“He doesn’t know you found them.”

“You didn’t tell him? Your client?” She plastered some disgust on the word. “Why not?”

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her directly in the eye. “Because it belongs to your family.”

“Yeah-I’m really buyin’ that, Con Man.”

“I’m serious. And my connections can help you. My assignment is over, but my company has a research and investigation division that would knock your socks off. How do you think I found this house so quickly?”

She sighed. “I knew you would. I couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

“Listen-I put my resources on the history trail, and they’ve already uncovered information you’ll want to know about Aramis Dare.”

She tried to look disinterested, and failed. “What information?”

“What looks like proof that Aramis Dare was never paid for the bounty that he carried to Portugal in 1861.”

“What kind of proof?”

“Data from a library in Havana.”

“Oh, right-”

He held up a hand to quiet her. “I can give it to you. One of the other men who works for the company spends a lot of time in Cuba on assignment, and his wife is an investigative specialist. She’s been doing some digging; has access to old documents that the government has kept under lock and key.”

She eyed him. “What did you find?”

“Where are you going?”

“Are you trying to buy that out of me with some shady promise of information? Forget it.” She pushed herself up.

“You have a fax machine? I’ll have it sent here in ten minutes.”

For a second, she almost relented. “You’re a lying son of a bitch, and I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do,” he told her. “Because it will be a road map for you in Portugal. It leads right to a little island called Corvo.”

Her jaw dropped. “Corvo?”

“In the Azores. Heard of it?”

“I know where it is.” She pushed off the sofa, getting away from him.

“Where are you going?”

“To make reservations. For one. I don’t care what it costs, I’m going. And you’re not.”

“I’ll just follow you there.”

He heard her blow out a breath as the computer keys started clicking. He gave her a few minutes, checking out the security of the place, noting that every window and door were locked except the broken one in the bedroom.

He ended up in the office doorway, watching her type, hearing her moan every time a fare came up. On top of a shelf he saw a fax machine and leaned over to get the number.

“It’s going to cost me a freaking fortune,” she mumbled.

“I have access to a private jet.” He sent the text.

She slid a look over her shoulder. “Of course you do.”

“Not only do we not know how or when or why someone got in here to plant the venomous snake in your room, but we also don’t know who. And until we do…”

He walked over and put protective hands on her shoulders, glancing at the long list of flights from Atlanta to Lisbon, all with four-digit price tags and dates three days in the future. “You’re not safe. I think I’ve proven that I can watch your back.”

A soft ding of an incoming e-mail got her to tap the mouse, revealing a new one from [email protected]. She read the subject line out loud: ‘A message from your sister.’ Finally!”

“‘My name is Gabrielle Roberts and I’m working in a home where your sister is staying on the island of Corvo.’”

She stopped to look up at him.

“All roads lead to Corvo,” he said quietly, his gaze on the e-mail.

“‘She doesn’t have e-mail or phone but asked that I write to let you know she’s fine. She asked me to tell you she’s working on Aramis.’”

“And they also lead to Aramis,” she replied.

“Read the P.S., Lizzie.”

“‘She really misses you. This is not part of her message to you,’” she read softly, “‘but it’s a lonely island for an American.’”

Behind him, the fax rang. While she reread the e-mail, Con retrieved the papers coming from the Bullet Catchers headquarters. Wordlessly, he took the three pages of notes and the manifest list and placed them on the keyboard in front of her.

“Do you really want to wait three days and spend two thousand dollars to get to Lisbon, then to Terceira, then to Corvo, when I can have you on a private jet, having dinner with your sister tomorrow night?” He reached down and fluttered the papers. “You two have an awful lot to talk about.”

Her shoulders sagged in resignation. “You win, Con.”

He leaned closer, put his mouth on her ear, and did what he’d been dying to do since he’d found her. He kissed her, feeling her body tense at the contact. “We both do.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“THIS IS THE last place on earth I’d expect to find my sister,” Lizzie said as the Gulfstream jet banked over jagged volcanic rocks and a whitecapped sea. “I mean, she likes adventure, but she also likes clubs, restaurants, shops, and… people.”

“Then there must be a very compelling reason for her to be here.” In a matching buttery leather recliner directly across from her, Con ignored the view, his gaze on her. As it had been for the seven-hour flight across the Atlantic and most of the past twenty-four hours.

Lizzie tried to avoid his steel-blue stare, but it was impossible-and, like everything else about him, unnerving. True to his word, Con had been nothing but protective and helpful for the past twenty-four hours. And still as attractive as he was before she knew his connection to Judd Paxton, damn it.

But he couldn’t take that treasure from her, and he sure could help her. So she put up with the misery of having to be so close to him and tried not to be attracted.

She forced herself to look out the window again, drinking in the shocking beauty of a rolling hillside dotted with snow-white stucco buildings, every single one topped in precisely the same coral-colored barreltile roof.

The runway started and ended with water, guaranteeing a white-knuckled landing for even the most seasoned traveler. Bree probably loved it.

Lizzie fingered the papers again. Her sister couldn’t have had this information, so what did she know that caused her to leave Lisbon?

“You are absolutely positive she flew into this place?” Lizzie asked again.

“When we land, the customs officer has been briefed to show us the records, if that will make you feel any better.”

It would. Frankly, everything he could do made her feel better. The stuff he had access to was like something out of the movies. Not only could he confirm Brianna’s travel plans-offering proof that she’d flown to Lisbon, then to Terceira, another island in the Azores archipelago, and finally to Corvo-he also produced the identity of one Gabrielle Roberts.

The woman who’d written to Lizzie was a fifty-year-old divorcée from Indianapolis who’d been traveling around Europe and was staying in Corvo, adding credence to the e-mail. Then, like magic, he had them on a luxurious private jet, zipping directly to the island, cutting out days of travel time for her.

And best of all, he’d given her the manifest of El Falcone.

She still couldn’t believe the document was real. But there it was, on her lap where it had been for most of the flight, a scanned image of the original manifest of El Falcone, a stunning find from a library in Havana.

The same library where her father had gone on that Cuban trip, she was certain. Did he have this manifest before he died?

“This document confirms everything my father theorized. That although El Falcone was not registered with any country, Captain Dare had paid for almost all the items it carried and had lined up buyers for each- making him not a pirate, but a profiteer.”

“And one of those buyers was in the Azores.”

She nodded. “Carlos Bettencourt. The CB from the notes, no doubt. This had to be what brought Brianna here. Because if she can prove this Carlos didn’t pay for his scepters, then Aramis was no thief.”