Heather Graham Pozzessere - Eyes Of Fire

With Jerry having disappeared into the lodge, Sam paused in the center of an orchid-covered gazebo near the far corner of the lodge, catching her breath and looking at the inn.

The main lodge itself was Victorian. It had been built by Sam’s great-grandfather in 1880. Cosmetic touches and several major additions had been built on over the intervening years, but every member of the family since her great-grandfather’s day had remained true to the integrity of the Victorian era. The lodge house was painted a soft coral with white balconies, porches and gingerbreading. It was encircled by a magnificent broad porch and sat atop a small knoll. She loved the house, and she loved the island, just as she loved the water and the breezes, the boating, the diving. It was a fantasy life—hard work, but a fantasy. She enjoyed living it and working it. This had been her home as long as she could remember, except for the three years she had spent at St. Anne’s Fine Arts College for Women.

Too bad it had been an all-girls school, she reflected sourly. A little more exposure to men and she might have been better prepared for Adam when he had arrived on the island. At the very least she might have had a more accurate perception of her own weaknesses and inexperience.

Well, it was all in the past now, and though Justin Carlyle had disappeared over four years ago, she still had Jem Walker with her, and Jem was great. He was as close as a brother could be, her best friend, her partner in all things.

Her life and the island were damn near perfect.

Except that now Adam was back.

She stared at the house, inwardly swearing and breathing deeply to calm herself. She heard voices, guests returning to their rooms. She closed her eyes, hoping she was concealed by the healthy tangle of orchids. The voices faded.

Only two or three. Had Adam’s been among them?

She slipped out of the gazebo, looking toward the dock.

The entire group was now gone. Amazing what his damned appearance had done to her. She’d rushed away, imagined she’d seen blood on her walk, then walked around like an idiot while everyone who’d left the docks after her was probably already relaxing in a hot tub.

Even Jem had finished up with the business of rinsing down the equipment and was no doubt comfortably submerged in heat and bubbles in his cottage.

Everyone had disappeared.

Disappeared. God, how she hated that word!

Don’t start thinking about disappearances now! she warned herself.

This was customarily a quiet time on the island, after the daily dive trip and any of the other activities and lessons, and before the traditional cocktail hour—unless you were Jerry and liked to start cocktail hour early. Though the island was a casual vacation destination, people always had a tendency to dress up for cocktail hour and dinner, at least a little bit. Her guests napped, bathed and indulged themselves—and one another—during this quiet time, as she thought of it after talking with one guest, a kindergarten teacher.

Quiet time. She needed a little quiet time of her own, with an early start on the cocktail hour thrown in.

She turned away from the empty dock and hurried along the path, anxious to reach the calm refuge of her own abode. Once her house had been a kitchen for the lodge, but with the installation of smoke detectors and a sprinkler system, the one-time kitchen had been adapted into a charming cottage. There was a central living area, a sunken office off to one side, a small kitchenette, and then her bedroom and bath, the latter huge, with a separate shower stall that offered a dozen jets and a huge Jacuzzi set high atop elegant, tiled steps. It was surrounded by glass, with privacy shutters built along the outside wall. From the bath, she looked out onto a garden area with purple bougainvillea twining over the shutters and a small fountain with a graceful Venus pouring water onto concrete flowers.

Sam carefully locked her door. She didn’t want to assume that Adam’s being on the island meant he intended to come anywhere near her, but then, she knew the man, and if he wanted something, he would come after it.

She checked the lock, then leaned against the door, studying her living room walls.

They were laden with paintings and prints. A few were period pieces and very valuable. Galleons, warships, privateers, all lined her walls, along with some beautiful charts and maps.

There was a map of Seafire Isle with its surrounding coral reefs and shelves. Once upon a time, the small island had been a dangerous place, teeming with pirates. It had been passed between the Spanish and the British a dozen times. Because of the coral reefs surrounding it, the island was accessible only by smaller ships, and in days gone by, many a poor vessel had been wrecked on her reefs. This map had been sketched in pen and ink during her great-grandfather’s day. It showed the more modern pleasures of the island, the lodge, the scattering of cottages, the docks, the beach, the tennis courts and the golf course. It was quite charmingly drawn, and little had really changed since it had been done.

But Sam’s eyes were drawn from the Seafire Isle map, and she moved across the room, looking at her father’s favorite. It was a treasure map, drawn in the early eighteen hundreds, encompassing Florida with all its islands, the Gulf Coast and the Caribbean. There were stars and notes attached to every possible “treasure” trove—or sunken ship—location in fine, minuscule handwriting. “Here lyeth the Santa Margarita, the Ghost Galleon, sunk in the Year of Our Lord 1622, in the Eyes of a Storm, may she rest in peace.” The treasure recovered from the Santa Margarita had an estimated worth of about twenty million. She had sunk at nearly the same time as the more recently discovered Atocha, a ship that had yielded its own trove of treasure, both fiscal and historical.

Closer to Seafire Isle, west of the south Florida mainland, was the mark for the Beldona, her father’s love, his great passion—the mistress of his life.

The Beldona had, in the end, claimed him, or so it seemed. And without giving up a single one of her secrets. She’d gone down in 1722, also in “the Eyes of a Storm,” and she’d carried her crew, her prisoners and her treasure to a watery grave from which there had been no reprieve. She’d been something of a mystery ship from the very beginning, a British ship carrying secret documents as well as a doomed crew of Spanish privateers. No one had ever been able to tell a pirate tale like Justin Carlyle. No one. No one had ever been able to weave such a spell of magic, adventure and chills. And no one, perhaps, had ever been so caught up in the spell of his own lore.

Justin had also been an excellent diver, strict regarding the rules of safety.

But Justin had followed the Beldona. And he had never returned.

Strange, for all his hard, contemporary tactics and cool determination, Adam had been as seduced by her father’s tales as any other man. He had sat up hour after hour with Justin, while they had drunk cheap whiskey together, laughing, imagining, weaving tales of what had happened the night of the storm. And they had speculated as to where the ship might have gone down. Yes, Adam and her father had been great together.

She inhaled raggedly again, backing away from the map. Great. Just great. She had gone from wondering about Adam to agonizing over her father, and now she couldn’t stop remembering them both.

No, she would never waste time on such a rotten bastard again, and that was that. She turned toward the kitchen, walking slowly at first. Then more quickly.

Her walk became a run. She reached into the refrigerator and, more desperately than she wanted to, dragged out a bottle of zinfandel. She poured herself a glass, her hands shaking. She gulped down the wine.