Lovely, Dark, and Deep (The Collectors) Read online

  Lovely, Dark, and Deep

  The Collectors

  Also by Susannah Sandlin

  Storm Force

  The Penton Vampire Legacy

  Redemption

  Absolution

  Omega

  Allegiance

  Written as Suzanne Johnson

  Sentinels of New Orleans

  Royal Street

  River Road

  Elysian Fields

  Lovely, Dark, and Deep

  The Collectors

  by

  Susannah Sandlin

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2014 Susannah Sandlin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  e-ISBN: 9781477872444

  Cover design by Michelle Taormina

  Dedication

  To the real Jagger, Charlie, Harley, Chevy, Cleo, Gretchen, Zena, Duke, Holly, Ricky, Jindal, Huckie, and, of course, Shane and Tank, who have made our hearts and lives richer.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  EPISODE 1

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  EPISODE 2

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  EPISODE 3

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  EPISODE 4

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  EPISODE 5

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPISODE 6

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  EPISODE 7

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  EPISODE 8

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  KINDLE SERIALS

  EPISODE 1

  PROLOGUE

  Weston Flynn slammed the lid of his laptop and glowered at his office door. A lower-level aide, inherited from the last person to hold this position, had stuck his head inside without waiting for a response to his short, sharp knock. “Sir, I—”

  “Never open that door without permission, Lawrence. Never. Do you understand?”

  The young man’s freckled face flushed the same dull red as his hair. “I’m sorry, sir. I just wanted to remind you of—”

  “And when I need a reminder about anything, I’ll let you know. Close the door.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  West waited until the door clicked shut before once again flipping open his laptop. He clicked the “Play” button on the video, wanting to see it once more before making his decision official. The wrong choice would cost him a fortune or worse, ruin his career. Of course, the risk was a big part of the thrill and this new find excited him more than any he’d seen in a while.

  On the screen, a young, dark-haired woman sat in a generic, small-town TV studio. She was about to be introduced by a perky reporter for one of those noontime local-news shows that people only watch out of boredom. WGUL, voice of Levy County, Florida, wasn’t must-see TV in this or in any other universe.

  Which was a good thing, because the fewer viewers who saw this particular show, the better for Weston Flynn. It had aired three days ago, and he’d spent most of his free time since then working quietly with his personal assistant to put his plan in place.

  The reporter went through her introductions. “We’re talking today to Gillian Campbell, a biologist who works for the state of Florida caring for the animals in the Cedar Key Scrub State…” This wasn’t the important part, so West advanced the video clip to the halfway point.

  The biologist looked to be in her late twenties, with an easy smile, an athletic build, and a lot of self-confidence. Her demeanor during the interview suggested the earnest passion of an obsessive personality, a character trait he could use to his advantage—he simply had to get her obsessed over the right thing.

  West knew all about obsessive types because he was one and had never seen it as a fault. He obsessed over his political career. His investment portfolio. His public image.

  But the obsession he most enjoyed? Membership in the exclusive C7 club he’d helped found five years earlier. Seven collectors scattered around the world, each competing to obtain some of the world’s most valuable treasures before the others got them first. And not another one of them had likely seen this obscure little bit of TV footage or were willing to gamble that they could be the first to claim it.

  Gillian Campbell’s current obsession appeared to be her side job as a nuisance-alligator trapper, which held no interest for West. What mattered lay in her answer to the question of whether she feared being injured by one of the beasts it was her job to care for, catch, and relocate.

  “I probably should be afraid,” Campbell said, laughing.

  West edged the volume higher.

  “My family does fall under the Campbell curse, after all.”

  “Oooooh,” crooned the reporter. “Tell us about the curse.”

  “It’s a family legend.” The woman shrugged. “One of my ancestors, Duncan Campbell, supposedly stole a priceless ruby cross from the Knights Templars back in medieval times, and he and all his descendants were cursed by the Templars to die young until the cross is returned to its proper place. Of course that was hundreds of years ago. The Knights Templars no longer exist, and both my thieving ancestor, Duncan, and the cross went down in a shipwreck hundreds of years ago off the coast of Canada.”

  The reporter leaned forward. “And do people in your family die young?”

  The biologist had been smiling throughout the interview, but at that question, her face grew still and inscrutable, as if a mask had been dropped over it. “Let’s just talk about the gators.”

  West stopped the video, shut down the browser, and slid the computer into his briefcase. He wanted that goddamned cross worse than any of the treasures the C7 had competed for since he and his German counterpart founded the group. For years, he’d followed rumors of Templar treasure being lost off the Canadian coast, but he’d never heard anything this specific.

  Any of the Knights Templars’ lost treasure would be worth even more than the billions West had inherited from his oil-tycoon father. His family genealogy, another obsession, had been tracked back to one of the Templars, so it wasn’t just about money—the best quests never were.

  He wanted the Templars’ cross. And he wanted to get to it first. What a legacy to leave to his own sons. They’d given up a lot for him to pursue his political ambitions. Of course, he’d given up a lot to stay married to their witch of a mother. The C7 games kept him sane.

  Since discovering the video through one of his regular web searches for stories on the world’s great lost treasures, West had sent his two most trusted operatives, guys from Texas he’d known most of his life, to investigate Gillian Campbell and her family.

  They
’d found nothing to indicate she was anything more than what she claimed. Her people had been in Nova Scotia until the French Acadians were driven to Louisiana in the 1700s, which jibed with the time and place of the shipwreck. Now her parents ran an alligator-rescue farm just west of New Orleans. She’d attended college on an athletics scholarship, then grad school at the University of Florida. She’d been widowed five years ago. Since then, she’d lived in the middle of nowhere, playing with alligators in Levy County.

  Gillian Campbell would need a lot of help, but the rules of the C7 were clear. Civilians had to obtain the prize. They could be coerced or assisted or bribed. Beyond the quest itself, they couldn’t know why they were being manipulated, or the identities or existence of the C7. And they had a time limit.

  After that, the C7 motto was “any means, fair or foul.” Although if no one died in the quest, the winner collected an extra bonus from the others. West would forego the bonus if he had to, as long as he ended up with the Templars’ cross.

  He pulled out his cell phone and punched the number “seven” on his speed-dial list. Brenton Sullivan’s name popped up on the screen; he was the only other American in the C7 and, at thirty, the youngest of the group. Thanks to the dot-com boom and the good sense to sell before the dot-com bust, he also was one of the richest.

  “Mr. Flynn, good to hear from you.” Brenton sounded cheerful. “I’m bored—hope you’re going to jump on that Templar cross.”

  Damn it, Sullivan obviously did the same Internet searches. “Why haven’t you jumped on it yourself?”

  “Too complicated,” Brenton said. “You not only have to convince the woman to cooperate, but she—or you—would need a salvage diver to locate the ship and the cross, and then smuggle it out under the Canadians’ noses. It could be messy.”

  West smiled as he swiveled his chair around to look out the large window behind his desk. It was the Friday before Labor Day, and even though multiple layers of fencing and landscaping separated him from the view, he knew the traffic along Pennsylvania Avenue would be gridlocked as people left their offices early and streamed out of the capital for the long weekend. He had already found the right salvage diver and the right leverage to force Gillian Campbell to cooperate.

  “Your loss, then,” he said, watching a leaf drift in zigzag patterns to rest on the immaculate lawn outside the West Wing. “I’m calling dibs on a cross believed to be a part of the lost Knights Templars’ treasure, and I’m claiming the full thirty-day option.”

  West winced at Brenton’s shrill whistle; the man sounded as if he were in the next room, not across the country in San Francisco. The whistle was deserved. The thirty-day option wasn’t taken lightly by any of the C7. It meant he had a month-long head start to look for the cross before the others could even try. A nice advantage, except for every day until the treasure was in his possession, he had to fork over a million dollars. At the end of the month, or whenever the cross was found, the others would split the money—up to $30 million if the mission hadn’t been completed.

  He didn’t intend to lose that $30 million. “Don’t start counting your money just yet, Brent, you greedy bastard. Consider this my formal notice. You’ll spread the word to the others?”

  “Oh yeah.” Brenton laughed. “Let the games begin.”

  West placed two additional calls, one to his chief operative, who’d already gotten in position, the other to a discreet computer hacker he’d used a few times before, one of those genius kids who cared more about the challenge than the legality of a job.

  He’d barely barked out the second set of instructions and ended the call when a timid knock sounded from the office door. He waited a few seconds to see how well the officious Lawrence had learned his lesson. Satisfied that Freckles wasn’t going to make an unauthorized entrance, he said, “Come.”

  Lawrence stuck his head in only far enough for his eyes to peer around the edge of the door. “Mr. Flynn, the president is waiting in the Roosevelt Room.”

  Weston Flynn straightened his tie, tucked his briefcase in the bottom shelf of the credenza, and locked it before grabbing the sheaf of papers on the edge of his desk. The sheet on top contained a single typed word: “North Korea.”

  “Then we better not keep the president waiting.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Gillian tripped on the threshold of the ICU doorway, attracting a small flurry of alarmed nurses. By the time she assured them she was a habitual klutz and not a terrorist or the crazed lunatic family member of a patient, she’d eaten up a considerable chunk of the paltry half hour set aside in the evening for visitors.

  Not that Viv knew she was here. Gillian tugged the heavy wooden chair closer to the bed, using her thumb to stuff a tuft of padding back into the ripped mint-green vinyl seat. For the first few seconds, she tried to comprehend the beeping machines and wires and IVs holding her best friend together.

  Not just her friend. Vivian Ortiz was her neighbor and mother figure, dispenser of wisdom and light beer and home remedies to get rid of fire ants. She was also the only other woman Gillian knew who was crazy enough to live in a single-wide trailer at the edge of a wildlife reserve in hurricane country.

  They’d been separated at birth, only in different generations, Viv always said.

  Gillian took her friend’s hand, which looked naked and frail minus its normal assortment of oversized rings, most purchased on one of those TV shopping channels Viv was addicted to. Tears pressed heavily against the back of Gillian’s eyes. Vivian was warm and full of life, not hot and dry like this husk of skin.

  She whispered the question the sheriff’s deputy couldn’t answer: “What the hell happened?”

  Viv couldn’t answer, either. She could only lie there, her eyes closed, dark lashes resting on her cheeks, her warm olive skin pale against the sterile white sheets under fluorescent lighting. An automobile accident, the deputy had told Gillian after finding her phone number in Viv’s purse and tracking her down. Viv had plowed into a tree not a mile from her trailer, scattering groceries across Highway 24 near the old Rosewood Baptist Church. A one-car accident, the officer said, but a blinding rain had been coming down about the time it happened.

  Vivian was the slowest, most cautious driver Gillian had ever met. They laughed about it, about how Viv said if God meant people to go fast, he wouldn’t have invented middle-aged women and old men. About how, especially if one of Florida’s afternoon storms was in full force, Vivian’s car could be outrun by a slow-moving gator.

  A bell sounded from somewhere near the two monitors sitting on the desk outside the glassed-off cubicles, announcing the end of the day’s last visitation period.

  A nurse in green scrubs waved at Gillian and pointed toward the door, ready to spend her evening hovering over the monitors, watching to see if Viv or the person in the other cubicle, so old and wrinkled Gillian couldn’t even determine a gender, might need transferring from the county’s little hospital here in Williston to Ocala or even Gainesville. Waiting to see which patient’s condition descended from stable to critical, or rose from serious to stable. These categories didn’t mean much when held up beside a pale face, closed eyes, shallow breathing, and hot, dry hands.

  Gillian stopped in the hallway and dug in her pocket for quarters to plug in the soda machine, giving a startled jump at the buzz of her phone vibrating in her jeans pocket. The screen read “Private Caller.” Since she was the only licensed nuisance-gator trapper in the county, “on call” was a constant state unless she found another trapper to cover for her. Alligators couldn’t care less that Labor Day weekend was imminent or that Viv was hurt.

  She sat in one of the three plastic chairs in the waiting area and scrambled in her shoulder bag for a pen and pad in case she needed to write down an address, then hit the “Talk” button. “Campbell.”

  “Is this the Gillian Campbell who was on the Noonday Chat show Tuesday?” The man spoke with a deep baritone and a Southern twang—not a twang from the Deep South or fr
om Louisiana, but maybe Texas or Oklahoma. Jeez-Louise, she hoped he wasn’t some whacked-out stalker.

  “Yes it is. Can I help you?” His answer to that question would determine whether she ended the call or kept listening.

  “I want to talk to you about that ruby cross, the one your ancestor lost.”

  Gillian laughed. “Look, that’s just a family legend, and what I said on the show is all I know about it. Sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  “Oh, you’ll help me, honey.”

  Honey? She might be a state employee with a responsibility to be polite to the public, but she didn’t have to listen to sexist cowboy stalkers. “I assure you, I can’t help. Good night, sir, and please don’t call again.”

  It had to be the damned Campbell curse. As long as she could remember, her grandparents and parents—and now Gillian herself—blamed old Duncan Campbell and his thieving ways for anything that went amiss, from a hangnail to a creepy phone call.