was to be believed. And since Sandra and Adam were visiting Passionata’s Island, well, when in Rome…
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
