Her hair was gathered back into a single glossy braid, the color as rich and deep as roasted chestnuts. Her mouth was far too sulky for his liking, but he could imagine how a softly formed word—if she could manage one—would send a shiver down a desperate man’s spine. The nose was delicate, the cheeks almost too smooth to believe they could bear exposure to harsh elements of the weather. And her eyes. They were cat’s eyes, molten gold, dangerously obstinate, dangerously defiant. …
Just plain dangerous.
They did not relent by so much as a flicker—an odd enough sensation to deal with, especially since most females of his acquaintance normally avoided looking directly at anything above the level of his chin, regardless how brazen or uninhibited they might be. Geoffrey claimed it was his own fault, that he looked at women the same way a hawk looked at its prey. But that was only because Geoffry Pitt tended to fall in love at the first flutter of an eyelash.
Dante preferred his freedom, guarded it like a crown jewel. Women were fine in their place—preferably beneath him with their backs arched and their limbs wrapped tightly around his thighs—but he had no room for encumbrances in his life, no desire for any more shackles or chains of any kind, especially if they came burdened by emotion.
Her eyes commanded his attention again. Lush amber-gold, flecked with every subtle shade between green and brown, they were as bright as polished gemstones. And direct enough to cause an unsettling tightness in his groin. They were not the eyes of a virgin, for they held no fear. Neither were they the eyes of an experienced courtesan,for there was no hint of an invitation in their depths. Again he found himself comparing her to other women he had encountered, recalling none who could provoke, anger, challenge, and temptation all at the same time.
He wondered what she looked like naked.
Dante blinked first, breaking contact.
It was a singularily unfamiliar experience, knowing the wench was able to break his concentration. She still had not looked away, flaunting, it seemed, her ability to keep his level of irritation high enough to be a distraction.
He decided the best way to defuse her was to ignore her.
He lifted the golden ship—his
Virago
—and started collecting up the letters and documents beneath. Most were written in Spanish, some bore official seals and ribbons and flamboyant signatures belonging to governors and dignitaries in the New World. Dante spoke six languages fluently, including Spanish, and had translated most of the papers into his own bold script. Some were important, some not. Some went into great and boring detail about crops and harvests, weather conditions, even the hell of living with swarms of bloodsucking insects that attacked day and night in the jungles. Other documents, of more interest to a seafaring gentleman of private enterprise, concerned the staggering amounts of gold and silver that would be shipped to Lisbon with the next flota. These so-called plate fleets were tempting to raiders of all nationalities because of the enormous quantity of gold stolen from temples and villages throughout Mexico and Panama, most of it already hammered into plates and large sun medallions.
All of the papers, letters, and documents had been in the treasure house at Veracruz awaiting the ships that would carry the correspondence home to Spain. Pitt had snatched them up almost as an afterthought, speculatingthere was always something of some interest to someone who cared to know the state of affairs in Spanish-held territories. What he hadn’t counted on was finding something that would irrevocably alter the course of their destiny.
Dante glanced up. The wench was still staring.
“If you want to make yourself useful,” he said irritably, “you can start rolling these charts and stacking them in a chest.”
“I have absolutely no desire to make myself useful, Captain Dante.” She arched her brows in
Just plain dangerous.
They did not relent by so much as a flicker—an odd enough sensation to deal with, especially since most females of his acquaintance normally avoided looking directly at anything above the level of his chin, regardless how brazen or uninhibited they might be. Geoffrey claimed it was his own fault, that he looked at women the same way a hawk looked at its prey. But that was only because Geoffry Pitt tended to fall in love at the first flutter of an eyelash.
Dante preferred his freedom, guarded it like a crown jewel. Women were fine in their place—preferably beneath him with their backs arched and their limbs wrapped tightly around his thighs—but he had no room for encumbrances in his life, no desire for any more shackles or chains of any kind, especially if they came burdened by emotion.
Her eyes commanded his attention again. Lush amber-gold, flecked with every subtle shade between green and brown, they were as bright as polished gemstones. And direct enough to cause an unsettling tightness in his groin. They were not the eyes of a virgin, for they held no fear. Neither were they the eyes of an experienced courtesan,for there was no hint of an invitation in their depths. Again he found himself comparing her to other women he had encountered, recalling none who could provoke, anger, challenge, and temptation all at the same time.
He wondered what she looked like naked.
Dante blinked first, breaking contact.
It was a singularily unfamiliar experience, knowing the wench was able to break his concentration. She still had not looked away, flaunting, it seemed, her ability to keep his level of irritation high enough to be a distraction.
He decided the best way to defuse her was to ignore her.
He lifted the golden ship—his
Virago
—and started collecting up the letters and documents beneath. Most were written in Spanish, some bore official seals and ribbons and flamboyant signatures belonging to governors and dignitaries in the New World. Dante spoke six languages fluently, including Spanish, and had translated most of the papers into his own bold script. Some were important, some not. Some went into great and boring detail about crops and harvests, weather conditions, even the hell of living with swarms of bloodsucking insects that attacked day and night in the jungles. Other documents, of more interest to a seafaring gentleman of private enterprise, concerned the staggering amounts of gold and silver that would be shipped to Lisbon with the next flota. These so-called plate fleets were tempting to raiders of all nationalities because of the enormous quantity of gold stolen from temples and villages throughout Mexico and Panama, most of it already hammered into plates and large sun medallions.
All of the papers, letters, and documents had been in the treasure house at Veracruz awaiting the ships that would carry the correspondence home to Spain. Pitt had snatched them up almost as an afterthought, speculatingthere was always something of some interest to someone who cared to know the state of affairs in Spanish-held territories. What he hadn’t counted on was finding something that would irrevocably alter the course of their destiny.
Dante glanced up. The wench was still staring.
“If you want to make yourself useful,” he said irritably, “you can start rolling these charts and stacking them in a chest.”
“I have absolutely no desire to make myself useful, Captain Dante.” She arched her brows in
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