Stolen Treasures

Book 1: Tropical Persuasions

by Laurie Ryan

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Claire Saunders is on the brink of realizing her dreams and putting her past behind her. She could care less about a group of pirates preying on San Diego. Nothing will derail her. Or so she thinks, until she finds herself an unwilling passenger aboard a schooner at sea. A reluctant participant in a covert operation, she sails further and further away from everything she's worked so hard for. Without her there, everything she's worked so hard for will fall apart.

Hot-shot agent Dion Gaetani can't believe he's been saddled with a civilian. Worse—a woman. Guilt-ridden over a prior op gone bad, this is a burden he doesn't need.

Together, they must work in close quarters to capture a rogue band of pirates. The stakes are high. Dion's own boat, the Treasure, is the bait. And an unwelcome yet undeniable desire is the complication.

Release date: August 18, 2015

Publisher: L&M Enterprises

Print pages: 278

Sample

Chapter One

San Diego, present day

Claire Saunders closed her eyes and let her hands guide the way. She skimmed the surface, caressed the beveled edges, and moved on to the legs, searching each curve for imperfections. A small sigh of satisfaction escaped. Smooth as glass and not a single rough edge. She smiled and opened her eyes. There were no discernible flaws in the antique table. And if she couldn’t find any, no one else would, either.

She’d been right about the rosewood grain, too.

Claire stroked the surface once more, following the striations in the wood. Light and dark in perfect harmony. Under three layers of paint! It had taken a lot of patience, but the stripping and sanding had been worth it. The table was lovely.

As she pulled her facemask down and inhaled the pungent, woodsy scent, Claire braced herself for the memories, paying silent homage to the man who had taught her how to make the wood come alive. A master craftsman who happened to also be her father. This was his legacy, and the only connection to him she had left. At least, the only one she wanted to acknowledge.

“You’d have liked this one, Dad,” she whispered.

Except no one was there to hear. Not anymore. She’d give anything to have him back. Claire threw the sanding block to the floor as the inevitable resentment followed. If he were here, he could clean up his own mess. It would take her years to do it for him.

She wiped a hand across her brow, moving damp, honey-colored hair out of her way. A week into September and the unseasonably warm San Diego temperatures still topped eighty degrees by midday. Her workshop, a converted garage below her apartment, had no windows, and only a small, valiant fan near the big door worked to push the heat back outside. It wasn’t doing too good of a job at it, either.

A month of painstakingly slow work had cost her, but the promised elegance would be delivered on time. She hoped. As long as she could get the first clear finish coat on today.

Stretching to ease muscles cramped from too many hours hunched over, Claire reached for a broom as her stomach growled. She’d grab some breakfast while the dust settled, then apply the first coat. A quick glance at the clock on the wall confirmed that timing would be tight. She needed to be down at the waterfront by mid-afternoon.

Claire frowned. Her day job as an administrative assistant at the Harbor Island Yacht Club was a necessity, though not one she particularly liked. She should have never agreed to organize the four-day Festival of Ships. Even worse, she’d practically begged for the opportunity. It had turned out to be a nightmare of egos and regulations, and she’d come close to giving up more times than she could count.

Her apartment felt like a cooler in comparison to the workshop. With no air conditioning, though, the feeling wouldn’t last long. Still, Claire thought as she rubbed the goose bumps on her arms, I’ll enjoy it while I can.

The incessant chime of her cell phone called her. Breakfast would have to wait a couple more minutes. Tracking the phone down in her bedroom, she tapped voicemail. There were three messages, all from her boss. Each one said the same thing.

Call me immediately.

Great. What did he think was wrong now? Claire pushed her boss’s speed dial number.

“Good morning, Mr. Seton.”

“Claire?” his voice boomed. “Where are you?”

“I’m home at the moment, sir.”

“At home? Why are you still at home? All hell is breaking loose down here! How many times have you told me you could handle this? Now here we have this mess and you’re not here?”

Her goose bumps returned, and her legs threatened to buckle, so Claire sat down on the nearest piece of furniture, her bed, or the mattress on the floor that passed as her bed. It wasn’t much, but it supported her now.

“What’s wrong? Everything was ready when I left last night.”

“It’s not about the preparations, it’s about the boats. They’ve arrived early! They aren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow, and there are already ships out here waiting for berths. What are you going to do?”

Claire’s shoulders slumped in relief. “It’s fine, Mr. Seton. Some of them won’t be in the parade of ships. They were scheduled to arrive early.”

“Why didn’t I know this? Why wasn’t I told?”

Claire raised her eyes to the ceiling in a silent prayer, remembering the exact conversation she’d had with him only one week ago to overview the plan.

“We have too many ships for the line,” she explained again. “Plus, some of the ships need to be docked before ones in the parade can come in.”

Quite sure at that moment that she heard a “harrumph” on the other end of the line, Claire stifled a laugh at the vision of her boss standing on the dock with one arm wildly waving as he spoke, his face red and slightly puffed. A tall man with a commanding presence and a full head of white hair, he would be noticeable.

“Well, I don’t remember this at all. Besides, just how are they going to berth without you here to direct them? They have no idea where to go. This is your fault, Claire Saunders. You wanted this responsibility. You are supposed to be here.”

The fleeting smile disappeared. “I’ll be there shortly, Mr. Seton,” she said stiffly. “Anthony is there to direct the ships, and I’ve already spoken with him this morning.”

“Anthony? Who, pray tell, is Anthony?”

“He’s the harbor patrol liaison who volunteered to help out with the festival this year. You met him last week.”

“Oh. Um, yes, I believe I do remember him after all. Now, what did he look like again?”

“Dark hair, older, not too tall. He should be out there, radio in hand, giving orders, and directing movement on the water.”

“Yes. Yes, I see him now.”

“Mr. Seton, it’s important that you stay out of his way,” Claire begged. “He needs total concentration to get these yachts into the right slips. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, I do. I think I’ll just go see if he’s got everything under control.”

“No, Mr. Seton! Please—”

Her plea came too late. Her boss had already hung up. Claire knew from experience that he would bungle everything. Damn. Why couldn’t he trust her this once? She had everything under control.

She hoped.

A second “damn” came out as she rushed to change into clean clothes grabbed from the neatly folded piles around the room. She needed a dresser, but didn’t have the money for one yet. She needed a bed and something to replace the cardboard box beside it, too.

Her living area was perfection defined. She had meticulously restored cast off furniture from others to create an illusion of comfort and wealth. That had led to outside orders, like the table currently waiting in her shop. Along with her meager salary from the yacht club though, it still fell short. As yet, she hadn’t the money to pay off the mountain of debts and close in on her dreams. Her bedroom was certainly visible proof of that. This festival had to be a success! The new job she’d been promised meant her goals would be in sight.

Claire splashed some water on her face and glanced at her watch. Damn. She grabbed her makeup bag and keys and raced out. Stopping to lock her workshop, she took one last, regretful look at the table sitting there.

She would miss her deadline on the table. She needed to be down at the waterfront now instead of in three hours—thanks to the irritating ineptitude of one Mr. George Seton, of the Mayflower Setons, of course.