The Treasure Man. Pamela Browning

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      Chapter One

      Chloe Timberlake knew that she had truly reached the end of her long journey to Sanluca, Florida, when the earthy scent of the Everglades muck gave way to the fragrance of the Atlantic Ocean wafting on the breeze. She leaned her head out the car window and let go an exuberant whoop that was heard by no one except perhaps a few tree frogs chirring in the scrub oaks overarching the road. And her cat, of course.

      “Come on out, Butch,” she said. “We’re a long way from Farish, Texas. The Frangipani Inn is straight ahead.” She nudged open the tattered carpetbag where the big orange tomcat liked to sleep when traveling.

      Butch poked his head out and twitched his whiskers. No litter box for him; Butch was toilet trained and hadn’t forgiven her for that last grungy rest stop on the Glades Highway. He looked down his nose at her before indulging in an indolent stretch, then sniffed appreciatively at the brine and seaweed.

      When the car emerged from the shelter of the trees, Chloe turned off at 1200 Beach Road, the shell-rock driveway crunching under the old blue Volvo’s tires. Ahead of them, her father’s family home was surrounded by an encroaching tangle of vegetation, growing thick and lush now, in late May. Nearby, a boardwalk led down to the beach.

      “I wonder whose Jeep that is,” Chloe mused as the headlights swung past a decrepit vehicle, its pockmarked sides spattered with mud. As she braked to a stop under a gumbo-limbo tree at the rear of the inn, a lithe shape detached itself from the side of the building and moved toward her. Chloe was wary; the inn, her cousin Gwynne had assured her, was unoccupied.

      The shape morphed into a man and, still suspicious, Chloe rammed the car into Reverse for a quick getaway. His presence rattled her, even though Sanluca’s crime rate ranked so low it wasn’t even on the charts. Yet why was this fellow, who was now sauntering toward her car, lurking in the shadows of the Frangipani Inn?

      He stepped within the circle of headlights, and with a jolt, she recognized him. She hadn’t seen Ben Derrick in years, not since that summer when she was sixteen; but she would have known him anywhere. He’d been unrepentantly handsome and sexy as sin, though he’d never seemed to realize it. Now he was barefoot—ill-advised considering the incidence of sandspurs in the native scrub. Baggy shorts rode low on his hips, and his hair—dark, generously sun-streaked and needing cutting—was tousled by the breeze from the ocean. He looked scruffy and nondescript, and he was sixteen years older than when she’d last seen him, but he was still Ben Derrick. And still a heartbreaker, no doubt.

      He squinted into the glare. “Gwynne?” he said.

      Of course. He’d always preferred her cousin, teasing her, joking with her and ignoring Chloe. When Ben had disappeared late in that summer of her sixteenth year, Chloe had been devastated. She’d been shy in those days, had never done anything to draw attention to herself, had been content to hang out in Gwynne’s shadow. She’d never told anyone that she’d fallen hopelessly in love with Ben Derrick.

      Chloe rested a restraining hand on Butch’s head so that he wouldn’t take it into his fool head to make a grand leap from the car. “I’m Chloe Timberlake,” she said over the stutter of the Volvo’s engine. “Gwynne’s my cousin.” She didn’t add, You remember—I was the redheaded, flat-chested girl who hung on your every word, who followed you around like a lovesick fool for two whole months. And you couldn’t have cared less.

      Ben leaned down and peered in the window, studying her. “You’re Chloe?” His voice was a rumble in his chest.

      “Right,” Chloe said. “I was here one summer a long time ago. Actually, I visited a lot of summers, but we only ran into each other that year.” He’d worked as a diver for Sea Search, Inc., the local marine salvage company whose search for sunken treasure had been the subject of many National Geographic television programs.

      “I boarded here sometimes when Gwynne and her mom ran the place as a bed-and-breakfast.”

      “I remember.” Oh, yes. He’d been a charismatic character in those days, tall and tanned and utterly charming.

      If Ben recognized her, he gave no sign. “I’ve just rolled into town and was counting on Gwynne and Tayloe’s having a room for me.”

      “You didn’t call first?”

      “I got a recorded message about the number not being in service at this time.”

      “That’s because the Frangipani Inn is no longer a bed-and-breakfast.”

      “I’m sorry to hear that.” For someone who needed a place to sleep for the night, he delivered the line with a bit too much nonchalance. He slapped absently at a whining mosquito. “Where have Gwynne and Tayloe gone?”

      “Gwynne’s off finishing her master’s degree in speech pathology, and my aunt Tayloe remarried last year and lives in Mexico with her husband. I’m here to work for the summer. I design jewelry.”

      This was the season for thunderstorms riding in on warm moist air from the Gulf of Mexico, and over the sound of her voice, Chloe detected a rumble of thunder in the distance. Tonight’s predicted stormy weather was fast closing in.

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