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“I have a proposal for you.”
He leaned against the counter like a lazy puma. “How romantic.”
“Not that kind of proposal.” Her voice had a prim, school-mistressy snap that she instantly regretted. “A … business proposition.”
“Perhaps we should go somewhere more private.” His dark eyes added an undercurrent of suggestion to his words. He turned his head to the hotel clerk. “She won’t be needing her room.”
A surge of desire, tangled up with fear and anticipation and even—already—regret for what she was about to do, rose through her body like a flash flood. She lifted her bag higher on her shoulder. She was strong now. She could handle him. She’d have to.
“Why won’t I need my room?” The question was purely for show, since they both knew the answer.
“You’ll be staying with me. Just like old times.”
Dear Reader,
I had always heard that the history of South Florida did not go back much past the invention of air-conditioning. When I moved here last year, I was surprised and excited to discover a tangled web of history involving conquistadors, pirates, Seminole indians, soldiers, tycoons and adventurers.
Hurricanes are a familiar aspect of life in South Florida, and I soon learned about the large number of shipwrecks off the coast, dating back to the early Spanish treasure fleets. Excavation is under way right now on several vessels, with probably the most well known being Mel Fisher’s recovery of the Nuestra Señora de Atocha, with its huge stash of gold coins and silver ingots.
I began to imagine a hero who searches the seas for treasure. And what if my hero was the descendant of a pirate, whose ship had sunk with his ill-gotten gains? Throw in a feisty heroine determined never to fall for the hero again and it sounded like a brew as salty and tangy as a frozen margarita. I had a blast writing this tale, and I hope you enjoy Jack and Vicki’s story!
All the best,
Jennifer Lewis
About the Author
JENNIFER LEWIS has been dreaming up stories for as long as she can remember and is thrilled to be able to share them with readers. She has lived on both sides of the Atlantic and worked in media and the arts before she grew bold enough to put pen to paper. She would love to hear from readers at [email protected]. Visit her website at www.jenlewis.com.
The Deeper the Passion …
Jennifer Lewis
MILLS & BOON
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For Anne MacFarlane,
writer and critique partner extraordinaire
One
“It’s pronounced sin-cere.” Vicki St. Cyr leaned on the hotel counter. She was used to having her name mangled.
“Don’t believe a word of it.” The deep, rich voice in her ear made her start and spin around. Those familiar flashing dark eyes were settled firmly on the hotel clerk. “She’s not to be trusted at all.”
The young female behind the desk looked up, and her face took on that foolish sparkle of a girl suddenly confronted with the attentions of a handsome predatory male. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’ll let you know.” Jack looked back at Vicki, and she felt her blood heat.
“Hi, Jack.” Vicki realized, too late, that she’d crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Vicki, what a surprise.” His voice contained no more astonishment than hers. His gaze seemed to peer right through her carefully groomed exterior and flay bare a small part of her soul. If she still had a soul. “I hear you’re looking for me.”
She swallowed. How had he heard? She’d hoped at least for the advantage of surprise. But then Jack had always been two strides ahead of her. Why would now be any different? “I have a proposal for you.”
He leaned against the counter like a lazy puma. “How romantic.”
“Not that kind of proposal.” Her voice had a prim, schoolmistressy snap that she instantly regretted. “A … business proposition.”
“Perhaps we should go somewhere more private.” His dark eyes added an undercurrent of suggestion to his words. He turned his head to the clerk. “She won’t be needing her room.”
A surge of desire, tangled up with fear and anticipation and even—already—regret for what she was about to do, rose through her body like a flash flood. She lifted her bag higher on her shoulder. She was strong now. She could handle him. She’d have to.
“Why won’t I need my room?” The question was purely for show because they both knew the answer.
“You’ll be staying with me. Just like old times.” His broad, sensual mouth widened, like the habitual slight grin of a crocodile. He grabbed her bag off the floor and strode for the door. Vicki’s faithless eyes tracked his tight behind, clad in faded denim, and the way his worn T-shirt hugged the thick muscle of his back.
“Should I cancel the room?” The desk clerk didn’t take her eyes off him, even after he disappeared through the revolving door. “There will be a cancellation charge of fifty dollars because it’s already—”
“Yes.” Vicki put her credit card on the counter. What was another fifty on top of what she already owed? It would save a fortune over staying in this expensive boutique hotel. Two years of trying to “keep up appearances” had left her close to beggary. Lord knows she wouldn’t be here otherwise.
But desperate times called for desperate measures, like daring to set foot in Jack Drummond’s lair.
Jack was behind the wheel of his vintage Mustang when she got outside. The fierce South Florida sun beat down on the tarmac
