“Where are you going?”
“Your cabin to get you clothes. Is it unlocked?”
“No. The key’s in my sweatshirt in the lab.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t think she’d run down the hall in that tiny towel, giving him enough time to do a quick search of her room.
In the lab he carefully gathered the clothes-which did include a camera in the pocket, as well as two keys-and dropped them into a plastic bag he found next to the sink where they’d washed. Carrying it out, he locked the lab using one of the keys she’d obviously stolen, and headed up to the quarters deck to her cabin.
He knew where every one of the crew slept; Lucy’s file had a full layout of the boat. Lizzie’s cabin was between the brother divers, Kenny and Walt Brubaker, who shared a double bunk, and the conservator and diver couple, Charlotte and Sam Gorman.
Would he even have to interview the other divers, or did he already have the person he’d come to find? She certainly hated Judd Paxton, and every excuse she gave was riddled with guilt and lies.
If things kept going his way, he’d be signing a contract with Lucy by the end of the week.
He slipped the key in and entered her cabin, far more spacious than his. The bed was unmade, the room just disheveled enough that he wouldn’t leave any evidence that he’d searched it.
Dropping the plastic bag, he headed straight to the small built-in dresser next to the bed. The drawers were a jumble of bathing suits and underwear and tank tops, but nothing incriminating. Maybe the small work desk.
On top, a few paperbacks with two dive magazines, all well read. He flipped open each drawer, one with odds and ends, the next, a little makeup, some simple jewelry. The third, a deep file drawer, was locked.
Promising.
With a penknife, he opened it easily. Inside was a photograph of an older man on the deck of a boat, a gold trinket hanging from his hand, and another photo of the same man on another boat with two little girls about ten and twelve, each displaying huge smiles and shiny gold coins.
Either girl could have been Lizzie, especially the one with lighter hair, more curls, and the sweetheart face. Beneath the pictures were a few pages of computer printouts about treasure hunting. Then an article about Judd Paxton, torn from Time magazine.
And the flimsiest piece of cheap pressboard at the bottom of the drawer, not even close to the wood stain of the desk. A pathetically bad false bottom. It snapped right out of place, and under it he found a brown leather notebook.
He fluttered the pages, full of sketches of jewelry, brass buckles, a porcelain jar, some hand-drawn charts, notes in the margins in scratchy, shaky handwriting, and then, on the last pages, the large block-letter heading: El Falcone.
Gotcha, Lizzie.
Although it wasn’t irrefutable proof that she was leaking the information. He studied the last few pages of sketches: a cross with jewels, a religious pendant, and an elaborate cup encrusted with gems. On the next page, no pictures, just three words. The Bombay Blues.
Oh, man. He definitely had his target.
He toyed with the idea of taking the notebook, but that would alert her and she was smart enough to know he had to have taken it. He returned it, feeling around for anything else and touched something hard, plastic, and thin.
A cell phone.
This really was ridiculously easy. He’d caught her red-handed and found the phone she wasn’t supposed to have. How long it took her to discover it was missing would tell him just how badly she wanted it. He pocketed the phone, then replaced the false bottom.
He didn’t have absolute proof that she was the thief, though. No treasure was hidden in her room.
He grabbed the first pair of shorts he saw, a top like the strappy one he’d stripped from her, and hustled back to his cabin, opening the door just in time to find her rifling through his backpack.
“Still looking for treasure, Lizzie?”
Not that it mattered. He’d hidden the Bullet Catcher dossier on the assignment the minute he got in the room, and nothing in that bag could incriminate him.
“Just trying to figure out who you are.” She held up a book. “Besides a guy who reads-and annotates-The Odyssey.”
“Greeks are brilliant.”
“Exactly what I would expect a man named Constantine Xenakis to respond.” She fluttered his passport. “You’ve been a lot of places, Mr. X.”
“Here you go.” He tossed the clothes at her, giving her long, bare legs an open appraisal. “Don’t rush dressing on my behalf.”
She stood up and dropped the towel, a plucky expression on her face. “Thanks.”
“Good thing you didn’t burn that body,” he said, taking a nice long time to appreciate the curves and angles of a well-toned woman, the dive suit tan lines drawing his eyes to the most private parts, the impact on his lower half exactly what she must have wanted. “Be a damn shame to wreck… perfection.”
As she stepped into the shorts she smiled, her hair falling over her shoulders. “Now you’re going to compliment me? Why do I think you have to have an ulterior motive?”
“Because thieves never trust anyone.”
She stood, zipping the shorts, facing him as she reached for the top. “I’m not a thief, but I see there’s no way to convince you of that.”
He lapped up the last flash of pink nipples before they disappeared. “There might be a way.”
She yanked the top on. “Forget it. I’m not going to screw you so you don’t rat on me.”
“That’s not what I was thinking.”
She notched her chin toward the bulge in his shorts. “No? Looks like you were.”
“So I’m human. And you’re hot. But I wasn’t suggesting sex.”
She flipped her curls out from under the tank top straps and shook her head a little. “So, what then? What’s it going to take to buy your silence?”
“Maybe a cut of what you’re getting?”
Her jaw loosened. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Take in a partner on this dive.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” She laughed softly. “I don’t need a partner, because I’m not stealing anything. I’m taking pictures so when Paxton’s treasures ‘accidentally’ disappear before the state of Florida even finds out we were diving for them, there’s proof that they existed. No cut, X. There’s no buyer for my pictures.”
Was it possible she was telling the truth? There was something… oddly innocent about her, despite the feisty act.
“You been salvaging long, Lizzie?”
At the sudden change of topic, she shot him a sharp look. “I was practically born on a boat. My father was a marine archaeologist, and he took my sister and me on plenty of dives.”
“Was?” He knew from her file that her father had died fairly recently, and the pain on her face said the grief was still pretty raw.
“He passed away a few months ago,” she said, tucking some stray curls back from her lightly freckled cheek. “Diving accident.”
That he didn’t know. “What happened?”
She took a breath, tried for a casual shrug. “I don’t know, I wasn’t there.” The ache was clear in her voice. “Nitrogen narcosis.”
He thought about that for a second, frowning. “On a salvage dive? How deep was he?”
“Not a salvage dive.” She waved her hand, dismissing the subject. “What are you going to do with my clothes?”
“Destroy them. And after you go to your cabin, I’ll go clean the lab.”
“So, then…” She gave him a questioning look and let her words fade away.
“Your secret is safe with me.” He stood slowly, getting right in front of her, as close as he was in the shower. With one finger, he lifted her chin and forced her to look right at him. “For the time being.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “So, what, you can lord it over me whenever you want something?”
“That could work.” He lowered his face one centimeter and saw the flicker of response in her eyes. A hint of pink rose in her creamy cheeks, darkening those few freckles, warming the skin under his fingertips.