Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(3)
Of course, he reckoned the romance and mystery of discovering her waterlogged remains were only part of the reason he’d spent the last two months and a huge portion of his savings—as well as huge portions of the savings of the others—refurbishing his father’s decrepit, leaking salvage boat. The rest of the story as to why he was here now? Why they were all here now? Well, that didn’t bear dwelling on.
At least not on a night like tonight. When a million glittering stars and a big half-moon reflected off the dark, rippling waters of the lagoon on the southeast side of the private speck of jungle, mangrove forest, and sand in the Florida Keys. When the sea air was soft and warm, caressing his skin and hair with gentle, salt-tinged fingers. When there was so much…life to enjoy.
That had been his vow—their vow—had it not? To grab life by the balls and really live it? To suck the marrow from its proverbial bones?
His eyes were automatically drawn to the skin on the inside of his left forearm where scrolling, tattooed lettering read For RL. He ran a thumb over the pitch-black ink.
This one’s for you, you stubborn sonofagun, he pledged, flipping open the lid on the cooler sunk deep into the sand beside his lawn chair. Grabbing a bottle of Budweiser and twisting off the cap, he let his gaze run down the long dock to where his uncle’s catamaran was moored. The clips on the sailboat’s rigging lines clinked rhythmically against its metal mast, adding to the harmony of softly shushing waves, quietly crackling fire, and the high-pitched peesy, peesy, peesy call of a nearby black-and-white warbler.
Then he turned his eyes to the open ocean past the underwater reef surrounding the side of Wayfarer Island, where his father’s old salvage ship bobbed lazily with the tide. Up and down. Side to side. Her newly painted hull and refurbished anchor chain gleamed dully in the moonlight. Her name, Wayfarer-I, was clearly visible thanks to the new, bright-white lettering.
He dragged in a deep breath, the smell of burning driftwood and suntan lotion tunneled up his nose, and he did his best to appreciate the calmness of the evening and the comforting thought that the vessel looked, if not necessarily sexy, then at least seaworthy. Which is a hell of an improvement.
Hot damn, he was proud of all the work he and his men had done on her, and—
His men…
He reminded himself for the one hundred zillionth time that he wasn’t supposed to think of them that way. Not anymore. Not since those five crazy-assed SEALs waved their farewells to the Navy in order to join him on his quest for high-seas adventure and the discovery of untold riches. Not since they were now, officially, civilians.
“But why you guys?” The blond who was parked beneath Spiro “Romeo” Delgado’s arm yanked Leo from his thoughts. “What makes you different from all those who’ve already tried and failed to find her?”
“Besides the obvious you mean, mamacita?” Romeo winked, leaning back in his lawn chair to spread his arms wide. His grin caused his teeth to flash white against his neatly trimmed goatee, and Leo watched the blond sit forward in her plastic deck chair to take in the wonder that was Romeo Delgado. After a good, long gander, she giggled and snuggled back against Romeo’s side.
Leo rolled his eyes. Romeo’s swarthy, Hispanic looks and his six-percent-body-fat physique made even the most prim-and-proper lady’s panties drop fast enough to bust the floorboards. And this gal? Well, this gal might be prim and proper in her everyday life—hell, for all Leo knew she could be the leading expert on high etiquette at an all-girls school—but today, ever since Romeo picked her and her cute friend up in Schooner Wharf Bar on Key West with the eye-rolling line of “Wanna come see my private island?” she’d been playing the part of a good-time girl out having a little fun-in-the-sun fling. And it was the fling part that might—scratch that, rewind—did account for the lazy, self-satisfied smile spread across Romeo’s face.
“I’m serious, though.” Tracy or Stacy or Lacy, or whatever her name was—Leo had sort of tuned out on the introductions—wrinkled her sunburned nose. “How do you even know where to look?”
“Because of this.” Leo lifted the silver piece of eight, a seventeenth-century Spanish dollar, from where it hung around his neck on a long, platinum chain. “My father discovered it ten years ago off the coast of the Marquesas Keys.”
Tracy/Stacy/Lacy’s furrowed brow telegraphed her skepticism. “One coin? I thought the Gulf and the Caribbean were littered with old doubloons.”
“It wasn’t just one piece of eight my father found.” Leo winked. “It was a big, black conglomerate of ten pieces of eight, as well as—”
“Conglomerate?” asked the brunette with the Cupid’s-bow lips. Tracy/Stacy/Lacy’s friend had given Leo all the right signals the minute Romeo pulled the catamaran up to Wayfarer Island’s creaky old dock and unloaded their guests. It’d been instant sloe-eyed looks and shy, encouraging smiles.
Okay, and confession time. Because for a fleeting moment when she—Sophie or Sophia? Holy Christ, Leo was seriously sucking with names tonight—sidled up next to him, he’d been tempted to take her up on all the things her nonverbal communications offered. Then an image of black hair, sapphire eyes, and a subtly crooked front tooth blazed through his brain. And just like that, the brunette lost her appeal.
Which is a good thing, he reminded himself. You’re gettin’ too old to bang the Betties Romeo drags home from the bar.