Debbie Herbert - Siren's Treasure

Jet stifled an exasperated sigh and started swinging one crossed leg. The small room was stifling. The man’s mere presence completely engulfed her senses and she stared at his large hands with the clipped, clean nails. No wedding band, but he wore a ruby ring set in a gold band on his right hand. Some kind of class ring, probably from an elite college. His clothes looked tailored and his facial features bore a patrician vibe. The harsh planes of his face, strong jaw and chilly eyes made him appear stern.

The man certainly didn’t fit in with the shabby surroundings. Jet admired his clean, crisp aura and sniffed discreetly, picking up a lingering scent of soap, as if he’d just showered and dressed. And didn’t that make her squirm. Hell, what was wrong with her today? She didn’t even know this man. News of Perry’s arrival must have unsettled her more than she first suspected.

The silence got on her nerves. “Since when did our town warrant an IRS office?” she asked. “I don’t remember ever seeing one here before.”

His gaze stayed fixed on her file as he answered, “It’s a temporary field office for tax season. We’ll close by the end of May. It’s all part of our agency’s public service.”

Public Service? More like a public nuisance. What was so interesting about her tax records? True, she had bucketloads of money in trust funds, but her inheritance was legit. Her ancestors had always been careful to hire the best attorneys to cover where the real money originated—from expensive undersea trinkets strategically sold in bits and pieces over decades.

He finally gave a small nod and faced her. “I remember viewing your file now. The first thing that caught my attention was the income fluctuation in two of your businesses. Four years ago, you claimed a net annual profit of over fifty thousand dollars with The Pirate’s Chest. The business is still listed as open, yet no more profits have been claimed. Then three years ago, another business of yours, The Mermaid’s Hair Lair, reported steady profits until it shut down last year. For the past six months, you’ve been earning an income solely from the interests and profits of various trust funds and stocks.”

She couldn’t help but notice the slight, contemptuous curve at the corners of his mouth. Jet bristled; it rankled when people assumed she must be some sort of privileged society girl. She’d worked hard to contribute to the Bosarge family fortune with years of physically exhausting and high-risk ventures, reclaiming sea treasure with the rat-bastard Perry Hammonds. Not that she could tell this numbers nerd that particular bit of information. “Is inheriting money against the law? It’s not like I intend to live off the trust fund forever. I’m reopening The Pirate’s Chest. I’ve already purchased a downtown building and I’m stocking inventory. A big shipment of antique furniture should arrive from Mobile tomorrow.”

The auditor remained unruffled and silent while rain splattered the window, loud as a knocking at the door. The beating rain outside created a cozy sense of intimacy in the small room and Jet fantasized what it would be like to lean over the desk and kiss Mr. All-Business-Man until he lost that aloof self-control and had his way with her... Jet shook her head slightly and blinked. This had to stop.

Against her better judgment, she spoke up again, eager to get her mind back on track. “My sister, Lily, and I jointly owned the salon. She’s taken an extended leave of absence to travel. We might open it again one day, though.” Jet bit the inside of her lip at the white lie. Not likely the beauty shop would reopen; Lily seemed happiest living undersea and using her siren talent to attract mermen.

Fields wasn’t interested. “Okay, moving on. In reviewing your inventory and sales at the antiques store, I noted you sold maritime artifacts, some quite rare. Are the manifests for these items on file?”

Jet swallowed. As far as she was concerned, once a ship sank, whatever cargo sank with it became the property of the merfolk. What good was all that treasure sitting at the bottom of the ocean? The sea belonged to the merfolk, not humans, and they could keep it or sell it to dirt dwellers as they chose. But she could hardly tell him that, either. “Of course, I have paperwork,” she said coolly. “I also have an excellent accountant who filed my taxes. Perhaps I should have brought either him or my attorney with me. However, your letter phrased this meeting as discussing an irregularity and not a full-blown audit.”

“You’re always welcome to bring an attorney or accountant. That’s perfectly within your rights as a citizen.” He studied her, no emotion showing in those frozen eyes. His face was stern, his manner stiff and formal. “Moving on to your stock portfolio,” he said, as if she hadn’t voiced a concern. “Over twenty percent of your stock is invested in one company, Gulf Coast Treasures and Salvage, LLC.”

Damn. She and Perry had sold, without papers, plenty of shipwrecked, illegal items to that very company. In return, they were given cash, which they used, in part, to purchase stock in the salvage company. Jet kept her mouth shut and merely raised an eyebrow.

The silence between them stretched, but she refused to be the one to break it this time.

“These types of ocean recovery companies are very risky,” Fields continued. “Even if they do find treasure, they must have a profitable way to recover items and bring them up to land using approved archaeological methods. And if all that is accomplished, there’s the thorny issue of who gets a share of the profits—the state, foreign governments, the originating ship’s company, distant heirs of the original property—”

So maybe all this wasn’t about her, she decided with an internal whoosh of relief. It was about the government clamping down on these industries, making sure they got their own profit cuts. A treasure-salvage company in Tampa had been in the news recently when it recovered over five hundred million dollars worth of silver and gold coins from a colonial-era wreck near Portugal. Naturally, the Spanish government filed an immediate claim of ownership and refused to pay the company any salvage fee.

Jet hated worrying about pesky ownership issues. The mermaid philosophy of finders keepers seemed fairer. She was relieved to be out of business with Perry and leave that aspect of her life in the past where it belonged.

“So call me a risk-taker,” she replied with a shrug. “I think it’s a good investment. There are over three million known shipwrecks. It’s a potential billion-dollar industry.” She couldn’t resist showing off a little and letting him know why she suspected the IRS had a sudden interest in the maritime salvage industry. “Especially since an American salvage company found three billion dollars worth of platinum on a World War II merchant vessel.”

He ignored her mention of the platinum discovery. “But of those millions of shipwrecks, only thirty thousand of them are believed to have valuable lost cargo.”

Jet shrugged again. “Your point?”

“We’re taking a closer look at these companies. You have a huge amount of money invested in Gulf Coast Salvage, a disproportional amount of your assets.”

She surmised it must be difficult for a stodgy man like him to understand people willing to take risky ventures, and suspected the auditor was about to go down a path she didn’t want to follow. Jet stood. “Thanks so much for your concern about my portfolio. Warning taken.”

He rose also and frowned. “Sit down, Miss Bosarge.” This time his voice had an edge as sharp as a stingray’s barbed stinger. “Only a couple more questions.”

She reluctantly planted her butt back in the cheap chair.