The Last Treasure Read Online Free PDF Page B

a medicinal jar, she thinks, studying the image again—after all, medicine was one of the more popular contrabands blockade runners delivered—or maybe a porthole. Or maybe . . . Liv tilts her head. Is that the bottom of a letter just above the ridge? Maybe an
N
or an
R
? It could be, and looking closer she thinks there might be more letters. And the edge of the curve looks flat, not rounded. Tapered, like a—
    Her cheeks flush hot. She spins around to face him. “You found the bell!”
    Whit lifts her off the floor and kisses her deeply, managing to swing her a half turn in the thick of the huddle. Another round of victory cheers and high fives; Liv wants in too, demanding they slap their meaty palms against her small hand. It’s tremendous news. If they’ve located the ship’s bell, they can prove the wreck is the
Siren
even before they bring up a single artifact. Whit orders them all into the kitchen to celebrate and tears into a bottle of champagne he vowed to save for their first day on the water, but Liv knows better than to remind him. She searches the high cabinets for flutes but is too late. The men are already passing the bottle around and swigging from it. When it is her turn, she takes her sip and tips her face up when Whit swoops in to deliver her a champagne-soaked kiss.
    They are still emptying the bottle when Liv sees Dennis cock his head strangely, as if he’s heard something. He raises his hand to quiet their noise and in the next instant, the chime of the doorbell comes.
    Sam.
    Liv meets Whit’s eyes, and a chill flutters the hairs on the back of her neck, like a scarf being pulled off in winter, skin covered now exposed to the elements again.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I t is Whit who greets him, recruiting a few of the crew to join him in the foyer for introductions.
    Liv flees to the upstairs and listens from the hallway to the clatter of the men’s voices spilling into the kitchen a few minutes later. She tells herself it’s best not to overwhelm Sam with a mass welcome, but she knows that isn’t the real reason she stays away—and she suspects Whit does too. Suddenly she isn’t quite as indignant about having so much space. Maybe this behemoth isn’t big
enough
.
    She calls Rachel, knowing her old friend is of the opinion that no amount of gold is worth opening old wounds, and is disappointed to get her voice mail. So she unpacks and takes a bath in the suite’s enormous tub, sinking as deep as she can under a froth of lavender bubbles. When she hears the telltale sounds of food being prepared, chairs and tables dragged across floors and music blaring on the deck, she knows the bacchanalia of dinner is under way. A perfect time to make her entrance, she decides, toweling off and dressing in a pair of ivory shorts and a peasant blouse. All the activity will serve as smoke, cloaking any tension that might exist when she and Sam greet each other. Passing a mirror in the hall, she sees a faint blush on her cheeks and stops, feeling a strange pinch of guilt. It’s just the heat of the day, she tells herself. Just the residual flush from the excitement of finding the bell.
    Coming downstairs, she glimpses Whit outside at the grill, the crew flocked around him, shouting over Van Morrison. But where is Sam?
    In the den, she finds him scanning the home’s wall of books.
    He has a beard.
    This is her first thought when she sees him. He has buzzed his wavy brown hair military-style, shorter than she’s ever seen it. Against the high shelves, he seems taller, tauter. He’s always been lean, but now his body possesses a remarkable tightness, machinelike.
    She lets her hands fall to her sides, not sure what to do with them. “Hi, Sam.”
    He closes his book and smiles. “Hey, Liv.”
    To hug or not to hug. Whether to even touch. Uncertainty overwhelms her. Liv slows her advance and Sam remains