Siren's Treasure

She couldn’t help but notice the slight, contemptuous curve at the corners of his mouth. Jet bristled; it rankled when people assumed she must be some sort of privileged society girl. She’d worked hard to contribute to the Bosarge family fortune with years of physically exhausting and high-risk ventures, reclaiming sea treasure with the rat-bastard Perry Hammonds. Not that she could tell this numbers nerd that particular bit of information. “Is inheriting money against the law? It’s not like I intend to live off the trust fund forever. I’m reopening The Pirate’s Chest. I’ve already purchased a downtown building and I’m stocking inventory. A big shipment of antique furniture should arrive from Mobile tomorrow.”

The auditor remained unruffled and silent while rain splattered the window, loud as a knocking at the door. The beating rain outside created a cozy sense of intimacy in the small room and Jet fantasized what it would be like to lean over the desk and kiss Mr. All-Business-Man until he lost that aloof self-control and had his way with her... Jet shook her head slightly and blinked. This had to stop.

Against her better judgment, she spoke up again, eager to get her mind back on track. “My sister, Lily, and I jointly owned the salon. She’s taken an extended leave of absence to travel. We might open it again one day, though.” Jet bit the inside of her lip at the white lie. Not likely the beauty shop would reopen; Lily seemed happiest living undersea and using her siren talent to attract mermen.

Fields wasn’t interested. “Okay, moving on. In reviewing your inventory and sales at the antiques store, I noted you sold maritime artifacts, some quite rare. Are the manifests for these items on file?”

Jet swallowed. As far as she was concerned, once a ship sank, whatever cargo sank with it became the property of the merfolk. What good was all that treasure sitting at the bottom of the ocean? The sea belonged to the merfolk, not humans, and they could keep it or sell it to dirt dwellers as they chose. But she could hardly tell him that, either. “Of course, I have paperwork,” she said coolly. “I also have an excellent accountant who filed my taxes. Perhaps I should have brought either him or my attorney with me. However, your letter phrased this meeting as discussing an irregularity and not a full-blown audit.”

“You’re always welcome to bring an attorney or accountant. That’s perfectly within your rights as a citizen.” He studied her, no emotion showing in those frozen eyes. His face was stern, his manner stiff and formal. “Moving on to your stock portfolio,” he said, as if she hadn’t voiced a concern. “Over twenty percent of your stock is invested in one company, Gulf Coast Treasures and Salvage, LLC.”

Damn. She and Perry had sold, without papers, plenty of shipwrecked, illegal items to that very company. In return, they were given cash, which they used, in part, to purchase stock in the salvage company. Jet kept her mouth shut and merely raised an eyebrow.

The silence between them stretched, but she refused to be the one to break it this time.

“These types of ocean recovery companies are very risky,” Fields continued. “Even if they do find treasure, they must have a profitable way to recover items and bring them up to land using approved archaeological methods. And if all that is accomplished, there’s the thorny issue of who gets a share of the profits—the state, foreign governments, the originating ship’s company, distant heirs of the original property—”

So maybe all this wasn’t about her, she decided with an internal whoosh of relief. It was about the government clamping down on these industries, making sure they got their own profit cuts. A treasure-salvage company in Tampa had been in the news recently when it recovered over five hundred million dollars worth of silver and gold coins from a colonial-era wreck near Portugal. Naturally, the Spanish government filed an immediate claim of ownership and refused to pay the company any salvage fee.

Jet hated worrying about pesky ownership issues. The mermaid philosophy of finders keepers seemed fairer. She was relieved to be out of business with Perry and leave that aspect of her life in the past where it belonged.

“So call me a risk-taker,” she replied with a shrug. “I think it’s a good investment. There are over three million known shipwrecks. It’s a potential billion-dollar industry.” She couldn’t resist showing off a little and letting him know why she suspected the IRS had a sudden interest in the maritime salvage industry. “Especially since an American salvage company found three billion dollars worth of platinum on a World War II merchant vessel.”

He ignored her mention of the platinum discovery. “But of those millions of shipwrecks, only thirty thousand of them are believed to have valuable lost cargo.”

Jet shrugged again. “Your point?”

“We’re taking a closer look at these companies. You have a huge amount of money invested in Gulf Coast Salvage, a disproportional amount of your assets.”

She surmised it must be difficult for a stodgy man like him to understand people willing to take risky ventures, and suspected the auditor was about to go down a path she didn’t want to follow. Jet stood. “Thanks so much for your concern about my portfolio. Warning taken.”

He rose also and frowned. “Sit down, Miss Bosarge.” This time his voice had an edge as sharp as a stingray’s barbed stinger. “Only a couple more questions.”

She reluctantly planted her butt back in the cheap chair.

“Are you acquainted with any of the officers of this company?”

“No.”

Perry had handled all aspects of their treasure sales to Gulf Coast Salvage. She’d checked the company out on the internet and they’d seemed legit. Her accountant had warned her not to put so many eggs in one basket, but he’d also found the company aboveboard. But if it was being investigated and about to go under, she’d better pull out quick.

“How did you hear of them to start with?”

Jet again stood. “They’re large and well-known. I live on the coast and have always been fascinated by treasure. Why wouldn’t I pursue my interest? I haven’t done anything wrong. I may be an incompetent judge in picking stocks—” damn you, Perry “—but that’s it. If you have any more questions, I’d prefer to exercise my right to have an attorney or my accountant present.”

He nodded and rose. “No need to be on the defensive. If I need more information, I’ll get in touch.”

Easy for him not to be upset—he wasn’t the one being drilled. Why did they always have to go after the little guy anyway? Plenty of hedge fund investors and private equity firms, with tons more money than she’d ever see, had been flocking to invest in increasingly specialized treasure ventures.

Fields walked with her toward the door. “Much success on reopening your antiques store. You already have employees hired?” he asked. His previously intense manner, combined with his sharp, wintry eyes, mellowed to a casualness that she suspected was false.

“No. Not yet,” she admitted.

“I see. Well, I wish you much success.”

His body was close to hers. Too close. The soapy, clean smell was strong. Jet swallowed and licked her dry lips. “Thanks.”

She swept around him and into the hallway, inhaling the stale air deeply, ridding her lungs of the auditor’s masculine, clean scent.

“Miss Bosarge?”

Jet whipped around.

“I’ll need to take a look at the manifests for all the items you and your business partner sold to Gulf Coast Savage.”

“All of them?”

His mouth curved upward, but those arctic eyes gleamed with sardonic amusement. “Every last one.”

She frowned. The gleaming teeth made her think of a shark. Perhaps Landry Fields was as lethal on land as a shark was at sea. Only the faintest curling at the ends of his light brown hair ruined the predatory image. “I’ll have my accountant call you and make arrangements to send the paperwork.”

“No need for all that. I’ll drop by your store to collect them, or your home if you prefer.” His smile widened, but she wasn’t fooled by the offhand manner with which he requested the paperwork or by the way he casually leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Jet scowled back. She most certainly didn’t prefer Landry Fields inside her house. The whole thing reeked of unprofessionalism and an interest that went beyond the norm of an IRS audit. What was his real game? “Give me a couple days and come by the store. I’ll have them.”

“Thank you so much for your coop—”

Jet turned and scrambled away before he could finish the insincere thank-you. As if she had a damned choice, as if he wasn’t issuing an order.

The rain outside felt wonderfully fresh and she didn’t bother with an umbrella, unlike the few humans venturing outdoor in the storm. The contact of water 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 with brine meant the maid had come by today. He’d used the same one for years. The first time Landry returned to the cottage after Mimi’s death, the scent of musty decay had been depressing, so he had his real-estate agent hire someone to clean and air out the rooms before his visits. Now that he’d moved in for the next few weeks, he’d been able to keep the same cleaner.

His grandmother had taken great pride in maintaining the tiny place. The scarred pine floors were always waxed, the air-dried bedsheets were crisp and smelled of the ocean, and the cheap linoleum-tiled kitchen had smelled of corn bread, pecan pies, roasts or shrimp boils.

Mimi had spoiled him every summer, as if compensating for his shitty life with a careless mom and her string of increasingly sorry boyfriends. His mother’s house was filled with half siblings from stepfathers that came and went, and constant drama from financial pressures. Every new romantic relationship of his mother’s had created new sets of problems and complications.

Landry placed the car keys on a table in the den and surveyed the interior with satisfaction. Most of the furniture he’d replaced over the years. Mimi’s sofa had been upgraded to a modern leather sectional. He’d kept what he could. The leather couch was draped with one of her crocheted afghan throws, a patchwork of rainbow colors against a sleek sea of black. Her old wicker rocking chair remained in the same spot. The bathroom, however, had no sentimental value and he’d gutted and expanded it the first year after Mimi’s death.

He hung his suit jacket in the bedroom closet and stepped out of the black leather loafers. Back in the den, he adjusted a glass cat figurine on the battered sideboard. The cleaning company knew his peculiarity for detail and sameness, but they weren’t perfect. His fingers accidentally brushed against a red sequined coin purse and he recoiled, as if the haunting memories associated with it could transfer into his heart. It had been one of Mimi’s treasured possessions but he had never liked the purse openly displayed. After Mimi’s death, he’d taken it off the sideboard but then wandered about the cottage, unsure of an appropriate resting place for the ghostly memento mori. In the end, Landry had returned it to just where Mimi had left it.

After a few more minor tweaks to the figurines display, he slipped open the glass doors and stepped onto the wooden deck.

The scent of salty brine swirled in the early-April wind. He inhaled deeply and leaned over the wooden railing. Mimi’s house could best be described as quaint—or ramshackle to be more precise. But here lay its secret charm—the million-dollar view. Located at the bend of one of the bayou’s fingers, Landry could look over the pine and cypress trees hugging the shoreline and see the vast expanse of the Gulf of Mexico.

A tiny flash of orange darted at the base of a tree.

“I’ll be damned,” Landry muttered. He hurried inside and found the binoculars in the sideboard drawer, rushed back out, then focused in on the orange patch. A ginger tabby nestled in a bed of pine needles. Closer examination revealed a swollen belly. Landry set the binoculars on the rail with a sigh. The feral cat population was alive and thriving. It was a losing battle, but he’d try to entice the mama cat into a trap and do what he could to find the kittens a home.

His eyes scanned the ocean. The waters were calm, a blue-gray sheen with a few scatterings of tame whitecaps.

But despite its calm facade, Landry secretly suspected that beneath its placid surface lay a foreign world teeming with mystery and creatures beyond most humans’ imaginations.

He knew. He’d witnessed it with his own eyes.

No, don’t go there. Landry ran a hand through his hair and dismissed the foolish memories. He’d been a kid. A scared, ridiculous kid with a huge imagination. Nothing more to it. He reentered the cottage and made his way to the kitchen, determined to change the direction of his thoughts. He opened the fridge for a drink. His hand drew back abruptly at the sight of the porcelain cat figurine sitting on the shelf by the soda cans.

The same figurine he’d straightened on the sideboard less than ten minutes ago.

Damn. It was getting worse.

Chapter 2

Stay strong.

Jet repeated the phrase like a mantra as she sped through the rain-sloshed streets. Although it was not yet night, dark storm clouds blanketed the bayou. The town square was a jumble of small shops clustered around an old courthouse, much like any small Southern town.

But the life-size mermaid statue in the middle of the square was a departure from the norm. Rainwater streamed off the mermaid’s stone-and-steel form, giving the impression that the siren had just emerged, dripping, from the nearby gulf waters. The etched half smile on her face bespoke secrets buried deep within the mysterious body that was part sea creature, part human.

Bayou La Siryna’s founding fathers might have bought into the mermaid myth—old newspaper articles recorded local sightings—but nowadays, the natives scoffed at such nonsense. Most didn’t even recollect that the town’s name was given in recognition of the sea sirens.

Which suited Jet fine. With modern science, if humans suspected the old tales were true, mermaids would be hunted down and subjected to who-knew-what kind of experiments.

Her heart quickened as she rounded the curve on Shell Line Road with its row of rental bungalows nestled in thick pine and cypress. Lights glowed on porches and behind curtained windows like a promise, beacons of love and comfort that pierced her with longing. At one time she’d dreamed of fitting into this human world, since the merfolk didn’t have much use for her.

There it was. Third cottage on the left, where Perry had once lived. Light glimmered inside and a red Mustang was parked in the driveway, the kind of flashy car Perry would drive.

Three years. Three freaking years with no phone call, no letters, no nothing. She’d waited for an apology or any expression of remorse, had hoped incarceration would lead to introspection and recognition that he needed to change and beg her forgiveness. Stupid, stupid and more stupid. The memory of the last time she saw him replayed in her mind. During an expedition, Chilean marine police had caught them unawares. If only she had still been underwater, she would have heard the boat engine miles away. But after hours of bringing up the day’s catch, they’d taken a nap.

At their capture, Perry had pointed a finger at her, declaring it was her boat and her stuff. He’d even told them she was a freaking mermaid, a claim they laughingly dismissed. She’d had no choice but to jump overboard to protect her kind from possible exposure. The bleat of the horn and the shouting above had given way to the silence of the sea. But the usual numbing cocoon of the deep fathoms had failed to silence her despair.

In many ways, it still haunted her thoughts.

I’ve never gotten over it. All the pain of that betrayal churned inside her like a giant tidal wave as she pulled in behind the Mustang. Perry probably thought they would get back in business together. Hell, why wouldn’t he think she’d run back to him? In the past, she’d always done so, had overlooked his faults and dalliances.