Siren's Treasure. Debbie Herbert

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СКАЧАТЬ on skin somewhat calmed her agitation and Jet smiled ruefully. How desperate was she that a number cruncher like Landry Fields could affect her body so deeply during an IRS audit? The man was probably as passionate as cold pudding and would laugh his ass off if he guessed her errant thoughts.

      She lifted her face to the rain one last time before getting in the truck, absorbing moisture as if it were sustenance. The water fortified her. At least Mr. Conservative-Government-Man provided a convenient excuse to confront Perry today. Her pride no longer demanded she sit and wait for him to show up again.

      Perry was the one with the contacts at Gulf Coast Salvage and had insisted the company provided a perfect cover for selling their stuff without bothering with legal hoopla. Did he personally know the company owners or major stockholders? Did it have a reputation for playing fast and loose with maritime-reclamation laws? She had never asked him.

      That was what you got for trusting someone. It always came back to bite you in the ass.

      * * *

       What an unusual woman.

      Landry Fields stood at the window, watching Jet Bosarge in the parking lot as she lifted her face skyward, closed her eyes and smiled. Rain ran down dark eyelashes onto an elegantly sculpted nose, lush lips and then down her long, pale neck before disappearing in cleavage. The wet purple cotton shirt molded to the curve of her breasts. Abandoning his usual professional detachment and gentlemanly manners, Landry leaned forward against the windowpane, curious if there might be an outline of nipples.

      Damn, she was too far away to tell. He ran a hand through his hair, which annoyingly curled at the ends, despite his best efforts to comb it down straight. Bosarge wasn’t easy to peg, and he liked to classify people he interviewed into categories within minutes of meeting them: Con Man, Bad Guy with Attitude, Psychopath, Injured Wife, Slutty Girlfriend, or—more rarely—the Innocent or Unknowing. All part of his job as an FBI agent.

      Too soon to know what type of woman he was dealing with. And the sexual tension crackling between them played havoc with his normal analytical observations. It made no sense. He’d never before had chemistry with someone he interviewed and Bosarge was unlike any other woman he found physically attractive. She was dark-haired, tall and athletic, deep-voiced and a bit edgy. His usual type was a petite, curvy blonde with a soft voice and an easy, uncomplicated smile.

      The woman jumped into a battered red pickup truck and pulled out much too fast, tires squealing on the wet pavement. The corners of his lips involuntarily tugged upward. What kind of woman wore diamond earrings and drove a beater jalopy? She could easily afford a Rolls-Royce.

      Everything about Jet Bosarge was a contradiction. Dark hair and eyes contrasted with pale skin and deep red lips. She dressed casually, as if she’d thrown together an outfit with no thought, but the choppy haircut and diamonds gave an air of natural, feminine elegance. At first, she gave one the impression of an overgrown tomboy with her lean, muscular body, short hair and direct mannerisms. Yet, her long legs and low, throaty voice had distracted him so much, only his considerable willpower had allowed him to remain professional during the interview.

      He’d studied photographs of the woman, but those cold prints didn’t do her justice. Something about Bosarge in the flesh was vibrant and pulsing with energy. It was as if the rainy day had been nothing but gloomy shades of gray until she’d walked into the office. The effect was akin to when Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz tumbled out of the ruined Kansas farmhouse and stepped into an explosively Technicolor alternate universe.

      Landry shook his head at the direction of his thoughts. The woman most likely was a thief and a liar. Getting personally involved with her would be inappropriate and potentially damaging to his career. He was here to do a job and at last things were moving. He’d spent a whole week in the bayou doing nothing but watching Perry Hammonds and reviewing, yet again, the case files with which he’d grown sickeningly familiar. Evidently, the suspect had been in a holding pattern like him. Hammonds did nothing but bum around his rental cottage drinking beer and watching television.

      If there was one thing he despised more than deceit, it was sloth. Laziness should be one of the top sins; there was no excuse for sloppy living. You might fail, but at least you got up every morning and made your own way in the world. That belief had helped him rise above a childhood of poverty and emotional chaos.

      He’d been about to approach Hammonds directly when Bosarge had returned from out of town. Past experience taught him it was always easier to get to the girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend—whatever the status of their relationship happened to be—and dig around for preliminary information.

      Bosarge’s records were most unusual. She possessed a staggering family trust fund. The interest alone provided a comfortable living without her ever having to dip into the fund’s capital. And almost every dime she’d earned from selling maritime artifacts with Hammonds had been donated to various ocean-related charities: Save the Dolphins, Save the Whales, Save the Oceans, Save the Manatees.

      Could be she was a spoiled princess who got involved with Bad Boy Hammonds for excitement. The philanthropy could be a smoke screen or a means of assuaging her guilt over stealing. Because it was theft if the collection site was close to shore. That salvage technically belonged to the government and the taxpayers. And Hammonds and Bosarge hadn’t owned an expensive vessel with all the bells and whistles needed for deep-sea extractions.

      Landry picked up the fake tax file and shoved it into a drawer. She’d bought his accountant act hook, line and sinker. The important files were locked in his desk at home. He turned off the printer before opening and checking it for jammed papers. Nothing appeared wrong, as usual. With a sigh, Landry turned his attention to the clock and reset it to the correct time. He held it to his ear and picked up the slight hum of the battery he’d installed yesterday.

      Finished with his afternoon ritual, Landry retrieved a jacket and umbrella. No need to hurry; he knew exactly where she was heading.

      Sure enough, ten minutes later he drove past Hammonds’s cottage and spotted her red truck pulling into the driveway, splashing mud like an angry beast. Landry gripped the steering wheel tightly until the cottage was out of sight. He flipped on public radio, trying to lose himself in a news story, but it was no good. He couldn’t help wondering how the post-prison reunion was unfolding between them. No doubt they had once been lovers and not merely business partners. He’d been privy to many pictures of them embracing or kissing on board the boat they sailed in search of maritime artifacts.

      Forget her. He had an investigation and he would concentrate on doing his job. His real focus was on Hammonds. Their past crimes, if they were guilty, were fairly small in the grand scheme of things—he had coworkers covering billion-dollar drug-smuggling rings, after all—but the FBI took notice when Hammonds was released early from a South American prison. That early payoff had been financed by one Sylvester Vargas, a known crime figure with a reputation for dabbling in foreign intrigue. Hammonds had wandered aimlessly for weeks until Vargas’s men collected him and put him on a one-way flight back to Alabama. Now Hammonds was back in the States, and the coupling of maritime salvage with foreign investors and criminal activity was a red flag.

      The woods grew denser as Landry passed into a less populous area of Bayou La Siryna until he reached home. He climbed the wooden staircase to the humble cottage set up on stilts like many others in the remote bayou.

      The plain door gave way with its customary squeak of rusty hinges. Most things eventually corroded in the salt air. If he took up permanent residence, his sleek BMW would have to be traded in for the ubiquitous pickup truck. Seemed Bosarge was onto something after all with her rusted truck.

      The smell of lemon and ammonia mixed СКАЧАТЬ