Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) John Cunningham (the rosie project TXT) 📖

The Beast was just a shape in the darkness, and I ran my palm along the fuselage until I got to the hatch.

Something felt rough—the area around the lock was scratched. The hatch was unlocked!

Once inside, I grabbed the flashlight from the storage locker and hurried onto the flight deck. On my knees, my jaw fell open. The lock on my safe was also scratched. My hand shook as I reached for the dial—the entire seat frame was bent, as if someone had tried to rip the safe out.

I entered the combination and the door swung open.

The red sheaf with all my maps and clues was still there, thank God.

I leaned my head onto the left seat and waited until my breathing returned to normal. Sons of bitches! I debated what to do, but decided to relock the safe and head back to the private terminal, where I raised hell with security and demanded the FBO give the plane a thorough mechanical inspection first thing in the morning.

Back in the taxi, I decided not to share this with Truck. If I were him, I’d already be on the brink of bailing. Whether it was the Dominicans or Jack I wasn’t sure, but the stakes had again been raised.

We passed through St. Jean, looking into the darkness out the side window.

“Right now I want some tequila and decent food,” Truck said.

Which is exactly what he got, as administered by the two concerned British divorcees back at La Banane. To their dismay, I opted for JoJo Burger across from the beach.

I walked down the narrow strip of sand along the water, back toward the abandoned hillside where the carcass of l’Autour du Rocher stared down on me as if to say I warned you.

Back at the room, I left a voice mail for Caterina, apologizing for standing her up due to being stranded and unable to communicate, and asking for a second chance. I suggested brunch tomorrow at l’Oubli, across from Le Select. During the long hot shower that ensued, I vowed to go on the offensive in the morning. Then fell asleep thinking up ways to get revenge.

Truck hadn’t returned from his evening with his British nurses, so I left him a note and took the Jeep out on a recon mission. Too early for most and with no commercial traffic yet, there was little activity at the airport. As I drove up the hill toward the traffic circle I was able to see the private aviation lot. The Beast was there, a security guard now seated on a chair outside the building. Betty hadn’t returned.

I continued all the way around the circle and headed back toward St. Jean. Caterina hadn’t confirmed our brunch date, but I’d be there in case her curiosity outweighed her agitation. The road above St. Jean had a steady flow of traffic descending the hill: parents taking children to school and people headed for work. But the steep gravel drive to Nicole de Haenen’s house had no traffic whatsoever.

Nicole didn’t wait for a knock on the door to storm out with her shotgun. In her hiking shoes, khaki shorts, and tank top, she had the look of a woman on safari.

“Oh,” she said. “It is you.”

“Don’t seem so glad to see me.”

“Sorry,” she said. “How about, ‘Oh, I’m glad it’s you?’”

“Better.”

She lowered the gun.

“Going hunting, Mrs. Macomber?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who is that?”

“Sorry, it was a joke. You reminded me of an Ernest Hemingway story.”

“There has been a lot of unwanted traffic up here. I’m not used to visitors, especially unwelcome ones. I have work to do on the farm—it is ridiculous having to lock myself inside all the time.”

I studied her face. At least she’d avoided the kind of treatment Truck and Gisele had gotten. The shotgun helped but wouldn’t be enough if the serious players wanted to get to her.

“The Dominicans?” I said.

“And the other Americans. Both have been back.”

“Are you familiar with the American saying, ‘where there’s smoke—’”

“There’s fire, yes.” Her chest rose with a quick breath. “Care for some coffee?”

I enjoy the smell of ground coffee as much as I do drinking the finished product, and Nicole prepared ours in her French press with the precision of an engineer.

Once she filled two steaming mugs, I followed her out to the patio down the steps by the pool. The intimacy of the moment registered in my core. Why did I always allow primal attractions to distract me?

Because I was a sucker for confident women?

Nicole turned, handed me the mug, and sat in one of the chairs overlooking the bay of St. Jean. She stared down toward the beach a mile below and ran her fingers through her sandy blond hair.

“I need someone to trust, Buck.” She turned to face me, her sky-blue eyes aimed straight into mine. “Maybe it should be you.”

A tingle ran through me. I took a sip of coffee and waited.

“These other men are cold-blooded—what they did to Gisele, what I see in their eyes—and I heard about what happened to your friend.”

“They won’t give up, Nicole.”

A long breath lifted her chest.

“I went through my mother’s things, including the box of mementoes she kept from my grandfather.”

“And?”

“There were pictures from Remy’s trip with Cousteau.”

I held my breath.

“One was of a group of men poring over a chart table inside a ship, Remy amongst them. Another was of men in Scuba gear on the ship’s deck.”

I edged forward in the chair.

“And another photo showed all of them drinking champagne and toasting.”

“Hmm.” The treasure hunter in me wanted to pounce. The diplomat in me forced a nod and count to five.

“And there was a diary—totally random, mind you—but there were occasional months and years noted, along with cryptic initials and abbreviations. I found one passage from 1973 that included the initials J-YC—”

“Jacques-Yves Cousteau.”

“And a reference to Bd’A and Baie de demi lune, Hispaniola.”

“Half Moon Bay is where Burt Webber found a sizable chunk of the