Clearly, the heat was affecting her brain.
She ordered sweet tea, and he stuck with beer. The waitress, named Tammy, gave the man across from Brenna a flirtatious smile and barely bothered to glance in her direction.
“Hey, aren’t you the guy from the paper?” Tammy asked Fortune when she returned with their drinks. “You’re some kind of cool scientist.”
Fortune sent her a charming smile, including the dimples. “Maritime archaeologist.”
Brenna nearly choked on her tea. In what universe?
The waitress’s eyes widened. She leaned closer, giving him and the entire back half of the restaurant an excellent view of her cleavage. “Wow. What’s that?”
“I do research underwater. I’ve also studied history extensively.”
Brenna barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Is that what you earned your imaginary degree in?
“I just love old stuff,” the waitress said.
“No kidding? Old stuff is my specialty.”
Brenna couldn’t take it anymore. She took two large gulps of her tea and held up the nearly empty glass. “Could I get a refill, please?”
The waitress flashed her a resentful glare, but straightened and took the glass. “Weren’t you my kid brother’s science teacher last year?”
“English, actually.”
“Don’t worry, honey,” Fortune said, leaning toward Brenna as Tammy stalked away. “There’s plenty of me to go around.”
2
“THIS IS A BUSINESS meeting.”
There was something wildly arousing about that prissy mouth. Gavin couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed being scolded so much. “So why’d you chase off my opportunity for fun?”
She glowered at him. “You’re a wretch.”
“So?” But for the first time in a very long time he wished he didn’t appear to be. “At least I have fun.”
“I have fun.”
“Oh, yeah? You and your cat get crazy on Friday nights and order anchovy pizza instead of just plain cheese?”
Her face turned bright red with her efforts to hold back her anger—the passion he wanted to see more than anything. “I don’t like you very much.”
“What a shame. I like you very much.”
Leaning back, he sipped his beer and watched her coloring go from red to white in an instant. “Do you honestly think all it takes to get my attention is a set of big boobs and an interest in old stuff?”
“Priceless nineteenth century relics are glimpses into our past, how we lived, where we came from. They’re representations of people who sacrificed for and dreamed of the world we now enjoy. They’re reminders of our mistakes and successes, our tragedies and triumphs. They are not, nor should they ever be referred to as, stuff.”
There was the passion.
His body hardened, even as he cursed inwardly.
He’d cultivated his image carefully. Much of it might be a farce, but his popularity and daredevil reputation got him the important contracts. He couldn’t risk exposure—even for a woman as exciting and challenging as Brenna McGary.
Sure, he’d grown tired of keeping up the pretense, and maybe some of the rumors attributed to him had gotten out of hand.
But he’d cast his lot a long time ago and didn’t see how he could change his path now.
He had artifacts to protect, as no one else could. If lovely crusaders like Brenna had to hate him in order for him to accomplish the bigger goals, he’d have to suck it up and make the sacrifice. “Nice speech,” he said, trying to seem impressed, but not too much. “I can see why the historical society values you.”
“They certainly do. And that’s why they sent me to confront you.”
He spread his arms wide, giving her an easy target. “Confront away.”
“We want the items recovered from the ship assembled into a single collection. We want the public and historical researchers to have an opportunity to view and study the artifacts. We want an effort made to contact descendants of the victims in the event anything with a personal monogram or family crest is recovered.”
“So you want me to find the treasure, but you want to tell me how to do it? ”
She looked annoyed by his assessment. “Not how in the technical sense. You clearly have qualified people and the right equipment. We simply want you to show some decorum. A little reverence for the task you’re undertaking wouldn’t be a crazy notion. And we don’t want the artifacts auctioned off like livestock.”
“I’m under contract with the descendants of the shipping company who owned The Carolina.”
“Captain Cullen didn’t own his ship?”
“If he did, he never registered the sale. It’s possible he won the vessel in a card game, or even took it forcibly, but the last records we can find indicate the owner as the Sea Oats Shipping Company, so the artifacts I find belong to them.”
“But you negotiate a certain percentage for yourself. And you can’t tell me you report every find.”
Gavin wished he could lash out at her accusation, but he frankly deserved it. He’d certainly been part of a team who’d committed that crime. “There are a lot of treasures down there, one of them possibly a chestful of gold and gems. There’s no way the owners are going to plop it down in a glass museum case and charge five bucks a head to watch John Q. Smith walk by when they could make millions selling off the contents.”
“So you haven’t found the chest?”
“Not yet.”
“But you think it’s there.”
He shrugged. “Legends generally have some basis in fact. Personally, I think we might find a chest, but a decoy. Pirates were clever and secretive when it came to their booty. Why would a successful one like Cullen blab about his?” Gavin reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out a bronze-colored coin, which he laid on the table in front of Brenna. “I did find this today.”
“It’s an Indian-head cent piece,” she said, picking it up. “Circa 1860. These were issued by the U.S. Mint, not the Confederates.”
“And The Carolina was known to raid Union merchant ships in the Caribbean.”
Her fairy green eyes widened as they focused on him. “At least you’ve studied the history a bit.”
“Why wouldn’t—” He stopped. He could think of twenty reasons why reckless treasure hunter Gavin Fortune wouldn’t be mistaken for a studious man. “I had some time on the flight up from Miami.”
The waitress returned to see if Gavin wanted another beer, which he didn’t. Brenna also declined any more tea. The meeting seemed to have come to an end.
Gavin was both glad and reluctant to part from her. He’d been reading some firsthand accounts of ship captains who’d encountered Cullen, and the latest batch was in French. Making any sense out of the various dialects, as well as the old-fashioned expressions, required serious focus.
Despite the fact that Gavin the Wretch would let her pay, he couldn’t take the ruse that far. Teachers were shamefully underpaid, and he had plenty of cash to spare, after all.
But the unsettled feeling that had sunk into his gut since he’d heard her impassioned—and perfectly reasonable—list of requests about the recovery efforts refused to abate. Even