Irresistible Fortune. Wendy Etherington
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snagging her hand and leading her to the empty chair one station over.
Barely glancing at her strawberry-blond locks in the mirror, Brenna crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you guys those people were up to no good.”
“We always figured they were more interested in the treasure than the historical aspects of the discovery.” Sloan managed a small smile, even though Brenna knew she was just as worried. “That photo op looked more like an ad for swimwear than a serious scientific endeavor.”
Brenna recalled the event, the recovery team posing on the marina’s main pier with two bikini-clad girls holding up a gold plastic treasure chest, and her blood boiled all over again.
“But a lot of museums benefit from these kinds of finds,” Sloan continued.
Brenna shook her head. “Not ones that rat Fortune is involved with. He swoops in, scrounges for valuables, then sells his treasures to the highest bidder. He doesn’t care if the collection is bought as a whole or in a million pieces. We have to stop him.”
“That’s easier said than done.” Courtney pulled Brenna’s hair from its ponytail and brushed it out. “He’s rich, famous and a media charmer.”
Sloan bit her lip. “I’m not as concerned about him as an individual as I am about public opinion.”
“They’re fascinated,” Brenna agreed.
“The mayor has visions of national exposure and Palmer’s Island becoming another Kiawah-like resort destination,” Sloan said.
Courtney glanced at her. “I thought he was stuck on getting a PGA-approved golf course.”
Brenna sighed. “Somehow, I think he’d settled for a hundred-plus-year-old treasure chest full of gold and priceless jewels.”
Courtney picked up individual strands of Brenna’s hair and examined them closely. “I haven’t touched this in a month. How does it look better today than when I fixed it last?”
“Because her hair’s perfect, as always,” Sloan said.
Brenna shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.” Her dad was an Irish redhead, her mother a Southern-born bombshell blonde. She got both—at least on her head. “Thanks,” she added to her friends, not wanting to seem completely churlish. Her hair was one of her few features she actually liked. “But can we stay on topic? ”
“Hair or hot treasure hunters?” Courtney asked.
“Amoral treasure hunters,” Brenna clarified.
“I vote you confront him.”
At these abrupt words, Brenna stared at Sloan. “Me?”
“Sure.” This time Sloan’s grin was genuine. “I’m betting he’s not the kind of guy who can resist an enraged Irish pixie.”
From anybody else, Brenna would have been wildly annoyed by this comparison. Her small stature was a serious area of contention.
But she and Sloan had been friends since high school, where she was head cheerleader and Brenna had been a champion gymnast. They’d fought together to be taken seriously as athletes, surrounded by football, baseball and basketball players who were bigger, stronger and had their sports fully funded by the school district. Brenna had even earned a scholarship to the University of Florida and been an SEC champion on floor exercise before a variety of knee injuries derailed her career.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” she said finally to Sloan’s suggested confrontation. “I’m too angry to be rational.”
“You’re always rational,” Sloan pointed out. “You deal with teenagers on a daily basis. If you can handle them, one amoral treasure hunter should be a relaxing vacation.”
“I agree,” Courtney said, her brown eyes sparking with enthusiasm. “You’re the one who’s done the research. You know all about Gavin Fortune and his tactics.”
Brenna glanced from Courtney to Sloan. “Are you sure this isn’t just a ploy to get a firsthand report of how hot this guy is?”
“Oh, no,” Courtney assured her, though her face flushed too quickly to be convincing. “We’re the historical society. We should have an official representative to let these guys know we’re watching them.”
Brenna swept her hand down her minuscule frame. “And you’re sure I’m the one for the job?”
“Absolutely,” Sloan said.
“You’d be better,” Brenna insisted. The edge of her indignation was wearing off, rapidly replaced by suspicion. “You’re the president of the society. Why me?”
“Because I have a pistol, and I know how to use it.”
ON THE SHORT DRIVE TO THE marina, Brenna began to seriously question the plan.
Sure, Sloan was the former sheriff’s daughter, and she did have a tendency to be impulsive and passionate, but she was their leader. Wasn’t it her duty to handle the big problems?
Maybe Brenna had started the cause of watching the ship’s excavation, but she had personal issues with the situation that had to be taken into account. And though she was upset, the whole “I’m too angry to be rational” thing had been a weak excuse. Mostly she was a talker, not a fighter.
She could easily intimidate high school kids with a glare, but confronting a man of Gavin Fortune’s … well, breadth—given the tightness of his T-shirt in the newspaper picture— wasn’t an area of strength.
Since Palmer’s Island was an Atlantic Ocean barrier island near Charleston, South Carolina, just over three miles wide and five miles long, the trip from the centrally located hair salon to the marina at the tip—even with summer tourist season in full swing—took about three minutes. As she pulled off Beach Road, which ran the length of the island and allowed glimpses between the fabulous beach houses to the rolling sea sliding onto the sand, she searched the crowded parking lot for an empty space.
Tall palmetto trees, whose long green fronds swayed in the breeze, were flanked by their bushy shrub cousins and rows of sea oats. Puffy white clouds were the only things dotting the bright blue sky. Though the marina actually rested on the Intracoastal Waterway side of the island, at this end the land between the Atlantic and the waterway was only a couple hundred feet wide.
Her friend and lawyer, Carr Hamilton, lived on the opposite side of the street in a beautifully modern house on the point, and she cast a glance that way, wondering if he was home and if she should bring him along for this unpleasant confrontation with Gavin Fortune.
After shaking away that impulse and finally finding a spot at the end of the back row, she turned off the car and checked her reflection in the visor mirror. Small features, fair skin and “green as a shamrock” eyes, according to her father. She applied a little pink gloss to her lips, knowing no amount of makeup or surgery was ever going to turn her into a cover model.
She laid her hand over her cell phone sitting in the console. She should call Sloan and have her come meet her. Men fell at her feet—both before and since she’d married her darkly gorgeous husband.
The only male who consistently rubbed against Brenna lately was her prize Persian, Shakespeare Fuzzyboots.
With her hand wrapped around her phone, she caught a glimpse of the newspaper she’d tossed on the passenger’s seat of her car. The confident smile and perfect teeth of Dr. Gavin Fortune flashed back at her.
Doctor? Ha!
He’d probably gotten an honorary degree from some university he’d donated a pile of cash to. His online bio had been vague, focusing on the high-profile treasures he’d found and profited from, not any actual qualifications he had for finding them.
With renewed determination, she stepped out of her car. She had a legitimate education. College had given her a teaching degree, specializing in literature, which