Blue Moon (16 page)

“I had to pay the wench to use her kitchen,” Remy hissed under his breath as he took his seat.

“So don't you want to hear about the gold?” Jeanne asked. “We've got good news . . .”

“And bad news,” Pablo put in, countenance growing grim.

With the all-too-familiar eagerness of a protégé trying to impress her mentor, Jeanne told Remy about the find. “The coins that Ann, Mara, and Nick found washed up and buried on the beach are all dated from the 1670s to 1700. We checked them all.”

Gabe clenched his teeth, fuming. As if the man could make them any more valid by his simple say-so. Gabe had been there. And now he was living through it all again—through her. Although Dr. Riall had not possessed Primston's annoying personality, he'd been a far worse mentor: he'd encouraged Gabe to pursue his theories, and then stolen the credit.

“Why, that's . . . well, then,” Remy stammered, “this
has
to be our ship.”

Our ship
. Similar words from the past came back to Gabe.
Our
project.
His appetite slipped away.

“You must excuse the beef being well-done,” Remy announced when Jeanne had filled him in. “It was perfect when I removed it from that flat stone of hers.”

“He uses my
comal
,” Lupita complained, referring to the flat stone placed over live coals for cooking. “It is for my tortillas. I have that to use the frit . . . fryer.”

“A grill is a grill, my dear.”

“And using my laundry pot will throw that sauce to lose,” the cook warned, jerking her finger at the pasta.

Around the table forks were checked in midbite, including Gabe's.

“I washed it thoroughly with boiling water,” Remy hastened to explain under the questioning faces turned his way. “My greatest concern was having to use
dried
”—he said the word with a shudder—“ pasta instead of freshly made. Such a waste for gourmet Napoli sauce.”

“Both the beef and the pasta are delicious, regardless,” Jeanne assured him. In a show of support, she twisted a forkful of the latter. “Now, can we get back to the
Luna Azul
?” she asked, popping it into her mouth.

Gabe watched the way Jeanne's mouth moved as she savored the cuisine, and he noticed the golden flecks glittering like Aladdin's treasure in her dark amber gaze. Catching himself staring, he forced himself to focus on Pablo Montoya's explanation of what he and Gabe had already discussed on the way back to Punta Azul.

The majority of the wreckage appeared to have settled in the lagoon, which meant diving directly from the ship was out, unless they could find a channel somewhere in the reef deep enough for the draft of the
Fallen Angel
. Even then, it was risky to his ship.

“Do we have a barge available?” Jeanne asked Don Pablo, voice filled with an unsinkable hope.

“I am sorry to say, no. Those we have are in use,” Pablo replied.

“Could we dive from the rubber raft?” Stuart suggested.

“Too rough. Couldn't support the hookah unit with any reliability,” Gabe told him.

Elbows resting on the table, Jeanne rested her forehead on clasped hands. The hookah's long air hoses provided a continuous flow of air enabling the divers to remain below longer without cumbersome tanks strapped to their backs. “So what do we do?”

“The captain and I discussed an idea,” Pablo said, handing the conversation off to Gabe.

“What?” Jeanne asked. Gold aside, the renewed hope in her expression was enough reason for Gabe to take on the risk like a knight in shining armor at full tilt.

“We can find the best approach and blast our way into the site.” Blasting a path through the living world of coral went against Gabe's grain, against everything he'd learned as a marine biologist, but if it was the only way, gold trumped coral every time. Coral would grow back . . . eventually. “And,” he added after allowing time for the shock to thaw, “I know just the man to do it. We can take depth readings tomorrow. If everything looks right, Jeanne and I will fetch our expert on our date in Akumal Sunday.”

The word
date
swiveled attention from all directions to Jeanne, but hers pinned Gabe to his chair with the deadly precision of a knife-throwing act he'd seen in Vegas.

“Not really a date,” she clarified.

“What”—Remy paused—“
trip
, then, if you will?”

“Dinner,” Gabe answered. “And while we are there, we can look up a man who could blast the plaque from your teeth and never crack the enamel.”

“You agreed to go to dinner with w-with
him
?” the professor stuttered.

Gabe waited, wondering if she'd fess up to the reason.

“That-that muscle-bound Popeye?” Remy blustered.

“Yes, I did,” Jeanne clipped each word, stung by the censorship in the professor's countenance. With a delightful little wriggle in her seat as though gathering steam, she met it head-on. “Do
you
have a problem with that?”

The standoff was a sight to behold. Taken aback, the professor shrugged. “If you wish to while away a day with someone who possesses the personality and IQ of a shark, so be it.”

Gabe feigned a wounded expression, hand to his chest. “Here now, that hurt. No need to insult the shark.”
Jerk
, he added in silence.

“This is gettin' good,” Stuart said in a stage whisper.

Mara peered over the rim of her glasses at him. “Grow up, Stu.”

Gabe's restraint paid off. Jeanne pushed her chair away from the table and rose. “You disappoint me, Remy.”

Manolo nudged Gabe with his knee. “
Tha's
your girl.”

“I expected more from you than the captain. I see I was mistaken. And for the record this is strictly a
business
trip.” Her flashing hazel eyes came to rest on Gabe. “Strictly business.” With a flip of her salt-stiffened ponytail, she started for the door. “I'll see you all early tomorrow.”

“But Jeanne . . . Jeanne,” Remy objected, hurrying after her. “You haven't had dessert yet.”

Gabe smiled as the door slammed in Primston's face. He liked a gal with spunk.

In spite of Remy's profuse apology and Gabe's obvious attempt at restraint when Remy sought to voice his professional opinion as to how he and Pablo might find the easiest path into the reef, the tension was so thick on the
Fallen Angel
the next day that it could have been cut with the knife Ann offered Jeanne in the galley.

“You could always put one of them out of their misery,” she suggested.

Jeanne winced more than smiled and began cutting the sandwich wraps in half.

“Must be nice to have two men at each other's throat over you,” Mara observed from the galley hatchway. “Need any help?”

It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that the young woman was wounded over Gabe's interest in Jeanne.

“In the first place, the professor's only interest in me is professional . . .” She trailed off as Ann broke into a fit of feigned coughing. “Well, it is,” Jeanne insisted.

“Get a grip, Jeanne. Remy is a fool for you.” Ann stabbed the air with her index finger for emphasis.

“I think Ann's right. The professor can't take his eyes off you.” Mara plopped down on the dinette seat with a sigh big enough to reflect the burdens of the world.

Remy as anything more than her friend and mentor was more than Jeanne could fathom. “You both are being silly. Remy has been like that ever since I can remember. He's a gentleman's gentleman, nothing more.”

“Still,” Mara said, unconvinced. “It must be nice to be attractive to
someone
.”

“Hey, kid,” Ann objected. “It looked to me like Nick was just about breaking his neck to help you carry my khaki drawers full of coins the other day.”

“Not even close. He thinks I'm one of the guys. The nerdiest, no less.” She tucked a limp strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

“Next weekend—” Jeanne blurted out, recalling Gabe's suggestion to help Mara ramp up her feminine style. Anything to shift the conversation away from herself.

Her companions looked at her, bemused.

“Okay, I'll bite,” Ann said. “Next weekend
what
?”

“Next weekend, we could have a girls' day. . . .You know—salon, manicurist, facial—glam it up.”

“Oh yeah, I'm qualified for that,” her friend snickered, pulling at her short, spiked tresses.

Jeanne fingered a baby-fine lock of Mara's hair, giving Ann a
get
with it
look behind the young woman's back. “Most people spend a fortune on boxed coloring just to get this shade.”

“And your eyes are so pretty,” Ann said, catching on. “Just a little liner and they'd be
hey-look-at-me
gorgeous.”

Mara grabbed a stainless pot lid from the shelf behind her and stared at her image as if to validate Ann's observation. “I thought they were just faded green.”

Ann pinged the lid with her finger. “Like I said, toots, a little liner and we're talking jewels.”

“You really think you could do something with my hair?” Mara asked Jeanne. “I mean something that I can still clip up for work?”

Jeanne nodded. “I'll scout out Akumal tomorrow. If they don't have a decent salon, we'll drive to Cancún.”

Excitement tamped down Mara's shy uncertainty. “I can hardly wait,” she said, taking another look at her reflection.

Jeanne held up her hand, high five up. “So is it a plan?”

“It's definitely a plan,” Mara answered, slapping it palm to palm. “Definitely.”

Ann joined in the high-fiving, grinning. “Then it's unanaminous.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sunday was a glorious day. Mara's enthusiasm still infected Jeanne as she headed toward the ecolodge from church. A breeze off the sea made its way through the scrub pine and laurel into the village, forcing the palm fronds along the beach to dance at its whim. It was all Jeanne could do to keep from dancing herself, now that she was spiritually renewed.

Since the others had made their own plans to worship or sleep in, she'd attended Reverend Hanks's little church alone. The time to worship without the distraction of the other members of her team was a blessing indeed, given the discord of late. It was a relief to be in the company of people who were united by God's love and not forced together for the sake of treasure. Caught in the overwhelming presence of the Holy Spirit, Jeanne poured out her heart and misgivings in prayer. Was she a good leader to her crew? What could she do to make Remy and Gabe act civilized?

Right on cue, Reverend Hanks gave a sermon focused around 1 Corinthians 2:16. It wasn't up to her to change them; that was up to God. Her charge was to
hold the thoughts of His heart,
to keep the feelings and purposes of God's heart, no matter how much Gabe and Remy drove her to distraction. That meant not joining the fray, but demonstrating the heart, not fist, of a peacemaker.

It wasn't the first time a sermon or devotional had sprung to her attention just when she needed it, but each time it resulted in a natural high of wonder and reassurance that never ceased to calm her fears. Jeanne continued to hum one of the hymns as she walked back to the marina. But by the time she reached the shaded ecolodge area, her uplifted feeling had knotted in her chest, tightened by ribbons of anxiety over the day ahead, and guilt that her elation could shrivel so easily.

Lord, it's so easy to be gung ho in the pew. Stick close, okay?

Real close
, she reiterated as she spied Gabe making his way down the dock. It was the first time she'd seen him dressed up. The man could have stepped off the cover of
GQ
magazine. His dark hair glistening like a raven's wing in the sunlight, he sported a white shirt, collar open, and dark blue casual slacks. Over his arm, he carried a sport coat of a lighter shade, and a tie.

“You look grand in yellow,” he said, closing the distance between them with long, purposeful strides. On land or sea, Gabe possessed an in-charge demeanor.

“T-thank you, Gabe.” And she could be centerfold for
Blubbering Idiot
. “Did Pablo get tickets from Cancún to Mexico City for tomorrow?”

“He left this morning by seaplane,” Gabe informed her, smiling, pleased as the Cheshire cat.

That got her attention. “What?”

“No one knows except him, me—and now you,” he informed her, glancing at his watch. “In fact, he should be arriving within the hour.”

“How much did that cost?” Talk about overkill. No one could possibly know they'd found the site unless one of their own crew leaked the information.

“I paid for it myself,” he said, robbing her of her main objection.

“Feel better?” she asked. Besides, it was a done deal . . . and for the benefit of the mission.

“Much,” he replied. Making a grand flourish with his arm, he pointed to the CEDAM van. “And now, milady, your coach, such as it is, awaits. We could take the Suburban, but we might need to pick up some supplies along with Tex,” he explained.