Castillo's Bride. Anne Marie Duquette
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Gerald.”
“If you get the money off Castillo,” Donna murmured.
“But you said he was solvent!”
“Solvent, yes. Able to fund a salvage operation based on his record and using his own boat as collateral, yes. But as for coming up with hard cash right now…I don’t know. Are you running low on funds?”
“Rock-bottom low.”
“I don’t know, Rory,” Donna said again. “You may be throwing good money after bad, and you can’t spare it.” Donna knew that Aurora had been financing the Atwell Computer Company’s staff salaries.
“What else can I do? Tanya certainly isn’t going to confess.”
“Even if she does, it’s probably too late now.”
Rory nodded. “So we’re back to bribery. And that’s why I need to strike a bargain with Jordan. I know where the San Rafael is. Jordan doesn’t. But—as I happen to know from your research—he has the money to salvage. I don’t. This could be a match made in heaven. I’m guessing it shouldn’t be difficult to come to an agreement.”
Donna’s eyes narrowed. “It will be, Rory, if someone ends up killing him. I’ve checked with the police. I know you cooperated fully with the investigation, but they’ve got nada. Jordan didn’t have much to say on the subject, either. From what I gather, he’s as confused as we are regarding a motive. You’re the only person who knows about the galleon—and you need him alive to salvage it. He’s been lucky so far, but who knows if that luck will hold?”
Aurora’s blood ran cold. She was back on that deserted beach, watching Jordan Castillo fight for his life. “Yeah, I know. Still, he’s okay now. Thank heaven I was there.” She paused, frowning. “If only we knew the ship’s pay-load.”
That drew a tiny smile from Donna. “Can’t help you there. I never had a course in Spanish galleon booty with the N.I.S.” Her smile faded. “That’s the least of our worries. Good thing ‘lucky’ seems to be Jordan’s middle name.”
“I’m so glad Neil was in the right place in the right time. He even had a fancy surgeon on his fancy cruise ship,” Aurora added. Neil’s doctor had given up on trauma practice after burning out and fled to the usually tamer position of ship’s general practice doctor.
“How is my old Navy buddy, anyway? Is the good captain still playing big brother?”
“My family and friends are forever trying to run my life. I wish you’d marry him and get him out of my hair. You two have been dating forever.”
Donna drummed her nails on her desk. “I can’t see myself barefoot, pregnant and making cookies for school bake sales.”
“Don’t forget giving up your job. Neil says it’s too dangerous. Says mine is too dangerous. Everything is too dangerous for women, according to him.”
“Old traditions die hard, especially when it comes to women. That’s why I got out of the Navy. You know, Rory, maybe you should make a play for him.”
“Just what a good marriage needs—two captains. On different ships, yet. And I can’t see myself housebound and making cookies, either. No, thanks. I’m been on my own too long to be good wife material.”
“Shame. All that cruise-ship ambience wasted. He’s a nice guy, too.”
“No argument there. I’m grateful he helped save Jordan. Thank God for cell phones.” She’d borrowed one from emergency personnel and used it to call Neil.
“So Captain Harris stopped a whole cruise ship on your say-so?”
“No, he stopped it because I’m a personal friend of yours. The man’s insane about you.”
Donna sighed. “Why can’t I find a modern man insane about me? Instead of a traditional, overprotective—”
“I’ve got a better question,” Aurora interrupted. “Why can’t the police find Jordan’s attackers?”
Donna tapped her chopsticks on the edge of her white carton. “I’m working on it. I’ve got some people keeping an eye on Castillo, too…a few of my Navy buddies and a cop who owes me a favor. They’re taking turns.”
“Appreciate it, Donna. You make sure you run a tab on this. I can’t pay you now, but you know I’m good for it.”
Donna waved her hand in the air. “Hey, I already told you—forget it. You gave me free diving and boating privileges. I’m happy to return the favor. And from a purely selfish point of view, a treasure ship is an exciting change of pace.”
“The Mexican jail isn’t.” For a moment Aurora’s spirits dropped. Despite her sister’s old resentments and her niece’s arrogance, Aurora loved them both. And Gerald had shown her more kindness than her blood relations ever had. “How did things get so screwed up?”
Donna took her hand for the briefest squeeze. “We’ll get them out, Rory. You’ll see.”
“God, I hope so.”
“We will.” Donna dug into her carton, the black and jade of the chopsticks gracefully moving. “Pass the sweet-and-sour, would you?”
CHAPTER THREE
San Diego
July 29, 8:00 a.m.
IN THE SAN DIEGO hotel room he’d occupied since his release from the hospital, Jordan stood before the mirror, carefully studying his naked body.
He wasn’t vain about his rugged good looks or the hard muscles most men would kill to have. Too many generations of hardworking Castillo fishermen, too many years as a risk-taking seafarer, ran in his blood for vanity, but Jordan did value his strength. The ages-old cliché was no cliché to him: he truly believed the sea was a harsh mistress who discarded weak lovers with cruel disregard for life and limb. Jordan Castillo loved life as much as he loved the ocean-faring lifestyle. He planned to hold on to both, which was why he stood naked in the hotel bathroom, carefully appraising himself.
Most, if not all, of his vigor had returned, although he was still a little underweight. He could see the slight loss of mass in the broad shoulders and rock-hard pectorals that had spent a lifetime hauling nets, fish, anchors and treasure from the ocean.
He frowned. Furrows appeared above the dark brown eyes and beneath the mahogany hair. He made a mental note to keep on top of his weight, intending to regain the missing bulk soon. You never knew when that last ounce of strength could mean the difference between life and death.
The San Diego sun had quickly replaced the white pallor of an invalid with his usual tan. His skin glowed with health. The arm that had been broken wasn’t his dominant one. Thankfully both it and his skull had healed well. The doctor promised there’d be no permanent aftereffects, though his arm remained a little stiff, and his memory of the attack and afterward was still hazy. Once he left his hotel and got back to work, he’d be himself again. Unfortunately, his ship, the Lucky Lady, and his crew, had berthed in Atlantic waters for a much needed engine overhaul. Jordan never stinted on safety; however, the timing left much to be desired.
Jordan gave himself one last look in the mirror before pulling on a shirt. The scar from his recent surgery was red and puckered, but it would eventually smooth and fade like the scar from the knife fight on a dark Portuguese dock, or the raking lines on his shoulder from a broken beer bottle at a rowdy Cuban bar. There were other scars, too, like those from his close call at the San Diego pier. All were now a permanent part of his body and soul.
Jordan’s lips curved slightly upward as he stepped into his Speedo bottoms, then jeans. The scars would effectively keep him off the cover of any male swimsuit issue. Not that he cared one iota or ever had. Jordan was his own man, with his own set of rules, his own code of honor. Scars came with the territory.
During