Whenever I'd visit her house, I read everything and anything that was in reach. I wanted to read as voraciously as she did. I had been watching her read at her kitchen table with her black coffee and cigarettes since before I could form complete sentences. It was my Aunt Cathy who put Pitt in my hands for the first time. It also ensured that I'd forever have a man-crush on the National Underwater and Marine Agency's craggy, witty, and dashing special projects director. Then Inca Gold used a blowtorch on my imagination and left me hungry for more thrills and mysteries. I thought it couldn’t possibly get any better than that. I mean, this was the same guy that raised the freakin' Titantic in the last Cussler novel I read. I still vividly remember imagining myself as the villain in Clive Cussler’s Inca Gold the moment Pitt wrapped an arm around his throat and shoved a gun down the poor bastard's pants. He might as well have fired a slug into my nascent adolescent genitals that's how shocked I was.
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