Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) by John Cunningham (tohfa e dulha read online TXT) 📗

gravel. Our tires spun as the hill steepened. I had to put the Jeep into four-wheel drive.

“We’re way up here now.” Truck was glancing back over his shoulder toward the water.

At the top, the driveway turned right into a copse of mature papaya trees, followed by groves of sugar apples, sapodilla, and mango.

“You could live on fruit up here,” I said.

The house was a simple island-style home, old but well maintained. The roof tiles were burnt orange and the exterior walls a faded white, almost yellow. The property was huge, possibly the entire top of the mountain—no other homes, signs, or fencing in sight. I pulled up next to an old sun-bleached Suzuki Samurai.

“Now that’s a hell of a view,” Truck said.

As the highest home on the ridge overlooking the water, it provided an incredible panorama over St. Jean that included an unobstructed view of the airport. I could see the Beast, just a small dot, with Jack’s Widgeon, a slightly smaller dot, next to it.

“Let’s go,” I said.

More mature landscaping lined the stone path to the front door, where a sign hung on two crooked posts of native wood. Although faded, the name was legible enough: “de Haenen.”

“Think she’ll talk to us?” Truck said.

I smiled, confident that my persuasive powers could crack even the most reclusive of women.

The door flew open—a shotgun was the first thing I saw.

“Was I not clear—wait. You are not …” She paused, her brow furrowed. “Who are you and what is it that you want?”

I glanced up from the end of the double-barreled shotgun to bright blue eyes. She lowered the gun from chest to waist height.

“Je regret …”

“Damn, woman, ‘bout made me pee my pants!” Truck said.

She raised the gun again. “You’re the man who called earlier? With the bad grammar?”

I cleared my throat, searching for my voice.

“Yeah, that was me—I’m Buck Reilly, and this is my associate, Truck Lewis.”

Her eyes widened for a second, then narrowed to slits.

“What do you want? Why did you ask about Remy de Haenen?”

I took a deep breath and held my hands up.

“Nicole, right? My friend Marius suggested we come see you—”

“Marius who?”

“Dude from Le Select—” Truck said.

“Stakelborough,” I said. “We’ve known each other for years. We’re here on behalf of Lou Atlas—I didn’t know your grandfather—”

“What are you trying to say?” She said.

Truck looked at me and shook his head. “Just show her the letter, Reilly.”

So much for my power of persuasion.

I started to reach into my pocket. She stabbed the shotgun toward me.

“Slowly!”

I removed Lou Atlas’s now crumpled letter from my pocket and held it out for her, but she asked me to read it aloud, which I did.

“Hold it up so I can see it,” she said.

I pointed to Lou’s name engraved on the top of the page.

She finally lowered the weapon.

“My brother was right, man.” Truck said. “Trouble finds you no matter where you go.”

The view from Nicole’s simple house was stunning. The back wall was almost all glass, and there was a terraced patio down one level to a pool that provided an unimpeded view of the beach and water. Other red rooftops dotted the hillside below, but from this elevation it felt as if you were on the top of the island.

Nicole having apologized for the shotgun greeting, was now seated with us at an old wood dining table next to open French doors that overlooked the patio. I hadn’t expected her to be so young, probably early thirties, or so beautiful. Her hair was sun-streaked, a wheat-colored blond, and her long muscular limbs were tanned the shade of coconut husk. She wore shorts and a loose fitting blue linen tank top that matched her eyes.

She’d served us cold water and now looked at us expectantly.

“Lou Atlas asked me to come down and try to figure out what happened to his nephew, Jerry.” Her expression didn’t change. “Did you know him?”

“Not personally.” She shook her head. “Not the kind of person I choose to call friend, which was too bad, because Gisele used to be.” Her response was matter of fact, not haughty or judgmental. “Why did Marius tell you to come see me?”

“About the treasure,” Truck said.

Her eyes widened.

“Hold on,” I said. “Let’s back up.” I glanced at Truck. Based on the way Gisele greeted us, I was betting she’d already been approached by someone less than friendly, and I didn’t want to push her too hard. “When we learned that Gisele had been attacked, we wanted to find out why. Sure, Jerry was a drunk and nobody liked him, but everyone seemed to love Gisele—like you said—she’s a nice woman from a local family. When we visited her parents, they said they’d been approached by some men from the Dominican Republic—”

She nodded her head slowly.

“So when we saw Marius, I asked his opinion. He told us the Dominicans were here searching for clues about a Spanish galleon that sank off what is now the Dominican Republic back in the 1600’s.” I paused, but her expression didn’t change.

“You nodded when I mentioned the Dominicans—”

“They came to see me, along with two Americans this morning. That’s who I thought you were when you called.”

I shifted forward in my chair. Americans? Jack?

“Marius mentioned your grandfather had sought to salvage the Concepcíon—that’s the galleon’s name—along with Jacques Cousteau, back in the early 1970’s.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“First of all, we didn’t come here for treasure.” Truck shot a glance towards me. “But we are concerned for Gisele, and we’re trying to determine why she would’ve been attacked a month after her husband fell off his Jet Ski and drowned.”

She stood, walked to the open doors, and stared out toward the sea. Long muscular legs, regal neck, hair loose over her shoulders—

Truck elbowed me.

Nicole turned back toward us.

“And why should I trust you any more than the others who have come asking about my grandpere?”

“I know, I’m sorry. If you know Marius,