by Rachel Lee
A HUGE WHITE YACHT WAS SAILING INTO VIEW OVER THE HORIZON.
“They must be turning,” Dugan remarked.
“Turning?” Veronica asked.
“Either that or they’re slowing down. I’m hoping they’re turning.”
“Why would they be slowing down?”
“That’s a question I’d rather not have to answer. Keep playing with that fishing rod. Make it look good.”
It was true, boats could slow down and pull alongside just to be friendly. But they didn’t do it very often.
“Try to look like we’re out here to get a tan and catch a fish, okay? Don’t follow me below, don’t act like we might be worried.”
“You are worried, aren’t you?”
“Just a little bit.”
She searched his face, then nodded and sat back in her chair.
Below, Dugan unlocked the drawer where he kept a Glock 9mm . . .
RAVES FOR RACHEL LEE’S PREVIOUS ROMANTIC SUSPENSE NOVELS
AFTER I DREAM
“A fabulous romantic thriller with the accent on thrills. . . . Fast-paced and filled with suspense and tension. This author deserves much acclaim for her exciting tales of romantic suspense.”
—Midwest Book Review
BEFORE I SLEEP
“A wonderfully crafted, suspenseful tale with just the right balance of romance and mystery.”
—Rendezvous
“A powerhouse novel full of excitement and romance. Ms. Lee is an accomplished writer, and her expertise in setting scenes, developing characters, and creating suspense is evident. . . . The plot never faltered . . . you will not be disappointed.”
—Mystery News
“A powerful writer. . . . Before I Sleep is a gripping romantic suspense book . . . and much, much more. It’s a compelling emotional novel.”
—Heart to Heart
“A nail-biting, engaging story . . . a web of suspense and emotion . . . BEFORE I SLEEP is not a book you want to begin reading late at night unless you plan to go without sleep. It immediately grabs your attention and pulls you in. Very satisfying and enjoyable.”
—Bookbug on the Web
“Tight and dramatic . . . a well-written piece of romantic suspense. . . . It keeps the reader glued to the page.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Terrific author Rachel Lee does a masterful job turning on the tension and suspense.”
—Romantic Times
“Moving . . . may be Ms. Lee’s best novel to date. Fans of romantic intrigue will be caught by this novel that provides immense pleasure.”
—Harriet Klausner, Painted Rock Reviews
“Exciting and challenging . . . a gripping tale of sexual tension, intrigue, and suspense that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the last word. . . . It is definitely one for the keepers shelf.”
—Under the Covers
ALSO BY RACHEL LEE
Before I Sleep
After I Dream
WHEN I WAKE. Copyright © 2000 by Sue Civil-Brown. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
For information address Warner Books, Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.
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The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2224-4
A mass market edition of this book was published in 2000 by Warner Books.
First eBook Edition: November 2000
Cover design by Diane Luger
Cover illustration by Franco Accornero
Hand lettering by David Gatti
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
To the love of my life.
Thanks to Katie V. for inviting me into her world of deafness. I’m so grateful for the masterful way you were able to give me analogies that helped make the silence real for me.
Thanks to Margaret A. for her perspective on working with the deaf, and the mechanics of hearing loss. And thanks to many others who in their various ways taught me what silence means.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Dear Reader:
About the Author
Prologue
Orin Coleridge had six months to live. He regarded the prospect with little fear, but with a whole lot of impatience. Six months wasn’t long enough for what he needed to do, especially when his strength was failing, and treatments were only going to make him weaker.
The only thing he feared was that his daughter wouldn’t outlive him. He watched her sit in a corner, rocking endlessly and staring out the window at the brilliant Florida days as if she couldn’t even see them.
A man had done that to her. Her husband had done that to her. Orin looked down at his frail, trembling hands and wished they had the strength to strangle Larry Hauser.
The bright candle flame that was his daughter had nearly been extinguished, and months later it showed no signs of leaping to life again.
She was too thin. Too withdrawn. Counseling had been useless because she wouldn’t speak. Her once raven black hair now had a silver streak in it, speaking of what she had endured. Of what Larry had inflicted on her.
Orin sighed heavily and went to stand beside her, looking out through the filtering leaves of an ancient live oak at the sunbaked street beyond. He didn’t care what happened to him, but he needed more time, time enough to find a way to put the spark back in his daughter’s eyes. A way to give her back her life before he gave up his own.
Reaching out, he touched Veronica’s shoulder and felt her shrink away. His heart breaking, he withdrew his hand.
There had to be a way to reach her, he thought, as tears burned in his eyes. Some way to reach the little girl who had once grasped life with both hands, hungry for experience. Some way to reach the woman who had followed in his footsteps, becoming a professor of archaeology.
He had so many memories of her, all of them full of light and life from the time she took her first steps to the time she had come to him with sparkling eyes and showed him her first published monograph. Surely that woman couldn’t be gone forever.
There had to be a key to the lock of silence and despair that imprisoned her. There had to be a way to fan the spark back to life.
Closing his eyes against a swelling surge of grief, he tried, as he always had, to focus on the problem at hand.
Then, to his amazement, for the first time in twenty-five years, he heard the sound of his late wife’s voice. It seemed to waft to him on the air, carrying the mysterious lilt that had first drawn him to her.
“The mask of the Storm Mother.”
A chill went through him as he recalled all the trouble that quest had brought into his life. And yet, looking at his daughter as she slowly faded away from lack of will to live, he wondered if renewing the quest could possibly be any more costly.
The answer was plain. He just hoped the mask wouldn’t bring his daughter back
to life only to take her away again. Because, to this day, he was convinced his wife’s death was no accident. Whenever he let himself think of it, her loss filled him with anguish and rage.
And fear.
Chapter 1
Dugan Gallagher sat in the small jumbled office where he spent his days, with his feet propped up on the desk, tilted back in his chair so he could see the harbor.
He wore his usual costume of khaki work shirt, khaki shorts, and topsiders, about as formal as he ever got since quitting his job as a stockbroker ten years ago. Of course, the nice thing about being a business owner was that he got to set the dress code. And this was Key West besides. Even the lawyers came to work dressed this way, and kept a suit hanging in their offices for the times they needed to go into court.
Watching the Sea Maid put out with her current cargo of tourists who wanted to dive a wreck, he felt pretty good. All his captains and dive instructors had shown up today, which meant he, Dugan Gallagher, didn’t have to get wet. Which was just fine with him. He might live on an island and have an office on a harbor, and make his living from boats, but he hated to get wet. Period. The bathroom shower was his maximum preferred water exposure.
He also preferred to stay holed up in his tiny office as far away from the tourists as possible. Oh, he was well aware of the irony in the fact that he owned a diving business that catered to tourists when he hated both the water and tourists, but life was ironic any way you looked at it. Besides, never having to wear a tie again was reward enough for putting up with the other annoyances.
The Sea Maid—not the most original name in the world, but what the hell, he wasn’t angling for awards, just for business—eased out of the harbor and sailed away with her precious cargo of tourists and compressed-air tanks. From experience, he knew that everyone was talking and laughing with excitement, and that Jill, the instructor on board, was encouraging them with her own enthusiasm.
He almost snorted, then reminded himself not to get too cynical about what he did. It might show. The dives they took the tourists on were relatively tame, for liability reasons. But while he might be jaded about diving wrecks, his customers weren’t, and he needed to keep that in mind.
Besides, this job was better than Wall Street any day. Unfortunately, it was also a little more hectic than he’d planned on when he had dropped out ten years ago with the express intention of becoming a beach bum. Instead, he’d wound up buying a dying business and turning it into a profitable concern. He figured he must have a loose screw somewhere.
On the other hand, you couldn’t beat the view of the harbor, or the lazy pace around town, or the nightlife that never seemed to end. So he was a productive beach bum. It didn’t exactly call for hand-wringing and mea culpas.
There was a knock on his door, and Ginny, his office manager, the lady who dealt with ninety percent of the onshore crap of the business, stuck her head in. “Couple of people want to see you, boss.”
He didn’t even stir, but kept looking out the window at the mast of the sailboat riding at dock just outside. Maybe it was time to take the Mandolin out for a long, long sail in Caribbean waters. Maybe two weeks of long sail. “I’m busy,” he said.
“I can see that. When you get through contemplating your navel, you might want to see these folks. They’re talking about a long-term charter.”
That perked his interest a bit, though he was reluctant to show it. “Yeah? What . . . two days?”
“Open-ended, probably several months.”
He was about to say no way. Then he realized that he was curious. He turned his head and looked at Ginny. She was a thirtysomething redhead who’d spent too much time in the sun and had done too many drugs until the day she woke up and realized her live-in boyfriend was sucking her dry, leeching her meager income, and killing her with cocaine. She’d thrown out the boyfriend, kicked her habit, and come looking for a job. Dugan had never regretted hiring her.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay? Okay, what? Charter the boat? Send them in here? Make them wait?”
Count on Ginny to give him a hard time. While he never regretted hiring her, sometimes he thought of her as his thorn in paradise. “Send them in.”
Then he went back to contemplating the navel of the world—or in this case, the mast of the sailboat. Which to him was the same thing, since he thought of sailing as the center of his personal universe. For somebody who didn’t like to get wet, he sure liked to be out on the water.
He heard the door open again and turned his head just enough to see his visitors. The first to enter was an elderly man who leaned on a cane. Dugan didn’t need to be a doctor to recognize the signs of cancer. The man looked like too many AIDS victims he’d seen on the streets of Key West.
But his eyes were bright blue and lively yet, though his face was gaunt and his head absolutely hairless. He wore casual khakis, too, and Dugan decided he could probably deal with this guy—unless the old man wanted to arrange to have his own ashes dumped somewhere out there. Dugan hated people who insisted on burial at sea. Mainly because when Dugan was forced to go in the water, he didn’t want to be thinking about what he might be swimming through or by. Not that he was squeamish. He just figured some things were better buried.
Behind the man came a young woman, maybe thirty, with brilliant blue eyes and hair as blue-black as a raven’s wing, except for one intriguing white streak. He couldn’t tell how long her hair was, because she had it pinned tightly to the back of her head.
That was the first thing he didn’t like about her, the tightly pinned hair. The next thing he didn’t like was the very, very nice figure barely hidden by a tank top and shorts. He didn’t like it because he couldn’t ignore it. He also wondered if she had any idea how fast even that tawny skin of hers was going to burn in the subtropical sun.
“What can I do for you?” he asked the man. He knew he should have stood and shook hands, but he’d sworn off formality and didn’t see any reason to break his vow for these two.
“We’d like to charter one of your boats for several months,” the man said.
Dugan could have told him he never did that. He could have pointed him to a charter boat business. But he didn’t. He was curious why they’d chosen him, and why they wanted the charter. They sure as hell didn’t look like drug runners. So instead of saying no, and saving himself from all the trouble—a significant error, he was to realize shortly—he said, “Why? Better yet, why me?”
The man nodded to one of the chairs, and Dugan waved him into it. Then, falling back on dusty manners, he waved the woman to the other chair. His feet were still on his desk, and he had no intention of taking them down, not even when he realized the woman was looking at him with disapproval. He resisted the urge to belch and scratch his chest—just barely.
“Well,” said the man, “perhaps I’d better tell you who we are.”
Dugan didn’t especially want to hear this part, but it had to be better than going back to his bookkeeping, so he nodded.
“I’m Orin Coleridge. This is my daughter Veronica Coleridge. We’re both archaeologists.”
And now Dugan guessed exactly what was coming. If he’d had an ounce of brains, he’d have shown them the door immediately. He didn’t want any part of their headache. “People have gone broke and died young hunting for treasure.”
“That may be,” said Coleridge, with a small nod that acknowledged Dugan’s quickness. “But my daughter isn’t in any danger of going broke in this lifetime, and we have good information on the location of a particular wreck.”
“So have a lot of people.” Dugan put his feet on the floor and faced the old man directly. “It took Mel Fisher sixteen years to find the Atocha—after he finally got good information. I won’t even mention the twenty years that came before that. Do you have any idea how much seafloor there is out there? How far a wreck could have drifted over the years? How unlikely that there’s still enough of it in one piece to identify?”
“We’
re archaeologists,” Coleridge said.
“And then there’s the permits. Have you got permits?”
“We certainly have. We’ve done our legwork, Mr. Gallagher.”
“Maybe so. But have you talked to anyone who’s actually hunted for a wreck? Are you prepared to devote the rest of your life to this search?” Which, as soon as he said it, struck him as an utterly insensitive thing to say to a man who probably didn’t have much life left. Too late now.
But Coleridge didn’t seem to take offense. He smiled faintly. “That should be my concern, not yours. We simply want to charter a boat from you for the next three months.”
“Why me?”
“We need a dive boat. And we need divers. You have a good reputation.”
Having a good reputation in Key West could mean a lot of things, depending on who you talked to. But there was one thing Dugan wouldn’t give ground on to anyone: He had safe boats, good instructors, and the best equipment. In that respect he wanted a good reputation. The rest of it he didn’t care about. “I don’t rent boats for three months at a stretch. I need all my boats to handle the tourist demand. If I start turning people away, it won’t be good for my business.” Which wasn’t strictly true, because he turned people away all the time for lack of room. He just didn’t want to be cutting back his schedule by one boat.
“Well, we can rent a boat elsewhere, I suppose,” Coleridge said, looking at his daughter. “It’s just that you were highly recommended.”
Did he really want to throw this job to a competitor? Three months of easy work, charter fees. . . . He looked out the window again, pondering. Of course, he’d have to get wet.
Hmm.
“Three months,” Coleridge said. “We’ll pay in advance, whatever you’d make off the boat regularly plus twenty-five percent. We’ll pay all costs, and we’ll pay for your diving services and one or two other divers of your choice.”
“I don’t know.”
The woman spoke, too loudly. “Will you look this way when you talk?”
He turned sharply, prepared to take umbrage, but Coleridge was waving a hand. “Forgive my daughter, Mr. Gallagher. She’s deaf. She can’t read your lips when you look away.”