Castillo's Bride. Anne Marie Duquette

studied her vessel. The wood and brass gleamed with a smooth brightness that spoke of loving attention, not just the cursory minimum. Thick glass windows sparkled, with no trace of salt-air encrustation. Even the plastic buoys on line—inflated “bumpers” thrown out when docking, to keep the wooden hull from scraping against the concrete slip—were free of harbor clams and seaweed.

      Good captains come in all shapes and sizes, and this one is just as pleasing to the eye as her ship.

      “…So now you know my sister’s story, and why I need you as my partner.”

      Jordan took another slug of his drink. “That merely explains your motive,” he said. “If I’m going to be your partner—and that’s still an if—I need more details. Question number one. How did you find the San Rafael? If you did indeed find it.”

      “This is my home,” she said, gesturing toward the water. “And you’ve seen the medallion. I’m perfectly willing to have it appraised by a specialist of your choice.”

      “You have it here?”

      “No, my friend Donna does. It’s in her safe,” Aurora quickly added. “I’ll give her a call later and let her know you’re coming, if you want to look at it.”

      “The artifact is mine.” The words hung harshly on the air.

      “No. But it could be half yours if you take me on as a partner. And if you stay alive…”

      Jordan abruptly set down the half-full bottle of lemonade, wishing it were iced coffee or tea. To him, citrus and sugar weren’t thirst quenchers. A woman’s drink, even if this was no ordinary woman. He noticed that her eyes immediately went to the polished teak gangway, where he’d slammed down the bottle, to inspect it for damage.

      He picked up his drink; fortunately the bottle had left no mark on the wood. “Sorry, Captain.” He deliberately used her title. “I didn’t mean—” Realization kicked in. His finger clenched around the bottle. “What did you say?”

      “Someone’s trying to kill you,” she said bluntly. “Surely this isn’t news. I don’t know who it is, and neither do the police. Even Donna hasn’t come up with anything. Who wants you dead?”

      Jordan searched his memory. “No one I know, especially out here. I usually work Atlantic waters.”

      “That’s not much help, which is why we can’t afford to wait. You’d be safer at sea than on land. And we have to start salvaging soon. My sister is losing her health, and your three friends from the beach—”

      “Tom, Dick and Harry are no friends of mine.”

      Aurora flushed. “Sorry. Wrong choice of words. I haven’t filed a claim yet—I want us to do it jointly. Once the medallion’s assessed, we can get to work before winter sets in.”

      Jordan shook his head just once. “Skip the assessment. That medallion is real.”

      I know it in my bones. Dammit, if she’s found the ship’s location, I’ll have to share half our family’s heritage with a stranger—or I might lose it all.

      Salvage law was very specific. Possession was nine-tenths of the law in international waters, even though he could prove he was a blood descendant of the original owners.

      “I’ll contact a local lawyer and have a draft drawn up while I talk to this Ms. Diamond.”

      “I already have. Donna has the paperwork.” Aurora’s lawyers and Donna shared the same office building. Donna, at Aurora’s request, had also discovered where Jordan’s own salvage ship was located and had done background checks on his crew.

      “Then I’ll look the papers over. But I want it specified in writing that we use my ship and my crew. They’re off Florida right now.”

      Her polite smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We can’t use your ship. Or your crew. Because—”

      “I know my ship and my men,” he interrupted.

      “It’ll take too long to get your ship out here. Besides, I know these waters, and I’m the only person who knows the ship’s location. That makes me the dive master. And I prefer to use my own divers.”

      He raised one eyebrow. “Since I’m funding the operation, I prefer to hire crew I’m familiar with.” He saw her flush again at his mention of money, but she didn’t back off.

      “How about this? You use your deckhands and I’ll use my divers, since these are my waters. That’s a safe division of labor, Mr. Castillo, and since your boat isn’t here, we use my boat, and I’m the captain. That’s fair enough.”

      “All right,” he said reluctantly. “Have your lawyers draw up the papers.”

      “Like I said, I already have—specifying the terms we’ve just discussed.”

      Jordan frowned. “A bit overconfident, aren’t we?”

      “You forget. I’ve seen the galleon. You haven’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my purse. Donna’s expecting us.” Aurora rose gracefully and headed for the “ladder,” the term for ship’s stairs leading belowdecks.

      “In the future, Ms. Collins, I’d appreciate it if we could discuss our business matters before you put them down on paper.”

      “Agreed. But one thing you need to know about me, Mr. Castillo. There’s no barnacles growing on my hull,” she said over her shoulder.

      As her “hull” disappeared belowdecks, Jordan pursed his lips in a silent whistle. Then, before his mouth grew any more parched—strictly from the heat, he assured himself—he lifted the bottle of unwanted citrus and drained it dry.

      JORDAN RODE beside her as Aurora drove Jordan’s rental car south to Donna’s San Diego office. They’d left her car at Oceanside Harbor.

      “You aren’t allowed to park here at the harbor if you don’t have a slip-holder sticker,” Aurora explained. “You’re from out of town. Want me to drive?”

      “Please. I thought Boston traffic was a headache, but this…” He gestured outside. “Is it always this crowded?” The cars were bumper to bumper, yet moving along easily at speeds over seventy miles an hour.

      She grinned. “This is regular traffic. It’s worse at rush hour. That’s when everyone moves at five miles an hour—if you’re lucky. Some days I’m actually tempted to motor down to San Diego in my boat rather than drive.”

      “You have docking privileges there, too?” Jordan asked, looking out his window at the vast expanse of ocean.

      Aurora nodded.

      “What about the other harbors?”

      “No. San Diego Harbor south and Oceanside Harbor are good enough. I could go north to Dana Point and then to L.A. Harbor, but there’s too much auto traffic and not enough parking, even for slip-holders. San Diego and L.A. are full of commercial boating traffic. Mission Bay in San Diego gets all the teenage Jet Skiers and weekend boaters.”

      “Lord spare us both,” Jordan groaned. Weekend boaters tended to be inexperienced recreationalists.

      “Tell me about it. Ninety-nine percent of boating fatalities are caused by weekend boaters, and they’re usually alcohol-related.”

      “What about Dana Point?”

      “We’re talking small again, like Oceanside Harbor, but smart. It caters mostly to private padded wallets—strictly the fiberglass-hull set. They get a lot of the San Clemente crowd. Politicians and movie stars,” she explained. “Oceanside is more blue-collar. Plus a cup of chowder in Oceanside is under three dollars. At Dana Point you’ll easily pay more than five and have to wear a shirt and shoes to eat. They charge more for boat fuel, too.”

      “Not your style?” Jordan asked.

      “The day I have to put