e alt="" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#fb3_img_img_0779a3a6-4d18-576e-a73a-146d99cb7b0e.png"/>
“Kiss me.”
As Brenna’s breath caught in her throat, her heart lurched to a stop. Was there something to this honey-and-bees thing? Maybe, with their chemistry leading them, they could find common ground somehow.
Gavin continued in a low Texas drawl, “For some reason, I find temperamental redheads fascinating all of a sudden. Are you going to let me kiss you or not?”
“I was waiting for you. Are you sure your lothario reputation is actually earned, because so far—”
His mouth covered hers mid-rant. His lips were warm, persuasive and sent a spark of desire shooting down her spine.
He cupped her jaw in his hand, angling her head to deepen the kiss, his tongue gliding against hers. She pressed her body against his, her hands clutching his soft cotton shirt as she fought to get closer.
Man, he felt amazing. She closed her eyes, shutting out her conscience, reminding her that she was kissing her opponent.
“I really don’t need this complication in my life at the moment,” he whispered hotly against her cheek.
“You’re hopelessly arrogant,” she returned, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing against his firm chest.
“You’re too serious.” His lips moved over hers for another heated kiss.
“And you could be a lot quieter …”
Dear Reader,
On February 17, 1864, the H. L. Hunley became the first submarine to sink an enemy vessel. Unfortunately, neither the ship nor the crew ever made it back to shore. For more than a hundred and thirty years, the fate of the Hunley was shrouded in mystery. Then in 1995, after a concerted effort by a team organized by author Clive Cussler, it was finally discovered four miles off the coast of Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina. (One of the reallife islands that led to the creation of my own Palmer’s Island.)
This story, along with information about the CSS Alabama, which raided merchant ships during the Civil War, inspired my own tale. Now, whether the Alabama had a pirate for a captain and booty of gold and gems on board is unlikely. But into the controversy of how to handle the recovery of my fictional ship, I’ve tossed Brenna McGary and captivating treasure hunter Gavin Fortune. These two are a volatile and electric combination, determined to protect history—and get their hands on each other as often as possible.
Thank you to all the readers who’ve been with my Palmer’s Island novels from the beginning. I’m going to end here for now and move on to a new locale, but, rest assured, the gang on PI is enjoying their happily-ever-after—as well as running into mystery and adventure from time to time.
Happy reading!
Wendy Etherington
About the Author
WENDY ETHERINGTON was born and raised in the deep South—and she has the fried-chicken recipes and NASCAR ticket stubs to prove it. The author of more than twenty books, she writes full-time from her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her husband, two daughters and an energetic shih tzu named Cody. She can be reached via her website, www.wendyetherington.com.
Irresistible
Fortune
Wendy Etherington
To my sisters, Catherine Word and Laura Gurner, whose unconditional love and encouragement remind me that I come from good stock.
1
BRENNA MCGARY FLUNG OPEN the door of C’s Styles and Spa.
Pausing only to wave at the receptionist, she stalked past two stylists and the nail tech’s desk, zoning in on the shop’s owner, Courtney.
Her friend and fellow historical society member, Sloan Kendrick, sat in Courtney’s chair, her long blond hair encased in several dozen foil highlighting packets.
“Wait till you read the latest,” Brenna said, waving the Palmer’s Island Herald.
Sloan continued to flip through a fashion magazine. “That idiot reporter Jerry Mescle is way too wordy for me. Give us the bottom line.”
“Gavin Fortune is part of the research team.”
To Brenna’s disgust, this announcement was met not by an echo of her own deeply held outrage, but by breathy sighs and rosy cheeks.
Courtney dropped her comb and snatched the paper from Brenna’s hand. “Is there a picture?”
Two stylists left their clients to hover over Courtney’s shoulder and take a peek. Even blissfully married Sloan leaned in.
Brenna rolled her eyes. Of course there was a picture. What was the fun of being a money-grubbing, morally vacant opportunist if you weren’t also the hottest man on the planet?
And Gavin Fortune definitely fit that bill.
Even with that idiotic, had-to-be-made-up name.
Recently, a team of researchers from Miami had found a Civil War era ship a few miles off the coast of Palmer’s Island and begun recovery procedures. The Carolina had cruised the waters and raided merchant vessels between the U.S. and the Caribbean from 1861 until the spring of 1863, when she and her crew arrived in Charleston Harbor to aid the Confederacy in the war effort.
Her seamen—cynics might call them privateers at best, pirates at worst—fought valiantly for the South for five months before the Union sank the ship on September 16. The location of the wreckage had become a fascinating legend to locals, due to the rumor of the ship’s valuable cargo. The crew had supposedly been secretly carrying infamous pirate Captain James Cullen and his treasure chest of jewelry and gold coins.
Now, with glory-hound treasure hunter Gavin Fortune front and center, the Miami team had turned out to be exactly what Brenna and the other members of both the Charleston and Palmer’s Island historical societies had feared most—a grave robber.
“Too bad the Herald can’t afford to print in color anymore,” Courtney commented, ruefully shaking her head of blazing red curls.
“Even in black and white, he’s pretty dreamy,” Sloan said as Courtney handed the paper to one of the other stylists, who wanted a closer look.
Brenna huffed in disgust. “Dreamy? Are you people insane? Gavin Fortune is the devil. The enemy. The scourge of historical societies the world over. The secretary of the Charleston group told me she started a website www.diefortunedie.”
Brenna’s friends stared at her.
Sloan angled her head. “Gee, Bren. We appreciate passion in our members, but as long as you pay your dues, murder isn’t part of the initiation ceremony.”
“You need some highlights to calm you down,” Courtney said, snagging her hand and leading her to the empty chair one station over.
Barely glancing at her strawberry-blond locks in the mirror, Brenna crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you guys those people were up to no good.”
“We always figured they were more interested in the treasure than the historical aspects of the discovery.” Sloan managed a small smile, even though Brenna knew she was just as worried. “That photo op looked more like an ad for swimwear than a serious scientific endeavor.”
Brenna recalled the event, the recovery team posing on the marina’s main pier with two bikini-clad girls holding up a gold plastic treasure chest,