The Last Treasure (4 page)

When Sam learned that Liv had married Whit Crosby, he'd found it wholly impossible to believe. It didn't make sense. Whit and his reckless methods, his total lack of self-control or regard for rules. Even now his mind still can't form the image of the two of them together—and he avoids trying.

He slides his hands over the dry paper, the heat of his palms drawing out the salty smell of age and wear.

He forgot how Liv never bothered to dot her i's.

There are seamen who believe they can hear the cries of the lost when they near a deadly stretch of water, fiercely superstitious men who live and breathe by signs when they cross an ocean. Sam traveled with one on the salvage mission of a submarine: a wiry man with milky blue eyes who went belowdecks when they anchored, shaking because he claimed to see the ghosts of drowned soldiers rising from the sea.

If Sam were one of those men—which he isn't—he might decide the universe has aligned his stars. Because just the week before, out of the blue, he received an e-mail from Beth Henson—a former classmate from ECU he hasn't heard from in years—telling him of curious news: a diary, believed to be written by Theodosia Burr Alston, and dated after the
Patriot
's disappearance, had just been acquired by the Outer Banks Shipwreck Museum where Beth is now the director. Maybe Sam would like to come down and have a look through it—that is, if he was still interested in the mystery?

Truthfully he hadn't been. Not anymore. He'd put the
Patriot
and Theodosia away when he and Liv broke up. Sure, he thought about it from time to time, casually following any leads that cropped up in his news feeds about unidentified shipwrecks, especially those found around the Outer Banks, but now . . .

Whit's message. The chance to see Liv again.

Beautiful, stubborn Liv.

Sam won't lie—he's curious. Not about the journal, not that. About Liv. He's curious to know how the years have treated her—if living with Crosby has changed her, if she ever wishes things had turned out differently. He wonders if she's surprised
he left his father's law firm and returned to the water. If Sam saw her again, if she saw him, would she wish they'd never said good-bye?

And yes, maybe it turns him on to think he could return with news of a diary. That he could give Liv the one thing she always wanted: to know what really happened to Theodosia.

Challenge—hot and ferocious—charges through him; memories spill like water from an overturned glass.

Sam could wait to call them back, he supposes as he picks up his phone and retrieves Whit's number. Make them wonder, maybe even make them sweat—but it's a waste of time.

Already he can see the flash of excitement in Liv's eyes when he tells her about Theodosia's diary, the grateful wash of salmon that will flood her cheeks, swallowing the starry map of her freckles.

He closes his eyes and pulls in a hard breath.

Already he can feel the heat of her body under
his.

TOPSAIL ISLAND, NORTH CAROLINA

Two weeks later

Tuesday

W
hen Whit turns the van into the driveway of the three-story Caribbean-style castle just before noon, Liv is certain it is the largest, most ostentatious house she has ever seen. Palms flank the arched entryway like palace guards, bright blue hurricane shutters swing out, and decks wrap around all three floors, not including the top story, which appears to be made entirely of glass.

“Now, I know we said we wouldn't go crazy this mission, Red—”

“We?” She spins in her seat. “You promised me something cozy, something
small
.”

“This is small . . .
ish
.”

“Compared to what? Buckingham Palace?”

“Exactly.” Two weeks after his row, the curl of navy and purple that circled his right eye has finally softened to a yellowish green. He gives her his very best smoldering smile, which he knows damn well can absolve him of practically anything, short of murder—and very well maybe that too, though she hopes they never have to find out—but today she's determined not to give in to his charms.

“Maybe it only looks big on the outside,” he says.

She closes her eyes.

“We've got a crew of eleven, Red. Did you think we'd all share one big bed?” His grin widens. “Kinky girl.”

He reaches across the seat to grab her thigh, but she twists away from him, not yet ready to let him off the hook.

A warm breeze drifts through the window, salted and feathery and so achingly familiar she thinks she could cry. It's been almost a decade since she left North Carolina. Standing at the rental car counter at the Wilmington Airport that morning, she waited for the sensation of her return to settle into her bones, sure it would the minute she and Whit stepped off the plane or walked through the sliding doors to find their shuttle—it didn't. And now she understands why.

Until she arrived at the water's edge, she wasn't yet back.

Whit rubs his jaw. “Okay, maybe the elevator is a little over-the-top.”

“There's an
elevator
?”

He leans over and kisses her hard on her gaping mouth, the way he always does when he knows he can't win an argument or change her mind and he is simply too impatient to keep trying.

Then he yanks the handle and kicks open the door. “Last one in has to scrub all six heads.”

•   •   •

E
ight, actually. Counting the two outdoor showers, which Liv does as she tours the three floors, finding a view of the Atlantic in nearly every room, and decks scaled for cruise ships, which makes perfect sense, really, when the polished wooden ceilings look like upside-down ships, their laminated beams curved like ribs. Madness.

The first crew members arrive shortly after one. Four men in their twenties climb out of an enormous white truck—one with a completely shaved head and sleeves of tattoos, another with a ponytail, all with deep, even tans. They unload their gear and a ridiculous amount of beer. Whit has promised not to partake, but Liv isn't holding her breath. She knows how the spell of preproject euphoria can take over, how small toasts can lead to drained bottles, shots to tumblers. She just hopes everyone gets along. Emotions can run high on the water—and
under
it.

An hour later, four more crew members arrive, these men much older than the first group, their skin leathery, their thin lips chapped. Two of them, Chuck and Dennis, Liv knows from their work on the
Bella Donna
. They smell so strongly of diesel when they hug her that Liv wonders if they have bathed in fuel. Whit whisks them inside, where they complain of the traffic and the crappy roads before dropping their gear in the foyer and demanding a bathroom and a beer before any further interaction. By four, the men are all downstairs in the
game room playing pool, and the pristine kitchen has been turned into a mess hall. Bags of potato chips and empty beer and soda cans litter the huge granite island; the Sub-Zero fridge is packed with stacks of meat and bags of shrimp bound for the home's outdoor grilling station later that night. Liv doesn't dare ask how much it all cost.

By five, still no Sam. It would serve her right, Liv thinks as she steps out onto the deck and sinks into one of the Adirondack chairs that line the back of the house, if she pushed so hard to get Sam here only to have him leave them hanging—the very thing he always used to claim Whit did to them, which Whit did, on more than one occasion.

Maybe this will be Sam's final chance at tit for tat.

Or maybe she's just nervous and paranoid.

A quartet of pelicans glides across the sky. She watches them descend, smiling at their wobbly landing on the water. The breeze that brushes past her is fragrant with the dry, herby smell of sunbaked dune grass. The water is calm today, at least on the surface, part of the stretch of sea known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic. Liv traveled its length like a highway when she and Sam and Whit ran their treasure-hunting charter.

Looking out at the water now, she finds it hard not to think of Theodosia or the
Patriot
, but she can't allow herself to get caught up in the search again. They are here to recover the
Siren
. But God, it's hard, really, to look at
any
part of this view and not think about those early days, when she and Whit and Sam believed themselves clever enough to find the
Patriot
on their own. When the mystery of Theodosia Burr Alston's fate
had consumed her—only slightly more than her need to belong to Sam Felder.

Behind her, through the high wall of windows, the rise and fall of the men's loud voices draw her out of her memories. She is sure it must just be the excitement of a victorious billiard match, but then the deck door swings open and Whit appears with his hands on his hips.

He can flash that smile all he wants—she's still pissed about this ridiculous house.

She leans back in the chair. “I'm still not speaking to you, you know.”

He grins. “Fine, don't speak to me. Just come inside. You're going to want to see this.”

•   •   •

I
n the living room, she finds the crew huddled around Whit's computer, their voices climbing over one another's. He shouts for them to move out of the way and plants Liv in front of the screen, his hands heavy on her shoulders. Even before she sees the blurry image of the seafloor, she can feel his pulse thrumming through his palms, and her own heartbeat hastens.

He's found something.

Something
big
.

“What does that look like to you?” He points to the lower right corner of the gray image, tapping his finger on the faint edge of a crescent shape that pokes out of the gray bottom.

She twists to look up at him; his eyes flash knowingly, but he won't say a word. And she doesn't want any hints. Identifying
artifacts from scans, figuring out what is treasure and what is just rubble, is one of her favorite parts of the hunt. It
could
be the lip of a medicinal jar, she thinks, studying the image again—after all, medicine was one of the more popular contrabands blockade runners delivered—or maybe a porthole. Or maybe . . . Liv tilts her head. Is that the bottom of a letter just above the ridge? Maybe an
N
or an
R
? It could be, and looking closer she thinks there might be more letters. And the edge of the curve looks flat, not rounded. Tapered, like a—

Her cheeks flush hot. She spins around to face him. “You found the bell!”

Whit lifts her off the floor and kisses her deeply, managing to swing her a half turn in the thick of the huddle. Another round of victory cheers and high fives; Liv wants in too, demanding they slap their meaty palms against her small hand. It's tremendous news. If they've located the ship's bell, they can prove the wreck is the
Siren
even before they bring up a single artifact. Whit orders them all into the kitchen to celebrate and tears into a bottle of champagne he vowed to save for their first day on the water, but Liv knows better than to remind him. She searches the high cabinets for flutes but is too late. The men are already passing the bottle around and swigging from it. When it is her turn, she takes her sip and tips her face up when Whit swoops in to deliver her a champagne-soaked kiss.

They are still emptying the bottle when Liv sees Dennis cock his head strangely, as if he's heard something. He raises his hand to quiet their noise and in the next instant, the chime of the doorbell comes.

Sam.

Liv meets Whit's eyes, and a chill flutters the hairs on the back of her neck, like a scarf being pulled off in winter, skin covered now exposed to the elements again.

•   •   •

I
t is Whit who greets him, recruiting a few of the crew to join him in the foyer for introductions.

Liv flees to the upstairs and listens from the hallway to the clatter of the men's voices spilling into the kitchen a few minutes later. She tells herself it's best not to overwhelm Sam with a mass welcome, but she knows that isn't the real reason she stays away—and she suspects Whit does too. Suddenly she isn't quite as indignant about having so much space. Maybe this behemoth isn't big
enough
.

She calls Rachel, knowing her old friend is of the opinion that no amount of gold is worth opening old wounds, and is disappointed to get her voice mail. So she unpacks and takes a bath in the suite's enormous tub, sinking as deep as she can under a froth of lavender bubbles. When she hears the telltale sounds of food being prepared, chairs and tables dragged across floors and music blaring on the deck, she knows the bacchanalia of dinner is under way. A perfect time to make her entrance, she decides, toweling off and dressing in a pair of ivory shorts and a peasant blouse. All the activity will serve as smoke, cloaking any tension that might exist when she and Sam greet each other. Passing a mirror in the hall, she sees a faint blush on her cheeks and stops, feeling a strange pinch of guilt. It's just the heat of the day, she tells herself. Just the residual flush from the excitement of finding the bell.

Coming downstairs, she glimpses Whit outside at the grill, the crew flocked around him, shouting over Van Morrison. But where is Sam?

In the den, she finds him scanning the home's wall of books.

He has a beard.

This is her first thought when she sees him. He has buzzed his wavy brown hair military-style, shorter than she's ever seen it. Against the high shelves, he seems taller, tauter. He's always been lean, but now his body possesses a remarkable tightness, machinelike.

She lets her hands fall to her sides, not sure what to do with them. “Hi, Sam.”

He closes his book and smiles. “Hey, Liv.”

To hug or not to hug. Whether to even touch. Uncertainty overwhelms her. Liv slows her advance and Sam remains at his post, the decision made for them.

“I was starting to think you were hiding from me,” he says, sliding the book back onto the shelf. “It wouldn't be hard to do here. This place should come with a map.”

“You said that about the last place Whit found for us.”

“Did I?”

Just the mention of that first weekend together thirteen years earlier and the enormous room fills with memories, charged and electric like the air before a summer storm. Liv feels herself sinking and forces her thoughts to stay afloat. In the present, where they belong.

She gestures to his jaw. “It's different.”

“It's easy.” He rubs at his beard. “I've gotten lazy in my old age.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She smiles. “I like it. It suits you.”

His eyes flicker over her face. “You look good, Liv.”

“God, not really.” She pushes at the limp knot of her hair. “I feel about as toned as a roasted marshmallow. You're the one who looks like you could swim the English Channel.”

“That's kind of you.”

“I'm anxious to get back in the water. This project will probably be my last time diving. At least that's what I've promised my doctor.”

His eyes widen briefly.

“You look surprised,” Liv says.

“I am. I can't believe you're still diving.”

“You couldn't believe I ever started.” She regrets the comment as soon as it's out. The air, once fresh and unblemished, feels heavy now, the weight of their old argument landing between them like a dropped stone. She wants to repair her mistake.

“Can I get you a glass of wine?” she asks.

“No, thanks. I don't drink anymore.”

She blinks at him. Sam, not drink?

He smiles wryly. “Now who looks surprised?”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I wasn't expecting . . .”

“It's okay—I get that reaction all the time. It's like telling people I've quit showering. They're horrified.”

She laughs, maybe too loudly. She wonders if something happened to make Sam stop drinking completely.

“I
would
take some coffee, if you have it.”

“Of course.”

A purpose. Thank God. She leads him to the kitchen and
crosses to the still-warm carafe, finding some coffee remains. She pours, grateful for the crackle of the liquid rising to fill the quiet, hopeful her hands will hold without trembling when she delivers him the cup. She doesn't bother to offer him cream or sugar—he always took his black. To pretend she doesn't remember seems insincere. As he takes several long sips, she notices the strands of red in his short beard, reminded of the ones she was so shocked to find farther down his body when they'd first slept together. Copper and gold threads. In those early days, everything had reminded her of treasure.

She rubs her bare arms. “Thank you for rescuing us, Sam. I wasn't sure you'd be able to. Or want to, for that matter.”

“So asking me was your idea?”