Eyes of Fire (4 page)

She started walking quickly, heading toward her private beach house off the south side of the main lodge.

First her father…

Then Hank.

And all over a cache of pirate gold.

Or had it been? Had they disappeared…had they
died
for another reason?

Adam O'Connor chased live men. Present-day pirates. And Adam was on the island.

Why the hell was he here?

Sam suddenly stopped in her tracks, staring at the smooth concrete path that began where the wooden decking ended. She had come about halfway up from the docks and stood between the docks and the main lodge. And she was looking down at a trail of drops on the smooth concrete.

A trail of crimson drops, bloodred drops….

Oh, God.

Adam was back in her life, on her island.

And there were drops on the walkway.

Red drops.

Blood?

S
am quickly bent down to study the crimson drops. She reached out a finger, touching one.

“Sammy!”

She jumped, coming to her feet. Ahead of her, in the doorway of the lodge, stood Jerry North, Liam Hinnerman's exquisite little doll. Her blond hair was a riot of soft waving curls around her gamine face. She was dressed in slinky white, a chiffon halter-dress creation that bared her shoulders and formidable cleavage and a fair length of her slim tanned legs. Her feet were encased in stiletto heels despite the sometimes tricky terrain of the island.

“Sammy, how was the dive?”

“Nice, you should try coming one day!” Sam called. She bent down, reached out, touched a red drop.

Studied it.

Was it blood?

“You should try one of my drinks! I make a mean Bloody Mary!” Jerry called to her cheerfully, lifting her right hand. She was holding a glass. A big, tall glass. A celery stick was rising above the rim of a glass that was practically overflowing—with something red.

A Bloody Mary.

Sam almost groaned aloud, wiping her finger on the grass by the path. She stood, smiling at Jerry, feeling like a fool.

Tomato juice had become drops of blood in her own slowly decaying mind.

It was because that damned man was back.

“Oh, did I spill? I'm so sorry!” Jerry called contritely.

“Just a drop, no problem. It's nothing.”

“Still, I'm sorry. Everything is so immaculate here.”

“Nearly perfect,” Sam muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing. It will rain soon, a few little drops of tomato juice are no problem,” Sam said.

“Thanks. Still…I can get something and clean them up.”

“Jerry! We're outside! Trust me—the birds never apologize for what they do to the walks.”

Jerry smiled and laughed softly. “You really grew into a beautiful young woman.”

“What?”

“You're just a sweetheart,” Jerry said. “The island is great, and you do a wonderful job here.”

“Thanks.”

“Must have been a good dive. The others are right behind you. They look tired.”

“It was,” Sam agreed. She wanted to escape. She needed time alone, and Jerry, as usual, wanted to draw her into conversation. Most of the time she liked Jerry. Just not now.

“Those little cuties are all scattering to their own cottages. A few of them will be coming our way soon, I imagine. Come join me before they get their hands on you. I'll make you a Bloody Mary.”

“Thanks, but I really want to bathe and change first. You go on in. I'll join you soon.”

Still feeling like a fool, Sam waved Jerry inside and started walking quickly away once again.

 

In a pleasant room inside the lodge, a phone rang.

He quickly picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“You've got company.”

“O'Connor?”

“Yes.”

“I know. He's already arrived.”

“You've seen him?”

“He came in on the afternoon mail boat right when the dive party was returning.”

“Hmm. Did he say why he was on the island?”

“A dive vacation.”

“Right. What else?” There was a moment's silence. “What was Miss Carlyle's reaction to his appearance?”

“No reaction.”

“She was polite?”

“She pretended not to know him.”

“O'Connor is never anywhere unless something is going on. The stakes have just doubled. You'll have to keep your eyes wide open. What did he bring with him?”

“Not much. A duffel bag.”

“No electronic equipment?”

“Not so far as I could see.”

“Check it out.”

“Sure. I like grabbing a tiger by the tail.”

“Don't tell me you're afraid?”

“Let's say I have a healthy respect for the man.”

“Healthy respect or—”

“Don't worry. I'm on it.”

“He's one man. He can't be everywhere at once.” Again there was a brief silence. “Remember that. He's just one man. Human. Things happen. And when they don't, people make them happen. Do you know what I mean?”

“You're suggesting something could happen to O'Connor?” There was a note of derision in the question. “He's one of the best divers in the world.”

“Justin Carlyle was one of the finest divers in the world, too. The sea ate him up. It can happen to anyone. Bear that in mind.”

“Justin Carlyle was a marine biologist who loved the sea. O'Connor has been both a Navy and a police diver. He's here with his guard up, you mark my word.”

“
You
mark
my
word. No man is invulnerable. Especially when you go through a woman to reach his Achilles' heel. You stay awake there, you hear?”

“Yeah. Who is O'Connor working for?”

“It's the damnedest thing—I don't know. Not yet, anyway.”

“Great.”

“Give me time. I'll find out.”

The receiver went dead.

He replaced it slowly, then stood and walked into the bathroom, dropping his clothing as he went. He paused before the mirror, pleased with what he saw. Naked, he shoved aside the toiletries in his overnight bag until he revealed a dark velvet bag that might have carried men's cologne or talc. But it didn't. He ran his hand carefully over the outline of his specialty custom-made thirty-two-caliber pistol, a small weapon, easily concealed, but one that packed a deadly punch nevertheless.

Assured, he locked the door to the bath, his overnight bag on the commode, within arm's reach of the shower. He started the water and swore vociferously as it shot out at him, steaming. He adjusted the temperature, still swearing.

Well, hell, that was just it, wasn't it? They were all getting into hot water now.

But didn't they always tempt the devil?

For big payoffs, you had to take big risks.

He began to lay his plans as he quickly showered.

 

Don't think about him,
Sam warned herself. Humph. Might as well tell herself to quit breathing. Not that it meant anything. She was hardened. Older. Mature.

Burned.

But she still wanted to know….

What the hell was Adam doing here? Go with the obvious, she advised herself. He was after someone or something—he was not on a pleasure trip, that was certain. He'd been with the Metropolitan Dade County Police the first time he'd come here, searching for a drug runner out of Coconut Grove reported to have gone down about two miles off the island. He'd found the sunken speedboat—and arrested the two men who were pretending to be sports fishermen while visiting the island in their attempt to recover their lost treasure. In the meantime, he'd made a conquest on the island—her.

Sam didn't head straight for her refuge. She walked quickly along the concrete path, skirting the front of the lodge, still feeling like a fool. Anything could have been on that damned path. Anything. It led from the docks, first skirting the white sand of the beach area on the northward slope of the island, then winding through the manicured lawns toward the lodge itself.

Hibiscus grew along the path in flowering beauty, while palms lent shade, and crotons and wild orchids added deep slashes of color along the way.

With Jerry having disappeared into the lodge, Sam paused in the center of an orchid-covered gazebo near the far corner of the lodge, catching her breath and looking at the inn.

The main lodge itself was Victorian. It had been built by Sam's great-grandfather in 1880. Cosmetic touches and several major additions had been built on over the intervening years, but every member of the family since her great-grandfather's day had remained true to the integrity of the Victorian era. The lodge house was painted a soft coral with white balconies, porches and gingerbreading. It was encircled by a magnificent broad porch and sat atop a small knoll. She loved the house, and she loved the island, just as she loved the water and the breezes, the boating, the diving. It was a fantasy life—hard work, but a fantasy. She enjoyed living it and working it. This had been her home as long as she could remember, except for the three years she had spent at St. Anne's Fine Arts College for Women.

Too bad it had been an all-girls school, she reflected sourly. A little more exposure to men and she might have been better prepared for Adam when he had arrived on the island. At the very least she might have had a more accurate perception of her own weaknesses and inexperience.

Well, it was all in the past now, and though Justin Carlyle had disappeared over four years ago, she still had Jem Walker with her, and Jem was great. He was as close as a brother could be, her best friend, her partner in all things.

Her life and the island were damn near perfect.

Except that now Adam was back.

She stared at the house, inwardly swearing and breathing deeply to calm herself. She heard voices, guests returning to their rooms. She closed her eyes, hoping she was concealed by the healthy tangle of orchids. The voices faded.

Only two or three. Had Adam's been among them?

She slipped out of the gazebo, looking toward the dock.

The entire group was now gone. Amazing what his damned appearance had done to her. She'd rushed away, imagined she'd seen blood on her walk, then walked around like an idiot while everyone who'd left the docks after her was probably already relaxing in a hot tub.

Even Jem had finished up with the business of rinsing down the equipment and was no doubt comfortably submerged in heat and bubbles in his cottage.

Everyone had disappeared.

Disappeared.
God, how she hated that word!

Don't start thinking about disappearances now! she warned herself.

This was customarily a quiet time on the island, after the daily dive trip and any of the other activities and lessons, and before the traditional cocktail hour—unless you were Jerry and liked to start cocktail hour early. Though the island was a casual vacation destination, people always had a tendency to dress up for cocktail hour and dinner, at least a little bit. Her guests napped, bathed and indulged themselves—and one another—during this quiet time, as she thought of it after talking with one guest, a kindergarten teacher.

Quiet time. She needed a little quiet time of her own, with an early start on the cocktail hour thrown in.

She turned away from the empty dock and hurried along the path, anxious to reach the calm refuge of her own abode. Once her house had been a kitchen for the lodge, but with the installation of smoke detectors and a sprinkler system, the one-time kitchen had been adapted into a charming cottage. There was a central living area, a sunken office off to one side, a small kitchenette, and then her bedroom and bath, the latter huge, with a separate shower stall that offered a dozen jets and a huge Jacuzzi set high atop elegant, tiled steps. It was surrounded by glass, with privacy shutters built along the outside wall. From the bath, she looked out onto a garden area with purple bougainvillea twining over the shutters and a small fountain with a graceful Venus pouring water onto concrete flowers.

Sam carefully locked her door. She didn't want to assume that Adam's being on the island meant he intended to come anywhere near her, but then, she knew the man, and if he wanted something, he would come after it.

She checked the lock, then leaned against the door, studying her living room walls.

They were laden with paintings and prints. A few were period pieces and very valuable. Galleons, warships, privateers, all lined her walls, along with some beautiful charts and maps.

There was a map of Seafire Isle with its surrounding coral reefs and shelves. Once upon a time, the small island had been a dangerous place, teeming with pirates. It had been passed between the Spanish and the British a dozen times. Because of the coral reefs surrounding it, the island was accessible only by smaller ships, and in days gone by, many a poor vessel had been wrecked on her reefs. This map had been sketched in pen and ink during her great-grandfather's day. It showed the more modern pleasures of the island, the lodge, the scattering of cottages, the docks, the beach, the tennis courts and the golf course. It was quite charmingly drawn, and little had really changed since it had been done.

But Sam's eyes were drawn from the Seafire Isle map, and she moved across the room, looking at her father's favorite. It was a treasure map, drawn in the early eighteen hundreds, encompassing Florida with all its islands, the Gulf Coast and the Caribbean. There were stars and notes attached to every possible “treasure” trove—or sunken ship—location in fine, minuscule handwriting. “Here lyeth the
Santa Margarita,
the
Ghost Galleon,
sunk in the Year of Our Lord 1622, in the Eyes of a Storm, may she rest in peace.” The treasure recovered from the
Santa Margarita
had an estimated worth of about twenty million. She had sunk at nearly the same time as the more recently discovered
Atocha,
a ship that had yielded its own trove of treasure, both fiscal and historical.