Roxanne St. Claire - Make Her Pay

“Then there must be a very compelling reason for her to be here.” In a matching buttery leather recliner directly across from her, Con ignored the view, his gaze on her. As it had been for the seven-hour flight across the Atlantic and most of the past twenty-four hours.

Lizzie tried to avoid his steel-blue stare, but it was impossible-and, like everything else about him, unnerving. True to his word, Con had been nothing but protective and helpful for the past twenty-four hours. And still as attractive as he was before she knew his connection to Judd Paxton, damn it.

But he couldn’t take that treasure from her, and he sure could help her. So she put up with the misery of having to be so close to him and tried not to be attracted.

She forced herself to look out the window again, drinking in the shocking beauty of a rolling hillside dotted with snow-white stucco buildings, every single one topped in precisely the same coral-colored barreltile roof.

The runway started and ended with water, guaranteeing a white-knuckled landing for even the most seasoned traveler. Bree probably loved it.

Lizzie fingered the papers again. Her sister couldn’t have had this information, so what did she know that caused her to leave Lisbon?

“You are absolutely positive she flew into this place?” Lizzie asked again.

“When we land, the customs officer has been briefed to show us the records, if that will make you feel any better.”

It would. Frankly, everything he could do made her feel better. The stuff he had access to was like something out of the movies. Not only could he confirm Brianna’s travel plans-offering proof that she’d flown to Lisbon, then to Terceira, another island in the Azores archipelago, and finally to Corvo-he also produced the identity of one Gabrielle Roberts.

The woman who’d written to Lizzie was a fifty-year-old divorcée from Indianapolis who’d been traveling around Europe and was staying in Corvo, adding credence to the e-mail. Then, like magic, he had them on a luxurious private jet, zipping directly to the island, cutting out days of travel time for her.

And best of all, he’d given her the manifest of El Falcone .

She still couldn’t believe the document was real. But there it was, on her lap where it had been for most of the flight, a scanned image of the original manifest of El Falcone , a stunning find from a library in Havana.

The same library where her father had gone on that Cuban trip, she was certain. Did he have this manifest before he died?

“This document confirms everything my father theorized. That although El Falcone was not registered with any country, Captain Dare had paid for almost all the items it carried and had lined up buyers for each- making him not a pirate, but a profiteer.”

“And one of those buyers was in the Azores.”

She nodded. “Carlos Bettencourt. The CB from the notes, no doubt. This had to be what brought Brianna here. Because if she can prove this Carlos didn’t pay for his scepters, then Aramis was no thief.”

“How could she prove that?” Con countered.

The landing gear touched the edge of the runway with a slight jolt. “I think we’re about to find out. And if she has, then the scepters belong to Captain Dare and his descendants. Not”-she narrowed her eyes at him-“Judd Paxton.”

“Let’s just find your sister and take it one step at a time.”

After they got through customs, they left their bags with their pilot and flight attendant to check out Vila Nova do Corvo. The only village on the island, it couldn’t be more than a square mile of charmingly dilapidated houses built right on top of one another along a few cobblestone streets, a large Catholic church at its center.

“We could walk this from end to end in an hour,” Lizzie said as they crossed the street from the airport to the village tucked into the foothills of the mountainous island.

“According to our friend in customs, the rest of Corvo is fields, rocks, farms, and lakes. I say we head to wherever people eat and drink. There are only four hundred residents. One of them will know any visiting Americans.”

She curled her fingers into his, a jumble of emotions fighting for space in her chest. “I still hate you.”

He gave her fingers a squeeze. “I know.”

“But I’m very grateful that you’ve done this for me.”

A donkey-drawn cart of fruit and flowers rumbled by, and Con snagged a violet azalea from a bucket in the back, then handed it to her, tickling her chin with the petals. “Forgive me.”

“No.” She took the flower, unable to keep the smile off her face.

He just laughed softly, guiding them up the cobblestone street where a few older women in wheat-colored bonnets and long, dark dresses were coming toward them, talking in Portuguese.

One of them looked up and smiled. “Bem vindos,” she said, lifting the edge of her hat to reveal twinkling blue eyes. “Turistas?”

“Do you speak English?” Con asked her.

Three of them looked at a fourth. “ Fale inglês , Marta.”

A younger girl stepped forward from the back of the group, her eyes so much like the first woman’s, they could be mother and daughter.

“I speak a little,” she said softly, her gaze on Lizzie and not Con. “What do you look for?”

“An American woman,” Lizzie said. “Another visitor. Brianna Dare.”

She shook her head and lifted a shoulder. “Is she related to Corvo?”

Lizzie took the question to mean does she have relatives there. “No, but perhaps you know Gabrielle Roberts. Another American who has been staying here.”

The girl’s blank look suddenly changed. “Gabby?” She held her hand up several inches above her head, as if to indicate height. “Tall Gabby? For certain I know her. She is often to be found at Sousa.” She pointed. “On Rua das Pedras. There is room to rent there.”

The English was choppy but clear. “Sousa is a hotel?”

“No hotel in Corvo,” she said, shaking her head. “Sousa is…” She made a gesture of eating.

“A restaurant?” Lizzie supplied.

“ Sim . Restaurant. But no sign on wall. Look for tables by the church.”

“Obrigado,” Lizzie said, handing her the flower. “Thank you.”

The walk to the Spanish-style cathedral took five minutes. Every building in the vicinity looked like a private home, until they circled to the front and saw two tables set for dining outside a windowless three-story house.

Con tapped on a whitewashed door and it opened, revealing a tiny restaurant with a brick oven in the middle. A woman, also dressed in the dark garb of the locals, turned to greet them, the tangy scent of her cooking wafting toward them.

“Hello,” Con said from the low-slung door frame, still holding Lizzie’s hand. “Is this Sousa?”

She just nodded, looking from one to the other. “Eat outside?” she asked.

“Actually, we’re looking for Gabby Roberts. Do you know her?”

“Gabby?” She held up a finger, then slowly walked to the back, opening a door and disappearing up a set of stairs. A minute later she reappeared, followed by a tall, middle-aged woman whose easy, familiar smile pegged her instantly as an American.

“I’m Gabby,” she said, reaching out a hand to Lizzie. “The tourists always find me.”

Lizzie shook her hand. “Not tourists, I’m Elizabeth Dare. You e-mailed me about my sister.”

Gabby’s jaw loosened in surprise. “Good heavens, you got here fast.”

“Can you tell me where to find Brianna?”

“Of course. She’s up at the Bettencourt farm.”

“Bettencourt?” Excitement zinged through Lizzie at the name of Aramis Dare’s buyer.