Emerald Fire. Monica McCabe

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      He let go of her hand.

      Thankfully, the SafeSail email popped up on the screen and relieved the awkward silence that had sprung up between them.

      Finn immediately plugged the new coordinates into Google Earth and watched as the program zeroed in on the Dominican Republic. It stopped on the south side of the island, just east of the capital city of Santo Domingo. He zoomed in closer. On the other side of a small peninsula lay the town of Boca Chica. Somewhere along that shore, the Emerald Fire sat at anchor.

      He shut down the laptop and tossed money on the table for lunch. “Let’s go.”

      Chapter 4

      Chloe gazed out the small charter plane window and admired the sparkling azure jewels of the West Indies. The lush tropical islands rose seductively from turquoise water like paradise found, luring travelers in with a promise of sanctuary. But beyond the sunny beaches and piña coladas, a dark shadow lurked.

      She never dreamed that pirates would threaten her effort to prove the mystery of her ancestry. That honor had always belonged to Owen. His father and hers were brothers. Her dad had married money when he tied the knot with Daisy Banks. Owen’s dad drank himself into oblivion. And for reasons she’d never understood, Owen hated her. Like it was her fault he had a lousy life.

      Even after that terrible day in the probate’s office when her parents’ will had been read, Owen took the money her dad left him and still hated her. She’d been handed a trust fund and her mother’s extensive genealogy research, then whisked off to live with her mom’s family, Jonathan and Sarah Banks. At the time she couldn’t see past the shock and pain, but her aunt and uncle became a major influence in her life. Now her Uncle Jon needed her. And Chloe needed help to find the Emerald Fire.

      She tossed a glance at the man sitting beside her. Who was Finnegan Kane, really? He came across as genuine and serious about his work with a focus she could admire, but then again, a lot of money was on the line. Was that the only thing that motivated him?

      “How does someone become a bounty hunter?” she asked.

      He looked up from the papers he studied and shrugged. “A knowledge of boats helps, along with good detective skills and a willingness to take risks.”

      “How’d you get the job?”

      One brow lifted at her question, and he gave a little sideways grin. “Is your faith in my ability really that low?”

      “What?” she said in confusion, then realized the unintentional insult. “Oh. I—I didn’t mean—” she stammered.

      He just laughed under his breath and closed the notebook he worked in. “To answer your question, I fell into the bounty business. Several years ago I had the chance to do some work for an insurance friend of mine.” He shrugged. “One job led to another, and here I am.”

      “Do you like it?”

      He leaned back in the seat and sighed. “It’s the means to an end.”

      “And by that you mean…?”

      His turned his head her direction and stared with those incredible eyes of his. Her pulse jumped slightly, and she frowned at the unwelcome effect.

      “I’ve a boat restoration company,” he answered. “But it’s old and needs restoration, too. Bounty money provides me the funds.” A steward interrupted long enough to hand them each an in-flight drink, then moved on.

      “What kind of boats do you work on?” Chloe asked. “Wood? Or Fiberglass?”

      “Wood, old sailing ships, and custom yachts of the nineteen-thirties and forties.” As he spoke, his face went from shuttered to animated in seconds flat. “There’s nothing like the feeling you get when you take a neglected vessel and turn her back into glory.”

      Passion for his work underlined each word. It was a quality she instantly recognized. She’d been accused of being obsessive a time or two. “So you bought into a fixer-upper and are working to re-establish the company?”

      He shook his head. “NorthStar is a family business that drifted into disrepair. My great grandfather was the last to actually work it.”

      Chloe choked on her sip of club soda.

      Finn handed over his napkin, and she used it to dab at watery eyes. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

      She took a deep breath and told herself to get a grip. So he mentioned NorthStar. It was purely coincidence. “Sorry,” she choked out, “an accident.” She regained her composure and glanced at him in a new light. “Where’s your boat shop located?”

      “Mystic, Connecticut. It was a major seaport back in the day, and NorthStar has been in my family since the early eighteen-hundreds.”

      She turned away and gazed sightlessly out the plane window. Mystic wasn’t that far from Boston and Weymouth, a two-hour drive, max.

      The man from NorthStar will be your guide.

      A chill traced her spine. The journal entry had always seemed cryptic, and she’d no idea what her ancestor had meant. The fact that it applied right now, to her finding the Emerald Fire, was just plain eerie.

      “NorthStar is a good name,” she managed to say with a calm she didn’t feel. “Did you pick it?”

      “I inherited it along with the dilapidated property.”

      She clenched her fists and scrambled for what to say next, but the pilot interrupted with a fasten-your-seat-belt announcement and informed the crew to prepare for final descent.

      She hated flying. No matter how many times she buckled herself in, and that was more often than she could count, the vibration, noise, and sheer risk of it always bothered her. She tossed a nervous glance out the window until the steward came by to collect empty drink cups.

      By then, the chance for more questions had passed because Finn began spouting off commands like a general as he stuffed the ever-present notebook into his pack. “After landing we’ll get a rental car and head straight for Boca Chica. Remember to keep a low profile. Do nothing to draw attention, got that?”

      “Quietly slip in and take care of business,” she replied. “Got it.” It was her usual method of operation anyhow. Museum acquisitions could get dicey. Discretion was always the rule.

      “Once we hit Boca Chica, we’ll call SafeSail for another GPS reading to update the exact location, then I’ll scope it out.”

      “Aye, aye, Captain,” she replied. “And it’s we. We’ll scope it out.”

      The fact that he still referenced the singular was troublesome. To his credit, he hadn’t ditched her in St. Lucia. A good sign, but that didn’t mean she trusted him. She fully expected him to come up with an excuse to leave her behind. All in the guise of protecting her from danger, of course.

      “What about the police?” she asked. “Aren’t we going to bring them in on the action?”

      “There’s no action, not yet anyway.”

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