Not your business, Romeo told himself because he had a bad habit of starting stuff with bombed-out barflies who thought downing five or six shooters gave them a good excuse to act like dickwads.
When he realized the harried woman had four friends with her—they’d been at the bar ordering drinks while she saved the table—he hastened his steps toward Mia and company, comforted by the thought that, between the five of them, they can more than handle this annoying alcohooligan.
Mia must’ve felt his approach.
She turned and the instant those fascinating eyes of hers collided with his, some invisible bastard slugged him in the gut. Like, for real though, he couldn’t breathe, and the tequila threatened to return for an encore performance.
He managed what he hoped looked like a friendly smile—we’re friends; she’s my friend. And he was able to utter a hoarse “thanks” when she pulled out a chair in wordless invitation.
“You done playing Doc’s support brah?” Alex quipped after he’d taken a seat.
Alexandra Merriweather was a diminutive historian and expert in procesal—the script used in the old Spanish Colonial documents. She’d been key in helping the Deep Six Salvage crew find the final resting place of the Santa Cristina. She was also a bookworm, a motor-mouth, and a wunderkind when it came to random bits of trivia.
Did you know only female mosquitoes bite? Did you know Aristotle had a stutter? Did you know 270 characters died in the series Breaking Bad?
Romeo had learned all of that from Alex. Which would have been more than enough to endear her to him, because he liked inane information as much as the next guy. That she’d also convinced Mason to take a second chance on romance when the man had sworn to live the rest of his life loveless and lonely? That had made Romeo absolutely love her.
“The key to being a great wingman,” he told her with a wink, “is knowing when to fly away.”
She snorted. Then her brow wrinkled as she glanced toward the bar and Doc’s broad back. “What’s up with him anyway? I’ve never seen him pass up dessert.”
They’d been downing dinner at Pepe’s Cafe—a hole-in-the-wall that was as popular with the locals as it was with the tourists because once you got past its ramshackle appearance, you realized the food was outstanding. But when their waiter came by to ask if they wanted slices of Key lime pie to finish off their meal, Doc had pushed back from the table and declared his intention to head to the bar to, quote, “Find a lovely lady who’ll want to add my banana to her fruit salad.”
Like so many of Romeo’s former SEAL Team buddies and current business partners, Doc had a truly inventive way with words.
The look of disappointment on Mia’s face when it seemed she’d have to skip dessert had nearly broken Romeo’s heart. And since he’d needed a breath of fresh air after having spent the entire meal ignoring the fireworks going off in his groin because his knee had been touching hers under the snug little table, he’d volunteered to head out with Doc while she and the others indulged their sweet tooths.
Sweet teeth?
Whatever. The point was, he’d been happy to play the part of Doc’s wingman not only because it meant Mia got her pie, but also because, “Today’s an unhappy anniversary for Doc,” he explained to Alex.
Her freckled nose wrinkled. “Is it? Nobody ever talks about—”
She was cut off when one of the women at the table behind them said in a strident voice, “Look, pal, she said she doesn’t want to dance. Make like the insect you are and buzz off.”
Romeo was stopped from turning to view the scene when Mia grumbled, “Someone should tell that guy that being a dick won’t make what he’s packing in his pants any bigger. It doesn’t work that way.”
As usual, her voice was soft and husky, barely rising above the noise of the bar. But there was nothing soft about her expression as she watched the table of ladies trying to dissuade Sir Slurs-a-Lot.
Romeo felt his lips curve into a wide grin. The thing about Mia Ennis was that she was incredibly circumspect. Some might even call her closed-mouthed. In fact, for the first few weeks she’d worked with Deep Six Salvage, he didn’t think she’d uttered more than a dozen words.
Which meant discovering her salty wit and dry sense of humor had been more exciting than unearthing long lost treasure.
Or at least he thought it was more exciting. They hadn’t found the Santa Cristina’s mother lode, so he couldn’t say for sure.
After carefully picking over the submerged remains of the galleon, they’d determined her cache of riches was missing. Turning their attention to searching Wayfarer Island with metal detectors had only proved that some of the Santa Cristina’s crew had survived the wreck and spent some time marooned on the island. Finally, in a last-ditch effort, they’d used ground penetrating sonar and jackpot!
Uh, not jackpot jackpot. They hadn’t found the riches, but they had stumbled across a plot of old, unmarked graves.
In one of those graves, they’d uncovered the remains of the Santa Cristina’s famous captain. The metal buttons found alongside the bleached bones and stamped with the Vargas family crest had told them as much. But better than the bones or the buttons had been the captain’s journal.
Someone had done their best to preserve the tome by wrapping it in oilcloth before placing it inside an old lead box and burying it beside the man. The delicate ledger held the mundane reports of the ship’s activities up until the day of the sinking, and then nothing. Except for one final entry on the very last page.
“Tell me again what the last journal entry read,” Romeo said to her now, needing a distraction from the nearby drama.
He was this close to jumping into the fray and giving Señor Shitfaced a shiner. If anyone deserved five in the eye, it was that guy.
Alex cleared her throat. In a voice filled with portent, she quoted, “Alas, the mighty ship has gasped her final breath. But despair not. Her enormous life force remains. If you are a true son of Spain, you will know where to find it.”
She shuddered and rubbed her arms to flatten the goose bumps there. Romeo felt a chill steal up his own spine. It was like Captain Bartolome Vargas himself whispered across the centuries, telling them they were close.
Below the words in the old journal had been printed a series of careful symbols. Alex had recognized them immediately. Although, to everyone’s disappointment, she hadn’t been able to decode them.
“It requires King Philip’s encryption device,” she’d told them while carefully closing the ancient ledger. “I’ve read about the ciphers used between the king and his sea captains, but as far as I know, no samples of the code have ever been found. Until now...” She’d rubbed a reverent, featherlight finger over the delicate leather cover.