Alex was a historian by education, a translator of centuries-old scripts by training, and a savant when it came to inane trivia, which she tended to offer up without encouragement and much to the annoyance of everyone around her. Three months ago, Bran, LT, Mason, and the other three guys from their SEAL Team—now the owners of the Deep Six Salvage Company—had hired her to translate the historical documents housed in the Spanish Archives that pertained to the hurricane of 1624. They’d hoped she could give them a leg up on their hunt for the Santa Cristina.
Two weeks later, Alex had surprised them by insisting that the ringed island written about in the old documents was, in fact, not the Marquesas Keys, where treasure hunters—including LT’s father—had always assumed the grand ol’ ship went down, but their own Wayfarer Island. Then she’d surprised them further by requesting to come onboard the venture. Not to share in the treasure once they found it, but because she wanted to base her doctoral dissertation on the search for and excavation of the famed shipwreck.
At the time, Bran had thought it was a win-win situation. For room and board—which, let’s admit, isn’t much on Wayfarer Island—they got their very own on-site historian and translator, and she got a story that was sure to get the letters P, H, and D printed right after her name for the rest of her life. But now, as Alex took another huge bite of biscotti and lifted the lid on the laptop to read the email glowing there, Bran seriously considered changing his opinion on that whole win-win thing. Another thing about Alex: She was nosy by nature. She made sure to get her fingers in every pie that was ever cooked up on the island.
“I’m sorry.” He frowned. “Have you never heard of the word privacy?”
“Thursday is today,” Alex said, ignoring his question and pointing at the laptop’s screen.
“No shit, Sherlock,” was his totally mature reply. He felt color rising in his cheeks again. Damnit.
“Sooooo…” Alex dragged out the word, wiggling her eyebrows. “You planning to go see her or what?”
Bran opened his mouth to respond with Or what. His relationship with Maddy was perfect in that it wasn’t really a “relationship” at all. Sure, they exchanged emails every day—sometimes more than a dozen. Sure, they had the occasional three-hour satellite phone conversation. But the nature of the Internet and the distance between them created and maintained an inherent casualness. A natural informality. Which is exactly how I like it. He was thwarted from responding, however, when Mason asked, “See who?”
“Madison Powers.” Alex singsonged the name, making Bran grit his teeth. “Apparently, she’s camping on the Dry Tortugas tonight with three scholarship recipients.”
“Mmmph,” Mason muttered, walking over to scoop kibble out of the bag they kept beneath the farmhouse-style sink.
Woof! Woof! Meat barked in canine fervor, his claws scrabbling on the floor as he raced over to Mason, his nub of a tail swinging back and forth. The only thing Meat loved more than Mason was food. Any food. All food. Even some shit that wasn’t food.
Cock-a-doodle-doo! L’il Bastard, the rooster that had stowed away on their sailboat on a return trip from Key West, happily answered from his perch outside on the wraparound porch railing. His crowing carried inside on the sweet, salty breeze blowing through the open windows.
And that was how it’d been from the beginning. Meat barked and L’il Bastard answered with a raucous crow. Or vice versa. Which made for some really early, incredibly noisy mornings on the island.
“Mmmph.” Alex parroted Mason’s grunt. “You use that so often I wonder if I shouldn’t petition Webster to add it to the dictionary.”
After filling Meat’s bowl, Mason leaned back against the sink. By way of an answer, he crossed his arms.
Alex rolled her eyes and shook her head as if she’d never met a more exasperating man. When Bran said they’d grown to love Alex like a kid sister, he’d forgotten to mention with the exception of Mason. Alex and the big guy seemed to have taken an instant dislike of each other. And the only thing Bran could figure was that it was because Mason rarely spoke and Alex rarely shut up. A case of verbal oil meeting nonverbal water.
“So?” Alex asked, turning back to Bran.
“So what?” He scowled at her, picturing all the ways he could strangle her where she sat. Twelve…maybe thirteen. After that, his imagination failed him.
“Are. You. Going. To. See. Her?”
“No.” He hoped the one word, spoken with finality, would put a period on the end of the conversation.
He should have known better.
“But you like her, don’t you?” There was a line between Alex’s eyebrows. “I mean, there was that time one of her emails came in while I was using the laptop. I thought you were going to tear my arms off if I didn’t hand over the machine.”
“That’s not exactly how I remember it happening,” he muttered. Then, because he knew she would continue to press him, he added, “And I do like her. But that doesn’t mean I wanna drag my ass all the way to the Dry Tortugas to entertain a trio of teenagers.”
Alex narrowed her eyes. And there was another look he didn’t like. He firmed his jaw and prepared himself to patiently withstand whatever bit of irritation was about to come out of her mouth. He didn’t have long to wait.