Page 1 of Stilettos & Secrets on the 7 Seas

One

Nassau, Bahamas, 1718 has thieves, loose women, sunken treasure, and a smell that could wrinkle a dolphin’s nose. What it doesn’t have is Jack Sparrow, Peter Pan, the Pirates of Penzance, or any sign of Tinker Bell.

My name is Jennifer Cloud. I’m a transporter for the World Travel Federation, frequently frustrated time traveler, and, for the sake of my mother’s mental health, chiropractic assistant at my brother Eli’s office, Cloud Chiropractic.

The genetic gift of time travel flows in my veins but requires a special vessel and key to make the magic happen.

The World Travel Federation, a.k.a. WTF, is a secret agency of time travelers made up of defenders and transporters. The defenders follow bad guys, a.k.a. brigands, to the past and prevent them from screwing up present day. The transporters, lucky me, are summoned by the defenders to cart the brigands to headquarters. The CIA keeps the facts straight and oversees this magic with muscle from the U.S. military.

After an unfortunate accident on a jump to theTitanicthat only changed a smidge of things in present day, my boss grounded me, adding to my frustration with the magical overseers. The WTF locked up my key and prevented me from helping my team with their missions. My team went to bat for me, bitching and moaning until voilà! My boss returned my key.

Currently, I was on a mission sweating my ass off in 1718 with my defender, Marco Ferrari. If he was lucky enough to catch a brigand committing a crime, I’d cart the beastly bad guy or gal back to base in my handy dandy vessel, otherwise known as my outhouse. My great-aunt Elma Jean Cloud, who we lovingly callAintElma, gave it to me after she made her final jump to the great beyond.

* * *

Marco’s sun-kissedhair was gathered into a stubby tail bound with a piece of leather. A white cotton shirt and dark breeches made him look like the cover model for Yachts R Us. I sat across from him at New Providence Island’s main attraction, a tavern on the first floor and a brothel on the second.

I took a drink of a curious brown liquid that made my lips pucker. The smell of foul body odor, laughter, and the clink of mugs filled with the same sticky liquor floated around the room like a rotten fart at a two-for-one taco special.

Except for Marco. He smelled like salty sea air and freshly laundered linen. I didn’t know how he managed. We’d gone two days without a bath. I wasn’t daisy-fresh like Marco, but I was thankful I didn’t live in this time. And thankful we were about to return home.

At five-foot-seven, I lacked several inches of seeing eye to eye with Marco. I have a fit body from hours of despised physical training, blond hair that turns an occasional head, and blue eyes my boyfriend, not Marco, says make him weak in the kilt.

I had recently spent a weekend with the other man in my life, my current boyfriend, Caiyan McGregor, on the beautiful island of Nassau. Of course, that was present-day, with a luxury hotel, room service, a comfy king-sized bed we put to good use, and a picturesque view of white sand beaches surrounded by an aqua ocean.

This Nassau has white beaches, but the hotels and the room service are missing. The copious amounts of driftwood, seaweed, sea creatures, and seashells that washed up on the beach didn’t prevent a fantasy of me and a naked Marco rolling around in the sand.

I can always tell Marco’s mood by the color of his eyes. Icy blue when he’s mad, steel when he’s in protection mode, and when he looks at me the way he hasn’t looked at me in weeks, they resemble celestial moonbeams reflecting off the warm Caribbean Sea. Currently, they were light blue, scanning the room of prostitutes, sailors, pirates, and other patrons.

“Sasha’s here. I can feel it.”

“There’s no sign of Mortas.” I reminded Marco of the brigand we were supposed to be following, not the woman he was pursuing like a hound with his first sniff of fox.

Mortas Mafuso, a brigand I never wanted to be caught with in a dark alley unarmed and alone, should have been here. Unfortunately, Marco was also hunting the time traveler of his dreams, a sassy brigand currently stealing his undivided attention from me.

Sasha Romanov wasn’t his official target. She’d also stolen the King’s eye, an important relic essential to locating the King’s key. The King’s key was an even more important relic Mortas sought like a shark in the shallow end filled with a synchronized swim team.

According to legend, the King of the Ancalites and the first known time traveler wore armor made up of all the time traveler’s keys. The WTF has been searching for this so-called King’s key for decades.

And coming up empty.

We’d been following Mortas for days, but once we maneuvered inside the tavern, through the throng of people, I’d dropped my tired ass into a hard wooden chair. He was nowhere to be found. Apparently, neither brigand was present in the tavern.

My heart hurt a little. Marco wasn’t as into me as he had been before our treacherous trip on theTitanic. The same trip where he met Sasha. He still threw occasional sexy innuendos in my direction, but the hope that I would respond seemed less important.

“Do you sense Sasha’s here like you’re having Spidey tingles, or you’re just guessing that she’s here?” I tore my eyes away from his gaze, but not before I caught the smile. The smile that attracted women like a neon sign flashing Single Ladies, Apply Here.

“I don’t get the Spidey tingles like you do, but I have a gut feeling, and sometimes you have to go with your gut.”

“Great.” I’d followed my gut a time or two, and it could definitely steer you wrong. “We’re staying in this pigsty of a brothel, possibly catching the disease of the month, because you have a tummy tingle?”

He gave a quick laugh. “It’s a tavern. The brothel’s upstairs, and you won’t catch anything unless you’re naked.”

“I’m only getting naked if it involves a tub full of hot water and a bar of lavender soap.” I waited for the “I can help you with that” or “we could go upstairs and find out,” but I got nada. Nothing. Not even a comment about how my nipples poked through the thin material of my eighteenth-century dress.

“What?” Marco shrugged at the look I gave him.

“Nothing.” I shook my head, trying to get out of my thoughts and focus on the mission. Our mission.

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