“We were close this time.” Jake resisted the urge to slam his fist against the antique mahogany desk. “I know it.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me, Harold. I know. The way a man knows his best friend just slept with his wife.”
Harold raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Considering that happens to be your area of expertise and not mine, it doesn’t do me much good, now, does it?”
Jake bit back a nasty comeback and walked across the plush gray carpet to the wall of windows, keeping his gait as normal as possible. His ankle was aching to high heaven today, but he wasn’t about to show any manner of weakness to Harold, or anyone else for that matter.
“The fact is you’ve exhausted your crews,” Harold continued. “Pissed off everyone from cook to captain. Spent millions this summer. And all you’ve got to show for it is a feeling you’re close.”
Flipping back his baseball cap, Jake said quietly, “I never said this search would be cheap or easy.”
“You did commit to finding it this diving season. With that tropical storm brewing and another one right behind it, you’re running out of time.”
“I’m doing everything I can.” Since his dad had died, responsibility for OEI and its employees nipped at Jake’s heels like sharks after bloody prey. He’d pumped most of his savings into the company and quit taking a salary months ago, but the debt continued growing. They had to find the Concha. Soon.
Several seagulls fighting over a washed-up fish carcass distracted him for a welcome moment. Although this time of year the surf still rolled gently onto the sand, it was already the end of August, well into hurricane season. They were diving on borrowed time.
“If my survey crews chart for four hours—” Jake paced, edgy to get back on the Mañana. To do something, rather than talk “—I chart for six. If my divers are under for six, I’m under for eight. What more do you want from me?”
“I want you to open up that hard head of yours and consider another approach.” Harold rested his knobby fingers on the desktop. “The right on-board marine archaeologist, someone with a history background, might help locate the Concha.”
So that’s what this was about.
Jake stopped in the middle of the room. “We’ve been having this discussion for years. Archaeologists do nothing but slow down operations. They want you to document everything. Pick up everything. Pottery, utensils, wooden planks, every piece of crap. I can’t afford to waste time salvaging anything that doesn’t pay the salaries at this company. We’re looking for gold, silver, gems. Period.”
“Well, I got news for you. Milly and I agree on this one. Period.”
Jake couldn’t believe his mother agreed with the old coot about anything, much less planned on marrying him. Jake’s dad hadn’t been gone that long.
Harold threw his pencil onto the desk. “You think you’ve got to prove something since Sam died—”
“Don’t,” Jake said, thrusting out his hand, “bring Sam into this.” At the mention of his younger brother, the pain in his foot turned to all out throbbing.
Now it was Harold’s turn to sigh. “I miss him as much as you, Jake, but you’d better hose down the fire in your belly, or it’s going to burn right through you and everybody else in its path.” He picked up his phone, dialed an internal extension and said, “Come on in here and bring your stuff.”
“You’ve already hired somebody?” Jake asked.
“Three days ago.”
“Great.” Jake ran his hands over the stubble on his cheeks. “Just great.”
If Sam were here, he’d have old Harold sweet-talked out of this archaeologist nonsense in the time it took to form a simple hitch knot. Sam had been the charmer in the family. Charismatic and easygoing, men, women, young and old, had followed him around like puppies eager for a scratch behind the ears. He’d been the star, the risk-taker and, although it had been unspoken, the one expected to find the Concha.
Jake, on the other hand, had always been OEI’s backbone. A responsible, if not boring, workaholic by most people’s standards, he was known for his calculated precision and clocking long, hard hours. And that was before the accident. Since then, no one seemed to understand the forces driving him. He worked hard…so what? The way he saw it, he merely did what he said he was going to do, and said what was on his mind, straight up, no embellishments, no sugarcoating.
With Jake, you always knew where you stood. With Sam, you’d have liked standing where he put you.
Sam. Oh, Sam.
A soft tapping sounded on the door, yanking Jake back from his thoughts. The archaeologist in question walked into the office, carrying an armload of oversized charts and other documents.
“Annie, come on in.” Harold stood and smiled in a fatherly kind of way, surprising Jake. Harold never smiled at anyone. Except Jake’s mother and occasionally Claire, Sam’s widow. “Jake Rawlings, meet Dr. Annie Miller.” The old man’s gruff voice mellowed a notch.
“Hello, Jake.” She reshuffled her load and extended a hand.
Jake considered ignoring her. There was no point in making nicey-nice. OEI couldn’t afford her salary let alone the time she’d cost them. But then base-level manners took over, and he shook her hand.
When she turned to Harold, Jake took the opportunity to size her up. Mousy-brown, shoulder-length hair. Tortoiseshell reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. Short-sleeved white linen shirt and black pants. No earrings, no necklace. Only a barely noticeable silver bracelet on her right wrist and a serviceable watch on her left.
Annie Miller, hell. Annie Hall was more like it. Except for those lips. They belonged on a Victoria’s Secret model. As for the rest of her, he couldn’t tell exactly what form hid beneath the baggy clothing, but with the way she moved, the way the fabric slipped over her skin, he had the distinct impression she’d be a killer in a bikini. With all those hormones in such close quarters, no doubt she’d wreak havoc aboard his boat.
Harold cleared his throat and said, “While Annie was a curator at the Field Museum in Chicago—”
“The Field Museum?” Jake snapped his head back toward Harold. “What do they have to do with marine exploration?”
“I know it isn’t the typical route—”
“Not typical? That place’s about as far away from marine life as an archaeologist can get.” The last thing Jake needed was an inexperienced woman on his boat during hurricane season. “Harold, we need to talk about this. In private.”
“Anything you need to say can be said in front of Annie.”
Jake hesitated. “Find someone else.”
“Dr. Miller’s perfect for your crew. She has degrees in both marine archaeology and Spanish history.”
“I don’t care if she can hold her breath under water for ten minutes a shot,” Jake said. “Give me a week and I’ll find an experienced archaeologist.”
“No, you won’t. Not with this kind of research.”
Annie dropped her armload onto Harold’s desk. “Can I say something?”
“No!” They both turned on her in unison.
“Look!” She faced Jake. “I have no problem with making my employment provisional. Give me two weeks. If I don’t succeed in enhancing your operations within that time frame, you can deliver me to the nearest island, and I’ll secure my own way home.”
Damn. She not only looked the stuffy museum curator part,