“That’s not what I mean! You talked about a client. Who do you work for?”

“Judd Paxton.”

“What?” The word was more of a croak than a question.

“Judd Paxton is my client.” His voice was low, calm, deadly. “The woman on the phone was my boss. She runs a security and investigation firm called the Bullet Catchers. Judd Paxton hired her to place an undercover representative on the boat to track and secure the treasures, and discover who on the crew was tampering and stealing them.”

She blinked, speechless. In her chest, something shattered. Her heart, no doubt. Her pride. Her faith in mankind.

As he ducked out of the cabin she lunged at him, seizing his arm to yank him around.

“You liar! You bastard! You helped me under false pretenses, taking everything I’ve told you right back to Judd Paxton.” Rage caught in her throat, stealing her breath. “You slept with me, letting me think you were some kind of… of… hero.”

“I never told you that. I never, ever said those words.”

“I did, and you didn’t correct me.”

“I didn’t confirm or deny. You went off on some kind of-of fantasy.”

“And you let me.”

“I didn’t-”

“You didn’t exactly put your hand over my mouth, shut me up, and say, ‘Hey, Lizzie. I work for the enemy.’”

He turned, put his hands on either side of the opening, and hoisted himself up to the deck. She stayed kneeling on the cushions where they’d just made love, clutching the underwear that she’d just begged him to take off her.

What an idiot! She smacked the cushion so hard a jolt ran up her arm, and then remembered Alita. Mourning and disbelief replaced anger, making her ache, making her relive the loss of her father.

And suddenly she missed her sister so desperately, it hurt more than anything else.

Shaking a little, she started to get dressed. If she was feeling sorry for anyone, it should be for Alita. She could save her own pity party until Flynn Paxton was in jail.

The reality of that hit her again as the engines started and the boat took off, knocking her backward. Swearing as she stabbed her arms into her sleeves, she fumbled with the buttons he’d flicked off with ease, then yanked on her hoodie.

This would all take Judd Paxton down a peg or two. Now he’d have to come clean about salvaging El Falcone and-

Oh God. The scepter and diamond. Con knew where they were!

She turned to his backpack. The engine noise covered the sound of the zipper as she opened it and stuck her hand in, rooting around for the velvet box that held the medallion. She found it and pulled it out. This medallion belonged to her-not that bastard Judd Paxton.

She opened the lid to hide the treasure in her pocket-

It was gone.

She snapped it closed and launched herself toward the deck, yanking herself through the opening to glare at Con.

“Where is it?” she demanded, her pulse soaring. “Where did you put my medallion, you lying thief!”

He stared straight ahead. “It belongs to Mr. Paxton. He financed the salvage effort and he will file a legitimate claim with the state for it.”

She hated him. Right down to the bone, she hated him. “You’re going to give him the scepter and the diamond, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Over my dead body.”

He turned to look at her. “If you’re not careful and we don’t get Flynn Paxton into the hands of the authorities, you might be right about that.”

She threw herself on the passenger seat, wrapped her arms around her knees, and refused to respond. He might have the medallion, but he’d never, ever get the scepter or diamond. She swore it on her father’s grave, even if she had to throw it back into the sea.

Judd Paxton would never get his hands on her treasures, and neither would Constantine Xenakis.

The Coast Guard investigated the boat, but the FBI was handling the people. The federal agent assigned to the case was kind enough to give Con his FBI sweatshirt, and Con repaid him with a two-and-a-half-hour interview, turned over the medallion, and gave him enough information to build a compelling case, plus zero in on a black-market collector as a side bene. By the time he finished, agents had already been dispatched to detain and reinterrogate Flynn Paxton, and he assumed someone would be watching Gerry Dix, too.

At the end of his interview, with dawn on the horizon, Con had walked through the Gold Digger, offering detailed bits of information to the investigators and showing them the tampered air intakes. None of the other crewmembers were still there, including Lizzie. Especially Lizzie.

She’d been stone, cold silent on the ride back. The water in her eyes as she stared ahead could just have been from the cold air, but he suspected the impact of a crewmate’s death and the shocker news he’d dropped on her might have drawn a few tears.

Which made what he had to do before that afternoon’s meeting with Paxton, and possibly Lucy, even more difficult. When he finished his interview he’d learned that her interrogation had ended well before his. And she’d obviously driven home, since this had been the port of departure for the Gold Digger.

One of the agents offered to give him a ride up to Sebastian to get his bike, which he took. He figured Lizzie never mentioned the scepter and diamond in her interviews with the FBI, and neither had he. They weren’t part of the investigation; no one on the boat knew they existed yet.

As the sun rose to his left over the ocean, he rolled back down the beach highway, following the route to her sister’s house, laying out a mental plan for how to convince her to hand it over.

He wouldn’t use force, and he sure as hell couldn’t seduce them out of her.

Maybe she wouldn’t be home yet, and he could just steal them.

He rumbled down the side street to the stucco ranch house that sat among palms and live oak trees, and tensed at the sight of a Scion in the driveway. He couldn’t steal the goods, then.

At least he’d get to see her one more time. Parking the bike and bracing for a fight, he went straight to the front door and knocked.

Nothing.

He headed down one side of the house, peeking in windows, seeing no sign of life, then walked around to the back patio. The sliders were locked, as was every window. He pounded on the glass, peered into the dark kitchen, and began to think about a new plan.

Breaking in.

A few minutes later, he climbed through the kitchen window and over the counter to land silently on his feet.

“Lizzie?”

There was only silence, one that only a person with hearing like his could sense. Not a breath, a scuff of a foot, nothing.

Peering into the shadows, he walked through the tiny living room and paused at the dining room, listening. He peeked into the office, but it was still and dark.

“Lizzie!” His voice bounced through the empty house.

Frustration built, along with dread that she’d beaten him at his game, and he marched straight back to her bedroom. He twisted the brass knob, but it didn’t turn.

She’d locked herself in her room with the treasure?

“Lizzie!” He pounded once and pressed his ear to the wood, listening for any sound. Nothing.

The room was vacant, or the person in it wasn’t breathing.

Her car was in the driveway. The house was silent. Maybe they hadn’t gotten Flynn in custody yet…

With one mighty shove of his shoulder, he splintered the door open. It popped wide and slammed against the wall.

Empty. Something damn close to a rush of relief rolled through him. Better she was gone than dead.

He opened the closet, then turned to the antique bed, high enough off the ground that she could easily have crawled under there.

He lifted the skirt, peered into the shadows.

Flattening himself on the floor, he shimmied in, able to turn partially on his side before his shoulder hit one of the wooden slats that held the box spring in place. Everything looked untouched, just a normal box spring-but he was sure of what he’d heard. When he maneuvered onto his back, his hands ran over some grit, a few pieces like rock. Digging into the carpet, he grasped a small chunk and examined it.