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Chapter One

Dearest,

How I missed you tonight! Father had guests—the most tedious of gentlemen, and I wished so to look across the table and find you smiling at me. The winds were high last night, bringing, as always, thoughts of you. I lay upon my small bed, willing the currents to bring you to my side. How my heart longs for you, dearest. In the night, I strain my ears, hoping against all reason to hear that most beautiful of sounds—the slap of your saber against our back stairs as you mount them in your haste to reach me. I never would have believed that I could yearn so desperately, nor ache so much, for the touch of another. But from my first glimpse of you—with your dashing ways, your fine physique and your magnificence—I fell completely under your spell. Come quickly, dearest. I need you so.

Lovingly yours,

Abigail

21 April 1861

Abigail Conrad, with her undiluted admiration for her pirate lover, was on to something.

Definitely on to something, Cora Prescott decided as she surveyed the man standing at the back of her lecture hall. “Fine physique,” indeed.

Deliberately she pulled her gaze from Rafael Adriano’s unbelievably magnetic presence and made herself concentrate on her students. “I’m sorry, Ms. Grimes,” she said to the college girl who’d just spoken. “What was your question?”

“Well—” Cathleen Grimes leaned forward to press her point “—I wanted to know why you think that the warrior/ romantic hero is the definitive women’s fantasy.”

Turn around and look, Cora thought as she deliberately avoided the temptation to glance at Adriano again. She cleared her throat, instead. “The warrior/romantic embodies what women both want and admire in the opposite sex.”

“Like Don Juan?” the student asked.

“Or Robin Hood?” another student added.

Cora nodded. “Precisely. He represents a patriarchal view of the world. He is the king of his own domain. The medieval lord ruled his keep. The duke or earl held responsibility for his entire estate. The Americanized version—heroes like Zorro, Superman or the Lone Ranger—was created to embody the myth of the solitary warrior. He’s strong, independent and heroic. But despite this image, he puts aside his warrior instincts for the sake of a woman.”

Another of her students leaned back in her chair. “Doesn’t that play into the woman-needs-saving mentality? You know, the Cinderella complex?”

“No.” Cora shook her head. “In these stories, the woman does the saving. While he may rescue her physically, she rescues him emotionally. The emotional impact of the story is always given more weight than the external plot.”

“So she redeems him?” the student asked. At that question, Adrian gave Cora a pointed look.

“Yes. Precisely.”

Another student offered, “Like the pirate fantasy. He’s this corrupted guy, and she comes along and makes him change his wicked ways.”

Cathleen Grimes laughed. “Only after he has his wicked way.”

The quip sent the students into a round of free conversation and increasingly ribald comments. Adriano shot Cora an amused look and braced his shoulder against the door frame.

“But, Dr. Prescott,” one girl said, “I mean, really, isn’t that just a bit farfetched?”

“It could be.” Cora propped her hip on the edge of her desk. “But that doesn’t mean the fantasy isn’t still very potent.”

“Do you think that explains,” asked the same student, “why some women go for that scruffy look—you know, the long hair, three-day beard, that kind of thing?”

Karen O’Neil, one of Cora’s brightest students, laughed out loud. “And smelly,” she added. “If they’re really into the pirate persona, they’d have to smell like they’d been at sea for eighteen months.”

Ah, irony, Cora thought as she suppressed the urge to gloat. No way would she let the opportunity to goad Adriano slip through her fingers, not when he’d been a thorn in her flesh for the past several weeks. “That’s why it’s a fantasy, Ms. O’Neil.” She swiveled her laser pointer between her fingers. “Pirates have been romanticized to the point that there are some men who cultivate the look—and there are, undoubtedly, some women who find it attractive.”

“Sexy,” muttered a student. “They find it sexy.”

Cora looked at Adriano. His firm mouth appeared to be twitching at the corner. Deliberately she held his gaze. “They believe it makes them irresistible to women.”

“Doesn’t it?” Cathleen asked. “I mean, look at that guy who’s all over the news lately. What’s his name? That archeologist from the Underwater Archeology Unit at the North Carolina Department of Cultural Resources.”

With a loud sigh, another student supplied, “Rafael Adriano. He’s unbelievable.”

He certainly was. Cora saw a sparkle enter the jet-black of his eye. She could almost feel the temperature in the room rising.

Her students lapsed into a casual discussion of his appeal while she watched him. Adriano’s name had become almost a household word since his recent discovery of a site believed to be the underwater remains of the Argo—the ship of Greek myth. At first only the scientific community had paid much attention to the find.

It hadn’t taken long, however, for a few enterprising reporters to look at him and see the most marketable scientist the world had known since Einstein. Like Einstein, he was brilliant, eccentric and groundbreaking. Adriano, however, practically defined sex appeal. He looked more like a pirate than a researcher and almost overnight, he’d become a hot-ticket item. When his picture appeared on the cover of a magazine, it was a guaranteed sellout. Women everywhere seemed to adore his slight accent, his cultured manners and the edge of barbarism that said all the attention had merely tamed him for a moment. Every talk show, newsmagazine and network in America was clamoring for a piece of him.

But like most scientists she knew, now that the discovery was made, he was ready to move on to a new hunt.

Unfortunately at the moment he was fixated on a project that had reportedly haunted him for much of his accomplished career. He wanted to find the remains of the Isabela, a Civil War period clipper that was captained by the successful privateer, Juan Rodriguez del Flores.

And Cora was smack in the middle of his way. She’d hoped her last correspondence with him had been enough to deter him. Obviously she’d been wrong.

His only reaction to the somewhat ribald course of her students’ comments was a slight lift of his eyebrows. Cora sensed that the conversation was about to spin dangerously out of her control. Pressing her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose, she dragged her concentration back to her class. Dr. Rafael Adriano had a formidable reputation. And he loved it. If she knew one thing about him, she knew he adored being the center of attention. If he’d thought to disconcert her by arriving unannounced in her classroom, he was about to be sorely disappointed.

“I hear,” one of her students was saying, “that Adriano is on the track of some new discovery. Something bigger than the Argo.”

“Did you see that picture of him in Time magazine? He is too hot, girlfriend.” The student fanned herself with her spiral notebook.

The other girls laughed.

“I have a friend who saw him give a seminar,” one added. “She said he’s, like, drop-dead gorgeous. All you have to do is listen to him to get turned on.”

“That voice!” Cathleen interjected.

“And the accent,” said another girl.

“Can you imagine—” another student leaned over the edge of her desk and dropped her voice “—the sound of that man whispering in your ear?”

“Oh, Lord.”

Cora was having trouble containing her amusement as her students chased Adriano’s rabbit. “Ladies…” she said, trying to wrest control of the conversation.

They blissfully ignored her. “Gawd. I saw him on CNN the other night. He was talking about some new ship he’s looking for. When he started explaining the ‘thrill of discovery…”’ The student rolled her eyes in mock ecstasy and flopped back in her chair.

Cathleen chuckled. “I’ll bet I could think of a few things for him to discover.”

Cora used the distraction of the students’ ensuing laughter to recapture her advantage. “Okay, ladies.” She waved a hand to gain their attention. “Enough. This isn’t getting us anywhere with our discussion of pre-Renaissance romantic literature.”

“No,” one of the girls drawled, “but it’s doing a lot for my visualization skills.”

“Really?” Cora slanted Rafael a dry look.

“Oh, definitely. I mean, with that eye patch and all…Jeez, Dr. Prescott, you can’t say you haven’t noticed. The guy is, like, practically the sexiest man alive.”

Cora tasted victory. She didn’t doubt for a minute that he’d planned to disrupt her class—to catch her off guard with his sudden arrival. It seemed only fair that he should pay the price. “So you think Dr. Adriano is the perfect romantic hero?”

Cathleen rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah.”

“Well, then—” Cora tossed her lecture notes and laser pointer into her open briefcase and shut it with a decisive snap, “—perhaps you’d like to hear him tell you exactly why he chooses to parade about dressed like Long John Silver.” She indicated the back of the room.

With a collective murmur of confusion, her students turned to face him. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn the color she saw in his face was a blush. “Dr. Adriano,” she said, “I’m glad you could make it today. I was half afraid you wouldn’t show.”

He gave her a knowing look. She’d trapped him like a rat, and he knew it. With thirty students watching him with rapt attention, he had two choices. He could follow her lead and complete her session for the afternoon, or he could look like a fool by turning to leave. Cora waited patiently while he weighed his options.

No surprise, he rose to the occasion. With what she could only define as a look of admiration, he strode toward the front of the room. “You’ll have to forgive my tardiness, Dr. Prescott. I was delayed.”

“I see. Well—” she indicated her class with a sweep of her arm “—I’m sure you’ll have no trouble convincing them to stay a little later. Even if it is Friday afternoon.”

From the looks on the girls’ faces, he’d have to toss them out of the room before they let him leave. He studied Cora with a lazy insolence that said he knew exactly what she’d done and there’d be hell to pay later. She picked up her briefcase and headed for the door. “You’re leaving?” he asked. His voice slid over her nerves like melted butter. In the interviews she’d seen him conduct, she’d noted that he could turn anything, even something simple like standing in the back of her lecture hall, into an erotic exercise.

She refused to be flustered. “Yep. You know how summer school is. Papers to grade. Exams to write.”

“I see.” He glanced quickly at her class, then back to her. “When can I see you again?”

Damn him. The question was deliberately provocative, and he knew it. By evening, the campus would be abuzz with the news that the reserved Dr. Cora Prescott was somehow involved with Rafael Adriano—America’s favorite pirate. “I’m not sure. My schedule is heavy between now and the end of the week.”

Her students’ heads swung back to look at him. He leaned one hip on the edge of her desk, much as she had done earlier, and said, “Mine is, too. I’ll call you later. Don’t worry. We’ll work it out.”

She thought about responding, then decided against it. Anything she said would just make the situation worse. Might as well leave him to deal with the students’ questions while she made a strategic retreat to the sanctity of her office. “Fine.” She turned to go.

“Dr. Prescott?”

Cora hesitated, then faced him a final time. “Yes?”

“I’m glad I could be here for you.”

The rake. Cora gave him a knowing look. “Then welcome to North Carolina, Doctor.”

CORA SLIPPED into her office with a quiet sigh of relief and a sense that she’d narrowly prevented disaster. She knew precisely why Rafael Adriano was in town.

He wanted her.

Or rather, he wanted her house. She’d been ignoring his most recent letter for weeks, trying to delay what she knew was the inevitable confrontation. He wasn’t about to let a potential lead on the Isabela elude him. When she’d discovered an original set of antebellum diaries hidden in the historical seaside house where she lived, his interest had been sparked. According to the news reports, Cora had happened on the diaries during a remodeling project. Initially, because the diaries were written in the form of letters to an unnamed lover, Cora hadn’t been able to identify them. After study and carbon dating, however, she’d confirmed that the diaries belonged to Abigail Conrad, the rumored lover of the Isabela’s captain. That revelation had put Rafael on Cora’s trail like a hound after a fox. Running her to death appeared to be his strategy.

As far as he was concerned, her house sat right on the secret that would lead him to the site of the wreck, and he was determined to have it.

She couldn’t think of a worse fate than having him underfoot—especially now, with her three nieces spending the summer with her. The thought of her sister, Lauren, made her frown. Lauren had dropped the girls off three weeks ago on her way to Florida with her married lover. She hadn’t called since, and all three of her daughters were showing signs of stress. Kaitlin, the oldest, seemed to stay in a permanent sulk, while Molly and Liza, her younger sisters, were prone to brooding. Cora was nearly at her wit’s end, and now Rafael Adriano had shown up to take over her life.

Following his discovery of the Argo, he’d become the center of world attention. Cora didn’t exactly relish the idea of being in the middle of a global fishbowl. She had too many things on her mind, too many lives to manage, too much work to do authenticating and documenting the diaries, to have him, his research and his ego disrupting her life. So she’d said no.

Unfortunately Rafael Adriano wasn’t the kind of guy who took no for an answer.

The door of her office abruptly opened, cutting short her brooding thoughts. “So, Professor—” Cora’s graduate assistant, Becky Painter, hurried into the shoebox-size office with two sodas “—what’s up with the stud in 203? You’ve got the whole hall in an uproar.”

Cora shot her a dry look. “You mean you don’t recognize him?”

“Nope. Believe me, if I’d seen that face and that body together in the same place at the same time, I’d remember.”

“You don’t get out much, do you, Becky.”

“Are you kidding? I’m in the last year of my masters program. Of course I don’t get out much. I work for you. I study. I write parts of my thesis. I go to class. I obsess. Sometimes I manage to sleep a little. There’s no time for out in that syllabus.”

Cora laughed. “I guess not. I almost forgot what that was like. I think when I was working on my Ph.D., I slept about nine hours a month.” The can of diet soda Becky handed her was coated in tiny shards of ice. Cora wiped it clean with a napkin before setting the can on her neatly organized desk. “The gentleman—and believe me, I apply the term loosely—is Rafael Adriano.”

Becky choked on a sip of her soda. “The Rafael Adriano?”

“I thought you didn’t get out much.”

“Jeez, I’d have to live in a hole not to know that name. I do read, you know. He’s, like, the hottest thing to hit the ocean since Jacques Cousteau.”

“Dr. Adriano is a bit flamboyant.”

“And sexy. Now that you mention it, I think I did see a picture of him in some magazine. I remember thinking that if I had time for hormones, I’d really be into this guy.” She tipped her head to one side. “What’s he in town for, anyway?”

Cora leaned back in her chair. “He wants to conduct some research. He’s looking for the site of the USS Isabela, and he thinks he can find it here.”

“Isabela?”

“It’s a ship from the Civil War—one of the fastest ever built. Juan Rodriguez del Flores captained it during the early years of the war. There’s some evidence to suggest he was a privateer who ran contraband for the Confederate and Union armies.”

“Both?”

“Whoever paid cash,” Cora assured her. “And when no one paid, he kept the booty for himself and his crew. If Adriano can find his ship and if it’s in any kind of decent condition, it might provide some invaluable information to Civil War historians.”

“So what’s he doing conducting your seminar on women’s fiction?”

A tiny smile played at the corner of her mouth. “Floundering, I hope.”

“I don’t think so.” Becky dropped into the chair across from Cora’s desk. “He’s drawing a crowd. Word is spreading across campus like wildfire, and your class is about to spill into the hall.”

“Great. I can’t get eighty-percent attendance for a scheduled session, and all he has to do is walk down the hall to have the masses falling at his feet.” A clamoring noise from the corridor captured her attention.

“Good grief.” Becky glanced over her shoulder. “What’s going on out there?”

“I think Blackbeard the archeologist is inciting the natives to riot.”

The door of her office was flung open. Rafael, followed by a large group of young women, edged his way in, then shut the door on the din. He gave Cora a disgruntled look. “Nicely played, Professor.”

Her only response was a slight inclination of her head. “I thought so.” She glanced at Becky. “Becky Painter, meet Rafael Adriano, world-famous archeologist and guest lecturer for women’s studies.”

Becky stuck out her hand. “Wow. You look taller.” Characteristically blunt, Becky glanced at his large frame. “And wider. The picture I saw of you was kind of small.”

He looked distinctly amused. He was accustomed, Cora supposed, to having women assess him. He enfolded Becky’s hand in his. “I’m delighted to meet you, Ms. Painter.”

Her students definitely had a point, Cora mused. That voice ought to be registered as a lethal weapon. He had the slightest hint of a foreign accent that made it just short of devastating. She’d read somewhere that English was his second language. The faint roll of his r’s gave his voice a purring quality that was pure sensuality. Cynically she wondered if he practiced that. Becky looked as if she might faint. “Becky, why don’t you see what you can do about the crowd in the hallway?”

Without looking at Cora, Becky slowly extracted her hand from his. “I, um, sure. Do you want anything, Dr. Adriano? A drink, maybe?”

That damnable smile played at the corner of his mouth again. He slanted Cora a look, then slowly shook his head. “No. I’m fine, Ms. Painter. All I need is some time alone with Dr. Prescott.”

Surprise flickered briefly on Becky’s expressive features, which then slipped into a mask of blatant curiosity. “Oh.”

Cora almost groaned out loud. If he stayed much longer, he’d create so much havoc she’d have to spend the next ten years digging her way out of it. “The hall, Becky. See what you can do about the noise.”

Becky blinked twice, then gave Cora a look that said she’d pursue the subject later. “Okay—” she reached for the door handle “—but let me know if you need anything.” With a final glance at Rafael, she eased past him. “Anything at all.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, an uneasy quiet settled on the tiny room. Suddenly the four walls were too confining. Cora turned abruptly to push open the window. “Why don’t you sit down? I can see you obviously didn’t read my last letter or you wouldn’t be here to—” With a final groan, the window popped open. A flood of humid air tumbled into the room. She dropped back into her chair. “You wouldn’t be here to harass me.”

His full lips curved into a slight smile. That, coupled with his black eye patch, made him look every inch the rake he was purported to be. “Is that what you call it?” he asked.

Cora placed her hands on her desk and drew a sense of calm from the cool wood surface. “What would you call it?”

“I’m persistent.” His broad shoulders moved in a casual shrug. “It makes me good at what I do.” He paused. “At everything I do.”

She chose to ignore that. “Then I’m sorry you came all this way, but I meant what I said in my last letter. I don’t have time for you to be digging about in my house this summer. I’ve got two classes to conduct each session, and my three nieces are here for an extended stay. You needn’t have wasted your valuable time making the trip. The answer is still no.”

His chuckle lingered in the warm air. “Very impressive, Professor. No wonder your colleagues have such respect for you.”

She frowned at him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d at least take this seriously.”

“I assure you, I’m very serious,” he retorted. “All I meant was that the professor who deftly stuck me with her class full of young women knows how to play a room.” He tilted his head to study her. “Jerry didn’t prepare me for you.”

“Jerry.” Inwardly she groaned. Jerry Heath was her department head. He was notorious for stirring up trouble. “You went over my head on this?”

He held up a hand. “It wasn’t like that. I’ve known Jerry professionally for some time. He lent his expertise to a research project for me several years ago. When you denied my request, I called Jerry to find out if a personal visit would further my chances of getting you to change your mind.”

“And he told you it would?”

“He told me I should meet you face-to-face.” His gaze rested on her mouth. It stayed there long enough to make her aware of dry lips. When he finally met her gaze again, there was an unmistakable sparkle in his dark eye. “I think his exact words were, ‘A head-on confrontation with Cora Prescott is an unforgettable experience.”’

“Jerry has a gift for exaggeration.”

The look he gave her could have melted glass. “I don’t think so. I’m certainly finding it unforgettable.”

Cora resisted the urge to loosen the collar of her blouse. A sliver of perspiration trickled down her spine. “Only because I stuck you in a room with a group of hungry college women.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t kid yourself. I’m fully aware that you are used to having the world at your feet. The way I see it, this will be an educational experience for you.”

“You know how much I want to find the Isabela.”

“It’s good to want things. Builds character.”

That damnable smile played at the corner of his mouth again. “I’m very used to getting my own way.”

“I can see that.”

“And I want this. A lot.”

“Disappointment is the key to personal growth.”

Something dangerously seductive flared in his gaze—something that reminded her why women reportedly went wild over him. With his looks and his charisma, it was no wonder he had a pirate’s reputation. He had a way of looking at a woman that virtually smoldered. “You know—” his expression turned devilish “—I’ve always admired women with quick tongues.”

Cora rolled her eyes. “Does that line usually work for you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, surprise, Dr. Adriano. This time you’ve met your match.”

“You mean you’re not overwhelmed by my persona?”

Was he mocking her? His expression was so serious she couldn’t tell. “I will admit that I find the eye patch a bit over the top.”

“It’s medically necessary,” he said. “I lost my eye in a fistfight when I was sixteen.”

“I’m not questioning that,” she hastened to explain. “I simply think that the, er, look—” she indicated his long hair, the gold hoop in his ear and the patch with a wave of her hand “—is a bit melodramatic.”

He laughed, showing a straight line of white teeth. “I like you,” he said. “I was hoping I would.”

Cora gritted her teeth. “Dr. Adriano—”

“No, really. I feel better about this already.”

“I can’t tell you how that comforts me,” she drawled.

He crossed his long legs so that his ankle rested on his thigh. “A worthy opponent makes any battle more satisfying.”

Cora frowned. “Am I supposed to call you a scurvy dog now or something? I left my pirate/English dictionary in my other briefcase.”

His lips twitched. “A sharp-tongued woman.”

“And an odious egomaniac. What a delightful way to spend an afternoon.”

“You know,” he said, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was mocking her, “you might make a good pirate. You’ve got the wits for it.”

“What a relief,” Cora said, and took a sip of her soda.

“But I’m not sure you have the guts.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hmm.” He traced the edge of his patch with a long tanned finger. “’Tis not enough,” he said, dropping his voice to a gravelly rumble that she could easily picture coming from Blackbeard himself, “just to wear a patch over yer eye, lassie.” He leaned closer. “Ye have tae pick yer teeth with the ribs of a Spanish captain ye knocked off yerself.”

Cora stared at him wide-eyed. “I beg your pardon.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Captain Pigleg Torstenson wrote that to his grand-daughter in 1783.”

“How charming.”

His smile was lazy and seductive. “I like to think he was making a general statement about life. It’s not enough to simply look the part. You have to have the stomach for it, as well.”

He was mocking her, she realized. He thought she was an intellectual, unadventurous, narrow-minded snob and she’d turned down his request because she lacked vision and foresight. She saw the condemnation and condescension clearly written in his smug expression. “While this little philosophical dissertation is quite charming, Dr. Adriano, I think you should know that I’ve never liked arrogant men—especially not self-impressed scientists whose only goal is career advancement and public recognition.”

That effectively knocked the smile off his lips, but instead of the angry retort she’d expected, she saw his eyebrows lift with marked curiosity. “I’m not arrogant, Professor. I’m simply flagrantly dedicated to my research and cognizant of my considerable talent.”