Hunting Houston

by Sandy Steen

  “You’re on.”

  When they got downstairs Houston and Gil took one look at the women gathered around the counter, and agreed that if they weren’t schoolteachers, they should have been. A couple were signing liability release forms while the three others chatted, applying sunscreen to each other’s pale arms and backs. All were dressed in one-piece bathing suits that might have stood a remote chance of being labeled risqué in the fifties.

  Gil turned to Houston. “Pay up.”

  “I only count five. No money exchanges hands until Miss Six shows up.”

  At that moment the front door opened, and in walked a woman that could never be mistaken for an old maid. And if she was a schoolteacher, Houston decided he could use a refresher course. The subject didn’t matter.

  She was tall, with legs clear up to forever, and the rest of her wasn’t bad, either. A skimpy, aquamarine twopiece bathing suit showed off a well-toned body that could easily have been labeled risqué. Not the hard, exercise-produced kind of firmness, but the sleek, smooth curves of a real woman. Her skin had a light golden base tan that spoke of recent trips to a tanning salon. Smart, too, he thought. Smart enough to know a good base tan, even for skin as fair as hers, could be the difference between a miserable sunburn and a pleasant vacation. And he liked the way she carried herself— with poise, confidence.

  If this was Miss Six, and he certainly hoped so, he was about to win the bet.

  Houston stepped around the counter. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes.” She removed her sunglasses to reveal a pair of bright blue eyes sparkling like sunlight on the Pacific.

  “My name is Abigail Douglass,” she said, her voice soft, sultry. As she switched the glasses to her left hand and extended her right hand for him to shake, she looked straight into his eyes. “I booked a dive for today.”

  Taking her hand, the first thought that popped into Houston’s head was that she was a triple threat: stunning eyes, seductive voice and incredibly soft skin. Gazing into those gorgeous blue eyes, he suddenly wondered what she would do if he slipped his hand up her soft, bare arm and shoulder to stroke her neck; to slightly tilt her head back. Would her lips part in surprise? Would she—

  “Uh, yes, Ms. Douglass,” Houston said, yanking himself back to the business at hand. He dropped her hand a little too quickly, considering he felt as if he had been holding it for hours. This sort of blatant fantasizing wasn’t like him at all. But then, Abigail Douglass wasn’t like anyone he had met in a long time.

  He glanced at her left hand, and was relieved to find it bare of rings. On a second glance, he noticed a small mesh dive bag containing flippers and a regulator hanging from her shoulder.

  “I take it this isn’t your first dive?”

  “No, but I’m still a novice.”

  The first thought that popped into Abby’s head when she looked into Houston Sinclair’s dark brown eyes was that he was wickedly handsome. As in, handsome as sin. As in, the kind of man your mother had always warned you about. And the kind you had always secretly wanted to meet.

  Tall, tanned and broad-shouldered, he had the kind of body that was toned from work, not workouts.

  Yes, he was good-looking. She’d give him that. And she had to admit that she liked his beard. And his mustache. Both were neatly trimmed to outline his mouth and jaw. Very sexy. The ladies undoubtedly went for it, big time. The same went for the tiny gold hoop earring in his left earlobe. A little piratical flair. Very sexy, indeed. But then, judging from his confident appraisal of her, Abby figured he was not totally unaware of his appeal.

  “Where have you been diving?”

  “Cozumel a couple of times. Once to Aruba, and once to Grand Cayman.”

  Abby could see that her plan—“the plan,” Brax had called it—was working. Sinclair was interested in her. And his interest would make her job that much easier. But at the moment, her job wasn’t uppermost in her mind. Not with Houston looking at her so intently.

  “Cayman is always gorgeous.” And so was she. Houston couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He couldn’t remember when he had been so completely attracted, so quickly.

  “I don’t dive as much as I would like,” Abby said. “But I do love it.”

  “It’s an addiction.”

  “You’re probably right. I know I’d hate like the devil to give up anything I love this much.” Her steady gaze held his. “Diving gives me a feeling of being in my own private world filled with color and life. Yeah, you might say I’m addicted.”

  As Houston had been. Once. In fact, Abigail Douglass had just perfectly expressed his own sentiments about diving.

  “Well.” Damn, but her eyes were beautiful. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy Molokini, it’s breathtaking. Since you’re the only one in this group diving, we’ve arranged for a group from the Maui Dive Shop to join us. Stuart—” he nodded toward the man behind the counter “—is an excellent dive master.”

  “You’re not certified?”

  “Yes. We…take turns. Gil is doing the whale watch this afternoon. Stuart is taking out your group.”

  “Oh.”

  Was that disappointment he heard in her voice? A secret little thrill shot through Houston until he realized how truly disappointed this woman would be if she knew the truth. That he couldn’t dive. Couldn’t even go swimming.

  “Guess this is old hat to you. Living in paradise, you can dive any time you want to.” Abby was picking up some negative vibes from Sinclair. Like maybe he had something to hide?

  “Yeah,” Houston said, hoping the anxiety tightening his gut wasn’t detectable in his voice.

  “At least you don’t have to worry about vacationer’s syndrome.”

  “Vacationer’s syndrome?”

  “I’m told you don’t actually get it until your last day here. Probably when you start to pack. After all this sunshine, balmy breezes and tropical beauty, you have to face going home to the plain old, everyday world.” She wrinkled her nose. “Vacation’s over. Having to give it up is worse than never having it at all, don’t you think?”

  Much worse, he thought, recalling his love of the sea.

  “So, how long is your vacation?” Houston asked, wanting to move away from the subject of giving up things one loved.

  Abby closed her eyes, smiling. “Ten glorious days. And I’m afraid I’ve already been bitten by the bug.”

  “Are you staying in Maui the whole time?”

  She opened her eyes, and again met his gaze directly. Man-to-woman directly. “That depends.”

  Houston’s reaction was immediate and purely physical. He was not without experience when it came to playing the game of verbally feeling each other out. He knew interest when he saw it, and this woman was telling him in no uncertain terms that she was interested.

  And surprisingly enough, although his reaction was definitely physical, his interest went deeper. Perhaps it had to do with her statement about giving up things one loved, or the way those intelligent-looking blue eyes gazed back at him. Whatever the reason, he wanted to see more of Abigail Douglass. A lot more.

  “It’s a beautiful island. Lots to see, and do. I hope you’ll stick around, and dive with us again.”

  “I just may do that,” she said softly. “Thanks, Mr.-”

  “Sinclair, but call me Houston, please.”

  “All right. Thanks, Houston.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, as she walked over to join the other women standing by the front door. A second later Stuart herded them out the door and toward the docks.

  Gil, who had been watching the exchange, walked up to Houston and handed him a five-dollar bill. “Here you go, slick. Never let it be said I don’t pay my gambling debts.”

  Houston glanced down at the bill. “Keep your money.” He walked to the front and looked out at the group making their way through the tourists and shoppers. As he watched Abigail Douglass walk away, Houston experienced a surge of hope. It washed over him like a tidal wave.

 
And he felt more alive than he had in nine long months.

  Chapter 3

  She hadn’t expected Houston Sinclair to be so warm and charming. Or so good-looking. That neatly trimmed beard and mustache of his was definitely dashing.

  Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things, Abby reminded herself, standing at the bow pulpit of the catamaran as it skimmed over the turquoise-blue ocean toward the inlet of Molokini. Not that it mattered one bit where her plan was concerned. His charm and looks had nothing to do with her investigation, other than the fact that she now knew how to handle charming, good-looking men who were also suspects. She handled them the same way anyone would handle a potentially dangerous virus they had been exposed to: take appropriate measures to protect yourself, and keep your distance.

  And Abby considered herself well protected. Hadn’t she been inoculated against this particular virus by Dr. “Charm” Waterston himself? Oh, she’d had it bad, all right. So bad, in fact, that she had almost let a guilty man go free. Almost let a lying, cheating, manipulating con artist get away with nearly a million dollars of the company’s money.

  Abby shivered, thinking how close she had come to letting Riley go scot-free. What a fool she had been! What an utter fool. How could she have believed all his lies?

  The answer was simple. So simple, it was hard to accept.

  Her fundamental flaw. A weakness she couldn’t afford. The same kind of weakness that had reduced her mother to a dull, dreary life. The kind of weakness she must guard against—no matter the cost.

  Abby sighed, disgusted with herself for dwelling on a past she couldn’t change. She had learned her lesson. And she had learned how to hide her fundamental flaw behind ambition and a single-minded drive to be the best at everything she did. She wouldn’t make the same mistake her mother had made.

  And she wasn’t about to allow Houston Sinclair to get to her, even if he did drip charm like maple-tree sap.

  Since she had to play out the scenario of tourist in order for her plan to be convincing, Abby decided it was much too beautiful a day to dwell on the past. She had a dazzling blue sky, and the treasures of an azure sea waiting to be enjoyed.

  Molokini, a favorite dive destination, was a crescent-shaped remnant of an exposed volcanic crater. Three miles off the south coast of Maui, the uninhabited land mass was a marine preserve abounding in tropical fish and calm waters.

  As the catamaran dropped anchor, Abby leaned over from the dive platform and dipped her buoyancycontrol vest into the water. Then she began the time-consuming but necessary-for-survival, step-by-step procedures every diver must do in order to enjoy the sport and live to enjoy it again. After attaching her tank to the B.C., then connecting the octopus to her tank and the air-supply hose to her B.C., she strapped her regulator in place. Seated at the edge of the dive platform facing in, her mask defogged, her knife strapped to her calf, Abby put on her vest, fins, weights and mask, then fitted the regulator in her mouth and tumbled backward into the sea.

  She surfaced immediately, gave the “okay” signal to Stuart Baker, and set her dive watch. Then she waited for the divers from the Maui Dive Shop boat, anchored a couple of hundred yards away, to join her. Stuart followed her into the water a few moments later. Once the four other divers had arrived, Stuart and Abby raised their control hoses over their heads, pressed their air-escape values, and began their descents.

  As always, Abby’s first few seconds underwater were a mixture of anxiety, thrills and awe, then faded to a steady sense of watchful wonder. She descended, slowly turning her body in continuous circles until she reached a depth of approximately thirty-five feet. Off to her left, Stuart floated at zero buoyance, maintaining his depth while videotaping the scenery and divers.

  Enthralled and fascinated by the undersea world, Abby, too, hung at zero buoyancy for several minutes, allowing herself the pure pleasure of luxuriating in the beauty and color surrounding her. Sea turtles, a dozen or more, dotted the reef below, along with schools of parrot fish and an occasional manta ray. Off to her right, two turtles in particular snagged her attention as they swam, almost soaring through the water, flippers outstretched like wings. The larger of the two banked left, then landed on the reef. The other swam on.

  As Abby watched the turtle settle atop an outcropping of coral not twenty-five feet from her, she caught a movement in her peripheral vision. Stuart was frantically pointing to something over her left shoulder. Abby turned.

  And saw a shark coming straight at her.

  Shark! Shark! The silent scream ricocheted through her mind.

  Part of her—the desperate part—wanted to race for the surface. Run! Swim! Get away! her mind shrieked. Another part—the saner part—demanded that she do nothing to attract his attention. Don’t move. Don’t breathe, reason insisted.

  Reason won out at about the same instant long hours of training kicked in. Abby froze, gasped a breath, and held it. Her heart hammered so wildly in her chest, she was sure her skin was moving; sure the shark would mistake the movement for a distressed fish.

  The shark kept coming.

  She didn’t dare move. Even though his eyesight might be infinitely poor, the shark would zero in on the slightest bit of motion. But she couldn’t just hang there and do nothing, like a piece of meat waiting for the butcher. He’s coming straight at me, for God’s sake.

  As cautiously as she could with every ounce of selfpreservation instinct pumping massive spurts of adrenaline through her bloodstream, Abby reached for her knife. Her hand trembled as she fumbled with the Velcro holding it in place. Finally, after seconds that seemed like days, she pulled the knife out of its sheath and held it up in front of her.

  The shark kept coming.

  She stared at the object of her fear, looming larger and larger, like a deadly missile aimed right at her heart. Its conical-shaped head and sleek body appeared almost still except for the powerful tail that swept back and forth in the water. Back and forth. Bringing him closer and closer. But in no great hurry. As if he knew his leisurely approach would undermine her courage as nothing else would.

  And it did. Terror vibrated through every cell of her body. Every muscle shrieked for her to obey its command to move. “Fight or flight” was no longer a concept on some printed page. It was real. It was now. Don’t move. Don’t... don’t...

  He was only a few feet away. Close enough—Dear God—for her to see—save me—rows and rows—oh, please—of sharp, white teeth. Dear God...

  She closed her eyes and prayed…

  The shark bumped into her tank.

  Her heart almost stopped. She opened her eyes in time to see him make a turn and swim toward her again.

  He bumped her a second time. On her leg.

  At the feel of his sandpaper-like skin lightly scraping hers, Abby stifled a scream by biting down so hard on her mouthpiece, she expected it to snap in two.

  The shark turned away. Swam off to her right.

  Then he turned back.

  Headed straight for her again.

  Only this time she knew it wouldn’t be to test. This time it would be to taste.

  Before she could raise the knife in her hand, without warning or provocation, abruptly the shark veered slightly to his right.

  And silently cruised past her.

  As all twelve or thirteen feet of the tiger shark slowly swam by her, Abby counted the reminder of her life in seconds. As she saw the cold, dead-looking eye, she waited for a lightning-fast change of direction. As she saw the dull gray skin move past close enough to touch, she waited for the razor-sharp teeth and powerful jaws to claim their first taste.

  But when it came, she wasn’t the victim.

  In a move so fast, Abby would later question whether or not she’d actually seen it, the shark made a hard left turn, dove straight down toward the reef, and attacked the turtle. Holding a flipper clamped in his massive jaws, the shark thrashed his head back and forth. The turtle struggled. The shark continued the vicious thrash
ing. Then, miraculously, the turtle twisted free and dove sideways between towers of coral too close together for the shark to follow.

  Abby gulped a huge lungful of air, releasing a giant spray of bubbles.

  The shark turned toward the sound.

  Again, she froze. Held her breath. The bubbles stopped.

  No! No!

  Once the bubbles disappeared, the shark, obviously more interested in immediate prey, made a couple of passes over the top of the turtle’s coral hideout, then simply swam away.

  Slowly, Abby swigged air into her lungs as if she were drinking from a thin straw. A thin line of bubbles escaped. She glanced around. Sharks were notorious for swimming away, only to make a wide loop and return for another go at their prey. She twisted her body in a 360-degree turn.

  And discovered she was the only diver at that depth!

  Before her panic level could shoot sky-high, she looked up and saw Stuart, with a speargun in his hand, swimming hard toward her.

  Thank God! Thank God!

  When he reached her, he gave Abby the sign to head for the surface. He hung back, scanning the area for the shark as he followed her up. The other divers were already out of the water.

  Since decompression wasn’t necessary at that depth, Abby headed straight for the surface, all the while turning, watching, expecting. On the surface, at the height of vulnerability, she clutched at the outstretched hands of the other divers as they yanked her out of the water and onto the deck.

  Within minutes the boat streaked across the water to the spot where the ladies and Lonnie, a native diver and lifeguard, had been dropped off to snorkel. With a warning that a shark was possibly nearby, Stuart had no trouble collecting his charges in quick order. He then returned the Maui Dive Shop customers to their boat, then headed for another snorkel location.

  But when they arrived at a peaceful-looking spot near the south end of Maui, Abby didn’t want to snorkel. She didn’t want to get back into the water.

  She couldn’t get back in the water now. Maybe never.