Items related to Promise of Gold
An Irresistible Prize...
With three aging godfathers to care for, Rosa Constanza Wright had no choice but to turn her unique talents to stealing. Yet when the beautiful and brazen flamenco dancer commits the most daring burglary of her career, she discovers a 270-year-old journal that may hold the key to a wealth of sunken Spanish treasure. But Rosa has competition.
Derek Carlisle, Viscount Graystone, has traveled all the way to Cuba seeking the priceless document, and when he learns that it has fallen into Rosa’s lovely hands, the relentlessly determined and devastatingly handsome archaeologist vows to find her....
An Undeniable Passion
But Graystone is in for the surprise of his life, for Rosa is unlike any woman he’s ever met. Saucy and stubborn, resourceful and clever, she demands an equal partnership in his quest. Soon the two are embarking on a bold adventure on the high seas, where their search for the Spanish galleon will lead them into infinite peril–and where they will discover a passion far more tempting, and far more precious, than a fortune in gold.
With three aging godfathers to care for, Rosa Constanza Wright had no choice but to turn her unique talents to stealing. Yet when the beautiful and brazen flamenco dancer commits the most daring burglary of her career, she discovers a 270-year-old journal that may hold the key to a wealth of sunken Spanish treasure. But Rosa has competition.
Derek Carlisle, Viscount Graystone, has traveled all the way to Cuba seeking the priceless document, and when he learns that it has fallen into Rosa’s lovely hands, the relentlessly determined and devastatingly handsome archaeologist vows to find her....
An Undeniable Passion
But Graystone is in for the surprise of his life, for Rosa is unlike any woman he’s ever met. Saucy and stubborn, resourceful and clever, she demands an equal partnership in his quest. Soon the two are embarking on a bold adventure on the high seas, where their search for the Spanish galleon will lead them into infinite peril–and where they will discover a passion far more tempting, and far more precious, than a fortune in gold.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
From the Back Cover:
“A romantic treasure! Adorable characters, nonstop action, tropical heat, and sensuality that sizzles–what more could you ask for?”
–Betina Krahn
“Kristen Kyle sweeps you away! Intrigue, passion, and chicanery on the high seas. Promise of Gold is gripping and absolutely wonderful.” –Christina Skye
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
–Betina Krahn
“Kristen Kyle sweeps you away! Intrigue, passion, and chicanery on the high seas. Promise of Gold is gripping and absolutely wonderful.” –Christina Skye
Chapter One
Havana, Cuba
Early June 1898
The juggler tossed the burning torches into the air in an outstanding display of skill, catching the unlit end of each before sending it up again in a circle of yellow flame. Suddenly, he stopped all four and plunged them dramatically into a waiting bucket of water. The dying torches hissed in protest. With a flourish, the juggler bowed.
The eighty dinner guests burst into enthusiastic applause.
Derek Christopher Carlisle, Viscount Graystone, concealed his sigh of impatience. He clapped along with his fellow guests, honoring his upbringing as a gentleman and the lessons of diplomacy that his father had taught him were so essential to achieving one's goals in a foreign country.
Derek sat back against the red brocade of the richly upholstered chair, his fingers gripping the carved armrests. Beneath the floor-length white linen covering the long table his leg jiggled with the anticipation and irritation he dared not show. He would play his host's game, though it qualified as a bloody nuisance.
He recognized the unceasing string of entertainers for what they truly were.
Delay tactics.
Don Geraldo de Vargas was toying with his guest of honor, building the suspense and trying to seize a position of power in the upcoming negotiations. The Spanish sugar baron hadn't expanded on his inherited wealth, nor maintained his position in Cuban society, by being dull-witted. Surely he had guessed that the heirloom documents in his private collection must be worth a great deal if Derek had sailed all the way from England in search of them.
Whatever the price, Derek was willing to pay it.
He possessed the monetary resources. What he didn't have was the one essential item he'd been tracking down for a year.
He prayed that Don Geraldo didn't understand the true worth of his ancestor's journal.
Derek picked up his cut-crystal glass and swirled its contents. The wine clung to the inside of the glass before sliding smoothly back down. The rich, fruity aroma teased his nostrils. The respite in the entertainment allowed conversation to rise among the guests, droning like a swarm of bees. All these people were strangers to Derek, except for the two highest-ranking members of his crew relegated to the far end of the huge U-shaped table.
Slanting his blue-eyed gaze to the left, Derek covertly studied his host's classic Spanish profile. A thick mustache and neatly trimmed goatee accented a bold nose and rigid jaw. Don Geraldo's walnut-brown coat matched the hair brushed straight back from his broad forehead. Silver hair streaked down the center of his goatee, and similar flecks dusted throughout his collar-length hair. An ivory satin waistcoat stretched across his slender torso. The right questions around Havana had revealed that the don was a cruel taskmaster, demanding maximum work in the sugarcane fields while paying as little as possible . . . just the type of Old World inequality the Cubans were rebelling against.
Cold distaste slid through Derek. In his world travels he'd crossed paths with more than one self-proclaimed tyrant, making it natural for him to sympathize with the Cuban revolutionaries . . . or anyone fighting for equal opportunities and the right to govern their own lives. The only way to gain an advantage with a man like de Vargas was to approach negotiations from a position of strength.
"Very impressive, Don Geraldo," Derek commented. "This food is excellent, the wine superb. My compliments."
The don waved a hand with token modesty. "Gracias, Lord Graystone. I am pleased that you are pleased."
Expectancy tingled beneath Derek's skin. "I am amazed you chose to honor me with this occasion."
"You are an aristocrat, like myself. You are a guest in my country. It delighted me to invite you to stay in my hacienda. What other reason is needed?"
What other reason, indeed, except to keep a close eye on me and manipulate the situation to your advantage. "You certainly put on quite a celebration on such short notice. My ship sailed into port only yesterday."
"We Spaniards are always looking for an excuse for fiesta, senor." De Vargas stroked his goatee. A sapphire large enough to choke a cat sparkled from his right hand. "We do not allow ourselves to become too serious about life."
Derek tried not to let de Vargas see his irritation. The sly fox couldn't resist a poke at him, contrasting the Spaniards' love of fun with the staid attitude of the British. Although de Vargas intended the comment as a slur, Derek couldn't argue with the assessment. A lingering sense of responsibility and duty constantly threatened to crush the lighter side of his spirit, leaving him feeling as if he couldn't breathe . . . until he embraced the wind behind the wheel of his ship, or spent days searching through historical archives, or plunged his hands into fresh dirt as he sought to extricate something precious and ancient from the earth's secret hiding places. Archaeology gave his life purpose and an excuse for adventure . . . in a word, freedom.
Then again, he could aptly remind Don Geraldo how the English traits of bulldog stubbornness and daring had enabled them to defeat the Spanish Armada and drive the Spaniards out of most of the New World. The antagonism between England and Spain extended back centuries.
If de Vargas knew what Derek was really after, and why, the antagonism would run even deeper.
Derek took a sip of wine. "The entertainers have been excellent. Quite a variety. Where do you manage to find them all?" he asked, thinking of the tedious string of musicians, singers, contortionists, and magicians. He also hoped the question would prompt the don to reveal when they could abandon the preliminaries and simply get down to the business that had brought Derek across the Atlantic.
With a tilt of his head, Don Geraldo indicated the central area between the tables. Eight men entered the room. Each pair carried a large square slab of wooden flooring.
"The best is yet to come. Lord Graystone. You are about to witness one of the greatest art forms to come out of Spain. One of my favorites."
Curious despite his cynicism, Derek watched the men arrange the wooden flooring in a large square before the head table. It resembled nothing more exciting than a dance floor.
An elderly man, clearly Spanish from his olive-toned skin, entered the room. He carried a guitar and a chair. Setting the chair on the far side of the flooring, he sat down and devoted his attention to the instrument. Gray-haired head bent, shoulders hunched, he caressed the guitar as if it was his one true love, softly testing the tuning of the strings. Rich tones like aged whiskey drifted across the room. The compelling sound drew Derek's interest for the first time that evening.
"So, senor," interjected Don Geraldo. "Tell me again how you eluded the Yankee bastardos guarding our harbor."
Derek reluctantly tore his gaze away from the guitarist. He took note of the bitterness in the don's voice. Negotiate from a position of strength.
"Ah, yes, the Yankee blockade. This Spanish-American War must be damned inconvenient for you. Actually, there was no need to elude them. When the crew of the Eagle hailed us, I simply showed my papers, proved that we were not carrying weapons or smuggled goods, and they let us pass in peace. But not before Captain Bancroft and I shared dinner and a toast. Capital fellow. The wine, alas, was not as fine as this."
One corner of Don Geraldo's lip lifted in a sneer. "Perdoname for my not understanding your casual attitude toward the Americans. After all, they stole a valuable source of income from the English crown in their War of Independence, then proceeded to issue you an inglorious defeat in the last war."
Derek suppressed a sigh. He could thank Elizabeth I and generations of English royalty for souring relations with the Spanish and making his job more difficult. But if Don Geraldo wanted to stand toe to toe and match subtle insults, he could accommodate him and still maintain a veneer of diplomacy.
"Dealing with Napoleon in 1812 was a slightly higher priority. Damn good thing that Wellington and his troops came along to push the French out of the Peninsula, or Spain might be under French rule now . . . and thus Cuba. That would have been disagreeable for you."
A muscle twitched alongside the don's nose and tugged at his mustache. "I can think of a worse rule to be under," the other man hinted.
Derek smiled at the aspersions cast on Queen Victoria and countered, "Indeed. I assume you find these Cuban rebels a persistent lot of ruffians."
The game was only beginning--point and counterpoint, like the thrust and parry in the sport of fencing at which Derek excelled. But their positions of power were fairly evenly matched. Don Geraldo desperately needed money, since the Yankee blockade had cut off his ability to ship sugar and other crops. On the other hand, if Derek failed to convince de Vargas to part with the journal, hundreds of hours of research might have been in vain. The primary focus of his life for the last four years would sputter and die, not unlike the juggler's flaming torches.
Don Geraldo tugged on a gold chain draped across his waistcoat. A brass ring with an ornate key attached slid from a pocket.
"The key to my collection room," he explained. "I hope we shall be able to put it to good use tonight." Unhooking the ring from the chain, he held the key up, dangling it from his manicured fingers enticingly.
Derek's expression remained bland from long practice. "I have no doubt it shall be put to its intended use before the night is over."
Don Geraldo smiled without humor. He set the key on the table beyond his place setting, next to a crysta...
Havana, Cuba
Early June 1898
The juggler tossed the burning torches into the air in an outstanding display of skill, catching the unlit end of each before sending it up again in a circle of yellow flame. Suddenly, he stopped all four and plunged them dramatically into a waiting bucket of water. The dying torches hissed in protest. With a flourish, the juggler bowed.
The eighty dinner guests burst into enthusiastic applause.
Derek Christopher Carlisle, Viscount Graystone, concealed his sigh of impatience. He clapped along with his fellow guests, honoring his upbringing as a gentleman and the lessons of diplomacy that his father had taught him were so essential to achieving one's goals in a foreign country.
Derek sat back against the red brocade of the richly upholstered chair, his fingers gripping the carved armrests. Beneath the floor-length white linen covering the long table his leg jiggled with the anticipation and irritation he dared not show. He would play his host's game, though it qualified as a bloody nuisance.
He recognized the unceasing string of entertainers for what they truly were.
Delay tactics.
Don Geraldo de Vargas was toying with his guest of honor, building the suspense and trying to seize a position of power in the upcoming negotiations. The Spanish sugar baron hadn't expanded on his inherited wealth, nor maintained his position in Cuban society, by being dull-witted. Surely he had guessed that the heirloom documents in his private collection must be worth a great deal if Derek had sailed all the way from England in search of them.
Whatever the price, Derek was willing to pay it.
He possessed the monetary resources. What he didn't have was the one essential item he'd been tracking down for a year.
He prayed that Don Geraldo didn't understand the true worth of his ancestor's journal.
Derek picked up his cut-crystal glass and swirled its contents. The wine clung to the inside of the glass before sliding smoothly back down. The rich, fruity aroma teased his nostrils. The respite in the entertainment allowed conversation to rise among the guests, droning like a swarm of bees. All these people were strangers to Derek, except for the two highest-ranking members of his crew relegated to the far end of the huge U-shaped table.
Slanting his blue-eyed gaze to the left, Derek covertly studied his host's classic Spanish profile. A thick mustache and neatly trimmed goatee accented a bold nose and rigid jaw. Don Geraldo's walnut-brown coat matched the hair brushed straight back from his broad forehead. Silver hair streaked down the center of his goatee, and similar flecks dusted throughout his collar-length hair. An ivory satin waistcoat stretched across his slender torso. The right questions around Havana had revealed that the don was a cruel taskmaster, demanding maximum work in the sugarcane fields while paying as little as possible . . . just the type of Old World inequality the Cubans were rebelling against.
Cold distaste slid through Derek. In his world travels he'd crossed paths with more than one self-proclaimed tyrant, making it natural for him to sympathize with the Cuban revolutionaries . . . or anyone fighting for equal opportunities and the right to govern their own lives. The only way to gain an advantage with a man like de Vargas was to approach negotiations from a position of strength.
"Very impressive, Don Geraldo," Derek commented. "This food is excellent, the wine superb. My compliments."
The don waved a hand with token modesty. "Gracias, Lord Graystone. I am pleased that you are pleased."
Expectancy tingled beneath Derek's skin. "I am amazed you chose to honor me with this occasion."
"You are an aristocrat, like myself. You are a guest in my country. It delighted me to invite you to stay in my hacienda. What other reason is needed?"
What other reason, indeed, except to keep a close eye on me and manipulate the situation to your advantage. "You certainly put on quite a celebration on such short notice. My ship sailed into port only yesterday."
"We Spaniards are always looking for an excuse for fiesta, senor." De Vargas stroked his goatee. A sapphire large enough to choke a cat sparkled from his right hand. "We do not allow ourselves to become too serious about life."
Derek tried not to let de Vargas see his irritation. The sly fox couldn't resist a poke at him, contrasting the Spaniards' love of fun with the staid attitude of the British. Although de Vargas intended the comment as a slur, Derek couldn't argue with the assessment. A lingering sense of responsibility and duty constantly threatened to crush the lighter side of his spirit, leaving him feeling as if he couldn't breathe . . . until he embraced the wind behind the wheel of his ship, or spent days searching through historical archives, or plunged his hands into fresh dirt as he sought to extricate something precious and ancient from the earth's secret hiding places. Archaeology gave his life purpose and an excuse for adventure . . . in a word, freedom.
Then again, he could aptly remind Don Geraldo how the English traits of bulldog stubbornness and daring had enabled them to defeat the Spanish Armada and drive the Spaniards out of most of the New World. The antagonism between England and Spain extended back centuries.
If de Vargas knew what Derek was really after, and why, the antagonism would run even deeper.
Derek took a sip of wine. "The entertainers have been excellent. Quite a variety. Where do you manage to find them all?" he asked, thinking of the tedious string of musicians, singers, contortionists, and magicians. He also hoped the question would prompt the don to reveal when they could abandon the preliminaries and simply get down to the business that had brought Derek across the Atlantic.
With a tilt of his head, Don Geraldo indicated the central area between the tables. Eight men entered the room. Each pair carried a large square slab of wooden flooring.
"The best is yet to come. Lord Graystone. You are about to witness one of the greatest art forms to come out of Spain. One of my favorites."
Curious despite his cynicism, Derek watched the men arrange the wooden flooring in a large square before the head table. It resembled nothing more exciting than a dance floor.
An elderly man, clearly Spanish from his olive-toned skin, entered the room. He carried a guitar and a chair. Setting the chair on the far side of the flooring, he sat down and devoted his attention to the instrument. Gray-haired head bent, shoulders hunched, he caressed the guitar as if it was his one true love, softly testing the tuning of the strings. Rich tones like aged whiskey drifted across the room. The compelling sound drew Derek's interest for the first time that evening.
"So, senor," interjected Don Geraldo. "Tell me again how you eluded the Yankee bastardos guarding our harbor."
Derek reluctantly tore his gaze away from the guitarist. He took note of the bitterness in the don's voice. Negotiate from a position of strength.
"Ah, yes, the Yankee blockade. This Spanish-American War must be damned inconvenient for you. Actually, there was no need to elude them. When the crew of the Eagle hailed us, I simply showed my papers, proved that we were not carrying weapons or smuggled goods, and they let us pass in peace. But not before Captain Bancroft and I shared dinner and a toast. Capital fellow. The wine, alas, was not as fine as this."
One corner of Don Geraldo's lip lifted in a sneer. "Perdoname for my not understanding your casual attitude toward the Americans. After all, they stole a valuable source of income from the English crown in their War of Independence, then proceeded to issue you an inglorious defeat in the last war."
Derek suppressed a sigh. He could thank Elizabeth I and generations of English royalty for souring relations with the Spanish and making his job more difficult. But if Don Geraldo wanted to stand toe to toe and match subtle insults, he could accommodate him and still maintain a veneer of diplomacy.
"Dealing with Napoleon in 1812 was a slightly higher priority. Damn good thing that Wellington and his troops came along to push the French out of the Peninsula, or Spain might be under French rule now . . . and thus Cuba. That would have been disagreeable for you."
A muscle twitched alongside the don's nose and tugged at his mustache. "I can think of a worse rule to be under," the other man hinted.
Derek smiled at the aspersions cast on Queen Victoria and countered, "Indeed. I assume you find these Cuban rebels a persistent lot of ruffians."
The game was only beginning--point and counterpoint, like the thrust and parry in the sport of fencing at which Derek excelled. But their positions of power were fairly evenly matched. Don Geraldo desperately needed money, since the Yankee blockade had cut off his ability to ship sugar and other crops. On the other hand, if Derek failed to convince de Vargas to part with the journal, hundreds of hours of research might have been in vain. The primary focus of his life for the last four years would sputter and die, not unlike the juggler's flaming torches.
Don Geraldo tugged on a gold chain draped across his waistcoat. A brass ring with an ornate key attached slid from a pocket.
"The key to my collection room," he explained. "I hope we shall be able to put it to good use tonight." Unhooking the ring from the chain, he held the key up, dangling it from his manicured fingers enticingly.
Derek's expression remained bland from long practice. "I have no doubt it shall be put to its intended use before the night is over."
Don Geraldo smiled without humor. He set the key on the table beyond his place setting, next to a crysta...
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherBantam
- Publication date2002
- ISBN 10 0553584154
- ISBN 13 9780553584158
- BindingMass Market Paperback
- Number of pages400
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