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“HERE COMES FUN,” Asher Reynolds taunted under his breath.
Knox McLemore fought the urge to wipe the crooked smirk off his business partner’s face. At the moment Asher was making it damn difficult to remember they were also friends.
“Trouble,” Knox countered. Clearly, the woman walking toward them was nothing but trouble.
From the deck of the Amphitrite, Trident’s diving ship, Knox squinted. He didn’t bother shielding his eyes from the glare of the Bahamian sun. It was a small nuisance compared to the major pain in his ass marching down the dock in their direction.
She paused, speaking with the two men toting her luggage—all six matching pieces of it. He couldn’t hear her words, but even from this distance, her no-nonsense expression had his spine snapping straight. Dammit all to hell.
He almost felt sorry for the men to whom she was currently giving detailed instructions.
Dr. Avery Walsh was dressed as if she thought the bustling pier was Wall Street—perfectly tailored cream pants with a knife-edge crease ironed into each leg, a jade silk top and a cream blazer that hugged the curves of her body and buttoned just below the swell of her breasts.
If she was trying to hide the assets God had given her, she was failing. The jacket’s button sparkled in the sun, some kind of stone that drew a man’s eye right there...and then automatically up.
She looked tall, but that was an entirely artificial impression considering the five-inch heels she wore. How the hell did she manage to walk across the uneven boards without catching one of those spindly spikes in a crack?
But she didn’t. In fact, she strode across the rough and splintered surface, staring straight ahead, with the kind of speed and purpose that drove Knox crazy.
“Come on, you’re exaggerating,” Asher said, a wicked grin stretching across his face and a delighted twinkle in his eyes. Bastard. “Avery isn’t that bad. Her reputation is spotless and no one could argue with her expertise.”
He might be right, but there was something about the woman that rubbed Knox the wrong way, and had from their first meeting several weeks ago.
It was her attitude...and the stick lodged firmly up her ass. Life was meant to be enjoyed, savored. He knew it was too damn fleeting—could be snuffed out at any moment. You had to take time to appreciate the little things while you could.
Like the gorgeous turquoise water of the Caribbean surrounding them. The sky so clear it felt as if you could reach up and touch God. And the salty, floral scent of the air filling his lungs.
They were in Nassau. Most people would kill to have the open water as their office. Would lap up the laid-back island vibe and embrace the slower pace.
But not Avery. Apparently, the doc didn’t know the definition of the word relaxed.
She’d come into that first meeting as a whirlwind of energy and information. Obviously, she’d done her homework on the Chimera, the Civil War ship Trident was claiming for salvage.
But Knox had picked up on an edge of desperation behind the wall of competence and confidence she used as protection. No one else on the team had seemed to notice.
Considering the scuffle he and the doc had gotten into in the parking lot outside the Trident offices in Jacksonville, everyone had ignored his concerns.
“There you go, spouting her credentials like you’ve memorized her résumé. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you had a hard-on for her intellect.” Knox glared at his friend.
So Avery Walsh was one of the best nautical archaeologists in the business. That didn’t mean there wasn’t more going on.
“To hear you and Jackson talk, you’d think the woman walked on water instead of harvesting artifacts from beneath it.”
As far as he was concerned, Jackson and Asher were all blinded by hope, believing Avery was the answer to the major snag their salvage of the Chimera had hit.
Several months ago Jackson and Loralei Lancaster, reluctant owner of Lancaster Diving and now Jackson’s girlfriend, had discovered a Civil War ship that had sunk off the coast of Rum Cay over one hundred and fifty years ago. At the time, they’d thought the biggest obstacle to salvaging the Chimera—rumored to carry millions in Confederate gold—would be the instability of the ship and her final resting place at the edge of an underwater ravine.
Boy, had they all been wrong.
Since the wreckage sat in international waters, they’d petitioned the US government for exclusive salvage rights under constructive in rem jurisdiction. Jackson was handling the business side of things, trying to work through the red tape that accompanied claiming and salvaging a ship with the Chimera’s pedigree.
Knox, on the other hand, had been eager to take on the challenge of heading up the salvage once their permits were approved. Until it’d become clear that included dealing with Avery Walsh.
They’d all been blindsided when, several months into the process, Anderson McNair had made a claim that the ship they’d discovered wasn’t actually the Chimera, but another ship that he’d found first.
McNair, an American running his own diving company out of Turks and Caicos, had a reputation for cutting corners, destroying historically valuable artifacts if they had no monetary value and generally being a pirate.
Trident hadn’t dealt with him before now, but Knox had asked around and none of his contacts thought highly of the man. Unfortunately, not only did McNair have enough clout and charisma to pull Trident into a media war, the man had bent some Bahamian official’s ear and they were now putting pressure on the US court to pull Trident’s salvage permits.
None of them knew for sure what McNair’s endgame was, but they all assumed this was a play to claim the wreckage—and treasure—for his own.
Thanks to his charm and some fancy talking, Jackson had convinced all sides to let them hire an expert to authenticate the wreck. Trident was paying for Avery’s services, although both governments had retained refusal rights on their chosen expert. Luckily, McNair and the judge had agreed.
Now they were racing against the clock to prove the ship was the Chimera before they lost everything.
He didn’t dispute the fact that Dr. Walsh had a stellar résumé. However, that did little to allay his disquiet where she was concerned.
He’d be the first to admit that from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, his blood had been stirred. They hadn’t exactly started off on the right foot and she’d been pissed, her gorgeous blue eyes filled with fire even as her words had remained steady and clipped. He’d seen the passion she couldn’t hide and had wanted to channel it in other ways.
But it hadn’t been until they’d sat across a conference table from each other that the back of his neck had begun to tighten and tingle with wariness. She’d given all the right answers. Had appeared absolutely perfect. Too perfect.
He’d made no secret that he hadn’t wanted her for the job. But he, Jackson and Asher were equal partners—the three
