by Joya Fields
His cousin. She said a quick prayer that Tessa wouldn’t be in that box. How awful for the family, not knowing where she was or what had happened. She could only assume that the family didn’t know that Garrett suspected the metal box might hold Tessa’s body. He probably wouldn’t tell them until he found out for sure. Brooke didn’t know the whole story, but if she’d been missing for two months, the family probably didn’t know whether to believe she was dead or alive.
The bubbles disappeared and she threw the fifteen-foot safety rope into the water. Then she let her mind shift to a more pleasant image…the memory of how Garrett’s wetsuit clung to each and every part of his body.
She climbed onto the cushioned bench and wiggled into a comfortable, prone position. May as well take advantage of a little downtime by trying to relax. She hoped to be at Linda’s side by afternoon and would likely be at the hospital until late tonight.
Five minutes later, the sound of a motor cut through the peaceful setting. She propped up on her elbows. A speedboat zoomed across the water, slowing as it neared the Amigo. The driver pulled alongside and waved at her.
She frowned, wondering who knew they were out here. Then she remembered…she’d left word at the hospital. Did something happen? Did Jeff send someone to find her? Had her cell phone rang, and she hadn’t heard it?
She hurried to the port side.
Both crafts bobbed up and down in the wake. “Ahoy!” the driver, an elderly white-haired man, hollered.
“Hello.” Brooke glanced around, scanning for other nearby boats. She could be overreacting, but it spooked her to be alone with a stranger, even if he was an old man. The breeze blew his long-sleeved white dress shirt against arms that looked surprisingly muscular. He was a large male, and she was alone. The nearest fishermen were probably several nautical miles away.
“Hello there!” he said. His high-pitched voice cracked—as if his vocal cords were worn—and the sides of his mouth pulled down in a droopy expression. “Seen the search vessels today?”
Brooke shook her head, leaning on the edge of Garrett’s boat as the man drifted nearer. “Search vessels?”
He placed a buoy on the starboard side of his small runabout to keep their vessels from bumping. She held tightly to the side. The wake from his craft made the water rough, and Garrett’s boat rocked back and forth. “You betcha. They’re looking for my granddaughter.” He held out a yellow piece of paper. “She went out with some friends on a yacht last night. Hasn’t been seen since. It was on the news last night and this mornin’.”
Brooke took the flyer, and her heart pinched at the photo of a happy, girl-next-door-like smile on the teenager’s face. The girl’s dark hair, straight white teeth and giant smile made her wish she could help the man. She stared at the photo and shook her head, then held the flyer out to him. “No, sorry. I haven’t seen her, or heard about it. I didn’t get a chance to watch the—”
He ignored the paper she held out and whipped his arm past it and toward her body so fast she didn’t have time to back away. Something sharp pricked her neck, cutting off her words. The ocean surface and the blue sky blended together—or switched positions—and she swayed and grew dizzy. The flier dropped from her hand. Instinctively, she grabbed out for something—anything—to hold onto but found nothing. She lost control of her muscles.
Unable to stop herself from crumbling to the floor of the boat, she could feel her prosthesis slide off. As she hit the solid boards, she noticed that the old man was surprisingly strong and quick for someone his age.
Chapter Five
A shadow passed overhead and Garrett frowned. Although he was thirty meters deep in the ocean, the sun shone bright, enabling him to see the fuzzy image of the Amigo gliding along the surface.
Why would Brooke be moving the Amigo?
The shadow of the hull traveled further and further away and the motor left a trail of bubbles behind. Brooke wasn’t moving the vessel. She was leaving them.
He waved his arms to signal distress to Diego, and tried to regulate his breathing. If he breathed hard, he’d use up his oxygen too fast. Diego spotted him and Garrett gestured toward the surface. Diego’s eyes widened and he pointed to himself and then the surface. Time to get up there. Garrett nodded.
They both knew they couldn’t swim directly to the surface. Not when they were thirty meters deep. They’d have to take safety stops on the way up. It would take at least fifteen minutes to reach the surface. By then the Amigo would be long gone.
His started to fill his Buoyancy Compensator with air from his oxygen tank. Diego did the same. They needed to add air, little by little, to help them reach the surface. It wouldn’t be fast enough.
They ascended and Garrett itched to break one of the cardinal rules of diving—never come up faster than your bubbles. Why were these damn air bubbles so slow today? And why would Brooke take off? Even if she’d heard from the hospital, she could have signaled.
There was no good reason to strand divers. Not ever. But his gut told him she wouldn’t put them in danger. Which meant…
He shook his head when he caught himself ascending faster than his bubbles. Slowing, impatient, he flutter-kicked in place. Brooke wouldn’t move without a damn good reason. Her smoky eyes and confidence may have blinded him to her faults, but one thing he knew for certain, she was an underwater archaeologist…she knew what to do on and in the water.
She had to be in trouble. The thought made him want to risk getting the bends and fire to the surface.
****
When Garrett finally broke the surface, the sunny glare on the water made it hard to see anything for a full minute.
“There!” Diego said, pointing.
With confusion building in his gut, Garrett followed Diego’s gesture and spotted the Amigo. He squinted into the sun and tried to gauge whether the craft was still moving or not. It was either anchored or moving extremely slowly.
Garrett cupped his hands over his mouth. “Hey…” he hollered. He knew his voice wouldn’t travel far, but it felt good to expel some of his stress by yelling.
He and Diego were both good swimmers and good at treading water. They could swim well enough to make it to the vessel…even a mile away. But it would take a while.
He squinted again, catching movement on the Amigo, but not quite able to make out what it was. Did she have engine trouble? Couldn’t be out of gas, he’d filled up just before they left. And why would she have moved the damn thing?
“Somebody’s getting off…onto another boat!” Diego said, squinting.
The distant sound of a motor and movement near the vessel confirmed it. A smaller craft near his had just taken off. What the hell?
She hadn’t left willingly. The knot forming in the pit of his stomach tightened. He knew for sure that he and Diego weren’t the only ones in danger.
A motor puttered somewhere nearby and a fishing skiff made a turn out of a canal.
“Help!” Garrett and Diego yelled, waving their arms as they treaded water with their legs. Their Buoyancy Compensators helped minimize the effort required to float.
The two fishermen glanced their way. One waved his hand, signaling that he noticed them, and then steered the tri-hull boat in their direction.
“What in God’s creation you doin’ swimming out here, boys?” a sunburned fisherman with more wrinkles than smooth skin asked as he eased back on the motor and steered to a slow putter. His elderly passenger, an overweight and balding man, frowned and worked a wad of tobacco to his cheek and then spat into the water.
“Can you take us to that boat?” Garrett asked, pointing before he elbowed his way up and over the skiff’s edge.
The man turned and followed his gesture. “Oh yeah…okay.” He chuckled. “Boat got away from ya, did it? Come on.” He held out a hand to Garrett, helped him onboard, and then followed suit with Diego.
If willpower could have moved the small vessel faster, Garrett would have willed the little rust bucket to ro
cket across the choppy water. The damn tri-hull moved so slow he could probably paddle faster.
Inside of ten minutes, they were within fifty feet of the Amigo. His stomach knotted when he squinted and didn’t see any movement onboard. The craft bobbed and swayed in the ocean current. Had she left them? Met with foul play? An image of her filled his mind—the habit she had of lifting her chin when she was determined to get her way, the way her gray-blue eyes smoked with passion for life. He swallowed hard, willing her to be okay.
The fisherman moved his skiff alongside Garrett’s bigger boat and stretched his arm out to keep the two from bumping. The old guy looked at the other fisherman who loaded another wad of tobacco into his cheek and winked. “Ya know…they have this new invention. Called an anchor.” He and his friend laughed at his joke. Garrett and Diego scuttled onto the other craft.
Garrett spotted Brooke slumped against the bench seat.
“Shit!” He raced to her side and bent to check for a pulse. She had a strong one, and her deep, steady breathing led him to believe she was asleep. Or unconscious. Had she hit her head? It wouldn’t explain driving away.
“What happened?” Diego dropped to his knees beside Garrett.
Garrett shrugged and stared at Brooke’s relaxed body. Her halter strap had fallen down her shoulder and made her look vulnerable. He slid the strap back into place, grabbed a sweatshirt off of the bench seat, and put it under her head.
Diego stood. “I’ll radio the Coast Guard.”
Garrett nodded without looking away from Brooke. Had she taken a sleeping pill?
“What’s wrong?” The fisherman strained to look onto the Amigo.
Garrett was too busy feeling guilty about Brooke to answer. Why had he left her alone? If anything happened to her…
He stroked Brooke’s cheek, an unconscious gesture of comfort. She moaned and smiled. With closed eyes, she turned toward his hand and nuzzled closer.
“Brooke?” he whispered, leaning closer. He could smell her shampoo—or maybe it was her sunscreen. Coconut. Something fruity and tropical.
Diego shouted from the helm. “Radio wires cut…my cell phone and wallet are gone…”
“My cell phone’s under the cushion at the helm.” Garrett kept his voice low so he wouldn’t startle Brooke. If she could even hear him.
“I got a radio. I can call for help. What should I tell ’em?” the fisherman asked, knitting his eyebrows together as he eyed Brooke.
“Tell them our boat was hijacked and we have an unconscious passenger.” Diego jumped back onto the tri-hull. “Better yet, I’ll tell them. I’m a deputy.”
With the blazing sun beating down on them, sweat gathered inside Garrett’s wetsuit like a sauna. He stood and yanked the zipper down, pulled out of the arms and rolled the suit down to his waist, keeping his gaze on Brooke.
She moaned again and blinked, as if trying to open her eyes.
He went down on his knees beside her. “Brooke….” He held her face in both hands and rubbed her cheeks with his thumbs. Why hadn’t he planned for her safety? His need to get to that damn box had made him forget about everything else. He leaned close, willing her to wake up, willing her to be okay. “Brooke, can you hear me?”
Her eyelids fluttered as if she struggled to open them.
He glanced around for something to cool her off. He stood and grabbed his t-shirt from the seat. After dunking it in a nearby cooler, he knelt beside her and dabbed her face with the corner of the cool wet shirt. He touched her forehead and then moved to the tender area of her neck, hoping the cold cloth would stimulate her.
She opened her eyes and then shut them almost immediately.
“Brooke! What happened?”
She opened them again and squinted up at him. He bent to get a closer look.
He leaned in, and she wrapped cool hands behind his neck and pulled him close. Before he knew it, her lips pressed against his and her hands pulled hard on the back of his head.
He forgot how to think.
His body would have tumbled on top of hers, crushing her, had he not braced his arms on either side of her.
Her lips were softer than cotton candy. A hunger stirred deep in his loins and he let her pull him closer. He knew it was wrong. She wasn’t herself and probably didn’t know what she was doing. He should pull away. Yeah, pulling away would be the right thing to do...
Her lips tasted of saltwater—only warmer—and held his with firm pressure. His common sense dissolved.
Diego cleared his throat and forced Garrett back to the present.
He pulled away and Brooke purred like a cat with her hands on his neck, trying to pull him back.
Diego raised his brows in what seemed both a question and admiration at the same time. “Coast Guard’s on the way.” He didn’t say a word about Brooke’s giant smile or the way her hands now gripped Garrett’s shoulders.
With every ounce of willpower he possessed, Garrett pried Brooke’s hands from his shoulders. He laid them carefully on her stomach and sat. She giggled.
Diego frowned and leaned over, hands on his knees, to study her. “She looks drunk.”
Brooke frowned at him and pointed a finger. “I see two of you,” she slurred.
Diego stood and his mouth twitched at the edges. They were cops. Trained to respond and stay focused.
“Brooke. What happened?” Garrett asked. He leaned over, but not too close.
“Garrett?” Her brows knitted together and her face turned serious.
He nodded. Good. Brooke made more sense now. “Yeah?”
“You’re cute.”
Behind him, Diego snorted.
“Thanks.” Garrett adjusted the sweatshirt pillow under Brooke’s head.
She lifted her hand to touch his face but missed and stroked the air beside him instead. Her hand dropped to the floor with a thump. She shut her eyes and went back to sleep.
Garrett checked her neck for a pulse, and watched her chest rise and fall in a slow relaxed pattern. The sound of a motor approaching signaled the nearing Coast Guard boat.
****
“She’s okay?” Garrett asked. He pointed with his chin toward Brooke.
She sat propped up on a bench seat and semi-coherent. The Coast Guard paramedic concluded she’d been given a drug, the effects of which hadn’t worn off completely.
In the hour since the Coast Guard and sheriff’s department had boarded their craft, Garrett listened to Brooke as she remembered bits and pieces of the attack. She recalled an old man who had tried to hand her a missing person’s flyer, then stuck her with a needle.
“Vitals are good,” Patrick Geppi, the Coast Guard medic said. He glanced toward Brooke.
Garrett nodded and kept his gaze on Brooke. Somebody meant to take her and the vessel a lot further. He glanced at the stern where the broken tow rope lay on the seat, still connected to the boat hardware. He’d spotted the line—still dangling in the water—during his inventory of the craft. In spite of the fact that the culprit had used double-braided rope, it had snapped during the tow.
Double-braided rope. Only someone who knew about boats would know to use that sort of rope. His mind reeled. This marked the second time that someone had been hurt when setting out to find the box.
Tessa’s boyfriend, Rico, knew watercrafts well. He worked in the local boatyard. He and his druggie friends topped Garrett’s list of suspects in Tessa’s disappearance. But Garrett had searched all of Rico’s usual places, grilled the low-life gang members Rico hung out with. No sign of Rico in the past two months.
Yet it didn’t fit that he’d been the one to kidnap Brooke. Rico wasn’t an old man. Maybe he hired someone.
Garrett glanced at Brooke. At his insistence, she had gulped down a can of soda after reattaching her prosthesis. He hoped the caffeine helped her focus. As if feeling his stare, she glanced at him, blushed, and then lowered her gaze. He rubbed his bottom lip at the memory of her kiss and felt the corners of his mouth lift into a smil
e.
“Garrett.” Hal Fisher spoke like he thought himself to be very important. His voice reverberated around the vessel. “I need your statement now.” For a second day in a row, Hal and his partner—Stephanie Cooper, from the Sheriff’s Office Water Rescue unit—had been dispatched to deal with a crime involving Brooke.
Of all the people to investigate this incident, why did it have to be Hal Fisher?
Garrett turned to face Hal and swallowed his anger. Hal had aspirations to become Sheriff of Flagler County one day. Garrett decided to be cooperative. He wanted answers and Hal could help get them.
“Tell me how it went down.” Hal opened his notebook and clicked his pen.
Garrett explained the details of the incident. He tried to concentrate on answering Hal’s questions, but his gaze constantly slid back to Brooke. She blinked her blue-gray eyes as if trying to clear her vision…or her head. Stephanie sat beside her, listening. He fought the crazy urge to walk across the boat, pick up Brooke and hold her on his lap.
She’d probably slug him if he did.
He shook the thought away and turned his attention back to Hal. He couldn’t let himself feel responsible for Brooke. Old habits died hard and he had trouble burying the desire to protect and comfort her.
“Well? How long were you down there?” Hal’s voice brought him back to the present.
Garrett concentrated on Hal’s broad face and bald head and spoke evenly. “Underwater? Almost twenty minutes.”
Hal scribbled in his notebook.
“Did a girl really go missing last night? Was the flyer legit?” Garrett hadn’t heard a thing about a missing teen.
“No. I think the flyer was part of the hoax to get Brooke to trust the man.” He glanced across the craft at Brooke and lifted a brow when he turned back to face Garrett. “Want us to call an ambulance? Said she doesn’t want one. We have a blood sample—we’ll check for any traces of drugs.”
Fisher offered an olive branch. He wasn’t a bad cop. Just a by-the-book kind of cop.
“I’ll see if I can talk her into it.” Garrett huffed out a sigh, stood, and offered a hand to Hal.