The Deeper the Passion.... Jennifer Lewis

at the edge of his mouth. “You always have an ulterior motive. The fun is in figuring it out.”

      She stiffened. “My motives are very simple. I’m helping Katherine Drummond locate the pieces of a three-hundred-year-old family chalice.”

      “And you’re doing this because of your passion for history?” This time he did turn to her. His smile deepened, beneath his bold cheekbones. “I heard you became an antiques dealer.”

      “The chalice has an interesting story.”

      “Oh, yes.” His voice deepened into a throaty narrator’s drone. “Three brothers, tossed by the stormy seas on their passage from bonnie Scotland, bid goodbye to each other in the New World but pledged one day to reunite their family treasure. Only then could the mighty Drummond clan regain the luck of their esteemed ancestors.” He tossed a mighty laugh out onto the wind. “Come on, Vicki. That’s not your style.”

      “There’s a reward.” Might as well come clean. Jack was more likely to be tempted by money than sentiment.

      “Ten thousand dollars.” He turned off the main road onto an unmarked and unpaved side road, fringed by spiky palms and tall scrub pines. “I’ve got junk worth more than that in the trunk of my car.”

      “It’s twenty thousand per piece. I convinced Katherine to raise it. To attract the right sort of treasure hunters.”

      “Like me.”

      “Like me.” She was gratified when he turned to look at her. His dark gaze met hers and a jolt of emotion leaped through her. Old feelings, long buried, started clawing their way to the surface. She felt a shimmer of panic. “Not that I really need the money, of course. But if I’m going to look for an old cup, there might as well be a profit in it.”

      “And you need my treasure hunting expertise to claim the reward.”

      “You’re the most successful treasure hunter on the Atlantic coast. I read an article about your new boat and all its expensive equipment. You’re famous.”

      “Some would say notorious.”

      “And most likely the cup fragment is somewhere in your house.” She’d found the first piece in the attic of his cousin Sinclair’s Long Island mansion.

      “If it’s anywhere at all.” His hand slid on the wheel as he turned down another unmarked road. The pines and saw palmettos ended as abruptly as the road, which descended suddenly to a beach. Jack swung the car to the left and parked near a broad wooden dock. A good-size boat, white with gleaming chrome rails, bobbed at the far end.

      “Your dock looks different than I remember.”

      “It’s been a long time.” He was already out of the car and carrying her bag down the dock with feline grace.

      “Not that long. There was a building here and a gate.” And a bench where they’d once made love under a bright full moon.

      “Gone in the last hurricane. Road keeps getting shorter, too.”

      “Must be frustrating to lose expensive real estate to the sea.”

      “Not if you enjoy change.” He swung her bag into the boat and turned to watch as she walked along the wood jetty. She hoped her own walk had a fraction of the swagger she admired in his.

      He helped her onto his boat, where he’d already slung her bag. She walked around the deck to where a big, padded fighting chair held a commanding position. She perched herself on the seat and grabbed hold of the armrests. Jack had never been a slow driver. The boat lurched to a start and the propeller wash foamed beneath her feet as the engines roared into action. She braced her feet against the footrest as they leaped and bounced over the choppy water. Within a minute or so, Jack’s island appeared over the horizon. Fringed with palms, no building visible, it looked like the kind of place you could get marooned and die. And she was going to be trapped here with Jack Drummond, unless she geared herself up for a long and bracing swim.

      The dock on the island looked the same as the last time she saw it, years ago. Built of coral rock and carved in the elaborate style of some ancient and wealthy Drummond ancestors, it was flanked with two stone turrets that probably once concealed armed men. Maybe they still did, if tales of Jack’s wealth were to be believed.

      “Lost your sea legs?” Jack grabbed her arm when she wobbled while trying to climb out of the boat.

      “I haven’t spent much time on the water lately.”

      “Shame.” His gaze hovered on her face and, to her horror, she felt her skin heat. How did he have this effect on her? She was the one who ate men for breakfast. He was just some scurvy sea dog from her past.

      Does he still think I’m beautiful? The sudden thought stabbed her—a pang of insecurity.

      Who cares? You’re not here to make him fall in love with you. You need his help to find the cup and then you can wash your hands of him forever.

      The old house on the island was obviously built more as a fort than a cozy residence. Limestone walls rose from behind the wild hedge of round-leaved sea grape that separated the pale strip of beach from the interior of the island. Only two tiny windows pierced the stone block exterior, although the iron-studded doors were thrown open to let in the morning sun.

      “Is there anyone else visiting you?” The open door shoved unwelcome thoughts into her brain. Another woman? She hadn’t dared to assume he was single. He never was for long. Women swarmed Jack Drummond like sharks to a flesh wound.

      “We’ll be alone.” He strode ahead of her, sunlight picking out golden highlights in his dark hair. Shadow cloaked him as he entered the tall arched doorway into his private sanctum.

      Good. She didn’t need competition at this stage. It would be embarrassing flirting in front of someone else. Trying to compete. She might have enjoyed that in the old days, but she didn’t have the brash confidence of raw youth anymore.

      The intricate colored-marble floor of the entrance hall stood in lush contrast to the fortress exterior. Jack’s ancestors may have been pirates, but they also loved beautiful things—expensive things—which might explain why they became pirates in the first place.

      Jack looked as arrogant as ever. Even from behind he radiated self-assurance, his broad shoulders set easy against his powerful neck, his hair—too long, as usual—curling almost to the collar of his T-shirt. Jack didn’t bother to conform to norms of fashion or try to fit in. He didn’t need to. Born into a semicriminal dynasty of treasure hunters, he’d excelled in the family trade and made more money—legally—in the past five years than all his ancestors put together.

      He filled a glass of water at the monstrous steel fridge and turned to her, offering it. “Too early in the day for champagne, but I’m celebrating your arrival all the same.”

      The twinkle in his eye disarmed her as she took the water. Was he really happy to see her? “The pleasure is mutual.” She raised her glass of water. Let the flirting begin. “I’ve missed you, Jack.”

      “This is getting better every minute. I still can’t figure out what you’re after.”

      She smarted under his unromantic retort. He leaned against the broad pine table in the kitchen and crossed his powerful arms. Tiny golden hairs stood out against thick, bronzed muscle. She cursed herself for noticing.

      “Isn’t it enough to visit one old friend while helping out another?”

      “Nope. And half of a twenty-thousand-dollar reward isn’t enough to tempt the Vicki St. Cyr I know. Unless your financial situation has changed.” His eyes narrowed slightly, and she felt their dark perceptive power.

      She swallowed and stiffened but tried not to show her anxiety. The press hadn’t yet sniffed out her father’s sudden descent into financial ruin. The confusion created by his death from a stroke had provided a smokescreen. Her mom had slipped off to Corsica with a wealthy friend of her dad,