“Oh, and Con? Pirates and thieves don’t make good partners.”

CHAPTER NINE

LIZZIE STEPPED OUT of the head and blinked at the sight of Con sitting on her bunk, more stunned that he’d gotten in through her locked door without making a sound than the fact that she wore nothing but a bra and sleep pants.

“You should be dressed,” he said, his gaze hot on her chest as she gaped at him. “Not that I mind.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Trade secret.” He tossed her a T-shirt from the bed. “I told you to be ready at three.”

A little frisson of irritation skittered over her at his tone. This was her secret plan, and he’d hijacked ownership of it ever since she’d shown him the diamond.

“You’ll need a jacket, too,” he said. “It’s colder tonight than last night.”

“You were up there already?”

He pointed up. “Listen. You hear anything?”

She stood still, frowning as she absorbed the normal sounds of the boat. “No.”

“Good. The air compressor’s on.”

“It is? I was worried about that. It seems so noisy during the dives.” She pulled the sweatshirt over her head. “How did you do that?”

“I rigged it up so that it’s not vibrating the deck. That’s what the noise is, not the actual compressor. Let’s go. Everyone’s asleep. I want to do this fast.”

He wanted to do it. “Then let me dive. I can find that thing in my sleep.”

“In the time it would take you to put on a wet suit, I’ll have the scepter in my hand.”

Possibly. In their earlier dive that morning, when they were supposed to be treasure hunting, she timed him moving the ballast stones and the dirt to get to the scepter. It had taken about four minutes. A minute down and a minute up meant six total.

“You really are going to do this with no wet suit?”

“Of course. I can last six minutes in fifty-nine degrees. I checked the water temperature already.”

“But-”

He put his finger over her lips. “Not another word. Even on the deck. We go up, hookah in, you keep watch, and I’ll dive.”

He led her down the hall. Barefoot, they didn’t make a sound, and heard nothing until they reached the main deck. The compressor hummed softly from a new spot, resting on rubber strips. He’d already hooked in the air hose and the reserve tank.

She might not have thought of the rubber strips to dull the sound, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have been able to lift and maneuver the compressor since it was four feet square and heavy.

So, she really did need him, she rationalized as he attached his harness and mask and grabbed the hookah. Plus, skipping a wet suit saved valuable minutes.

It’s just that ever since she’d brought him into her plan, he’d taken over everything. Including her thoughts.

He slid down to the diving platform, and she handed him the air hose.

“Yank three times when you have it in your hand,” she said.

“More important. Yank two times if someone comes on the deck. You know what to say.”

Night diving was not unheard of, although it was generally done during the warmest months. The only person who would be truly furious was Dave since, as divemaster, he had to grant permission and log any dives.

“Just hurry.” She handed him the hose.

In an instant, he disappeared into the black water, the slice of moonlight offering almost no chance to see him, or even the bright yellow air hose.

So, she just stared at her watch.

When she reached the five minute mark, she looked over her shoulder to check the air compressor, which still hummed along quietly. The hose stayed still in her hand. One more minute and a man with so little body fat in sixty-degree water would be in trouble.

At six and a half mintues, she set the hose down and walked to the compressor, just to make sure it was working properly. The belt was moving. The relief valve was open, which would be normal. The reserve tank was doing its job cooling the air. The…

“Oh my God.” She stuck her hand around the remote air intakes. Gone. Both of them. He was breathing carbon monoxide.

Snapping the motor off, she didn’t even take a minute to think. She had no time to harness or set up a clean air system. No time to get a wet suit on. Grabbing a light hanging by the closest locker, she popped over the side, slid to the platform, took a huge breath, and threw herself into the water.

The scepter. He couldn’t drop the fucking gold scepter. But ever since Con had it in his hands, he’d been disoriented. It was heavy, even in the water. He dropped his flashlight but didn’t care, knowing there was only one way to go now. Up.

He kicked. He breathed. He spun around. Was he even going up?

A sharp pain stabbed his head at the same time his heart rate ratcheted up.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew what was going on. But he couldn’t lose the scepter. She’d be furious. Disappointed. Down here after it herself.

Lizzie. He blinked and saw her face.

Lizzie…

Then she was there. With no mask, no suit, her mouth clamped shut, her cheeks exploded with a held breath. In one move that seemed both sudden and slow, she twisted his regulator, cutting off the air.

What the hell?

She yanked him, kicking the water, kicking him. Pulling him. He squeezed the scepter. Couldn’t drop it. Couldn’t. But he couldn’t fight her, either.

They rose. He started to tread water, more out of instinct than anything. He let out a bubble of air. She did the same, her eyes, sparking from a flashlight she carried, burned on him, her insistence clear. Swim, those eyes said. Swim harder.

And he did. Harder, faster, then slamming through the surface and gulping in air as she did.

“Con!” Her voice was a harsh whisper. Or maybe she screamed. He couldn’t tell.

Damn it!

He shook his head, sucked in more air. Held onto the gold and blinked at her, still treading, still swimming. And so freaking cold.

“Are you okay? Con? Are you?”

He held up the scepter. “I got it.”

She nodded, water sluicing from her hair over her face, fury and fear over every feature.

“Carbon monoxide. You got that, too,” she said, tugging him toward the boat, yanking his mouthpiece out for him. “Do you know that?”

His head spun a little, but he kicked along with her, the first cohesive thought finally taking hold of his dis-oriented brain.

Carbon monoxide. Of course that’s what this was. How?

“Just swim. Stay with me,” she said, her teeth cracking against each other.

God, she must be so cold. She was so small and thin. He kicked harder, staying with her, oxygen finally seeping through his body and blood along with a determination to take over, to swim for her, not with her.

And not drop her damn scepter.

She yanked him to the boat, hoisting herself up the dive platform first, then turning to him. He lifted the scepter to her, and she barely looked at it, taking his arms in her hands instead and pulling.

“Just get up here, damn it.”

He threw his body onto the deck, and only then did she take the scepter with one hand, pulling his mask off with the other.

“Are you all right?” Her whole body shivered so hard she could hardly say the words. “Do you know your name? The date?”

“Your lips are blue,” he said. “Inside. We have to go inside.”

“Your name?” she insisted.

He ignored her, standing and helping her up, his brain almost clear but for the sharp, stinging headache and the cold that felt like it went right into his spine. “Turn the compressor off.”

“I did.”

“I’ll pull in the hose. You get in a blanket.” He turned, tugging at the air hose, which they had to coil up again. And he had to move the compressor back, leaving no evidence of what they’d done.

Holding the scepter in one hand, she thrust the hose back to the deck. “Let it go. You want to die? Who cares if we leave it? Dave’ll go batshit tomorrow. Inside, Con. Now!”