Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (11 page)

“I know what you mean . . . about drifting. I’m between jobs, too.”

“I thought you were a lawyer.”

“I am. An unemployed lawyer, at the moment.”

Their conversation was cut short by Adam’s return.

For a while, Veronica just sat back and listened while Adam and Caleb discussed with much enthusiasm the upcoming wreck operation. Occasionally, she commented or responded to a question put to her, but mostly she enjoyed eavesdropping on their excitement.

“This is my twentieth deep dive,” Adam said. “How about you, Peach? I would imagine you did a lot of deep diving in SEALs.”

“Nah. I’ve only gone below two hundred feet a few times. The teams do more underwater demolition in shallower waters than that.”

Veronica had already learned that two hundred feet was the dividing line for deep diving—where special breathing equipment was required; where decompression was essential to avoid narcosis, or the bends; where only the most accomplished or adventuresome divers dared venture. “Will the Pink Project wreck be down that far?” she asked when there was a break in the back-and-forth conversation.

“Probably,” Adam said. “We’ve prepared for that eventuality.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Any dive is dangerous,” Caleb replied. “But deep diving has its own particular risks, and an ill-equipped or ill-prepared team can be snagged at a hundred feet. We lost a SEAL trainee at Coronado last year because he hadn’t checked his equipment before going down. There was a leak in his air hose, and he wasn’t able to get back up in time.”

“That’s nothing. If you ever see a diver come up with narcosis, bleeding through the nose and ears, you never forget it. On that gruesome note”—Adam turned to her with a laugh—“are you ready to eat?”

“Yes. I’m famished.”

“Well, I’ll shove off,” Caleb said, standing and slapping a few bills on the table. “I’ll see you later.” He was looking at Veronica when he spoke.

“What’s going on?” Adam asked once Caleb left.

“What do you mean?”

“Peach. Was he hitting on you?”

She smiled. “No. I think he was trying to pull your chain.”

“Ah,” he said, understanding.

Veronica ordered a medium-rare black and blue burger, a blackened ground sirloin patty topped by blue cheese, with Boardwalk fries. Adam got a well-done steak with mushrooms and a baked potato dripping with butter and sour cream. They shared a Bananas Foster for dessert.

While they ate and then danced several sets of slow songs, they talked and talked and then talked some more.

Adam was a very interesting man. Full of himself, sure, but he lived a fascinating life, full of adventure. He was probably unmarried because he was having too much fun, even at age thirty-seven, taking advantage of the sexual favors women gave him freely. But he was intelligent and attractive. A girl could do worse for a fling. Not that Veronica had decided on a fling—with him or anyone else. Still . . .

Adam followed her back to the motel since they’d both driven to the tavern. He walked her to her door and leaned an arm against the door frame. He was so close, she could smell his deodorant. He probably expected her to invite him in. Actually, Veronica considered it and rejected the idea. For now, at least.

“Good night, Adam.”

He arched his eyebrows, then shrugged, getting her silent message that the evening was over. “Thanks for a great evening.” He leaned down to kiss her.

Veronica returned his kiss. “That was nice,” she murmured.

“Nice?” he hooted with disappointment. Then he really kissed her, putting his arms around her and pulling her sharply forward so they were pressed together. His one hand was at her nape, holding her head in place, and his other hand locked around her waist.

She had no choice but to put her hands on his shoulders.

When the kiss ended, he leaned back and asked in a husky voice, “How was that?”

“Much nicer,” she said, but what she really thought was,
Just nice.

A short time later, when she was in her motel room, alone, she heard a knock on the door.
Good Lord! Does the man not take no for an answer?

She walked, barefoot, over to the door and opened it a crack, then wider. “Caleb? What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

Oh, my God! Now that gets my attention.
“Are you staying here, at this motel?”

“No. I’m at the Hampton . . . down the road a ways.”

She leaned against the door frame. “And?”

“And I was driving past, saw your car, and thought, what the hell!” With that, he pulled her into his embrace; backed her up against the door, which slammed against the inner wall of the motel room; and kissed her. Really. Kissed. Her. Kissed her so good and so long that her toes curled. For sure, there was a certain part of her body melting. His erection pressed against her stomach. His one hand slipped under her gauzy blouse and kneaded her breast till a nipple blossomed against his palm. He used his other hand to caress her behind. No subtlety here. No “Can I?” or “Please, baby?” This was hard-core sex he was offering.

Then he stepped away from her, surveying her with dark, smoldering eyes.

The one word that came to her mind was not
nice.

“Make a list, Ronnie,” he said in a voice smokey with desire, “of everything you like in bed. I’ll do all of them, and then we’ll hit my list.”

Without another word, he left, closing the door behind him.

Veronica sank to the bed, weak with surprise and, yeah, a little bit of arousal. And for the first time in, oh, let’s say forever, she giggled.

Just before she fell asleep a short time later, it wasn’t Adam or Caleb she thought about, though. It was Jake. And his kisses.
Night thoughts,
that’s what Jake always called them. Those passions or forbidden yearnings that could be pushed aside during daylight hours came back to haunt in the still of the night, in that ethereal moment just before sleep.

Much as she would have liked otherwise, her dreams were of Jake that night. As always.
Am I a sap, or what?

Chapter
10

THE SAPPY WEDDING

Thirteen years ago . . .

They were running away from their own wedding reception.

“Shhh,” Jake whispered to her.

Veronica giggled.

She wore a white gown and veil; he had on a black tux. From down the hall in the banquet room, they could hear the musicians begin to play big-band songs for dancing—her grandmother’s choice, though not objectionable to her and Jake. “Sentimental Journey” wafted out to them.

“My grandmother will have a fit,” she said.

“Yep,” Jake agreed with a grin. Her grandmother didn’t approve of Jake and didn’t mind showing it every chance she got. She would blame Jake for their early, unannounced departure.

The elevator ping-pinged, then opened. Jake took her hand and they rushed in, repeatedly jabbing the
CLOSE
button in their impatience, then using a key to take them to the penthouse bridal suite. Once the elevator door swooshed shut, Jake leaned back against one wall and smiled at her, a lazy smile so full of heat she felt herself melting, bit by bit, from head to toe and some interesting places in between.

What a beautiful smile he has, dimple and all,
she observed. It was the first thing she’d noticed when she met him three years ago on the Boston U campus. She’d probably fallen in love with him on sight. He’d always claimed the same about her.

She leaned against the opposite wall and smiled back at him. “So, what do you think we should do, now that we’re an old married couple?” They’d married five hours ago at St. Jerome’s Cathedral.

“Oh, I can think of a few things.” He crooked his forefinger at her, beckoning her to come closer.

“Oh, no!” she said with a laugh. “Now that we’re married, I get to call the shots.”

“Is that a fact?” he asked as the elevator doors swooshed open directly into the entryway of their suite.

Seeing the gleam in his blue eyes, she picked up the skirt of her gown and started to run. He caught up with her in a few long strides, put his hands on her waist, and lifted her high, then swung them around in a joyous circle.

They gazed at each other in wonder. They were so wildly in love. Even though she was only twenty-two and he was twenty-five, they sensed how special their love was.

From the open balcony doors, they could hear the band segue into The Police’s “Every Breath You Take.” It was Jake’s favorite song, by his favorite band.

She arched a brow at him.

He laughed. “I gave the band leader a twenty.”

“My grandmother will have a fit,” she repeated.

Jake grinned and tightened his arms around her waist, pulling her close against his body. She looped her arms around his neck.

He kissed her then, a kiss that went on and on. So gentle that it spoke volumes. She touched his hair. His thumb outlined her jaw. And all the while they continued to kiss. She would remember that kiss till the day she died.

Against her mouth, he whispered, “Hello, wife.”

A thrill ran through Veronica at his words. Even though they’d been married for five whole hours, it was the first chance she’d had to really register that she was now Mrs. Jake Jensen.

“Hello, husband,” she said, and laid her cheek against his shoulder. They danced then, slow, slow, slow. She could feel his heart beating and fancied that they were both breathing in unison. One heartbeat.

It was a moment out of time, to be cherished forever. A memory they were creating, like a picture in an album, to be taken out over the years to remind them of how perfect things had been on that one day and that one time.

The band must have taken a break, because the only sounds in the room now were the rasp of a zipper and the swoosh of her gown falling to the floor—followed by the sweet sounds of skin against skin, the clicking of her great-grandmother’s pearls, and softly murmured endearments.

Later, Jake leaned over her and whispered, “I love you so much.” There were actually tears in his eyes.

Which caused her to choke up, too. “Forever,” she said back. “I will love you forever.”

It was all so sappy . . . and wonderful.

Chapter
11

Grumble, grumble, grumble . . .

Frank was in a rip-roaring bad mood.

It hadn’t helped that wacky Vivian, the manicure lady from Nail You, showed up at ten last night to fix Flossie’s broken nail. Coughing up a storm, Vivian had left her flu deathbed to help Flossie with her dire emergency—a broken nail, of all things. She never said how she’d found out about Flossie’s dilemma and seemed terrified when asked.

He got up at dawn, as was his custom these days, but a little more tired than usual due to the late-night visitor. Hey, he was seventy-five years old; he didn’t want to waste a minute of the time he had left. Besides, he needed to get into the office before Ronnie arrived so he could hide more of his financial papers. His granddaughter was way too smart, and she was relentless in pursuing the location of every single dime of his.

Out on the deck, while the sun rose over the ocean and the seabirds awakened loudly, he did a series of push-ups. Not as many as he’d done in his younger days, but he still managed a set of fifty halfway decent ones. He inhaled the fresh sea air, which he loved, and saluted the lighthouse, which was his daily ritual, too. But his mood got worse instead of better. By the time he was on his way to the office at seven
A.M.
, smoking cigar firmly planted in his mouth, zipping across the bay in his speed boat to the Barnegat wharf, he was hunting for someone on whom to vent his frustrations.

He was tired of pretending to be poor.

He was tired of arguing with Ronnie over every little thing . . . and her threatening to quit every other hour.

He was tired of waiting for Jake to arrive.

He was sick and tired of Jake’s frickin’ answering machine. Whoever invented those contraptions ought to be drawn and quartered.

He was tired of being nice. Well, nice for him.

He was tired of Rosa making one demand after another. The latest was that she wanted to go out on the boat with them, along with her two sons. She’d already bought a boating outfit, she’d told him, whatever the hell a boating outfit was. He’d told her she might break a nail; she’d told him he might break a leg. There was a hidden warning in that, he’d decided. They’d compromised on one son, period, going out with them. Even that rankled.

He was tired of Flossie’s hot flashes and mood swings. Their bedroom felt like an igloo these days. She was turning into a psycho. Lovey-dovey one moment, Hannibal Lecter the next. Last night she’d burst out crying just because he said he’d never liked Elvis.

He was tired of fabricating reasons why Ronnie’s presence on the boat during the search was essential. If he didn’t convince Ronnie to come along and experience the thrill of treasure hunting, he would never get her to take over Jinx, Inc.

Flossie, on the other hand, who’d had only a passing interest in his treasure-hunting projects in the past, had come up with the bright idea that she was coming along. Rosa had probably put that bug in her ear. But neither hell nor high water nor his bursts of temper were going to stop Flossie. He’d briefly considered telling her she might break a nail, but refrained when he contemplated the body part Flossie would threaten to break. It wouldn’t be a leg, for damn sure. Before Frank left the house this morning, Flossie told him she would be gone all day, probably off to some mall buying a “boating outfit.”

He was tired of all the postponements of the Pink Project. He was leaving for the wreck site tomorrow if he had to row the damn boat.

And he was low on Cuban cigars. Maybe Famosa knew someone who knew someone.

As he pulled into his designated slip before the warehouse, he took in the scenic picture of his diving boat,
Sweet Jinx,
which was anchored right next to him. God, he loved that boat. She was more than twenty years old and had more patches and renovations than an aging movie star. Formerly named
Down & Dirty,
she was a sixty-five-foot former tramp steamer that had been gutted and refitted to become a diving vessel with all the latest bells and whistles. The old lady could accommodate fifteen people in a pinch, ten comfortably. The boat was perfectly suited for treasure hunting on the high seas. Not that all his treasure hunts were aquatic ones, but when he did hit the deep waters,
Sweet Jinx
had all the latest technology and gear to make the operation safe and efficient and comfortable.

Just then, he noticed something. Ronnie and several of the crew members stood on the wharf, talking excitedly. Why were they here so early? And what had them so excited? More problems? He thought seriously about turning his boat around and going to the Anchor for a double shot of bourbon—a little hair of the dog, except that he hadn’t had the pleasure of the “dog” last night.

“What’s going on?” he grumbled once he climbed onto the pier.

The group—Ronnie, Brenda, Adam, Caleb, and John—parted in the middle, and he had an open path to the shiny
motor.
He glanced from one to the other, asking, “Where did this come from?” It was a brand-spanking-new luxury model of a Vanguard motor, a perfect fit for the diving boat. The thing had to have cost at least ten thousand dollars.

“Did you buy this?” he accused Ronnie. When her mouth dropped open, he remembered his poor man act and added, “We don’t have the cash for this.”

“Not me,” Ronnie said. “Besides, how would I know what kind of motor to order—or get it here so quickly?”

“You?” He looked at Brenda. The woman knew more about motors and how they worked than anyone else in the team.

She would know exactly what kind of motor they needed and how to get it.

Brenda put up both hands and shook her head.

The others were shaking their heads as well.

He thought for a couple of seconds, then told Brenda, “We might as well use it.”

The three guys picked up the motor and followed Brenda over to the boat. This new motor would ensure that they started the search by tomorrow morning, as planned.

Finally, my bad mood has a reason to lift.

He turned and saw that Ronnie was still standing there, frowning at him.

Maybe not.

“I think I know where the motor came from.”

“Where?”

She motioned her head toward Rosa’s son, Tony, who was sitting on a piling, throwing a crab line into the bay. Jersey had some of the best blue-claw crabs in the world, after all. Tony scowled at Frank and Ronnie, then turned away.

Frank frowned. “Are you saying Tony—rather, Rosa—is responsible for this?”

“All I know is that yesterday I wished I had a new computer, and hours later, I had one sitting in front of the office. Then, yesterday afternoon, I heard you wish that you had a new motor. Steve, or Tony, was there each time.”

Was that why Flossie’s manicurist had shown up last night? Had one of Rosa’s sons made Vivian an offer she couldn’t refuse, just because Flossie had wished it? He grinned.

“It’s not funny. They’re probably stolen property. Mafia loot.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“A person shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“A person could end up with a gift horse’s head in his bed.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you can be a pain in the ass? Don’t answer that.” He turned and yelled over to Tony, “Hey, Tony, did you bring this motor here today?”

Tony didn’t even look up from his crab line. He just shook his head.

“Ask him if his brother or mother brought it here. You asked if
he
brought it
today.
Maybe he brought it last night. Go ahead, ask him.” Ronnie gave him a look that pretty much said he should do her bidding . . . pronto.

Not bloody likely!
“Your nagging is really starting to bother me. Maybe I should just drop you in the bay. That would shut you up.”

She gasped, and an expression of hurt flashed on her face, immediately replaced with anger.

“Lighten up, girl. I was just kidding,” he said, which pretty much amounted to an apology for him. “Listen, Ronnie, why don’t you go into the office and call Jake? See why he’s not here yet. We’re leaving first thing in the morning, and he’s not answering my calls.”

“What makes you think he would answer my call?”

“Oh, he would answer your call, all right. Jake gets loopy just looking at you. All you’d have to do is crook your finger, and he’d be tripping over himself to get here.”

“You are so wrong.” She inhaled and exhaled to tamp down her temper. “Why are you so determined to have him here on the project? Me, too, for that matter?”

Questions, questions, questions.
“Because I want a great-grandchild,” he said before he had a chance to bite his tongue. Oh, well, it
was
part of the reason. He didn’t reveal
that
much.

“From me and Jake?”

“No. You and Captain Hook. Of course you and Jake.”

Her mouth gaped open with disbelief. “You want me and Jake to have a baby?”

“Yes, dammit!”

“You’re as bad as my grandmother. She wanted us to have a baby, too, so that she could control the baby’s life like she did mine.”

He could tell she regretted mentioning his ex-wife and admitting that maybe, just maybe, Lillian hadn’t been the perfect role model. But he couldn’t let the comparison of him and Lillian stand. “I’m in no way like your grandmother.”

“Why are you so insulted? You keep telling me that
I’m
just like her.”

“That’s different. You are. But there’s hope for you yet. Stick around me long enough and you’ll lose some of that starch in your undies.”

“Aaarrgh!”

“Get movin’, girl. Call Jake. Have a baby. Maybe two. But help me find the goddamn pink diamonds first. Treasure now, baby later.”

He began to stomp toward the boat, anxious to get this project on its way, anxious to get out of Ronnie’s way before she hit him.

To his back, she yelled, “Not a chance!”

He just laughed.

Oh, ho, ho, and a bottle of . . . Pepto . . .

Early the next morning, the Pink Project crew got ready to take off.

Veronica watched from the wharf as the gear and supplies were packed on board. Last-minute checks were being made of everything from the new motor to the diving apparatus. All the team members were so excited that a small part of Veronica—the part that fancied walking on the wild side—wished she could be an actual member of the team. With a sigh, she gave a last wave and went back into the warehouse office, determined to find all the missing financial papers while her grandfather was gone.

A few minutes later, Frank rushed into the office, panicked. “You gotta come on board. It’s . . . it’s about Jake,” he told her, then rushed off.

Despite her aversion to water, Veronica followed him, never hesitating to step on board in her concern over Jake. She caught up with Frank down in the spacious cabin, where he was getting a bottle of water from the fridge. “What? What about Jake?” she practically shrieked.

“Uh . . .” He took a long swig from the icy bottle.

“I’m going to dump that water over your stupid head if you don’t tell me right away.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk! Got ants in yer pants, girlie. Hey, that’s a good one. Ants in yer pants, an itch in the you-know-where, you and Jake, babies. Ha, ha, ha. Okay, okay, don’t be lookin’ all witchlike at me. I finally got in touch with Jake last night.” He paused, indulging in another swig.

“And?” she prodded.

“He’s in New Orleans.”

New Orleans? The Insanity Wedding.
Veronica could never think about the Big Easy without remembering her Insanity Wedding there. Elation, and dismay, swept over her at the same time. Apparently, Jake was safe, but he wasn’t coming back. Not that he’d said he would. Not that she wanted him to. Still . . .

“He’s gamblin’ on a riverboat there.”

“Here’s a news flash, Frank. One, that’s nothing new—gambling is what Jake does. Two, I don’t give a hoot where he is. Three, why did I have to board this blasted boat to hear this spectacular news?”

“Just thought you’d like to know.”

A motor turned over then. Very loud. And fine hairs stood up on the back of her neck. “You wouldn’t!”

“Yep, I would,” Frank said, pleased as an accordion player at a Polish wedding.

“You . . . dumbass moron. I swear, I ought to . . . to . . . punch your lights out. And I would, if I could.”

By the time she got up on deck and made her way to the wheelhouse to scream at Brenda to turn the boat around, it was too late. The Pink Project was under way.

“Turn around!” she ordered, first her grandfather, then Brenda, then each of the crew members, who had followed, not wanting to miss the show, even Steve who just peered at her through his dark sunglasses, saying nothing. No one would listen to her.

“It’s for your own good,” Frank said.

“Old man, you are delusional.”

“It’s bad luck to turn around right away,” Brenda contended. A blush belied her words.

“I’ve heard enough about good luck and bad luck to last me a lifetime. I was married to a gambler, remember?”

“It’s gonna be fun,
chère,
” John said.