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She pauses, looking back at me. Then reaches out and grabs a sandwich.

A little relieved, I slide between her and the gun and take a sandwich for myself.

“Well? Ready to tell me why the DEA sent me a hot stalker?”

I can’t help smirking. “You think I’m hot?”

“Shut up.” She takes an angry bite of her peanut butter and jelly, and it’s adorable.

“You really don’t know?” I still can’t wrap my head around the idea that June might actually not be involved.

She shakes her head, more white dust falling from the strands. It takes a herculean effort not to comb it out with my fingers, not to tuck the wild mess behind her ear.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I settle for shoving the sandwich in my mouth, eating with a methodical quickness born of a lifetime of quick meals made for nutrition, not pleasure. A handful of Goldfish follow.

June chews neatly, precise little bites that have me watching her mouth as she clearly turns theories over in that pretty head of hers.

“Why in the world would the Drug Enforcement Agency be interested in me?”

I swallow, peanut butter sticking in my throat.

“Is the DEA interested in the wreck?” She squares me with a serious look that almost unravels me. “It doesn’t fall under their jurisdiction, not in the least,” she muses. “State Department, maybe. For repatriating the objects to Mexico or Spain, smoothing out the museum circuit. But not DEA.” She licks a bit of peanut butter off her finger and my eyes track the motion. Mygroin tightens, remembering what those curves felt like beneath me. Wondering what it would be like if she kissed me.

“Repatriating the objects?” I echo, leaving those thoughts behind.

“Yeah? From theSantu Espiritu. I still don’t get why they wouldn’t just approach me normally. Not like this.” She gestures to the newly shotgun-shattered ceiling above.

My eyes fly to the fridge. She thinks I’m after a… wreck? A shipwreck.

“For a man who’s been stalking me, you don’t seem to know a whole lot about what I do. Tell me what the hell is going on, or I’ll make you leave.” June fidgets, glancing at the gun, still chewing.

“And make me miss this delicious sandwich and your company?” I let loose the lopsided grin that usually gets me what I want. “Nah. I don’t think you would. Besides, I’m not interested in some disintegrating shipwreck.”

What I’m after is much more modern.

And much more dangerous.

“Why else would you steal my research off my fridge?” She fishes in her back pocket, revealing the folded tidal charts that had been inmine.

“You took them?” I rub a hand across my stubble in frustration.

Sneaky little thing.

“You took them first.” She jabs my chest, frowning at the folded papers. “Explain.” She turns her disappointed expression at me and I decide to fold. Just a little.

Maybe if I give something up, she will too.

“Iaminterested in something in the ocean. Something I think your father told you about.” Running a finger over the currents chart, I look back to her. “This ship? TheSantuEspiritu? The article said it went down with a hurricane in the gulf.”

An idea sparks, so I follow my instincts, tugging at the thread.

“Did your father tell you anything about where he thinks it might be lost in the gulf? Leave you anything that might help us, I mean you, find what you need?”

Her lips are a thin line, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What does the DEA want with theSantu Espiritu? Or my father?” She throws her hands up. “He’s dead, though I guess you know that.” Her voice sounds rough, her throat bobbing as she swallows. “And no, the only things he was interested in were crabs and tourists willing to spend their money on guided fishing trips on theBetty. His boat out back.” Her voice wobbles a little. “Looking for the ship was a fun thing we used to do. Then I decided to stake my career on it. Great decision making on my part.”

I clear my throat. God. She’s either an expert at lying, or she’s telling the truth.