1

THERE WAS NO SUCH THING as a dead man's curse.

In the murky twilight of two hundred feet of silty water, Daniel Burke felt like arguing the point as he squinted through his mask, searching for the ribs of the sixteenth-century Basque galleon on the ocean floor.

This recovery expedition had been cursed with everything from bad organization to shoddy safety practices, and the fact that Daniel knew he was only here to give it some legitimacy with the inevitable press orgy didn't help. He should have said no when the Society for the Preservation of Antiquities had approached him. He should have told them that water wasn't his element—he belonged in the desert, where layers of sandstone and petrified ash yielded their secrets as reluctantly as a beautiful woman, where caves and hills whispered to him of long-lost civilizations.

But no. The Society had promised him enough money to fund his next trip to Asia Minor, and he, like any dope, had fallen for it.

If the Society's information was correct, the master of the whaling ship had been the first European to set foot on the shores of the New World. Not Columbus. Not Cabot or Cartier. But a wily Basque captain who had seen the money that could be made out of whale oil from the dangerous waters off the Atlantic coast of Canada. Daniel had no idea how many trips the ship had made before those waters had claimed her, but the success of this expedition and maybe even his own reputation were waiting on the results.

Not to mention the kid's father.

The reason he was down here on an emergency rescue mission.

Ian MacPherson was a nineteen-year-old archaeology student swabbing decks in exchange for the SPA's exclusive right from the Canadian government to study the site. The fact that the kid's father was a high-ranking Canadian cabinet minister was the reason the Society had its permit—and Ian. The dumb-ass had swiped some diving equipment and gone over the side alone this morning, and some fifteen minutes had passed before anyone had noticed. Daniel was going to haul him back aboard by the scruff of his neck and ship him back to his father on the chopper.

As soon as he found him.

"I got not'ing forty feet from the site." The transmitter in Daniel's ear clicked as Luc Pinchot reported in from his left.

"Moi non plus," said the diver on his right.

"Another ten feet," Daniel said. "He has to have gone in to look at the site. He'll be here somewhere."

"The currents 'ere are pretty mean," Luc said. "'E could have been swep' to de nort'."

"One can only hope." Daniel's voice was grim. The little weasel was going to wish he'd been washed up on the Newfoundland rocks after Daniel got through with him. The untimely death of the cabinet minister's son was not the kind of publicity he needed right now.

A freak current cleared the silt for a split second—just long enough for him to see a flash of yellow neoprene in the beam of his lamp. "Straight ahead, twenty feet," he snapped. "Looks like our boy got himself into trouble."

The three divers put a little steam on and silt boiled around them as they surrounded Ian the Idiot. Somehow he'd managed to get his right foot caught between two heavy timbers—and was held down like a ferret in a leg trap.

"AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?"

Jah-Redd Jones, former NBA basketball star, Oscar nominee, and now the latest king of the talk-show hosts, leaned forward and his studio audience took a collective breath in anticipation.

Daniel brushed at his jeans and work boots and gave a modest smile that hid the disgust that hadn't quite faded, four months later.

"We worked his foot loose and got him up to the surface. But not before we discovered that the galleon had been used for more than just transporting whale oil." He grinned at the camera, drawing out the suspense, milking the extra second for all it was worth. "I figure the captain was an opportunistic kind of guy—because when an English ship blundered across its path, probably blown off course by a storm, he took the opportunity to relieve it of some of its cargo. Which in this case happened to be cases of Flemish wine and about fifty gold guineas."

The audience gasped and even Jah-Redd, pro that he was, sat back on the interviewer's couch with a big goofy grin. "Daniel Burke, man, there's a reason they call you 'the real Indiana Jones.' Folks, can't you see this as a movie? Huh?"

The studio audience burst into applause, the women in the front row whistling and stamping as if Daniel were an exotic dancer and they wanted to tuck bills in his G-string.

Daniel masked a sigh and held the grin between his teeth. His reputation was what brought in the funding. The fact that it was more of a media creation than reality didn't make it any less useful. Besides, there was a curvy woman in the front row and he'd bet a hundred bucks she'd be waiting at the street door when he left after his segment. While the audience clapped, he toyed with a few interesting possibilities.

"So tell me," Jah-Redd said, leaning on his elbows and clasping his hands under his chin, "is it true that the Canadian government gave you the Order of Canada for saving Ian MacPherson's life?"

"No." Daniel brought his wandering thoughts back to business. "There was talk, but it's hard to take a medal for doing what you'd do for any member of your crew." And saving a kid from his own stupidity isn't worth a medal. "The divers with me helped get him free, and that's when we discovered the gold. It was in a strongbox directly under where Ian was trapped. His struggles to get free had disturbed the silt that covered it."

Copyright © 2006 by Shelley Bates.