Emerald Fire
Cover Copy
Chloe Larson is a historian obsessed with clearing the name of her grandfather, eight generations back. After his heroic exploits during the Prussian Wars his life slid sadly into oblivion and madness, taking with him the location of a queen’s priceless emerald jewels. But the discovery of a cryptic two-hundred year old journal written by a man history declared insane might offer a clue.
Finnegan Kane is a top-notch marine bounty hunter on the hunt for the Emerald Fire, a 120-foot Sunseeker yacht stolen by ruthless Caribbean pirates. It’s the kind of dirty work that keeps his antique ship restoration business afloat, but that doesn’t mean he has to put up with the fiery demands of an admittedly gorgeous historian. But when Chloe offers the one thing that practically guarantees success—the GPS coordinates of the Fire’s location—he has no choice but to forge into uncharted waters.
With danger at every turn, Chloe and Finnegan must battle against the odds to decipher a historical legacy and settle a score against a family gone mad.
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Books by Monica McCabe
Jewel Intrigue series
Diamond Legacy
Emerald Fire
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Emerald Fire
Jewel Intrigue series
Monica McCabe
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
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Copyright © 2016 by Monica McCabe
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First Electronic Edition: July 2016
eISBN-13: 978-1-60183-654-0
eISBN-10: 1-60183-654-6
First Print Edition: July 2016
ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-656-4
ISBN-10: 1-60183-656-2
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To anyone who has the courage to explore outside the lines. Here's wishing your journey to be filled with a lifetime of curiosity, imagination, and grand adventure.
Author’s Foreword
Modern day piracy is a very real danger for those on the high-seas. From power boats to luxury yachts to commercial fleets, vessels are stolen, crew ransomed, and companies extorted for excessive amounts of cash. Worldwide losses are estimated at over $16 Billion annually. And it’s not just the African coasts. South China Seas, Indonesia, South and Central America, and the Caribbean are all hotbeds. Despite this harsh reality, piracy is very difficult to combat. International waters offer no safeguards. Anti-piracy measures are being enacted on a global scale, but it's complicated and costly to prosecute. Maritime companies are encouraged to take Self-Protective Measures and are beginning to hire private security personnel for their ships. While all this makes excellent material for movies and fiction novels, the threat to global commerce is substantial and far-reaching. Marine insurance rates have soared and the use of Recovery Specialists is just one method to help control sky-rocketing cost of claims. It's a lucrative and dangerous line of work, but is utilized for everything from luxury yachts, to cars, to fine art and exceptional jewels. A skilled bounty hunter is a valuable asset and worth their weight in gold.
Acknowledgements
There is never a shortage of people to thank in the creation of a novel. Many hands are part of the process and all help make the creative work the very best it can be. I'm grateful for every contribution, big or small. And a huge thank you to my friends at Music City Romance Writers. This journey wouldn't have happened without the years spent honing my craft with you all. And to Corinne DeMaagd, whose excellent skill as an editor is only surpassed by her love of family and adventure. May the wind forever fill your sails.
Chapter 1
Finnegan Kane adjusted his sunglasses against a brilliant Caribbean sun and scanned the picturesque harbor. Yachts, cruisers, and skiffs dotted the vivid blue water of Castries Bay. A veritable postcard of idyllic island life to a tourist, a complicated crime scene to a marine recovery specialist like Finn.
Paradise masked a deadly secret.
“It’s like I said, mon. Nothing to see.”
St. Lucia’s harbor clerk wore the standard island uniform of shorts, loose shirt, and sandals, but the carefree island attitude was missing. Finn didn’t care. There wasn’t room for sympathy in his budget, and with the kind of money at stake here, he’d make as many enemies as needed.
But the uncooperative clerk had a point. Piracy troubled the islands, and stolen yachts rarely left a trail. In a span of minutes, lines were cut, security systems disabled, and easy money sailed away.
Bad odds for recovery, but impossible never had stopped him before. Clues always hid in the details, and he needed a timetable. “When did the Emerald Fire first appear in the harbor?”
“Four days ago,” the clerk answered. “Pretty boat. Sleek and tricked out. She berthed in Trou Garnier, that upper cove past Pointe Seraphine.” He pointed across the harbor to a deep inlet.
A stiff breeze snapped a harbor flag above them and stirred the mustiness of wet wood from the city’s industrial pier. Finn breathed deep the familiar calming scent and did the math. The Fire arrived in St. Lucia on Tuesday, was last seen late Wednesday, and Thursday afternoon Boston Marine Insurance received word she’d gone missing. He’d jumped a plane that night and arrived at the Harbor Master’s office Friday morning. That meant thieves had roughly a day and a half head start.
Discouraging news. The Caribbean was chock full of small islands, hidden inlets, and desperately poor residents more than willing to turn a blind eye. The Fire could be anywhere by now.
Still, he had a trick or two yet to play. “You questioned all the captains in the harbor?”
The clerk’s eyes shifted away, giving Finn his answer. His jaw hardened in anger. Not only were local authorities uncooperative, they displayed a total lack of concern for proper procedure. Any missing ship, especially a ten-million dollar luxury yacht like the Emerald Fire, required thorough investigation.
“Any clues?” he persisted. “Descriptions?”
“We talked to most of them,” the guy hedged. “Nobody saw, mon.”
Finn snorted. “You’re lying.”
He got a drop-dead glare for an answer.
“Know what I think?” Finn couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice. “You ignore protocol and allow piracy to occur unchecked. You might as well hand thieves an open invitation. Boaters out there deserve to be warned.”
This time the clerk didn’t hide his exasperation. “Know what happens if I start talking stolen vessels?” He waved his hand with a snap of his fingers. “Tourist dollars go bye-bye.”
Finn made a fist, fighting the urge to hit something. That was exactly the kind of attitude crime adored and a good portion of the problem in trying to stop it. But that wasn’t his battle. Right now he needed information. “I’ll have a look at your piracy reports now.”
Based on a resentful go-to-hell expression, his watchdog wanted to argue. But he couldn’t deny an insurance investigator access, not one who could make trouble in paradise.
“Nothing to see in those books, mon.”
“Maybe not, but I want to look anyway.”
Clearly annoyed, the guy pivoted on his heel and marched away from the pier.
Finn followed, unconcerned. Making people mad went with the territory. Call it an occupational hazard. Say the words ‘insurance adjuster’ and cooperation fizzled. Not that he cared. He kept it in perspective. It was a job, one he was good at and paid well.
They silently marched across the crowded cargo yard toward an unremarkable wood slat building painted a nondescript harbor gray. It squatted inside the curve of a city street, nearly invisible on the industrial edge of town.
Once past the front door, however, all that changed. It became a 1950 Panama Jack movie set, complete with bamboo palm ceiling fans, WWII military-issue metal desks, and shuttered windows open to catch island breezes. Finn half expected a khaki-clad bloke with a fedora and dangling a cigarette to ask the immortal question, “What’s up, Joe?”
Instead, his belligerent clerk rounded the counter, grabbed a thick logbook, and plopped it on the long stretch of Formica between them.
“St. Lucia waters are safe, mon. No pirates live here.”
Maybe not, but Finn bet they hung out nearby. Facts didn’t lie. Thousands of ships disappeared each year, marine insurance rates soared, and Caribbean waters were certainly not immune. But he wasn’t here to argue statistics. He let the comment pass, flipped open the log of missing vessels, and began to scan the most recent.
An argument began filtering in from another room. A feminine voice, smooth and cultured, clashed with a sharp male baritone. Frustration sounded on both sides. Finn ignored it and kept at the piracy reports. Until he heard two words that guaranteed his involvement.
Emerald Fire.
He glanced up at the clerk. “What’s going on?”
The guy shrugged indifferently. “Don’t know.”
Finn bit back a retort and made a show of studying the reports again, but in reality he strained to hear more. He only caught snatches of conversation.
“Unimportant…missing boat…log reports…sent alerts.” The man’s voice, clearly exasperated.
She sounded softer, harder to hear, but definitely arguing the point. Half a minute later, they stood in the doorway of a connected office.
“Look miss, it really doesn’t matter who called in the report. It’s not our job to investigate missing persons. Talk to the police.”
“The police sent me here to you!” Anger crackled in the air around her, and Finn blatantly stared.
“There’s nothing more I can do.” The man tossed his hands up in a move worthy of the theater. “Rest assured, if something surfaces, I’ll be the first to call you.”
Finn recognized deflection when he heard it. The lying barnacle had no intention of keeping his word.
She knew it, too, since her full lips compressed into a thin line. But she had little choice in the matter. The interview was over. Straightening to a full five-foot-five, if that, she jotted something down on a piece of paper and handed it to the guy. “My phone number, in case you change your mind and decide to be helpful. Thank you for your time.”
While she stormed across the lobby, Finn watched her every step. The pearls and buttoned-up blouse screamed proper and conservative, but the fury in those magnificent light brown eyes of hers threatened to burn the house down. She sailed right past him, huffing something about astronomical incompetence.
As soon as she cleared the front door, Finn smacked the piracy log closed and pushed it back across the counter. “I’ll be around a few more days,” he said to the clerk. “Be seeing you again.”
The guy looked less than thrilled at the news, but no matter. Right now Finn intended to brave the flames and follow the girl. She wanted information about Emerald Fire, which meant he wanted information from her.
Outside he slid his shades back on and scanned the cargo yard. Her high-octane stride had her more than halfway across the container field, aiming toward the ship’s landing dock. He watched her hit the edge of the concrete pier and stop to stare out at the crystal blue waters of Castries Bay.
For a minute, he debated a direct approach, but quickly decided against it. He needed to act fast if he’d any hope of finding the Emerald Fire, but she needed a minute to cool down. So he made his way to the parking lot where he leaned against the bumper of his rental to wait.
He’d a direct line of sight on her restless pacing and, based on her short jerky steps, white-hot anger consumed her. Still, she was pretty easy on the eyes, and he enjoyed the view, despite the fact she was clearly the type he tried to avoid. He didn’t go for culture and sophistication, wine over beer, proper and prim society girls. And this one had that look in spades. Even her steps were measured. Four steps left, stop and stare at the water, then four steps right, stop and stare. If he were a betting man, he’d pin her for one of those organized people. Everything in its place, all patterned, tucked, and perfectly pressed.
She’d never last a day in his world.
Nearby seagulls screeched, gathering on the tall pylons of a private pier as a fly-bridge fishing boat chugged up to the dock. A deckhand jumped off to rope her in place and tourists began off-loading with their catch of the day.
She noticed, too, and turned to leave, aiming his way with that supercharged stride. But her eyes were downcast, focus inward, as she rounded a tiny inlet and made for the parking lot.
In less than two minutes, she drew within earshot, and he made his move.
“You’re looking for the Emerald Fire?”
Miss Smooth and Proper froze, then slowly turned to stare at him, all wary and distrustful. “What if I am?”
“If you are, that makes two of us.”
Her eyes narrowed. He’d been wrong when he thought they were brown. That description didn’t do them justice. They were the color of topaz, warm, sultry, and strangely compelling. And they glared at him in defiance and suspicion.
He needed an olive branch, a big one to reach beyond that thorny barrier.
“I’m with Boston Marine Insurance,” he tried. “And we’re interested in finding the missing yacht.”
A finely arched brow lifted, but her expression didn’t soften. “Let me see your credentials.”
Finn opened his wallet to display his investigator ID and handed her a business card for good measure.
She studied both then glanced up at him. “Well, Mr. Finnegan Kane, you’ve arrived awfully fast,” she said. “The Fire was only reported missing yesterday afternoon.”
Her skin looked sun-kissed, like Mediterranean blood ran a generation or two back. And the woman definitely came from money. Perfect posture, velvety brown hair pinned into place, and well-rounded curves wrapped in designer digs.
“In my line of work, it pays to act fast. I hope you packed some cooler clothes,” he said as he pointed to airline tickets poking out of her shoulder bag.
“Of course I did,” she scoffed and tucked the papers deeper into her purse. “What do you want Mr. Kane?”
She was direct—he’d give her that. “How about your name for starters?”
She tapped his card against her fingers, debating, but it didn’t last long. He gave her a point for that one.
“My name is Chloe Larson,” she finally said. “Jona
than Banks is my uncle.”
Well, damn. That’s a twist he didn’t need. Emotional ties spelled interference, especially if they were strong. This had potential problem written all over it, and he stared at her in silent indecision, debating the most profitable path to take.
“You do know who Jonathan Banks is, right?” she said sarcastically when he hadn’t replied. “I mean, how good of an investigator are you if you don’t know who owns the boat you’re searching for?”
And that just proved his point. Trouble had already started.
“Why are you here?” His words came out curt, matching a mood that just soured.
“I’d think the answer is obvious,” she snapped. “But if you’re here to verify Lisa Banks’ insurance claim, I’ll warn you right now, she’ll be filing for his life insurance next. Probably sometime in the next sixty seconds.”
Finn lowered his head to gaze at her over his sunglasses. In his line of work, animosity always proved interesting. Dark emotions inspired crime.
“So your aunt’s after money,” he said. “Duly noted.”
“That woman is not my aunt.”
Nope. No love lost there. “Then you should be thrilled I’m here,” he said.
She used her hand to block the sun from her eyes. “Meaning?”
“I’m here to recover the Emerald Fire, not verify a claim.”
Her brows dipped even lower, if that was possible. “You’re a bounty hunter?”
Why did she make that sound bad? He might be offended, but decided forgiveness better fit the circumstances. “I prefer Marine Recovery Specialist. And I’m damn good at what I do.”