Eyes Of Fire
Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author
Heather Graham
“Graham shines in this frightening tale. Paranormal elements add zing to her trademark chilling suspense and steamy romance, keeping the pages flying.”
—Romantic Times on Haunted
“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead
“An incredible storyteller!”
—Los Angeles Daily News
“Demonstrating the skills that have made her one of today’s best storytellers, Ms. Graham delivers one of this year’s best books thus far.”
—Romantic Times on Hurricane Bay
“A suspenseful, sexy thriller…Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay
“A roller-coaster ride…fast-paced, thrilling…Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end. Captivating.”
—Literary Times on Hurricane Bay
“The talented Ms. Graham once again thrills us. She delivers excitement [and] romance…that keep the pages flipping quickly from beginning to end.”
—Romantic Times on Night of the Blackbird
“With the name Heather Graham on the cover, you are guaranteed a good read!”
—Literary Times
HEATHER GRAHAM
EYES OF FIRE
To Don Stelzen, surely the world’s nicest and best driving
instructor, with thanks for always being so great and patient.
To my son, Shayne, for being my first “biddy”
and learning with me.
To Sam Lawson, one of the world’s greatest classmates,
for his tolerance of so many scheduling changes.
And to Underwater Unlimited, one of the world’s most
wonderful dive shops; to Charlie Matthews,
Chuck Beltran and all the folks there—thanks!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Prologue
Dead men tell no tales.
Or so he had heard.
Yet these dead men seemed somehow to cry out in silence, noiselessly shrieking out a story that had been kept secret for nearly four hundred years. Their skeletal remains lay about eerily, some held together by remnants of rusted armor, one with its head uncannily perched on a bookcase while the disjointed body sat on the desk beneath it. The sword that had probably brought about his death lay at his side. Perhaps it had once pierced through him, through flesh and sinew and organs; perhaps it had once been bathed in blood. Now the sword lay on the handsomely carved desk where the pieces of the dead man remained, side by side with the small bones of what had been a human hand, almost as if it was waiting to be used again. To be picked up and wielded in some form of ghostly revenge.
Dead men tell no tales….
But this one shouted silently of his own murder.
A tiny yellow fish, a tang, darted in and out of the cavernous eye sockets of the long-dead man. The diver moved closer, then pulled back, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears as a moray eel suddenly shot its head out from one of the cubicles in the growth-encrusted shelving. Sea fans wafted over oak. Anemones rose against the rotted core of an inkwell.
Another skeleton startled him into a weightless jump. This skeleton lay by the side of the desk, shadowed in darkness. Though time and pressure had blown out the master’s cabin window of the Beldona, the ship was down deep enough that the sun’s rays offered little light inside. The diver flashed his light at the skeleton and nearly shot through the roof, ceasing to breathe.
Because the skeleton looked at him.
Looked at him…
Stared at him like a demon, a devil, dead hand drifting, fingers seeming to point…
Stared at him with blazing red eyes that seemed to blind him. He ceased to breathe, forgetting the first rule of scuba diving—breathe continuously. Experienced diver that he was, he forgot, but oh, God…
The skeleton was staring at him with eyes of fire. A dead man. A pile of bones. Nearly one hundred feet beneath the surface of the sea.
Get a grip, man! he warned himself.
Nitrogen narcosis, he thought. A diver’s disease that could cause absurd giddiness, a state of well-being, a state of panic. A state in which a diver might well see hallucinations. Described by Jacques-Yves Cousteau as rapture of the deep. A danger any diver knew existed beyond depths of one hundred feet, sometimes before, certainly after, no matter how immune a man claimed he might be.
That was it—he was seeing things. He knew enough not to be doing what he was doing, especially at these depths! His rashness was taking its toll. He didn’t dare stay much longer, but, oh, God! The lure had been too great.
He was seeing things.
No, he wasn’t.
The dead men were there.
Even the dead man with the eyes of pure fire.
Sweet Jesus, but he hadn’t been expecting such an eerie haunting from the past. So often, especially at these depths, time and pressure and the sea herself ate away the pathetic, mortal remnants of man, down to the bone itself.
She was a dangerous mistress, the sea. Days, weeks, years, centuries, played havoc beneath the waves. Salt, pressure, currents and sand all swept around the treasures, living and otherwise, captured by the wicked whimsy of the sea. Swept around dead men left behind.
And so often kept them from telling their tales.
His head was spinning, his thoughts careening into fantasy.
Breathe! he commanded himself, sucking air through his regulator at last. He went back to the basics he had learned, had taught. Breathe continuously. Regain control, respond, react.
It’s just a skeleton. This poor fellow has been dead forever and ever. He’s no danger to me….
The thought didn’t help. He imagined that any second the skeleton would raise its hand higher, that the bony fingers would point straight at him, that the bones would begin to rattle and talk….
It was a dead man, for God’s sake!
Just a dead man. With gems where his eyes should have been. He was a well-preserved dead man with remarkable ruby eyes, and that was that.
Regain control, respond, react. Fool! Didn’t he teach those very words almost daily?
He didn’t know what trick of pressure or temperature had kept these skeletons in such uncannily good shape, but they were miraculously here, inside what must have been the captain’s cabin of the galleon. And though the windows had burst and the denizens of the sea had moved inside, perhaps the fact that the cabin walls had withstood the sea so well had helped preserve the dead who had perished within.
How they’d come to be here, he didn’t know. But they had nearly done him in, nearly drawn a silent scream from him, and he had very nearly succumbed to a watery death himself. In fact, he was certain that his hair would be white from shock when he reached the surface again.
None of that meant anything to him at the moment. Nor did the fact that he should never have been diving alone, despite being an expert diver with several thousand hours of diving time under his belt. It was because of that that he should have known better. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had come down a mere thirty feet instead of the nearly one hundred he was down now, he shouldn’t have been diving alone. He taught the buddy system strenuously in his classes.
But he’d never imagined a morning like this one. The culmination of a dream. He had at last come across something in his research that had set off a light in his mind, and that light had burned so brightly that he hadn’t been able to wait. He hadn’t even been able to wait to tell Sam, to give her a clue, even knowing how much it would mean to her. She had been with Jem and some first timers and bubble watchers out on the Sloop Bee. With beginners, it would be some time.
And this…oh, God! With the right information, the answer had been so simple, and once he had realized it, he hadn’t been able to wait.
Sam. Sam should have known. Sam should have been with him. Sam, with her ever-trusting, encouraging smile. Sam who never found fault, who believed, who laughed and teased and made life easy. She should have been here with him now. He couldn’t repay her for not being here, not even with every single bit of treasure he found.
He simply hadn’t been able to wait to test his theory.
His dreams had sent him flying across the waves. Intrigue and fascination had brought him here, near the Steps.
The Seafire Isle Steps.
The Steps, of course, were a mystery in themselves. They began a mere thirty feet below the surface in the water northwest of Seafire Isle; they deepened with the ocean floor for another twenty-five feet, then simply disappeared. Just like stone steps in other areas of the sea that were supposed by some to lead the way to Atlantis. Others thought them a doorway in the wicked mystery of the Bermuda Triangle. He was quite certain that there were logical answers for every mystery beneath the sea. Just as there was a logical answer to the mystery of the Spanish galleon Beldona, the prized ship of King Philip, which had sailed the golden corridor between the New World and the old so many years ago. Historians had thought for years that she had gone down in one of the vicious storms that raged across the seas, a hurricane of deadly proportions.
There was an answer to everything. An explanation.
Just as there had been an explanation for the fact that a skeleton had stared at him with burning eyes….
He could still see them blazing. Eyes of fire.
Nitrogen narcosis, he warned himself. He was seeing things. But the eyes did truly seem to burn. He bent low, studying them more closely….
There was something different about the skeleton. He should have been able to place his finger on it. He should know the truth about the ship.
His ship, as he thought of her.
The Beldona. He had found her! Sonar had missed her, radar had missed her. Shifting currents and restless sands had hidden her beneath a coral shelf.
Suddenly something about the skeleton caught his eye. He leaned closer, laughter bubbling in his chest.
Whoa, he thought. Stay calm! He warned himself.
But once again, far beneath the surface, he couldn’t wait.
The magnitude of his discovery suddenly hit him. No, he couldn’t wait. This was pure vindication.
He couldn’t wait to tell her. Couldn’t wait to share these secrets, deeper than any he had ever imagined. He’d discovered the past, and so much more. Many people had mocked him for being a dreamer. Very few had believed. And now…the laugh would be on them.
She would know that he’d been right to fight for the discovery. Maybe the time had come when he could divulge a few of his own secrets. Maybe this would make the time right.
He closed his eyes.
Or did he?
Because he was seeing things again.
The sea was playing tricks on him.
It was as if she was suddenly with him.
She couldn’t be. But he could see her.
He could see her, hair waving like a banner, eyes as brilliant as those orbs of fire that had so shocked him. In his mind he could hear her throaty laughter, feel what they shared.
He blinked.
She remained.
She was there with him, her eyes glittering behind her scuba mask.
No…
He blinked again, this time closing his eyes tightly. He had known better—much better—than to dive alone, especially this deep. But it didn’t matter now. He knew the truth. He had solved the mystery, and there was so much more to it than they had ever begun to imagine….
He had to regain control.
He opened his eyes again.
He was alone.
Bubbles surrounded him. His own, he assured himself. He was all alone.
Alone with a bunch of dead men.
Nitrogen narcosis…
He needed to go up. Now.
Because he needed help, of course. Needed Sammy and Jem, and probably others, too. But for now his ecstasy was like something ready to explode inside him. He wanted to share his sheer joy.
They would have to guard the secret until they were safe. There was so much more than just the treasure involved. If the wrong people knew what he had discovered…
He was going to need help. The truth was going to have to come out, and once that was done, they would be able to bring up the treasure.
By God, the treasure!
He turned, listening again to the sound of his own breathing, a continual hiss and heave against his ears in the confinement of the cabin. He tried to assess the magnitude of what he had found.
He was startled from his thoughts when something suddenly fell against him. He shifted his light around.
Another dead man. But this one…
Once again a scream rose in his throat.
It was swallowed by the depths…. And then he felt…something.
He turned. Saw.
Terror greeted him in the form of razor-honed steel. He wanted to scream and scream and scream….
Blood flowed, joined with the water. Miles beyond the ship, sharks sensed the blood and began to swim toward the Beldona with predatory interest.
Bubbles rose from his regulator. And then they ceased.
His unseeing eyes stared out at the shadowy phantoms inside the cabin of the long-dead ghost ship.
He had solved so many mysteries, had so much to say, but…
Dead men tell no tales….
1
There she stood.
Samantha Carlyle.
It had been a long time. Yes, a long, long time since he had seen her.
Hank had never actually described her, but from the moment he saw her, even from a distance across the water, he knew it had to be her.
Hank had described her with great enthusiasm without describing her at all. In his scholar’s mental, metaphysical lust, if there was such a thing. It didn’t matter. Adam had never mentioned in his correspondence that he could easily imagine Samantha Carlyle now because he doubted if she had changed a bit in the nearly five years since he had seen her.
She was one of those women who was simply riveting. Looking half-naked in a two-piece cobalt suit that was actually rather decent, considering how little women’s bathing suits consisted of these days. It didn’t matter. It was what was inside the suit that made it so compelling. She was tall, regal, legs wickedly long, slim, shapely. Honey-gold tanned. Rounded buttocks, flat stomach, skinny waist. Breasts…enough to create mysteriously shadowed cleavage against the constraints of the bikini bra. Good collarbone, nice long throat…
His eyes slipped down again.
Breasts. Very nice.
Body…very sensual. Long, slim, an athletic build that was still enhanced with…curves. Yeah, curves. Breasts…
Eyes up, old man, he told himself. Study her face. Her eyes. That’s where the changes in a woman appear.
She wasn’t wearing a hat or sunglasses, so she was easy to assess. She was standing on the bow, waiting to tie up at the dock. The boat came nearer, nearer; the engine cut. She was absolutely gorgeous, almost pagan, barefoot and perfectly balanced on those long, wickedly long legs. Her hands were on her hips as she waited. She defied nature, the wind, the water, like a goddess from the sea, Venus rising, red hair blazing in the wind, whipping behind her with the pride and majesty of a battle banner.
Her face…
Yes, her face.
Sophisticated. Beautifully boned, lightly tanned. Eyes large, bright, an extraordinary vibrant green that both clashed wildly against her hair like a winter’s storm and yet seemed to complement it, and the defined features of her face, majestically. Her nose was perfectly proportioned and dead straight. Her face was nearly oval, with just the hint of a heart shape to soften perfection to beauty. Lips sculpted, arrestingly defined. Brows arched, a slightly darker shade than the blazing auburn that topped her head. Standing against the wind, she compelled attention and admiration. She was so dignified.
And yet somehow…
She reeked of sensuality, as well, he realized somewhat irritably, everything that was so perfect and serene about her blending with the fire in her eyes and the wicked length of her…
Yes, this was Samantha.
He hadn’t expected to see her quite so soon, nor had he expected her to be quite so vividly arresting. He’d been younger himself, the last time he’d seen her. Too young, maybe. Too impetuous, too quick to rise to anger. Strange what the years, time and circumstance could do to a person. But then, years ago she had been way too proud herself. And she still had that cloak of pride about her now, so it seemed. Ah, yes, she had a look about her. Men probably still fell flat in her path, and she probably still stepped right over them. Sometimes, maybe, she chewed them up, spat them out.
He knew. He’d been chewed up.
Spat out.
Something suddenly seemed to squeeze in his chest. The past hurt. No, seeing Sam hurt. Some part of her had stayed with him, no matter where he had gone, what he had done. Now Justin was gone. And Hank was gone.
And it hurt to wonder, not to know, to envision what might have been.
Well, he was back. And no matter what she wanted this time, she was going to have him on her like a leech.
No spitting him out.
Not this time, baby, he thought. This time, she was going to have to pay attention to him.
Because she had to have the answers he wanted. He knew it.
And she was going to give them to him.
He gritted his teeth, locking his jaw. He was determined that he wasn’t going to give a damn how he got his answers.
Because she was in danger.
She didn’t know it, and he didn’t even know just how or when it was coming. He just knew it was coming.
Soon.
Very soon.
He came off the mail boat, arriving at four-fifteen on a Tuesday afternoon. Sam would never forget the time, because she had been returning with her small group of intermediate divers, standing at the bow, ready to hop ashore to tie up.
Instead she plummeted into the water, missing the dock at the sight of him.
He was back.
Amazingly, she didn’t recognize him at first.
She just saw the mail boat pulling into the Seafire Isle dock at the same time as the Sloop Bee. Then she saw the man, standing in the aft section of the boat.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t fairly secure in herself, nor was it that Seafire Isle didn’t draw its share of men, many of them single, and many of those handsome, adventurous, good-looking—even nice.
She’d just never seen anyone quite like him arrive at all, ever—or so she thought at first.
He was dressed casually, a tailored jacket worn loosely over a knit shirt against the wind, soft, worn jeans, sneakers. He carried a duffel bag, no more. It lay at his feet while he stood in the aft of the approaching mail boat, arms crossed over his chest. He had the easy stance of a man accustomed to boats, to the sea; his feet were set apart, and he stood balanced against the waves and rocking of the sea.
He was a good six-foot-three—Sam could easily judge his height, since she was almost five-ten herself. Half the heartbreak of her school years had been in trying to find a boy who wasn’t eye level with her breasts at the dances.
He carried himself extremely well. His shoulders were attractively broad; his chest appeared well-muscled, his waist very trim, his legs long and powerful. She found herself imagining what he would look like undressed. Not that undressed, of course, but in swim trunks.
“Hey, Sam! The line!” Jem called to her.
“Got it!” she called back, leaping out right before she fell in. Luckily for her, she’d spent the majority of her life on the island, with much of her time on boats and in the water. She could recover quickly—even as she wondered if she had actually been gaping and if the new arrival was laughing behind his Ray-Bans at the way she had so nearly fallen for him.
Because he was watching her, she thought. She couldn’t see his eyes because of the dark glasses, but the tilt of his head was toward her. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but there did seem to be the slightest curve to his mouth. A generous mouth, very sensual, well-defined and beautifully shaped. His cheekbones were high and broad, somehow both cleanly hewn and rugged in appearance. His jaw was square, firm. His hair was dark, almost ebony, touched at the ends by a natural reddish tinge given by the sea and salt air to hair, no matter how dark it might be, when the body to which it was attached spent too much time in the sun and water. His face was almost bronze from the sun as well.
Men could, perhaps, be more conventionally handsome, but she’d never seen anyone so completely electrifying and compelling in all her admittedly somewhat sheltered life.
Never seen…except for once.
Oh, God! It couldn’t be….
Beneath the Ray-Bans, his eyes were blue-gray, a color that could be like mist, like metal; it could warm, cut, pierce, demand, burn with silver flames….
No, it couldn’t be him. But it was.
Dear God, it was.
Her entire body seemed to twist into knots, to freeze.
And it was then, at precisely that moment, that the Sloop Bee banged softly against the dock and she was unbalanced and tossed cleanly into the water.
“Sam?” Jem Fisher, the tall, ebony-dark Bahamian who had been her best friend the majority of her life as well as her partner in most things, called from the deck of the Sloop Bee.
Sputtering, furious with herself, Samantha surfaced, caught hold of the end of the wooden dock and pulled herself up.
The water had been good. It had washed away the shock.
And the startling pain, she assured herself.
She didn’t glance toward the mail boat as she slicked back her newly soaked hair, waving a hand toward Jem. “It was just so hot!” she called. “Too much sun. I thought I’d cool down a little.”
Jem arched dark brows over his deep brown eyes, his handsome black face set in a mask of puzzlement.
It was obvious that she’d fallen in. She was lying, and he knew it. The rest of the passengers stared at her politely, trying to pretend that the wind on the way in hadn’t been cool enough to combat the heat of the sun.
It didn’t matter. She lowered her eyes quickly, tying the bow rope to bring the Sloop Bee to rest at the dock, then scampering to tie the stern rope and wait while her guests stepped from the boat with whatever personal equipment they had brought aboard. The mail boat docked behind the Sloop Bee. Zeb Pike, the mailman, offered her a casual wave, tossing the mail packet on the dock. He looked tired and seemed to be in a hurry today. Apparently Zeb wasn’t coming ashore.
But he was.
Definitely.
The back of her spine seemed to stiffen, and she determined to absolutely ignore him. Actually, at the moment, she had little choice. Her dive party was disembarking from the Sloop Bee, her Seafire Isle guests demanding her attention.
“It was great, it was beautiful!” a very attractive young brunette told her with glowing eyes. The woman was accompanied by a young man with glossy blond hair and equally bright eyes. He smiled and nodded at her words. The Emersons, Joey and Sue, on their honeymoon. They hadn’t looked at a thing beneath the sea except for each other.