Found at Sea - By Anne Marie Duquette Page 0,4
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 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.”
Hot anger made Jordan’s already pounding head hurt even more. Could this be true? Could she really have found the San Rafael? The ship held more than just the possibility of treasure. A decade ago, a killer hurricane had widowed all the Castillo wives and left the Castillo children fatherless. Which made the last surviving Castillo male—himself—responsible for their welfare. That Spanish treasure galleon meant the difference between his family’s future and their eventual destruction. It meant enough money to ensure educations for his nieces and nephews. And it meant a resurgence of pride in their family’s name, their family’s history.
How dare this woman claim it as hers?
“I was hoping to interest you in a partnership.”
“Never. The San Rafael is Castillo property, and I’m a Castillo.”
She had the audacity to shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. International salvage laws are basically the same today as they were centuries ago. The courts say if I find it, I keep it.”
“The San Rafael is my property.” Suddenly the sheets and the rails of his bed seemed too confining. Jordan struggled to sit up and failed. “You’ll never claim her,” he gasped, falling back against the pillows.
“You’re wrong. I already have.” She suddenly held a gold coin before his eyes. Not a coin, he saw upon closer inspection, but a gold medallion stamped with a crest—the Castillo family crest. Every salvager’s instinct he possessed cried it was no forgery.
“Where did you get that?” he whispered.
“From the San Rafael, of course.” She flipped the medallion over so he could see the opposite side, the stamped Roman numerals spelling the date 1809. “She belongs to me now. And since I saved your life, so do you.”
For a wild moment, Jordan wondered if he was hallucinating. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. You’re both mine.”
Jordan stared at the conviction in those calm blue eyes. She meant every crazy word. She placed the medallion in the palm of his right hand and gently closed his fingers around it. The gold held the warmth of her body, which mingled with his.
“It’s yours, Jordan Castillo, but since you’re in no position to safeguard it, I will.” Then, as she took back the medallion and made way for the doctor’s approach, he heard her softly add, “For now...”
CHAPTER TWO
San Ysidro–Tijuana crossing,
United States–Mexico border
July 6, 5:20 p.m.
INSIDE HER TRUCK, Aurora yelled at the rush-hour traffic, the slow crawl of cars in all twelve lanes, the droning of the radio traffic reporter.
“...We’re talking a thirty-five-minute wait to get across the border, San Diego commuters. Forty-five minutes at the Otay Mesa crossing. Still, it is Friday on a gorgeous July day, and the beaches are waiting. So be