LITMIR.BIZ

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here,” she began in her sternest English teacher tone, “to discuss the graves you’re disturbing, and the great tragedy you and your gang intend to profit from.”

      He laughed. He actually laughed. Again, annoyingly increasing his appeal. “My gang?”

      “Yes, well …” That had been rather insulting, she supposed. After all, the Hispanic gentleman had been very gracious. “Your crew then.”

      “Who have five PhDs between the three of them. And you do realize this great tragedy happened nearly a hundred fifty years ago, right?”

      “Doesn’t matter.”

      “And this was a pirate ship, not the USS Benevolent Cruise Line?”

      “Many so-called pirate ships were merely privateers who helped the war effort.”

      “For a price.”

      “Well, this ship aided the South, it was sunk by Yankees and I’m here to stand for the crew’s noble sacrifice.”

      He cocked his head and studied her, as if truly looking at her for the first time. “Green eyes,” he mused. “Fair skin, red hair, temper like a hurricane. Irish, by any chance?”

      She raised her chin. “I’m a Southerner—eight generations worth, to be exact.”

      Very gently, he laid his finger in the dent in her chin. “Maybe so, but there’s an Irish vixen some generation way back.”

      Desire shot into her stomach. She was pretty sure the same thing had happened to him, because the gold in his eyes suddenly deepened. His gaze fell to her lips and held. She curled her hand into a fist by her side to prevent the impulse to reach out and glide her fingers across his tanned chest to see if the muscles below felt as hard as they looked.

      “Well, this is damn inconvenient, isn’t it?” he asked in a low tone.

      “I—” She stepped back, unsure if her embarrassing reaction to him or his acknowledgment of the chemistry between them worried her more. “We need to discuss the shipwreck.”

      “Fine.” He moved around her and headed to the bedroom. “Let’s go get a beer, and you can tell me all about your tragic cause.”

      She glanced at her watch. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”

      “So? I’ll just throw on a T-shirt.”

      When he returned, he was wearing a gray T-shirt and had pulled his hair back with a leather thong no doubt also used by the pirates whose treasure he was so adept at finding.

      Lost in thought, she dimly registered that he’d stopped in front of her.

      His impressive chest rose, then fell as he sighed, and he, too, checked the time. “It’s not a complicated proposition. Beer, no beer?”

      Spending any more time with this man than was absolutely necessary seemed unwise. And yet it had been so long since she’d looked at a man with anything approaching desire, she was reluctant to let the feeling die. She’d been sure her ex had killed all her sexual impulses as well as their future together.

      “How about iced tea?” she finally suggested.

      He curled his lip as he laid his hand at the small of her back and guided her to the door. “For you, maybe.”

      Outside, the wind had picked up, and Brenna flattened her hands against her sundress to keep it from flying up and giving Gavin Fortune and his crew an up-close-and-personal shot of her purple lace panties.

      The blond-haired guy with wire-rimmed glasses smiled and nudged the Hispanic guy as they approached. “Pay up, Vasquez.”

      “Poker, boys?” Fortune asked. “I thought you were programming the ROV.”

      “No cards, amigo,” the Hispanic man, presumably Vasquez, said with a quick glance at Brenna. “A different kind of wager.”

      “ROV?” she asked.

      “Remotely Operated Vehicle,” Vasquez said, pointing at a device sitting on a table near him.

      It was clearly mechanical, with lots of interlocking metal parts and tubing. It looked heavy. And complicated.

      And that was pretty much all she could grasp.

      “Basically, an underwater robot,” Fortune said, obviously sensing her confusion. “It allows us to take video and gather data without a human diver.”

      She nodded. He’d certainly been right about his crew’s brains. “Oh.”

      “Pablo, this is—” Fortune stopped, regarding her with surprise. “What’s your name, anyway?”

      “Brenna,” she said, sending him a reproachful look, realizing he’d never bothered to ask. “Brenna McGary,” she said to Pablo, extending her hand.

      “Pablo Vasquez,” he returned. He indicated the blond man next to him. “This is Dennis Finmark. Over there is Jim Upton.”

      Brenna shook Dennis’s hand and waved at Jim, a tall, thin, dark-haired guy who was wrapping a thick rope around a metal prong. They all seemed like nice, normal guys. Not minions of the devil at all.

      She considered the implications of that as Fortune helped her off the boat, but it wasn’t until they were walking down the pier that she finally understood the bet. “They wagered on whether or not I could pick you up.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “You’ve already turned away three other women today.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “Pablo told me.” She halted, studying him from head to toe. “Does it ever get old, being infamous and irresistible?”

      “Hell, no.”

      Ignoring his amused expression, she waggled her finger at him. “This isn’t a pickup. It’s a business discussion.”

      “Whatever you say, Miss McGary. It is miss, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, but how is that relevant?”

      He resumed walking. “Just want to get your title correct.”

      No doubt that was a dig to her insistence on ignoring his doctorate. Well, if he wanted to change that, he’d have to show her his diploma first.

      And the one from the University of Hot Bare Chests and Dimples didn’t count.

      When they reached the end of the pier, Fortune steered her right instead of continuing straight, which would have led them to The Night Heron, the marina bar. “The bar’s this way,” she said, pulling to a stop.

      “Let’s walk down the beach to Joe’s.”

      “You know about Coconut Joe’s?”

      “Doesn’t everybody?”

      Given the fact that he hadn’t bothered to put on shoes, she supposed the casual dress code of Joe’s was more appropriate. She removed her platform wedges and moved down the stairs into the hot but soft crème-colored sand. “How long have you been on the island?”

      “Two days.”

      “How long are you staying?”

      “As long as it takes.”

      Okay, so not much of a talker. Not what she’d expected at all. He’d lost his cocky and careless expression and was watching the horizon.

      Who was this guy?

      They spoke little until they’d climbed the stairs from the beach to Joe’s, which rose above the sand on wooden stilts. The tacky but charming decor, complete with the expected surfboards and fishing nets hanging on the walls, suited Palmer’s Island’s laid-back style perfectly. And the food was top-notch.

      To

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