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Irresistible Fortune
Wendy Etherington


Saving the past…one hot night at a time!Notorious womaniser and treasure hunter Gavin Fortune is after a local sunken ship – and Brenna McGary is determined to stop him. History shouldn’t be sold off by the piece! Unfortunately, the infuriating Gavin knows how to use his assets to get his way…and Brenna’s fury is looking a lot like sweet, sweet lust. Brenna could use that sizzling attraction to get her way, though.Until Gavin’s scheming former mentor arrives to cause trouble for everyone! Now Brenna must join forces with Gavin and, if she’s not careful, she’ll be the next to fall for the irresistible charms of Gavin Fortune, hottest man on the planet…










“Kiss me.”

As Brenna’s breath caught in her throat, her heart lurched to a stop. Was there something to this honey-and-bees thing? Maybe, with their chemistry leading them, they could find common ground somehow.

Gavin continued in a low Texas drawl, “For some reason, I find temperamental redheads fascinating all of a sudden. Are you going to let me kiss you or not?”

“I was waiting for you. Are you sure your lothario reputation is actually earned, because so far—”

His mouth covered hers mid-rant. His lips were warm, persuasive and sent a spark of desire shooting down her spine.

He cupped her jaw in his hand, angling her head to deepen the kiss, his tongue gliding against hers. She pressed her body against his, her hands clutching his soft cotton shirt as she fought to get closer.

Man, he felt amazing. She closed her eyes, shutting out her conscience, reminding her that she was kissing her opponent.

“I really don’t need this complication in my life at the moment,” he whispered hotly against her cheek.

“You’re hopelessly arrogant,” she returned, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing against his firm chest.

“You’re too serious.” His lips moved over hers for another heated kiss.

“And you could be a lot quieter …”


Dear Reader,

On February 17, 1864, the H. L. Hunley became the first submarine to sink an enemy vessel. Unfortunately, neither the ship nor the crew ever made it back to shore. For more than a hundred and thirty years, the fate of the Hunley was shrouded in mystery. Then in 1995, after a concerted effort by a team organized by author Clive Cussler, it was finally discovered four miles off the coast of Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina. (One of the reallife islands that led to the creation of my own Palmer’s Island.)

This story, along with information about the CSS Alabama, which raided merchant ships during the Civil War, inspired my own tale. Now, whether the Alabama had a pirate for a captain and booty of gold and gems on board is unlikely. But into the controversy of how to handle the recovery of my fictional ship, I’ve tossed Brenna McGary and captivating treasure hunter Gavin Fortune. These two are a volatile and electric combination, determined to protect history—and get their hands on each other as often as possible.

Thank you to all the readers who’ve been with my Palmer’s Island novels from the beginning. I’m going to end here for now and move on to a new locale, but, rest assured, the gang on PI is enjoying their happily-ever-after—as well as running into mystery and adventure from time to time.

Happy reading!

Wendy Etherington




About the Author


WENDY ETHERINGTON was born and raised in the deep South—and she has the fried-chicken recipes and NASCAR ticket stubs to prove it. The author of more than twenty books, she writes full-time from her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her husband, two daughters and an energetic shih tzu named Cody. She can be reached via her website, www.wendyetherington.com.


Irresistible

Fortune

Wendy Etherington




























www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my sisters, Catherine Word and Laura Gurner, whose unconditional love and encouragement remind me that I come from good stock.




1


BRENNA MCGARY FLUNG OPEN the door of C’s Styles and Spa.

Pausing only to wave at the receptionist, she stalked past two stylists and the nail tech’s desk, zoning in on the shop’s owner, Courtney.

Her friend and fellow historical society member, Sloan Kendrick, sat in Courtney’s chair, her long blond hair encased in several dozen foil highlighting packets.

“Wait till you read the latest,” Brenna said, waving the Palmer’s Island Herald.

Sloan continued to flip through a fashion magazine. “That idiot reporter Jerry Mescle is way too wordy for me. Give us the bottom line.”

“Gavin Fortune is part of the research team.”

To Brenna’s disgust, this announcement was met not by an echo of her own deeply held outrage, but by breathy sighs and rosy cheeks.

Courtney dropped her comb and snatched the paper from Brenna’s hand. “Is there a picture?”

Two stylists left their clients to hover over Courtney’s shoulder and take a peek. Even blissfully married Sloan leaned in.

Brenna rolled her eyes. Of course there was a picture. What was the fun of being a money-grubbing, morally vacant opportunist if you weren’t also the hottest man on the planet?

And Gavin Fortune definitely fit that bill.

Even with that idiotic, had-to-be-made-up name.

Recently, a team of researchers from Miami had found a Civil War era ship a few miles off the coast of Palmer’s Island and begun recovery procedures. The Carolina had cruised the waters and raided merchant vessels between the U.S. and the Caribbean from 1861 until the spring of 1863, when she and her crew arrived in Charleston Harbor to aid the Confederacy in the war effort.

Her seamen—cynics might call them privateers at best, pirates at worst—fought valiantly for the South for five months before the Union sank the ship on September 16. The location of the wreckage had become a fascinating legend to locals, due to the rumor of the ship’s valuable cargo. The crew had supposedly been secretly carrying infamous pirate Captain James Cullen and his treasure chest of jewelry and gold coins.

Now, with glory-hound treasure hunter Gavin Fortune front and center, the Miami team had turned out to be exactly what Brenna and the other members of both the Charleston and Palmer’s Island historical societies had feared most—a grave robber.

“Too bad the Herald can’t afford to print in color anymore,” Courtney commented, ruefully shaking her head of blazing red curls.

“Even in black and white, he’s pretty dreamy,” Sloan said as Courtney handed the paper to one of the other stylists, who wanted a closer look.

Brenna huffed in disgust. “Dreamy? Are you people insane? Gavin Fortune is the devil. The enemy. The scourge of historical societies the world over. The secretary of the Charleston group told me she started a website www.diefortunedie.”

Brenna’s friends stared at her.

Sloan angled her head. “Gee, Bren. We appreciate passion in our members, but as long as you pay your dues, murder isn’t part of the initiation ceremony.”

“You need some highlights to calm you down,” Courtney said, snagging her hand and leading her to the empty chair one station over.

Barely glancing at her strawberry-blond locks in the mirror, Brenna crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you guys those people were up to no good.”

“We always figured they were more interested in the treasure than the historical aspects of the discovery.” Sloan managed a small smile, even though Brenna knew she was just as worried. “That photo op looked more like an ad for swimwear than a serious scientific endeavor.”

Brenna recalled the event, the recovery team posing on the marina’s main pier with two bikini-clad girls holding up a gold plastic treasure chest, and her blood boiled all over again.

“But a lot of museums benefit from these kinds of finds,” Sloan continued.

Brenna shook her head. “Not ones that rat Fortune is involved with. He swoops in, scrounges for valuables, then sells his treasures to the highest bidder. He doesn’t care if the collection is bought as a whole or in a million pieces. We have to stop him.”

“That’s easier said than done.” Courtney pulled Brenna’s hair from its ponytail and brushed it out. “He’s rich, famous and a media charmer.”

Sloan bit her lip. “I’m not as concerned about him as an individual as I am about public opinion.”

“They’re fascinated,” Brenna agreed.

“The mayor has visions of national exposure and Palmer’s Island becoming another Kiawah-like resort destination,” Sloan said.

Courtney glanced at her. “I thought he was stuck on getting a PGA-approved golf course.”

Brenna sighed. “Somehow, I think he’d settled for a hundred-plus-year-old treasure chest full of gold and priceless jewels.”

Courtney picked up individual strands of Brenna’s hair and examined them closely. “I haven’t touched this in a month. How does it look better today than when I fixed it last?”

“Because her hair’s perfect, as always,” Sloan said.

Brenna shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.” Her dad was an Irish redhead, her mother a Southern-born bombshell blonde. She got both—at least on her head. “Thanks,” she added to her friends, not wanting to seem completely churlish. Her hair was one of her few features she actually liked. “But can we stay on topic? ”

“Hair or hot treasure hunters?” Courtney asked.

“Amoral treasure hunters,” Brenna clarified.

“I vote you confront him.”

At these abrupt words, Brenna stared at Sloan. “Me?”

“Sure.” This time Sloan’s grin was genuine. “I’m betting he’s not the kind of guy who can resist an enraged Irish pixie.”

From anybody else, Brenna would have been wildly annoyed by this comparison. Her small stature was a serious area of contention.

But she and Sloan had been friends since high school, where she was head cheerleader and Brenna had been a champion gymnast. They’d fought together to be taken seriously as athletes, surrounded by football, baseball and basketball players who were bigger, stronger and had their sports fully funded by the school district. Brenna had even earned a scholarship to the University of Florida and been an SEC champion on floor exercise before a variety of knee injuries derailed her career.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” she said finally to Sloan’s suggested confrontation. “I’m too angry to be rational.”

“You’re always rational,” Sloan pointed out. “You deal with teenagers on a daily basis. If you can handle them, one amoral treasure hunter should be a relaxing vacation.”

“I agree,” Courtney said, her brown eyes sparking with enthusiasm. “You’re the one who’s done the research. You know all about Gavin Fortune and his tactics.”

Brenna glanced from Courtney to Sloan. “Are you sure this isn’t just a ploy to get a firsthand report of how hot this guy is?”

“Oh, no,” Courtney assured her, though her face flushed too quickly to be convincing. “We’re the historical society. We should have an official representative to let these guys know we’re watching them.”

Brenna swept her hand down her minuscule frame. “And you’re sure I’m the one for the job?”

“Absolutely,” Sloan said.

“You’d be better,” Brenna insisted. The edge of her indignation was wearing off, rapidly replaced by suspicion. “You’re the president of the society. Why me?”

“Because I have a pistol, and I know how to use it.”

ON THE SHORT DRIVE TO THE marina, Brenna began to seriously question the plan.

Sure, Sloan was the former sheriff’s daughter, and she did have a tendency to be impulsive and passionate, but she was their leader. Wasn’t it her duty to handle the big problems?

Maybe Brenna had started the cause of watching the ship’s excavation, but she had personal issues with the situation that had to be taken into account. And though she was upset, the whole “I’m too angry to be rational” thing had been a weak excuse. Mostly she was a talker, not a fighter.

She could easily intimidate high school kids with a glare, but confronting a man of Gavin Fortune’s … well, breadth—given the tightness of his T-shirt in the newspaper picture— wasn’t an area of strength.

Since Palmer’s Island was an Atlantic Ocean barrier island near Charleston, South Carolina, just over three miles wide and five miles long, the trip from the centrally located hair salon to the marina at the tip—even with summer tourist season in full swing—took about three minutes. As she pulled off Beach Road, which ran the length of the island and allowed glimpses between the fabulous beach houses to the rolling sea sliding onto the sand, she searched the crowded parking lot for an empty space.

Tall palmetto trees, whose long green fronds swayed in the breeze, were flanked by their bushy shrub cousins and rows of sea oats. Puffy white clouds were the only things dotting the bright blue sky. Though the marina actually rested on the Intracoastal Waterway side of the island, at this end the land between the Atlantic and the waterway was only a couple hundred feet wide.

Her friend and lawyer, Carr Hamilton, lived on the opposite side of the street in a beautifully modern house on the point, and she cast a glance that way, wondering if he was home and if she should bring him along for this unpleasant confrontation with Gavin Fortune.

After shaking away that impulse and finally finding a spot at the end of the back row, she turned off the car and checked her reflection in the visor mirror. Small features, fair skin and “green as a shamrock” eyes, according to her father. She applied a little pink gloss to her lips, knowing no amount of makeup or surgery was ever going to turn her into a cover model.

She laid her hand over her cell phone sitting in the console. She should call Sloan and have her come meet her. Men fell at her feet—both before and since she’d married her darkly gorgeous husband.

The only male who consistently rubbed against Brenna lately was her prize Persian, Shakespeare Fuzzyboots.

With her hand wrapped around her phone, she caught a glimpse of the newspaper she’d tossed on the passenger’s seat of her car. The confident smile and perfect teeth of Dr. Gavin Fortune flashed back at her.

Doctor? Ha!

He’d probably gotten an honorary degree from some university he’d donated a pile of cash to. His online bio had been vague, focusing on the high-profile treasures he’d found and profited from, not any actual qualifications he had for finding them.

With renewed determination, she stepped out of her car. She had a legitimate education. College had given her a teaching degree, specializing in literature, which she’d used in a variety of high schools throughout the South. She’d traveled through Europe, Asia and Greece. Sure, she lived on a small island, but she’d come home just two years ago, after her mother broke her hip playing tennis and needed her help.

The fact that she knew she was home to stay didn’t make her unsophisticated. The island called to her sense of poetry, history and sheer appreciation of beauty. She wasn’t hiding here. She certainly wasn’t remembering how she’d found her last boyfriend in bed with the girl from Merry Maids.

After learning from the harbormaster that the research team was renting slip forty-two, she made her way down the pier, past a variety of speedboats, cabin cruisers and yachts.

She’d nearly reached her destination when it occurred to her that they might even now be at the wreck site scavenging for valuables. The vision of that atrocity had her quickening her pace.

With great relief, she saw a large cabin cruiser with the script Miami Heat bobbing next to the dock. Three men were standing on the bow of the boat. None of them was Gavin Fortune.

They noticed her approach, and the swarthy, Hispanic-looking one approached her with a smile. “Looking for Dr. Fortune? ”

How had he known? “As a matter of fact, I am.”

His grin widened. “I bet I could help.”

“That’s very kind of you to offer, but I really need to see him.”

Shrugging, the man extended his hand to help her on board, then swept his arm in the direction of the boat’s stern. “He’s already turned away three today, señorita, but buena suerte to you.”

Thanking him, Brenna rolled her shoulders. She’d take all the good luck she could get. But what three—

Her steps faltered. Three women. He’d already had others coming to find him. And she’d bet her entire collection of first-edition Yeatses that they hadn’t come to call him out about his unethical research practices.

Were the women of Palmer’s Island that hard up?

She found him leaning against the railing at the very back of the boat and focusing on a stack of papers held in his hand.

She was somewhat prepared for the wavy, sandy-brown hair, pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, but as she moved toward him, he lifted his head. His hazel eyes and the disarming dimples in his cheeks had a lot more impact live and in person than on her computer screen or in the newspaper.

But the circumstance that had her heart threatening to jump out of her chest was the fact that he was wearing a wet suit. At least from the waist down. The top half of him—all tan skin and lean muscle—was completely bare.

He sighed as she continued to stare at him mutely. “Let me guess, you’re an amateur diver and you’ve always been fascinated by history.”

She blinked at his deep voice, heavy on the Southern accent. Texas maybe. With reluctance, she raised her gaze to his face.

And all the moisture in her mouth dried instantly.

“Ah … no,” she managed to say.

He straightened to his full height—a solid six-three—then strode toward her. “Look, honey, I’ve got a lot of work to do, so …” He stopped a few inches away, and she broke out in a sweat that had nothing to do with the blazing summer sun overhead. “How tall are you?”

By now, she should be used to the question, but he managed to startle her anyway. “Is that relevant?”

“You can’t be over five feet.”

She glanced down at her platform sandals, which added a good four inches to her height, and defiantly told the truth. “Four-eleven and three-quarters.”

When she looked up again, his gaze was pinned to hers. “What do you do?”

“I’m a teacher.”

“History? Social studies?”

Finally getting her bearings with his remarkable looks, she crossed her arms over her chest. “English literature, if you must know. Again, how is that relevant?”

“Oh, hell. Another Brontë groupie.”

“I prefer Jane Austen.”

If possible, he looked even more disappointed. “I was in a good mood today. I really was.” He folded the papers in his hand, then walked past her toward the cabin area in the center of the boat.

Seeing little choice, Brenna followed him and didn’t dare drop her gaze to see the back view of the skintight wet suit. “It’s urgent that I speak with you, Mr. Fortune.”

To her surprise, he didn’t correct her about his title, fake as it might be. “It’s Gavin, and I’m sure your cause is extremely important, but I have work to do.” In the doorway of the cabin, he turned. “If you’ll excuse me …”

Then he slid the door closed.

For several seconds, Brenna stood mutely on the other side of the glass barrier with her jaw hanging open. Only the prospect of humiliatingly facing Sloan and telling her she’d been aroused, intimidated, then turned away in less than three minutes by the same man she’d called the devil forced her to wrap her hand around the chrome handle and push the door aside.

Inside the cabin was a table bracketed on either side by black vinyl bench seats, a matching sofa on the opposite side of the boat, a kitchen area and a roomy cockpit. On the stern end was a closed door, presumably leading to a bedroom. Since Fortune was nowhere in sight, she assumed he’d gone into these private quarters.

She tapped on the door. “Mr. Fortune, I represent the Palmer’s Island Historical Society, and it’s imperative that I speak with you.”

Silence.

Pressing her ear to the door, she thought she heard water running. Was he in the shower?

Fine. She could wait.

She sat on the sofa and mentally recited Robert Frost poems to keep her mind from wandering to the sure-to-be-enticing-and-distracting visual of Gavin Fortune standing naked under a spicket of water.

“The Road Not Taken,” however, simply led her to stare in the direction of the closed bedroom door and wonder what lay beyond.

With monumental concentration, she reminded her libido she wasn’t some creepy celebrity chaser. She was here with a serious purpose. She had justice, history and truth on her side.

He walked out in khaki shorts and nothing else.

She literally bowed her head. Was the man determined to derail her indignation?

To further annoy and embarrass her, he didn’t even notice she was sitting on the sofa until after he’d retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge and turned to head back to the bedroom.

“How did you get in here?” he demanded, grinding to a halt.

Pleased she’d finally caught him off guard, she crossed her legs. “I opened the door.”

“Then use it to go back out. I’m really very busy.”

When he started toward the bedroom again, she lurched off the sofa directly into his path. The scent of sea air and woody citrus wafted from his skin, and she fought not to inhale too deeply. Droplets of water still clung to his wavy hair, which, released from its binding, hung nearly to his shoulders. If possible, the change made him even more attractive.

She cleared her throat. “Mr. Fortune, I represent the Palmer’s Island Historical Society, and—”

“Why not the Society for the Defense of Boring Books? Or the Society for Unnecessary Exposition?”

Brenna narrowed her eyes, but she wasn’t lowering herself to his insulting level.

Before she could so much as open her mouth, however, he rolled on. “Look, honey, I meet your type in every town I go to.”

Brenna didn’t think it was possible to be more insulted or enraged. Yet she was. “My type?”

“Sure. A crusader. No man, nothing better to do than harass hardworking people and write scathing letters to the local newspaper and city council. Do you have a cat?”

What did Shakes have to do with this?

“I’m here,” she began in her sternest English teacher tone, “to discuss the graves you’re disturbing, and the great tragedy you and your gang intend to profit from.”

He laughed. He actually laughed. Again, annoyingly increasing his appeal. “My gang?”

“Yes, well …” That had been rather insulting, she supposed. After all, the Hispanic gentleman had been very gracious. “Your crew then.”

“Who have five PhDs between the three of them. And you do realize this great tragedy happened nearly a hundred fifty years ago, right?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“And this was a pirate ship, not the USS Benevolent Cruise Line?”

“Many so-called pirate ships were merely privateers who helped the war effort.”

“For a price.”

“Well, this ship aided the South, it was sunk by Yankees and I’m here to stand for the crew’s noble sacrifice.”

He cocked his head and studied her, as if truly looking at her for the first time. “Green eyes,” he mused. “Fair skin, red hair, temper like a hurricane. Irish, by any chance?”

She raised her chin. “I’m a Southerner—eight generations worth, to be exact.”

Very gently, he laid his finger in the dent in her chin. “Maybe so, but there’s an Irish vixen some generation way back.”

Desire shot into her stomach. She was pretty sure the same thing had happened to him, because the gold in his eyes suddenly deepened. His gaze fell to her lips and held. She curled her hand into a fist by her side to prevent the impulse to reach out and glide her fingers across his tanned chest to see if the muscles below felt as hard as they looked.

“Well, this is damn inconvenient, isn’t it?” he asked in a low tone.

“I—” She stepped back, unsure if her embarrassing reaction to him or his acknowledgment of the chemistry between them worried her more. “We need to discuss the shipwreck.”

“Fine.” He moved around her and headed to the bedroom. “Let’s go get a beer, and you can tell me all about your tragic cause.”

She glanced at her watch. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”

“So? I’ll just throw on a T-shirt.”

When he returned, he was wearing a gray T-shirt and had pulled his hair back with a leather thong no doubt also used by the pirates whose treasure he was so adept at finding.

Lost in thought, she dimly registered that he’d stopped in front of her.

His impressive chest rose, then fell as he sighed, and he, too, checked the time. “It’s not a complicated proposition. Beer, no beer?”

Spending any more time with this man than was absolutely necessary seemed unwise. And yet it had been so long since she’d looked at a man with anything approaching desire, she was reluctant to let the feeling die. She’d been sure her ex had killed all her sexual impulses as well as their future together.

“How about iced tea?” she finally suggested.

He curled his lip as he laid his hand at the small of her back and guided her to the door. “For you, maybe.”

Outside, the wind had picked up, and Brenna flattened her hands against her sundress to keep it from flying up and giving Gavin Fortune and his crew an up-close-and-personal shot of her purple lace panties.

The blond-haired guy with wire-rimmed glasses smiled and nudged the Hispanic guy as they approached. “Pay up, Vasquez.”

“Poker, boys?” Fortune asked. “I thought you were programming the ROV.”

“No cards, amigo,” the Hispanic man, presumably Vasquez, said with a quick glance at Brenna. “A different kind of wager.”

“ROV?” she asked.

“Remotely Operated Vehicle,” Vasquez said, pointing at a device sitting on a table near him.

It was clearly mechanical, with lots of interlocking metal parts and tubing. It looked heavy. And complicated.

And that was pretty much all she could grasp.

“Basically, an underwater robot,” Fortune said, obviously sensing her confusion. “It allows us to take video and gather data without a human diver.”

She nodded. He’d certainly been right about his crew’s brains. “Oh.”

“Pablo, this is—” Fortune stopped, regarding her with surprise. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Brenna,” she said, sending him a reproachful look, realizing he’d never bothered to ask. “Brenna McGary,” she said to Pablo, extending her hand.

“Pablo Vasquez,” he returned. He indicated the blond man next to him. “This is Dennis Finmark. Over there is Jim Upton.”

Brenna shook Dennis’s hand and waved at Jim, a tall, thin, dark-haired guy who was wrapping a thick rope around a metal prong. They all seemed like nice, normal guys. Not minions of the devil at all.

She considered the implications of that as Fortune helped her off the boat, but it wasn’t until they were walking down the pier that she finally understood the bet. “They wagered on whether or not I could pick you up.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve already turned away three other women today.”

“How do you know that?”

“Pablo told me.” She halted, studying him from head to toe. “Does it ever get old, being infamous and irresistible?”

“Hell, no.”

Ignoring his amused expression, she waggled her finger at him. “This isn’t a pickup. It’s a business discussion.”

“Whatever you say, Miss McGary. It is miss, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but how is that relevant?”

He resumed walking. “Just want to get your title correct.”

No doubt that was a dig to her insistence on ignoring his doctorate. Well, if he wanted to change that, he’d have to show her his diploma first.

And the one from the University of Hot Bare Chests and Dimples didn’t count.

When they reached the end of the pier, Fortune steered her right instead of continuing straight, which would have led them to The Night Heron, the marina bar. “The bar’s this way,” she said, pulling to a stop.

“Let’s walk down the beach to Joe’s.”

“You know about Coconut Joe’s?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

Given the fact that he hadn’t bothered to put on shoes, she supposed the casual dress code of Joe’s was more appropriate. She removed her platform wedges and moved down the stairs into the hot but soft crème-colored sand. “How long have you been on the island?”

“Two days.”

“How long are you staying?”

“As long as it takes.”

Okay, so not much of a talker. Not what she’d expected at all. He’d lost his cocky and careless expression and was watching the horizon.

Who was this guy?

They spoke little until they’d climbed the stairs from the beach to Joe’s, which rose above the sand on wooden stilts. The tacky but charming decor, complete with the expected surfboards and fishing nets hanging on the walls, suited Palmer’s Island’s laid-back style perfectly. And the food was top-notch.

To escape the steaming summer heat, Fortune requested from the hostess that they sit inside with air-conditioning rather than on the screened deck. For some reason, Brenna had the feeling he would have preferred to be outside, but chose not to out of deference to her.

Clearly, the heat was affecting her brain.

She ordered sweet tea, and he stuck with beer. The waitress, named Tammy, gave the man across from Brenna a flirtatious smile and barely bothered to glance in her direction.

“Hey, aren’t you the guy from the paper?” Tammy asked Fortune when she returned with their drinks. “You’re some kind of cool scientist.”

Fortune sent her a charming smile, including the dimples. “Maritime archaeologist.”

Brenna nearly choked on her tea. In what universe?

The waitress’s eyes widened. She leaned closer, giving him and the entire back half of the restaurant an excellent view of her cleavage. “Wow. What’s that?”

“I do research underwater. I’ve also studied history extensively.”

Brenna barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Is that what you earned your imaginary degree in?

“I just love old stuff,” the waitress said.

“No kidding? Old stuff is my specialty.”

Brenna couldn’t take it anymore. She took two large gulps of her tea and held up the nearly empty glass. “Could I get a refill, please?”

The waitress flashed her a resentful glare, but straightened and took the glass. “Weren’t you my kid brother’s science teacher last year?”

“English, actually.”

“Don’t worry, honey,” Fortune said, leaning toward Brenna as Tammy stalked away. “There’s plenty of me to go around.”




2


“THIS IS A BUSINESS meeting.”

There was something wildly arousing about that prissy mouth. Gavin couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed being scolded so much. “So why’d you chase off my opportunity for fun?”

She glowered at him. “You’re a wretch.”

“So?” But for the first time in a very long time he wished he didn’t appear to be. “At least I have fun.”

“I have fun.”

“Oh, yeah? You and your cat get crazy on Friday nights and order anchovy pizza instead of just plain cheese?”

Her face turned bright red with her efforts to hold back her anger—the passion he wanted to see more than anything. “I don’t like you very much.”

“What a shame. I like you very much.”

Leaning back, he sipped his beer and watched her coloring go from red to white in an instant. “Do you honestly think all it takes to get my attention is a set of big boobs and an interest in old stuff?”

“Priceless nineteenth century relics are glimpses into our past, how we lived, where we came from. They’re representations of people who sacrificed for and dreamed of the world we now enjoy. They’re reminders of our mistakes and successes, our tragedies and triumphs. They are not, nor should they ever be referred to as, stuff.”

There was the passion.

His body hardened, even as he cursed inwardly.

He’d cultivated his image carefully. Much of it might be a farce, but his popularity and daredevil reputation got him the important contracts. He couldn’t risk exposure—even for a woman as exciting and challenging as Brenna McGary.

Sure, he’d grown tired of keeping up the pretense, and maybe some of the rumors attributed to him had gotten out of hand.

But he’d cast his lot a long time ago and didn’t see how he could change his path now.

He had artifacts to protect, as no one else could. If lovely crusaders like Brenna had to hate him in order for him to accomplish the bigger goals, he’d have to suck it up and make the sacrifice. “Nice speech,” he said, trying to seem impressed, but not too much. “I can see why the historical society values you.”

“They certainly do. And that’s why they sent me to confront you.”

He spread his arms wide, giving her an easy target. “Confront away.”

“We want the items recovered from the ship assembled into a single collection. We want the public and historical researchers to have an opportunity to view and study the artifacts. We want an effort made to contact descendants of the victims in the event anything with a personal monogram or family crest is recovered.”

“So you want me to find the treasure, but you want to tell me how to do it? ”

She looked annoyed by his assessment. “Not how in the technical sense. You clearly have qualified people and the right equipment. We simply want you to show some decorum. A little reverence for the task you’re undertaking wouldn’t be a crazy notion. And we don’t want the artifacts auctioned off like livestock.”

“I’m under contract with the descendants of the shipping company who owned The Carolina.”

“Captain Cullen didn’t own his ship?”

“If he did, he never registered the sale. It’s possible he won the vessel in a card game, or even took it forcibly, but the last records we can find indicate the owner as the Sea Oats Shipping Company, so the artifacts I find belong to them.”

“But you negotiate a certain percentage for yourself. And you can’t tell me you report every find.”

Gavin wished he could lash out at her accusation, but he frankly deserved it. He’d certainly been part of a team who’d committed that crime. “There are a lot of treasures down there, one of them possibly a chestful of gold and gems. There’s no way the owners are going to plop it down in a glass museum case and charge five bucks a head to watch John Q. Smith walk by when they could make millions selling off the contents.”

“So you haven’t found the chest?”

“Not yet.”

“But you think it’s there.”

He shrugged. “Legends generally have some basis in fact. Personally, I think we might find a chest, but a decoy. Pirates were clever and secretive when it came to their booty. Why would a successful one like Cullen blab about his?” Gavin reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out a bronze-colored coin, which he laid on the table in front of Brenna. “I did find this today.”

“It’s an Indian-head cent piece,” she said, picking it up. “Circa 1860. These were issued by the U.S. Mint, not the Confederates.”

“And The Carolina was known to raid Union merchant ships in the Caribbean.”

Her fairy green eyes widened as they focused on him. “At least you’ve studied the history a bit.”

“Why wouldn’t—” He stopped. He could think of twenty reasons why reckless treasure hunter Gavin Fortune wouldn’t be mistaken for a studious man. “I had some time on the flight up from Miami.”

The waitress returned to see if Gavin wanted another beer, which he didn’t. Brenna also declined any more tea. The meeting seemed to have come to an end.

Gavin was both glad and reluctant to part from her. He’d been reading some firsthand accounts of ship captains who’d encountered Cullen, and the latest batch was in French. Making any sense out of the various dialects, as well as the old-fashioned expressions, required serious focus.

Despite the fact that Gavin the Wretch would let her pay, he couldn’t take the ruse that far. Teachers were shamefully underpaid, and he had plenty of cash to spare, after all.

But the unsettled feeling that had sunk into his gut since he’d heard her impassioned—and perfectly reasonable—list of requests about the recovery efforts refused to abate. Even as his bare feet sank into the hot sand while they walked back to the marina, the cold reality inside him remained.

He wanted to see much, much more of Brenna McGary, and he couldn’t.

At least not in the way he’d like.

He was interested in her take on the differing accounts of Captain Cullen—as a heartless ravager of any and all ships in the Caribbean, or, in contrast, as a gracious seaman who always returned the passengers of the ships he overtook to a safe port. Was that a product of the Confederacy favoring him and the Union deriding him? Was it part of the pirate mystique? A combination of the two?

Even being raised in Texas, Gavin knew South Carolina was a whole different element of Southern culture. First to secede, they still flew the state flag with as much pride as the American one. With the first shots fired in the Civil War, they’d started out, and somehow remained, true rebels.

He’d love to hear her theories almost as much as he’d love to get her alone, aroused and naked.

Hey, he wasn’t actually a wretch, but he was a man.

And it got old pretending to be stimulated by women who weren’t interested in the things he was. Women who wanted to know how much things were worth, instead of what they meant.

“Why do you like me?” she asked suddenly.

Oh, boy. He fought against banality and pretty words. She was probably soft on Yeats, but a specific reference escaped him. “Why not?” he answered.

“Why not indeed?” She kept her face turned slightly away, so he couldn’t see her eyes. “On the upside, I don’t have big boobs or a tendency to call historical treasures stuff.”

“No. Everything about you is tiny.” An instinctive smile broke across his face. “Except your mouth.”

“It helps when attempting to control teenage boys. Do you want to know why I don’t like you?”

He really wasn’t sure he could take any more judgment from her, however justified. “My ponytail. I bet you hate long hair on men.”

“No. The hair’s … fine. It suits you.”

“I’m not really big on shoes. Are you one of those women who uses shoe shopping to replace sex?”

“Definitely not.”

“Then it must be because I’m an amoral, grave-robbing opportunist.”

“That certainly plays a major part.”

That wasn’t it? He had faults besides his scoundrel image? Good grief. “What’s the other part?”

“Parts, plural. I don’t like people who think because I’m small I’m also weak.”

Finally a question he could answer with absolute honesty. “I never, for one second, assumed you were weak.”

“I’m so glad. I also don’t like that you’re all over the place.”

“All over the place?” he repeated, trying to recall the last time a woman had caught him so off guard.

“At times you appear overindulgent and self-absorbed,” she continued. “Then you say something intelligent, almost insightful. It’s interesting.”

He definitely couldn’t have her thinking he was interesting. Her astuteness could ruin everything.

They’d reached the stairs leading from the beach to the pier, and she slipped on her shoes. “Thank you for your time. I’m sure we’ll be seeing—”

“Sure you don’t want to come back to my place for a while?”

“Your place?”

“Yeah. The boat.” He inclined his head toward the marina. “I could tell the guys to take off for an hour or so.”

“Gee, a whole hour?”

“Or so.”

Her eyes frosted over. “No, thank you, Mr. Fortune.”

“Call me Gavin.”

“Not Dr. Fortune?”

“No way. That makes me sound like a comic book supervillain. How about Dr. Kensington?” He pursed his lips. “No, that makes me sound like an uptight English lit teacher.”

“I neither have a doctorate nor am I uptight.”

“But you sound like you do. I have two, and I don’t.”

“Two what?”

“Doctorate-level degrees.”

“From where?”

“Cambridge and Princeton. Oh, and I got a masters in European history from Oxford. Just for fun.”

Brenna burst out laughing. She giggled until tears leaked from her eyes. “Of course. Just for fun,” she managed to say when she calmed enough to talk. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For killing any attraction I might have been delusional enough to feel for you.”

With that, she climbed the stairs and strolled down the wooden slats toward the parking lot.

He’d figured she wouldn’t take either his real credentials or his fake tasteless proposition seriously, but he hadn’t expected to be so disappointed in her reaction.

And the Yeats came back to him.

Here we will moor our lonely ship

And wander ever with woven hands,

Murmuring softly lip to lip,

Along the grass, along the sands,

Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands.

IN THE LIBRARY TWO DAYS later, Brenna leaned against the front counter, no doubt distracting Sloan from her work. But everybody was working. Maybe she should get a summer job.

Of course, she was supposed to be focusing on The Carolina project for the historical society. And that thought led her right back to the place she’d sworn to quit going. “He’s an insufferable egomaniac and an amoral, grave-robbing opportunist.”

“You forgot gorgeous,” Sloan said, never pausing as she tapped her fingertips on the computer keyboard.

“Looks don’t figure into this.”

“Sure they do. Helen said he’s hotter than the Fourth of July sun.”

Helen was another society member, who was also a business partner of Brenna’s father. The two of them were the best real estate agents on the island.

Generally, Helen was a fine judge of man candy, and technically, she wasn’t wrong in this case, though Brenna was loath to admit it.

She’d seethed for two days over her encounter with Dr. Gavin Fortune, whose mystery had only deepened. It took some digging, but with the help of the society’s resident computer expert—a teenager named Penelope Waters—she hadn’t found proof of advanced degrees, but a buried secret.

Fortune hadn’t always been his name. He’d had it changed several years back. When Brenna had asked what his name had been before, she’d gotten a strange answer from Penelope.

“Nobody knows,” she’d said. “The records were sealed by a federal court judge.”

Beautiful, mysterious and possibly brilliant. What were the odds?

Too bad he was a complete ass.

“Helen also says he has a thing for you,” Sloan continued.

“Well, he can keep his thing to himself.”

“He seemed pretty disappointed to find Helen as the new historical society representative for his recovery project.”

“I’m sure he was. He wouldn’t dare pull the kind of crap on Helen he tried on me.”

Sloan finally looked away from her computer screen. “What kind of crap … exactly?”

“He made fun of my cat, my temperament and my outspokenness. He derided a Brontë—he didn’t mention which one—and Jane Austen, then made a clumsy pass. That’s it.”

“So you already told me. I still contend something else must have happened for him to run you off like that.”

Brenna scowled. “He didn’t run me off.”

“Then why did you send Helen to deal with him?”

“Because I can’t stand him.”

Sloan’s gaze probed hers. “You sure it’s not because you like him too much? ”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Madame President, he’s destroying the history of our island.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Mrs. Kendrick.” A dark-haired girl of about ten walked up to the counter. “I’m supposed to find some books for my little brother. Can you help me?”

“Sure thing, sweetie,” Sloan said, rounding the counter. “How old is he?”

“Four.” The girl pursed her lips. “He can’t really read yet, but he likes to pretend.”

“I’m sure we can find something to help him on his way.”

Brenna propped her chin on her fist as they walked away. Sloan was defending Fortune? What was that about?

Maybe Brenna was more sensitive than any of them about this particular project, but the rest of the society had to agree that Fortune and his crew weren’t good for Palmer’s Island. Even her father, who generally lived in the here and now unless a good spot of history helped him sell a property, was concerned about the fate of The Carolina. Before her parents had left on their month-long cruise, they’d encouraged Brenna to keep a close eye on the ship’s recovery efforts.

She wondered what Grandmother would have thought about all of this.

Brenna had been raised on stories of Lucy McGary, her great-grandmother, who’d been a museum curator in Washington, D.C. In 1942, she’d been selected by the museum to transport several canvases of a well-known artist to London.

Unfortunately, the Germans had bombed their ship, convinced the vessel was transporting ammunition to the Allies. Her grandmother, along with fifty others, had been killed. The watertight safe of canvases had also met a watery grave.

Until 1992.

That year, the descendants of the artist convinced the ship’s former owners to explore the wreck site and try to locate the lost paintings, which were now worth millions.

The excavation team, led by Dr. Dan Loff—who would later be famous for serving as mentor to Gavin Fortune—scavenged the sunken ship for treasure. When Brenna’s family learned their relative’s large, jeweled broach had been recovered, they flew to New York with pictures and proof of ownership, hoping to reclaim it.

Loff had already broken the setting apart and sold off the pearls and emeralds, one by one.

So if she was a little bitter toward vultures like Loff and Fortune, Brenna figured she had a right.

As Sloan returned to the desk, though, Brenna tried to set aside her personal prejudice and think logically. She wouldn’t give a student a hard time just because his parents were rude. Maybe she’d wrongly stereotyped Fortune. She wasn’t delusional enough to think good looks equated stupidity. Sloan didn’t look like anybody’s vision of a librarian, but she was brilliant at her job.

Though Fortune was still an ass.

There had been a fleeting moment when she’d thought she’d been wrong about him. When he talked about Captain Cullen, she’d sensed something in his tone. Excitement, maybe?

Then he’d admitted he’d simply read about it on the flight from Miami. He probably had a team of research assistants who culled together the facts he’d need to get through a press conference.

So what about the name change? Who had he been before? Why was it so important to protect that background? And why had he lied about his degrees? If he even had any?

No doubt being a brainiac didn’t fit with his barefoot-with-a-ponytail, beer-drinking, hard-loving image.

“Did I mention I’m throwing a party tomorrow night at my house?” Sloan asked as she took her spot behind the counter.

Brenna struggled to drag her focus away from Gavin Fortune. “Party?”

“Yeah. Just the society, some of the supporters and the mayor. It’ll be a social strategy meeting kind of thing.”

“Sounds fun.” And on a Friday night. See, Dr. Fortune, I have plenty of fun. She’d bet anchovy pizza wasn’t on the menu, either. How had he known about that, anyway? “Can I do anything to help?”

“Yep.” Sloan grinned, and for some reason Brenna didn’t like that smile one little bit. “Don’t go crazy on Gavin Fortune and his team. They’re the guests of honor.”

“You’VE NEVER HEARD the expression about catching more flies with honey? ”

Despite the fact that Sloan was digging her fingers into her arm, Brenna still wasn’t leaving the kitchen. There was no way she was facing that man.

Guest of honor indeed.

“�The only way to have a friend is to be one,’” Brenna said in panic.

Sloan stopped trying to drag her to the doorway long enough to ask, “Yeats?”

“Emerson. I’m also rather fond of �Thou shalt not betray your friends for the sake of hot maritime archeologists.’”

“Is that in Deuteronomy or Numbers?” Sloan asked sarcastically.

“The Gospel according to Brenna.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t hot.”

Andrea Landry, another friend and Palmer’s Island High alum, pushed open the door. “No luck?” she asked, her gaze skipping over Brenna and going to Sloan.

“She’s stronger than she looks.”

“Should I get the sheriff?” Andrea asked.

“Is that really necessary?”

Both women ignored her, but Brenna was encouraged by realizing the sheriff probably had better sense than to get in the middle of a chick fight—even if he was married to one of the participants.

True enough, the next person through the door was Sheriff Tyler Landry, who took one look at the fierce expressions on Brenna, Sloan and Andrea’s faces and headed right back out again.

And he used to be a marine.

Not deterred in the least, her friends simply picked Brenna up and carried her through the doorway and down the hall.

Sometimes it really sucked being small.

After setting her down in the foyer, they nevertheless kept a tight hold on her arms as they inched into the front parlor. “Now remember,” Sloan said, waving at the mayor as he walked by them with a loaded plate of food. “We’re the bees, you’re the honey and he’s the fly we want to catch.”

Brenna shifted her stare from one friend to the other. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Not at all,” Andrea said calmly.

Sloan nodded sagely. “Without the metaphors, he’s a hot guy who likes hot girls.”

“And you’re a hot girl,” Andrea added, in case Brenna didn’t get the reference.

Brenna got it all right. But she didn’t want to. She didn’t like Gavin Fortune and didn’t want to be anywhere near him.

A picture of his damp, shirtless body flashed before her eyes, and her stomach clenched. She couldn’t be attracted to him.

It wasn’t fair that the only man who’d gotten her motor running in the last two years had the morals and character of a starving hyena.

“Sloan has bigger boobs,” Brenna returned, her heart racing with panic.

“The only hot, single girl,” Andrea reminded her.

“I don’t think he has too many standards in that area.”

“But Aidan and Tyler do,” Sloan said.

“Friends should come before husbands,” Brenna said, as her gaze flitted around the room in search of Gavin Fortune. She finally spotted him in the corner of the parlor, surrounded by—who else—a group of smiling women. And one of them happened to be Penelope Waters.

They couldn’t let him get his hands on an innocent like Penelope.

But why did she have to be the one to sail to the rescue? “Helen and Courtney are single.”

“But he’s interested in you,” Sloan said.

Brenna’s eyes widened. “So you want me to seduce him into meeting our demands?”

“I don’t know if you need to go that far …” Andrea began.

Sloan grinned. “But it couldn’t hurt.”

“We wouldn’t want Brenna to compromise herself.” Uncertainty slid across Andrea’s face, and Brenna felt a surge of hope.

“Who’s talking about compromise?” Sloan argued. “I bet he’s great in bed.”

“His body certainly seems fit,” Andrea said slowly. “And he doesn’t lack for confidence.”

Sloan sent Andrea a knowing look. “Seducing the man of your dreams worked for you.”

“Hellooo? Guys?” Brenna’s tone rose in alarm as she dug in her heels and brought them all to a standstill. They really were going to throw her at the wolf’s feet. “Remember me? Don’t you think I should have some say in this plot of yours?”

“No,” Sloan said at once. “You’re too emotionally involved.”

“And you’re the one who was so passionate about this project,” Andrea added. “Don’t you want to save The Carolina and her treasure?”

That was hitting below the belt. “Gavin Fortune is not the man of my dreams!”

“You wound me deeply with your barbs, fair Irish queen.”

Brenna’s gaze shot to the circle of women where Gavin had been standing only moments before. The women were there, but no Gavin.

He was standing right behind her.

She whirled, and her sudden movement caused Sloan and Andrea to drop her arms. She was finally free, and she longed to run, but she found herself rooted to the spot, caught by the laughing hazel eyes of Gavin Fortune.

How much had he heard?

“I’m great in bed, by the way.” His smile turned wickedly inviting. “I’m an avid swimmer, and you know, it’s all about stamina.”

And despite comments like that one, her body leaned toward him. It was humiliating.

Hadn’t she laughed at him the last time she’d seen him? Hadn’t she vowed he’d killed her attraction with his ridiculous lies about his credentials?

But were they lies?

When she remained furiously mute, Sloan and Andrea introduced themselves. The three of them exchanged pleasant chatting while Brenna’s blood pressure rose, and she fought to remind her libido that she wasn’t hard up enough to remotely consider throwing herself at her enemy. Even to protect priceless treasures. Even though the fact that he was within touching distance made her fingers tingle.

Along with other, more intimate body parts.

“Still too intimidated to talk to me?” Gavin asked her.

Brenna glared at him. “Not hardly.”

“You found out I’m smarter than you, and sent over your real estate friend rather than deal with me.”

“What smarts?” Brenna returned through clenched teeth. “You lied about those degrees.”

“Did I?” His hazel eyes danced. “You don’t believe I know what I’m doing?”

No way was she going there. “I’m too busy to deal with you.”

“What a shame.” He leaned close enough that she could smell his enticing cologne and see the telltale gold flecks in his eyes. “I’d really like you to come back.”

She swallowed hard. “You would?”

“Sure.” He straightened, his expression smug. “If you don’t, Helen’s going to wind up selling me half the island.”

Brenna felt heat climb up her neck. “With all your ill-gotten gains, you could certainly afford it.”

“You bet I can,” he returned with equal resentfulness. “But I’m sure one sage quote from you via some boring English poet would change my life, make me see the error of my ways and get me to donate all my profits to some moldy museum.”

“Wow,” Andrea said, her tone awed. “Helen was right about you two.”

“You’d be smokin’ together,” Sloan agreed.

Brenna glared at her friends.

Andrea was an art historian and expert appraiser. Why wasn’t she the one forced to deal with the arrogant treasure hunter? Sloan was president of the historical society. She should have to listen to his come-ons and stubbornness.

Then, like an angel sent from heaven, she saw her salvation.

Another high school friend, Carr Hamilton, had started dating a tough-minded, always-armed FBI agent in the spring. Though gooey in love with Carr, her live-in boyfriend, Malina Blair was intimidating as hell to everybody else.

She was perfect.

Without a glance to those around her, Brenna darted to Malina’s side and rudely interrupted the welcome kiss between her and Carr.

“How do you feel about murder-for-hire?” she asked, relieved to note Malina’s sidearm was indeed in its holster.

Malina’s turquoise eyes widened, then turned speculative. “Depends on who I’m killing.” She paused, angling her head. “I assume I’m the killer in this scenario?”

Brenna grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the group surrounding Gavin Fortune. “Definitely.”

3

Brenna stood on Sloan’s back deck, her neck craned as she stared up at the stars.

The sticky summer heat lingered in the air, and though she’d be more comfortable inside with the air-conditioning, the party had long since lost its luster. If it ever had any.

She wished she could be launched to that star, the third from the right. It looked peaceful and welcoming.

And galaxies away from Gavin Fortune.

Clearly, there was no justice on this planet anymore. Even Malina was charmed by him. The kick-ass agent had patted Brenna’s shoulder and pronounced, “It’s not a crime to be a flirt.”

Brenna was on her own in her resentment and suspicion.

Hearing the back door open, then close, she didn’t have to turn to know who’d joined her on the deck.

And she wasn’t so far gone into melancholy that she didn’t realize she needed to draw first blood. “I don’t like you.”

He leaned against the railing beside her. “And all your friends do. That must really suck.”

“You have no idea.”

“Maybe you’re trying too hard not to like me?”

Eyes wide, she turned her head and stared at his profile. “Are you delusional?”

Not seeming at all offended, he angled his head in consideration. “I don’t think so, but then if I were, how would I know?”

“Is it any wonder I want to run in the opposite direction every time I see you?”

He leaned toward her. “Face it, you have the hots for me.”

“Sure I do,” she returned sarcastically, hoping he couldn’t hear her heart rate pick up speed. Propping her forearm on the deck railing, she forced herself to hold his gaze and move closer, until their faces were mere inches apart. “Probably because of all those compliments about me and everything I care about.”

“I’m a scientist,” he said, his gaze flicking to her lips. “I’m required by law to hate literature.”

“You don’t seem like much of a rule follower. Do you really hate all the classics? Or is it just not cool to read?”

“Dickens had his moments, and I do like Yeats, but I’m more of a modernist when it comes to pleasure reading.”

He really did have a gorgeous face. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t put down the things I like.”

“And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t judge me without even knowing me.”

When he licked his lips, she bit back a groan. “I’ll do my best.”

“Tell you what, if I keep my derogatory comments about English poets and long-winded nineteenth century literature to a minimum, will you participate in an experiment?”

“What experiment?”

“Kiss me.”

As her breath caught in her throat, her heart lurched to a stop. Were Sloan and Andrea right? Was she jumping to conclusions? Would she and Gavin be great together? Was there something to this honey and bees thing? Maybe, with their chemistry leading them, they could find common ground somehow.

He continued in a low Texas drawl, “I haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since you stormed off the other day.”

She coughed to clear her throat. “You’ve been on my mind quite a bit, as well.”

His perfect teeth flashed in a smile. “Anything you want to mention, between the cuss words and name calling, that is?”

“Your degrees are imaginary.”

“Are they?” He seemed surprised.

“I had the historical society’s resident computer expert do a little research. She discovered your name change, by the way. Care to elaborate?”

“Fortune is descriptive—and sexy, don’t you think?”

That wasn’t an answer. A confirmation. Or a denial. Hmm … “It’s something, all right. I saw you talking to her earlier.”

“Who?”

“My computer expert—Penelope Waters.” Brenna narrowed her eyes. “Who you need to take off your radar instantly.”

“I don’t fool around with kids.”

“Or big-breasted waitresses.”

“For some reason, I find temperamental redheads fascinating all of a sudden. Are you going to let me kiss you or not?”

“I was waiting for you. Are you sure your lothario reputation is actually earned? Because so far—”

His mouth covered hers midrant. His lips were warm, persuasive, tasting appealingly of whiskey and sent a spark of desire shooting down her spine.

He cupped her jaw in his hand, angling her head to deepen the kiss, his tongue gliding against hers. She pressed her body to his, her hands clutching his soft cotton shirt as she fought to get closer.

Man, he felt amazing. She closed her eyes, shutting out her conscience, which was trying to remind her that she was kissing her opponent.

“I really don’t need this complication in my life at the moment,” he whispered hotly against her cheek.

“You’re hopelessly arrogant,” she returned, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her aching breasts against his firm chest.

“You’re too serious.” His lips moved over hers for another heated kiss. “And you could be a lot quieter.”

She was perfectly happy with the method he used to silence her.

He had a great mouth, and the hunger that twisted low in her belly spread and intensified. As his hands slid down her back to cup her butt and tug her against his erection, she moaned.

The heat that had flared briefly between them a few days ago raged into a white-hot fire, leaving her body throbbing, and incinerating every vow she’d made about keeping her distance from this man.

He not only had her motor revving, it was on the verge of blowing. Yet she didn’t do one-night stands. And she couldn’t imagine anything with Gavin Fortune lasting beyond one night.

They were adversaries at best, stone-cold enemies at worst.

This same thought seemed to occur to him at the exact second it did her, since they both jumped back simultaneously.

“We can’t do this,” he said, his breathing harsh and choppy as he stared in disbelief at her.

“You started it,” she snapped, annoyed that she wanted nothing more than to be back in his arms.

“Me? You were all over me.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Delusional. You were the one who proposed the experiment.”

“Which was a complete failure. I don’t want you in the least.”

“Me, either.” Every cell in her body tingled, calling her a liar. “I’ll have no problem doing my duty by the historical society and checking up on every move you and your crew makes.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and attempted to look aggravated, even though she could see the desire lingering in his eyes as his gaze focused on her lips. “It’s summer. Can’t you set aside the overbearing teacher impulses until September?”

“Unfortunately for you, no.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Breath heaving, they glared at each other. In the next instant, they were plastered together.

Gavin leaned back in his deck chair on board the Heat and closed his eyes against the glaring sun overhead. “I’m in serious trouble, amigo.”

Pablo, lounging in his own chair, needed no clarification on the cause of Gavin’s problem. “She’s a looker. Could use a tan, though.” When Gavin glanced at him, he peeked over his sunglasses, his eyes lecherous. “Why don’t you invite her to sunbathe on deck tomorrow? I’ll watch over her while you pick through all that debris at the wreck site.”

“That’s a great plan,” Gavin said in mock admiration. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“No idea. You’re the one who’s supposed to be brilliant.”

“Sure I am. She can hardly stand the sight of me, so I’ll just call her up, invite her over and ask her to strip down to her bikini while we all drool over her.”

“I’ll be drooling. You’ll be diving.”

“Even better.”

“It is. She likes me better than you.”

“Oh, no, she doesn’t. You’re guilty by association. She thinks you’re part of my gang.”

“I wouldn’t be if you’d tell her you’re not a jerk.”

Gavin shook his head. “I can’t risk it.” He paused, feeling the weight of his lies more substantially than ever. “Besides, she’d hardly believe me now.”

With a sigh, Pablo sat up. “Keeping up your hotshot image gets you a lot of play, and our team a lot of press. Your agent called earlier, by the way. He wants to talk to you about a cameo in the next Dr. McFearsome movie.”

“Dr. McFearsome?”

“He’s the suave archeologist who’s obsessed with Egyptian culture, Tai Chi and hot blondes.”

Gavin winced. “Charming.”

“Could be fun.”

“I don’t see how.”

After a tick of silence, Pablo conceded, “If you’re miserable with your image then dump it. You don’t have to compete with Dan Loff anymore.”

Gavin curled his hand into a fist. “Loff doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Sure he does.” Pablo swatted his shoulder and stood. “Way too much.”

As Pablo walked toward the cooler, Gavin reflected that though Loff had been the catalyst and motivation for much of his professional life, Gavin himself had made the choices that had brought him to the crossroads he now faced.

He’d wanted the spotlight, and he’d gotten it. He could hardly complain about the results at this stage of the game.

“You want a beer?” Pablo asked, holding up a bottle.

“Yeah.” As his friend passed one over, Gavin wondered, “What’s for dinner?”

“Who am I, the little woman? Did you catch something today besides the blues?”

Gavin unscrewed the top of his beer bottle and took a long sip. “No. I got distracted by the buttons.”

“Brass?” Pablo asked as he settled back in his chair.

“Yeah, and with an eagle emblem. By 1863 the metal was hard to come by for the South, so it’s a pretty good find.”

“Could be off a Union uniform. The pirates had better gear than either side.”

“True.”

They drank in silence for a few minutes. Gavin watched a plane cruise by with a banner that read, Cal’s All-You-Can-Eat Seafood. 5-9 Daily Specials.

The Islanders would hate that. Anything interrupting the natural peace of their sandy paradise was met with derision or legal action. Even his expedition was likely to be tolerated more than planes, helicopters, motorcycles or an overabundance of Jet Skis.

Silence was golden.

Since he spent a great deal of his time in the dark and quiet, underwater, he could appreciate the sentiment.

He definitely liked kissing Brenna McGary into silence.

On another gulp of beer, he wished, futilely, for a moment’s peace from thoughts of that woman.

The woman he wanted beyond all reason. The one who tempted him to throw away the caution that—secretly, anyway—guided his every move.

If Sloan Kendrick hadn’t walked onto the deck and interrupted their make-out session, Brenna would have spent last night in his bed.

Which would have been a very bad move.

His body throbbed in protest.

She was determined to demonize him to the mayor, city council and the historical society. Even the damn sheriff had given him a stern look before Gavin had revealed—truthfully, for once—that he’d been raised in Texas and had a serious love for college football.

Charming this place was becoming a serious task. Over the last few years he’d taken for granted that particular aspect of his job.

If Brenna incited picketing or negative media reports, he’d be in a world of hot water with the owners of The Carolina, who needed quick cash for their treasure. As seemed to be the norm, it was up to him to care about the artifacts he found.

Him and Brenna.

She’d appreciate the irony if he ever had any intention of telling her the truth about himself.

“What graves did you dig up today, boys?” a familiar voice called from the direction of the pier.

Gavin’s pulse shot up. “Oh, hell.”

“It’s that attitude that’s making you so hateable.” Pablo leaped off his chair. “I, on the other hand, would be glad to take care of our Irish pixie.”

“Our—” Gavin rolled to his side and gained his feet, rushing after his buddy. “She’s my problem.”

As they moved forward, Pablo nudged him aside. “A woman should be revered and cherished. You don’t deserve her.”

Though part of him realized Pablo was simply messing with him, Gavin still found his blood boiling. No other man was coming within ten miles of his Irish pixie until they’d settled this conflict/passion/craziness between them. “Hey, pal, I saw her first.”

“No, you didn’t.”

They arrived on the bow just in time to see Brenna and Penelope—the society’s teenaged computer guru—walking down the gangplank.

Carrying a cooler, Brenna wore white Bermuda shorts and a bright green halter top. The high-heeled wedge sandals she used to overcome her issues with her stature were also present. And though he didn’t think her size diminished either her power or her beauty, he had to admit they did amazing things for her legs.

Since Pablo seemed determined to best him in the gentleman’s game, he let his friend take the cooler, then Brenna’s hand, and assist her to the deck, while Gavin did the same for Penelope.

The nineteen-year-old had lovely and curious brown eyes, which, if Gavin had been a decade younger and never encountered the fiery Brenna, would have intrigued him endlessly. “My technical expert is already gone for the day, Penelope, but if you’ll let me know when you want to come back, I’ll set up a meeting for you. He’d be glad to show you the Microseaomitter.”

Behind her glasses, her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Absolut—”

“Don’t let him sway you, Penelope,” Brenna interrupted, her green eyes fiercely fixed on his. “No telling how many treasures he’s absconded with today.”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t judge,” Gavin said.

“I thought we agreed your radar wouldn’t include certain innocents,” Brenna countered.

“My sensors are otherwise occupied at the moment.”

Penelope, as intelligent as she was, certainly sensed the tension between him and Brenna. “He’s just being kind, Miss McGary. We talked about the Microseaomitter at the party last night.”

“That’s fine, but I told Sister Mary Katherine I’d be responsible for you.”

“I’m an orphan,” Penelope said to Gavin and Pablo. “My parents were killed in a car accident when I was little, and the Sisters raised me. However …” She narrowed her eyes in Brenna’s direction. “I’m nineteen now and about to start my sophomore year at the College of Charleston.”

Brenna offered the group an uncertain smile—like a parent, uncomfortable with how to publicly handle an outspoken child. “And everyone’s so proud of you.”

Not backing down in the least, Penelope crossed her arms over her chest. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” Brenna said, looking a bit panicked.

Since Brenna excelled at giving him a hard time as well, Gavin was firmly on the teen’s side in this standoff.

“How am I ever going to be responsible if you guys never let me out of your sight?” Penelope returned.

“I don’t really have control of—” Brenna began.

“I’m a legal adult,” Penelope said forcefully. “I have control of my own life. I have my own apartment and pay my bills.”

Brenna grabbed the teen’s hands. “I’m so sorry. I truly didn’t mean to give you a hard time about coming here. I just …” She trailed off as her gaze found Gavin’s again. “Got carried away.”

Even as Gavin understood this message was for him and the night before, Penelope’s face turned bright red. She seemed to realize there were people present besides her and Brenna. “Oh, my goodness.”

Pablo, firmly in gentleman mode, patted her on the back. “It’s okay, señorita. Asserting your independence is a time-honored tradition on this boat.”

“It’s probably the sea air,” Gavin added.

“Or the sun,” Brenna offered.

“I grew up here!” Penelope wailed as she accepted the towel Pablo handed her and dabbed her tears. “I’m used to the sea and the sun.”

“Then it’s gotta be romance,” Gavin said, sending a commensurate glance in Brenna’s direction. “Only intense attraction can make a lovely, intelligent woman—or irresistibly brilliant man—irrational and despondent.”

Penelope bowed her head. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

After a significant pause, Pablo said, “Don’t worry, honey. You will.”

Behind Penelope’s back, Brenna gestured to Gavin, who joined her a few feet away. “Fix this,” she whispered.

“How?” Immediately, he inhaled the faintly floral aroma that clung to her skin and made all the nerve endings in his body stand at attention. “I’m not allowed to even touch her.”

Brenna scowled. “You can console without touching.”

“How?” he repeated.

“Be verbally supportive.”

The woman was going to literally drive him over the edge. He couldn’t work, he couldn’t think and now he couldn’t relax without her interference. Without her … presence. Her scent and the lure of stroking her velvety skin permeated every breath he took.

“You’re the talker,” he retorted. “You be verbally supportive. Pretty much all I’ve thought about since you stepped onto my boat is how to get you naked.”

Her eyes turned smoky, then cleared. “That’s not helpful.”

“Sorry.”

“I even brought a peace offering.” She pointed to the cooler at Pablo’s feet. “I’ve got flounder and salad on ice.”

“For what?”

“Dinner.”

He pictured candlelight, moonlight, the cozy confines of his cabin. Wine, both of them talking as little as possible. The combination could lead to anything.

Possibly even nakedness.

Though he’d just assured himself it was smart of them to have escaped last night without any more physicality than the vertical make-out session, his resistance when faced with her was crumbling like the wooden frame of the ship she was so determined to defend.

Being near Brenna wasn’t wise, but he didn’t seem to have a choice anymore. She was determined to keep a close eye on him, and there was no way he could continue to resist her for long.

Surrender could be pleasurable, right?

“You brought dinner for us?” he asked, trying to focus on the present rather than the optimistic future.

“Well, for everybody.”

And the bubble of hope burst.

Pablo and Penelope were on board. And the reason Brenna had brought her young friend was suddenly apparent. “You need a chaperone to be in the same room with me?”

“Yes. I’m in charge of supervising you and your crew for the historical society, if you remember. Though consoling Penelope seems to be a greater priority at the moment.”

Gavin glanced at the teen, who had her head on his friend’s shoulder. “Pablo’s got it.”

Brenna looked annoyed. “Your sensitivity needs a lot of work.”

“I’m not the one smothering her,” he said smugly.

“Ahoy!” called an unfamiliar male voice.

“What new hell is this?” Gavin wondered, directing his attention to the gangway.

A cop was boarding the Heat. Young, probably early twenties, he wore a khaki-colored uniform on his tall, lanky frame. His spiky blond hair stood up in stylish tufts Gavin had seen on various teen pop stars, but his eyes were light blue and serious, as if they’d aged out of proportion to the rest of him.

This wasn’t the sheriff, he knew, since he’d met Tyler Landry at the party the night before. A deputy, maybe?

“Miss McGary,” the officer said with a nod as he approached them.

Brenna made brief introductions all around, and Gavin learned the man was Finn Hastings, a deputy, as well as the sheriff’s brother-in-law.

“I just came by to check on you,” he said to Gavin. “There are a few people in town not happy to have you around. I wanted to make sure they weren’t giving you a hard time.”

Somehow, he managed to say this with a serious expression and not glancing once at Brenna.

But then Brenna wasn’t paying much attention to the deputy. She was staring at Penelope, who, in turn, had her wide-eyed gaze fixed on Finn, who was gaping right back.

Well, well. The time-honored tradition to fixing teenage woes had apparently not changed since Gavin was that age. Just plop a hot guy and girl next to one another, and the sun shone from behind the clouds.

“We’re fine,” Gavin assured Deputy Hastings. “Brenna even brought us dinner. Flounder, I believe.”

Finn tore his attention away from Penelope and lifted his eyebrows. “Did she?”

“The seafood stand in the marina parking lot,” Brenna said, and Gavin noticed her eyes narrow in speculation while gazing at the youngsters.

Ah, good. They were on the same page.

Get the kids together, then Gavin could handle getting rid of Pablo, then he and Brenna could be alone.

It was possible, of course, that Brenna was only thinking of consoling Penelope, and not of spending the evening staring across the table at him, but he was betting he could negotiate that little hitch.

“Are you sure you brought enough for five?” Gavin asked her. “I could go get more.” Cooperation and generosity were the ways to her heart, after all.

But he was counting on the teens not being interested in hanging out with the adults.

“Sorry, I can’t stay,” Finn said.

Penelope nodded, though her gaze remained riveted to Finn. “I should really get back home.”

“I could give you a ride,” Finn offered. “I was on my way home, too.”

Penelope’s mouth parted in a shy smile. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

It was great to be right.

“I’m not sure—” Brenna began, but Gavin cut her off by laying his hand at the lower part of her back.

“Escorted safely to her door by the police,” he said. “How could the good Sisters be more pleased by that level of chaperoning? ”

“I agree,” Pablo said, with a definitive nod that Gavin would make sure he received a raise for. “And there should be plenty of food, because I have a dinner engagement at the marina bar.”

A really big raise.

Within two minutes, the trio was walking down the dock away from the boat, leaving Brenna and Gavin blissfully alone in the shadow of the setting sun.

“That happened fast,” she said, turning to him in surprise.

“Didn’t it?” He smiled. Oh, yeah, surrender was chock-full of delight. “But who are we to stand in the way of young love?”




4


“THE FLOUNDER’S WONDERFUL,” Brenna said from across the candlelit table.

“Thank you.” Gavin toasted her with his wineglass. “Cooking skills are mandatory for a bachelor who spends a lot of time alone on the water.”

She leaned back in the bench seat and glanced around the cozy cabin. Moonlight streamed through the windows and waves slapped gently against the boat’s hull. This wasn’t what she’d expected from her peace offering.

This was way too intimate. Romantic. Tempting.

She’d counted on Penelope to give the dinner a neutral, even academic tone. They were going to fry fish and talk about history. Low lights, delicately grilled flounder and fruit-infused wine weren’t on the original menu.

And what had happened between Finn and Penelope, anyway?

Though, frankly, she did understand the mechanics of what had happened. It was happening to her, too, after all. Hormones. Pheromones. Uncontrollable chemical reactions.

But the ex-con and the orphan raised by nuns?

Now, that was an odd combination.

Then again, romance could be a strange …

“Wait.” Her gaze zipped to Gavin. “Alone? When are you ever alone?”

“I like solitude. The crew rented condos on shore, so I—” He stopped, then sipped his wine as if giving himself time to gather his thoughts. “Though I’m only by myself when I’m not hooking up with a babe from the beach.”

Brenna carefully set her wineglass on the table. “Naturally.”

Still, there was something odd about his abrupt bragging. Was it true or just talk? He was gorgeous and successful enough to have anybody he wanted, but was a cute girl in a bikini his only requirement?

He’d sworn he wasn’t interested in the waitress the other night. And, come to think of it, why wasn’t he?

The flirty woman should have been a fantasy incarnate for Dr. Lothario—obvious, easy and temporary.

What was his deal?

“Today, however,” he began, his tone quiet, “I’ve thought a lot about you.”

“So you were ticked off all day?”

He smiled—not the debauched one, but the one that made her breath catch. The one she wished was genuine. “At times.” His gaze moved to hers. “We’re really very … different. And yet I like debating with you. I like your strength and determination. I especially liked kissing you.”

Her lips tingled as if he’d touched them. “Didn’t we agree last night was an impulsive mistake?”

“We did. I didn’t say it was smart to like kissing you.”

“I know why I don’t like having the hots for you. Why don’t you like—”

“Last night you said I was delusional for thinking you had the hots for me.”

The man never let anything go. “I think after the impulsive and unwise make-out session last night, we can stipulate we have the hots for each other.”

He forked up another bite of fish. “Agreed.”

“So why aren’t you happy about our attraction? Given your reputation, you don’t seem overly picky about your romantic liaisons.”

“Romantic liaisons,” he repeated, shaking his head. “That description is exactly why our chemistry is inconvenient. I’ll be here a few weeks, a month at the most. My distractions from work are short-lived, and I never get involved with anyone exclusively. You seem like the long-term, exclusive type.”

“I am.” And the fact that he recognized those qualities about her, and was trying to avoid her as a result, was practically chivalrous. So all the more confusing. “However, my body and my brain seem to be disconnected right now.”

“I know the feeling.”

Certain the frustrated heat in his eyes was reflected in her own, she scooted to the end of the booth. “I should go.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Don’t.”

Her pulse pounded at the point of contact. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes. The desire, unfortunately, didn’t vanish.

She wanted him beyond reason or practicality. And she sure as hell didn’t care about fleeting—in fact, temporary was best.

As long as he could temporarily satisfy the needy ache that had settled deep inside her, ruling over every thought and action, he could then leave the island and take all temptation with him.

“At least finish your dinner,” he said, releasing her. “You were kind to bring it.”

She moved back in front of her plate and took a gulp of wine. Her heart was pounding irrationally hard. “It was meant to help us get along as professionals.”

“But we probably shouldn’t get along.”

“Good point.” Again, she sipped from her glass. “Why don’t we talk about something we don’t agree on?”

“That’s pretty much everything.”

“Great. Keep your mouth moving.”

His pupils dilated.

“Talking,” she clarified, feeling a rush of panic. He was so close. Too close. “Keep talking.”

“Fine. When we dove today, I found some—”

“Have I ever told you about my grandmother?” She broke in, realizing this was a topic that was sure to divide them.




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