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Castillo's Bride
Anne Marie Duquette


But Jordan Castillo insists that he wants a partner, not a wife. Jordan's the only surviving son of a family that can trace its heritage back for centuries. He's also a salvager searching for sunken treasure Castillo treasure. He knows of one person who can help him find it. A woman.A woman named Aurora Collins.She has her own reasons for agreeing to be his partner. Reasons that, like Jordan's, have everything to do with family.As Jordan and Rory work together, as they risk their lives, they learn to trust each other. And trust can turn into love.…Which means this Castillo might want a bride after all!







Where was he? How long had he been there?

Jordan Castillo came slowly to consciousness. He was too weak to move, too weak to even open his eyes, but he could feel things. From the familiar rolling beneath him, he knew he was on a ship. He breathed a sigh of relief.

His will had been sorely tested. He’d been frightened that he’d lose his battle with death, and Jordan Castillo wasn’t a man who frightened easily. As long as he could still feel pain, he knew he was alive.

He could hear what went on around him. Even now he listened for the woman’s voice. Aurora Collins—that’s who she is. They were supposed to meet at the pier. She was the woman who’d saved him…the same woman who could salvage his family fortune.

Jordan exhaled, his broken ribs protesting.

There it was again. Her voice.


Dear Reader,

As a navy veteran who married a career navy man with a lifelong love of the sea, I just had to write a book about people like us—people who feel completely at home on a boat. People who are endlessly fascinated by oceans.

Our children feel the same way. My husband took our son out in a real canoe while he still wore diapers. Our daughter swam laps across an Olympic-size pool at the age of six—and complained loudly every time a new lifeguard tried to send her to the wading pool. The topper is my niece Julie, another water baby who grew up on boats. Her very first word wasn’t “Mommy” or “Daddy,” but “Fish.” Fish! I think that sums it up right there.

Naturally the people in this story are fictitious, but the waters, the harbors, landmarks and marine terminology are real—and a big part of my life. My husband and I have scuba dived the great kelp forests off our coastline, and Oceanside Harbor is the very place where we dock our own harborcraft. Our boats, Neptune’s Bride, the Silver Dollar and Tempest Tantrum, were used as models for this novel. The many military and civilian sailors we’ve known and sailed with have helped inspire my story, a story about people passionately in love with the last unexplored frontier on our planet—our oceans.

Captains Jordan Castillo and Aurora Collins share this love…and fall in love with each other. Like all real sailors, they are only truly happy when they’re with other people who feel the same. I hope you enjoy their adventures in the beautiful waters outside San Diego, California. Bon voyage!

Anne Marie Duquette


Castillo’s Bride

Anne Marie Duquette






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




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#uebaa6072-d504-52ac-99b7-ca23a8eb81d8)

CHAPTER TWO (#ud533b1c7-1847-5d31-ba33-22b392ed591d)

CHAPTER THREE (#ue9de3484-1cbd-5ccd-a9f3-df4702958184)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u2a96bf13-3ae4-5ff7-ba94-1728e11da0b4)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u901b4640-e7e6-5e2d-bc61-9166cee83a9c)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


San Diego, California

June 24, 11:45 p.m.

JORDAN CASTILLO struggled frantically on the moonlit beach, his movements alerting the woman who paced some distance off, waiting for him. She immediately stopped, her lithe swimmer’s body hidden beneath the shadowy pier, her sandal-clad feet just above the water-mark.

Bad enough that another human being was in grave danger. But this was the man she’d waited weeks to meet—the one man who could help her save the tortured lives of her sister, Dorian, and Dorian’s husband and child. Castillo now battled for his life, and Aurora Collins knew she had to do something.

She’d planned to meet him at his downtown hotel, a meeting that hadn’t occurred. The three silent men she watched now had kidnapped him—that was the only thing she could call it. Somehow they’d lured him from the hotel lobby, then forced him into a car. She’d seen it all from the parking lot and followed them.

She stood uncertainly by the pier, staring at the desperate tableau taking place, wishing she’d recharged the battery in her dead cell phone, which lay uselessly in her car.

Her night vision—vision developed through years spent at sea—registered the identity of the man she sought. His once-handsome face was covered in blood. His clothing was torn, his arms covered with welts as he tried to protect his head from swinging bats. She watched in horror as three other men clubbed him again and again.

Aurora gasped as the outnumbered man fought back against his opponents’ crushing blows with silent fury. Not a single plea for mercy escaped his lips. He battled hard, but it wasn’t enough. One of the men delivered a final, smashing strike to Jordan’s head. Their victim sprawled on the sand like limp kelp.

I have to save him.

Aurora took an involuntary step toward him, away from the protection of the pier. Immediately she rethought her action, moved back into the shadows. She was strong in the Pacific waters, with or without scuba gear. She’d been born on the ocean’s edge. Had run away from home at sixteen to return to the Pacific. Now she captained her own ship and made her living from the ocean, but she dared not race to his side, leaving the safety offered by the pier. A lone woman, unarmed, had no chance against three armed men.

Before her horrified gaze, the attackers carelessly dragged the unresisting body over the sand and toward the entrance to the pier.

My God. They’re going to throw him off like a piece of rotten bait.

Fury swept through her, and she quietly waded through the frothing surf line and headed out to deeper waters, staying beneath the overhead pier for cover while she swam.

The current tore at her long, sun-bleached hair, just as it would tear at the man and drag him down to the dangerous black waters below. The rocky bottom would dash him to pieces—if he didn’t drown first. Aurora shuddered, wishing she had her swim fins; they made it easier to fight back against the rip.

But she was already committed to the rescue, and couldn’t second-guess herself now. Her strokes had carried her almost to the end of the pier when she saw Jordan’s body fall, heard the heavy splash, felt the slight displacement in the water surface and watched the unconscious man begin to sink.

I must save him.

Aurora kicked with all her strength to reach him. She sucked in a breath of air and dived deeply. The current grabbed her body and pulled her even deeper. Aurora didn’t resist. She let it lead her toward him.

Her eyes stinging from the saltwater, she scanned the ocean depths. Luminous creatures much brighter than her watch eerily lit the scene. Nothing. Blood pounded in her ears as she was dragged deeper yet. If she didn’t find him soon, she would need to surface for air.

Just a few more seconds. I can last a little longer. If I surface now, I’ll never find him.

Suddenly the current pulled her into a collision with him. Jordan spiraled limply down the current’s path toward the bone-crushing concrete at the base of the pilings. Pulse racing, lungs burning, she thrust out her arms to encircle his chest from behind.

She kicked hard for the surface, Jordan’s limbs trailing between hers. Fear spread icy tendrils through her veins. Her own lungs needed air—and the injured man had been under far longer than she had.

We’re not surfacing fast enough. She kicked harder, moving both legs together repeatedly in a dolphin kick, to clear the dragging undertow. I’m not going to make it. I need to breathe now. Dear Lord, help me.

Her prayers were answered. A cluster of unevenly timed waves headed toward shore and fought with the backwash. The rip abruptly changed direction to push Aurora and Jordan toward the surface. Lungs bursting, Aurora fought the pain of suffocation. Her body had done what all drowning victims’ did—the throat sphincter had automatically clamped shut, keeping water out of the bronchial tube. Those who drown suffocate to unconsciousness first; only then does the sphincter release and the lungs fill with fluid.

Aurora kicked harder than ever, the current now helping her. She saw the thin tensile surface of water. She lifted the man in her arms as high as she could so that his lolling head broke the water first. Hers followed. She gasped for air, two, three, four breaths, while scanning the shore. She made certain the attackers were gone before swimming toward the nearest pier piling and wrapping her legs around the shell-encrusted wood to anchor herself, all the while holding Jordan.

Her hand splayed over the bruised, battered muscles of the man’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat as the cutting shells of barnacles and black clams sliced into her legs.

There was no heartbeat.

She hugged Jordan’s torso with the careful, measured strength years of ocean swimming had given her, willing his heart to beat. She compressed five times, then she cleared his breathing passage, sucking in gulps of air herself.

Rory pivoted his body sideways, using the buoyancy of the water. As she lowered her mouth to his torn, broken lips, she tasted ocean salt mingling with the saltiness of the man’s own blood. Her fingertips pressed into the already-bruised skin of one wrist, feeling for a pulse.

She felt no pulse.

“Don’t you die, dammit!” she swore between puffs of air. “Do you hear me? I need you alive.”

The pale masculine lips didn’t move. Aurora shivered, but didn’t attempt to swim the rest of the pier-length toward shore. She focused her whole attention on saving the man in her arms.

And prayed fervently that she wasn’t too late.

JORDAN CASTILLO CAME slowly to consciousness. Earlier there had been confusion, then pain, then blackness with nightmares, and more pain. But today that pain no longer seemed as hellish.

Where was he? How long had he been here?

He was too weak to move, too weak to speak, too weak to even open his eyes, but he could feel things. From the familiar rolling beneath him, he knew he was on a ship. Jordan breathed a sigh of relief. Like his father and grandfather before him, he lived most of his life at sea. And like his father and grandfather, he too hoped to draw his last breath on the sea. But not yet…Not today…Jordan desperately wanted to live, and fought fiercely against the terrible blackness that threatened to envelop him again.

His will had been sorely tested. He’d been frightened he’d lose his battle with death, and Jordan Castillo wasn’t a man who frightened easily. As long as he could still feel pain, he knew he was alive.

He could hear what went on around him. Even now he listened for the woman’s voice. They were supposed to meet at the pier. Was the woman who’d saved him the same Aurora Collins who could salvage his family fortunes?

Jordan exhaled, his broken ribs protesting. Head injuries could cause you to dream up funny things. If his rescuing mermaid was a fantasy that existed only in his bruised, beaten skull, he’d be very disappointed indeed.

There it was again. Her voice…

Jordan’s lips curved in a small, almost involuntary, smile. He relaxed, letting the sound wash over him. She wasn’t as close as he’d like, certainly not as close as he remembered during that nightmarish time when his life hung by a delicate thread—but she was close enough for him to make out her words.

“…Much better, you say, Neil?”

“Yes.” Jordan heard the male voice. His sea nymph definitely wasn’t alone. “He should be coming around soon.”

“Why he isn’t dead, I’ll never know. If you’d seen what those men did to him…”

To Jordan’s surprise, her voice broke. He hadn’t imagined her concern, after all. She’d been worried about him—still was. He wanted to ease her pain as she’d eased his. He tried to open his eyes, tried to reassure her, but couldn’t. When she spoke again, her voice was harsh.

“If he wasn’t so ill, I’d be back on shore looking for those three men myself. The receptionist said they told Jordan I was waiting in their car. She also said that judging by their accent, they were probably Brazilian. She didn’t manage to get much of a description, though. I wish—”

“Leave it to the authorities,” the man—Neil, Jordan assumed—told her. “Speaking of which, I wish you’d called for an ambulance instead of my ship. This man is not what you’d call a typical cruise-passenger guest.”

“Maybe not, but the ambulance couldn’t get there as fast. Your ship has a surgeon and an operating room, and you, my dear captain, were offshore. The Coast Guard was able to motor us out.”

“That’s highly irregular, and you know it,” the man said. “They ever hear of a helicopter? Like the one we’re using today to get him off the ship?”

“The life-flights were all out working that huge crash on the interstate. By the time one became available, Castillo would have died. He needed immediate surgery, your doctor said. Neil, I already explained all this to you. Why are we going through it again?”

“But you almost died! When will you stop taking these dangerous risks?”

“Let go of my arm,” the woman replied calmly. Jordan remembered that quiet calmness she possessed. When he’d nearly drowned, and then during his subsequent pain-racked time in this bed, she’d been his safe haven.

“Promise you’ll stay away from this man—and his problems. Let me take care of his medical arrangements.”

Jordan heard the soft ripple of her laugh. “I don’t take orders from you, even if you are one of my oldest friends.”

“Nonetheless, I want your promise. Your family would never forgive me if something—”

“Sorry, Neil. Now please, let go.”

“You have to come to your senses.” Jordan recognized the man’s proprietary attitude toward the woman—and recognized a similar feeling deep inside his own battered body. “You’ve lived by your own rules long enough. You can’t go on acting like…like some kind of renegade. It’s time to change.”

Jordan’s breath caught. He heard both strength and assurance in that warning. The woman’s male friend, this captain, was someone to be reckoned with.

As was the woman herself.

“Until that day comes—if it ever comes—I answer to myself alone,” the woman replied. “Remember that, Captain Harris. Now, please fetch the doctor.”

Was she ship’s crew herself? Did she also hold a billet on this ship? Did they wear maritime uniforms with ranks? If only it wasn’t so hard to remember things. Curiosity consumed him—especially about her.

Jordan finally managed to open his eyes. He gazed on the beauty of the woman before him for just a second before focusing on the uniformed man who held her captive. The man’s large hand gripped his angel’s forearm. Jordan’s weakness gave way beneath a burst of fury and adrenaline.

“Let her go,” he ordered in a clear voice. “Now.”

The couple froze. In unison, they turned to stare at him.

“Well, well, well, Mr. Castillo. Welcome back to the land of the living,” came the captain’s stiff-faced response. Jordan noticed he wore a civilian Naval uniform, that of a cruise-ship captain. He released the woman.

She responded with a much warmer welcome. “You’re awake,” she cried, her eyes sparkling with joy. “Excuse me, Neil, but I’d like to visit with our patient for a few minutes. Alone.”

Jordan turned his head to watch the other man. There was defiance in his expression, but it faded almost immediately. “I’ll check on you both later,” he said, then left.

Good, Jordan thought. Now he had his mystery woman all to himself. He found and pressed the button to raise his bed, then turned toward her a bit too quickly. A definite mistake. His head throbbed and he winced.

“Are you still in pain?” she asked, her voice sweet and slow. Her words were casual, but the concern in her eyes wasn’t. She moved closer to his side.

Jordan considered his pain. “Not as much as before,” he replied, and was rewarded with a stunning smile.

Jordan’s breath caught again, but this time it wasn’t because of his injuries. He studied her. His rescuer was extraordinarily beautiful. The high, sculpted cheekbones, the tanned face with its perfect features and the blond, sun-streaked hair reminded him of a sea-nymph in an old Roman mosaic he’d once seen. Her body was long and lean, with finely conditioned muscles that couldn’t quite hide her sloping, gentle curves.

The eyes really captured his attention. They were as blue as a tropical sea, as brilliant as a Caribbean sky. Intelligent, they held his interest until he tracked down to the delicately chiseled nose and the full, lush mouth. Between the bare shoulders and unshod feet she wore a long emerald-colored sarong that set off her rich, golden hair. It reached to her waist, and he wished he could reach out to touch it—touch her. The plaster cast on one arm and the IV board strapped to the other prevented it.

Chairs were impractical in an oceanic vessel’s sick bay, so the woman stood quietly beside his bed, legs spread apart to brace against the ship’s gentle pitching. Jordan found her pose more than just provocative. Botticelli’s Venus rising from the sea couldn’t be any more tempting.

“Do you remember your name?” she asked.

He nodded, moving his head carefully this time, although his gaze never left her, not even for a second.

“Good.” The woman came a bit closer, her hair swinging. “I want you to tell me your name, age, birthday and what day it is. Doctor’s orders,” she said before he could protest against wasting his breath with such stupid questions. “Do you think you’re up to it?”

Actually, Jordan wasn’t sure. He ached all over, and his head felt as if a flock of raucous seagulls were trying to peck their way from the inside out. Still, for another of her brilliant smiles, Jordan would walk on hot coals. He forced his eyes to stay open. He had to see her.

“Jordan Castillo.” His voice was as maddeningly feeble as the rest of his body, and he tried for more volume. “I’m thirty-five—born February 14.”

“An Aquarius, I see. And born on Valentine’s Day.” She smiled again, warming his blood. “And the last date you remember?”

He hesitated, something he almost never did. “I know it’s June. June the…” He frowned, unable to pinpoint the date. The invisible seagulls pecked inside his skull, and he gasped.

“That’s enough,” she said quickly. “Don’t force it.”

“What…” He meant to ask what her name was, but she finished the sentence for him.

“Day is it? June 27. You’ve been here three days. In addition to a broken arm and broken ribs, you had a very nasty skull fracture. And…” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m afraid that you’re now missing your spleen.”

Jordan blinked. No wonder he hurt. “I had surgery?”

“You were bleeding to death. The doctor had no choice. We almost lost you. You were lucky the ship’s doctor is also a skilled surgeon.” A beat, then, “Do you know where you are?”

“I’m at sea.” He sniffed the salty air, almost as heavenly as her enticingly female scent. His seaman’s nose told him his location. “Still in California waters, I’d guess.”

She nodded. “Correct on both counts, Mr. Castillo. You’re aboard a cruise ship. Lucky for you, the captain’s a good friend of mine. The doctor said you’re ready to be moved to a land hospital. Right now, we’re about fifty miles west of San Diego.”

Jordan gave a slight nod. In spite of his physical and mental disorientation, he’d been right. What was that old saying of his father’s?

“You can take a Castillo out of the ocean, but you can’t take the ocean out of a Castillo. Don’t you forget it. It’s in your head, your heart, your very blood.”

She was asking him something. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

“Oh, yeah. Three men. They threw me off the pier.”

The woman nodded.

“And you rescued me.”

“Yes.”

“And then…” His eyes narrowed.

“Then?” she prompted.

“I think I blacked out.” Fatigued, he felt his eyelids drift closed. Abruptly he opened them, unwilling to see her leave. “Are you Ms. Collins?”

She tilted her head, hair glistening at the motion. “Yep. Ordinarily I don’t like being stood up, but in this case, you had a good excuse.”

“We were supposed to meet…at the pier and talk business. You’re a salvager, too.”

“Treasure-hunter, if you will.” Her eyes twinkled. “Of course, I’ve never pulled anything quite like you from the deep before.”

Jordan tried to smile, but couldn’t. The pain hit him again in nauseating waves, along with an overpowering weakness. He didn’t think he could stay awake much longer, but he had questions he desperately wanted answered.

“Your name,” he demanded, pain lending his voice a sharp edge. “Tell me your full name.”

“It’s Aurora Borealis Collins. Do excuse my typically Californian parents and their so-called creativity. They’re accountants now, but they were hippies in their younger days. I usually go by Rory.”

“Rory…” He liked Aurora better.

His eyes started to close despite his best efforts. “I didn’t think the ocean really had mermaids. Or guardian angels.” He sensed rather than saw her amusement.

“No one I know has ever called me angelic.”

The amusement faded when his eyelids fluttered closed. Dammit, I will not pass out.

“Don’t try to talk anymore, Mr. Castillo. The helicopter will be here soon. I’ll be in touch—later.”

“Jordan. My name’s Jordan.”

“Please just rest…Jordan.”

He made one last attempt to open his eyes again, and succeeded. “Not until I’ve thanked you. You saved my life. I owe you.”

“I know. I intend to hold you to that.”

The hairs on the back of Jordan’s neck prickled. Something in her voice sounded as strong as the ocean currents, as immovable as the tides.

“How?” he asked, angry at her vagueness, even angrier at his own weakness.

“Later,” she repeated. “When you’re well.”

She lifted her hand from his shoulder and ran it over his fevered forehead. Her touch was light, soft, cool as an ocean breeze, but sick though he was, Jordan refused to be distracted.

“What’s your price?” Despite the pounding in his head, Jordan shook off her hand. “Tell me.”

He was totally unprepared for her next words.

“The San Rafael.”

Jordan scowled at the mention of the Spanish treasure galleon. His Spanish galleon. “What about her?”

“You’ve been searching for the wreck.”

“Anyone can search. What you need is patience and luck,” he said vaguely, well aware that he hadn’t answered her question—and unwilling to tell her the truth: that he had the patience, but not the luck.

“Ah, but I have both. And I’ve found her. That’s why I wanted a meeting with you. To discuss terms.”

Jordan felt both shock and dismay. The San Rafael was his prize, not anyone else’s. “You couldn’t have.”

“I’ve found her,” the woman repeated, her voice firm.

“No. I would’ve heard about it. I’m her rightful heir, the last of—”

“The Castillos, the Philippines-based Spanish family who built and owned the San Rafael in the early 1800s.”

“How the hell did you learn that?” Jordan asked hoarsely. Ordinarily he would never have let himself be drawn out so easily.

“I know a lot about you, Mr. Castillo.”

“Then you know she’s mine.”

The woman smiled. “Only if you can find her. Which I have.”

Hot anger made Jordan’s already pounding head hurt even more. Could this be true? Could she really have found the San Rafael? The ship held more than just the possibility of treasure. A decade ago, a killer hurricane had widowed all the Castillo wives and left the Castillo children fatherless. Which made the last surviving Castillo male—himself—responsible for their welfare. That Spanish treasure galleon meant the difference between his family’s future and their eventual destruction. It meant enough money to ensure educations for his nieces and nephews. And it meant a resurgence of pride in their family’s name, their family’s history.

How dare this woman claim it as hers?

“I was hoping to interest you in a partnership.”

“Never. The San Rafael is Castillo property, and I’m a Castillo.”

She had the audacity to shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. International salvage laws are basically the same today as they were centuries ago. The courts say if I find it, I keep it.”

“The San Rafael is my property.” Suddenly the sheets and the rails of his bed seemed too confining. Jordan struggled to sit up and failed. “You’ll never claim her,” he gasped, falling back against the pillows.

“You’re wrong. I already have.” She suddenly held a gold coin before his eyes. Not a coin, he saw upon closer inspection, but a gold medallion stamped with a crest—the Castillo family crest. Every salvager’s instinct he possessed cried it was no forgery.

“Where did you get that?” he whispered.

“From the San Rafael, of course.” She flipped the medallion over so he could see the opposite side, the stamped Roman numerals spelling the date 1809. “She belongs to me now. And since I saved your life, so do you.”

For a wild moment, Jordan wondered if he was hallucinating. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. You’re both mine.”

Jordan stared at the conviction in those calm blue eyes. She meant every crazy word. She placed the medallion in the palm of his right hand and gently closed his fingers around it. The gold held the warmth of her body, which mingled with his.

“It’s yours, Jordan Castillo, but since you’re in no position to safeguard it, I will.” Then, as she took back the medallion and made way for the doctor’s approach, he heard her softly add, “For now…”




CHAPTER TWO


U.S.A.–Mexico border, San Ysidro–Tijuana crossing

July 6, 5:20 p.m.

INSIDE HER TRUCK, Aurora swore at the rush-hour traffic, the slow crawl of cars in all twelve lanes, the droning of the radio traffic reporter.

“…We’re talking a thirty-five-minute wait to get across the border, San Diego commuters. Forty-five minutes at the Otay Mesa crossing. Still, it is Friday on a gorgeous July day, and the beaches are waiting. So, be as patient as you can, and while you’re waiting to get home, here’s a message from…”

Aurora impatiently reached for the radio and shut it off, then shoved a strand of blonde back from her sweating face. In this heat, the air-conditioning in any stationary vehicle barely worked at all.

Ordinarily, she’d be at the beach herself, preferably La Jolla Cove, California’s only state diving park. A dive master since her eighteenth birthday twenty years ago, Aurora taught scuba diving to provide herself with a regular income, and speculated on professional salvaging when she could. She used her own ship, Neptune’s Bride, which she docked at Oceanside Harbor. But all of that—her treasure-hunting as well as diving into the cool green of California’s Pacific—had to wait. Tanya, my daring, difficult, wild niece. The trouble you’ve caused us.

Two weeks before Aurora’s scheduled meeting with Jordan Castillo, sixteen-year-old Tanya Atwell had brought a stash of recreational marijuana on the family vacation to Rosarita Beach, Mexico. They’d been stopped at the border by Mexican Customs on a random search, and now Tanya, her father, Gerald, and her mother, Dorian—Aurora’s younger sister—were locked away in separate men’s and women’s jails. Gerald had been transported south to a brand-new facility in Mexico City. Gerald and Dorian had been charged with harboring a “known drug dealer,” while Tanya herself had been charged with “international trafficking.” Tanya’s parents faced a possible twenty-five-year sentence when their case came to trial. Tanya faced life imprisonment—or execution. In Mexico, the Napoleonic Code held that Tanya was guilty until proven innocent, just the opposite of the United States. Worse, Tanya was guilty…and had taken her innocent parents down with her.

Hence Aurora’s trip across the border. Her plan to spring her sister’s family was simple.

She’d get money—lots of money—and grease palms. Not exactly what a good citizen of either country should do, but she’d tried everything else. So had the lawyers and the embassy. I have no choice. Dorian claimed the marijuana was hers, not Tanya’s. Tanya was letting her mother take the blame, while her father—

They were all worried about Gerald. He was being kept in a men’s prison, and neither Aurora nor American consulate staff were allowed to see him. Worse, Dorian and Gerald didn’t speak Spanish, although state law required Tanya to learn it in high school. Dorian and Tanya had been given no news of Gerald. U.S.-Mexico relations were friendly except when it came to the fight against illegal drugs. No smuggler of any nationality crossing the border in either direction was shown mercy. Nor would a sixteen-year-old’s act of rebellion—growing cannabis in laid-back Southern California be excused in Mexico.

Even more of a problem, Gerald’s business—a small but lucrative computer-chip manufacturer—was ripe for the picking by any bigger corporation. Without Gerald to run the business and Dorian to keep the books, funds were tied up and the handful of employees understandably nervous. Aurora had made the last two payrolls from her own bank account. She earned a good living, but her pockets couldn’t hold out forever. There was another payday next week. After that, Aurora would be scraping the bottom of the barrel herself. Sadly, the astronomical legal fees she’d paid out so far had been totally unproductive.

She couldn’t keep the family’s business solvent much longer. She had no money left to salvage the San Rafael on her own, either. But she’d found a single gold medallion at the wreck, and her salvager’s instinct told her there was more. That could mean millions in profit, millions she and Jordan would share—once he agreed to a partnership. The key to your freedom is Jordan Castillo—if I can keep him alive…And if you and Tanya and Gerald will work with me.

Sadly, that was easier said than done. Aurora’s family considered her the proverbial black sheep, and consequently they didn’t have the best relationship.

Following the dictates of her heart, she’d run away from home to join a salvage crew and dive in Florida when she was sixteen. No one had ever forgiven her. Her parents still talked about how she’d broken her mother’s heart and given her father his ulcer those two years before she turned eighteen and finally visited them.

“Too many bad memories,” fifteen-year-old Dorian had taken pleasure in telling Aurora back then. “Phone calls to and from the police, the FBI, relatives, your friend Donna. Mom said she can’t bear to look at the old place—let alone celebrate your eighteenth birthday. You don’t deserve a party, they said, and I agree. Bad enough I end up with Mom and Dad becoming my jailers after you ran away. Now I lose my house, thanks to you! And maybe my friends and my school.”

“What?” Aurora hadn’t believed her parents could sell the family home.

“They’re talking about leaving California for good. This is all your fault.” The bitterness in Dorian’s voice had taken Aurora by surprise.

Their parents hadn’t even waited until Dorian graduated from high school before selling the family home to the first decent bidder and moving into a rented condo.

“Dorian, I never meant to hurt you,” Aurora had said during that shocking conversation.

“You’re off on some grand adventure while I’m here with Mom and Dad. All they talk about is you. Finding you, missing you, wondering about you. I’m nothing. It’s all your fault. And now that they’ve found you, they can’t stand to see you. They want to move to Arizona. Do you know how far away Arizona is?”

“Dori, I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

“You didn’t even tell me goodbye,” Dorian had sobbed. “Some sister you are, Aurora. I hate you! I wish you’d never come back.”

The relationship between the sisters hadn’t improved as the years went on. Their parents did move to Arizona, leaving Dorian at a California college, living in a dorm. When Dorian got married, Aurora had been out at sea, unable to return for the swiftly arranged wedding—something else Dorian held against her. The same had occurred with Tanya’s birth. Then, to everyone’s horror, Tanya grew up resenting her mother’s unrelenting bitterness over Aurora’s effect on her life.

Tanya felt neglected by her own mother, and became a rebellious, angry teen who couldn’t be managed. At every attempt to correct her behavior, she replied, “I’m going to be just like Aurora. She did what she wanted when she was sixteen, and I intend to do the same.”

Dorian had convinced herself and her parents that Aurora’s bad example was the cause of Tanya’s problems. Gerald had tried to make peace, saying Tanya’s behavior should be blamed on Tanya herself, not Aurora. That had caused more strain in the family and the marriage in particular.

Finally Aurora had decided to stay away from them all, save for birthdays and holidays—and then only if she was invited. Her parents made new friends in Arizona, Dorian and Gerald closed ranks, Tanya was forbidden to associate with her aunt, and Aurora had sadly realized that her need for independence would continue to cost her dearly.

I don’t care, she told herself daily. If I had it to do over again, I would. She’d known how she wanted to spend her life since she’d first learned to swim. When opportunity came, she’d begged her parents to let her join the Florida salvage team—a group of divers she’d met at a dive site she frequented in those days. They’d refused. She knew she might never have another chance like this; she knew she was ready.

Mom and Dad saw me as a child, but even then I was an adult. I was sure what I wanted. After all these years, why can’t they understand that? Or at least forgive me? Must they spend the rest of their lives blaming me for all the family’s problems?

I love them. I always have. And now I’ll probably be blamed for Tanya’s ending up in jail. And everyone wonders why I keep to myself.

But this was one time she couldn’t run away—one time she couldn’t ignore her ties to family.

I’m the only one left to help—if I can.

Tijuana Women’s

Jail One hour later

THE RADIO STATION blared Spanish rush-hour reports as Aurora pulled into the bumpy, potholed parking lot at the women’s prison. Dirty diapers and ant-covered fast-food wrappers littered the ground, while rusting vehicles of dubious colors crowded the lot. Aurora climbed out of her shiny, late-model truck with her diving and salvage-service logo and phone number painted on the sides. She carefully locked the doors, but as added insurance held a five-dollar bill in the air. Instantly she was surrounded by a swarming horde of Mexican boys of various ages and sizes.

Aurora let the largest of the bunch push his way through, and gave him the money. “Another five if I come out and my truck is still safe,” she said in smooth, California-school Spanish.

“Sí, señora—señorita,” the boy correctly substituted, obviously noticing no wedding ring on Aurora’s finger. “Truck, tires, all safe,” he said in English.

“Antenna and windshield wipers, too,” Aurora added, pushing through the throng of clamoring children. She gave the smaller children a sad smile. Their ragged clothes, dirty bare feet and extremely thin bodies wrenched at her every time. Her heart went out to them. Still, her priority right now had to be her sister, her sister’s family, and their misfortunes—especially with her bank account emptying fast.

Her truck’s Mexican guard snapped out a curt order, and the ragtag bunch of children reluctantly moved away, their dirty, tugging hands leaving smudges on her clean jeans as well as her truck.

Authorities frisking her for weapons and other contraband left more smudges. Aurora went through what had become her Friday-afternoon routine over the past two months, and was finally shown to Dorian and Tanya’s cell. There were no fancy visiting areas to those awaiting trial—just the smell of sweat, urine and fear from both sides of the bars. In fact, Mexican prisoners weren’t allowed out of their cells to visit, the way they were at home.

“Aurora!’ Dorian called out. Aurora rushed to the cell for a hug, despite the bars between them, as her sister asked, “Have you got any news of Gerald?” Dorian ignored Rory’s outstretched arms.

“Nothing yet, but—”

Dorian began to cry, cutting her off. “You promised you’d help.”

“I’m working on it, but it takes time.”

“How much time?” Dorian demanded, her voice starting to break.

“Well…”

“Mom, knock it off,” Tanya ordered. “We can’t hear her talk if you’re bawling again.”

Aurora looked over her sister’s shoulder to her niece. Blond, blue-eyed, pretty—and ever the cynic. Full of teenage attitude. Tanya took after neither of her dark-eyed, dark-haired parents with their law-abiding ways.

“Tanya, please. How are you two holding up?” Aurora asked. She tried to stroke Dorian’s shaking shoulders through the bars, but Dorian pulled away.

“How does it look, Rory?” Tanya defiantly refused to call her aunt. “I’m dirty, my hair’s a mess, the food stinks. I need a cigarette and my mother’s a nervous wreck.” Tanya gently drew Dorian away from the bars, led her to the prison cot to sit. “Wipe your nose, Mom. You look gross.”

Aurora compared the two women as Tanya passed Dorian a piece of questionable-looking toilet tissue from a roll on the concrete floor.

Dorian was tired and far too thin, despite Aurora’s regular deliveries of Dorian’s favorite nonperishable foods. Today she’d brought a bag of trail mix, some juice boxes and chocolate bars, which Tanya grabbed eagerly. Dorian wore a defeatist attitude along with her ill-fitting prison jumpsuit. Tanya, on the other hand, seemed more than just fine. She was actually thriving amid the adversity.

Tanya’s tough—but tough enough to survive life in prison? She’s hard enough to love as it is. What would prison do to that small, remaining lovable part?

Tanya wrapped a thin gray blanket around her mother’s still-shaking shoulders and patted them before returning to the bars.

“Mom needs news about Dad, and better food. She can’t keep down the prison slop. Nerves, I guess.”

“My nerves are just fine,” Dorian said.

“And rodents get into the dry stuff you bring, and she won’t eat it. I’ve made arrangements with her—” Tanya jerked her stubborn chin in the direction of the female guard. “She’s got a sick kid at home. You give her fifty now and twenty a week—and she’ll give Mom more food, extra blankets, stuff like that.”

Aurora gazed into eyes that reminded her so much of her own. “I see that sophomore Spanish course stuck with you.”

“Despite failing it?” Tanya asked flippantly.

“Grades aren’t the only indicator of intelligence,” Aurora replied.

“And what about being in jail, Tanya?” Dorian threw in. “How smart is that?”

For just a moment, Tanya looked like a little girl, then she was herself again. “Shut up, Mom. So, what’s the deal? Any news from the lawyers? Or are they still milking you dry? You know I’ve got registration next month. It’s my junior year.”

“You hope, kid.”

Tanya swore, the ugly expletive at odds with her pretty mouth. “You don’t have everything arranged yet?”

“The lawyers can’t get you out of jail. Neither can the U.S. embassy. You have to go to trial. They’re still working on getting access to the bank funds, but I’m having problems with the power of attorney. And I’m running out of money because I’ve been making your parents’ payroll.”

“But I thought you told me Jordan Castillo was our ticket out of here,” Dorian cried.

“I said maybe, sis. And he can’t do us any good if he’s dead. Someone’s trying to kill him. I—”

Tanya interrupted to swear again, but this time with more color and graphic description. Aurora felt her own temper rise.

“I’m doing my best. And skip the tough-girl act with me, Tanya,” Aurora spat out. “I was on my own and self-supporting when I was sixteen. And I didn’t end up in jail, either.”

“Yawn, big-time,” Tanya drawled.

“Sorry you find me so dull, but frankly, I’m tired of your mouth. To be perfectly honest, my sister is my first concern, then her husband. You—Miss Gutless Wonder—are at the bottom of my list. Using and smuggling drugs, then letting your mother take the blame, doesn’t impress me one little bit.”

“So I should shut up and listen?” Tanya asked, pantomiming a yawn this time.

“Exactly. Now here’s my plan.”

Aurora gave a detailed and methodical explanation, starting with how she’d found the treasure galleon Jordan Castillo wanted. She practically held the diving rights in her hand. U.S. waters extended twelve miles west, stopped at the Canadian border to the north and ended at the Mexican Coronado Islands to the south. Any waters beyond those boundaries were classified as international. Salvage laws were basically “finders, keepers,” and the finders merely had to register their claims. Aurora hadn’t yet filed her claim; maintaining the location’s secrecy had prevented her from taking that step so far. Once Jordan agreed to a partnership she would register.

“So you think you’ll get enough to bribe our way out?” Dorian asked.

“That’s the plan, if Jordan Castillo stays alive,” Aurora said. “He should be getting out of the hospital next week.”

“You’ve got yourself a job and a half,” Tanya said, checking her mother again before turning back to Aurora. “Do you really think there’s treasure on the ship?” The teen’s cynical expression actually revealed some excitement.

“Yeah, or I wouldn’t have been able to find the one piece I did so easily. There are no records of the San Rafael being salvaged by the early Spanish—the water’s far too deep for prescuba. Any deeper and it would almost be too much for modern diving.”

Tanya’s hands clenched tighter on the bars. “But you did it, Rory. You found the ship. I know you can find more money.”

“Bullion,” she corrected. “If it’s there. That’s my job. Yours is to talk to that guard with the sick baby and learn the going rate for escape bribes. The lawyers can’t do any more until your trial, and they said your conviction is a given, despite Dorian’s trying to take the blame for you. See if the guard has any connections that could get us information on your father, too.”

“Oh, Rory, I wish I was going with you.”

“Home, or treasure-driving?” Aurora asked, and Tanya flushed. “Get your priorities straight, you little fool.” Aurora patted her back jeans pocket. “I’ve got a hundred dollars you can give to your friend here. Get my sister eating—and get her another blanket. While you’re at it, ask for a bucket and soap and clean up this cell. Anything happens to her, Tanya, and—”

“I know, I know, you hold me responsible.”

“More than that. I leave you here to rot.”

Tanya blanched. “You…you aren’t serious.”

“You bet I am.” Aurora’s eyes narrowed. “You might be able to push your parents around, but when it comes to me—forget it. You accept blame for the drugs and get your parents out of jail, I do everything I can for you. You keep hiding your head in the sand…then you and Dorian are a package deal. She gets a guilty sentence, you go down with her. Your father gets a guilty sentence, you go down with him. If either one of them dies of illness, then vaya con Dios and adiòs, amiga.”

“You coldhearted bitch!” Tanya’s face was harsh and ugly.

“She’d do it, too, Tanya. She always does what she says, ever since she was a kid.” Dorian’s gaze held un-spoken animosity mingled with despair.

“You’re old enough to know right from wrong,” Aurora said. “Better only one of you in jail than all three. Take care of my sister—or else.” Aurora deliberately moved away from Tanya, and injected a pleasant note in her voice as she addressed her sister. “Dori, I have to go. I’ll be back in a week or so, okay?” Dorian slowly nodded, the animosity gone. The prison allowed only weekly visits, and Aurora needed to come up with more cash.

She slowly pivoted and cautiously approached the guard. “You look after my sister and her child,” she said quietly in Spanish, “and my American dollars will look after you and your niño.”

Aurora quickly tucked her cash in the woman’s un-buttoned uniform-shirt pocket. The guard carefully buttoned it, the money safely inside.

“Niña. Es una niña,” she said.

“Ah, sí. Nombre?”

“Guadalupe.”

“Lupe es una nombre bonita. Muy bonita.”

“Gracias.” A tender smile transformed the guard’s plain, lined face above her name tag, which read simply, Olivia.

Aurora headed for the exit and switched to English. “Let’s hope your daughter turns out better than my niece. And doesn’t carry grudges from the past like her mother does. Goodbye, ladies.”

For once, neither Tanya nor Dorian had a thing to say. Silence followed Aurora out of the gloomy jail and into the blinding Mexican sun.

THE MOB OF CHILDREN assailed her as she stepped out the door, only to be driven away by a harsh command from her truck’s hired guard. He hurried up to meet her, gesturing toward her undamaged truck.

“All okay, señorita. Not broken. Wipers, tires, you look.”

Aurora looked, walking around the truck. “Cómo se llama?” she asked.

“Roberto. Roberto Ortega. I speak English. Buen inglés. You said diez dólares if truck safe. You owe me cinco.”

Aurora nodded, and paid him a second five. She unlocked the door, got in and then paused. Those damn lawyers haven’t helped one bit. I’ve gone through all the conventional channels. Time to start using the unconventional ones. “I have a problem,” she said with sudden inspiration. “I could use some help—and I’m willing to pay.”

Roberto straightened. “I am your hombre, señorita.”

Aurora switched back to Spanish, and told him about Dorian’s missing husband, about Dorian and Tanya. “I need information about her esposo, Gerald Atwell. You get it to me, and to the guard inside, and I’ll pay you. Ten now, ten later.”

“Fifty later,” Roberto said, haggling in Mexico’s time-honored tradition. Rory, thinking of her diminishing bank account, determinedly haggled back.

“Twenty more.”

“Forty.”

“Thirty.”

“Sí.” Aurora removed a business card, along with another ten. “Call me at this number. Collect. Is there a number I can get from you?”

“My friend works at a carneceria—how do you say, a meat store?” Phone numbers were exchanged. He studied the side of her truck. “What does this say?” he asked, pointing.

Aurora translated her logo into the appropriate Spanish.

“I dive, too,” Roberto said proudly. “With tanks, without tanks. I dive for lobster, crab, shellfish. You need help on your boat?”

You don’t know the half of it, Roberto. Aurora shrugged, the noncommittal Mexican response.

“I help you find this man, you hire me? Take me to San Diego? Sponsor my carta verde? Be my sponsor for citizenship?”

Green card? Sponsor? Since she was a business owner, that was theoretically possible, but Aurora already had enough on her hands. She couldn’t possibly take the time to get a Mexican citizen a work permit, let alone sponsor him for American citizenship. The boy didn’t even look eighteen! She shook her head.

“Please, I get this man out of jail for you, you hire me?”

Out of jail? Aurora paused. She’d planned to bribe the guards, not the self-appointed parking-lot attendant. The boy—no, he was a man, despite his youth—made her reconsider. “How old are you?”

“Diez y siete.”

Seventeen. So young. “I don’t want any trouble,” she said in Spanish.

Roberto nodded. “La inmigración, la policía, no trouble if you know which ones like extra dinero. I will see. I will soon be eighteen. With a carta verde, I can apply for California residence for my familia..”

She hesitated. Mexico’s immigration and police departments were nothing like her country’s organizations. And she knew virtually nothing about the young man before her. “I don’t know you well enough to hire you. I only hire skilled workers,” she said. “People I can trust.”

Roberto flushed an angry red. “You don’t believe I am skilled? Or I can dive?” He pointed to her black plastic dive watch. “Watch.” Roberto took in a deep breath, and held it. And held it. And held it.

In amazement, Aurora watched the digital seconds go higher and higher and higher. When Roberto finally gasped for breath almost four minutes later, lifting his chin high in triumph, Aurora blinked at the numbers on her watch.

“I dive deep. Like dolphins. Like whales,” he said. “I catch plenty lobsters.”

Aurora whistled. Even she couldn’t hold her breath that long. “I believe you.”

“Then—believe this. I will help you get your familia out of jail. When I do, you hire me. I come to California with them and you sponsor my green card.” Roberto pulled out a worn work rag from his pocket, carefully wiped his right hand, then thrust it out. “We shake. Deal?”

Aurora shook his hand. “Deal,” she said. “For now, you help me find Gerald Atwell. And then…we’ll see what I can do.”

WHEN SHE’D DRIVEN BACK to San Diego, she made her second stop of the day, at the office of a good friend. “Donna Diamond, Private Investigator” was also Donna Padierezsky, a Navy veteran who’d left Naval Intelligence Services for a private career in San Diego.

Donna’s office was modern, her tools were high-tech and her sense of humor, so necessary in a job like hers, showed in her pseudonym.

“Hey, I can’t have clients calling me at home or knowing where I live,” she explained once. “Plus, I want something clients can spell when they write out my check. Even the bank messes up on Padierezsky.”

Donna was presently searching for Jordan’s attackers—and would-be murderers. The women were old dive buddies, and Donna insisted on working for free. She’d asked Aurora to swing by the office after her prison visit. Donna’s very feminine looks—black curls, attractive face and petite body—led many to overlook her keen mind, a fact she often turned to her advantage. She had drinks and take-out food waiting as Aurora entered.

“Come and take a load off. Chow’s here too, Rory,” Donna said without preamble, her manner as brisk and no-nonsense as it had been in the Navy. “How’s Dorian?”

“She looks terrible. Tanya’s still full of herself,” Aurora said.

“Figures. Here.” Donna passed Rory a set of finely designed, jade-inlaid lacquered chopsticks she’d picked up while on duty in Japan, and a box of Chinese takeout. “You can fill me in while we eat. I want to hear everything.”

Aurora did as requested, describing her time at the prison.

“And you actually told Tanya you’d leave her there?” Donna asked as Aurora finished her story.

“Yeah. Not that I would—but I needed to get through to her somehow. So much for tough love. I guess scare tactics weren’t the best solution. She doesn’t scare. And Dorian didn’t approve of me threatening her baby chick.”

“Baby chick, my Aunt Fanny. You should send that child off to boot camp. If she ever gets out of Mexico,” Donna said bluntly. “Her parents can’t handle her, that’s for sure. Why don’t you take her in?”

“I’ve offered, but Dorian won’t hear of it and Gerald doesn’t want to admit failure.”

“They’d both better admit it, now,” Donna replied. “Speaking of Gerald, I haven’t been able to get a message to him at all. If only he’d been arrested for theft, or pimping…even murder—”

“Donna, please.”

“—I’d have a chance. But drugs…” Donna shook her head. “Makes it difficult when it comes to cooperation across the border.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve given up on the lawyers. As far as I can tell, bribery is the only way to help Dorian and Gerald.”

“If you get the money off Castillo,” Donna murmured.

“But you said he was solvent!”

“Solvent, yes. Able to fund a salvage operation based on his record and using his own boat as collateral, yes. But as for coming up with hard cash right now…I don’t know. Are you running low on funds?”

“Rock-bottom low.”

“I don’t know, Rory,” Donna said again. “You may be throwing good money after bad, and you can’t spare it.” Donna knew that Aurora had been financing the Atwell Computer Company’s staff salaries.

“What else can I do? Tanya certainly isn’t going to confess.”

“Even if she does, it’s probably too late now.”

Rory nodded. “So we’re back to bribery. And that’s why I need to strike a bargain with Jordan. I know where the San Rafael is. Jordan doesn’t. But—as I happen to know from your research—he has the money to salvage. I don’t. This could be a match made in heaven. I’m guessing it shouldn’t be difficult to come to an agreement.”

Donna’s eyes narrowed. “It will be, Rory, if someone ends up killing him. I’ve checked with the police. I know you cooperated fully with the investigation, but they’ve got nada. Jordan didn’t have much to say on the subject, either. From what I gather, he’s as confused as we are regarding a motive. You’re the only person who knows about the galleon—and you need him alive to salvage it. He’s been lucky so far, but who knows if that luck will hold?”

Aurora’s blood ran cold. She was back on that deserted beach, watching Jordan Castillo fight for his life. “Yeah, I know. Still, he’s okay now. Thank heaven I was there.” She paused, frowning. “If only we knew the ship’s pay-load.”

That drew a tiny smile from Donna. “Can’t help you there. I never had a course in Spanish galleon booty with the N.I.S.” Her smile faded. “That’s the least of our worries. Good thing ‘lucky’ seems to be Jordan’s middle name.”

“I’m so glad Neil was in the right place in the right time. He even had a fancy surgeon on his fancy cruise ship,” Aurora added. Neil’s doctor had given up on trauma practice after burning out and fled to the usually tamer position of ship’s general practice doctor.

“How is my old Navy buddy, anyway? Is the good captain still playing big brother?”

“My family and friends are forever trying to run my life. I wish you’d marry him and get him out of my hair. You two have been dating forever.”

Donna drummed her nails on her desk. “I can’t see myself barefoot, pregnant and making cookies for school bake sales.”

“Don’t forget giving up your job. Neil says it’s too dangerous. Says mine is too dangerous. Everything is too dangerous for women, according to him.”

“Old traditions die hard, especially when it comes to women. That’s why I got out of the Navy. You know, Rory, maybe you should make a play for him.”

“Just what a good marriage needs—two captains. On different ships, yet. And I can’t see myself housebound and making cookies, either. No, thanks. I’m been on my own too long to be good wife material.”

“Shame. All that cruise-ship ambience wasted. He’s a nice guy, too.”

“No argument there. I’m grateful he helped save Jordan. Thank God for cell phones.” She’d borrowed one from emergency personnel and used it to call Neil.

“So Captain Harris stopped a whole cruise ship on your say-so?”

“No, he stopped it because I’m a personal friend of yours. The man’s insane about you.”

Donna sighed. “Why can’t I find a modern man insane about me? Instead of a traditional, overprotective—”

“I’ve got a better question,” Aurora interrupted. “Why can’t the police find Jordan’s attackers?”

Donna tapped her chopsticks on the edge of her white carton. “I’m working on it. I’ve got some people keeping an eye on Castillo, too…a few of my Navy buddies and a cop who owes me a favor. They’re taking turns.”

“Appreciate it, Donna. You make sure you run a tab on this. I can’t pay you now, but you know I’m good for it.”

Donna waved her hand in the air. “Hey, I already told you—forget it. You gave me free diving and boating privileges. I’m happy to return the favor. And from a purely selfish point of view, a treasure ship is an exciting change of pace.”

“The Mexican jail isn’t.” For a moment Aurora’s spirits dropped. Despite her sister’s old resentments and her niece’s arrogance, Aurora loved them both. And Gerald had shown her more kindness than her blood relations ever had. “How did things get so screwed up?”

Donna took her hand for the briefest squeeze. “We’ll get them out, Rory. You’ll see.”

“God, I hope so.”

“We will.” Donna dug into her carton, the black and jade of the chopsticks gracefully moving. “Pass the sweet-and-sour, would you?”




CHAPTER THREE


San Diego

July 29, 8:00 a.m.

IN THE SAN DIEGO hotel room he’d occupied since his release from the hospital, Jordan stood before the mirror, carefully studying his naked body.

He wasn’t vain about his rugged good looks or the hard muscles most men would kill to have. Too many generations of hardworking Castillo fishermen, too many years as a risk-taking seafarer, ran in his blood for vanity, but Jordan did value his strength. The ages-old cliché was no cliché to him: he truly believed the sea was a harsh mistress who discarded weak lovers with cruel disregard for life and limb. Jordan Castillo loved life as much as he loved the ocean-faring lifestyle. He planned to hold on to both, which was why he stood naked in the hotel bathroom, carefully appraising himself.

Most, if not all, of his vigor had returned, although he was still a little underweight. He could see the slight loss of mass in the broad shoulders and rock-hard pectorals that had spent a lifetime hauling nets, fish, anchors and treasure from the ocean.

He frowned. Furrows appeared above the dark brown eyes and beneath the mahogany hair. He made a mental note to keep on top of his weight, intending to regain the missing bulk soon. You never knew when that last ounce of strength could mean the difference between life and death.

The San Diego sun had quickly replaced the white pallor of an invalid with his usual tan. His skin glowed with health. The arm that had been broken wasn’t his dominant one. Thankfully both it and his skull had healed well. The doctor promised there’d be no permanent aftereffects, though his arm remained a little stiff, and his memory of the attack and afterward was still hazy. Once he left his hotel and got back to work, he’d be himself again. Unfortunately, his ship, the Lucky Lady, and his crew, had berthed in Atlantic waters for a much needed engine overhaul. Jordan never stinted on safety; however, the timing left much to be desired.

Jordan gave himself one last look in the mirror before pulling on a shirt. The scar from his recent surgery was red and puckered, but it would eventually smooth and fade like the scar from the knife fight on a dark Portuguese dock, or the raking lines on his shoulder from a broken beer bottle at a rowdy Cuban bar. There were other scars, too, like those from his close call at the San Diego pier. All were now a permanent part of his body and soul.

Jordan’s lips curved slightly upward as he stepped into his Speedo bottoms, then jeans. The scars would effectively keep him off the cover of any male swimsuit issue. Not that he cared one iota or ever had. Jordan was his own man, with his own set of rules, his own code of honor. Scars came with the territory.

During the passing years, the sea had held his undivided attention—until that night at the pier. Until Aurora Collins had saved his life with her beautiful lips against his mouth. He’d tried to contact her, but was told she was south of the border. Where in Mexico, and what was she doing there? And what had she done with the Castillo gold medallion? The woman had vanished, and with her, the location of his ship.

In the hospital, Jordan had cooperated with the police. They’d assured him Aurora had done the same, but Jordan wanted to speak to her himself. Once discharged, he’d made inquiries about Aurora Collins and the cruise ship on which he’d initially been treated. Even though San Diego was to ships what New York City was to taxis, he’d found her own ship, Neptune’s Bride, and the cruise ship easily enough, with the help of police reports. However, the cruise ship was on a San Diego-to-Mexico run, and was then sailing south to Venezuela. Aurora herself was down in Mexico, traveling by land, not sea.

The police, who hadn’t found any trace of his attackers or any witness, told him he was lucky to be alive, and suggested chalking up his experiences to yet another unsolved big-city crime. That left him with scars, a hospital bill and a lot of unanswered questions.

Jordan knew one thing. He needed to find Aurora Collins before he could get back to business—back to finding the San Rafael.

I will find the San Rafael.

His vow had been made ten years ago, when he left the family fishing business forever—or what was left of it after a hurricane moved up the coast to New England and sank the Castillo fishing fleet, and killed the Castillo family crew. All the men were gone. Except him.

Jordan had managed to cling to the wreckage for two days in hurricane-force winds and waves. His father, his grandfather and two older brothers, along with uncles and cousins, were buried in the Atlantic waters they’d loved so well. Their resting place was fitting, even honorable, although not all the widows and younger children had seen it as such.

After Jordan’s recovery, he and his fiancée, Maureen, had attended the memorial service. Maureen had wept; Jordan had remained dry-eyed. He loved his family passionately and grieved for the dead, but they, like him, knew the risks.

When Jordan later told Maureen the family’s plans, his fiancée was shocked. The majority of the Castillos wanted to use part of the life-insurance payments to buy another ship so Jordan could go back to sea. They would start out with a single salvage ship and move their base of operations to Florida. Salvaging paid good money. Those profits would be used to fund a new Boston fishing fleet sometime in the distant future. Right now, there was neither the cash nor the manpower for more than that. The Castillos were a long-time fishing family; it was their enterprise, their way of life, and eventually they would rebuild. But not yet…

Maureen had become hysterical. “You saw your family die! You nearly died yourself. And you want to go back to fishing?”

“Salvaging,” he’d corrected. “We’re going to buy a salvager, not a trawler.”

“Fishing for treasure, fishing for fish…what’s the difference?”

“I’m the last adult male Castillo. I have an obligation to the family. Without my family to crew, I can’t run a fishing fleet, and to be honest, I don’t have the will for it right now. But I can run a single-boat salvage operation. The payoff could support us all. In ten years or so my nephews—and nieces, if they wish—will be old enough to work our own boats again.”

“Jordan, you’re only twenty-five. That’s young enough to try something new.”

“The ocean is all I know.”

“Do something else,” she’d begged. “Let your family do something else.”

“It’s all I want. All we want.”

“Want something else.”

Jordan knew what he felt inside. Never.

“I won’t have it, Jordan, do you hear me? I won’t sit and wait to hear if you’ve survived another storm at sea. I did it once. I can’t do it again.”

“But, sweetheart…”

“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me! I can’t live that way any more than your mother could. I won’t be one of these widows here.”

Jordan had winced. His mother had hated the sea with a vengeance. Maureen swore that the stress of being married to a seaman had caused her early death. Perhaps it had, but her husband had made no secret about his life or his intentions.

“She knew who she was marrying,” he’d said.

“You’ll have to decide who you love more, Jordan, me or some stupid boat,” Maureen had screamed. “You can’t have us both.”

“Can’t I?”

“No.”

Jordan remembered how his indifference had actually frightened her. Her hand covering her mouth, she’d backed away from him. Jordan had left Maureen without a glance.

The women in his family had tried to explain his situation to Maureen. Castillo survival depended on Castillo money. U.S. insurance companies rarely insured boats older than thirty years. The family had bought insurance only for the crew and the business itself; this was not unusual. The insurance money they’d received could only last so long. It certainly wouldn’t cover a new fleet. Besides living expenses, it had paid for just one salvage boat. Jordan was gambling on a high-stakes return to reestablish the fishing fleet some time in the future.

In the ten subsequent years, Jordan Castillo’s salvage business had prospered. He’d successfully recovered both modern and ancient cargo. He’d helped support his family’s widows and put money aside to send his nieces and nephews to school. But as for restoring the family fleet, it hadn’t happened. One boat was all he could afford with the family’s support a necessary drain on his profits. His nephews were still too young to crew, for him or anyone else. Restoring the fleet remained his—their—dream.

It could happen if he found a Spanish treasure galleon. This particular vessel, the San Rafael, was special. Although most Spanish treasure galleons like the San Rafael had been built in the Philippines, and the ships all sailed from the Philippines to the New World’s gold fields and then to Spain, the obvious similarities ended there.

The San Rafael was one of the few privately owned treasure galleons. The king and queen of Spain didn’t own her, and no Spanish nobility held investing shares. Jordan himself had the papers to prove that his ancestors, the Castillos, were the sole owners of the San Rafael.

The Castillo family had settled first in Manila, later in San Diego. After the end of the Spanish New World galleon routes in the late 1700s, the Castillos stayed in business with privately funded ships. They established stable businesses in both locations long before 1809, when the San Rafael went down in a sudden storm. The ship sank somewhere off California’s cold, turbulent waters.

The Castillos, along with many others, had tried to find it and had finally given up the elusive, often expensive search. Eventually, the ruined family, stranded far from Spain, booked passage on other ships. The older men went home. The younger men sailed west around the Cape of Good Hope to the lucrative lands in Florida and America’s East Coast. A few die-hard treasure-hunters sailed south to Brazil and Colombia, back to their once-lucrative gold and emerald mines. As for finding the family galleon, all considered it a lost cause. Except for Jordan, who would never give up.

There the galleon remained, its exact location unknown for almost two centuries. To him, the quest for the San Rafael was more than a quest for riches. He cared nothing for personal fame or fortune. His salvage operation earned enough for his family’s immediate needs and kept three generations of Castillos solvent. Whatever was left, he preferred to use for his salvage ship and crew, not himself.

Gold had never been the sole object of his search. The San Rafael was also his personal quest for ancestors, the family heritage of years gone by. Someday, when Jordan had children, he wanted them not only to know their family history; he wanted them to own a piece of it. For the existing Castillo children who now had no fathers, he considered this a sacred charge.

Jordan wanted tangible evidence that his family had left their mark on the world. While fishing was an honest way of life, it had become unprofitable. The polluted, overfished seas annually yielded less and less, and had, in revenge, taken back everything three generations of Castillos had owned, including the lives of their men.

Jordan hoped the recovery of the San Rafael might change the family in ways not dependent on bars of silver or gold ropes studded with precious jewels. He hoped to give them back pride—pride in loving the ocean, enough pride that perhaps the younger children, male and female alike, might follow in his footsteps, as he and his brothers had followed in their father’s, and his father’s before him. Right now, the ocean had left the children only a legacy of bitterness and loss.

The sea owed those Castillo children. The sea owed him.

Missing were his grandfather’s mementos from the very first Castillo fishing trawler. The pictures of his mother and father’s wedding. Seashells that had been Jordan’s and his brothers’ trophies as children. His grand-father’s favorite fishing pole that had been passed down to him. Of his departed family, he had only two mementos left—the new Bible the chaplain had given him at the funeral with the names of the dead carefully inked in front, and the granite tombstones back in Boston.

Not much of a legacy to pass on. He needed more. A rusted cannonball or a barnacled piece of wood from the San Rafael would do for a start. Maybe a simple gold medallion with the Castillo family crest.

If only he could find the San Rafael. He’d searched many times, but without success. It was an impossible quest, unless the beautiful woman who had his medallion had told the truth.

He reached for the paper torn from the hotel notepad, with the phone number he’d scribbled on it. “A.C. back from Mexico tomorrow. Call to set up meeting.”

I need to find the woman who claims to own my ship. And me.




CHAPTER FOUR


Oceanside Harbor, Oceanside, California

July 30, 11:30 a.m.

ABOARD HER DOCKED SHIP, Neptune’s Bride, Aurora mopped the sweat from her forehead and descended the ladder belowdecks for a drink. She lifted the hinged door of the lazareet, the space between decks used for storage, and pulled out a bottled water.

Despite the sun’s heat, she’d finished her chores aboard the sixty-foot salvage vessel, which was both her home and her place of business. She had no regular crew, preferring to hire on favorites from the freelance pool of deckhands who worked the harbor. Since freeing Dorian and her family were a priority, Aurora remained docked and the only one on board. She would take no other jobs, hire no other crew…

Until she signed with Jordan Castillo. This would be their first meeting since his assault. I’m glad Donna offered to arrange this second meeting. No sense letting Jordan’s attackers, whoever they are, find him. Or me.

Aurora stowed the last of her cleaning supplies. Taking her water bottle, she headed for the captain’s cabin to wash up. To the casual observer, her surroundings seemed basic, almost spartan. On closer inspection, one noticed the rich brown teak of the charting table picked up in the West Indies, the darker black-brown polished cherry wood of the captain’s desk from Newport News, the mahogany frame of the bunk from the Bahamas and the beautifully streaked cocobola chest from Hawaii. To Aurora, Nature provided its own grace and style.

After taking a quick but thorough sponge bath, she reached for a fresh bikini and a calf-length sundress, which, for her, represented more formal attire. Vivid in color yet utilitarian in its design for boaters, the sundress was appropriate for business in laid-back Southern California. Her kind of business, anyway.

Aurora perched on the edge of the teak table to unbraid her hair and brush it out, then put on a touch of pink lip gloss with sunscreen and rubbed sunblock on her face and shoulders. Sailors these days protected themselves against the sun, unlike the old seadogs, navigators, seafarers and mariners who allowed themselves to burn.

He’s an attractive man, she thought suddenly. I’m going to have to be careful to stay on a business footing with him.

There had been very few special men in her life. One she’d almost married, but in the end she couldn’t bring herself to follow through. He’d wanted her to settle in the suburbs of San Diego and have children—and Aurora didn’t. That had been years ago. She dated occasionally, but the men in her life were buddies and pals from the harbor, like Neil Harris, not soul mates or lovers. Aurora finally admitted the truth. She found the ocean more fascinating than any human being she’d ever met, and with her ingrained sense of justice, couldn’t see herself as a homebound spouse to anyone. She preferred being her own boss; unfortunately, most men wanted it otherwise. And yet, she couldn’t help being fascinated by Jordan Castillo.

Aurora headed back to the deck and glanced at her watch. If he was like most sailors who lived their lives based on the tides, he’d be prompt or even early.

Early it is. She recognized him as he parked his car in front of “P” dock, and walked toward the locked gate that led to the row of vessels. She hurried down to meet him.

“Ms. Collins?” he asked, the wire mesh and bars between them.

“Call me Rory,” she said, opening the gate. “Any trouble finding the place?”

“None at all.”

He passed through and they walked down the ramp to the slip—the long, concrete ramp where boats were maneuvered into U-shaped docking areas and secured to metal cleats with thick ropes.

“I’m down here on the right. Watch your step,” she warned as they approached her vessel. “I’ve got a sloppy neighbor.” Most boat owners were obsessively neat, either through years of habit as military Navy or Coast Guard personnel, or through a healthy respect for the sea’s massive power. Her aft neighbor—loud, obnoxious, and a weekend beer-guzzler—wasn’t.

“He never coils his lines,” she complained, automatically bending and reaching for the messy pile of rope and coiling it into a tight, flat circle. “And he still trips over them even when I do it for him.” She wrinkled her nose at the smell from half-empty beer cans left open and stinking on the deck. She poured them out, saying, “Hold on a sec while I run these to the recycle bin. It’s just outside the gate.”

“I’m surprised Harbor Patrol hasn’t ticketed him.” Jordan’s contempt came through loud and clear as he watched her hurry to the end of the slip.

“They have,” she called back, her voice carrying easily over the water. “He pays the tickets and keeps on drinking. Sooner or later he’ll get the boot. Until then…I’m stuck with a weekend slip-neighbor from hell. We don’t care for each other much.”

“You’re really packed in tight, too,” Jordan said. The concrete boarding area between the crafts was only a yard wide. He could touch the side of both vessels at once if he wanted.

“That’s California for you. Too many boats, not enough harbor. Now you know why we all have curtains.”

She sprinted back down the slip. “Here we are.” She gestured toward Neptune’s Bride with the pride any good captain felt about her ship, and was rewarded by Jordan’s slight nod.

With the ingrained tradition born of hundreds of years of sailing history, Jordan waited until Aurora had boarded her, and then, as owner and captain, spoke the age-old words giving him permission to join her.

“Welcome aboard.”

Only then did he mount the steps of the loading box, cross over the side and join her on deck.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you the nickel tour.”

HALF AN HOUR LATER, a cool bottle of lemonade in his hand, Jordan sat outside with Aurora in the deck-bolted fishing chairs, mulling over the Atwells’ misfortunes. Sounds like the niece is a handful—and nothing like her aunt here. Aurora’s actually using her own finances to keep the family’s business going. If nothing else, the woman is loyal.

Jordan took more time to observe his surroundings. Neptune’s Bride was more than just shipshape. The vessel was “a woodie,” an older model with a hardwood-planked hull, like galleons and like the old whaler Jordan himself used to own until the hurricane forced him into a modern, fiberglass hull with cold, impersonal no-rust chrome and Plexiglas windows. He felt a stab of envy as he studied her vessel. The wood and brass gleamed with a smooth brightness that spoke of loving attention, not just the cursory minimum. Thick glass windows sparkled, with no trace of salt-air encrustation. Even the plastic buoys on line—inflated “bumpers” thrown out when docking, to keep the wooden hull from scraping against the concrete slip—were free of harbor clams and seaweed.

Good captains come in all shapes and sizes, and this one is just as pleasing to the eye as her ship.

“…So now you know my sister’s story, and why I need you as my partner.”

Jordan took another slug of his drink. “That merely explains your motive,” he said. “If I’m going to be your partner—and that’s still an if—I need more details. Question number one. How did you find the San Rafael? If you did indeed find it.”

“This is my home,” she said, gesturing toward the water. “And you’ve seen the medallion. I’m perfectly willing to have it appraised by a specialist of your choice.”

“You have it here?”

“No, my friend Donna does. It’s in her safe,” Aurora quickly added. “I’ll give her a call later and let her know you’re coming, if you want to look at it.”

“The artifact is mine.” The words hung harshly on the air.

“No. But it could be half yours if you take me on as a partner. And if you stay alive…”

Jordan abruptly set down the half-full bottle of lemonade, wishing it were iced coffee or tea. To him, citrus and sugar weren’t thirst quenchers. A woman’s drink, even if this was no ordinary woman. He noticed that her eyes immediately went to the polished teak gangway, where he’d slammed down the bottle, to inspect it for damage.

He picked up his drink; fortunately the bottle had left no mark on the wood. “Sorry, Captain.” He deliberately used her title. “I didn’t mean—” Realization kicked in. His finger clenched around the bottle. “What did you say?”

“Someone’s trying to kill you,” she said bluntly. “Surely this isn’t news. I don’t know who it is, and neither do the police. Even Donna hasn’t come up with anything. Who wants you dead?”

Jordan searched his memory. “No one I know, especially out here. I usually work Atlantic waters.”

“That’s not much help, which is why we can’t afford to wait. You’d be safer at sea than on land. And we have to start salvaging soon. My sister is losing her health, and your three friends from the beach—”

“Tom, Dick and Harry are no friends of mine.”

Aurora flushed. “Sorry. Wrong choice of words. I haven’t filed a claim yet—I want us to do it jointly. Once the medallion’s assessed, we can get to work before winter sets in.”

Jordan shook his head just once. “Skip the assessment. That medallion is real.”

I know it in my bones. Dammit, if she’s found the ship’s location, I’ll have to share half our family’s heritage with a stranger—or I might lose it all.

Salvage law was very specific. Possession was nine-tenths of the law in international waters, even though he could prove he was a blood descendant of the original owners.

“I’ll contact a local lawyer and have a draft drawn up while I talk to this Ms. Diamond.”

“I already have. Donna has the paperwork.” Aurora’s lawyers and Donna shared the same office building. Donna, at Aurora’s request, had also discovered where Jordan’s own salvage ship was located and had done background checks on his crew.

“Then I’ll look the papers over. But I want it specified in writing that we use my ship and my crew. They’re off Florida right now.”

Her polite smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We can’t use your ship. Or your crew. Because—”

“I know my ship and my men,” he interrupted.

“It’ll take too long to get your ship out here. Besides, I know these waters, and I’m the only person who knows the ship’s location. That makes me the dive master. And I prefer to use my own divers.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Since I’m funding the operation, I prefer to hire crew I’m familiar with.” He saw her flush again at his mention of money, but she didn’t back off.

“How about this? You use your deckhands and I’ll use my divers, since these are my waters. That’s a safe division of labor, Mr. Castillo, and since your boat isn’t here, we use my boat, and I’m the captain. That’s fair enough.”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “Have your lawyers draw up the papers.”

“Like I said, I already have—specifying the terms we’ve just discussed.”

Jordan frowned. “A bit overconfident, aren’t we?”

“You forget. I’ve seen the galleon. You haven’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my purse. Donna’s expecting us.” Aurora rose gracefully and headed for the “ladder,” the term for ship’s stairs leading belowdecks.

“In the future, Ms. Collins, I’d appreciate it if we could discuss our business matters before you put them down on paper.”

“Agreed. But one thing you need to know about me, Mr. Castillo. There’s no barnacles growing on my hull,” she said over her shoulder.

As her “hull” disappeared belowdecks, Jordan pursed his lips in a silent whistle. Then, before his mouth grew any more parched—strictly from the heat, he assured himself—he lifted the bottle of unwanted citrus and drained it dry.

JORDAN RODE beside her as Aurora drove Jordan’s rental car south to Donna’s San Diego office. They’d left her car at Oceanside Harbor.

“You aren’t allowed to park here at the harbor if you don’t have a slip-holder sticker,” Aurora explained. “You’re from out of town. Want me to drive?”

“Please. I thought Boston traffic was a headache, but this…” He gestured outside. “Is it always this crowded?” The cars were bumper to bumper, yet moving along easily at speeds over seventy miles an hour.

She grinned. “This is regular traffic. It’s worse at rush hour. That’s when everyone moves at five miles an hour—if you’re lucky. Some days I’m actually tempted to motor down to San Diego in my boat rather than drive.”

“You have docking privileges there, too?” Jordan asked, looking out his window at the vast expanse of ocean.

Aurora nodded.

“What about the other harbors?”

“No. San Diego Harbor south and Oceanside Harbor are good enough. I could go north to Dana Point and then to L.A. Harbor, but there’s too much auto traffic and not enough parking, even for slip-holders. San Diego and L.A. are full of commercial boating traffic. Mission Bay in San Diego gets all the teenage Jet Skiers and weekend boaters.”

“Lord spare us both,” Jordan groaned. Weekend boaters tended to be inexperienced recreationalists.

“Tell me about it. Ninety-nine percent of boating fatalities are caused by weekend boaters, and they’re usually alcohol-related.”

“What about Dana Point?”

“We’re talking small again, like Oceanside Harbor, but smart. It caters mostly to private padded wallets—strictly the fiberglass-hull set. They get a lot of the San Clemente crowd. Politicians and movie stars,” she explained. “Oceanside is more blue-collar. Plus a cup of chowder in Oceanside is under three dollars. At Dana Point you’ll easily pay more than five and have to wear a shirt and shoes to eat. They charge more for boat fuel, too.”

“Not your style?” Jordan asked.

“The day I have to put on makeup and nylons to eat a cup of chowder is the day I retire.” Aurora shrugged. “Oceanside’s my preference. For a lot of reasons.”

“And it’s your home port?”

“Mostly. I go where the work is. That includes Mexican ports.”

“Which harbor will we operate out of when we’re salvaging the San Rafael?”

“Sorry.” She threw him a quick glance. “You don’t get that information until I’m officially signed up as your partner. Nice try, though.” Aurora deliberately changed the subject. “Where are you staying now?”

“At a hotel. I hadn’t even been there a day before I ended up in the hospital,” he said wryly. “I’m back at the same one.” He mentioned a well-known San Diego hotel near the airport.

“You hate it,” Aurora guessed.

Jordan didn’t reply.

“Stay with me, then,” she offered. “I have plenty of room.”

“If those guys are still after me, that’s not a good idea,” he argued. “I don’t want you involved.”

“But I am involved,” she said. “Anyway, Donna’s got her people watching your back. I suspect she’s doing the same for me. And, Jordan, I wouldn’t have offered my hospitality if I didn’t mean it. Trust me, this will make things easier on Donna, too. Everyone at my slip knows everyone else, and if a stranger shows up—we’ll hear about it.”

“Since you put it that way…thanks. I don’t sleep well on land,” he admitted. “And I could use some help navigating your freeways. I’d planned to do some research on the Castillos and the San Rafael’s payload.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“San Diego de Alcala.”

“Oh, the Old Mission.”

“You know where it is?”

“Everyone does. It’s the first mission ever built in Southern California—and a mandatory field trip for every schoolchild. Beautiful place. If you want, we’ll go together. How about day after tomorrow?”

“Only if you let me buy lunch—partner.”

Aurora grinned. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

AT DONNA’S SUGGESTION, the three of them sat outside in the bright California sun at one of the local eateries in Seaport Village. While waiting for their seafood and salad to arrive, they nursed their drinks. Donna had a wine spritzer, Aurora more limeade, and Jordan enjoyed his unsugared iced coffee while observing the two women.

He believed in the old adage, You can judge a person by the company he keeps. Or in this case, she. Jordan quickly decided that Donna—outwardly Aurora’s opposite, with her crisp appearance and military manner—also had a keen intelligence.

Aurora’s dive crew won’t be idiots, judging by her taste in friends. That went for Neil Harris, too. He might be a bit proprietary but he was clearly a man of compassion and integrity.

“You two go way back?” he asked, for the women were comfortable completing each other’s sentences. He found brains appealing in any woman, and neither one was hard on the eyes.

The women glanced at him, then at each other. Aurora picked up her drink. Donna merely inclined her head.

“Should I withdraw the question?” Jordan asked.

“No,” Aurora said. “It’s just that, well, it’s ancient history. Donna and I went to school together. We both wanted out of the house at an early age.”

“Rough childhood?”

“Not at all,” Donna said truthfully. “I was the spoiled only child of doting parents. Too spoiled.”

“I was the headstrong daughter of kind, gentle parents,” Aurora said. “But my ex-hippie mom and dad turned out to want a stricter, more regimented life for their kids than they had themselves. Donna and I both wanted to run away to sea at an early age. Donna here managed to restrain herself until after graduating from college—summa cum laude and class valedictorian.”

“That’s ancient history, too,” Donna inserted. “Then it was off to Newport, Rhode Island, for officer training, and a career in the Navy as an intelligence officer…until a few years ago.”

“I didn’t wait so long,” Aurora said. “I grew up swimming, then diving in these waters. I hated school, hated being inside and had very little patience.”

“Especially when she was offered a job with a salvage crew off the coast of Florida,” Donna continued. “The salvage captain heard about her through the beach grapevine. Thought Aurora was at least eighteen.”

Aurora smiled sheepishly. “I wasn’t, but the captain was happily married, her husband was the dive master and her grown children worked the boat. She was the only adult who recognized how serious I was about diving. She offered me a job, I told my parents, and my parents hit the roof.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Donna said, signaling to the waitress for a refill on her spritzer. “The tears, the arguments—it was a mess. Aurora wanted to go to court to be declared a legal adult, but the salvage job would’ve been filled by then. She had to be on the next plane with the captain, who offered to pay her passage, or lose out.”

“How old were you?” Jordan asked Aurora.

“Sixteen. I’d just finished my sophomore year in high school, but I knew what I wanted—my opportunity of a lifetime. I’d never given my parents names, places or details, so when they refused to listen, I left. They were unable to track me down.”

Silence fell over the table. The seagulls screamed and circled above their empty table, then moved on.

“You parents must have been heartbroken,” Jordan said.

Aurora nodded. “They were. So was Dorian. She’s never forgiven me.”

“Dorian’s a jealous bitch of a younger sister,” Donna said.

“No, she’s not,” Aurora said loyally.

“She is,” Donna insisted. “Even I was jealous. I mean, what an adventure! So Rory packed her things, caught the bus to the airport and left. She didn’t even say goodbye to her sister or her best friend—that’s me, by the way.”

“I couldn’t. Not without causing more trouble.”

“However,” Donna continued, “Rory kept in touch with me, and I delivered news to her family on a regular basis until she turned eighteen. Her parents forgave but never forgot. In fact, they moved to Arizona after a lifetime of working in the same San Diego bank. After Dorian got her accounting degree and married her computer expert, they stayed in San Diego. That’s when those proverbial chickens came home to roost. Dorian’s niece grew up hearing about her aunt and wanting to become another Rory—a hard act to follow.”

“I never wanted to hurt anyone,” Aurora said quietly.

“It’s true. She did all she could to spare her family,” Donna explained to Jordan. Jordan had the feeling not too many people sided with Aurora’s youthful decision. “However, Tanya doesn’t give a damn who she hurts when she wants something. Tanya doesn’t even care that Rory’s almost dead broke. She’s been meeting Dorian and Gerald’s payroll—and her cash is running out.”

“Donna, please.” Aurora protested. “He doesn’t need to know all my personal business.”

“He does if he’s going to be your partner. Besides, I have a stake in all this. Who’s in charge of protecting your butts?”

“I didn’t ask you to look after me. I can take care of myself.”

“So can I,” Jordan said.

Donna gave him a skeptical gaze. “I heard about your little adventure on the pier, Mr. Castillo.”

“I didn’t know anyone was after me. I do now. And I’ll help you keep an eye on Aurora.”

“Worry about yourself, Jordan,” Rory muttered.

“I will. Donna, I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. You’ll bill me, of course,” Jordan said, purposely changing the subject and centering his attention on Donna.

“Strike the mother lode, and you can count on it. Until then, you’ll have to settle for buying my lunch.”

“Speaking of which, here comes our food,” Aurora said.

“And there goes my pager. Happens every time. Don’t wait for me. It’s my office.” Donna pulled her cell phone from her purse and hurried over to an empty table to conduct her business in private.

“Nice lady,” Jordan said, politely waiting for Donna to return despite her suggestion that they go ahead and eat. “I’m surprised she left the Navy. Intelligence billets are hard to fill. You have to be the best of the best to get in.”

“She was, and still is. Unfortunately, she’s in love with Neil. He made life difficult for her, so she quit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember the man who helped me save your life? Neil Harris is a former Navy captain. He wanted Donna to leave the military to become his wife. She wanted to be her own boss and decided to make a clean break, so she left him and the Navy. No sense marrying someone who’s never home, she said. Neil retired—he’s about ten years older than we are—and after that he got the job of cruise-ship captain. A job he has no intention of quitting. He’s away just as much as when he was in the Navy. He and Donna are still crazy about each other, but there’s no real way they can be together. A shame.”

“I never got a chance to thank him.”

“You will. Those two use me as an excuse to see each other, since we’re mutual friends. I’m always the third wheel.”

“Does that bother you?”

Aurora shook out a paper napkin and placed it on her lap. “No, but it worries me.”

Jordan noticed that Donna had finished her call, and had risen from the empty table to rejoin them. “Why?” he asked bluntly.

“I tend to have an unpredictable effect on the lives of those who know me. And judging by your near-death experience, so do you. Until the police catch your attackers, we need to watch our backs carefully, and keep Donna and Neil out of this as much as we can. We’re on our own here.”

Jordan’s jaw tightened. “Don’t you worry about me or your friend. I’ll be looking out for all of us.” Especially you.




CHAPTER FIVE


Oceanside Harbor, California

Same day, 6:45 p.m.

IN HIS CABIN aboard Neptune’s Bride, Jordan unpacked. As a man who lived his life in small cabins, he traveled light, even on land. His few possessions were quickly stowed away, along with Aurora’s partnership contract, which he’d study later tonight. A faint scent of sandal-wood remained in his nostrils as he made his way above deck, to be replaced by the smell of the lobster traps. Sounds of live jazz suddenly filled his ears, and he looked around for the source.

“Starboard and up, the other side of the lobster cages,” Aurora said, already on deck. “We get live music in the evenings from the Chart House and the Nautical Bean.”

“Good food, too,” Jordan guessed, sniffing the air. “Do we have to dress to go out for dinner?”

“No. A shirt and sandals is all it takes. If you eat outside, you don’t even need that. Hungry?”

“I am. If you want to go to one of the restaurants, I’ll buy. Otherwise I’ll fix dinner, if you’ll let me use your galley,” Jordan said.

Aurora grinned from her perch on the bow, where she stood with a long brush and hose washing the droppings from passing seagulls and pelicans off Bride’s gleaming white paint. “It’s torture being on someone else’s ship, isn’t it? Having to ask permission all the time…”

“I can deal with it. I’m not the pampered type. Need help?”

“You can turn off the hose.”

Jordan nimbly hopped down to the slip and walked over to the dock box, which made water, electricity, and phones and cable TV available to slip-holders. He saw that Aurora’s vessel was only hooked up to the first two.

“No phone?” he asked.

“I have my cell phone. And there’s a pay phone up by the private showers and laundry rooms. Oh, here.”

She pulled a key ring from the pockets of her cutoff jeans and tossed it to him. Jordan caught it effortlessly.

“One of the keys is to Bride’s hatch. The other fits the gates and the men’s room. When docked, please use only the galley sink. The head plumbing’s off limits. Bride’s a woodie—and too old to have an accessible sewage tank for the potty-pumpers. That means I have to go three miles outside the harbor to legally dump. So keep all waste to a minimum. I ask my crew to sort trash for the recycle bins. Also, we’re required by law to keep our water clean. Nothing’s allowed in the harbor water, not dust sweepings, not paint scrapings, nothing.”

“Except for fish guts and old bait,” Jordan said, noticing all the pelicans on the roof of the closest restaurant. The shellfish boats were directly between the restaurant and Aurora’s slip.

“Not for long. You should see the size of the lobsters here. We have a sea lion population that frequents the harbor, too. Between them and the birds, the port stays pretty clean.” Aurora tossed him the hose, and Jordan neatly coiled it as she stowed the scrubbing broom.

“Thanks for offering to cook—nice trait in a man,” she teased. “But why don’t we do that another day? There’s a little fish-and-chip place across the harbor. Let’s take the dinghy and keep the galley clean. We can review those contracts over dinner.”

JORDAN FINISHED rereading the papers for the second time just as the sun’s corona touched the sharp, flat line where sky meets sea.

“Have a pen?” he asked, enjoying the sunset.

“I do.” She passed him one from her fanny pack, then shoved aside the wrappers from their fish and chips, his beer bottle, and another one of her citrus drinks—tangerine, this time—so he had more room.

Jordan signed both copies, waited as she signed hers, and slid both sets back toward her. He carefully slipped both contracts back into their protective envelope.

“Where’s my galleon?” he immediately asked.

Aurora pointedly lifted one eyebrow. “Your galleon?”

“Our galleon,” he corrected. “Where is it?”

“We’ll be working out of San Diego Harbor.”

“I want the coordinates of the San Rafael—and don’t tell me you haven’t memorized them.”

“I have, and I’ll give them to you as soon as these papers are filed.”

Jordan’s lips set in a thin line of disappointment and frustration. Aurora reached for his hand. Despite the rough calluses on her palm and fingertips, her touch felt surprisingly soft.

“Sorry to do this,” she said kindly, “but I have my sister to think about. I know you’ve waited a long time. Please try to be patient just a little longer.”

Jordan continued to let her hold his hand. A moment later, she removed her fingers from his. “Are there any other questions I could answer for you?” Aurora asked.

“I’m concerned about the security of the location—for both our sakes. Do you have the coordinates written down anywhere? Are they stored in your GPS?”

“No and no.”.

“Okay.” Jordan nodded with satisfaction. Global Positioning Systems were satellite-based navigational aids. Once activated, they tracked three coordinates—latitude, longitude and altitude, both above and below sea level—and made navigation simple for anyone who understood the numbers.

“Who else has them? Your dive crew?”

“Not even them. I went out alone, and I dived alone.”

Jordan blinked. “Alone? That’s dangerous.”

“So is being locked away in a Mexican jail.”

“But what if…” Something happened to you? Like something nearly happened to me? The thought of her being beaten and thrown off a pier turned his normally strong stomach. He shook his head, surprising himself by being unable to go on.

“I get amnesia? Abducted by aliens? Eaten by piranhas?”

“I didn’t say that. However, you should have at least one safety in place. Your friend Donna, perhaps, if you don’t trust me. I wish you would,” he added in a low voice, surprised a second time by the urgency of his words.

“No. Until these papers are filed, no one gets the location. Not even you. Not even Donna. My family comes first—whether they believe it or not.”

Whether they believe it or not? Strange thing to say…It’d been years since she’d run away. Apparently the family hadn’t recovered from her youthful indiscretion. That kind of grudge was something he had no patience with.

But before he could follow up on her statement, she rose. Jordan had no choice but to follow her back to the dinghy, a trimly painted blue-and-white with black letters proclaiming the name, the Tempest Tantrum. Aurora climbed in first, taking her position at the back of the small trolling motor.

“Then we’ll file tomorrow,” Jordan said. “You give me the coordinates, and weather permitting, we dive the wreck.”

“We’ll need at least two other people,” she said as he carefully climbed in. Small boats rocked easily, especially when carrying two people with disparate weights. Large crafts had built-in air pockets or plastic buoys within. Smaller craft sank like stones when overturned. “We could plan on a preliminary dive without a full crew. If it works out, we may be able to keep the scale of our operation small.”

“What about Donna?”

“She’s always game. I’d need a fourth, as well,” she said. “Two topside, plus two diving minimum—that’s you and me—for where we’re heading.”

“Who else do you have in mind?”

“There’s a young man in Mexico, Roberto Ortega,” she said in a thoughtful voice. “But I’d have to go to the border to pick him up. I don’t think I’ll have time. Cast off, please.” Aurora started the electric motor with a twist of the handle.

Jordan removed the dinghy’s single line from the docking cleat. “He couldn’t meet us here?”

“No, he doesn’t have transportation. Since we’ll be launching from San Diego Harbor, you’ll have to meet Roberto another time. Neil Harris has his own private watercraft, and his cruise ship’s in port, so he’s free to help us. I’ve already sounded him out and he’s agreeable. I wouldn’t usually ask him but since he already knows you, and you’re so eager to get out there…”

“That’s our four, then. Period. I’d prefer to keep the dive site secret for as long as possible.”

“Well, using Neil’s boat instead of mine will make it harder for anyone to follow—if we’re being followed. Besides, Neil can be trusted.”

“Fine, that sounds reasonable,” he said a bit grudgingly. “But keep in mind that I have no intention of being the junior partner on this venture. We’re equal partners and I expect to be involved in all decisions before you discuss them with other people.” At her curt nod, he paused, then continued quietly. “I want you to understand something, Ms. Collins.”

Aurora geared the little motor into idle. Silence washed over their patch of water as the orange of the setting sun slid across its surface. In no danger of traffic this late at night, the dinghy rocked slowly with the harbor surge.

“You told me about your family. Now let me tell you about mine. Or rather, what’s left of it.” His words were terse, low, emotionless. “Thanks to a hurricane ten years ago, I’m the only father left for nine nieces, five nephews and their mothers. My two brothers are dead. My father and grandfather are dead. My sisters’ husbands are dead. My older cousins and nephews are dead—all drowned. You’re looking at the sole male support of what was once a thriving family and a thriving family business. If I go down, they go down with me. At present, half of the San Rafael is all I have left to offer. If anything happens to me before we salvage it, they have nothing. So I repeat—when it comes to future decisions about this venture, you’ll keep me informed at all times. Got it?”

Aurora met his gaze full on. “You have my word.” She reached for the motor. “I’m sorry about your family. You must miss them terribly.”

“Yes.”

The water lapped gently at the wooden sides of the dinghy as her hand rested on his arm. After a brief moment, she twisted the forward gear shaft. The electric motor started up again, propelling the Tempest Tantrum back to Neptune’s Bride.

The sun had disappeared by the time they climbed back aboard Bride. Jordan secured the dinghy in its resting place on the stern diving deck. Aurora tilted the motor out of the water, then sprayed off the saltwater with fresh water from her slip’s hose.

“I’m going to shower,” she said. “There’s a common cabin I use as a sitting room. You’ll find the North County and San Diego newspapers there, if you want them. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

Moments later, he watched her head up toward the slip-gate and the private showers, key in hand, a fresh towel rolled up in the other. Jordan leaned against the railing, watching the sun sink the final distance below the waterline. Family conversations, cooking smells, children’s laughter and the barking of ships’ dogs mingled with the sounds of jazz, radios, and auto and marine traffic. The closeness of the slips, much narrower than those he was used to, made outdoor familiarity simple.

People greeted other people with the warm familiarity he’d known in every port. Yet this woman was different. Aurora had exchanged brief greetings with several people, but remained somewhat aloof. Friendly yet uninvolved. She was certainly loyal to her own family—but they seemed far removed from her life.

What kind of woman runs away from her family—a family she obviously loves? I would have done anything to hold on to mine.

Honesty compelled him to answer his own question. She was probably no different than the kind of man who could walk away from a loving fiancé. He’d seen no other option at the time, but at least his family had understood. Apparently hers never did.




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