Devil and the Deep (The Deep Six) (29 page)
Read Devil and the Deep (The Deep Six) Online
Authors: Julie Ann Walker
When he brushed his fingers through her short hair, he was delighted by its softness, its silkiness. For that matter,
all
of her was soft and silky. That soft silkiness made him hard. The uncertainty in her eyes made him harder still. She was unsure just how fast to push him. How far. She didn’t realize that he wanted pedal to the metal. Zero to sixty in five seconds. He wanted her. All of her. All the time. In every way.
“Babe”—he wrapped a hand around her neck and pulled her down until her lips hovered a hairsbreadth from his—“you don’t need an excuse to come out to the island. You’re welcome any time.”
“Really?” She searched his eyes.
“Any time and all the time.”
She smiled. And it was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. “Well, how about we start with this vacation, and then I can fly in on weekends until…” She trailed off and bit her upper lip.
That’s all it took. Her lip caught between her teeth and he was done.
Finito.
His cock was fully engorged.
“Until what?” he demanded, his hand drifting down her spine to lie atop her fabulous butt.
“Until I make you an offer you can’t refuse,” she said, quoting
The Godfather.
“That was the worst Marlon Brando impersonation I ever heard,” he told her, his heart so full he was amazed it didn’t burst wide open. He pulled her down for a kiss that ended in them christening the room for the third time. Atop her kitchen table…
June 11, 1624…
Sitting in the crow’s nest his men had built between the two tallest palm trees near the beach, his spyglass raised to his eye, Captain Bartolome Vargas scanned the seas around him.
Perched in additional improvised lookouts on opposite sides of the island, two more of his crew, the two with the best eyesight, helped him watch for passing ships. It was hot, monotonous work. But it was imperative. With the remainder of the sailors working on the reef and down in the sea at the wreck site—at least those who were still healthy enough to work—it was left to the three of them to ensure no pirates sailed around the corner and stumbled upon the others’ efforts.
Lowering his spyglass, Bartolome blinked, giving his tired eyes a moment’s respite. Then he raised the glass and continued his vigil.
The wind was a bare whisper, leaving the ocean around the island glassy. Nothing disturbed the surface except a pod of dolphins that frolicked beyond the reef. The sun was high. The tide was out. A number of large grouper had swum into the lagoon the evening before, making them easy to catch. He and his men had feasted and still had full bellies today.
A good day for lookout duty,
he decided.
And a good day for recovery work.
“How goes it?” he called down to Rosario when he noticed his midshipman stepping beneath the palm trees.
“Carlo says ’tis possible!” Rosario yelled. “Says the hold is cracked in half, but much of the treasure remains in clay vases and wooden crates!”
“Thank you, Madre Maria.” Bartolome sent up a prayer, crossing himself.
“Carlo says ’twill take time!” Rosario continued. “Some of the deeper goods will have to wait ’til lowest tide, but—”
Hoorah!
The sound of cheering had Bartolome glancing toward the reef where a line of men hauled in rope. Two of Bartolome’s best divers bobbed to the surface at the same time the crate on the end of the rope was pulled atop the reef.
“We can do this, Captain!” Rosario grinned up at him. “Just look!”
It was too soon for Bartolome to celebrate. There was still much to do. “You know what to do with it, Rosario,” he told his midshipman.
Rosario snapped him a salute, the smile still splitting his face. “Aye-aye, Captain! For King and Country!”
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I tried to do justice to the beautiful setting, the rich history, and the magnificence of Fort Jefferson and Dry Tortugas National Park. I did change some minor details—like the ranger’s station and the crack in the foundation—to better fit this story. Welcome to the wonderful world of fiction writing! That said, dear readers, if you ever get the chance to travel to remote Garden Key and Fort Jefferson, don’t hesitate.
Do it
. It’s a humbling and awe-inspiring place.
A big thanks to my husband. This past year certainly wasn’t an easy one, was it, sweetheart? But through it all, you were there. Right beside me. Holding my hand. I couldn’t ask for a better partner on this crazy journey of life.
I have to give a shout-out to Sean, Whitney, and Dan. In the name of research for this book, the three of you gamely hopped aboard an itty-bitty floatplane piloted by a bearded, barefoot, retired Coast Guardsman. You’re all crazy. Which is probably why I love you.
Fist bumps to Deb, my editor, for making this book shine. Same goes to Nicole. This one was a doozy, wasn’t it, ladies? Team effort all the way. A big thank-you to Dawn, my cover designer, for this amazing cover. And hugs to the whole Sourcebooks crew for always supporting me and my work.
Julie Ann Walker is the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of romantic suspense. She has won the Book Buyers Best Award, been nominated for the National Readers Choice Award, the Australian Romance Reader Awards, and the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA Award. Her latest release was listed as a Best Summer Read of 2015 by
Publishers Weekly
. Her novels have been described as “alpha, edgy, and downright hot.” Most days you can find Julie on her bicycle along the lakeshore in Chicago or blasting away at her keyboard, trying to wrangle her capricious imagination into submission.
Continue reading for an excerpt from the first book in The Deep Six series
Present day
10:52 p.m.…
“And the
Santa Cristina
and her brave crew and captain were sucked down into Davy Jones’s locker, lost to the world. That is…until now…”
Leo “the Lion” Anderson, known to his friends as LT—a nod to his former Naval rank—let his last words hang in the air before glancing around at the four faces illuminated by the flickering beach bonfire. Rapt expressions stared back at him. He fought the grin curving his lips.
Bingo, bango, bongo.
His listeners had fallen under a spell as deep and fathomless as the great oceans themselves. It happened anytime he recounted the legend of the
Santa
Cristina
. Not that he could blame his audience. The story of the ghost galleon, the holy grail of sunken Spanish shipwrecks, had fascinated
him
ever since he’d been old enough to understand the tale while bouncing on his father’s knee. And that lifelong fascination might account for why he was now determined to do what so many before him—his dearly departed father included—had been unable to do. Namely, locate and excavate the mother lode of the grand ol’ ship.
Of course, he reckoned the romance and mystery of discovering her waterlogged remains were only
part
of the reason he’d spent the last two months and a huge portion of his savings—as well as huge portions of the savings of the others—refurbishing his father’s decrepit, leaking salvage boat. The rest of the story as to why he was here now? Why they were
all
here now? Well, that didn’t bear dwelling on.
At
least
not
on
a
night
like
tonight.
When a million glittering stars and a big half-moon reflected off the dark, rippling waters of the lagoon on the southeast side of the private speck of jungle, mangrove forest, and sand in the Florida Keys. When the sea air was soft and warm, caressing his skin and hair with gentle, salt-tinged fingers. When there was so much…
life
to enjoy.
That had been his vow—
their
vow—had it not? To grab life by the balls and really
live
it? To suck the marrow from its proverbial bones?
His eyes were automatically drawn to the skin on the inside of his left forearm where scrolling, tattooed lettering read
For
RL
. He ran a thumb over the pitch-black ink.
This
one’s for you, you stubborn sonofagun
, he pledged, flipping open the lid on the cooler sunk deep into the sand beside his lawn chair. Grabbing a bottle of Budweiser and twisting off the cap, he let his gaze run down the long dock to where his uncle’s catamaran was moored. The clips on the sailboat’s rigging lines clinked rhythmically against its metal mast, adding to the harmony of softly shushing waves, quietly crackling fire, and the high-pitched
peesy, peesy, peesy
call of a nearby black-and-white warbler.
Then he turned his eyes to the open ocean past the underwater reef surrounding the side of Wayfarer Island, where his father’s old salvage ship bobbed lazily with the tide. Up and down. Side to side. Her newly painted hull and refurbished anchor chain gleamed dully in the moonlight. Her name,
Wayfarer-I
, was clearly visible thanks to the new, bright-white lettering.
He dragged in a deep breath, the smell of burning driftwood and suntan lotion tunneled up his nose, and he did his best to appreciate the calmness of the evening and the comforting thought that the vessel looked, if not necessarily sexy, then at least seaworthy.
Which
is
a
hell
of
an
improvement.
Hot
damn
, he was proud of all the work he and his men had done on her, and—
His men…
He reminded himself for the one hundred zillionth time that he wasn’t supposed to think of them that way. Not anymore. Not since those five crazy-assed SEALs waved their farewells to the Navy in order to join him on his quest for high-seas adventure and the discovery of untold riches. Not since they were now, officially,
civilians
.
“But why you guys?” The blond who was parked beneath Spiro “Romeo” Delgado’s arm yanked Leo from his thoughts. “What makes you different from all those who’ve already tried and failed to find her?”
“Besides the obvious you mean,
mamacita
?” Romeo winked, leaning back in his lawn chair to spread his arms wide. His grin caused his teeth to flash white against his neatly trimmed goatee, and Leo watched the blond sit forward in her plastic deck chair to take in the wonder that was Romeo Delgado. After a good, long gander, she giggled and snuggled back against Romeo’s side.
Leo rolled his eyes. Romeo’s swarthy, Hispanic looks and his six-percent-body-fat physique made even the most prim-and-proper lady’s panties drop fast enough to bust the floorboards. And this gal? Well, this gal might be prim and proper in her everyday life—hell, for all Leo knew she could be the leading expert on high etiquette at an all-girls school—but today, ever since Romeo picked her and her cute friend up in Schooner Wharf Bar on Key West with the eye-rolling line of
“Wanna come see my private island?”
she’d been playing the part of a good-time girl out having a little fun-in-the-sun fling. And it was the
fling
part that might—scratch that, rewind—
did
account for the lazy, self-satisfied smile spread across Romeo’s face.
“I’m serious, though.” Tracy or Stacy or Lacy, or whatever her name was—Leo had sort of tuned out on the introductions—wrinkled her sunburned nose. “How do you even know where to look?”
“Because of this.” Leo lifted the silver piece of eight, a seventeenth-century Spanish dollar, from where it hung around his neck on a long, platinum chain. “My father discovered it ten years ago off the coast of the Marquesas Keys.”
Tracy/Stacy/Lacy’s furrowed brow telegraphed her skepticism. “One coin? I thought the Gulf and the Caribbean were littered with old doubloons.”
“It wasn’t just one piece of eight my father found.” Leo winked. “It was a big, black conglomerate of ten pieces of eight, as well as—”
“Conglomerate?” asked the brunette with the Cupid’s-bow lips. Tracy/Stacy/Lacy’s friend had given Leo all the right signals the minute Romeo pulled the catamaran up to Wayfarer Island’s creaky old dock and unloaded their guests. It’d been instant sloe-eyed looks and shy, encouraging smiles.
Okay, and confession time. Because for a fleeting moment when she—Sophie or Sophia? Holy Christ, Leo was seriously sucking with names tonight—sidled up next to him, he’d been tempted to take her up on all the things her nonverbal communications offered. Then an image of black hair, sapphire eyes, and a subtly crooked front tooth blazed through his brain. And just like that, the brunette lost her appeal.
Which
is
a
good
thing
, he reminded himself.
You’re gettin’ too old to bang the Betties Romeo drags home from the bar
.
Enter Dalton “Doc” Simmons and his nearly six and a half feet of homespun, Midwestern charm. He’d been quick to insert himself between Leo and Sophie/Sophia. And now her gaze lingered on Doc’s face when he said in that low, scratchy Kiefer Sutherland voice of his, “Unlike gold, which retains its luster after years on the bottom of the ocean, silver coins are affected by the seawater. They get fused together by corrosion or other maritime accretions. When that happens, it’s called a conglomerate. They have to be electronically cleaned to remove the surface debris and come out looking like this.” Grabbing the silver chain around his neck, Doc pulled a piece of eight from inside his T-shirt. It was identical to the one Leo wore.
“And like this,” Romeo parroted, twirling the coin on the chain around
his
neck like a Two-Buck Chuck stripper whirling a boa.
Their first day on the island, Leo had gifted each of his men—
damnit!
…his
friends
—with one of the coins, telling them their matching tattoos were symbols of their shared past and their matching pieces of eight were symbols of their shared future.
Leo tipped the neck of his beer toward Doc. “Maritime accretions, huh? You sound like an honest-to-God salvor, my friend.”
Doc smirked, which was as close to a smile as the dude ever really got. If Leo hadn’t seen Doc rip into a steak on occasion, he wouldn’t have been all that convinced the guy had teeth.
“But even a conglomerate of coins wouldn’t be enough to guarantee the ship’s location,” Leo added, turning back to the blond. “My father
also
found a handful of bronze deck cannons. All of which were on the
Santa
Cristina
’s manifest. So she’s down there…
somewhere
.” He just had to find her. All his friends were counting on that windfall for various reasons, and if he didn’t—
“But, like you said, your dad tried to find this Christy boat for”—Leo winced. Okay, so the woman seemed sweet. But the only thing worse than mangling the name of the legendary vessel was referring to it as a
boat
—“like twenty-some-odd years, right?”
“And Mel Fisher searched for the
Atocha
for sixteen years before finally findin’ her.” He referred to the most famous treasure hunter and treasure galleon of all time. Well, most famous of all time until he and the guys made the history books, right?
Right.
“In shallow water, like that around the Florida Keys, the shiftin’ sands are moved by wind and tide. They change the seabed daily, not to mention after nearly four centuries. But with a little hard work and perseverance, you better believe the impossible becomes possible. We’re hot on her trail.”