Under the Surface. Kira Sinclair

couldn’t imagine being in business with anyone else. Including his sister, Kennedy, who ran the Trident offices while she finished college, the four of them made an awesome team.

      He’d wanted to turn down this job, had even mentioned his concerns to Knox and Asher. There’d been something off about James Lancaster and his offer. Something Jackson hadn’t been able to put his finger on. But Kennedy had quoted their pitiful bank balance to convince him.

      He should have gone with his gut.

      Now, a hundred feet below the surface of the water, it was too late to listen to instinct. And it was entirely possible that decision was going to cost him his damn life.

      Where the hell had they found their explosives guy? And why wasn’t anyone else freaking that he was setting the charges completely wrong?

      Jesus Christ! Jackson was going to kill someone when they got back to the surface—assuming he lived that long.

      Signaling frantically, he tried to get the attention of one of the other divers, but everyone was ignoring him. Typical. They’d been less than welcoming. Considering he’d stepped in at the last minute to replace someone, that had already pissed him off. James had made it sound as if the injured diver had been hurt on dry land, but Jackson was beginning to wonder.

      The problem with the explosives wasn’t the first safety violation he’d seen since coming aboard Emily’s Fortune.

      Screw it. He wasn’t about to stick around and let himself or someone else get killed. He’d seen enough death and destruction during his years with the SEALs to last him a lifetime.

      He, Knox and Asher could have handled the job, and a hell of a lot more efficiently. Not to mention safely.

      And non-compete clause or not, after this he was going to be talking to the client about what he’d seen and making a promise that his company could perform any future work better, safer and cheaper.

      Streamlining his body, Jackson streaked toward the rocky outcropping where Brian, the explosives guy, was working and pushed him out of the way. Brian was propelled sideways several feet, enough for Jackson to take his place in front of the charges.

      The response he got was expected, an angry glare and an answering shove. He ignored both. Within minutes he had the charges set correctly.

      Wrapping a hand around Brian’s arm, Jackson towed him back toward the surface, knowing they needed to get out of blast range. He gave the signal and everyone else on the team followed.

      They rose up, blue sky slowly appearing above the waterline.

      Jackson broke free, his body bursting up and then sinking back down. He spat the regulator out of his mouth, and was already yelling when the rest of the team surfaced beside him.

      After climbing aboard the ship that bobbed several feet away, Jackson shed his equipment piece by piece, heading straight for James Lancaster, the owner and head of their team. He and James had gone a round or two already, so Jackson was fully prepared for this to become heated.

      “What the hell happened down there, Duchane?”

      “Damn hotshot SEAL thinks he knows every goddamn thing,” Brian hollered from behind him.

      Jackson balled his hands into fists in an attempt to keep them by his sides instead of planted in the asshole’s face and growled, “Your idiot demo guy was about to blow every one of us to hell and back. He’d bypassed the trigger so the minute he set the charge it was going to blow.”

      He watched James’ eyes widen. Finally.

      “That’s bullshit,” Brian sputtered.

      The other guys, who up to this point had been silent and watchful, muttered, shifting uncomfortably behind him.

      “He just wanted to get his hands on some explosives,” Brian continued.

      Jackson took a single menacing step forward. He was quickly losing the slippery hold on his temper. But before he could act, James stepped between them, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.

      “Son,” he started with a calming voice Jackson was so not in the mood to heed. “I think it would be better if we parted ways.”

       1

      Eight Months Later

      LORALEI LANCASTER FORCED back the lump of fear clogging her throat and walked out on the dock.

      The damn thing moved beneath her feet, swaying with the gentle lap of the water. Only to her it felt like a tidal wave preparing to swamp her, sweep her over the side and down into the bright blue water.

      For most people a trip to Turks and Caicos was a prime vacation. For her it was pure hell. She was surrounded by water. And not just standing out here on the dock. Every window she looked through seemed to have an ocean view.

       Suck it up, buttercup.

      She could hear her dad’s voice, low and gruff in her head. It wasn’t any more soothing now than it had been when he was alive. Not that she’d heard it very often.

      In fact, growing up, she’d gone months without hearing from him at all. And seeing him...that had happened maybe once or twice a year, if she was lucky. Or maybe it had been lucky that he hadn’t tried to drag her into the transient—and water-centric—life he’d led.

      Maybe they both had been happier, although that didn’t quite negate Loralei’s resentment. After her mother had died in a freak diving accident, her father had dumped her on the mainland and let his in-laws raise his daughter.

      “Loralei!” Brian hollered from a ship that was tied several feet down the dock. To her it felt like a mile.

      She’d taken barely a handful of steps onto the dock before her body had frozen. Now her feet refused to move. There weren’t any railings for her to cling to for safety and support. Why weren’t there railings to keep people from falling in to the water?

      Some masochistic part of her brain urged her to look. To turn her head and glance down. But she didn’t. She knew that would be too much.

      Suddenly, Brian was standing in front of her, wrapping his arms around her stiff body. He didn’t seem to notice that she was stuck. Which was good. Maybe no one would notice her fear of the water.

      She’d worked so hard to keep the weakness a secret.

      Logically, she knew it was silly. Hundreds of thousands of people got in the water each day and they didn’t drown. But logic hadn’t helped her over the years. The few times she’d attempted to dip her toe in a pool as a teenager hadn’t gone well. And here she was, the brand-new owner of Lancaster Diving and Salvage. What the hell was she supposed to do with a diving company?

      Especially one in such dire financial straits.

      Loralei pulled up the same pep talk that had gotten her butt on the plane in Chicago. She just needed to get through the next few weeks. She could do this. She had to.

      Her father, along with making her the sole beneficiary of a company she really didn’t want, also had left her with the means to make the company profitable enough to at least be tempting to potential buyers. He had been hot on the trail of a legendary shipwreck, the Chimera.

      History suggested the ship had sailed from the Virgin Islands toward New Orleans and the Confederate States to deliver supplies and munitions.

      But many believed that hadn’t been the only thing in the hold when a hurricane had set upon the ship and sunk it somewhere between Haiti and Turks and Caicos. According to legend, there was gold. Lots of it.

      What Loralei had found historically interesting was that, if the rumors of gold were true, and if the ship had reached port as planned, the Chimera’s cargo could have changed the outcome of the war.

      Of course, that