Don't Tempt Me (10 page)

She flushed hot and cold, not knowing what to say as shame burned a hole in her stomach.

"Tell you what." Carl leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "If you're willing to give up on whatever you had planned, I'll let you walk out of here without an embarrassing scene. None of these good people need to know a thing."

The impulse to bolt returned, but if she did, he'd believe the worst, that she'd come here to steal.

"Jackie?" Adrian squeezed her shoulders. "What's this about?"

Carl kept watching her, waiting. "Your call."

Her hands started to tighten into fists until she remembered she held the envelope with the letter inside. She forced her fingers to relax. "What happened in the islands years ago has nothing to do with this, Mr. Ryder, so I see little reason to bring it up."

"Gee, I don't know." Carl's chair creaked as he leaned back. "It all sounds ridiculously familiar to me: Buddy Taylor claiming to have a letter that leads to sunken treasure, talking decent, hardworking people into investing money to go after it. So, where is Buddy? Waiting for you to set up the marks before he comes walking in offering his services?"

"My father's dead."

Surprise flickered in Carl's eyes. What followed might have been sorrow, but he looked away too quickly for her to be sure. "I ... I didn't know. When?"

The sudden lack of hostility confused her, until she remembered that Buddy and Carl had been friends once, a long time ago. Could it be that by-the-book Carl Ryder was sorry to hear of Buddy's death?

"It happened eight years ago," she told him. "On a dive in the Tobago Cays."

"How?"

"I'd rather not get into that here." She kept her eyes focused on Carl, not able to look at Adrian's family for fear of the shock she'd see in their eyes. "I assure you, Mr. Ryder, this isn't a con. The letter I have is real."

"Pardon me if I remain skeptical," Carl said.

"I'm not stupid," she said through clenched teeth. "This is Texas, not the Caribbean. The laws here concerning shipwreck excavation are some of the strictest on the planet and I know the steps involved in getting a permit. I'm not dumb enough to try and slip a forged document past the Texas Historical Commission."

Carl just stared at her.

"One moment," Adrian said, stepping out from behind her so that he stood between her and Carl. "I don't know what's going on here, but my family and I are the ones who approached Jackie, not the other way around, so I assure you she isn't conning anyone."

"Isn't that how all the best cons start?" Carl asked. "With the marks thinking it was all their idea?"

"And secondly," Adrian went on, "the letter can be easily authenticated, so this argument is pointless. Besides, it's only part of the evidence we've brought. Unless you want to start casting doubt on all of us, I suggest you at least hear us out. Or we can always look for another archeologist to head this project."

Carl glanced around the table, but Jackie still couldn't bring herself to look at anyone. Finally Carl held out his hand. "Let me see the letter."

Everything in her longed to say "screw you" and walk out. Instead, she forced herself to walk the gauntlet of stares to where he sat and hand the envelope to him.

Carl pulled the protective plastic sleeves out, skimmed the letter, then set it aside and addressed Adrian rather than her. "Okay, here's what I'm willing to do. I'll listen to whatever evidence you have to support your claim, then I'll send Ms. Taylor's letter to a lab to have it tested. If everything checks out, then we'll talk more."

People shifted uncomfortably as questioning glances bounced around the room. Jackie's stomach churned. Would the Historical Society want out of the project now that Carl had raised doubts?

Adrian pulled out a chair and nodded for her to have a seat. The solid faith in his eyes made her throat close. She took the seat, knowing the letter was real, but fearing Carl would still advise the commission to deny the permit simply because of her involvement.

Across from her, Scott opened a file folder. "I, um, brought several photocopies I obtained from various museums of letters and documents that support the historical significance of the powder horn" ---he aimed a look at Mr. Ryder ---"so there shouldn't be any question about their authenticity."

As Scott went into his report, Adrian took the only remaining chair, far down from her.

I'm sorry,
she tried to tell him with her eyes.
I know how much you want this, and now I may have ruined it for all of you.

He gave her a reassuring smile. Rather than ease her guilt, his trust turned her humiliation to anger directed solely at herself because she should have known better. Things like this always happened when she dared to reach for something good. Like Marguerite, she should have stuck with resignation and simple survival.

Chapter 9

Jackie lit out of the meeting so fast, her truck was gone by the time Adrian reached the parking lot. He caught a ride with Rory and Chance and fumed all the way back to the inn.

"Poor Jackie," Rory said from the back seat where she entertained the baby with a stuffed rabbit. "I can't believe Mr. Ryder spoke to her that way."

Chance nodded. "He definitely could have handled the situation better. Like taken her outside to talk privately so the whole committee didn't hear."

"Do you think they'll change their minds about backing the project?" Rory asked.

"Only if the letter proves to be a fake."

"It won't," Rory insisted with easy faith. "But I'm still worried about Jackie. She looked so upset I'd die of embarrassment if something like that happened to me. Adrian, you'll check on her as soon as we get home, won't you?"

"Of course," he answered tightly, wishing Chance would break a law just once in his life and drive faster than the speed limit.

When they reached the inn, Adrian went straight to Jackie's room but stopped at the closed door. Never had he trespassed on a guest's privacy, but then, Jackie wasn't a paying guest of the inn. She was a personal guest of the family. Still, he hesitated before knocking. When she didn't answer, his concern mounted.

"Jackie," he called, and knocked again, hoping she wasn't in there crying. The thought of anyone bringing her to tears made him want to hit something. Or someone. "Come on, Jackie, I know you're in there. I saw your truck out front."

The door swung open and there she stood, with fury rather than tears blazing in her eyes. "What!"

His head snapped back. "What do you mean, what? I came to see if you're all right"

"I'm fine," she said between clenched teeth.

"No you're not. You're upset and I don't blame you. Carl Ryder is a total ass."

"Carl Ryder is a perfectly decent man. All he did was speak the truth."

"He accused you of being a con artist."

"Exactly!"

He shook his head in confusion. "Can I come in?"

"Suit yourself. It's your place." She marched to the bed where she'd thrown her clothes in a pile next to her duffel bag.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" She grabbed a shirt and stuffed it into the bag. "I'm saving you the trouble of asking me to leave."

"What the hell gave you the idea we'd want you to leave."

"Gee, I don't know." She trailed her hand in the air. "Maybe the fact that most people don't want a crook staying in their house, much less go into business with one. You heard what Carl said." She grabbed another shirt and wadded it into a ball.

"Yes, but now I want to hear your side." He caught her wrist as she tried to shove the shirt in the bag. "Would you quit packing for just a minute and talk to me?" Pushing the clothes aside, he sat on the bed and tugged her arm until she relented and sat down beside him. "Now, tell me what this is all about."

She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees, and dropped her face in her hands. "Everything Carl said is true. My dad was a crook, among other things."

"What does that have to do with you?"

"Adrian ..." She lifted her head enough to stare at him. "He was my father. He raised me."

"So?"

"Okay, you clearly aren't getting the picture here, so let me bring it into focus." She stood and paced. "My parents divorced when I was five and I came to live with my grandparents in Corpus Christi. Except, every summer, I'd live with my father on his boat in the Caribbean."

"The
Pirate's Pleasure
?"

"No. The
Pirate's Pleasure
was a wreck back then. We worked together to restore it whenever he came to visit me and his parents. He had a sailboat, though, that was big enough to live on. He rented it and himself out to people who wanted to sail around the islands. That's partly how he made his living, but he made more money scuba diving."

"How do you make money scuba diving?"

"My father had a talent for finding sunken treasure, not just Spanish doubloons, although you'd be shocked at how much of that litters the floor of the Gulf, but newly lost items like jewelry. That's how he could afford the
Pirate's Pleasure.
"

"Your father made enough money scuba diving to buy and restore a Baltimore schooner?"

"Oh, yeah." She leaned her hips back against the vanity. "You wouldn't believe what you can find diving with a metal detector around beaches, especially in resort areas. Think of all those tourists slicking their bodies down with oil, then jumping in the salt water wearing engagement rings with diamonds and other jewelry. We'd bring up thousands of dollars' worth of gold and gems every summer."

"If it's that easy, why doesn't everyone do it?"

"It's not that easy. It takes patience and skill. You could let ten people comb a beach before my father, and he'd still come up with the lion's share of prizes. Same thing with old wreck sites. And because he was so good, he became something of a legend among treasure hunting enthusiasts. So they'd hire him to take them on dives."

"I fail to see how any of this makes him a crook."

With a sigh of frustration, she combed her hair back with both hands. "For one thing, plundering shipwrecks is illegal, it's just easier to get away with it in the Caribbean than here in the States. And ..." She took a deep breath. "Diving around real wrecks weren't the only treasure hunts Dad led."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." She rubbed her stomach to ease the burning. "While he had people out on the sailboat, he'd spin stories about Jean Lafitte, supposedly handed down through our family, then he'd 'let it slip' that he had a letter with clues to the location of Lafitte's missing treasure, claiming the treasure wasn't in Texas at all, like most people think, but that Lafitte took a large amount of gold with him when he sailed for South America. Dad would say the gold went down somewhere in the southern end of the West Indies, where Lafitte practiced piracy during his later days. 'If only I had more money to search for the ship,' Dad would say. And sometimes people would ... take the bait." She looked away. "They'd return home but send Dad large chunks of money to fund a phony search."

He studied her profile, noting the color that stained her cheeks. "All right, so your father was a con artist. What does that have to do with you?"

"Jesus." She pushed off the vanity and resumed pacing. "I told you, I lived with him while all this was going on."

"Are you saying you helped him?"

"Well, duh." Pulling a roll of antacids from her jeans pocket, she thumbed one into her mouth. "At first, I was too young to really understand that we were doing something wrong. As I got older, though, I knew we were milking money from people with a pack of lies. People who were living on board with us. I'd spend days getting to know them, hearing about their families and their plans for how they'd spend the money when we found the sunken chest of gold. Some of them were jerks, but some of them were good people."

She crossed to the sitting area and stood with her back to him. "Do you know what it's like to look someone in the face day after day knowing you're about to steal their life savings? I got so sick over it at times, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror."

"How old were you?" He rose as well to face her.

"When it started?" She glanced at him over her shoulder. "I don't know. Old enough to walk without falling overboard."

"No, when you stopped helping your father."

"Older than I should have been." She moved to the windows and pushed one of the gauzy curtains aside to stare out at the cove. "The minute I was old enough to understand, I should have stopped going with him every summer. It's just that ..."

"What?" He crossed to the archway but stayed there, giving her the distance she seemed to need.

"I got along with my grandfather okay, but my grandmother resented having to raise me and made no attempt to hide the fact. My leaving for a few months every year gave both of us a break. Plus ... Dad wasn't very good at taking care of himself. I worried constantly about what would happen if I wasn't there to make sure he didn't drink too much, that he paid whatever loan sharks were on his tail, and that he didn't spend all his money on drugs."