His mouth flattened. “You really think I’d ever ask you to do either of those things?”
“No. But you see my point.” She tried to tug on her hand again, but he held firm. Little electrical pulses of awareness shot up her arm.
For a long time, he said nothing, simply stared at her until she blinked and looked away. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual. “Those are my terms, Christina.” No one ever used her full name except for him. And why that should make her feel giddy, she’d never know. “Take it or leave it.”
“Fine,” she said hoarsely. At the same time, the voice in her head screamed, Are you crazy? Stop! Turn back! There be dragons ahead!
Smiling broadly, he tossed an arm around her shoulders. “Good. Now, mind if I grab a pole and join you?”
“Plenty of fish in the sea for both of us,” she said, and thought she saw his eyes narrow slightly.
Then he winked and headed for the shed.
Watching him go, she tried to shake off the feeling that she’d just made a deal with Satan himself.
Chapter 19
11:23 a.m.
Alex was a wreck.
For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to do with herself. What to do with the deep, abiding sense of loss that left a gaping hole at the center of her.
How could I have been so wrong about someone? And worse, how could I have allowed myself to fall head over heels for that same person?
She’d always thought herself a good judge of character. Able to spot a bad penny when it turned up in her path. But apparently, she was blind as a bat if that bad penny happened to sport miles of muscles, raven-black hair, and eyes the color of the blue glass used to make nineteenth-century cobalt medicine bottles.
So what did that say about her?
That she was shallow? That she was no better than a teenager who was a slave to her hormones? That she wasn’t as smart as everyone said she was?
None of those possibilities made her feel overly proud. Couple that with the sharp pain that pinched in her chest each time her heart beat, and she’d been battling the urge to cry ever since leaving Key West.
After landing on Wayfarer Island, she would’ve preferred a distraction. Would’ve liked to divert her attention away from herself and her heartache by relocating their underwater search grid from the small reef at the back of the island to the large reef at the front. But the guys had declared it a holiday.
Her second thought had been to lose herself in a book. She hadn’t finished The Buccaneers of America, arguably the sourcebook on seventeenth-century piracy. But no matter how hard she’d tried to focus, the words had blurred on the pages. And Mason had been in the kitchen, banging pots and pans, further exasperating any chance she had at concentrating.
So here she was, doing her version of a Disney princess and sweeping the sand off the boards of the wraparound porch.
Why did all Disney princesses sweep something at some point in their respective movies? Was it a not-so-veiled comment on a woman’s place in the world? Or was it simply more fun to sing and dance with a broom in hand?
Hmm. Something to think about.
Although no matter how hard she tried to apply herself to the topic, her traitorous mind kept returning to Mason.
Mason and that kiss.
Mason and all her untenable feelings for him.
Mason in the lovely Donna’s arms.
Just keep sweeping, Alex. A body in motion stays in motion. And sometimes a body in motion can stop a mind in motion. So just keep sweeping.
Making her way down the wide wooden steps, she industriously sent clouds of dust into the yard. When the last tread was clear, she stepped down and wiggled her bare toes in the sand. It was warm and soft. Inexplicably, it felt like home.
Home…
Turning a slow pirouette, she took in the sight of the big clapboard house with its peeling paint and creaky hurricane shutters. Another half turn, and there was the crescent-moon-shaped beach hugging the turquoise waters of the lagoon. Further out was the reef that protected this side of the island from the crash of the ocean, and anchored just beyond it was the big salvage ship they used daily in their search for the Santa Cristina.
There was the long dock she liked to sit on and watch the sunset. Above her head were the palm trees that woke her up each day by chattering in the morning breeze. And there was the hammock where she liked to sip sweet tea and read. That is when Uncle John wasn’t occupying it for his afternoon siestas.
She dragged in a breath, and it was filled with the warm smells of sand and salty sea, plus the more pungent aroma of Uncle John’s infamous chicory coffee as it wafted from inside the house.
Having been born and raised in the Crescent City, John swore his java was the cure for anything from a concussion to the common cold. Of course, John was also a vocal proponent of marijuana, claiming he smoked it for his glaucoma, even though Alex was pretty sure his eyes were just fine.
In short, Uncle John enjoyed his substances.
She remembered one evening when he’d found her sitting out on the dock. For nearly thirty minutes while the sun sank into the sea, he’d regaled her with his theory that it was crazy-pants that humans drank the milk of other mammals.
I mean, it’s not natural. If it were natural, you’d see a hippo gettin’ a gullet full of gazelle milk, right? He’d waved his joint in the air. Scientifically speakin’, we’re pretty screwed up as a species.
When Alex had asked him, How high are you? his answer had been, Yes. Then he’d grinned and declared, But see, that’s the thing about bein’ stoned. It makes you interestin’. Much better than alcohol, which makes you dumb.
She found herself smiling at the memory, and was surprised because she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of smiling. Not today.
Meat ambled by her, stopping to sniff her toes before following his nose around the side of the porch. Li’l Bastard strutted in Meat’s wake, clucking contentedly. And once again, that word drifted through her head, as sweet as a lullaby.
Home…
If she couldn’t find a way to reconcile her feelings for Mason, what would that mean for her future on the island?
The Deep Six guys needed her. Because even though the colonial Spanish documents pertaining to the sinking of the Santa Cristina were written in a language very similar to the one still spoken today, the writing itself had drastically changed over the centuries.
The flowing script, called procesal, had rounded symbols connected by long Arabic-like letters. She was one of about twenty people alive who could translate it, thanks to an interest she took in it after doing her undergrad thesis on Mel Fisher’s hunt for, and eventual excavation of, the renowned Atocha. Afterward, she’d spent a year in Seville, Spain, under the tutelage of a master in procesal.