Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author
Heather Graham

“Graham shines in this frightening tale. Paranormal elements add zing to her trademark chilling suspense and steamy romance, keeping the pages flying.”

—Romantic Times on Haunted

“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead

“An incredible storyteller!”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Demonstrating the skills that have made her one of today’s best storytellers, Ms. Graham delivers one of this year’s best books thus far.”

—Romantic Times on Hurricane Bay

“A suspenseful, sexy thriller…Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay

“A roller-coaster ride…fast-paced, thrilling…Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end. Captivating.”

—Literary Times on Hurricane Bay

“The talented Ms. Graham once again thrills us. She delivers excitement [and] romance…that keep the pages flipping quickly from beginning to end.”

—Romantic Times on Night of the Blackbird

“With the name Heather Graham on the cover, you are guaranteed a good read!”

—Literary Times

HEATHER GRAHAM
EYES OF FIRE

To Don Stelzen, surely the world’s nicest and best driving

instructor, with thanks for always being so great and patient.

To my son, Shayne, for being my first “biddy”

and learning with me.

To Sam Lawson, one of the world’s greatest classmates,

for his tolerance of so many scheduling changes.

And to Underwater Unlimited, one of the world’s most

wonderful dive shops; to Charlie Matthews,

Chuck Beltran and all the folks there—thanks!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Prologue

Dead men tell no tales.

Or so he had heard.

Yet these dead men seemed somehow to cry out in silence, noiselessly shrieking out a story that had been kept secret for nearly four hundred years. Their skeletal remains lay about eerily, some held together by remnants of rusted armor, one with its head uncannily perched on a bookcase while the disjointed body sat on the desk beneath it. The sword that had probably brought about his death lay at his side. Perhaps it had once pierced through him, through flesh and sinew and organs; perhaps it had once been bathed in blood. Now the sword lay on the handsomely carved desk where the pieces of the dead man remained, side by side with the small bones of what had been a human hand, almost as if it was waiting to be used again. To be picked up and wielded in some form of ghostly revenge.

Dead men tell no tales….

But this one shouted silently of his own murder.

A tiny yellow fish, a tang, darted in and out of the cavernous eye sockets of the long-dead man. The diver moved closer, then pulled back, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears as a moray eel suddenly shot its head out from one of the cubicles in the growth-encrusted shelving. Sea fans wafted over oak. Anemones rose against the rotted core of an inkwell.

Another skeleton startled him into a weightless jump. This skeleton lay by the side of the desk, shadowed in darkness. Though time and pressure had blown out the master’s cabin window of the Beldona, the ship was down deep enough that the sun’s rays offered little light inside. The diver flashed his light at the skeleton and nearly shot through the roof, ceasing to breathe.

Because the skeleton looked at him.

Looked at him…

Stared at him like a demon, a devil, dead hand drifting, fingers seeming to point…

Stared at him with blazing red eyes that seemed to blind him. He ceased to breathe, forgetting the first rule of scuba diving—breathe continuously. Experienced diver that he was, he forgot, but oh, God…

The skeleton was staring at him with eyes of fire. A dead man. A pile of bones. Nearly one hundred feet beneath the surface of the sea.

Get a grip, man! he warned himself.

Nitrogen narcosis, he thought. A diver’s disease that could cause absurd giddiness, a state of well-being, a state of panic. A state in which a diver might well see hallucinations. Described by Jacques-Yves Cousteau as rapture of the deep. A danger any diver knew existed beyond depths of one hundred feet, sometimes before, certainly after, no matter how immune a man claimed he might be.

That was it—he was seeing things. He knew enough not to be doing what he was doing, especially at these depths! His rashness was taking its toll. He didn’t dare stay much longer, but, oh, God! The lure had been too great.

He was seeing things.

No, he wasn’t.

The dead men were there.

Even the dead man with the eyes of pure fire.

Sweet Jesus, but he hadn’t been expecting such an eerie haunting from the past. So often, especially at these depths, time and pressure and the sea herself ate away the pathetic, mortal remnants of man, down to the bone itself.

She was a dangerous mistress, the sea. Days, weeks, years, centuries, played havoc beneath the waves. Salt, pressure, currents and sand all swept around the treasures, living and otherwise, captured by the wicked whimsy of the sea. Swept around dead men left behind.

And so often kept them from telling their tales.

His head was spinning, his thoughts careening into fantasy.

Breathe! he commanded himself, sucking air through his regulator at last. He went back to the basics he had learned, had taught. Breathe continuously. Regain control, respond, react.

It’s just a skeleton. This poor fellow has been dead forever and ever. He’s no danger to me….

The thought didn’t help. He imagined that any second the skeleton would raise its hand higher, that the bony fingers would point straight at him, that the bones would begin to rattle and talk….

It was a dead man, for God’s sake!

Just a dead man. With gems where his eyes should have been. He was a well-preserved dead man with remarkable ruby eyes, and that was that.

Regain control, respond, react. Fool! Didn’t he teach those very words almost daily?

He didn’t know what trick of pressure or temperature had kept these skeletons in such uncannily good shape, but they were miraculously here, inside what must have been the captain’s cabin of the galleon. And though the windows had burst and the denizens of the sea had moved inside, perhaps the fact that the cabin walls had withstood the sea so well had helped preserve the dead who had perished within.

How they’d come to be here, he didn’t know. But they had nearly done him in, nearly drawn a silent scream from him, and he had very nearly succumbed to a watery death himself. In fact, he was certain that his hair would be white from shock when he reached the surface again.

None of that meant anything to him at the moment. Nor did the fact that he should never have been diving alone, despite being an expert diver with several thousand hours of diving time under his belt. It was because of that that he should have known better. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had come down a mere thirty feet instead of the nearly one hundred he was down now, he shouldn’t have been diving alone. He taught the buddy system strenuously in his classes.

But he’d never imagined a morning like this one. The culmination of a dream. He had at last come across something in his research that had set off a light in his mind, and that light had burned so brightly that he hadn’t been able to wait. He hadn’t even been able to wait to tell Sam, to give her a clue, even knowing how much it would mean to her. She had been with Jem and some first timers and bubble watchers out on the Sloop Bee. With beginners, it would be some time.

And this…oh, God! With the right information, the answer had been so simple, and once he had realized it, he hadn’t been able to wait.

Sam. Sam should have known. Sam should have been with him. Sam, with her ever-trusting, encouraging smile. Sam who never found fault, who believed, who laughed and teased and made life easy. She should have been here with him now. He couldn’t repay her for not being here, not even with every single bit of treasure he found.

He simply hadn’t been able to wait to test his theory.

His dreams had sent him flying across the waves. Intrigue and fascination had brought him here, near the Steps.

The Seafire Isle Steps.

The Steps, of course, were a mystery in themselves. They began a mere thirty feet below the surface in the water northwest of Seafire Isle; they deepened with the ocean floor for another twenty-five feet, then simply disappeared. Just like stone steps in other areas of the sea that were supposed by some to lead the way to Atlantis. Others thought them a doorway in the wicked mystery of the Bermuda Triangle. He was quite certain that there were logical answers for every mystery beneath the sea. Just as there was a logical answer to the mystery of the Spanish galleon Beldona, the prized ship of King Philip, which had sailed the golden corridor between the New World and the old so many years ago. Historians had thought for years that she had gone down in one of the vicious storms that raged across the seas, a hurricane of deadly proportions.

There was an answer to everything. An explanation.

Just as there had been an explanation for the fact that a skeleton had stared at him with burning eyes….

He could still see them blazing. Eyes of fire.

Nitrogen narcosis, he warned himself. He was seeing things. But the eyes did truly seem to burn. He bent low, studying them more closely….

There was something different about the skeleton. He should have been able to place his finger on it. He should know the truth about the ship.

His ship, as he thought of her.

The Beldona. He had found her! Sonar had missed her, radar had missed her. Shifting currents and restless sands had hidden her beneath a coral shelf.

Suddenly something about the skeleton caught his eye. He leaned closer, laughter bubbling in his chest.

Whoa, he thought. Stay calm! He warned himself.

But once again, far beneath the surface, he couldn’t wait.

The magnitude of his discovery suddenly hit him. No, he couldn’t wait. This was pure vindication.

He couldn’t wait to tell her. Couldn’t wait to share these secrets, deeper than any he had ever imagined. He’d discovered the past, and so much more. Many people had mocked him for being a dreamer. Very few had believed. And now…the laugh would be on them.

She would know that he’d been right to fight for the discovery. Maybe the time had come when he could divulge a few of his own secrets. Maybe this would make the time right.

He closed his eyes.

Or did he?

Because he was seeing things again.

The sea was playing tricks on him.

It was as if she was suddenly with him.

She couldn’t be. But he could see her.

He could see her, hair waving like a banner, eyes as brilliant as those orbs of fire that had so shocked him. In his mind he could hear her throaty laughter, feel what they shared.

He blinked.

She remained.

She was there with him, her eyes glittering behind her scuba mask.

No…

He blinked again, this time closing his eyes tightly. He had known better—much better—than to dive alone, especially this deep. But it didn’t matter now. He knew the truth. He had solved the mystery, and there was so much more to it than they had ever begun to imagine….

He had to regain control.

He opened his eyes again.

He was alone.

Bubbles surrounded him. His own, he assured himself. He was all alone.

Alone with a bunch of dead men.

Nitrogen narcosis…

He needed to go up. Now.

Because he needed help, of course. Needed Sammy and Jem, and probably others, too. But for now his ecstasy was like something ready to explode inside him. He wanted to share his sheer joy.

They would have to guard the secret until they were safe. There was so much more than just the treasure involved. If the wrong people knew what he had discovered…

He was going to need help. The truth was going to have to come out, and once that was done, they would be able to bring up the treasure.

By God, the treasure!

He turned, listening again to the sound of his own breathing, a continual hiss and heave against his ears in the confinement of the cabin. He tried to assess the magnitude of what he had found.

He was startled from his thoughts when something suddenly fell against him. He shifted his light around.

Another dead man. But this one…

Once again a scream rose in his throat.

It was swallowed by the depths…. And then he felt…something.

He turned. Saw.

Terror greeted him in the form of razor-honed steel. He wanted to scream and scream and scream….

Blood flowed, joined with the water. Miles beyond the ship, sharks sensed the blood and began to swim toward the Beldona with predatory interest.

Bubbles rose from his regulator. And then they ceased.

His unseeing eyes stared out at the shadowy phantoms inside the cabin of the long-dead ghost ship.

He had solved so many mysteries, had so much to say, but…

Dead men tell no tales….

1

There she stood.

Samantha Carlyle.

It had been a long time. Yes, a long, long time since he had seen her.

Hank had never actually described her, but from the moment he saw her, even from a distance across the water, he knew it had to be her.

Hank had described her with great enthusiasm without describing her at all. In his scholar’s mental, metaphysical lust, if there was such a thing. It didn’t matter. Adam had never mentioned in his correspondence that he could easily imagine Samantha Carlyle now because he doubted if she had changed a bit in the nearly five years since he had seen her.

She was one of those women who was simply riveting. Looking half-naked in a two-piece cobalt suit that was actually rather decent, considering how little women’s bathing suits consisted of these days. It didn’t matter. It was what was inside the suit that made it so compelling. She was tall, regal, legs wickedly long, slim, shapely. Honey-gold tanned. Rounded buttocks, flat stomach, skinny waist. Breasts…enough to create mysteriously shadowed cleavage against the constraints of the bikini bra. Good collarbone, nice long throat…

His eyes slipped down again.

Breasts. Very nice.

Body…very sensual. Long, slim, an athletic build that was still enhanced with…curves. Yeah, curves. Breasts…

Eyes up, old man, he told himself. Study her face. Her eyes. That’s where the changes in a woman appear.

She wasn’t wearing a hat or sunglasses, so she was easy to assess. She was standing on the bow, waiting to tie up at the dock. The boat came nearer, nearer; the engine cut. She was absolutely gorgeous, almost pagan, barefoot and perfectly balanced on those long, wickedly long legs. Her hands were on her hips as she waited. She defied nature, the wind, the water, like a goddess from the sea, Venus rising, red hair blazing in the wind, whipping behind her with the pride and majesty of a battle banner.

Her face…

Yes, her face.

Sophisticated. Beautifully boned, lightly tanned. Eyes large, bright, an extraordinary vibrant green that both clashed wildly against her hair like a winter’s storm and yet seemed to complement it, and the defined features of her face, majestically. Her nose was perfectly proportioned and dead straight. Her face was nearly oval, with just the hint of a heart shape to soften perfection to beauty. Lips sculpted, arrestingly defined. Brows arched, a slightly darker shade than the blazing auburn that topped her head. Standing against the wind, she compelled attention and admiration. She was so dignified.

And yet somehow…

She reeked of sensuality, as well, he realized somewhat irritably, everything that was so perfect and serene about her blending with the fire in her eyes and the wicked length of her…

Yes, this was Samantha.

He hadn’t expected to see her quite so soon, nor had he expected her to be quite so vividly arresting. He’d been younger himself, the last time he’d seen her. Too young, maybe. Too impetuous, too quick to rise to anger. Strange what the years, time and circumstance could do to a person. But then, years ago she had been way too proud herself. And she still had that cloak of pride about her now, so it seemed. Ah, yes, she had a look about her. Men probably still fell flat in her path, and she probably still stepped right over them. Sometimes, maybe, she chewed them up, spat them out.

He knew. He’d been chewed up.

Spat out.

Something suddenly seemed to squeeze in his chest. The past hurt. No, seeing Sam hurt. Some part of her had stayed with him, no matter where he had gone, what he had done. Now Justin was gone. And Hank was gone.

And it hurt to wonder, not to know, to envision what might have been.

Well, he was back. And no matter what she wanted this time, she was going to have him on her like a leech.

No spitting him out.

Not this time, baby, he thought. This time, she was going to have to pay attention to him.

Because she had to have the answers he wanted. He knew it.

And she was going to give them to him.

He gritted his teeth, locking his jaw. He was determined that he wasn’t going to give a damn how he got his answers.

Because she was in danger.

She didn’t know it, and he didn’t even know just how or when it was coming. He just knew it was coming.

Soon.

Very soon.

He came off the mail boat, arriving at four-fifteen on a Tuesday afternoon. Sam would never forget the time, because she had been returning with her small group of intermediate divers, standing at the bow, ready to hop ashore to tie up.

Instead she plummeted into the water, missing the dock at the sight of him.

He was back.

Amazingly, she didn’t recognize him at first.

She just saw the mail boat pulling into the Seafire Isle dock at the same time as the Sloop Bee. Then she saw the man, standing in the aft section of the boat.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t fairly secure in herself, nor was it that Seafire Isle didn’t draw its share of men, many of them single, and many of those handsome, adventurous, good-looking—even nice.

She’d just never seen anyone quite like him arrive at all, ever—or so she thought at first.

He was dressed casually, a tailored jacket worn loosely over a knit shirt against the wind, soft, worn jeans, sneakers. He carried a duffel bag, no more. It lay at his feet while he stood in the aft of the approaching mail boat, arms crossed over his chest. He had the easy stance of a man accustomed to boats, to the sea; his feet were set apart, and he stood balanced against the waves and rocking of the sea.

He was a good six-foot-three—Sam could easily judge his height, since she was almost five-ten herself. Half the heartbreak of her school years had been in trying to find a boy who wasn’t eye level with her breasts at the dances.

He carried himself extremely well. His shoulders were attractively broad; his chest appeared well-muscled, his waist very trim, his legs long and powerful. She found herself imagining what he would look like undressed. Not that undressed, of course, but in swim trunks.

“Hey, Sam! The line!” Jem called to her.

“Got it!” she called back, leaping out right before she fell in. Luckily for her, she’d spent the majority of her life on the island, with much of her time on boats and in the water. She could recover quickly—even as she wondered if she had actually been gaping and if the new arrival was laughing behind his Ray-Bans at the way she had so nearly fallen for him.

Because he was watching her, she thought. She couldn’t see his eyes because of the dark glasses, but the tilt of his head was toward her. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but there did seem to be the slightest curve to his mouth. A generous mouth, very sensual, well-defined and beautifully shaped. His cheekbones were high and broad, somehow both cleanly hewn and rugged in appearance. His jaw was square, firm. His hair was dark, almost ebony, touched at the ends by a natural reddish tinge given by the sea and salt air to hair, no matter how dark it might be, when the body to which it was attached spent too much time in the sun and water. His face was almost bronze from the sun as well.

Men could, perhaps, be more conventionally handsome, but she’d never seen anyone so completely electrifying and compelling in all her admittedly somewhat sheltered life.

Never seen…except for once.

Oh, God! It couldn’t be….

Beneath the Ray-Bans, his eyes were blue-gray, a color that could be like mist, like metal; it could warm, cut, pierce, demand, burn with silver flames….

No, it couldn’t be him. But it was.

Dear God, it was.

Her entire body seemed to twist into knots, to freeze.

And it was then, at precisely that moment, that the Sloop Bee banged softly against the dock and she was unbalanced and tossed cleanly into the water.

“Sam?” Jem Fisher, the tall, ebony-dark Bahamian who had been her best friend the majority of her life as well as her partner in most things, called from the deck of the Sloop Bee.

Sputtering, furious with herself, Samantha surfaced, caught hold of the end of the wooden dock and pulled herself up.

The water had been good. It had washed away the shock.

And the startling pain, she assured herself.

She didn’t glance toward the mail boat as she slicked back her newly soaked hair, waving a hand toward Jem. “It was just so hot!” she called. “Too much sun. I thought I’d cool down a little.”

Jem arched dark brows over his deep brown eyes, his handsome black face set in a mask of puzzlement.

It was obvious that she’d fallen in. She was lying, and he knew it. The rest of the passengers stared at her politely, trying to pretend that the wind on the way in hadn’t been cool enough to combat the heat of the sun.

It didn’t matter. She lowered her eyes quickly, tying the bow rope to bring the Sloop Bee to rest at the dock, then scampering to tie the stern rope and wait while her guests stepped from the boat with whatever personal equipment they had brought aboard. The mail boat docked behind the Sloop Bee. Zeb Pike, the mailman, offered her a casual wave, tossing the mail packet on the dock. He looked tired and seemed to be in a hurry today. Apparently Zeb wasn’t coming ashore.

But he was.

Definitely.

The back of her spine seemed to stiffen, and she determined to absolutely ignore him. Actually, at the moment, she had little choice. Her dive party was disembarking from the Sloop Bee, her Seafire Isle guests demanding her attention.

“It was great, it was beautiful!” a very attractive young brunette told her with glowing eyes. The woman was accompanied by a young man with glossy blond hair and equally bright eyes. He smiled and nodded at her words. The Emersons, Joey and Sue, on their honeymoon. They hadn’t looked at a thing beneath the sea except for each other.

Sam smiled. “I’m so glad you enjoyed the outing.”

“Oh, we did!” Joey Emerson assured her.

“We’ll see you for cocktails,” Sue said.

Sam nodded. I’ll bet, she thought. They were headed off for one of the cottages that flanked the main house of the Seafire Inn. Despite her own suddenly slamming heart and rising temper, she smiled, watching them go.

She didn’t imagine anyone would see them until the next day, and late the next day, at that.

“We could have stayed down a little longer the second time.”

Sam started and turned. She was being addressed by a guest in his mid to late forties, a tall, taut, well-muscled fellow with iron-gray hair, nearly black eyes and a stern, sun-leathered face. He probably did know diving—but if so, he should have known that she was going by all the proper rules and regulations.

“Mr. Hinnerman, we’re a commercial enterprise, out to entertain you. We go by the dive tables, and that’s that. I’m so sorry if we disappointed you.”

“I didn’t say I was disappointed,” Hinnerman said, inhaling heavily. “I just said we could have stayed down longer.”

“Perhaps we could have, sir, but we shouldn’t have, I’m afraid. Do you need some help with anything?”

“Help?” He arched a brow. The look told her that he found the idea of needing help with anything ludicrous. And he probably didn’t need help with anything—unless it was his personality. Strange man. Tough as nails. Yet his girlfriend—still sleeping up at the main house when the dive boat had left that morning—was just the opposite. Though Sam couldn’t quite determine her age, she decided that Jerry North couldn’t be very young, perhaps near forty, or even older. It didn’t matter. Jerry North was extremely attractive and would probably be so to her dying day. She was pure froth. Slim, small—just adorable. A blue-eyed blonde who didn’t do anything that might mar her manicure. She loved Seafire Isle anyway, or so she said. She liked to lie around the pool and walk on the beach. She liked cocktail hour, and the fact that they built fires in the parlor of the main house at night against the slight chill of the air after sunset.

She seemed to be a very nice woman, but, like Hinnerman, she sometimes made Sam uncomfortable.

She always seemed to be watching Sam.

“Mr. Hinnerman—”

“Liam,” the man corrected.

“Liam,” she agreed, and forced a smile, “I do hope you enjoyed what you were able to see.”

One of those flashes of unease Hinnerman could evoke in her swept through Sam as his gaze moved over her. Almost like a touch.

Just innuendo, never anything more. Still, she felt little shivers upon occasion, wondering what the truth about her guests might be. Perhaps they were just moderately kinky voyeurs. The looks Hinnerman gave her were definitely sexual.

But Jerry North’s weren’t. They were strangely sad, if they were anything at all.

So she was sad and kinky, Sam thought.

“I enjoyed it, all right,” Liam Hinnerman said, smiling at her broadly. “I always enjoy being with you. You are an excellent dive mistress.”

“Sam!” To her relief, Brad Walker, a lanky, green-eyed, freckle-faced thirteen-year-old with stylishly half-long-half-shaved reddish hair, the youngest diver aboard, came rushing up. “Sam, that was neat!”

“Neat,” Hinnerman muttered, and moved on.

“I loved it!” Brad continued to enthuse. “Especially that World War Two ship. So sad, huh? Do you think there are bodies in it?”

She shook her head, smiling. “No bodies, Brad.” To Brad, World War Two was as much past history as the American Revolution, yet she still had divers who came to see the navy wreck because they remembered comrades who had perished aboard it.

“Sorry, Brad. Luckily, most of the men escaped when she sank. The navy went after the few who didn’t. But they left the ship there, and it’s a memorial to all of them now.”

“It was cool. So cool,” Brad said.

“He’s just immature.” Brad’s slightly older sister, Darlene, a very pretty strawberry blonde with a nicely budding figure and who was fifteen going on thirty, sauntered lazily up beside him. She shook her head at Sam, as if they shared a knowledge regarding the total immaturity of men at any age. Sam had to grin—agreeing with Darlene’s secret assurance to some extent. “It wasn’t cool, Sam, it was an enormously gratifying experience.”

“It was cool,” Brad insisted.

“Just so long as you both enjoyed it,” Sam said.

“It would have been more fun if I’d had a real dive buddy,” Darlene said.

“I’m the one without the real buddy. Thunder thighs here kept tugging at me the whole trip, squealing every time there was a barracuda within a mile,” Brad said contemptuously.

Darlene shook her head in disgust. “There’ve got to be real men somewhere, don’t you think, Samantha?”

“I’m sure there are a number of them,” Sam murmured. Where was he now? She jiggled Brad’s baseball cap. “There are lots more wrecks out there. We’ll do some different ones tomorrow, huh?”

“Coo—el!” Brad agreed, running happily off, dragging his heavy dive bag along with him. The Walkers had been on Seafire Isle four days, but inclement weather had made this the first time they had been able to dive.

Darlene shook her head again. “It can be so trying, you know. These family vacations…” she murmured.

Her folks came up behind her. Judy and Lew Walker. They were very young for having half-grown kids. Judy had confided in Sam one night that she’d been just a junior in high school when she’d found out that she was going to have a baby. She and Lew had split up, gotten back together, discussed abortion—then run away and had the baby, Darlene. They’d spent the next few years struggling, but they’d been lucky. Both sets of parents had stepped in to help, and they’d both made it through college by working part-time. “The most miraculous thing, really,” Judy had told her, “is that we made it as a couple and that we didn’t totally destroy one another.” Then she had gone on to say, “This vacation means so much to all of us. We struggled for so many years that it’s extra-special now to have the beach, the moon, the sand, the fishing, the swimming. It’s heaven!”

“Sam, a great trip,” Lew told her. He was lean, sandy-haired, still a big kid himself. A big responsible kid, Sam thought. She had liked both him and his wife—and their family—right away.

“Super!” Judy told her. Judy was very tiny and thin to the point of skinny. She had freckles, sandy-red hair and dimples. She was in constant motion, pretty in her vividness, sweet as could be.

“Super!” Sam agreed. She tried to keep smiling, but it was difficult when she didn’t know where he was. “Is that like coo—el?”

“I think. No, I’m certain,” Lew said. He slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Their dive bags were on wheels. They only needed one hand each to drag them behind them, leaving the other hand free for each other.

Sam doubted she would be seeing the elder Walkers for cocktails, either. “Thanks,” she said.

“Super, cool—and I had the best dive partner,” came a husky male voice.

Jim Santino. Darlene called him “Romeo” and giggled all the time when he was around. He was good-looking, with a charming smile and blond hair that was long enough to fling out of his face frequently, something like a mating ritual. She’d partnered up with him today because Liam Hinnerman had gone with Sukee Pontre, who was right behind Jim now. Sukee was in her early twenties, with short dark hair and eyes and flawless ivory skin. Her father had been French, her mother Vietnamese, and Sukee had benefited from both. She wasn’t just attractive, she was exotic. She had told Sam that she had come to Seafire Isle because she had heard that not just guys but rich guys came here for vacations. She was the kind of woman who would probably have made other women hate her except that she was so blunt and funny and forthright.

“Really, handsome?” Sukee drawled to Jim. “And here I had thought you might consider me to be the perfect partner.”

“Um, er…” Jim stuttered.

“It’s difficult when there’s so damned much perfection around, isn’t it?” another voice cut in.

Sam’s eyes were drawn upward, over Jim’s shoulder.

It was him. The man from the mail boat.

Adam O’Connor.

Smiling below his Ray-Bans, his voice husky, deep, resonant. Somehow mocking.

He lowered his glasses and locked eyes briefly with Sam—an antagonistic look, yet one that somehow warned her that he didn’t intend to acknowledge the fact that he knew her.

Nor did he want her to recognize him.

Jim turned, looking up at the newcomer. He seemed to acknowledge some kind of competition—he had to, the way Sukee was staring at the man—but he was quick to redon his charming manner. “The perfect guest, the perfect hostess.” He smiled at Sam, then at Sukee, then stared at the new addition to their number once again. “You’re right. So much…perfection.” He offered a hand to the man. “Jim Santino,” he said. “Welcome to—”

“Perfection Isle?” Adam drawled. He smiled, accepting the handshake in a friendly manner.

He’s a snake, Jim, Sam longed to say in warning. Yet, somehow, she managed to keep from doing so, despite the fact that each time Adam spoke, she could hear a slight, slight underlying tinge of mockery in his voice.

The others laughed. Sam wasn’t sure Adam had meant to be amusing, even though he kept smiling. A killer smile. He had a dimple. Just one, in his left cheek.

Adam looked at her then, smiling innocently. “You must be the perfect hostess, I imagine?” He stretched his hand out to her.

If only she could bite the damned thing.

“Welcome to Seafire Isle,” Sam said smoothly, offering her own hand. She took note of his when he gripped hers. Large, powerful. The nails were bluntly cut, clean. She had very long fingers. His engulfed hers.

She drew her hand back quickly.

“Thanks,” he told her.

“Have you come to stay, or are you with the dinner party coming in tonight from Freeport?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m staying.”

“Really?” She forced herself to sound interested. “Do you have a reservation?”

Why was she playing this game? she asked herself.

“No, but your agent back at Freeport—Miss Jensen, is that right?—said that it’s slow season and you’d surely have one room left, at the least.”

“Did Miss Jensen say that?” Sam murmured. She could imagine how happy Miss Irma Jensen would have been to say it. Sam had only recently hired her to book newcomers, dinner parties and day trips to Seafire Isle. She was a sixty-year-old spinster who was certain that Sam needed to marry soon—or become a hopeless old maid herself. Irma was always delighted to book single men onto the island. She was convinced she was eventually going to make a match.

Not this time, Irma, Sam thought.

“Are you a diver, Mister, er…” Lew Walker began.

The newcomer nodded his dark head. “O’Connor. Adam O’Connor. And yes, I dive.”

“You’ll love the trips. The reefs are magnificent. And the wrecks are fascinating.”

“Wrecks are always fascinating.”

“Yes, but these are special. Sam entertains us with the history of each wreck before we reach it,” Judy said.

“Sam is always entertaining—I imagine,” Adam said politely.

“Best dive vacation I’ve ever taken,” Sukee offered. She smiled. “Mr. O’Connor. The best,” she ended sibilantly. It had a nice sexy sound to it. She’d come to flirt with all the free males—and maybe a few who were not so free. She’d concentrated on Jim so far, but now it was evident that she’d discovered a new quarry to pursue. “I just know you’ll enjoy Sam.”

Adam stared at Sam, those damned Ray-Bans back in place. “I’ll do my best,” he said politely.

She wanted to slug him.

God, she’d last seen him so long ago….

And the way she felt hadn’t changed a whit. Yes, yes, it had, she assured herself. She still wanted to kill him, still wanted to…

That was it. She simply wanted to throttle him. She was no longer crushed. She wasn’t a young woman barely turned twenty-one who was still madly, hopelessly in love with a slightly older man. A man with whom other women had been in love with as well. She wasn’t broken, desperate, longing for his touch, wanting to be held in his arms….

She felt her cheeks reddening. She remembered the first moment she had seen him today, not knowing then who he was, wondering almost academically what he would look like minus most of his clothing. Well, she knew, and…

She was over the bastard, she assured herself. Had been for a very long time now. A dozen things had happened in the years since that had made her forget him. Okay, not forget him, exactly, but relegate him to the past. Where he belonged.

Still…

If she’d never seen him before, she would have thought he was the type of man a woman might turn to in times of trouble—even if she was a woman confident in her own abilities. He had a touch of machismo about him. In fact, as she knew all too well, he could be damned irritating.

But that didn’t alleviate a woman’s urge to get close to him. To touch him. Feel his warmth, his energy.

Like a moth to a flame, she ridiculed herself. And her wings had been badly scorched.

Just be cool, she warned herself now. Be mature.

Darlene would certainly recommend maturity.

“Well, Mr. O’Connor, I’m sure Yancy will see to all your needs at the reception desk.” She turned to the others. “I think I’ll shower for dinner if you’ll all pardon me.”

Adam was the only one looking at her; the only one who seemed to notice that she was excusing herself. Jim, Sukee and the Walkers continued to watch Adam with interest.

Jem, who had pulled out the hose to wash down their equipment, was staring at her curiously over Adam’s shoulder. In fact, he was grinning, damn his hide. The hell with them both. No, the hell with men in general. She’d only ever met one who was simply honest and sweet, and he…he was gone.

Hank.

Hank, with his open blue eyes, his continual search for knowledge. His determination, his enthusiasm, his honesty, his naiveté, his nose always on a map, in a book.

What the hell happened, Hank? she wondered, the question a silent scream within her mind. Why did you let it happen? Why didn’t you let us help you? What happened, what happened…?

What the hell had happened?

And where the hell had Adam O’Connor been when Hank had disappeared? Not to mention when her father had disappeared?

Was that part of what hurt so badly now? He’d gone, yes, and left her. But when she’d been desperate, she’d sent for him. She’d thought that enough feeling, enough history, had remained between them that he would come to help.

But he hadn’t. Her pleas had gone unanswered.

She bit her lower lip and turned swiftly, anxious to put some distance between herself and Adam as quickly as possible. Damn him. This wasn’t fair. It was the surprise of seeing him that was throwing her so badly now. Definitely not fair. But then again, when had he ever played fair? He surely had the advantage today. Coming here, he’d known that he would see her.

Sweet Jesus, she could have used some warning. It would have been nice if Irma Jensen had given her a call.

Why? she taunted herself. What did it matter? Come on, come on, she was an adult, a big girl, and he was history, ancient history.

She started walking quickly, heading toward her private beach house off the south side of the main lodge.

First her father…

Then Hank.

And all over a cache of pirate gold.

Or had it been? Had they disappeared…had they died for another reason?

Adam O’Connor chased live men. Present-day pirates. And Adam was on the island.

Why the hell was he here?

Sam suddenly stopped in her tracks, staring at the smooth concrete path that began where the wooden decking ended. She had come about halfway up from the docks and stood between the docks and the main lodge. And she was looking down at a trail of drops on the smooth concrete.

A trail of crimson drops, bloodred drops….

Oh, God.

Adam was back in her life, on her island.

And there were drops on the walkway.

Red drops.

Blood?

2

Sam quickly bent down to study the crimson drops. She reached out a finger, touching one.

“Sammy!”

She jumped, coming to her feet. Ahead of her, in the doorway of the lodge, stood Jerry North, Liam Hinnerman’s exquisite little doll. Her blond hair was a riot of soft waving curls around her gamine face. She was dressed in slinky white, a chiffon halter-dress creation that bared her shoulders and formidable cleavage and a fair length of her slim tanned legs. Her feet were encased in stiletto heels despite the sometimes tricky terrain of the island.

“Sammy, how was the dive?”

“Nice, you should try coming one day!” Sam called. She bent down, reached out, touched a red drop.

Studied it.

Was it blood?

“You should try one of my drinks! I make a mean Bloody Mary!” Jerry called to her cheerfully, lifting her right hand. She was holding a glass. A big, tall glass. A celery stick was rising above the rim of a glass that was practically overflowing—with something red.

A Bloody Mary.

Sam almost groaned aloud, wiping her finger on the grass by the path. She stood, smiling at Jerry, feeling like a fool.

Tomato juice had become drops of blood in her own slowly decaying mind.

It was because that damned man was back.

“Oh, did I spill? I’m so sorry!” Jerry called contritely.

“Just a drop, no problem. It’s nothing.”

“Still, I’m sorry. Everything is so immaculate here.”

“Nearly perfect,” Sam muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing. It will rain soon, a few little drops of tomato juice are no problem,” Sam said.

“Thanks. Still…I can get something and clean them up.”

“Jerry! We’re outside! Trust me—the birds never apologize for what they do to the walks.”

Jerry smiled and laughed softly. “You really grew into a beautiful young woman.”

“What?”

“You’re just a sweetheart,” Jerry said. “The island is great, and you do a wonderful job here.”

“Thanks.”

“Must have been a good dive. The others are right behind you. They look tired.”

“It was,” Sam agreed. She wanted to escape. She needed time alone, and Jerry, as usual, wanted to draw her into conversation. Most of the time she liked Jerry. Just not now.

“Those little cuties are all scattering to their own cottages. A few of them will be coming our way soon, I imagine. Come join me before they get their hands on you. I’ll make you a Bloody Mary.”

“Thanks, but I really want to bathe and change first. You go on in. I’ll join you soon.”

Still feeling like a fool, Sam waved Jerry inside and started walking quickly away once again.

In a pleasant room inside the lodge, a phone rang.

He quickly picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“You’ve got company.”

“O’Connor?”

“Yes.”

“I know. He’s already arrived.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“He came in on the afternoon mail boat right when the dive party was returning.”

“Hmm. Did he say why he was on the island?”

“A dive vacation.”

“Right. What else?” There was a moment’s silence. “What was Miss Carlyle’s reaction to his appearance?”

“No reaction.”

“She was polite?”

“She pretended not to know him.”

“O’Connor is never anywhere unless something is going on. The stakes have just doubled. You’ll have to keep your eyes wide open. What did he bring with him?”

“Not much. A duffel bag.”

“No electronic equipment?”

“Not so far as I could see.”

“Check it out.”

“Sure. I like grabbing a tiger by the tail.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid?”

“Let’s say I have a healthy respect for the man.”

“Healthy respect or—”

“Don’t worry. I’m on it.”

“He’s one man. He can’t be everywhere at once.” Again there was a brief silence. “Remember that. He’s just one man. Human. Things happen. And when they don’t, people make them happen. Do you know what I mean?”

“You’re suggesting something could happen to O’Connor?” There was a note of derision in the question. “He’s one of the best divers in the world.”

“Justin Carlyle was one of the finest divers in the world, too. The sea ate him up. It can happen to anyone. Bear that in mind.”

“Justin Carlyle was a marine biologist who loved the sea. O’Connor has been both a Navy and a police diver. He’s here with his guard up, you mark my word.”

“You mark my word. No man is invulnerable. Especially when you go through a woman to reach his Achilles’ heel. You stay awake there, you hear?”

“Yeah. Who is O’Connor working for?”

“It’s the damnedest thing—I don’t know. Not yet, anyway.”

“Great.”

“Give me time. I’ll find out.”

The receiver went dead.

He replaced it slowly, then stood and walked into the bathroom, dropping his clothing as he went. He paused before the mirror, pleased with what he saw. Naked, he shoved aside the toiletries in his overnight bag until he revealed a dark velvet bag that might have carried men’s cologne or talc. But it didn’t. He ran his hand carefully over the outline of his specialty custom-made thirty-two-caliber pistol, a small weapon, easily concealed, but one that packed a deadly punch nevertheless.

Assured, he locked the door to the bath, his overnight bag on the commode, within arm’s reach of the shower. He started the water and swore vociferously as it shot out at him, steaming. He adjusted the temperature, still swearing.

Well, hell, that was just it, wasn’t it? They were all getting into hot water now.

But didn’t they always tempt the devil?

For big payoffs, you had to take big risks.

He began to lay his plans as he quickly showered.

Don’t think about him, Sam warned herself. Humph. Might as well tell herself to quit breathing. Not that it meant anything. She was hardened. Older. Mature.

Burned.

But she still wanted to know….

What the hell was Adam doing here? Go with the obvious, she advised herself. He was after someone or something—he was not on a pleasure trip, that was certain. He’d been with the Metropolitan Dade County Police the first time he’d come here, searching for a drug runner out of Coconut Grove reported to have gone down about two miles off the island. He’d found the sunken speedboat—and arrested the two men who were pretending to be sports fishermen while visiting the island in their attempt to recover their lost treasure. In the meantime, he’d made a conquest on the island—her.

Sam didn’t head straight for her refuge. She walked quickly along the concrete path, skirting the front of the lodge, still feeling like a fool. Anything could have been on that damned path. Anything. It led from the docks, first skirting the white sand of the beach area on the northward slope of the island, then winding through the manicured lawns toward the lodge itself.

Hibiscus grew along the path in flowering beauty, while palms lent shade, and crotons and wild orchids added deep slashes of color along the way.

With Jerry having disappeared into the lodge, Sam paused in the center of an orchid-covered gazebo near the far corner of the lodge, catching her breath and looking at the inn.

The main lodge itself was Victorian. It had been built by Sam’s great-grandfather in 1880. Cosmetic touches and several major additions had been built on over the intervening years, but every member of the family since her great-grandfather’s day had remained true to the integrity of the Victorian era. The lodge house was painted a soft coral with white balconies, porches and gingerbreading. It was encircled by a magnificent broad porch and sat atop a small knoll. She loved the house, and she loved the island, just as she loved the water and the breezes, the boating, the diving. It was a fantasy life—hard work, but a fantasy. She enjoyed living it and working it. This had been her home as long as she could remember, except for the three years she had spent at St. Anne’s Fine Arts College for Women.

Too bad it had been an all-girls school, she reflected sourly. A little more exposure to men and she might have been better prepared for Adam when he had arrived on the island. At the very least she might have had a more accurate perception of her own weaknesses and inexperience.

Well, it was all in the past now, and though Justin Carlyle had disappeared over four years ago, she still had Jem Walker with her, and Jem was great. He was as close as a brother could be, her best friend, her partner in all things.

Her life and the island were damn near perfect.

Except that now Adam was back.

She stared at the house, inwardly swearing and breathing deeply to calm herself. She heard voices, guests returning to their rooms. She closed her eyes, hoping she was concealed by the healthy tangle of orchids. The voices faded.

Only two or three. Had Adam’s been among them?

She slipped out of the gazebo, looking toward the dock.

The entire group was now gone. Amazing what his damned appearance had done to her. She’d rushed away, imagined she’d seen blood on her walk, then walked around like an idiot while everyone who’d left the docks after her was probably already relaxing in a hot tub.

Even Jem had finished up with the business of rinsing down the equipment and was no doubt comfortably submerged in heat and bubbles in his cottage.

Everyone had disappeared.

Disappeared. God, how she hated that word!

Don’t start thinking about disappearances now! she warned herself.

This was customarily a quiet time on the island, after the daily dive trip and any of the other activities and lessons, and before the traditional cocktail hour—unless you were Jerry and liked to start cocktail hour early. Though the island was a casual vacation destination, people always had a tendency to dress up for cocktail hour and dinner, at least a little bit. Her guests napped, bathed and indulged themselves—and one another—during this quiet time, as she thought of it after talking with one guest, a kindergarten teacher.

Quiet time. She needed a little quiet time of her own, with an early start on the cocktail hour thrown in.

She turned away from the empty dock and hurried along the path, anxious to reach the calm refuge of her own abode. Once her house had been a kitchen for the lodge, but with the installation of smoke detectors and a sprinkler system, the one-time kitchen had been adapted into a charming cottage. There was a central living area, a sunken office off to one side, a small kitchenette, and then her bedroom and bath, the latter huge, with a separate shower stall that offered a dozen jets and a huge Jacuzzi set high atop elegant, tiled steps. It was surrounded by glass, with privacy shutters built along the outside wall. From the bath, she looked out onto a garden area with purple bougainvillea twining over the shutters and a small fountain with a graceful Venus pouring water onto concrete flowers.

Sam carefully locked her door. She didn’t want to assume that Adam’s being on the island meant he intended to come anywhere near her, but then, she knew the man, and if he wanted something, he would come after it.

She checked the lock, then leaned against the door, studying her living room walls.

They were laden with paintings and prints. A few were period pieces and very valuable. Galleons, warships, privateers, all lined her walls, along with some beautiful charts and maps.

There was a map of Seafire Isle with its surrounding coral reefs and shelves. Once upon a time, the small island had been a dangerous place, teeming with pirates. It had been passed between the Spanish and the British a dozen times. Because of the coral reefs surrounding it, the island was accessible only by smaller ships, and in days gone by, many a poor vessel had been wrecked on her reefs. This map had been sketched in pen and ink during her great-grandfather’s day. It showed the more modern pleasures of the island, the lodge, the scattering of cottages, the docks, the beach, the tennis courts and the golf course. It was quite charmingly drawn, and little had really changed since it had been done.

But Sam’s eyes were drawn from the Seafire Isle map, and she moved across the room, looking at her father’s favorite. It was a treasure map, drawn in the early eighteen hundreds, encompassing Florida with all its islands, the Gulf Coast and the Caribbean. There were stars and notes attached to every possible “treasure” trove—or sunken ship—location in fine, minuscule handwriting. “Here lyeth the Santa Margarita, the Ghost Galleon, sunk in the Year of Our Lord 1622, in the Eyes of a Storm, may she rest in peace.” The treasure recovered from the Santa Margarita had an estimated worth of about twenty million. She had sunk at nearly the same time as the more recently discovered Atocha, a ship that had yielded its own trove of treasure, both fiscal and historical.

Closer to Seafire Isle, west of the south Florida mainland, was the mark for the Beldona, her father’s love, his great passion—the mistress of his life.

The Beldona had, in the end, claimed him, or so it seemed. And without giving up a single one of her secrets. She’d gone down in 1722, also in “the Eyes of a Storm,” and she’d carried her crew, her prisoners and her treasure to a watery grave from which there had been no reprieve. She’d been something of a mystery ship from the very beginning, a British ship carrying secret documents as well as a doomed crew of Spanish privateers. No one had ever been able to tell a pirate tale like Justin Carlyle. No one. No one had ever been able to weave such a spell of magic, adventure and chills. And no one, perhaps, had ever been so caught up in the spell of his own lore.

Justin had also been an excellent diver, strict regarding the rules of safety.

But Justin had followed the Beldona. And he had never returned.

Strange, for all his hard, contemporary tactics and cool determination, Adam had been as seduced by her father’s tales as any other man. He had sat up hour after hour with Justin, while they had drunk cheap whiskey together, laughing, imagining, weaving tales of what had happened the night of the storm. And they had speculated as to where the ship might have gone down. Yes, Adam and her father had been great together.

She inhaled raggedly again, backing away from the map. Great. Just great. She had gone from wondering about Adam to agonizing over her father, and now she couldn’t stop remembering them both.

No, she would never waste time on such a rotten bastard again, and that was that. She turned toward the kitchen, walking slowly at first. Then more quickly.

Her walk became a run. She reached into the refrigerator and, more desperately than she wanted to, dragged out a bottle of zinfandel. She poured herself a glass, her hands shaking. She gulped down the wine.

She shuddered, her entire face puckering. Wine was not meant to be guzzled. She poured herself a second glass, determined not to think about Adam. She decided, as she made her way into the bathroom to start hot water running into the massive Jacuzzi, that he had one hell of a lot of nerve, thinking that he could just walk in here and expect her not to betray him.

Maybe she’d misread him and he really didn’t care if she betrayed him or not. Maybe he was really on vacation.

No. Never.

By the time the Jacuzzi had been filled, she had her third glass of wine at her side. She crawled into the tub and leaned back, determined to relax, to unwind. Impossible. She laid her head back, feeling the water pulse against her back, her neck.

Damn him. What was he doing here now? Where had he been when things had gone badly for her, when her father had disappeared, when Hank had followed the exact same way? She’d been desperate enough then to write to him, to beg him for help, and he hadn’t shown up. Where the hell had he been, and what possible right did he have to come now?

She sipped her wine, feeling its effects at last, soothing her body if not her soul. Great. She was guzzling zinfandel. Trying to get sloshed on wine. She hadn’t done anything so stupid since she and Jem and Yancy had been sixteen and downed a bottle of cheap burgundy they had gotten hold of in Freeport. Think how sick she’d been….

No, she wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

Right, she taunted herself. Her wine wasn’t cheap anymore.

She shook her head, warning herself to slow down. She had a business to run. She didn’t want to get sloshed at all—couldn’t afford to—but his presence on the island was really getting to her. And she was usually so moderate. She hadn’t overimbibed in wine or anything else since she had gotten so carried away that night when they had first…

She heard a noise behind her and tensed, sitting up straight, her fingers curling over the rim of the tub, listening.

She had imagined it, she told herself. She sat very still, barely breathing, listening once more.

Nothing….

Had she imagined it?

No, no…a few seconds later, it came again. Like a whisper through the air. Movement.

She gritted her teeth furiously.

Adam.

He’d been like the sun coming into her life, all powerful, blazing, the center of her universe.

She’d been like a stick of gum to him. Easily spat out and forgotten, exchanged for another.

And now he thought he could saunter in again, and she would be the same obliging innocent she had been before.

The noise was coming closer.

How had he gotten in? she wondered. The bastard. She spoke at last, controlling her contemptuous tone to the very best of her ability. “You son of a bitch, I don’t know how the hell you got in here, but you can get out of my private quarters right this second!” she snapped.

He didn’t reply. Not a word. Not a whisper of laughter, not a breath of mockery.

“Damn you!”

Furious, she twisted around. To her absolute amazement, it wasn’t Adam.

At least, she didn’t think it was Adam.

It was a figure in black. Completely in black—down to a black ski mask.

Sam was so stunned that she didn’t even think to be frightened at first, just curious.

A ski mask? Nights on the island could be cool, but never cold enough for…

Oh, God. She was an idiot.

“What on earth…” she began to murmur. Then she realized that the figure was coming toward her, carrying some kind of a black cloth in its black gloved hand.

She stood up, drawing in breath she could expel in a shriek as she tried to leap from the tub and escape. But she was cut off from the doorway by the figure, left standing there naked, dripping.

She made an attempt to sidestep the figure and leap for the door. No luck. She stared at it hard. Male, she thought instinctively. Tall—no chest. But that was it. There was nothing else she could tell about her silent attacker.

For seconds they just stood, staring at one another.

Then she realized her situation. She was naked, unarmed, and an intruder was in her bathroom, completely camouflaged and staring at her.

“Help!” she screamed. Her cottage wasn’t that far from the main house. And there were other cottages near hers. Someone might be walking on the beach. Someone…

This was ludicrous. A black-clad figure in a ski mask on a Caribbean island—attempting to attack her!

“Help!” she shrieked again.

The figure lunged for her.

“No!” she cried, beating her fists against his chest, kicking him. He grunted as one well-aimed kick connected, then seemed to find his own spurt of fury. He grasped one of her arms, and she was drawn, still kicking and screaming, against his body. He struggled to force the cloth over her face. She kept struggling to keep it away. She tried not to breathe. She could already smell the sickly sweet scent of the drug that soaked the cloth.

“Help!” she shrieked again, still kicking. The cry cost her what little breath she had left. She had to breathe. Had to inhale….

The scent was awful. Filling her nose, her lungs, seeping into her blood, deadening her limbs. She couldn’t keep fighting, couldn’t force her arms to move the way she wanted them to. She tried to claw, to scratch his eyes with her fingers.

Oh, God, she was losing her strength. She was being attacked…assaulted….

Murdered?

She still couldn’t believe that an intruder had come here for her. This was her damned island!

Blackness…stars…weakness…

That awful, sickly sweet smell, closing in around her, filling her…

She was starting to go limp in the fierce hold of her attacker.

Suddenly the arms that held her were wrenched away. She was dimly aware of a thudding, crunching sound as a blow was thrown and connected with flesh and bone. She heard a groan, footsteps taking flight….

All in a matter of seconds.

“Sit!” someone snapped at her. “I’ll be back.”

She reached out blindly. “Ca—can’t!”

She lacked the strength to stand, yet she couldn’t manage to tell her limbs to set her into a sitting position. She was going to fall against the unforgiving tile.

“Damn it!” she heard someone say. “He’s going to get away.”

She didn’t fall, she was swept up. She blinked furiously against the effects of the drug, trying to fight again.

“Damn it, Sam, I’m trying to keep you from killing yourself!”

Her vision started clearing. It was Adam. Right in front of her. No, holding her. She was still so dizzy. The room was spinning. No, he was walking. Carrying her. Laying her down on her bed.

He left her for a minute and the darkness began to recede. She drank in the fresh, salt-tinged night air that whispered over the island. She tried her fingers. They moved. Her toes. They wiggled.

There was a sensation of weight as he sat down at her side. Cold, as he pressed a washcloth rinsed in cool water over her face.

She inhaled through the cloth and felt her temper reviving the rest of her.

Adam was in her room—and she was stark naked.

He lifted the cloth from her face. His eyes were burning and sharp, his features tense, yet his lips seemed to curve in a mocking smile.

She struck out wildly, her palm swinging toward his cheek.

“Stop it, Sam! It’s me. Adam!”

The Ray-Bans were gone. She could see his face clearly, if she could only focus. She blinked, making the attempt. She saw the silver glitter of his eyes against the striking, angled lines of his profile and tried to strike out again. He caught her hands, leaning over her, his weight bearing her down, preventing her from attacking him.

“Sam, damn it, it’s me!”

“I know perfectly well who it is!” she cried out. Still struggling furiously, she managed to free a hand and tried again to strike him.

Once again, before her blow could land, her wrist was captured.

And she realized that she was lying naked and completely vulnerable…with Adam O’Connor not just back on her island, but lying on top of her in her bed.

3

“Fine! Next time a stranger is trying to drug you, kidnap you, maybe even kill you, I’ll remember to keep my distance,” Adam said evenly. His tone was husky. Angry.

His eyes were directly on hers, gleaming. A knife-like silver. Not giving away an iota of emotion.

Only his voice hinted of his feelings.

She stared at him. Not moving, not breathing. Not daring to, because the slightest motion would bring her bare flesh into closer contact with him.

He’d aged nicely over the years. He was even more attractive in his mid-thirties than he’d been in his late twenties. His voice had deepened; his chest had broadened. Even the lines in his face gave it the character that men seemed to achieve so easily, while women battled the ravages of age with expensive creams and potions. His dark hair was longish, collar length. It was tousled now from the fight he’d put up. One dark wavy strand had fallen over his forehead, where it looked too damned good. Sexy, sensual. Very masculine. It was great hair. Very thick. She knew, because once-upon-a-very-long-time-ago, she had run her fingers through it. She was tempted to touch it right now.

She would like to touch it and yank it right out of his head.

He’d changed clothes for dinner, making her current, uncomfortable situation seem all the more ludicrous. He was dressed in casual evening attire, black pants, jacket, bone and crimson vest over a dress shirt. He was in absurdly good condition. He wasn’t breathing hard—only his hair had been mussed. Even his tie had remained straight, helping to maintain his look of casual elegance.

She was going to die, she realized, if she didn’t breathe soon.

She might have died! She’d never been afraid on the island, never even thought to be afraid. What might have happened if…?

She inhaled, trying not to gasp too deeply for air. She couldn’t gush out a thank-you-for-my-life. She just couldn’t do it.

“He—he shouldn’t be a stranger anymore,” Sam gasped, rallying. “You should have caught him. You should be after him right now rather than humiliating me.”

“You’re humiliated?” he demanded, silver eyes cool.

“Adam—”

“Humiliation has never been your strong suit.”

“What would you know about my strong suit? You don’t know me at all. You passed through my life years ago. Hundreds of people have passed through it since.”

“Hundreds with whom you’ve had affairs? In this day and age? Shame on you, Samantha. Really.”

She stared at him with all the careful restraint she could manage, eyes narrowed. “Get off me and get out of my bedroom. Now.”

“Yeah. You’re welcome. But please, don’t deluge me with any more gratitude. I can’t deal with it. It would just go straight to my head.”

“God forbid. If anything else went to your head, it might explode.”

“Oh, really?”

“Damn right!”

“In contrast to the Queen of the Seven Seas here, eh?”

“O’Connor!”

He rose—carefully, ready for her to start swinging again.

She wouldn’t have minded doing so. Except that it wouldn’t have gotten her anywhere. Because he would have been right back on top of her. And that would not have been good. Because it was amazing just how vividly memory could serve—even when half a decade had passed.

He stood above the bed, looking toward the door to her room. The room was shadowy; dusk was falling. She was grateful for the darkness, since she didn’t seem to be able to move and get any clothes.

It just seemed so absurd for him to be here. She should have forgotten him; he should have forgotten her. They were hardly friends now. They hadn’t exactly parted on good terms. The words that passed between them now had quickly become sarcastic, scathing, when they should have been casual. But something remained after all that time.

Bitterness. Anger. And more. Things left unresolved. Being near him was like entering an energy field where slashes of lightning cut furiously through the air.

He was still in her room. Too close. Far too close.

Some things changed. Chemistry stayed the same. And she was still…frightened. She could strike out at Adam, or cling to him.

No. Oh, no.

“You should be going after him!” she said.

He looked at her again. She was sorry she had spoken. She felt as if her entire body was blushing, as if her skin was burning right down to her feet.

“What if it was a her?” he demanded.

“What?”

“It could have been a woman.”

“It was a man. The height—”

“They’re making taller woman these days. Whoever it was, they weren’t much taller than you.”

“It was a man.”

“Because the chest was flat?”

“How amazing! I hadn’t thought you were aware that female chests could come in flat.”

He leaned over her again, a half smile curving his mouth. “You’d be amazed at the amount of wonderfully sensual, sexy women who come in size small.”

“Your tastes have broadened.”

“Ah, let’s see, I just passed through your life and know nothing about you, but you can judge my tastes?”

She smiled, determined not to cringe or allow him to realize in any way that her nudity in front of him made her feel as vulnerable as a day-old kitten.

“I know that when you left here, the woman you left for was incredibly well-endowed. Not particularly tall, but—well-endowed.”

“You’re mistaken. But then, you so often are.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“How could you possibly know my taste in breasts?”

“I’m only familiar with my own observations, of course.”

“Very mature ones,” he commented. “But then, you were just past being a child back then, weren’t you?”

There was something disturbing about the way he asked the question.

Just past being a child…. She had been in her early twenties at the time. He’d just been accustomed to a faster crowd. Women who knew what they were doing.

Well, he had seen to her education.

“I do apologize,” she said coolly. In perfect control. “We’re certainly both adults now, and this has to be one of the most ridiculous conversations I’ve ever had. Whether that was a man or a woman, you should have gone after them.”

“Oh, really? I get beaten up for saving you, and then I’m supposed to go after the intruder anyway?”

“You don’t look beaten up.”

“Trust me, I am.”

“You—”

“Not only was I struck by the intruder, but then I got you throwing punches, as well.”

“Aftershock,” she said evenly.

“Um.”

“That doesn’t matter now.”

“It doesn’t matter to you because you weren’t on the receiving end.”

“You are not hurt! You should be chasing—”

“Chasing who—and where?” he demanded curtly. “Your cottage is surrounded by others, and by the main house. All that intruder had to do was shuck the ski mask and black pullover and slip on a shirt or a jacket and you’d never recognize him or her in a thousand years.”

“It couldn’t possibly be a guest!”

“No, a large stork delivered him to the island!”

“Well, you should have caught him!”

“Silly me. I should have let you crack your head on the tile so I could chase the intruder. Fine. Next time I’ll let you crack your damned head!”

“What kind of a cop are you? You could at least look for clues.”

“I’m not a cop anymore.”

“No? Then what are you doing on the island?”

“Vacationing. Boating. Diving.”

“Lying.”

“Do you subject all your guests to the third degree?”

“Only you.”

“I’m here to dive.”

“The hell you are.”

“I love to dive. This is a great location.”

“So is Aruba.”

“I like the diving off Seafire Isle—and the dive mistress here has quite a reputation. I hear she’s perfect—and perfectly entertaining.”

“Do you think you could possibly remove yourself from my room?”

“Do you think you can quit questioning me long enough for me to get out?”

Her eyes suddenly narrowed on him. “How did you get in here to begin with?”

“The same way your attacker did, I imagine.”

“I was careful today. I locked the door.”

“Not good enough, Sam.” He pointed to where one of her bedroom window curtains was floating inward on the breeze. “The window, Sam. Easy access.”

He turned to leave the room, and she started to shiver.

She rolled quickly under her bed covers, hoping he wouldn’t realize how much he had unnerved her. But he was leaving the room without glancing her way. She wondered if he had actually taken a look at her to begin with.

If he’d even noticed that she was naked, or, if he had, if he’d cared in the least.

Wonderful. She’d been attacked, nearly…what? Kidnapped? Murdered? Yet here she was, worrying about Adam. What in God’s name was the matter with her?

She leaped up when he was gone, hurrying to dress. She threw on panties, a bra, black pumps and a long-sleeved black knit dress. When she was dressed, she drew a brush through her not-really-washed-and-half-damp-hair, wincing as she hit the tangles. She told herself to toughen up, dragging the brush through her hair until it had a semblance of neatness to it, then hurried out of her bedroom—anxious to see if he had really left her cottage.

She didn’t think he had.

And he hadn’t.

He was seated in her living room, comfortably leaning back in the deep Victorian brocade sofa. Despite his evening attire, he’d managed a pose of casual ease, his feet propped up on the cherrywood coffee table. There was a bottle of beer in his hand, and he sipped it slowly, reflectively, as he stared at the treasure map on the wall. He lifted the bottle, indicating the map. “I’m surprised you keep that.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Your father.”

“I’d have to discard the entire island if I couldn’t bear memories of my father.”

“I didn’t mean the memory,” he murmured. “I meant—he disappeared searching for the Beldona, right?”

“Yes,” she said.

His eyes suddenly seemed more veiled than her own. “He loved that ship.”

“He didn’t love the ship—he couldn’t love the ship—he never found her. He just loved the sea, the adventure. And he loved the island. Look, forget my father for now, what about tonight? Should I call the mainland police? Make out a report?”

“You could.”

“Could? What does that mean?”

“Well, the police will come out, question you and question all your guests. You won’t find out who attacked you, and you might well empty the island.”

She hadn’t thought of that. “But—but what about the danger to my guests?”

“I’d bet my life that the attacker is very specifically after you.”

“Great. Then I’m in danger.”

“Yes. You’ll have to be extremely careful.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Stay close to me.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “That could be difficult when you’re running around with your well-endowed—and not-so-well-endowed—women.”

“Did I arrive here with a woman?”

“No, but they always seem to appear around you.”

“But I’ll be watching you.”

“But—”

“Look, if the police come, they won’t be able to do a damned thing but file a report. Your innocent guests will leave the island. And you’ll still be in danger.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“You’re right. That’s my opinion. Hank Jennings disappeared searching for the Beldona, as well, didn’t he?”

She frowned, thrown by his abrupt change of subject—or determination to return to the original one. “Did you know Hank Jennings?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“I heard about his disappearance,” he said, his eyes on the map once again.

“Naturally you heard about it. I wrote to you, asking for help. You didn’t come. But then, you didn’t show up after my father disappeared, either, and you’d become bosom buddies with him.”

He didn’t offer her a sarcastic reply, which she might have expected. He didn’t even remind her that she had asked him to leave Seafire Isle.

He just shook his head, taking a long swallow of beer. “I didn’t get your letter for nearly a year after your dad disappeared,” he told her. His voice seemed a little husky.

The beer, she thought.

“I was down in the Everglades on a sting operation when it came.”

“Well, that would have been years ago now. Are you always so quick with your correspondence?”

“A neighbor was picking up my mail. The letter wound up on her counter, then fell behind her stove, and she finally found it over a year later, and by then…” He shrugged.

It sounded like one of the worst stories Sam had heard in her life but, oddly enough, she believed him. Not because the story was believable, but because of the way he told it.

“She was picking up your mail, huh?” Sam murmured.

“She was sixty-six. I don’t think there was any ulterior motive behind the accident. If you’d really wanted me, you could have called.”

“It’s difficult to call someone who has ignored your rather desperate appeal for help.”

“You know damned well I would have done anything I could to help your father.”

“Well, at least I don’t have to feel like such a fool for attempting to reach you last year when Hank disappeared. But what happened then? Was your neighbor collecting your mail again?”

His glare assured her that he didn’t find her amusing. He shook his head, lifting the beer, taking another long swallow. Then he looked at her, his eyes silver and very sharp. “I was out of the country last year, working for private concerns. My mail was all held at the South Miami post office—feel free to check on that.”

“Oh.”

He exhaled in exasperation. “I was in Africa, river diving for industrial diamonds.”

“I didn’t ask you for a detailed explanation.”

“You don’t seem willing to believe one, either.”

She shrugged. “So what are you doing here now?”

Once again he lifted his shoulders, and she knew she was going to receive an evasive reply. But he suddenly stared directly at her. “Unusual things have been happening in this area with some frequency.”

“My father disappeared, Hank disappeared. Other than that, not a damned thing besides your run-in with the drug dealers years ago has happened here.”

He arched a brow. “Nothing unusual has happened? What about just now? Or was that your usual evening? Were you just indulging in some kind of kinky sex in there tonight? Should I have kept out of it?”

Sam refused to dignify that with an answer. She walked across the room to the treasure map, studying it as she spoke. “I haven’t had the first unusual thing happen here—until your arrival.”

“Your father’s disappearance wasn’t unusual?”

She spun on him, fighting a wild tug-of-war to keep her emotions under control. She had loved her father. She’d never even known her mother; Justin had been all she’d had. And he had made her the center of his universe. When he had first disappeared, she had refused to believe it, yet as the days went by and no sign of him was found, she had known that he was dead. He would never have stayed away from her if there had been a breath of life left in him.

“My father is dead,” she said softly.

He didn’t deny it. He merely asked quietly, “And don’t you want to know why?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “I do know why! The sea is a vengeful mistress.”

“What about Hank?” Adam demanded. “Didn’t he disappear just the same damned way—without a trace?”

She threw up her hands. “They both went out alone in small boats. Adam, the sea doesn’t always give up her dead.”

“Yeah, well, if I understand things correctly, she didn’t give up so much as a jagged piece of lumber after the disappearance of either man.”

“Adam, you know that massive ships have disappeared completely. The ocean is huge.”

“Sam, you’re being blind. And things are getting worse. There’s more to this picture than you realize. People have been dropping like flies all around you.”

She swung around, staring at him. “What are you talking about?”

He leaned forward. “Three different sets of divers—ostensibly sports divers—out from Key Largo, Coconut Grove and Fort Lauderdale—have disappeared entirely in the past year.”

“But we’re not in South Florida—”

“Oh, right. We’re on an island not far from it. In all three cases, they were headed for the waters right around Seafire Isle.”

“You just said you weren’t a cop anymore.”

“I’m not.”

“Then…”

“I’m working for private concerns,” he told her.

She lifted a hand in exasperation. “Okay, so your divers were heading for these waters. They could have disappeared anywhere. We’re within the boundaries of the so-called Devil’s Triangle out here. Pay attention to me. Ships have disappeared. Whole fleets of airplanes. I’m sorry about the divers, but I don’t understand why that should suddenly make you show up on Seafire Isle. Especially on the night I just happen to be attacked in my bathroom. Then again, it’s incredibly good luck that you just happened to be at hand, ready to come through my window after the intruder.”

He smiled then, lifting the beer, swallowing. “I heard your scream. I couldn’t get in the front door—it was locked. I came around the house. Found the window. No great mystery.”

“Okay, then. The great mystery is why someone would suddenly want to attack me because you’ve come to the island.”

“I’m sure I had nothing to do with someone attacking you.”

“I’ve never been attacked before.”

“There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

“I’m still convinced that this first time has something to do with you.”

He shook his head, finishing the beer. “Nice attitude. God knows what might have happened to you if I hadn’t been here, and I still haven’t heard a ‘Thank you, Adam, for saving my life.”’

“But what if I was attacked because of you being on the island? Am I supposed to thank you for having put my life in danger?”

He leaned forward suddenly, with startling speed and agility that reminded her how dangerous he could be when he chose, that any time he gave the impression of casual relaxation it was just that—an impression.

“Samantha, use some damned sense, will you? Your father disappeared because he got close to something. And then Hank disappeared.”

She swallowed hard. “My father knew that no matter how good you were, it was never safe to dive alone. A dozen things might have happened. He could have had a heart attack. He might have gotten excited about a discovery and tried to come up too quickly. I’ve had to accept the fact that he probably drowned.”

“Where’s the body? Where’s the damned body?”

“You’re not listening. You’re refusing to see the obvious! The sea doesn’t always give back her dead, you know that!”

“Oh, Sam, come on! You’re trying to say that your father and Hank both disappeared because of some Devil’s Triangle bullshit.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything strange or mystical! People have disappeared—”

“Yes, and there were sea monsters before men discovered the truth about giant squids and whales. There’s an explanation for everything. You know it, and I know it.”

“Right. Like there might be a real explanation for the fact that you’re here.”

“You are persistent.”

“I’m in danger, or so you say.” Sam waited for him to say something reassuring. He didn’t.

“I just told you that three groups of divers—”

“Disappeared during the last year. Hank disappeared just over a year ago. So that’s four disappearances. I have an older gentleman here right now who can quote you statistics regarding all the disappearances here. Even some scientific experts believe that there might be magnetic poles or something like that in the waters around here. Why should your missing divers have anything to do with my island?”

His silver eyes were sharp, and he groaned in exasperation. “Pay attention, Sam. They were all heading for waters just north of Seafire Isle.”

“I head for waters just north of Seafire Isle almost every day.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I haven’t seen or heard a single thing that was the least bit strange.”

“I’d say your father did.”

“My father has been gone for years.”

“A long time, yes. But we’ve just agreed that Hank and the other divers all disappeared within the past year.”

“So what the hell do you know about Hank?”

“He was looking for the Beldona, wasn’t he?” Adam demanded.

“He—he…”

“Well?”

“I don’t know exactly what he was doing. I had already gone the day he disappeared. He took one of the little motorboats and his diving equipment, and he never came back. Neither did the boat.”

“Are you trying to tell me that Hank Jennings just decided to motor away?”

She stared at him, folding her arms over her chest. “No, I don’t believe that he just motored away.”

“Was he looking for the Beldona?”

“I just told you—”

“What was he doing on the island?”

“He—he was a researcher. He studied the Steps and everything beneath the sea.”

“The wrecks?”

“Of course.”

“The Beldona?”

Samantha let out a frustrated cry. “Yes, yes! He was as fascinated by the stories of that stupid ghost ship as my father was! She’s sunk beneath the sea, hidden, exactly where she belongs, and I wish to hell that people—especially people around me—would leave her alone where she lies!”

“You probably know more about that ship than anyone else on earth. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’m not a researcher or a marine biologist. I run a resort, and I don’t know everything there is to know about that ship, and I don’t want to know anything more than I do about her.”

“No one knows everything. But I imagine a lot of people consider you to be the current expert on her. You are your father’s daughter, after all.”

Sam sighed in complete exasperation. “When did this conversation start being about me? I want to know what you’re doing here, and you’re switching everything around so that you’re questioning me! It’s not going to happen. If you’d just tell me—”

He stood up suddenly, impatiently. Almost violently. She took a step back, but he didn’t even seem to notice. His empty beer bottle clinked on the top of the coffee table as he set it down. He dragged his fingers through his dark hair, staring at her. For a moment, just for a moment, she saw a flash of passion within him, yet she couldn’t begin to pinpoint exactly what that passion was for.

“All right, Sam. Someone on the island has been corresponding with SeaLink for several days now.”

“SeaLink?” Sam murmured, confused. She knew the name, but she couldn’t place it right away. “The marine supply company?”

“Marine supply company!” Adam muttered.

“They are a marine supply company, aren’t they? A big one. They sell boats, scuba equipment, maps, electronics.”

“Yes, yes. It was founded in 1970 by James Jay Astin. He’s also a treasure hunter. He and his employees have managed to dig up a fair amount of salvage from at least a dozen of the ships that have gone down off the coast of Florida.”

“I read an article about him in one of the diving magazines. He turns his finds over to the government, endows all sorts of museums—”

“And he keeps what he wants in his private collection, or sells it on the black market around the world.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him when she didn’t really know anything about Astin—except that he appeared to be a model citizen.

“Astin was friends with your father.”

“How do you know?”

“They went diving together once when I was here. I didn’t know who Astin was myself at the time, but I’ve had the opportunity to meet him since.”

Sam shook her head stubbornly. “I never met him. My father had his own life, and when he was alive, I didn’t necessarily meet and greet all the guests. So this Astin knew my father. Lots of people did. And it’s not illegal for Astin or his people to be visiting the island.”

“I didn’t say it was illegal. Just curious.”

“Besides, you’re not a cop anymore.”

“No.”

“So what is it to you?” she asked coolly.

“I told you, I’m working for private concerns.”

“And what do I know about your ‘private concerns’? I still think you’re at the center of all the trouble.”

“He was trying to drug you, not me.”

“I give up. You’re trouble, and you’re impossible.”

“Want to try throwing me off the island?” he asked pleasantly.

“Cause enough trouble, and I will.”

“This is a public vacation spot. I could sue the pants off you.”

“I could have you arrested for breaking and entering.”

“That’s what I get for trying to save your ass!” he exclaimed, hands on his hips. “Tell me, Sam, are you going to throw me off again?”

“I never threw you off the island.”

“You asked me to leave.”

“Your interests were elsewhere.”

“So, are you?”

“Like you just said, Seafire Isle is a public vacation spot.”

“I’m glad you see it that way. Because I don’t give a damn what you think, or what you want—I won’t be leaving until a few mysteries are cleared up.”

“Is that so?” she inquired politely.

“And you should be glad.”

“Really.”

“Yes—damned grateful, in fact.”

“Then thank God for your presence,” Sam muttered.

“Sam, my love, you can be one stubborn bitch,” he said wryly. He took the few steps needed to come close to her, lifting her chin. She managed to keep herself from wrenching it away.

“You bet!” she promised him softly. “The worst bitch you’ve ever come across if you’re trying to put something over on me.”

He smiled suddenly. “Aren’t we getting just a little bit carried away here? I didn’t come to pick up the pieces of an old argument right where we left off. And I probably did save your life.”

“Okay. Thank you for saving my life. Now, will you please get the hell out of my house? Maybe I can’t throw you off the island, but I know damned well I have the right to throw you out of here!”

“Miss Carlyle, you need me.”

“I do?”

He shrugged. “Well, if you do decide to try to throw me off the island, you’ll have to hope someone else is around the next time you’re in trouble.”

“I thanked you, didn’t I? Of course, it would have been helpful to know just who was attacking me, but then, you’re not a cop anymore. You couldn’t possibly have been expected to nab the attacker as well as save my life.”

“Okay, the next time you’re about to fracture your skull, I’ll consider you expendable in the pursuit of justice.”

“Will you please get the hell out?”

“Nice. I should just leave you to the next ski-masked attacker who crawls into your bathroom.”

“Look at it my way. I haven’t seen you in years. The next thing I know, my bathroom is filled with strange men.”

“Strange men?”

“I consider you very strange.”

“Maybe you’d better consider me dangerous, instead,” he warned her suddenly, softly, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he studied her.

“Maybe I should,” she murmured, agreeing. “Damn it! I just want to know exactly what you’re doing here.”

“All right. Fine. Tell me, do you know exactly who all your guests are?”

“You know how the island is run. My father is gone, so yes, of course, I meet all my guests.”

“I didn’t ask you that. I asked if you knew who they were.”

“I’m not a cop. People don’t have to fill out their life histories on arrival. I don’t have dossiers on everyone who sets foot on Seafire Isle.”

“I didn’t think so.”

He sounded so damned self-satisfied.

“You do, of course? Have dossiers on my guests?”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Well, I don’t exactly have dossiers. But I imagine I know a great deal more about them than you do.”

“All right, who’s on my island?”

“You really have no idea?”

“I really have no idea.”

He stared at her, then smiled suddenly, cocking his head. He turned away from her, heading toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Out?”

He paused, looking back. “You wanted me out, right?”

“Damn it! That was before—”

“I’ll see you at cocktail hour, Sam.”

“Damn you, you didn’t answer my question!”

“I didn’t, did I? But then you haven’t been particularly cooperative either, have you?”

“Cooperative! Are you insane?”

“See you later, Sam. Maybe we can exchange some information then. Go in and close that window in your bedroom. Unless you want to take the chance of having a few more strange men enter.”

“Damn you, Adam!”

“Sam, pay attention. Make sure you close and lock that window. And when you leave your cottage from now on, make damned sure that you lock it carefully. You need an alarm system, actually.”

“This is an island! We’ve never needed any kind of alarm system!”

“Maybe you never did before.”

“Adam, this is ridiculous! What we’ve had has always been sufficient. Normal hotels don’t have alarm systems in every room.”

He arched a brow. “Yeah, well, a lot of your big guys have some kind of video surveillance. That’s beside the point now. You should think about moving into the main house for a while, maybe. For your own protection. Yancy lives in the main house, right? And Jacques?”

“I don’t want to move into the main house. I’m quite comfortable where I am—”

“With strange men in your bathroom?”

“Damn you, Adam, you have no right to do this! Talk to me, tell me—”

“Sam—”

“You know, Adam, that’s the basic problem with you. You always want something for nothing. You don’t seem to have the concept of give and take down yet.”

“Sam, so far, you haven’t given me a damn thing.”

“Son of a bitch! I always gave you everything.”

“Wrong, Sam. You never gave me a chance to give you anything before—”

“What?”

“You never gave me a chance to give you anything—”

“Like what?”

“Like explanations! So this time, you’re just going to have to ask and ask damned politely when you want something. I didn’t give, is that it? I went through one hell of a wringer.”

“Adam—”

“You took a hell of a lot more than you ever seemed to know, Miss Carlyle,” he interrupted.

“Damn you, Adam!”

But he walked away and the door closed firmly behind him.

4

The bar in the main house where the guests gathered before dinner was old-fashioned, very Victorian and very comfortable. There was a huge double-sided fireplace running the length of the far wall; it connected with the dining room. The hardwood floor was covered with numerous thick Persian carpets in shades of burgundy and mauve; the bar itself was carved oak; and high-backed, brocade-upholstered chairs and love seats were set about at intimate angles. Beyond the velvet over linen drapes, wicker chairs with similar upholstery lined the porch.

When Sam came into the bar via the porch, Yancy was just setting out crystal bowls filled with nuts. Sam didn’t speak to her at first; she went behind the mahogany bar to uncork a bottle of her favorite Chablis. She poured herself a glass and stared at Yancy, who was watching her with condemning eyes in return.

“Go easy on that. You’re not a good drinker, Sam Carlyle. Especially not with wine.”

“Excuse me, are you my keeper?”

“No, I’m not,” Yancy assured her. Like Jem, though, Yancy had grown up with Sam. They were best friends. They had laughed together, matured together, weathered all their losses together, survived together. Sam and Yancy were almost exactly the same age; they’d been born a month apart. Sam had always considered Yancy to be one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. She was Sam’s height, with black hair she kept cropped almost to her skull, olive eyes, and skin the color of pure honey. Her father had been a Creole sailor, her mother, Katie, had been from Trinidad, and she had been the first chef Sam’s father had hired when old Jimmy had passed away. Jimmy had been in his nineties, still ruling the kitchen, when he had suddenly expired while making gumbo. They had all mourned him deeply—they had by that time rather come to believe that he would live forever. But then Katie had arrived with Yancy, and Sam, three at the time, had quickly come to understand that Jimmy had lived a long, fruitful and happy life, and that it was okay to love Katie, as well. In addition, Sam had found herself thrilled to have another little girl to play with, so Yancy had become the sister she’d never had, and Katie, who was patient and gentle, had certainly done well in the mother department. Years later, when Katie had died of heart failure, they had both felt as if they had lost a mother. In the same way, Yancy had shared every bit of pain, anger, frustration and loss when Sam’s father had disappeared without a trace.

“I simply love a sip of good wine,” Sam told Yancy defensively.

“Careful. It might love you back a bit too much. And I think that you’ve had more than a sip already.”

“Yancy!”

“Oh, don’t worry. No one else will be able to tell. I simply know you.”

“Yancy, damn it—”

“Don’t you go yelling at me. I didn’t tell him to walk back into your life.”

Sam poured the wine, set the cork in the bottle and walked around the bar. She headed to the set of chairs directly before the fire, leaving her glass on the counter. Yancy came over and sat down beside her. Sam stretched her hand out. Yancy took her fingers and squeezed them.

Sam had to smile. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. He just took me by surprise. But, Yancy, that’s not the worst of it! You wouldn’t believe…” She hesitated, wondering how much she should say. Then she remembered that she was talking to Yancy. “Yancy, someone just attacked me in my bathroom.”

“What?” Yancy nearly shrieked.

“Sh, sh!” Sam said. “You’ll have everyone checking out.”

“Well, girl, they should be checking out if that’s what’s going on. Who attacked you? Not—oh, I don’t believe it!”

“No, no, Adam didn’t attack me. He stopped the man who did.”

“Out of the past and straight to the rescue,” Yancy murmured. “But who…?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“He was wearing a ski mask.”

“A ski mask!”

“Sh!”

“No one is here. You were attacked by a man wearing a ski mask—on a Caribbean island?”

Sam nodded, turning around to make sure that Yancy was right and that they hadn’t been joined as yet. “I was in the tub when this guy appeared, dressed all in black, trying to drug me, I think.”

“You think,” Yancy murmured skeptically.

“Yancy, he had some kind of a cloth in his hands.”

“Black?”

“Right. Damn it, Yancy, this is serious.”

“I’m sorry. So tell me—”

“He was definitely trying to drug me. I can still recall the awful scent of the cloth. I was nearly knocked out, but then the guy in the ski mask was pulled away—”

“Adam?”

“Yes.”

Yancy was quiet for a minute. Then she shrugged. “Well, he is useful,” she said.

“Yancy…”

“Okay, so did you try to breathe wine because of the attack, or because of Adam?”

“Yancy!”

“Ah, because of Adam,” Yancy said.

“Yancy….”

“He did save you, right?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And you said thank you.”

“More or less.”

“Sam!”

“Yancy, you’re missing the point.”

“I’m not missing the point. There’s a dangerous whacko running around the island. We don’t want everyone to check out of the hotel, but neither do we want anyone else attacked by the whacko.”

“It’s strange, but I don’t think this particular whacko is a danger to the general public.”

“Now you’re losing me.”

“I don’t think our guests are in danger.”

“Why not?”

“The whacko is one of our guests,” she said, evading a direct answer to the question. She didn’t want to admit that she was relying on Adam’s judgment.

“My, my, my. What is the world coming to? Imagine. We’re letting the riffraff onto Seafire Isle.”

“Yancy, it isn’t funny.”

“Of course it’s not funny. You could have been…hurt. Or worse. Maybe we should call the mainland police.”

“I—I decided not to.”

Yancy arched a brow. “Did Adam suggest that you not do so?”

“Not exactly. He pointed out that it might not do me much good, and that I might wind up in greater danger.”

Yancy lifted her hands and let them fall back on the armrests of the chair. “Why?”

Sam didn’t answer her. She frowned suddenly. “Yancy, where’s the baby?”

Yancy smiled. “Upstairs. Lillie Wie is staying overnight because of the dinner party. She and Brian are napping right alongside each other.”

“Oh!” Sam said, leaning back into the chair with relief. Brian was six months old—and the love of all their lives. He had his father’s blue eyes and toffee brown hair, and the most winning smile known to man. Lillie was one of the day maids. There were four of them altogether; they came in the morning from Freeport and usually left with the mail boat in the afternoon, along with the two grounds keepers. Sam hadn’t been quite twenty-two when her father had disappeared, but between herself, Jem Fisher and Yancy, they had divided the duties on the island in a manner that had worked well right from the very beginning. Jem supervised maintenance, tennis, golf, lawn care, pool and beach care, and any repairs that became necessary. There were only two tennis courts, and the golf course was only nine holes. There was also only one pool, so Jem didn’t find his responsibilities overwhelming. Jem’s younger cousin, Matt, had taken a job with them during the last year, as well, acting as lifeguard, scuba instructor and jack-of-all-trades, but he only came over on weekends, when his college schedule allowed.

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