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12

Haven

Tuesday

T he morning after my call with Gage, I stood in front of Positano’s only scuba outfitter, a tiny stand-alone building not far from the main beach, with a faded stucco facade and a beat-up sign reading Positano Underwater Adventures . The fact that it was written in English told me most of its customers were tourists.

I paused a moment before going in, gazing at a few of the items in the shop’s display window: a snorkel set that looked to be half-melted from UV rays; a poster advertising a discount on lessons that had expired months ago; and a collection of plain white oversize T-shirts. One of them had come loose from its hanger and lay in a messy heap beneath the others.

If this was the storefront, I could only imagine the condition of the shop’s gear.

Grimacing, I opened the door, a bell clanging against the glass to announce my arrival. The shop was empty of customers, and no one stood behind the counter, though the lights were on and hip-hop music played from somewhere in the back. I inhaled the all-too-familiar scent of neoprene and sunscreen, then I glanced around at the merchandise, which wasn’t any better than what I’d seen in the window.

“Hello?” I called out.

This was met with a loud hissing sound, then an ear-piercing crash, like someone had dropped a metal tray. A man’s voice in back muttered, “ Cazzo .” I knew what this meant; I’d studied up on a few Italian swear words, too.

A moment later, footsteps.

“I’m so sorry,” I called out, about to come face-to-face with whatever employee I’d startled. But when he turned the corner, I was relieved to see a wide grin.

“ Ciao ,” he said.

“ Ciao ,” I replied. He looked about my age, maybe a few years older. “I’m sorry if I startled you.” Then again, he didn’t seem the sort to be easily disturbed: he wore board shorts and a long-sleeved rash guard, and his wavy, almost-black hair was rumpled and half-wet. He looked like he’d just gone for a swim.

He also looked familiar. “Did I see you yesterday morning?” I asked him. “Walking up the steps with a box of snorkel masks?”

He laughed. “Indeed. You tried your Italian on me. It wasn’t terrible.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the glass counter. His skin tone was a beautiful, Italian bronze, and as the sleeves of his shirt inched up, I caught the bottom edge of a tattoo on his forearm: a pair of sea turtles surrounded by a few abstract-looking waves.

“And you didn’t startle me,” he said in a thick Italian accent. “The hoses on our air tanks, they can be a pain in the ass. Uncooperative.”

I might have found the statement troubling, if not for his very intense gaze, which left me fumbling for words.

“Right,” I said, approaching the counter. “I, uh, well, I’m a scuba diver, and I thought I’d stop in to ask about a few things.” I nearly cringed as I said it. He probably thought I’d come for a bottle of mask defogger or maybe a spare pair of water shoes. Little did he know all that had transpired in the last day and how very much I needed help. “Do you do dive excursions?” I finally asked.

“ Certamente ,” he said. He handed me a brochure. Now, closer to him, I could make out a few days’ worth of unshaven stubble on his jawline, and his dark, coffee-colored eyes. “We have a spot open this afternoon,” he said, “and several tomorrow. Luca’s leading the dives. She’s top-notch , as you Americans like to say.” At this, he winked.

He was being a bit forward, but I didn’t dislike it. I forced my eyes back to the brochure, trying to concentrate on the map within. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him checking my left hand.

“Thanks,” I said, handing back the brochure. I wasn’t interested in exploring underwater grottos or looking for barracuda. “These excursions look great, but I’m actually not here to dive recreationally. I’m a researcher, and I’m more interested in a private boat charter.”

“Oh? Do you have a dive site in mind?”

“Li Galli.”

He grimaced. “You heard about the—”

“The yacht, yes.” I sighed. “Terrible timing.” I didn’t want to dwell on it, so I moved on quickly. “I need to rent air tanks, too. Does Luca do private charters?”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Sadly, no. We’ve just got the one boat, and we only use it for group dives.”

I nodded, instantly deflated. “I see.” I gazed aimlessly at the counter, trying to think of an alternative. “Can you recommend any private boat charters around here?”

“ Sì , we have hundreds of them in Positano,” he said. “But being a diver, you know…”

“Most boats don’t make good dive boats.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Exactly.”

Dive boats had brackets to keep air tanks safely secured in addition to special ladders and swim steps. Freshwater tanks, too, for dunking wet suits and expensive gear. I thought of the precious equipment I’d brought, some of it costing thousands of dollars—particularly my camera lenses. The lenses needed to be submerged in fresh water as soon as possible after using; salt water was terribly corrosive.

Suddenly, an idea struck me. “What time are your group excursions?”

“We do two a day,” he said. “Eleven to one, and two to four.”

“So before eleven, or after four, no one is using the boat?”

He was silent a moment, studying my face. “That’s right,” he finally said. The edges of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a grin.

“Would I be permitted to charter the boat during those hours, then? Of course, I’ll pay whatever it costs, including fuel.”

He looked away, drumming his fingers on the glass. “I don’t know,” he said, furrowing his brow. “I will have to check with the owner, see if he approves.”

“Of course,” I said quickly.

“How many open-water dives have you done?” he asked, his head tilted to one side.

“Thousands. I’ve been diving since I was four years old.”

He went still, then. “Give me one moment,” he said.

I nodded, expecting him to go to the back and have a word with the owner, whoever he was. But instead, he remained at the glass counter, spending a few moments needlessly tidying the brochures and organizing them into a neat pile.

Suddenly, he looked up. “The owner approves.”

I gave a little laugh. “Sorry?”

“I am the owner, and I’d be glad to agree to this.” He held out his hand. “Enzo Rossi.”

My hands had suddenly gone damp, and I fought the urge to fidget with my hair. I put my hand out, too, praying he didn’t notice how sweaty my palms were. “Haven Ambrose,” I said, looking him straight in his dark brown eyes.

“Four o’clock today, then, for our first dive?” he asked.

I paused. Even when Project Relic had been squarely my own, I hadn’t planned to make my first dive until next week. I hadn’t even unpacked my gear yet. But nothing about this trip to Positano was going as planned. And I worried that if I didn’t accept Enzo’s offer this very moment, he might reconsider.

And—Conrad. He was en route and would be landing in Naples tomorrow. How quickly would he don his scuba gear and deploy his team? If I were in the water this afternoon, well, I would beat him to that, at least.

“Yes,” I said. “Four o’clock. I’ll be ready.”

“I cannot let you go down alone, you know.”

“Of course,” I said. “Will someone else be coming along, then?” A third person to man the boat wasn’t imperative, but it was certainly best practice.

“No,” he said. “We will drop anchor and put up our flag.”

I nodded, pretending this did not worry me at all. Mal would be furious with me for agreeing to this.

“Meet me at the main dock.” Enzo gave me one last smile, before coming around the counter, stepping to the door, and propping it open for me. “Have a beautiful day, Haven Ambrose,” he said, his voice low.

I thanked him, giving him a quick, light touch on his arm. It was unlike me to be flirtatious with someone I’d just met, but with this Enzo, I simply couldn’t resist.