Riptide (A Dangerous Hearts Romance)

by Deborah Camp

  But Whitney had hated the gypsy life. Living out of a trunk, eating hotel food, and entering one new school after another made her yearn for roots and friendships that spanned years instead of weeks or months. Hampton, more than twenty years her senior, was her only true friend. That, in itself, was a sad product of her former lifestyle, Whitney thought as she straightened up. Changes, however, were brewing, she told herself with a lift of her spirits. In the past few years she had made a few friends in Paris and, hopefully, would add a few more here in California. It would be so nice to have a small circle of good friends, both male and female.

  Now that her career was launched, she could relax more and concentrate on her personal life.

  A shrill burst of laughter pulled Whitney from her thoughts. Glancing down the beach, she noticed that a few of her neighbors were already involved in a frantic volleyball game on the beach, so Whitney decided to change her usual jogging route and headed in the opposite direction of the laughing, screeching crowd. She stifled a yawn, feeling last night’s hours of tense wakefulness weight her limbs and cloud her mind. Perhaps she could take a long nap this afternoon and not be haunted by the fear that someone was breaking a window or trying a doorknob.

  She’d only taken a couple of steps when a voice floated to her above the roar of the ocean and the din of the volleyball game.

  “Good morning, Whitney.”

  Whitney whirled in the direction of the voice, unaccustomed fear clutching at her throat as her gaze swept this way and that until she spotted him. Shadow Tallwalker was sitting cross-legged on the sand, his back against one of the deck’s support posts. Was he waiting for her?

  “Good morning, Shadow,” she said, grappling with that moment of fear when she’d thought her nocturnal fears had become reality. She moved closer and noticed that he was wearing black swim trunks instead of a jogging outfit. “Have you been swimming?”

  “Not yet.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re late this morning.”

  “I—I slept late. Have you been waiting for me?”

  “I’ll take the Fifth on that,” he said with a devilish grin. He pushed to his feet and brushed sand from his legs and swim trunks. “Mind if I join you?”

  “No, of course not.” She set a slow pace, and Shadow fell into step beside her. Whitney glanced at him and her curiosity stirred to life. “Is this an official visit? Did you speak with Jean-Claude yesterday?”

  “Yes, I did, but this isn’t an official visit.” He picked up the pace, forcing her to do the same. “By the way, I’ve marked Noir off my list of suspects.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, relieved to hear this bit of news, only then realizing that she hadn’t been completely sure of Jean-Claude’s innocence. “Thank heavens for small favors,” Whitney rejoined dryly. “You must have been desperate to include him among the suspects in the first place.”

  He laughed, as if finding her sharp tongue delightful. “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”

  Whitney kept staring ahead, acutely aware of his lithe form beside her. Her early glances at him had confirmed that he was in fine physical shape. She’d also noticed that he had wrinkles; the most becoming wrinkles she’d ever seen. They fanned from the corners of his eyes and created half-moons beneath them, deepening when he smiled or laughed. She didn’t have to look at him to know the exact shade of his eyes, the way his thick brows peaked, and the way the dark hair on his chest covered his breastbone and grew thick even on his stomach. All those things were stamped into her memory, making her wonder again why she found Shadow Tallwalker so interesting.

  “Are you still mad at me?” he asked again.

  “The point I was trying to make yesterday has been made. Jean-Claude is innocent.”

  “Yes, but are you still mad?” he persisted.

  “That depends. Are you apologizing?”

  They had reached a deserted stretch of beach when Shadow slowed to a stop. “I never apologize for doing my job, Whitney.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, infuriated by that streak of stubbornness in him. “Then I’m still mad.”

  “It’s going to be a hot day,” he mused as he looked out at the sea. “Why don’t we go for a swim and cool off?” His silvery eyes moved from her head to her feet. “You can swim in those shorts and that top, can’t you?”

  “I could, but I won’t.”

  “You don’t want my company, right?”

  “No, it’s not that.” Whitney looked down at the sand, surprised by her own quick admission. “It’s just that I don’t like to swim out there.”

  “Why not? It’s fun.”

  “No, not for me.” She glanced up to find that he had lowered his head and was carefully examining her features. “I’ll wade out waist-deep, but that’s it. I’m not a good swimmer and I almost drowned out there a few years ago. A riptide grabbed me and before I knew it I was way out in the ocean. A lifeguard swam out and saved me.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve heard about Malibu’s famous riptides.” He scowled at the ocean for a few moments, then his expression cleared and he smiled. “But, you’ll be swimming with me, so you’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “Waist-deep,” Whitney repeated firmly as she took off her hat and shoes. She shook out her hair, letting it fall heavily past her shoulders. “I like to be in control, and I feel vulnerable out there.”

  “Okay. Waist-deep.” He took one of her hands in his and gently pulled her toward the water’s edge. “I guess the Malibu Intruder has made you feel vulnerable, hasn’t he?”

  It seemed that a cloud passed over the sun at the mention of the Intruder. Whitney snatched her hand from his, anger momentarily erasing her fear of the ocean as she waded out.

  “The Malibu Intruder doesn’t make me feel vulnerable,” she corrected Shadow. “He makes me mad!”

  “That’s an odd reaction. Most of his victims are terrified.”

  “Should I be?” Whitney asked, stopping abruptly when the water tickled her waistline. “Are you not telling me something?”

  “No.” He smiled encouragement. “But he did break into your home and wreck your bedroom. That’s terrifying in itself, isn’t it?”

  “It was a childish prank, and I’m doing my best to forget it happened.” Whitney waved an impatient hand out to sea. “Go on. Swim.”

  He gave a jaunty salute. “Yes, ma’am!”

  Whitney dipped her hands into the sea and moved them in slow semicircles as she watched Shadow stretch into an Australian crawl. She recalled a time when her daily schedule had included a vigorous swim, but the riptide incident had changed that. She could still remember the helpless terror she’d experienced before the lifeguard had hauled her toward the shore’s safety. Once she had recovered from the scare, the lifeguard had given her a stern lecture about swimming alone, and Whitney had taken his advice to heart. She had taken up jogging the following day and had stayed away from the tricky ocean currents ever since.

  But Shadow Tallwalker was fearless, Whitney thought as she admired his form. He cut through the waves like a bronze knife, moving farther and farther from her. Apprehension surfaced within, and she was relieved when he finally turned and began swimming back. When he was a yard or two from her, he stopped and waded in the water.

  “Come on, Whitney!” he goaded. “It’s great out here. No riptides today.”

  She stepped back, shaking her head. “No, thanks. There’s no point in flirting with disaster.”

  “Oh, come on! I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  His firm promise erased some of her trepidation, and Whitney took a few steps toward him, her feet slipping and sliding in the wet sand.

  “That’s it,” Shadow encouraged. “Come to me.”

  He wasn’t that far from her, Whitney decided, and he was probably in only six or seven feet of water. She pushed off, her feet leaving the sandy bottom as her arms propelled her closer to Shadow’s dazzling smile. She was almost there … almost there �
�

  A wave rose behind Shadow, then washed over him and rolled toward Whitney. Her feet searched for the sandy bottom as she automatically prepared herself for the wave’s impact, but her feet touched nothing substantial and Whitney realized she was much farther out than she’d thought. She opened her mouth to suck in some air, but she was a split second too late. The wave crested, slamming into her, and she swallowed water.

  Black memories engulfed her, bringing with them a renewed panic. Whitney felt like a rag doll as the sea tossed her around while she sputtered for breath and coughed until her lungs burned. Once again, she was back in that riptide and she was helpless. She battled her unseen enemy, her fists flailing and her legs kicking. A strangled scream burst from her before another wave pushed her under.

  I’m dying, she thought as the fight left her and she gave herself up to the more powerful foe.

  Arms of mercy wrapped around her waist and neck, lifting her from the water. Whitney squeezed her eyes shut as a black film clouded her mind. She heard rasping, ragging breathing, and she felt muscles flex and coil against her.

  The feel of sand against her cheek brought her around, and she opened her burning eyes. A golden carpet stretched out before her, shimmering like brown sugar in the sun. Something heavy pressed against her back and squeezed her lungs. She coughed and warm liquid spilled across her lips and onto her chin. Sputtering, she sucked in cool air that helped to clear the black film from her mind.

  “Is she okay?” a deep voice asked.

  “Yes. Yes, she’s fine,” a deeper voice answered.

  “Thank God!” A feminine voice spoke this time. “She should stay out of the water. This isn’t the first time she’s almost drowned.”

  “I’ll take her inside. She’ll be all right,” the deepest voice announced.

  Whitney felt herself being lifted from the sand. Her head wobbled, finally lolling forward against warm, moist skin. She was jostled slightly, making her cough and sputter again, and then the roar of the ocean and the cries of the gulls faded as she felt herself being lowered. Billowy cushions surrounded her, and Whitney opened her eyes. Blinking several times to clear her vision, she realized she was in her living room, lying on the couch. Shadow Tallwalker was leaning over her, his face a portrait of concern.

  “Whitney?” His voice rolled over her and his hand was gentle on her forehead. “Just relax and take a few deep breaths. I’ll be right back.”

  Her lashes fluttered down, shutting out his face, and she obeyed his softly spoken request. With each breath, her senses came back to her. She was safe, she told herself over and over again, there was nothing to worry about. Shadow was with her.

  Shadow placed a damp cloth across her throat and Whitney opened her eyes again. She smiled weakly at him and tried to speak, but the only word she could whisper was his name. She closed her eyes again and drifted into a semiconscious state. She felt as if she were hypnotized; aware of what was going on, yet helpless to stop it or protest.

  “I’m dripping all over your carpet,” Shadow said, tearing his gaze from her face to examine the damp rings around his feet. Then he noticed that Whitney was soaking wet and sandy and her condition wasn’t doing her couch any good.

  Recalling the layout of Whitney’s home, Shadow went to the downstairs bathroom. Years of casing out other people’s homes made him instinctively look behind the bathroom door.

  “Voila!” he said with a triumphant grin as he jerked the white terry cloth robe from the hook. It was oversized and he slipped into it. The shoulders were a little tight and it barely reached his knees, but it would keep him from doing further damage to her furniture until he was dry. He grabbed a couple of fluffy towels from the racks, then went upstairs to her bedroom.

  Pausing only long enough to appreciate the new bedspread, Shadow went to Whitney’s closet and located a green satin robe. He fingered the luxurious material, thinking that the robe was small; a size five, probably. He flung it over his arm and went back downstairs. Whitney hadn’t moved a muscle, but the color was returning to her face and flushing her cheeks with pearly pink.

  Slipping an arm under her shoulders, he used his other hand to work the top over her head. Her bra was a shiny, flesh-colored material, and he was glad to see that it fastened in the front. Shadow tossed the wet shirt aside and removed Whitney’s bra, letting it join the discarded shirt. With stern self-control, he kept his gaze away from her revealed breasts and removed her jogging shorts and lacy panties. She moaned and a shiver raced down her body. Taking the cue, Shadow toweled her dry quickly, congratulating himself on his proper bedside manner.

  However, his mental pat on the back was premature. As he started to help her into the robe, his gaze fell upon her breasts, then moved to her concave belly, and lower …

  Whitney coughed, and Shadow jumped guiltily. With a rueful grin, he pulled her robe closed and belted it, removing the temptation of peaches-and-cream breasts and slim, pliant thighs. He gathered the wet clothes and went into the kitchen. It took him only a minute to find the utility room and the clothes hamper, and back in the kitchen, he located the kettle and tea bags easily. Whitney Campbell was an organized woman, he thought with appreciation. A place for everything and everything in its place.

  While he waited for the water to boil, Shadow searched the refrigerator and found a jar of honey and a fresh lemon. He dropped a dollop of honey into two cups, then sliced the lemon and squeezed the juice into one of the cups. Whitney’s throat would be sore when she came around, and Shadow had a good cure for that, thanks to his Grandmother Rosa.

  Guilt surfaced in him and he winced as he stared out the kitchen window at the frothing ocean. He shouldn’t have goaded her into joining him for a swim. He had known she was scared. He had seen the fear shimmering in her light brown eyes, making them darker and larger than usual. But, somehow, fear didn’t jive with her spirited personality. She wasn’t the type of woman to cower and give in to phobias.

  “What do you know about her?” he murmured grumpily. “You’re not Sherlock Holmes. You can’t pigeonhole a woman after knowing her for only a couple of days.”

  His sarcastic chastisement didn’t ease his guilty feelings. He’d been in the wrong, and as soon as Whitney was herself again, he’d apologize to her for being such a bully. Grandmother Rosa had taught him that, too; a sincere apology was the only cure for making an ass out of yourself.

  He smiled, hearing his grandmother’s raspy voice as if she were standing in the kitchen with him.

  “Anthony, there is nothing wrong with being prideful,” she would say in Italian. “That’s your American Indian coming out in you. But there’s nothing wrong with showing your feelings and admitting your frailties. That’s the Italian in you. Italians aren’t afraid to cry. There is no shame in displaying human emotions.”

  The tea kettle whistled and Shadow extinguished the gas flame beneath it. He poured the steaming water into the cups and stirred each in turn. Carrying them into the living room, he was surprised to find Whitney sitting up, seemingly coherent again.

  “I’ve whipped up some medicine for you,” he said jauntily. “How do you feel?”

  She swallowed hard before she answered. “Waterlogged.”

  “Here.” He handed a cup to her. “Drink this. It will make your throat feel better.”

  “It feels like raw meat now,” she said, taking the cup and sniffing the curls of smoke. “What’s this? Tea?”

  “Tea with honey and lemon. It will coat your throat.” He sat on the floor next to the couch and watched as she tasted the tea. He could tell by the way her eyebrows arched that she liked it. The lady had a very expressive face, he thought. And the rest of her wasn’t bad, either.

  As if reading his mind, she looked at her satin robe as one slim hand moved from the belted waist to her thigh. Her eyes widened, then turned on him, filled with accusations and mild horror.

  “You undressed me!” She shook her head and winced at the movement.

&nb
sp; “You were wet. I wanted to get you out of those clothes and—”

  “And what?” she demanded, her eyes sharpening.

  He started to tell her the truth, but his mischievous streak got the best of him. “And take advantage of you, of course. All police officers are sex maniacs, or hadn’t you heard?”

  His quip was awarded with a thunderous frown.

  “Take it easy, Whitney,” he soothed. “Your virtue is still intact. I’m fast, but I’m not that fast. You’ve only been dozing for a few minutes.”

  “Virtue?” Her voice cracked on the word and she blinked incredulous eyes at him.

  Shadow shrugged, unable to keep the grin from tugging at his lips. “It’s just a figure of speech. Perhaps I should have said—” He cut off this last bit of sarcasm, suddenly aware that she was staring past him at something that obviously perplexed her. “What is it?” he asked, twisting to look over his shoulder.

  “That painting of me … my father had it commissioned when I was twelve … it’s … it’s upside down!”

  It was, indeed, upside down. Shadow tipped his head sideways, trying to make out the features of the girl in the portrait. She seemed to be standing in a field of wild flowers. Her hair was cut in a shiny Dutch Boy, and her pert features were set in a serious expression. She looked like a tomboy all dressed up in a frilly lace pinafore with pink and blue ribbons braided at her waist. Maybe she wasn’t serious, Shadow thought. Maybe she was just mad at having to wear a dress when she would much rather be wearing a pair of patched overalls.

  “Why is it upside down?” Whitney asked, her voice soft and puzzled.

  “I don’t know … maybe …” Shadow tensed a second before he saw the ornate frame shudder slightly then slip from its hook and tumble to the floor. The frame slammed into the corner of the bureau, and Shadow heard the wood crack and the glass shatter.