Anne Marie Duquette - Castillo's Bride

Jordan considered his pain. “Not as much as before,” he replied, and was rewarded with a stunning smile.

Jordan’s breath caught again, but this time it wasn’t because of his injuries. He studied her. His rescuer was extraordinarily beautiful. The high, sculpted cheekbones, the tanned face with its perfect features and the blond, sun-streaked hair reminded him of a sea-nymph in an old Roman mosaic he’d once seen. Her body was long and lean, with finely conditioned muscles that couldn’t quite hide her sloping, gentle curves.

The eyes really captured his attention. They were as blue as a tropical sea, as brilliant as a Caribbean sky. Intelligent, they held his interest until he tracked down to the delicately chiseled nose and the full, lush mouth. Between the bare shoulders and unshod feet she wore a long emerald-colored sarong that set off her rich, golden hair. It reached to her waist, and he wished he could reach out to touch it—touch her. The plaster cast on one arm and the IV board strapped to the other prevented it.

Chairs were impractical in an oceanic vessel’s sick bay, so the woman stood quietly beside his bed, legs spread apart to brace against the ship’s gentle pitching. Jordan found her pose more than just provocative. Botticelli’s Venus rising from the sea couldn’t be any more tempting.

“Do you remember your name?” she asked.

He nodded, moving his head carefully this time, although his gaze never left her, not even for a second.

“Good.” The woman came a bit closer, her hair swinging. “I want you to tell me your name, age, birthday and what day it is. Doctor’s orders,” she said before he could protest against wasting his breath with such stupid questions. “Do you think you’re up to it?”

Actually, Jordan wasn’t sure. He ached all over, and his head felt as if a flock of raucous seagulls were trying to peck their way from the inside out. Still, for another of her brilliant smiles, Jordan would walk on hot coals. He forced his eyes to stay open. He had to see her.

“Jordan Castillo.” His voice was as maddeningly feeble as the rest of his body, and he tried for more volume. “I’m thirty-five—born February 14.”

“An Aquarius, I see. And born on Valentine’s Day.” She smiled again, warming his blood. “And the last date you remember?”

He hesitated, something he almost never did. “I know it’s June. June the…” He frowned, unable to pinpoint the date. The invisible seagulls pecked inside his skull, and he gasped.

“That’s enough,” she said quickly. “Don’t force it.”

“What…” He meant to ask what her name was, but she finished the sentence for him.

“Day is it? June 27. You’ve been here three days. In addition to a broken arm and broken ribs, you had a very nasty skull fracture. And…” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m afraid that you’re now missing your spleen.”

Jordan blinked. No wonder he hurt. “I had surgery?”

“You were bleeding to death. The doctor had no choice. We almost lost you. You were lucky the ship’s doctor is also a skilled surgeon.” A beat, then, “Do you know where you are?”

“I’m at sea.” He sniffed the salty air, almost as heavenly as her enticingly female scent. His seaman’s nose told him his location. “Still in California waters, I’d guess.”

She nodded. “Correct on both counts, Mr. Castillo. You’re aboard a cruise ship. Lucky for you, the captain’s a good friend of mine. The doctor said you’re ready to be moved to a land hospital. Right now, we’re about fifty miles west of San Diego.”

Jordan gave a slight nod. In spite of his physical and mental disorientation, he’d been right. What was that old saying of his father’s?

“You can take a Castillo out of the ocean, but you can’t take the ocean out of a Castillo. Don’t you forget it. It’s in your head, your heart, your very blood.”

She was asking him something. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

“Oh, yeah. Three men. They threw me off the pier.”

The woman nodded.

“And you rescued me.”

“Yes.”

“And then…” His eyes narrowed.

“Then?” she prompted.

“I think I blacked out.” Fatigued, he felt his eyelids drift closed. Abruptly he opened them, unwilling to see her leave. “Are you Ms. Collins?”

She tilted her head, hair glistening at the motion. “Yep. Ordinarily I don’t like being stood up, but in this case, you had a good excuse.”

“We were supposed to meet…at the pier and talk business. You’re a salvager, too.”

“Treasure-hunter, if you will.” Her eyes twinkled. “Of course, I’ve never pulled anything quite like you from the deep before.”

Jordan tried to smile, but couldn’t. The pain hit him again in nauseating waves, along with an overpowering weakness. He didn’t think he could stay awake much longer, but he had questions he desperately wanted answered.

“Your name,” he demanded, pain lending his voice a sharp edge. “Tell me your full name.”

“It’s Aurora Borealis Collins. Do excuse my typically Californian parents and their so-called creativity. They’re accountants now, but they were hippies in their younger days. I usually go by Rory.”

“Rory…” He liked Aurora better.

His eyes started to close despite his best efforts. “I didn’t think the ocean really had mermaids. Or guardian angels.” He sensed rather than saw her amusement.

“No one I know has ever called me angelic.”

The amusement faded when his eyelids fluttered closed. Dammit, I will not pass out.

“Don’t try to talk anymore, Mr. Castillo. The helicopter will be here soon. I’ll be in touch—later.”

“Jordan. My name’s Jordan.”

“Please just rest…Jordan.”

He made one last attempt to open his eyes again, and succeeded. “Not until I’ve thanked you. You saved my life. I owe you.”

“I know. I intend to hold you to that.”

The hairs on the back of Jordan’s neck prickled. Something in her voice sounded as strong as the ocean currents, as immovable as the tides.

“How?” he asked, angry at her vagueness, even angrier at his own weakness.

“Later,” she repeated. “When you’re well.”

She lifted her hand from his shoulder and ran it over his fevered forehead. Her touch was light, soft, cool as an ocean breeze, but sick though he was, Jordan refused to be distracted.

“What’s your price?” Despite the pounding in his head, Jordan shook off her hand. “Tell me.”

He was totally unprepared for her next words.

“The San Rafael.”

Jordan scowled at the mention of the Spanish treasure galleon. His Spanish galleon. “What about her?”

“You’ve been searching for the wreck.”

“Anyone can search. What you need is patience and luck,” he said vaguely, well aware that he hadn’t answered her question—and unwilling to tell her the truth: that he had the patience, but not the luck.

“Ah, but I have both. And I’ve found her. That’s why I wanted a meeting with you. To discuss terms.”

Jordan felt both shock and dismay. The San Rafael was his prize, not anyone else’s. “You couldn’t have.”

“I’ve found her,” the woman repeated, her voice firm.

“No. I would’ve heard about it. I’m her rightful heir, the last of—”

“The Castillos, the Philippines-based Spanish family who built and owned the San Rafael in the early 1800s.”

“How the hell did you learn that?” Jordan asked hoarsely. Ordinarily he would never have let himself be drawn out so easily.

“I know a lot about you, Mr. Castillo.”

“Then you know she’s mine.”

The woman smiled. “Only if you can find her. Which I have.”