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Doubt niggled at Sam. A born cynic, he never bought the company line and always expected the worst. What if he hadn't been wrong about Josie? What if she didn't know anything about Rebecca's Bounty? He didn't have any proof, just natural-born suspicion. Fuck. He couldn't leave it like this.
“Let me help.”
“Stop.” Her order cut through the room. “I can do it myself.” She gathered up a small book, cards and an extra pair of shoes and shoved them into the bag.
Without another word, she stormed out of the hotel room and out of his life.
He slumped down in a chair, gut aching like he'd gone mano a mano against a giant. When had he become such a prick? He couldn't blame a failed treasure hunt for that.
An image of twelve-year-old Michael looking up with death staring out from those familiar hazel eyes flashed in Sam's mind and bile rose in his throat. The memories always came back when he forgot to be vigilant. The more orderly his life, the less Michael haunted him, so Sam had worked hard to create a life of black and white with no colors in between. Being with Josie and her riot of hues had jostled the memories loose.
Sam shifted in the chair and paper crackled underneath him. In a haze, he pulled it out and unfolded the yellowed page.
Charcoal landscape sketches filled the page. A natural rock bridge. Stubby sagebrush trees barely hanging on to a stone ledge with the expansive prairie pouring out into the distance. A rocky formation towering above a flat, barren field with a glimpse of craggy badlands peeking out from behind. A small inscription had been scrawled in the corner.
There is a beauty to this hard land more valuable than treasure, but for those who insist, I give you this. Rebecca, 1865.
It took a minute for its meaning to hit him.
“Holy shit.”
Rumors had circulated for years about a treasure map but he'd never found it despite searching. While plenty of fakes had turned up, the real one remained elusive. Sam scanned the paper, taking in the quality, the discoloration, the unique script that at first glance matched Rebecca's writings. He wouldn't know for sure until he got back home to compare it with other documents in his collection, but this had all the markings of the fabled treasure map for Rebecca's Bounty.
How the hell did Josie get it? His uncle had lost the diary in a poker match ten years ago.
The contents of his stomach curdled. The small book she'd shoved into her backpack. The whole fucking thing had been a setup.
Josie hadn't been interested in him. No. She wanted a Layton to pump for information for some fool's errand and he'd walked right into the trap—until he'd called her out. People had been searching for his great-great-great-great-grandmother's treasure since before his father had been born.
His gaze caught on the jeans he'd ironed that morning lying in a puddle by the bed and anger blazed through him.
He should have known better.
Josie jammed the elevator down button with her finger, then poked it again and again for good measure.
Paranoid asshole. This was why she stuck with no-strings-attached, one-night stands. She had the personality judgment skills of a gullible puppy.
This wasn't the first time she'd been screwed by her missing bullshit detector. Getting fired, Cy's huge debt and the fresh wound Sam had inflicted revived old hurts, allowing the worst of them to break to the surface.
The long-buried pain sliced through her so sharply and with such strength, she could
practically smell the oil paints caked on her brush and staining her short nails. On that day, her blood had rushed from the high of creating her best paintings after months spent closed up in a friend's L.A. studio. She'd barely slept and hardly ate because the creative juices streaming through her system left little time or energy for anything other than her oils, brushes and canvases.
It had been the best time of her life, made possible only because of her roommate Sabrina's generosity. A fellow painter, Sabrina said she understood about the muse. She'd pressed the studio keys into Josie's palm and told her not to worry about rent for a few months. Josie hadn't thought twice about it. Sabrina said she was fat with trust fund money and promised she could afford to wait a few months for the back rent.
Then Sabrina had passed off Josie's artwork as her own and the L.A. art crowd bought the farce lock, stock and purloined brushstroke. When Josie had confronted Sabrina, she'd only laughed. Of course the artwork in her studio was hers. No one else was allowed to use the studio, everyone knew that.
Pushing back the anger, she berated herself. She should have known better than to let down her guard again.
Sam's hotel room door swung open and he strode out as naked as when she'd left him moments ago. “Where in the hell did you get this?” He brandished Rebecca's landscape treasure map, carelessly crumpling it in his right hand.
“Be careful with that! She did a great job capturing the light, that's not easy to do with charcoal.”
“I don't give two shits about how well Rebecca captured the light. I want to know how in the hell you ended up with her stuff.”
Through the angry red haze, the artist in her took in the strong lines of his profile and the shadow of a beard darkening his jawline. Her nipples stiffened as she recalled the warm taste of his hard abs when she’d licked her way across his six pack. She couldn't decide if she'd rather paint him or fuck him again. Probably both, but what she didn't want to do was fight him. Her nerves were too raw, and dammit, she didn't trust herself not to drag him back inside his room for some hard, fast, angry sex.
“Well, I hate to foil your plot to sleep with me for information but it's all a bunch of bullshit.” He stalked toward her, his half-hard cock swinging in the breeze. “There's no treasure so it looks like you wasted your talents on me tonight.”
