Treasure of the Heart Read online

  Luke thought it was the best job in the world, but he didn’t deny that it was a dangerous one. The Dawsons knew that only too well. Eighteen months ago Mia had died when the boat she’d been crewing on had gone down just off Cuba.

  “Is this because of Mia?” Mal had asked hoarsely. A muscle had ticked in his unshaven cheek and he’d raked a calloused hand through his hair. “Do you blame me? Do you think it was my fault she died, because I encouraged her? If you do, at least have the balls to say it! For Chrissake! Don’t you dare just walk away!”

  Luke had found that he was holding his breath. His world was tilting on its axis. Mia’s death, too young and too swift, had been one of the reasons he’d decided to quit college and come home. Nobody had loved the sea and the thrill of the hunt as much as Mia. She had been his father’s natural successor and her death had left a Grand Canyon of loss in the family. Luke knew that they’d never get over it or comprehend it, but somehow they had to learn to live with it. Coming home to the place and the job his sister had loved had been his way of doing this and honouring her memory. The idea that his decision was now driving his mother away appalled him.

  “Mia’s death was an accident,” Mal had said quietly when Beth didn’t reply. “An accident, Beth.”

  “Was it?” There’d been no mistaking the accusation in her voice. “Maybe, Mal. Maybe. Who knows what happened out there? What risks they took just to find treasure?” She almost spat the word. “All I know is that I’ve lost one child and I’m not going to stick around and watch it happen again. Encourage Luke if you must, but I’m not having any part of it.”

  Mal’s top lip curled. “Encourage him? He’s freaking twenty-one! Old enough to know his own mind.”

  “Except that he’s been brainwashed by you! They both were!”

  “Stop it!” Luke had shouted. “This is my decision, mine, OK? And it’s what I want to do. Nobody’s forcing me. I want to work the Casadora with Dad and I want to dive. I’m a Dawson, Mom, and I want to be a treasure hunter.”

  For a moment Beth Dawson had looked as though she was about to yell back, and she could yell, too – Luke had heard enough rows between her and Mal over the years to know that his mom had a fine pair of lungs and was just as fiery as her husband. Luke had braced himself for some sort of outburst, but the fight seemed to have evaporated from Beth and instead she just shook her head.

  “If that’s your choice I’m happy for you, sweetie,” she’d said at last. “I won’t make things difficult for you but I can’t be here to live with it. I just can’t. If you need me I’ll be with Grandma in Miami.”

  Then Luke’s mother had stepped into the taxi and out of her Key West life. Mal had said nothing, but that night he’d hit the bourbon hard and come home with a black eye too, the first of many such nights. Luke had stayed in the family home but the place had felt too big suddenly, and it rang with echoes rather than laughter and footsteps. Gradually Mal had abandoned Beth’s elegant sitting room for the kitchen at the back of the house, where he heated up TV dinners, smoked too much pot and worked his way through as much Jack Daniel’s as he could lay his hands on. Dust fell and covered Beth’s furniture, the vines overgrew the windows and people soon stopped visiting, which suited Luke’s father just fine. Sometimes a postcard arrived from Miami, after which Mal would hit the bottle even harder; inevitably, his work began to suffer. No matter what Luke said or did, his father seemed hell-bent on self-destruction.

  The memory of this time made Luke’s throat tighten and he quickened his pace, figuring that the sooner he had a whiskey the better. Christ. Maybe he had more in common with the old man than he’d thought? Without a doubt, Mal Dawson would be propping up a bar somewhere in town at this moment – not because it was New Year’s Eve but because that was his habit now. On most evenings he was out drinking, when really he should be laying off the booze, having an early night and putting out to sea in the morning. It wasn’t unusual for him to pass out in a strip joint and be carried home by some of the other skippers, and to wake up only when the sun was high in the sky and another day filled with potential had been squandered.

  Professional treasure hunting was a precarious business at the best of times; at the tail end of a global recession it was almost as tricky to find a sponsor willing to take a punt as it was to discover a hoard of gold. The spoils could be huge but the expenses were even greater. Boats, equipment, crew and dive permits didn’t come cheap and Casadora drank gas like his father drank JD. Mal Dawson, and those like him, relied on rich sponsors to foot their bills – but these sponsors were a nervous bunch and needed more hand-holding and reassurances than a high-school girl at the prom. Mal’s drinking made him tetchy and erratic, and without Beth to charm and schmooze the sponsors, it had seemed inevitable to Luke that they’d soon start to look elsewhere. Time and time again he’d argued with Mal to let him take charge, but his father wouldn’t relinquish so much as an inch of control. He was the skipper and that was the way it was staying. For the past twelve months Luke had watched his father make mistakes, get drunk and, worst of all, ignore evidence that Luke knew with all his heart could have led them to success.

  The hotel bar overlooked the water, dark now and filled with the reflections of a thousand lights, and bubbles of laughter rose into the air. Inside, fans rotated lazily, stirring the soupy atmosphere while glamorous people dressed in white and taupe sat on bar stools sipping mojitos and chatting. Spotting a gap at the bar and catching the eye of the barman, Luke decided to forego the joys of air con for the sweet relief of being served fast and getting the alcohol to hit his bloodstream.

  Yeah, maybe he was far more like the old man than he wanted to admit.

  Tumbler in hand, Luke swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully. When on form there was nobody in the business better than Mal Dawson. Instinctive, daring and skilled, he’d been at the top of his game for so long that his reputation shielded the truth of the current situation. But this couldn’t go on forever. The fact was, Mal had lost his edge and his magic touch – his nose for treasure, if you like – and it was only a matter of time before word got around. He would go down and take Luke with him.

  Luke couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t.

  Just one thing was stopping him from helping his father – Mal himself. Stubborn as the proverbial mule, he refused to listen to his son, insisted on ignoring the research Luke spent hours poring over, and set off instead on wild-goose chases of his own. For a long time, Luke had bitten his tongue and done his best to respect his father, but in the end his patience had worn tissue-paper thin. Things had come to a head three days ago when Mal had ignored Luke’s suggested location in favour of his own choice, a decision that had yielded only a wasted day followed by the galling news that a rival boat had discovered a cache of rare coins exactly where Luke had proposed that he and his father should dive. The row that followed swiftly turned ugly. When Mal had yelled that if Luke was such a shit-hot treasure hunter he could go it alone, Luke had decided then and there that this was exactly what he’d do.

  “Do it!” his father had sneered, over the top of his whiskey glass. “Let’s see how far you get without me, shall we? Womanising and posing on a boat, that’s all you’re good for. You couldn’t even finish your degree.”

  Luke had clenched his fists. The unfairness of these accusations stung, as did the small grains of truth in them. Yes, he liked women and women liked him. That wasn’t a crime. When you lived in the Florida Keys and spent most of your time on the water, you ended up tanned and buff; was it his fault that girls liked that? And as for posing? Luke defied anyone not to look good on the deck of a Hatteras yacht.

  The degree was another matter though. He’d abandoned that to come home, to be with his parents and support the family business. After losing Mia, being so far away from home had seemed pointless.

  “I’ll make it work,” was all he’d said, but Mal had just laughed.

  “You’ll soon come crawling back. You’ll never
make it without me.”

  I can and I will, Luke had promised himself, although quite how he’d do this without a boat, a crew or the backing of a sponsor was anyone’s guess. Not that this mattered. There was one thing Luke knew for certain: he wouldn’t be going back to his father with his tail between his legs. The time had come for him to stick his neck out and prove that he had exactly what it took to be the best in the business. He was a Dawson and he owed it to his heritage and his sister’s memory, to put that surname back on the treasure-hunting map. No matter what he had to do, no matter what it took, Luke swore that he would do this.

  Luke knocked back his drink and held out the glass for another. The bar was filling fast and, as he waited to be served, he glanced around. This wasn’t the usual local crowd – they’d all be on a crawl along Duval Street by now – but rather the moneyed second-home owners and those wealthy enough to stay in the luxury hotels. The men tended to be portly and red-faced; they were almost always poured into too-tight chinos and stripy shirts, with Rolexes squeezed onto their chubby wrists. The women, meanwhile, were disproportionately beautiful – all colt-like skinny legs, expensively streaked hair and designer sunglasses. One such specimen caught his eye now, from a little further along the bar. Sensing his gaze on her, she gave him a slow and appraising look. Luke took in the slanting feline eyes, the full sensual mouth and the cascade of platinum-blonde hair, then smiled and raised his glass. The blonde tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, sending several trinket-laden Pandora bracelets slipping down her slender arm as she did so. Her mouth curled upwards, and the invitation couldn’t have been any clearer.

  Maybe this evening wouldn’t be such a washout after all?

  “A Jack, no ice – and whatever she’s having,” Luke told the barman, wincing when he learned that she was on vintage champagne. Since the row with Mal, he’d been sofa-surfing at friends’ houses. What little savings he did have wouldn’t last long if he spent time with women who drank Cristal as though it were Diet Coke, never mind that he was trying to fund his own dive boat. Still, those were worries for another night, Luke decided as he wove his way through the press of bodies to join her. Tonight he was going to celebrate New Year’s Eve in style.

  The rest he would worry about later.

  Chapter 4

  New Year’s Day in Cornwall dawned grey, as heavy clouds rolled in from the west and the wind whipped the sea’s white horses into a gallop. Even though it was morning the sky was dark; Christmas lights shone valiantly into the gloom, their jaunty colours at odds with the leaden tide and pewter horizon. The rain was spitting half-heartedly, as though it lacked the energy to do much more; in this respect, the weather seemed to be in sympathy with the many villagers who were nursing hangovers and who could do little else but hold their heads and grumble. A few optimistic visitors had left their holiday cottages to brave the world beyond and wander the narrow streets, bobble-hatted and shod in pristine country boots purchased especially for the New Year’s Day walk. Most turned back when they reached the cliffs, where the breath-snatching wind flung fistfuls of sea spray up at the path and blew surprised seagulls off course.

  Only the toughest, or perhaps the most foolhardy, visitors carried on along the cliff path to the next town. Certainly no locals were out walking on such a raw morning. They were either sleeping in after the previous night’s celebrations, or getting ready for the biggest event of the day: Mo and Ashley Carstairs’ brunch party.

  Since Londoner Ashley had arrived in Polwenna Bay, wealthy, aloof and saturninely handsome, he’d been a subject of intense village gossip and more than a few crushes. Nobody knew much about him, except that he had more money than God. The rumours had only intensified when he’d bought Mariners’ View, one of Polwenna Bay’s premier properties. Ashley had proceeded to spend a small fortune developing the place and employing most of the local builders and sparkies. Guarded by the giant wall he’d had built, and which the locals had nicknamed the Great Wall of Cornwall, Mariners (as it was known for short) was surrounded by two acres of garden and gazed dreamily out to sea. It was the perfect haven for a man who enjoyed being secretive. Only a select handful of people had seen what he’d done to the interior of the house; the rest could only speculate. Some said Ashley had created a Playboy Mansion style shag pit, while others were convinced that his house was now a minimalistic shrine to modernity that was due to be featured on Grand Designs. Betty Jago, who ran the village shop, swore blind that she’d seen Kevin McCloud buying a pasty, whereas the Pollards told tall tales in the pub about how they’d installed pole-dancing podiums and bought leopard-print paint from Trago Mills.

  As if all this hadn’t been intriguing enough, Ashley Carstairs had then stunned them all by marrying Morwenna Tremaine, the red-headed spitfire who’d opposed all his renovations and generally done her best to make his pet project a headache. Exactly how that had happened the villagers weren’t certain, but there was one thing they did know for sure: if Ashley and Mo were having a house party then they were all going to be there, hangovers or not. Even the weather, which looked to be closing in fast, wasn’t going to stop them walking up to Mariners. What would a soaking from the rain matter if a good look around Cashley’s house was at the end of it?

  Issie Tremaine had been inside Mariners enough times to know that sadly it contained neither a pole-dancing area nor any leopard print (unless you counted her new brother-in-law, who’d certainly changed his spots for her sister). She, for one, wasn’t relishing the idea of a bracing walk across the village and up the steep cliff path. It felt as though a thrash-metal band was playing a set inside her skull, with the drummer currently executing a solo in her left eye socket, and overnight some sadist had fitted a shag-pile carpet to her tongue. As she sat at the kitchen table and attempted to sip the orange juice Alice had put in front of her, the room pitched so violently that Issie thought she was going to throw up again.

  She placed her throbbing head in her hands and groaned. Oh Lord. Just how much had she drunk last night? Far too much, of course. Issie’s memories of New Year’s Eve grew patchy after the fifth, or maybe sixth, tequila slammer. Like a hideous jigsaw, every now and then another piece dropped into place. At least she’d woken up in her own bed, thought Issie with relief, although she had no idea how she’d made it home: the last thing she could remember was dancing around the Christmas tree with Little Rog. Jake had probably carried her back to Seaspray, which meant she’d be in for another heavy-duty lecture from her big brother. Happy bloody New Year.

  Hold on, Happy New Year… That rang a bell. Where had she been when the old year slipped away? Issie’s brow crinkled and she stared into her orange juice as though it might yield an answer. The church bell had been striking twelve, and she’d been holding someone’s hand and watching fireworks whirling above… Or had that been the lights of the Polwenna Bay tree blurring as her head spun from drinking shots all night with Little Rog Pollard? And had she really snogged Teddy St Milton again? That had to be the shortest-lived New Year’s resolution ever.

  Oh God. What else had she done?

  Issie’s stomach lurched as an awful thought occurred to her.

  No. Surely not? She wouldn’t have done that, would she?

  With shaking fingers, Issie picked up her mobile phone and unlocked the screen. Sick with suspense, she scrolled through to the call log, praying that, no matter how drunk she’d been, somewhere in the tequila-sodden depths of her brain there had lurked a scrap of common sense that had prevented her from pressing self-destruct. The relief when she saw that she hadn’t dialled anyone or sent a drunken text message was enough to make her want to weep.

  Maybe her New Year’s resolution should be to stop drinking, Issie thought, pushing the mobile across the table. It was hard enough keeping a firm grip on herself when she was sober; contemplating what could happen when she was drunk and all inhibition had gone out the window was absolutely terrifying.

  “Drink that up. It’s high time we were of
f,” Alice chivvied over her shoulder. Dressed in a long waxed coat, wellingtons and a headscarf, her grandmother was ready to face the weather and stomp over to Mariners. Issie, who wasn’t even dressed yet, felt exhausted just looking at her.

  “Can’t I stay here?” she pleaded. “I really don’t feel well.”

  “I’m not surprised, given the state you came home in last night.” Alice looked pained. “Issie, you can’t carry on like this. It’s not good for you.”

  Her grandmother’s words reverberated around Issie’s skull like reproachful squash balls.

  “I know, I know, I know, I know, OK? I’m never drinking again. Honest.”

  Alice looked at her intently. “I only wish I could believe that. Sweetheart, I can’t pretend that I know what the matter is, and when I ask you’ll only tell me nothing, but whatever it is you need to sort it out, and soon. You’re throwing so much away.”

  Issie held up her hands. Although she knew Alice only wanted to help, there were some things that her grandmother wouldn’t understand and couldn’t fix. What had happened with Mark, and the raw pain and shame she still felt whenever she thought of him, couldn’t be made better with a Band-Aid and a kiss. If Alice could find a switch in Issie’s heart that she could flick to turn her feelings off, then that would be great; otherwise the only thing she’d found that actually worked was alcohol.