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A knock distracted her. She hurried from the mirror and draped herself across a chair facing the door. “Come in,” she called.
Adam had to duck to pass through the low cabin door. As he did so, he looked around warily, like a wild beast suspicious of a trap. “Hello, Sandra,” he said, his gaze shifting to her then quickly away.
“Hello, Adam.” She rose and took his hand. “Come inside and make yourself comfortable.” She led him to a chair next to hers.
“I brought wine,” he said, and thrust a dusty bottle toward her. “This prosecco was the closest I had to champagne.”
That he’d remembered her preference surprised her; maybe the professor wasn’t as absentminded as she’d thought. “Thank you. I love prosecco.” She carried the wine to a sideboard, opened it and poured two glasses.
“How did the rest of your survey work go today?” she asked.
“Slow.” He sat back in the chair and sipped the wine. “It’s not my favorite part of the job,” he admitted. “I’m anxious to get to the real work of discovering and cataloging artifacts.”
“I looked at the footage we shot this morning,” she said. “You were right, it isn’t very exciting. But I’ll probably use a few seconds of it, to give viewers an idea of the scope of the job.”
“I don’t know much about television, but I don’t see how there’ll be enough of interest here to fill a whole hour or however long this show will be,” he said.
“Given time for commercial breaks, about forty minutes.” She settled in the chair beside his and tucked one leg under. “I think we’ll have trouble covering everything in that time frame. I’d like to devote a portion of the show to Passionata and her story. If readers know about her, then her ship and its contents will seem that much more interesting to them.”
“Why are you so interested in this wreck?” he asked. “Seems to me there are a lot of other things you could film a documentary about.”
“I’ve made a name for myself filming stories about exotic riches—rare jewels and art, the lifestyles of the rich and decadent. What’s more decadent than a sexy female pirate’s treasures?”
“So it’s the treasure that drew you.”
She sipped her wine, trying to decide how honest she could afford to be with him. “The treasure, the larger-than-life characters, the drama of the salvage operation—all of that drew me. I needed something to dazzle the viewers, and the network.”
“You mean, you alone aren’t enough to dazzle them?”
The flattery startled her, until she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. She sighed. “Laugh if you want, but the ratings on my last special weren’t as spectacular as the network wanted. And this project gives me the chance to do more. I’m not only reporting, I’m doing all the writing, directing and editing.” The station had agreed to this plan because it saved them money, but she wanted to prove they’d underestimated her talent. She was more than just a pretty face and figure to pose in front of the camera, someone they could cast aside in favor of a younger and even more beautiful candidate. She hadn’t clawed her way up from the weather girl on the third-ranked station in Oilton, Oklahoma, to let that happen. There was more than money or fame at stake here; her pride was on the line.
She fingered the charm she wore on a gold chain around her neck—a tiny golden globe. A reminder from her grandmother that the world could be hers, but she had to seize it. “No one hands you anything in this life,” her grandmother had cautioned her as a child. “If you want something, you have to take it.” Even as a young girl, Sandra had wanted more than the dull, small-town life she’d been born into. She’d worked hard to earn the wealth, glamour and excitement she’d longed for, but even that was never quite enough.
Another knock signaled the arrival of their dinner. “I thought we’d eat in here,” she said as the steward wheeled in a white-draped table and an array of covered dishes. “It’s much more private and intimate.”
A muscle twitched in the corner of his mouth at the word intimate, and he shifted in his chair but remained silent.
When they were alone again, Sandra uncovered the food and invited him to sit. “I thought it would be fun to recreate the meal Passionata served the Duke of Brunswick-Luneburg,” she said. “Oysters, roast beef, lobster pies, fried beets and potatoes.” In Confessions, Passionata had claimed this was a meal designed to arouse and to provide strength for the night ahead.
“I doubt much of Passionata’s—or as she was born, Jane Hallowell’s—so-called autobiography was actually written by her,” Adam said as he sat across from Sandra at the table.
“You do?” She didn’t try to hide her surprise. “I thought Confessions of a Pirate Queen is what led you to the island and the shipwreck.”
He shook his head. “I’ve read the book, of course, and I’m sure there’s some fact there. But most of it is so sensationalized—like the account of her dinner with the future King George.” He shook hot sauce onto an oyster and tossed it into his mouth.
“Then who do you think is the author?” she asked. She served herself some of the potatoes and some of the roast beef, avoiding the raw oysters—though she could admit a certain fascination in watching Adam swallow them with such relish.
He helped himself to another oyster before answering. “I think the book was probably written in the late eighteenth century by some unknown writer out to make a quick buck—much like the American dime novels. He—or she—had heard some stories about the notorious lady pirate and made the rest up. The addition of all the sex practically guaranteed a bestseller.”
“So even in the 1700s, sex sold.” She sliced into her roast and shook her head. “I don’t agree that the book isn’t Passionata’s. I think the account rings true. At least, I believe it was written by a woman who knew what she was talking about.”
“So you believe all that about women’s power over men?” He looked amused, or perhaps that was only the effect of his second glass of wine.
“Don’t you?” She laid aside her knife and fork and looked him in the eye.
“I believe women like to think they have that kind of power over men, but most of us aren’t as susceptible as that.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. She could practically feel the heat arcing between them.
He took another long drink of wine and pretended interest in his food, though she was sure every part of him was as aware of her as she was of him. “Not that I didn’t enjoy our time together before,” he said. “But when I’m working, I work. I don’t have time for anything that doesn’t involve the salvage of the Eve.”
“There’s always time for sex,” she said. “It’s like eating or breathing.”
“Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I scarcely take time for those things when I’m involved in a project.” He pushed his empty plate away and crumpled his napkin beside it. “Thanks for dinner. Now I’d better get back to work.”
“But you haven’t had dessert,” she said. She stood and walked slowly back to the chairs where they’d started the evening, aware of his eyes on her, caressing her back and gliding over her hips. Smiling, she sat and removed the cover from a small dish on the table between the two chairs. “Strawberries,” she said. “My favorite.” She selected a large, ripe fruit and bit into it, her tongue darting out to lick the juices that dripped from her chin. “You must stay and have some,” she said, her voice pitched just above a whisper, so that he had to lean forward to hear her.
“I’d really better go,” he said, but made no move to leave.
“Please don’t,” she said. “Stay a little longer.” The words were a line she’d rehearsed in her head, but even she heard the earnestness in her voice when she spoke them. The truth was, she did want Adam to stay. As rough and even rude as he sometimes was, he fascinated her.
And tempted her. While her intent had been to arouse him, she was more than a little turned on herself. Somewhere between the first glass of wine and the disappearance of the last oyster, he’d become not merely a man she wanted to control, but a man she wanted.
EVERY INSTINCT told Adam to bolt for the door, but he remained fixed in place, mesmerized by the sight of Sandra’s moist, full lips caressing the ripe fruit. Her every action was incredibly over the top, yet intoxicatingly alluring.
With one finger she caught a drop of juice that dripped from the berry, and sucked it from her finger. He drew in a sharp breath and felt his groin tighten. Their eyes locked and the raw wanting he saw there rocked him.
He shoved himself out of the chair and lurched toward the door. “Good night,” he muttered, avoiding looking at her as he passed.
“No, wait.” She caught him by the wrist, her fingers tightening around him. “I…” She released him and touched her temple. “I don’t feel so well.”
At first he suspected another ploy to delay him, but one look at her had him doubting that anyone could be such an accomplished actress. Her skin had turned dead white, and her eyes held a distant expression. “What is it?” he asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I…” Before she could complete the sentence, she slumped forward in the chair.
He lunged to grab her before she slid to the floor. He tried to prop her up in the chair once more, but she’d gone completely limp, unable to support herself. He ended up cradling her in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. He looked around for some bell or button to use to summon help, but saw nothing. He could step into the corridor and shout, but that would mean leaving her and he was afraid to do so for even that little bit.
At least she was still breathing, her chest rising and falling steadily. He was relieved to see that some of the color had returned to her skin, her cheeks flushed a soft pink. At this close proximity, the soft floral scent of her hair engulfed him. Her lips were slightly parted, her lashes a heavy fringe just brushing her cheeks. Inert like this, her face without its usual animation, she looked surprisingly small and delicate.
Vulnerable.
Desirable.
He pushed the thought away. Maybe she was suffering from too much to drink, though like him, she’d only had two glasses of wine. Unless she’d had some before he’d arrived.
In any case, he had to make her more comfortable. Settling her more firmly in his arms, he searched the cabin for someplace to lay her. He spotted a door to his right and pushed it open.
The small stateroom was awash in red—red draperies, red wallpaper, red floral comforter on the bed. Adam laid Sandra on the bed and wondered if he should loosen her clothes. The thought of undressing her made him feel shaky. Better not go there. Her dress fit her well, but it wasn’t overly tight.
Very carefully, he sat on the edge of the bed and took her wrist in his hand, feeling for her pulse. It was rapid but strong. Should he call someone? But who? There was no doctor on the island. He wished his friend Nicole was here. Not only was she another woman, she was a nurse. She’d know how to handle the situation.
He touched Sandra’s cheek, so soft and smooth. She really was the most beautiful woman…Resolutely, he pulled his thoughts back to more practical matters and patted her jaw. “Sandra,” he said. Then louder, “Sandra, can you hear me? Wake up.”
Her eyes fluttered and she stared at him, her pupils dilated, her breathing more rapid than ever. “Thank God you’re here,” she whispered.
“I didn’t do anything but keep you from hitting your head when you fell. What happened?”
“Happened?” She blinked. “Nothing’s happened. Yet.” She smiled and slid her hand up his arm. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Missed me? I’ve been right he—”
His words were smothered by her lips on his. With surprising strength, she pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around him, opening her mouth to him. She was so warm and soft and willing…For a moment he forgot where he was. Who he was. He wasn’t an almost-forty-year-old academic who preferred study to socializing, and research to relationships; he was a hedonist who knew what it was to make love to a woman until they were both fully sated and exhausted. A man whom a woman like Sandra would beg to be with.
She squirmed beneath him, and he put out a hand to steady her, encountering the soft, supple curve of her breast. He shaped his hand to her and squeezed gently, her soft cry of delight recalling him to his senses.
He pushed out of her embrace, horrified at his actions. What was he doing fondling a woman who was clearly out of her head? As much as he’d previously enjoyed sex with Sandra, he wasn’t going to take advantage of her when she wasn’t in her right mind.
“Frederick, don’t go!” She protested. “Don’t leave me when I want you so badly.” She arched her body in flagrant invitation.
Adam was having trouble breathing. Who the hell is Frederick? he wanted to ask. Was she so drunk she couldn’t remember his name?
But she didn’t act drunk exactly. She acted more—crazy. She stared at him with unabashed passion. He couldn’t remember when a woman had ever looked at him that way, and once again he was tempted to strip off his clothes and join her on that red comforter.
“Frederick, please,” she moaned, and the words brought him back to his senses. Even he wasn’t desperate enough to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get his name right. Though right now Adam could admit he was jealous of Frederick, whoever he was.
“I’ll send someone to check on you,” he said as he backed out the door. Tomorrow she might have a hell of a hangover, but he hoped for both their sakes, she wouldn’t remember any of this had happened.
3
FOG SURROUNDED Sandra, obscuring her vision, clouding her thoughts. She had a vague memory of sitting in a chair, drinking wine with…someone. She couldn’t remember. Then she was sinking into oblivion, waking yet not waking to the sensation of strong arms wrapped around her, carrying her to a bed.
Deft hands undressed her. Masculine hands, with strong fingers that caressed her naked breasts and stroked her bare thighs with a shocking possessiveness. She opened her mouth to protest, but could only sigh as his touch aroused a pleasure unlike any she had ever known. She reached for him, calling his name. “Frederick.”
How did she know his name? She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t bring it to mind. Yet his touch was familiar to her. More than familiar, it was something she craved, needed, in a way she had never needed anything before.
He stretched beside her on the bed, naked also. She had a sense of muscular limbs, of the weight of him pressing her into the comforter, his hands parting her thighs, stroking her, fingers plunging inside her. She arched to him, shamelessly begging for more.
He reached one hand to fondle her breasts, plucking at one nipple, then the next. Desire lanced through her, sharp and urgent. She raised her head, desperate to see his face, but saw only a shock of blond hair.
He was skilled and masterful, anticipating the touch that would arouse her most, his fingers playing across her clit, bringing her to the edge of release but no further. She writhed beneath him, wild with wanting, beyond caring who he was or how he knew her, wanting only the ecstasy he promised yet withheld.
Then he was pushing her back again, spreading her legs farther, plunging into her with a force that stole her breath. He filled her completely, perfectly, the rhythm of advance and retreat sending her spiraling upward again. She clutched handfuls of the comforter beneath her, the silky fabric bunching in her hands as he rode her, his face still lost to her in the haze she couldn’t shake.
She gave up fretting about it, surrendered everything to the tension growing within her. He moved faster, thrusting harder, and brought his hand down to fondle her clit once more.
At his touch, she shattered, crying out as heat and light flooded her, leaving her trembling, fully sated. She felt the clench and release of his muscles as he met his own climax, and held him tightly as he shuddered in her arms.
A profound weariness filled her, and she closed her eyes and slept, still clinging to her mystery lover, praying he would never leave.
SANDRA WOKE TO SUNLIGHT spilling from the porthole in her cabin, a dull ache in the back of her head, her thoughts a kaleidoscope of broken images. She frowned, trying to concentrate. She’d had dinner last night with Adam. They had drunk the wine he’d brought and then…
Heat flooded her face as memories of wild sex with a faceless stranger filled her. Had that been Adam?
She sat up, alarmed, and discovered she was still dressed in the red gown she’d chosen last night and that she lay on top of the comforter, which had half slid to the floor. There was no sign of the professor—no note, no indentation on the pillows other than her own.
Had it all been a dream, then? She pushed her hair back from her face and tried to concentrate. The fog, the faceless man, her own passiveness—they all pointed to a dream. Though one of the most vivid and erotic dreams she had ever experienced. She was sure she’d climaxed. Was that even possible? Men had wet dreams, but could women?
She shook her head and carefully crawled out of bed. The headache was already abating, and she felt none of the queasiness that signaled a hangover. But she had no memory of anything after she’d begun to eat the strawberries she’d chosen for dessert.
Had Adam put something in her wine to knock her out? One of the date-rape drugs she’d reported on that rendered their victims helpless? But why would he do that? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already been a perfectly willing partner….
She stumbled into the bathroom and stripped off her clothes, checking carefully for any sign that she’d been molested. But her underwear was still in place; she bore no bruises. And beyond all that was her conviction that Adam wouldn’t do something like that. He had to know that if he wanted her, all he had to do was ask. He had no need to drug her.
She turned on the shower and stepped inside, raising her face to the hot spray. Maybe she’d had a bad reaction to something they’d eaten. She’d heard certain toxins could cause hallucinations. Could they also cause erotic dreams? She smiled. If so, maybe she should figure out what food had been the culprit and eat it again. She didn’t know if she’d ever had a real sexual encounter as intense as the one she’d dreamed.
She poured shampoo into her palm and lathered it into her hair. The dream had been odd in others ways, too. Disturbing even. Her dream self had been completely dominated by the mystery man, content to let him take charge, eager even to submit to him. The idea that such desires hid in her subconscious annoyed her. She wasn’t a passive woman and had no wish to be. If anything, she preferred to take the lead in her relationships with men. In her experience it was the only way to keep them from underestimating her.
She rinsed her hair and body, then stepped out of the shower, her thoughts turning once more to Adam. She’d have to ask him for his version of last night’s events and see what he had to say. She checked the clock and saw that it was after ten o’clock. Too late to question Adam now. He’d be at the wreck site, continuing his survey. A survey she hoped he’d finish soon. She was anxious to get to work.
What was she supposed to do with herself in the meantime? She looked around the stateroom, hoping for something that would strike her interest, but found nothing. Then her gaze rested on the view through the porthole—a vista of Passionata’s Island. That was it then; she’d explore the former pirate’s stronghold, maybe even take along a camera and get some footage of the tower. If she found anything particularly interesting, she could send Jonas to film more later.
Cheered by the idea, she dressed in an orange bikini, then added khaki shorts and a shirt over that. With tennis shoes and hat, she was ready to discover what it was that had attracted a woman like Passionata to this beautiful but desolate place.
ADAM RESISTED THE URGE to visit Sandra’s ship and make sure she was all right after the strange events of the previous night. He couldn’t think of any way to do so without calling attention to himself among the crew; they were already giving him a hard enough time about having dinner with the celebrated news personality.
He tried to ignore their jibes and off-color comments. He’d been around long enough to know he made an easy target. He was a workaholic, careless of his appearance—an unlikely choice for a glamorous woman like Sandra.
But there’d been no mistaking her physical interest in him. He couldn’t deny the idea flattered him. Intrigued him. He wasn’t a man who’d lacked for female companionship, but Sandra was definitely in another league from the quiet, bookish types he preferred.
In any case, he hoped she was all right. He had no intention of mentioning her odd behavior of the night before. Maybe she had been drunk.
As soon as he was out on the water, headed to the wreck site, he put all thoughts of Sandra aside. This was what he’d lived the past ten months for, this chance to touch a part of history, to uncover things no one else had seen in three hundred years, to make all the words written in the books lining his office at the university come to life.
As an only child whose parents worked long hours, Adam’s chief amusements had been reading and exploring the stretch of woods behind the housing development where his family lived. He’d occupied himself for entire summers imagining elaborate scenarios where he discovered dinosaur bones or lost civilizations. To realize those boyhood dreams as an adult was the greatest thrill he could enjoy. That the pursuit of that goal had left him little time for long-term relationships with women hadn’t mattered to him so far. Work had given him everything he needed in his life.
“Who makes the first dive today?” Roger asked as he anchored the dive boat.
“I’ll work with Tessa,” Charlie volunteered.
Tessa made a face. “I’d rather work with Adam.”
“You and Charlie and Brent should work together,” Adam said. “Continue marking the grid on the east side of the debris field.”
“What are you going to be doing?” Roger asked.
“I’m going to get a better look at the far side of the canyon,” he said. “We haven’t done much exploring there yet. There may be artifacts spread out in that area, as well.”
When he was satisfied the interns had everything they needed to do their job, Adam headed for the far side of the underwater canyon where the bulk of the wreck rested. The ocean floor sloped down, and as he swam deeper the water grew cooler and darker. He switched on the spotlight he carried and played it along the ocean floor, searching for anything out of place. An odd-shaped rock could be a sediment-covered bottle, a glint of metal might reveal a coin and a bump on the ocean floor might turn out to be a cannonball. He had discovered early on that he had a good eye for these oddities, and a sixth sense for what was treasure and what was trash.
