Her Secret Treasure. Cindi Myers

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      SANDRA BEACHED the Zodiac and made her way along the shore, searching for the path that led into the jungle. The wind had come up, and she had to hold on to her hat with one hand to keep it from being snatched away. Sand sifted into her shoes, so she took them off, sinking her toes into the hot, powdery beach. Maybe instead of exploring, she should take Adam’s other suggestion, and work on her tan.

      But the idea of sunning on the beach held little appeal with no beach chair or umbrella, no one to fetch her drinks and no one to lie with. She glanced toward Adam’s yacht, anchored in the harbor. There was no sign of movement on the tarp-shaded deck. She thought of going aboard and waiting for him. What would he think if he returned from a day of diving and found her there? What if she were naked in his bed? Would he dare turn her away then?

      She clenched her thighs against the rush of desire this fantasy produced. And she thought again of her dream last night. Had the skillful lover she’d imagined been Adam?

      She shook her head. No matter what games her subconscious played, when she and Adam had made love before, it had been as equals. She would never play the shivering virgin for any man, and certainly not for a sloppy—though sexy—professor.

      She spotted the path and stopped to put on her shoes. Despite her disdain for all the scary stories Adam and his friends had once told her about the dangerous wildlife on the island, she had no desire to step on one of the ever-present land crabs or, worse, a spider.

      Once she started down the path, the dense undergrowth muffled the sound of the wind and blotted out all but the weakest rays of the sun, which filtered through the canopy overhead, bathing her in a watery green light. The air was heavy and humid, redolent with the scent of growth and decay. Though last summer the jungle had been hacked away to allow space for the passage of two people walking side by side, new growth crowded in on both sides, so that Sandra could barely squeeze through in places.

      As she neared the center of the island, the noise of the birds increased, a cacophony of screams and whistles and honks louder than any freeway gridlock or rock concert riot. Along with the noise came the stench of the thousands of birds that nested and fed on the rocky heart of the island. Sandra covered her mouth and nose with one hand and held on to her hat with the other, the video camera swinging from the strap at her wrist, hitting her shoulder with every step.

      Passionata’s Tower rose from the center of the clearing, a squat, crenelated fortress three stories tall, built of the same gray volcanic rock as its surroundings, the surface pocked with white bird droppings. On an elevated platform beside it sat a large tank to collect rainwater, the only source of fresh water on the island. Last summer, some visitors had constructed a gravity-fed shower beneath the tank. It had provided a nice alternative to the cramped bathing quarters on board ship, and helped to conserve the fresh water they’d brought with them.

      Sandra paused at the edge of the clearing and focused the camera, pleased with the shot of the tower rising up against a dramatic bank of threatening clouds. One of the afternoon squalls common during the summer months was blowing in. Exactly what was needed to add interest to her video.

      Satisfied she’d captured some good exterior footage, she darted across the clearing to the shelter of the tower entrance. Birds whirled and screamed around her, and she resisted the urge to run away from them.

      Once in the tower things were better, though the stench was worse than ever. She pulled her shirt up over her nose and mouth and turned to investigate the three-hundred-year-old structure.

      Interest soon displaced distaste as she surveyed the space in which she was standing. A short passage from the doorway opened into a spacious round room or hall. Weather-worn rock provided both flooring and walls, but Sandra could imagine a time when the rock had been covered with tapestries or velvet drapes, the floor strewn with rugs woven in India and Turkey.

      A stone stairway hugged the far wall. After filming the first floor, Sandra started up the narrow risers, following them around the outer wall to a second room that was almost as large as the first. Empty except for a few pieces of driftwood and a pile of shells some previous visitor had left behind, this would have been the public rooms that served as an office/living/dining area for the pirate queen. A single rectangular window six feet tall and three feet wide provided a spectacular view of the СКАЧАТЬ