Her fingers itched to touch it. They flexed midair, hovering over the smooth curve of steel blade. The long dagger's jeweled hilt flashed and sparkled, taunting her, daring her to stroke over the intricate gold weaving of the guard. It looked perfectly balanced, just waiting for someone who knew how to wield its dangerous beauty. She slid a practiced gaze over the blade. Somehow she knew the sturdy hilt would sit perfectly in her hand. If there was one thing she knew, it was fencing—and she had the fencing-championship trophies at home to prove it. The only way she'd been able to squeak by in graduate school was to give lessons. She sighed. Education didn't come cheap, and fencing sure beat prostitution. Not that any man in his right mind would pay to sleep with a short, brown-eyed, brown-haired, girl-next-door type.

Rebecca Small fisted her fingers and withdrew as she had every day for the past week. The museum had recently acquired the dagger as part of a collection that had belonged to an eighteenth-century pirate. A distant relative had donated everything. As a lowly intern, she had to prepare the collection for display. She could never touch the artifact with her bare hand. And the gloves she had to wear frustrated her because she wanted to feel the cool metal against her skin.

She turned away and pulled on a pair of gloves, intent on finding something else to occupy her. She glanced up. Captain James Morrow. The name echoed in her mind, made her shiver.

"Hello, James." The man was a mystery, which probably contributed to her fascination with him. He was born in England in 1684, made lieutenant in the British Navy during Queen Anne's War, became a privateer, th...