Deep Blue (4 page)

In the back of her mind, she remembered reading something about a guy named Mel Fisher, one of the great treasure salvors—that’s what they called themselves, she had learned. But until yesterday, she hadn’t connected him with the
Atocha
, the Spanish ship it took him seventeen years to find. In the end, his efforts were rewarded, he and his crew recovering more than four hundred million in treasure.

Obviously Brad Talbot was interested in more than just publicity when he funded Treasure Limited’s search.

Assuming they could actually find the ship.

In the course of her research, she had dug up tons of information, but findings on the
Nuestra Señora de Rosa
were scarce. On a site called
TreasureExpeditions.com,
she learned that the ship had sailed with the earliest of the treasure fleets, going down in 1605, nearly four hundred years ago. Oddly, from what she read, it hadn’t sunk anywhere near where the
Conquest
was searching.

A series of archeological sites confirmed that the
Rosa
was believed to have gone down along with three of its sister ships near a place called the Serranilla Banks. And those banks were a long way from Pleasure Island.

Hope returned to the chart room with more unanswered questions than she’d had before and was relieved to see the chair in front of the computer sat empty. She needed to e-mail her friend, Gordy Weitzman, at
Midday News,
something she had meant to do yesterday, to see what he could find out about the partners of Treasure Limited. She also wanted to ask him to check with the police in regard to the vandals who had demolished her apartment and get an update on what was happening with Buddy Newton and the tenants at Hartley House.

As Conner Reese had said, Talbot was the man responsible for her presence aboard the boat so she felt justified in using his equipment, including his satellite phone.

She got the ship’s phone number from the engineer, Andy Glass, pulled her Palm Pilot out of the pocket of her shorts, retrieved Gordy’s office e-mail address, and sent him the cell number for use in case of emergency.

Buddy Newton’s e-mail,
[email protected]
, was also in her Pilot. She sent him a message, too, asking what had happened since she had left New York. She gave him the satellite number but asked him not to call unless he really needed her. She e-mailed a single message to her dad and stepmom and her sisters, told them she had safely reached Pleasure Island, was aboard the
Conquest
, and getting settled in. She gave them the emergency number.

Feeling less isolated than she had before, she signed off, breathing a momentary sigh of relief. She turned at the sound of someone moving around in the chart room.

“You finished?” Conn Reese asked.

Hope nodded. “I need to do a lot more research on treasure hunting—yesterday I barely tapped the surface. But I’m through for now. Thanks for letting me use the machine.”

“Like I said…as long as no one needs it.” He sat down at the computer and began to pull up his e-mail. His hair was neatly combed, but the faint wave remained.

“There’s something I need to know,” Hope said, drawing his attention. She tried not to notice the way his tee shirt stretched over the muscles across his chest, but the man had a very impressive chest.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Why do you think you’ll find the
Rosa
near Pleasure Island? Everything I’ve read so far says the ship went down on the Serranilla Banks. That’s a heck of a long way from here.”

Reese studied her for several moments. She thought he was trying to make some sort of decision.

“Tomorrow I’m hopping a ride on the Pleasure Island plane. It flies into Jamaica fairly often, picking up either passengers or supplies. I’ve got a meeting with Professor Marlin. He’s lecturing at a private college in Port Antonio. He’s the guy who can tell you how we got here. I guess if you want, you can come along.”

He delivered the invitation with a slightly rigid jaw. It was obvious he didn’t really want her to go. She couldn’t tell if it was because she was writing a story he didn’t want written—or if he just didn’t like women in general.

Something told her it was a little bit of both.

“I’d love to come,” she said, though the thought of spending the day with him wasn’t really all that pleasant.

It was later in the afternoon when Conn saw the Pleasure Island speedboat heading their way. The forty-two-foot Sea Ray was built for speed, and it showed in the low, trim lines of the hull, the sharply pointed bow, and aerodynamic tilt of the windshield. Yet Conn knew that the salon below deck, with its smoky mirrors, deep pile carpeting, wet bar, and built-in TV, would impress even the most discriminating island visitor.

As the boat drew near, Conn recognized Chalko but not the man standing next to him beside the wheel, a young guy with carrot-red hair.

“That’s Tommy Tyler,” Hope said, walking up beside him. “The photographer I mentioned.”

“He looks like a kid.”

“He’s only twenty-five, but he’s a great photographer. You read any kind of outdoor magazine, you’ll see some of his work.”

“I presume that includes underwater photography.”

She nodded. “Tommy’s one of the best. That’s how I met him. I was down here doing an article on scuba diving. Mostly it was about the hotels and nightclubs in areas that cater to the sport, but it involved a lot of underwater work as well.”

His gaze swung to hers. “So you dive, too?”

She nodded. “I’m definitely a novice. But I’ve got my Open Water Certification, and I really enjoyed the times I went down.”

Conn didn’t say more. His mind was trying to digest the fact that the lady might be more than he’d thought. Diving wasn’t an easy sport. A lot of people were scared of getting claustrophobic, or scared of sharks, or just plain scared.

It took a cool head and steady nerves.

Unless you were just too dumb to realize how dangerous the sport could be.

He was beginning to think Hope Sinclair was far from dumb.

Still, he wished he hadn’t agreed to take her with him to Jamaica. She was a good-looking woman and he was attracted to her, though he damned well didn’t want to be. He hated the kind of women who used sex to get what they wanted.

Hell, he’d been married to one.

Kelly was blond and beautiful, with a slender, voluptuous body and legs that went on forever. The day he’d met her, he’d thought she was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. Another SEAL’s wife had introduced them and all he could think of was getting her in bed. Kelly seemed to feel the same. The second time they went out, she practically tore off his clothes.

He hadn’t expected to wind up married to her. He’d figured marriage for him was still a few years away. But their whirlwind affair led straight to the altar and by then he didn’t care. He had always wanted a family and Kelly seemed like she would make the perfect wife.

Two years later, she was bored with the whole idea of settling down. She didn’t like his job, didn’t like his traveling, though they had discussed the problem early on and she had sworn she could handle it. She didn’t want kids, she finally admitted—she never really had.

What she wanted was the savings in his bank account, which, over the years, with his salary and hazardous-duty pay and not much time to spend it, had turned into a pretty good chunk.

Six months later, they were divorced. Conn was single again and Kelly was gone from his life nearly as fast as she’d come into it—financially, a hell of lot better off than she had been before she had met him. She was nothing but a schemer, he’d found out far too late, like most of the women in his life, including his mother.

His mother, his ex-wife, and marriage had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and though he had the same needs as every other male, he was a whole lot more cautious about the women he took to bed.

He might like to spend a few hot nights with Hope Sinclair.

But it wasn’t going to happen.

Hope watched the young photographer, Tommy Tyler, climb the ladder to the
Conquest
and drop his duffel bag on the deck. He looked exactly the same as he had a few years back—like an eighteen-year-old kid with freckles on his face and a flat-top haircut.

Chalko handed him his camera equipment, stored in several padded green canvas bags, and Tommy waved as the young black man revved up the boat and powered it back toward shore.

“Hey, Hope!” Tommy walked toward her in baggy khaki shorts, a tee shirt with a photo of a dolphin on the front, and a pair of flip-flops on his skinny feet.

“Hey, Tommy!” She smiled as he enveloped her in a big bear hug.

“Good to see ya, sweet thing.” He gave her a quick perusal, then wiggled his eyebrows. “Still lookin’ hot as ever.”

She laughed. “Thanks.” She turned to Conner Reese and ignored the fact that he was frowning. “Conner Reese, meet Tommy Tyler.”

“Pleasure,” Tommy said, extending a hand, which Reese shook.

“Hope says you’re expecting to do some underwater photography.”

“That’s right.”

“You won’t have much to do, at least not yet. We haven’t found anything worth taking a picture of.”

Tommy looked surprised. “I figured you’d be pulling stuff out of the water or they wouldn’t have sent me.”

“Yeah, well, you might want to ask Brad Talbot about that.”

“Or maybe Eddie Markham,” Hope said. “I think he’s more than eager to get publicity for Pleasure Island. Just the idea that people are out here hunting for treasure makes the place sound exciting.”

Tommy glanced around the deck of the salvage boat. “We’ll take shots of the
Conquest
and all this equipment. Combined with photos of the island and surrounding reef, we’ll have plenty for the first article in the series. I’ll make it look good, and Hope will make it interesting.”

Reese didn’t reply. He wasn’t keen on this project, and he didn’t seem to care who knew it.

“Hope’s using the empty cabin,” he said. “You’ll have to bunk in with the crew.”

“No problem. If someone will show me the way, I’ll stow my gear and get settled in.”

A few feet away, Joe Ramirez set the oxygen tank he was working on down on the deck and started toward them.

“I’ll take him down,” Joe volunteered. The two men introduced themselves, and Joe led Tommy off toward the crew’s quarters in the bow of the boat.

Hope’s gaze returned to Conner Reese. She saw that he was watching her and there was a scowl on his face. Suddenly, it dawned on her exactly what he was thinking.

“Tommy and I are just friends, for God’s sake! He’s six years younger than I am, and even if he weren’t, I don’t sleep with the people I work with.”

One of those dark eyebrows went up. “Not even Brad Talbot?”

“God, no.
Especially
not Talbot. Not even if he had nothing to do with my job.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, the guy only talks about one subject—himself. On top of that, he has about as much sex appeal as a dead fish.”

His mouth quirked into what might have passed for a smile, then quickly faded. “That’s not what most women say.”

“Well, I’m not most women. I’m not interested in Talbot—no matter how much money he’s got. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

She didn’t wait for his reply, just turned and started walking. Every time she was around Conner Reese, he made her angry. The man had a low opinion of women, that was for certain.

Then again, she had a pretty low opinion of men.

As she walked into her cabin and grabbed her AlphaSmart to type up some notes, Hope couldn’t help thinking that maybe they had more in common than she thought.

Another perfect day in the islands. Perfectly cloudless skies, breezes that ruffled the heavy fronds on the palms that lined the road, vistas of blue-green seas that seemed to go on forever.

Conn loved the islands. He liked the heat and water, the sun and sand, the different kinds of people all thrown together. And Jamaica was spectacular.

“From Many People, One People,” was their motto, and it was the truth. The country was primitive, almost third world in places, with tin shacks for houses and tumbledown, eighteenth-century buildings to house village merchants. Yet there were mansions and resorts posh enough for the filthy rich and scenery as magnificent as anyplace on earth.

Living in Florida, he was close enough to visit Jamaica and the other islands as often as he liked. If they found the treasure—the professor always said
when,
but Conn didn’t want to jinx his luck, and besides, he was more realistic. But if by some wild chance they actually succeeded, he planned to use his share to buy a resort that specialized in diving, probably on one of the Florida Keys.

Before he met Kelly, he had been saving for something like that. His wife’s departure—along with his money—had put an end to his plans.

Sitting behind the wheel of the old Toyota Corolla they kept at the airport in Port Antonio, Conn wove his way along the winding road overlooking the turquoise sea. Thick tropical jungle, breadfruit trees, bamboo, and a dense growth of vines and leaves covered the hills on the opposite side of the road, and an occasional bubbling stream made its way down the mountain to the ocean. Turning his attention away from the scenic vistas, Conn flicked a glance at Hope Sinclair sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

She hadn’t said much since they’d left Pleasure Island. Probably still pissed about those cracks he’d made about Brad Talbot. Hell, he couldn’t blame her.

But for some strange reason, he’d really wanted to know if she was involved with the guy. Hope had vehemently denied it.

The bad news was, he believed her.

She wasn’t screwing Talbot, which only added to the attraction he already felt for her. As she sat there staring out the window, he surveyed her profile, the feminine lines of her face, the way her lips softly curved. They were full and a nice shade of rose. She was wearing shorts, and her legs were smooth and showing the first hint of a tan.

Even with her standoffish attitude, she attracted him. He wanted to know what kind of woman was beneath that cool façade, wanted to know if he could wring a response from those unsmiling lips. He wanted to take her to bed, he realized, as his body tightened and he started getting hard.

Conn silently cursed, knowing it wouldn’t be a smart thing to do. She was there on business and so was he. He had to remember that.

Forcing his thoughts back to the road, he told himself to concentrate on his driving. They drove on the left in Jamaica and most of the other islands. He was fairly used to it, but he still had to pay attention.

He cast her another glance. “About that thing yesterday,” he said as he neared the turn to the college and his meeting with the professor. “You and Talbot, I mean. It was really none of my business.”

“No kidding.”

“It’s just, well, Talbot’s the kind of guy who doesn’t do anything for nothing. I figured he had a motive for sending you out to do the story.”

She turned a little in the seat and he thought again how pretty she was. “Brad’s definitely a quid pro quo kind of guy. If he does have a motive, I haven’t got a clue what it is. Normally, I don’t even write for
Adventure.
I work for a paper called
Midday News,
which is owned by the same big corporation. My boss wanted me off a story I was digging into. Maybe Talbot owed someone there a favor.”

She sighed. “I really wanted to write that story. Except for getting to spend the winter in the Caribbean, I wasn’t any happier to be sent out here than you were to have me arrive.”

Conn didn’t say more. The woman kept surprising him. Then again, Kelly had surprised the hell out of him. He was still paying the price for thinking with his dick instead of his brain.

“The professor’s office is in that building at the top of the hill,” he said, pointing in that direction as they pulled into the parking lot. He found a parking space, turned off the engine, and both of them got out.

When they reached the two-story structure at the top of the hill, Conn knocked on the professor’s office door. Seconds later, it opened.

“Conner, my boy! Come in!”

Conn smiled, shook the older man’s hand. The professor turned toward Hope and smiled. “I see you brought a guest.”

“Doc, this is Hope Sinclair. She’s writing an article on the search.”

The professor’s smile slid away. His gray brows drew nearly together in his thin, lined face. “An article? Whose idea was that?”

“Not mine, I can tell you. Both Markham and Talbot have ulterior motives. They’re after the publicity. We should have known they would be.”

“Yes, I suppose we should have.” Marlin looked again at Hope. “I suppose their interests are none of your concern. You are merely employed to do the story.”

“That’s right, Professor. I didn’t pick this assignment, it picked me.”

“So what can I tell you, Ms. Sinclair?”

“I’d like it if you called me Hope. As you say, I’m merely here to write a story. Which is why I need to know the reason you think the
Nuestra Señora de Rosa
sank off Pleasure Island and not the Serranilla Banks.”

Warming to his favorite subject, the professor slowly smiled. “Well, I suppose, once the fact we’re working off Pleasure Island becomes public, the reason we’re there will come out, sooner or later. You understand the ship’s location is merely conjecture—a theory based on certain facts.”

“They must be convincing facts or Brad Talbot wouldn’t be putting up what might end up being millions of dollars to back your venture.”

“Why don’t I explain and you can decide for yourself?”

Hope nodded. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a tiny portable tape recorder. She started to turn it on when Conn reached over and plucked it out of her hand.

Anger reddened her cheeks. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Use your notepad. It’s bad enough you’re giving away information Professor Marlin spent the last twenty years digging up. Notes will keep things a little less specific.”

She cast him a look that wished him to the bottom of the sea, reached back into her purse and pulled out her spiral pad, then fished out a ballpoint pen.

“Fine, we’ll do it your way. And if I get anything wrong, you’ll be the one to blame.”

He gave her the edge of a smile, hoping like hell she got lots of things wrong, enough to confuse anyone who might be interested in finding the treasure.

“Go ahead, Professor.” She poised her pen above the pad, ready to take down whatever he said.

“Why don’t we start by looking at the map.” Motioning for her to follow, Marlin led the way across the room to the table in the corner. The map showing the location of sunken ships was still spread open on top.

For the next several minutes the professor explained about the treasure fleets that sailed from Spain to the New World and back each year, the Terra Firma Fleet that went to Cartagena, and the New Spain Fleet that sailed to Vera Cruz.

He went on to tell her about the four ships of the Terra Firma Fleet that sank in 1605, pointing out the Serranilla Banks and showing her how he thought the storm pushed the last ship in line
around
the banks, instead—and into the reef on
Isla Tormenta
.

“I’ve done a complex search of ocean currents dating back to the time of the disappearance of the fleet,” he said. “Combined with survivors’ accounts of the storm and their descriptions of the way some of the ships seemed to just disappear, I began to suspect the
Rosa
never hit the banks. I believe she made it almost as far as Jamaica before she went down.”

“You’re thinking somewhere near Pleasure Island.” She jotted down the information, then looked up at him. “That seems like a pretty long stretch, Professor. There’s a lot of ocean out there between those shallows, Jamaica, and Pleasure Island.”

Marlin cast a glance at Conn, then reluctantly added, “It is…except for the matter of the jewelry.”

Hope’s pen went still and her head came up. “What jewelry?”

Behind his glasses, the professor’s pale blue eyes gleamed. “The emerald cross was the first piece of jewelry to surface. Solid gold. Heavily ornamented. With the initials ACCHE carved into the back. You see, the passengers on these ships were often extremely wealthy. The style of the day encouraged them to wear a great deal of expensive jewelry.”

He waited while she jotted down some notes. “The cross turned up in Jamaica some ten years ago—a collector by the name of St. Giles owned it. I researched the piece from here as best I could, but I didn’t get very far. Then, in 1998, I went to Spain, to the Archivo de las Indias, the marine archives in Seville. It wasn’t my first trip, but it was by far the most productive. The museum turned up an early passenger register from the
Rosa.
It showed a man by the name of Alejandro Carrillo Castro Hidalgo y Espinoza on board. I believe the cross that was purchased by St. Giles belonged to Espinoza.”

Marlin paused for effect, as he dearly loved to do, and Hope took the bait.

“There must be a connection, but somehow I seem to be missing it.”

The professor smiled. “St. Giles purchased the cross here in Jamaica, but it was originally found on
Isla Tormenta.
”

“Pleasure Island.”

“Exactly so. Over the years, a few other artifacts were discovered on the island that likely came from the
Rosa,
but the secret has been fairly well kept.”

“How did you hear about the cross?”

“I stumbled upon a photo in a magazine and contacted the owner. St. Giles and I both had an interest in the history of the Spanish galleons and we formed a sort of friendship. Eventually he told me where the cross had been found. I began to do more and more research. In the end, I became convinced the
Rosa
didn’t go down on the Serranilla Banks, but on the reef protecting Pleasure Island.”

Hope looked down at the photo the professor handed her, a picture of the emerald-encrusted cross. The piece was startlingly beautiful, even in a photo, the emeralds a clear, deep, sparkling green, the heavy gold glittering against a background of stark-black velvet. The thought of finding something as stunningly beautiful as that—perhaps even a boatload of such objects—no wonder people spent their whole lives searching for treasure.