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The Castillo family had settled first in Manila, later in San Diego. After the end of the Spanish New World galleon routes in the late 1700s, the Castillos stayed in business with privately funded ships. They established stable businesses in both locations long before 1809, when the San Rafael went down in a sudden storm. The ship sank somewhere off California’s cold, turbulent waters.
The Castillos, along with many others, had tried to find it and had finally given up the elusive, often expensive search. Eventually, the ruined family, stranded far from Spain, booked passage on other ships. The older men went home. The younger men sailed west around the Cape of Good Hope to the lucrative lands in Florida and America’s East Coast. A few die-hard treasure-hunters sailed south to Brazil and Colombia, back to their once-lucrative gold and emerald mines. As for finding the family galleon, all considered it a lost cause. Except for Jordan, who would never give up.
There the galleon remained, its exact location unknown for almost two centuries. To him, the quest for the San Rafael was more than a quest for riches. He cared nothing for personal fame or fortune. His salvage operation earned enough for his family’s immediate needs and kept three generations of Castillos solvent. Whatever was left, he preferred to use for his salvage ship and crew, not himself.
Gold had never been the sole object of his search. The San Rafael was also his personal quest for ancestors, the family heritage of years gone by. Someday, when Jordan had children, he wanted them not only to know their family history; he wanted them to own a piece of it. For the existing Castillo children who now had no fathers, he considered this a sacred charge.
Jordan wanted tangible evidence that his family had left their mark on the world. While fishing was an honest way of life, it had become unprofitable. The polluted, overfished seas annually yielded less and less, and had, in revenge, taken back everything three generations of Castillos had owned, including the lives of their men.
Jordan hoped the recovery of the San Rafael might change the family in ways not dependent on bars of silver or gold ropes studded with precious jewels. He hoped to give them back pride—pride in loving the ocean, enough pride that perhaps the younger children, male and female alike, might follow in his footsteps, as he and his brothers had followed in their father’s, and his father’s before him. Right now, the ocean had left the children only a legacy of bitterness and loss.
The sea owed those Castillo children. The sea owed him.
Missing were his grandfather’s mementos from the very first Castillo fishing trawler. The pictures of his mother and father’s wedding. Seashells that had been Jordan’s and his brothers’ trophies as children. His grand-father’s favorite fishing pole that had been passed down to him. Of his departed family, he had only two mementos left—the new Bible the chaplain had given him at the funeral with the names of the dead carefully inked in front, and the granite tombstones back in Boston.
Not much of a legacy to pass on. He needed more. A rusted cannonball or a barnacled piece of wood from the San Rafael would do for a start. Maybe a simple gold medallion with the Castillo family crest.
If only he could find the San Rafael. He’d searched many times, but without success. It was an impossible quest, unless the beautiful woman who had his medallion had told the truth.
He reached for the paper torn from the hotel notepad, with the phone number he’d scribbled on it. “A.C. back from Mexico tomorrow. Call to set up meeting.”
I need to find the woman who claims to own my ship. And me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Oceanside Harbor, Oceanside, California
July 30, 11:30 a.m.
ABOARD HER DOCKED SHIP, Neptune’s Bride, Aurora mopped the sweat from her forehead and descended the ladder belowdecks for a drink. She lifted the hinged door of the lazareet, the space between decks used for storage, and pulled out a bottled water.
Despite the sun’s heat, she’d finished her chores aboard the sixty-foot salvage vessel, which was both her home and her place of business. She had no regular crew, preferring to hire on favorites from the freelance pool of deckhands who worked the harbor. Since freeing Dorian and her family were a priority, Aurora remained docked and the only one on board. She would take no other jobs, hire no other crew…
Until she signed with Jordan Castillo. This would be their first meeting since his assault. I’m glad Donna offered to arrange this second meeting. No sense letting Jordan’s attackers, whoever they are, find him. Or me.
Aurora stowed the last of her cleaning supplies. Taking her water bottle, she headed for the captain’s cabin to wash up. To the casual observer, her surroundings seemed basic, almost spartan. On closer inspection, one noticed the rich brown teak of the charting table picked up in the West Indies, the darker black-brown polished cherry wood of the captain’s desk from Newport News, the mahogany frame of the bunk from the Bahamas and the beautifully streaked cocobola chest from Hawaii. To Aurora, Nature provided its own grace and style.
After taking a quick but thorough sponge bath, she reached for a fresh bikini and a calf-length sundress, which, for her, represented more formal attire. Vivid in color yet utilitarian in its design for boaters, the sundress was appropriate for business in laid-back Southern California. Her kind of business, anyway.
Aurora perched on the edge of the teak table to unbraid her hair and brush it out, then put on a touch of pink lip gloss with sunscreen and rubbed sunblock on her face and shoulders. Sailors these days protected themselves against the sun, unlike the old seadogs, navigators, seafarers and mariners who allowed themselves to burn.
He’s an attractive man, she thought suddenly. I’m going to have to be careful to stay on a business footing with him.
There had been very few special men in her life. One she’d almost married, but in the end she couldn’t bring herself to follow through. He’d wanted her to settle in the suburbs of San Diego and have children—and Aurora didn’t. That had been years ago. She dated occasionally, but the men in her life were buddies and pals from the harbor, like Neil Harris, not soul mates or lovers. Aurora finally admitted the truth. She found the ocean more fascinating than any human being she’d ever met, and with her ingrained sense of justice, couldn’t see herself as a homebound spouse to anyone. She preferred being her own boss; unfortunately, most men wanted it otherwise. And yet, she couldn’t help being fascinated by Jordan Castillo.
Aurora headed back to the deck and glanced at her watch. If he was like most sailors who lived their lives based on the tides, he’d be prompt or even early.
Early it is. She recognized him as he parked his car in front of “P” dock, and walked toward the locked gate that led to the row of vessels. She hurried down to meet him.
“Ms. Collins?” he asked, the wire mesh and bars between them.
“Call me Rory,” she said, opening the gate. “Any trouble finding the place?”
“None at all.”
He passed through and they walked down the ramp to the slip—the long, concrete ramp where boats were maneuvered into U-shaped docking areas and secured to metal cleats with thick ropes.
“I’m down here on the right. Watch your step,” she warned as they approached her vessel. “I’ve got a sloppy neighbor.” Most boat owners were obsessively neat, either through years of habit as military Navy or Coast Guard personnel, or through a healthy respect for the sea’s massive power. Her aft neighbor—loud, obnoxious, and a weekend beer-guzzler—wasn’t.
“He never coils his lines,” she complained, automatically bending and reaching for the messy pile of rope and coiling it into a tight, flat circle. “And he still trips over them even when I do it for him.” She wrinkled her nose at the smell from half-empty beer cans left open and stinking on the deck. She poured them out, saying, “Hold on a sec while I run these to the recycle bin. It’s just outside the gate.”
“I’m surprised Harbor Patrol hasn’t ticketed him.” Jordan’s contempt came through loud and clear as he watched her hurry to the end of the slip.
“They have,” she called back, her voice carrying easily over the water. “He pays the tickets and keeps on drinking. Sooner or later he’ll get the boot. Until then…I’m stuck with a weekend slip-neighbor from hell. We don’t care for each other much.”
“You’re really packed in tight, too,” Jordan said. The concrete boarding area between the crafts was only a yard wide. He could touch the side of both vessels at once if he wanted.
“That’s California for you. Too many boats, not enough harbor. Now you know why we all have curtains.”
She sprinted back down the slip. “Here we are.” She gestured toward Neptune’s Bride with the pride any good captain felt about her ship, and was rewarded by Jordan’s slight nod.
With the ingrained tradition born of hundreds of years of sailing history, Jordan waited until Aurora had boarded her, and then, as owner and captain, spoke the age-old words giving him permission to join her.
“Welcome aboard.”
Only then did he mount the steps of the loading box, cross over the side and join her on deck.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you the nickel tour.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, a cool bottle of lemonade in his hand, Jordan sat outside with Aurora in the deck-bolted fishing chairs, mulling over the Atwells’ misfortunes. Sounds like the niece is a handful—and nothing like her aunt here. Aurora’s actually using her own finances to keep the family’s business going. If nothing else, the woman is loyal.
Jordan took more time to observe his surroundings. Neptune’s Bride was more than just shipshape. The vessel was “a woodie,” an older model with a hardwood-planked hull, like galleons and like the old whaler Jordan himself used to own until the hurricane forced him into a modern, fiberglass hull with cold, impersonal no-rust chrome and Plexiglas windows. He felt a stab of envy as he studied her vessel. The wood and brass gleamed with a smooth brightness that spoke of loving attention, not just the cursory minimum. Thick glass windows sparkled, with no trace of salt-air encrustation. Even the plastic buoys on line—inflated “bumpers” thrown out when docking, to keep the wooden hull from scraping against the concrete slip—were free of harbor clams and seaweed.
Good captains come in all shapes and sizes, and this one is just as pleasing to the eye as her ship.
“…So now you know my sister’s story, and why I need you as my partner.”
Jordan took another slug of his drink. “That merely explains your motive,” he said. “If I’m going to be your partner—and that’s still an if—I need more details. Question number one. How did you find the San Rafael? If you did indeed find it.”
“This is my home,” she said, gesturing toward the water. “And you’ve seen the medallion. I’m perfectly willing to have it appraised by a specialist of your choice.”
“You have it here?”
“No, my friend Donna does. It’s in her safe,” Aurora quickly added. “I’ll give her a call later and let her know you’re coming, if you want to look at it.”
“The artifact is mine.” The words hung harshly on the air.
“No. But it could be half yours if you take me on as a partner. And if you stay alive…”
Jordan abruptly set down the half-full bottle of lemonade, wishing it were iced coffee or tea. To him, citrus and sugar weren’t thirst quenchers. A woman’s drink, even if this was no ordinary woman. He noticed that her eyes immediately went to the polished teak gangway, where he’d slammed down the bottle, to inspect it for damage.
He picked up his drink; fortunately the bottle had left no mark on the wood. “Sorry, Captain.” He deliberately used her title. “I didn’t mean—” Realization kicked in. His finger clenched around the bottle. “What did you say?”
“Someone’s trying to kill you,” she said bluntly. “Surely this isn’t news. I don’t know who it is, and neither do the police. Even Donna hasn’t come up with anything. Who wants you dead?”
Jordan searched his memory. “No one I know, especially out here. I usually work Atlantic waters.”
“That’s not much help, which is why we can’t afford to wait. You’d be safer at sea than on land. And we have to start salvaging soon. My sister is losing her health, and your three friends from the beach—”
“Tom, Dick and Harry are no friends of mine.”
Aurora flushed. “Sorry. Wrong choice of words. I haven’t filed a claim yet—I want us to do it jointly. Once the medallion’s assessed, we can get to work before winter sets in.”
Jordan shook his head just once. “Skip the assessment. That medallion is real.”
I know it in my bones. Dammit, if she’s found the ship’s location, I’ll have to share half our family’s heritage with a stranger—or I might lose it all.
Salvage law was very specific. Possession was nine-tenths of the law in international waters, even though he could prove he was a blood descendant of the original owners.
“I’ll contact a local lawyer and have a draft drawn up while I talk to this Ms. Diamond.”
“I already have. Donna has the paperwork.” Aurora’s lawyers and Donna shared the same office building. Donna, at Aurora’s request, had also discovered where Jordan’s own salvage ship was located and had done background checks on his crew.
“Then I’ll look the papers over. But I want it specified in writing that we use my ship and my crew. They’re off Florida right now.”
Her polite smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We can’t use your ship. Or your crew. Because—”
“I know my ship and my men,” he interrupted.
“It’ll take too long to get your ship out here. Besides, I know these waters, and I’m the only person who knows the ship’s location. That makes me the dive master. And I prefer to use my own divers.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Since I’m funding the operation, I prefer to hire crew I’m familiar with.” He saw her flush again at his mention of money, but she didn’t back off.
“How about this? You use your deckhands and I’ll use my divers, since these are my waters. That’s a safe division of labor, Mr. Castillo, and since your boat isn’t here, we use my boat, and I’m the captain. That’s fair enough.”
“All right,” he said reluctantly. “Have your lawyers draw up the papers.”
“Like I said, I already have—specifying the terms we’ve just discussed.”
Jordan frowned. “A bit overconfident, aren’t we?”
“You forget. I’ve seen the galleon. You haven’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my purse. Donna’s expecting us.” Aurora rose gracefully and headed for the “ladder,” the term for ship’s stairs leading belowdecks.
“In the future, Ms. Collins, I’d appreciate it if we could discuss our business matters before you put them down on paper.”
“Agreed. But one thing you need to know about me, Mr. Castillo. There’s no barnacles growing on my hull,” she said over her shoulder.
As her “hull” disappeared belowdecks, Jordan pursed his lips in a silent whistle. Then, before his mouth grew any more parched—strictly from the heat, he assured himself—he lifted the bottle of unwanted citrus and drained it dry.
JORDAN RODE beside her as Aurora drove Jordan’s rental car south to Donna’s San Diego office. They’d left her car at Oceanside Harbor.
“You aren’t allowed to park here at the harbor if you don’t have a slip-holder sticker,” Aurora explained. “You’re from out of town. Want me to drive?”
“Please. I thought Boston traffic was a headache, but this…” He gestured outside. “Is it always this crowded?” The cars were bumper to bumper, yet moving along easily at speeds over seventy miles an hour.
She grinned. “This is regular traffic. It’s worse at rush hour. That’s when everyone moves at five miles an hour—if you’re lucky. Some days I’m actually tempted to motor down to San Diego in my boat rather than drive.”
“You have docking privileges there, too?” Jordan asked, looking out his window at the vast expanse of ocean.
Aurora nodded.
“What about the other harbors?”
“No. San Diego Harbor south and Oceanside Harbor are good enough. I could go north to Dana Point and then to L.A. Harbor, but there’s too much auto traffic and not enough parking, even for slip-holders. San Diego and L.A. are full of commercial boating traffic. Mission Bay in San Diego gets all the teenage Jet Skiers and weekend boaters.”
“Lord spare us both,” Jordan groaned. Weekend boaters tended to be inexperienced recreationalists.
“Tell me about it. Ninety-nine percent of boating fatalities are caused by weekend boaters, and they’re usually alcohol-related.”
“What about Dana Point?”
“We’re talking small again, like Oceanside Harbor, but smart. It caters mostly to private padded wallets—strictly the fiberglass-hull set. They get a lot of the San Clemente crowd. Politicians and movie stars,” she explained. “Oceanside is more blue-collar. Plus a cup of chowder in Oceanside is under three dollars. At Dana Point you’ll easily pay more than five and have to wear a shirt and shoes to eat. They charge more for boat fuel, too.”
“Not your style?” Jordan asked.
“The day I have to put on makeup and nylons to eat a cup of chowder is the day I retire.” Aurora shrugged. “Oceanside’s my preference. For a lot of reasons.”
“And it’s your home port?”
“Mostly. I go where the work is. That includes Mexican ports.”
“Which harbor will we operate out of when we’re salvaging the San Rafael?”
“Sorry.” She threw him a quick glance. “You don’t get that information until I’m officially signed up as your partner. Nice try, though.” Aurora deliberately changed the subject. “Where are you staying now?”
“At a hotel. I hadn’t even been there a day before I ended up in the hospital,” he said wryly. “I’m back at the same one.” He mentioned a well-known San Diego hotel near the airport.
“You hate it,” Aurora guessed.
Jordan didn’t reply.
“Stay with me, then,” she offered. “I have plenty of room.”
“If those guys are still after me, that’s not a good idea,” he argued. “I don’t want you involved.”
“But I am involved,” she said. “Anyway, Donna’s got her people watching your back. I suspect she’s doing the same for me. And, Jordan, I wouldn’t have offered my hospitality if I didn’t mean it. Trust me, this will make things easier on Donna, too. Everyone at my slip knows everyone else, and if a stranger shows up—we’ll hear about it.”
“Since you put it that way…thanks. I don’t sleep well on land,” he admitted. “And I could use some help navigating your freeways. I’d planned to do some research on the Castillos and the San Rafael’s payload.”
