Page 89 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse

Shea opened her mouth to reply but was held back by Pete’s expression of caution.

“Good idea.” Pete’s insertion was unwelcome, and Shea sucked in a breath to protest. Pete lifted his hand, and the motion silenced her more from surprise than obedience. “Get him out of here.”

Holt stepped toward his grandfather, but Captain Gene scowled. “No, no, young man—stay away.”

“It’s me. Holt.” Holt stated.

Captain Gene’s face furrowed in confusion.

Pete reached out and touched Shea’s arm. “I think he has—”

“Wait,” Shea interrupted, before Pete’s words fully registered. “Do you know where the silver map is? The one that’s been supposedly hidden for over a century?”

Captain Gene’s eyes darted to hers.

Shea drew in a breath. “Youdo!”

Holt growled under his breath and stalked to Captain Gene’s side, reaching down and hoisting him from the bed. Captain Gene wrangled his arm from Holt’s grip. “Let me go!”

“Yeah. Let me help.” Pete stepped farther into the room to assist Holt with Captain Gene’s removal from the lighthouse.

“No!” Shea held up a hand toward Pete. “I want to know where this map is. If Captain Gene knows ... is that why you’ve stayed under the radar all these years? To keep it hidden? Is it really that big of a treasure map?”

“Shea.” Pete’s voice held warning.

She glanced at him, then at Holt. There was a tension in the air that warned Shea. Warned her that she was consumed—by the story, the missing map, by everything but the people in front of her.

“Let’s get the captain home,” Pete said to Holt.

“Yeah.” Holt led Captain Gene from the room.

Pete moved past her, following the two men from the lighthouse. She followed on his heels.

“Pete!” she called, trying to get his attention.

But he waved her off, intent on making sure Holt and Captain Gene were taken care of.

“Pete, I still have questions. And what if you can’t trust them?”

Pete’s response was swift. “Then trust me, Shea.”

Trust you?

The words penetrated her with a swiftness Shea was not prepared for. Yet his statement was more of a request than a command. It was a need for Shea not only to back down but to show Pete the respect due him as a fellow human being who might just know more than she did in this situation.

Trust Pete?

That required less of her and more of him.

That required a level of respect she’d stolen from Pete long ago when she all but wrote him off, as she grew weary of hopingand wishing and waiting to be cherished. And was that so bad? To want to be cherished? To want to be the center of someone’s affection?

No. No, it wasn’t.

Shea stared after the retreating backs of the three men. One hunched with age, the other with his back so ramrod straight it boasted of hurt and stubborn willfulness, and the third managing through physical pain but steady and straightforward. You got what you saw when you met Pete Radclyffe. There was no charm, no pretense, no romance, no butterflies. It was just Pete.

Her Pete.

The steady, mundane, always-there Pete who got things done and let her be her without argument.