith might be up to, she didn’t know.

“I’m sorry we had such bad weather today,” she apologized in general, pouring wine for her adult guests.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Sue Emerson said with a wink for her husband.

He slipped an arm around her adoringly. “Not bad at all.”

“It sucked,” Brad assured her.

“Brad!” his parents gasped in unison.

“We’ll make tomorrow extra special,” Sam promised.

“Do you ever feel you’ve missed a lot—living on the island all your life?” Jerry North asked her suddenly.

Sam looked across at the blond woman who was studying her so intently. She shrugged. “I love the island. What could I have missed? Besides, I did go to college on the mainland. And any time I want to see it, a few hours will get me there.”

Jerry nodded, still watching her.

Liam didn’t seem to notice. “Pizza’s good,” he said with a grunt.

“The chef will be pleased that you’re so satisfied,” Sam assured him.

Jerry smiled and looked at her own plate at last.

No one seemed of a mind to linger long over coffee. Dessert—delicious tiramisu—had scarcely been served before Darlene yawned, anxious to go to bed so she would be wide awake for diving the next day.

The Emersons had skipped dessert entirely, leaving hand in hand the moment they’d finished their meal.

Even Liam seemed quiet. He and Jerry left the main house right after the Walkers. Sam still hadn’t seen Jem or Adam emerge from the office. While she was helping to clear the last of the plates, Jacques informed her that he had brought dinner to the men in the study.

Nice, Sam thought, irritated that Adam had taken over to the point that Jem had decided to keep studying with him rather than help her run the evening meal.

The hell with them both, she decided.

She told Jacques good-night, determined to reach her own cottage and lock herself in.

She departed by way of the porch once again, cutting across the lawn to her cottage.

The key was in the pocket of her jeans. She reached for it as she neared her door.

Judy Walker had watched the news, and she’d assured Sam that it was going to be a bright, hot day tomorrow. It was hard to believe right now, when clouds were obscuring the moon. Despite the lights on the island, it was a dark, misty night. She hadn’t gone far from the main house before it was nearly swallowed up in the mist.

Damn! she told herself. But she was nearly at her own cottage. Too close to it to run back to the main house. Why was she suddenly frightened? She’d never been afraid on the island before.

But then, she’d never been attacked in her own bathroom before, either.

Well, this is it, stupid, she warned herself. Hadn’t she been thinking about old horror movies earlier? Wasn’t it true that only really stupid heroines managed to find themselves alone with the murderer?

And not just alone. Alone in the mist. In the darkness.

Oh, great.

And all because she was irritated by Adam. Because he was as appealing as he had ever been. As aggressive. As dominating. Never mind that his decision that she shouldn’t be left alone was for her own good.

She’d just been so damned hurt. Because she’d been so infatuated. Young, and so in love.

And now…

Now the night seemed alive. Everywhere she looked, the mist-enshrouded tropical beauty of the island seemed to harbor danger.

She quickened her pace and reached her door. Nervously, she tried to slip her key into the lock.

The bushes rustled behind her, startling her into dropping the key. It fell to the concrete with a sharp ping. As she reached for it, a shadow fell over her. Huge, dark, looming over her like wings of death in the night.

Then hands came down on her, biting into her shoulders.

And she started to scream.

7

S ue Emerson stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and smiled. Her hair was brushed to a high gloss. God, she had good teeth. And good skin. She frowned slightly, then rubbed a little more lotion into her cheeks and under her eyes. No premature aging for her. The sun could be vicious. She didn’t intend to allow it. One day, she meant to be very rich.

She didn’t want to decay before that day came.

She stepped back to give herself a fuller view of her body. Her outfit was sexy. In fact, it was downright decadent. A black creation that covered her whole body while leaving strategic locations covered in nothing but gauze. She smiled again. She should grace the pages of a men’s magazine, she thought. She pouted, practicing for an imaginary camera.

Lucky, lucky Joey.

She stepped out of the bathroom.

The lighting was low. A fire burned in the hearth. Joey had opened a bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. He sipped burgundy from his, sitting in his briefs on the edge of the bed, the telephone receiver in his hand.

Sue picked up her wine, smiling.

He waved a hand at her to wait a minute.

Wait, hell.

She struck a pose by the bathroom door, sipping the wine artfully. Running the tip of her tongue over her lips. Wiggling it in his direction.

He should be drooling by now. Instead he just stared at her.

“Hey, stud!” she whispered, running a hand down the length of her body.

“Yeah,” he said to whoever was on the telephone. “I can hold a second.”

Joey was young and very good-looking, with a strong body, blond hair and good features. Not bad at all.

If only he would learn to listen to her a little more.

She left the doorway and walked over to him. Lowered herself to her knees between his thighs. Ran her hands along them. “Ooh,” she murmured. “Want to fool around, lover?”

He covered the receiver with his hand. “Will you cut out the honeymoon crap for a while?” he demanded irritably. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Sue rose, her jaw locked in anger as she stared at him. “Fuck you, asshole,” she said sweetly, then turned and strode out of the bedroom.

Joey looked after her broodingly. Women. Now he would be apologizing for the better half of the night.

Didn’t matter. Maybe he wouldn’t bother. Maybe she would just have to come back on her own. He smiled slightly. She was enough of a nympho that she would be back. She had no right to be acting like such a bitch.

After all, she was the one who liked money so much, he reminded himself angrily.

Then he heard a voice talking to him on the phone, and he gave his mind over to the business at hand.

“It’s me! Will you please shut up!”

Sam gasped, aware even as she was spun around that Adam was the hulking shadow behind her.

“You scared me to death.”

“Well, what the hell was the matter with you, walking out like that?”

“I was ready to go.”

“Are you anxious to meet that guy again? Hoping he’ll be in your bathroom again?”

“Oh, will you go to hell!”

“Then what were you doing?”

“You two were still busy, so—”

“Get inside. I’m not going to argue out here.”

She had little choice. Adam had the key and turned it in the lock. He propelled her inside.

She kept moving, heading for the side of the room opposite him.

“Damn you, Sam, it should be obvious to you that you’re not safe.”

“All right! I’m sorry.”

“You damned well should be. You—”

The door was shaken by a hard knock. Sam jumped. Adam instantly flung it open. She started to cry out in protest, then saw that it was Jem on the other side.

“Great, I’m in danger, and you just fling the door open,” she said.

“I knew he was right behind me.”

“I, uh, don’t mean to be interrupting anything here,” Jem began.

“You’re not!” they both swore in vehement unison.

Adam lowered his head slightly, lifting his hands. “You’re here, Jem, so I’m out of here. See you both in the morning.” He stared at Sam. “Bright and early. We’re diving the Steps.”

“Good night to you both!” Sam snapped, heading for her bedroom. It seemed important for some reason to make her exit before Adam made his.

But once she was gone, he didn’t rush to go. Jem looked at him. “Sofa is yours tonight,” he said.

“You don’t need to—”

“Fair is fair,” Jem said.

Adam shrugged. “Okay. I’ve got to get a few things. I’ll be back in about thirty minutes. I’ll knock twice.”

“Gotcha.”

The baby started crying in the middle of the night. Yancy bolted up, hurried to the crib and looked at the infant. She had to smile as she reached for him. What a temper! His little fists were balled and waving, his mouth opened wide to give his angry screams full volume.

“You know, young man, you’re supposed to start sleeping through the night one of these days,” she said, picking him up and patting his back as she held him comfortingly against her shoulder. His screams turned to sniffles. “That’s what the baby books say, anyway. But you’re hungry, and if you’re hungry…”

She walked to the dressing table and cracked the cap on a sealed, disposable bottle of formula, balancing the baby on her shoulder as she screwed on a sterilized disposable nipple. All the prepared stuff was expensive, but worth it in the middle of the night. She adored the baby. There was absolutely nothing about him, nothing he could do, that would be too much trouble for her, but still, she was certain that even the very best parent in the entire world had to stumble around a bit in the middle of the night.

“Don’t be a little piglet. You’ll wind up with a stomachache,” she warned him, settling in the rocker to feed the baby.

Oh, God, yes, she adored him. He looked so much like his father. Thank God for Sam’s belief that human life was precious, no matter what! Thank God the baby existed. He was hers now, no matter what the situation that had brought him into the world. He was precious. Those blue eyes, that soft, soft, light brown hair.

Those eyes on her. So trustingly.

He suddenly smiled around the nipple in his mouth. Reached out little fingers toward her.

That smile, so much like his father’s…

She rocked, thinking, reminiscing. Wondering.

She realized that the baby had closed his eyes. She took the bottle from his mouth, set him over her shoulder and burped him. Then she rose and began to walk idly around the room.

She paused, certain that she had heard a sound from downstairs.

She stood dead still.

Yes…

Someone was downstairs. Someone moving around in what had been Justin Carlyle’s office.

She hesitated, feeling the thunder of her heart. It was just Jacques, she told herself.

Never, he had no interest in the office.

Should she go down?

No, definitely not! Sam would send her right off the island with the baby if she thought that Yancy had risked him in any way.

It was just Adam, she told herself. Adam had spent the entire day in the office, going through books, charts and papers. They’d all been with him. No secrecy there.

She’d heard Adam leave in a hurry earlier. She’d heard Jem follow him out. But he might have come back.

But if it wasn’t Adam…

What should she do?

Her agony of indecision was short-lived, at least. She heard a click and realized that someone had exited by the bar door onto the porch.

She pulled out the little lamb night-light that had softly illuminated her room, casting it into total darkness, then flattened herself against the wall, staring over the lawn area that led down to the docks.

She saw…nothing.

No, a figure.

But just as she caught sight of the figure on the lawn, a cloud covered the moon completely.

The figure stood just between the pools of illumination cast by the island’s night-lights. In darkness.

She could see very little. The figure was tall…. Dark…. Nothing more.

Shaking, she set the sleeping baby into his crib. Then she checked her door. Locked. Securely locked.

She set a chair in front of it anyway.

Whoever she’d seen, they weren’t coming back tonight, she assured herself as she lay down. But she didn’t sleep.

She was suddenly certain that neither Justin Carlyle nor Hank Jennings had died by any trick of nature or by accident. Both men had been murdered.

And now the murderer had come to the island to strike again.

There was a very strange place between sleeping and waking, a place where memories came to haunt her sweetly in a pleasant mist.

The day was perfect. The sun was high, strong, the air touched by the perfect breeze, keeping the summer’s heat palatable. They’d spent the day on the Sloop Bee, her father on deck, reading another of his “sources.” She’d been diving, buddied up with Adam, since it had been just the three of them out for the afternoon. They’d come across the huge manta ray that afternoon. Adam had pointed out the creature to her. She’d been determined to befriend it, to take a ride on its mighty wings. The manta had been obliging, allowing her to close her fingers over its wings, to feel its power as it whipped through the water. Soon after, Adam had joined her, laughing behind his mask. It had been the perfect dive. They’d been near the Steps, and the sea had come alive for them. Barracuda had skulked about, offering up their wicked-looking grins but keeping their distance. Brilliant yellow tangs had darted about the reefs to the southwest of the Steps, along with clowns and angelfish. The colors had been so vibrant and magnificent, the sea so excitingly alive….

She had seen everything by his side. Shared the visions, loved the underwater world with someone who loved it equally well. Back aboard the Sloop Bee, she’d described it all for her father, who had laughed, bright-eyed himself, because he understood their feelings so well. Justin had tried to tell her then what he had been working on, but she hadn’t really been listening that day.

She’d just watched him with Adam. Seen Adam’s interest. His enthusiasm. Seen Adam smile. Seen his dimple. Seen him move. Her heart had thudded with exquisite pleasure to see the two men in her life find such a satisfying friendship. One of them, however, hadn’t realized that he was one of the men in her life….

Until later.

Running down the beach on Drop Island. The white sand beneath her feet, the setting sun crashing down around them in shades of bloodred crimson. She’d doused him in cold water when he hadn’t listened quickly enough to what she’d been saying. Running had seemed the most prudent action.

Until he caught her. Until they tripped in the sand. Until she looked into his eyes while feeling the sun-fevered smoothness of his flesh, the power of his muscles pressed against her.