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

Concepcíon in 1978, off the coast of the Dominican Republic. The location has been referred to as Silver Shoals since the first silver was recovered there.”

We leaned so close together I could smell the coffee on her breath, along with a scent of something spicy, like nutmeg, from her skin.

“Ah, d’argent is silver in French. Bd’A is Banc d’Argent—Silver Shoal!” Her voice rose and she sat up straight.

An electrical current ran between us that made the hair on my arms stand up.

“What else was in the journal? Any more detail?”

“No, nothing.”

I sat back in the chair. She hadn’t mentioned her visit to the Eden Rock yet. Would she?

“Well, we knew he’d gone with Cousteau to look for the wreck,” I said, “but all reports were that they found nothing.”

“But the champagne! Why would they be celebrating?” She spoke quickly, her eyes darting around. Impending danger? The scent of treasure? I wasn’t sure what had her wound so tight.

“No mention of Jerry Atlas or Eden Rock?” I said.

“Plenty about the early days at Eden Rock—it was the first hotel on St. Barths, after all. He was very proud, and people came from all over the world—stars of the era like David Rockefeller, Montgomery Cliff, Johnny Weissmuller—he had brief notes on all of that, and their full names. Except …”

I sat forward again. “Except what?”

“Except for J-YC in 1973. Cryptic with him, but nobody else.”

Now I ran my hand through my hair. Was she telling me everything?

“What about Jerry?”

She shook her head. “Only the date of sale and the price. At the time it was the equivalent of $3.7 million, U.S. That was a lot of money in the mid-1990’s for a small forty-year-old hotel.”

“People say Remy was cash-poor in his final years. What happened to the money?”

Nicole spread her arms wide.

“La Villa ici. I have the entire top of this hill—and the money spent to improve the soil for the orchards, the care—this is the largest fruit plantation on St. Barths. It was quite expensive. Remember, this was a different time—”

“Time—damn!” I checked my watch. Alone here with Nicole, time had evaporated like dew in the morning sun. “I’m supposed to meet a historian from the French Maritime Academy in ten minutes. Caterina Moreau—do you know her?”

“No, I have no interest in treasure.” Her voice was a little too emphatic.

I explained that I’d no-showed the historian once already but didn’t go into the whole mess in Anguilla.

“We’re meeting at l’Oubli—would you like to join me?”

“Now?” She shook her head. “Impossible.”

We both jumped up at the same moment. She leaned forward and kissed my right cheek, then my left. A friendly gesture, but it caused a flutter in my chest. I mumbled something about seeing her later and hurried to the Jeep.

Nicole de Haenen was a distraction, but given her access to the community, she was a worthwhile distraction. Even if she hadn’t told me everything.

But I wasn’t telling her everything either.

The scene at l’Oubli was pure French: older men seated with younger women who were smoking cigarettes and stealing glances at younger men, along with a waitress working at her own pace as she delivered trays of espressos and café au laits to people seated nose to nose. An obese man with a Panama hat brushed past me as he cleared a path from the corner table for an anorexic bleached blonde. Since every other table was full, I waved away the smoke and sat down before the waitress cleared the plates.

With no sign of Caterina, I ordered a double espresso and a croissant. I used the pre-paid phone I’d bought at a nearby convenience store to search for information about her on the Internet. I found a couple of articles she’d written on maritime archeology—in French—and a listing of her address here in St. Barths. If Lou Atlas hadn’t followed through on his promise, I’d be dead broke after paying for brunch—

“I was relieved to get your message last night.”

I turned to my left—Caterina had entered from the far steps, this time in a skirt that stopped just above the knees and a translucent white blouse.

“I’m so sorry for standing you up, please accept my apologies. I really was stranded on another island with no phone and no way to get to one.”

She looked interested, not angry.

“Which island?”

“Anguilla.”

“Ah, elle est tres belle.” Her lips turned upward. “I was worried something had happened to you.”

“Something did,” I said. “But it’s the last thing I want to talk about.”

She took a moment to look around the room. Her dark hair remained in a bun and she still wore her black-framed glasses. She sat next to me, facing the crowd inside the restaurant.

“I forgive you.” She shook a Marlboro Light from her leather cigarette case. “Do you mind? Terrible habit I learned at the Sorbonne and have not been able to quit.”

When the waitress brought my croissant, Caterina ordered a cappuccino and we swapped biographical data. She knew all about my work at e-Antiquity, but when I mentioned Jack Dodson she didn’t react. She asked several questions about some of our noteworthy archeological discoveries, but her interest felt purely academic.

“Anyway, my treasure hunting has been on hold for quite a while.”

“That is not what they are saying here on St. Barths.” She tapped her index finger against her full lips. “And you were so good at it!”

I swallowed.

“I came here not to find treasure but to find out what happened to Jerry Atlas. Unfortunately the two matters are becoming increasingly inseparable.”

“Do you think there is any truth to the rumors about Jerry’s relationship with Remy de Haenen?” she said. “There is beaucoup de speculation about a connection beyond the sale and purchase of Eden Rock.”

“Speculation by whom?” I said.

A light laugh. “Once a rumor like that starts, it is impossible to tell where it began.”

“What do you know about Remy?” I asked.

She took a quick drag on her cigarette.

“Smuggler, rascal, developer, entrepreneur, and finally the