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planned to build a whole lot more.
    They were grouped in pairs, very attractive, with white plaster walls, red-tiled roofs, and ornately carved, heavy wooden front doors. Lush foliage surrounded each unit, and pink bougainvillea climbed up the stucco walls. They passed a sales office, and Hope began to see why Eddie was being so amenable.
    A series of articles in Adventure magazine would bring a lot of notoriety to Pleasure Island. It was a beautiful spot with miles of white sand beaches, lush green tropical plants, and beautiful exotic flowers. Some of the visitors—the ones with a pot-load of money—would definitely be impressed, perhaps enough to purchase one of Eddie Markham’s elegant Pleasure Island villas.
    And villa was exactly the word. At least five thousand square feet of luxury living, exquisitely furnished in the Caribbean style, with net-draped four-poster beds, cool tile floors, and glass walls that slid open to let in the sounds of the surf and the soft island breezes.
    “Take your time,” Eddie said. “I’ll be back for you in an hour. We’ll have a boat ready to take you out to the Conquest. ”
    “Great.”
    “You’ll find food and drinks in the refrigerator. The bar is fully stocked. If you think of anything else—”
    “I know—just call Chalko.”
    Eddie smiled. She noticed he had a few too many, very white teeth. “His cell number is next to the phone in the living room.”
    Eddie didn’t miss a trick. “Thanks. I’ll see you in an hour.”
     
    Conner Reese stood in the chart room aboard the salvage vessel Conquest, studying the maps spread open on the teakwood table in front of him. Pleasure Island was seven miles long and two miles wide, volcanic in nature, with lush tropical rain forests and beautiful, cascading streams. A small chunk of privately owned paradise ruled by a man who had proclaimed himself emperor of his tiny domain.
    Emperor Eddie was one of Conn’s partners in Treasure Limited, along with Archie Marlin, who, for more than twenty years, had researched the Spanish galleon they were hunting. The third man on the team was the moneyman, Brad Talbot, a spoiled playboy pushing forty.
    They called Talbot the Doormat King, a name he despised. Conn figured part of the man’s motivation for joining the venture was to change his image. Talbot seemed to think that by doing something dangerous and romantic—like finding sunken treasure—he would actually be thought of as dangerous and romantic.
    Instead of just a guy who’d inherited his money and now had too much time on his hands.
    “So what do you think?” Conn asked the silver-haired man next to him in a tee shirt that read “Salvage Guys Do It Deep” and a pair of navy blue shorts, the skipper of the Conquest, Bob Gibson.
    “I don’t know. These reefs are damned tricky. And they’ve grown a good deal in the past four hundred years. Marlin believes the ship blew in from the west. The reef protects the north end of the island, but the beach extends around the whole southern end. Maybe we should start doing a little searching—”
    He broke off as he spotted the flashy white Pleasure Island speedboat racing toward them. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
    Conn followed his gaze out the window and saw the boat skimming over the waves, forty-two feet of luxury sitting on a pair of twin diesel 700-horsepower engines that could blow other boats its size out of the water. There were two people aboard. Conn recognized Chalko’s smiling dark face at the helm. He reached for the binoculars sitting on one of the built-in teakwood shelves and leveled them on the person standing beside the driver.
    “He’s got a woman aboard. I wonder what they want.”
    It wouldn’t take long to find out. The boat ran like lightning, and Chalko liked speed. As the vessel drew near, Conn saw that the woman was grinning. Apparently she liked a fast ride, too.
    As one of the deckhands helped her aboard, he noticed she had