Red Tide

by Tymber Dalton

  Red Tide

  Dive charter captain Mitch Jackson is ready to divorce her cheating ex and take a chance on romance with friend and business partner Ed Grey. She's tired of her love life being on hold. Truth be told, she's always carried a torch for Ed, but worried that their age difference made Ed think of her as the kid he knew.

  Ed has silently loved Mitch for years. Her impending divorce will finally give him a chance to voice his true emotions. Unfortunately, life is never that simple. When they stumble upon a sunken drug vessel, a desperate criminal who's closer to them than they realize wants to send Mitch to a permanent watery grave.

  Now, Mitch and Ed are on the run from a wily serial killer intent on stopping Mitch from testifying. Will their love survive a murderer's vengeance, or will he spill their blood on another Red Tide?

  Note: This book contains excessive violence.

  Genre: Contemporary, Romantic Suspense

  Length: 82,033 words

  RED TIDE

  Tymber Dalton

  EROTIC ROMANCE

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer.

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Erotic Romance

  RED TIDE

  Copyright © 2012 by Tymber Dalton

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61926-685-8

  First E-book Publication: June 2012

  Cover design by Jinger Heaston

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Red Tide by Tymber Dalton from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

  Regarding E-book Piracy

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

  This is Tymber Dalton’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Dalton’s right to earn a living from her work.

  Amanda Hilton, Publisher

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  For my Hubby. Thank you for everything you do for me!

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Some of the characters in this book also appear in Out of the Darkness, also available from Siren-BookStrand.

  RED TIDE

  TYMBER DALTON

  Copyright © 2012

  Prologue

  Friday, September 8th

  The hunt was on.

  He strolled down Seventh Avenue, studying the crowds ambling along around him. Recently refurbished streetlights brightened the main thoroughfare. Varieties of music from punk rock to sexy salsa echoed off the brick facades. Ybor City, a predominately Cuban historic district on the outskirts of downtown Tampa, was at its best in the evenings.

  It felt like a typical late-summer Florida night—sultry, muggy, hot. Earlier that afternoon it rained, a quick shower that teased with its brief ferocity, but only enough to leave residents with the sensation of breathing through damp cotton.

  Pausing in the shadows of an entryway, he dug another boiled peanut out of the nearly full bag he carried. He evaluated the crowd around him, and with his eyes searched, sorted, selected, discarded—on the prowl in an electric jungle.

  He almost made up his mind to end his hunt when he spotted a young woman leaving the club across the street. She stood in the doorway, a nearby neon beer sign casting red shadows across her harried face. Nervously, she glanced first up and down the street, then at her watch. She brushed delicately at her nose several times before digging a cigarette and lighter out of her worn purse. After lighting the cigarette, she took a deep drag, holding the smoke in for a long moment before letting it out.

  Looks like someone’s running a little late with her fix.

  She wore a short black leather mini, a low-cut red sleeveless sweater, and matching spiked-heel pumps. A string of white beads hung between her breasts, and a pair of oversized gold hoops dangled from her ears. Her blonde hair framed a tired face that, under makeup applied a little too heavy, wore the cagey, haunted look that undercover cops never successfully duplicated.

  The prostitute finished her first cigarette and lit another.

  The hunter studied her for several minutes from his side of the narrow street. A few minutes later, she angrily threw the butt to the ground, stomping it out before heading east down the sidewalk.

  He crossed Seventh and followed her, catching up with her at the next corner where she stopped to scan the street again. He stood close enough to smell the cloud of beer oozing from her. Now he could tell from her dark roots that her blonde hair was as fake as her red lacquered nails, both in need of a touch-up.

  Stepping up next to her, he offered the bag of peanuts. “Lose someone?”

  She jumped, momentarily alarmed, then relaxed as he smiled. “Well, sort of.”

  “Peanuts?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you…need a ride?” He held her eyes with his, boring deep inside her, the hunter in him searching for the right buttons to push. He wanted her. She’d be perfect.

  The prostitute considered him for a moment. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  He shrugged as she finally reached out and took a peanut. “I don’t know. What would you suggest?”

  She seemed to warm up to him a little. He watched her eyes as she appraised him. “Well, I’m a little…late taking my medication. My ride was supposed to bring it.”

  He knew he didn’t quite have her trust. She still thought he might be a cop. He flashed her a smile. “I just happened to be coming out of that club over there”—he pointed—“when I saw you. I thought I’d take a chance. Frankly, I thought you might be a cop. I just got divorced, and I’ve never done this before. It’d be my damn luck to pick the wrong person.”

  That was one of his favorite lines, and almost always worked. Especially when h
e lowered his gaze to the pavement while still watching her from the corner of his eye.

  She smiled and her shoulders dropped a little as she relaxed.

  He knew he almost had her. He sensed her sizing him up and knew what she saw—slightly curly blond hair and boyish blue eyes, charming smile, a teddy bear image. It was a look he’d perfected, a camouflage that served him well.

  “Want some company?” she asked.

  “Depends on what you want. I’ve got some good stuff back in my car I’ll share with you, but what else?”

  She smiled. “How about I treat you right? An hour for a hundred. If you share with me.”

  “Sounds like a deal to me.” The hunter led his prey back to the parking lot. Her eyes widened when he pulled out his keychain and disarmed the alarm on the red Porsche.

  “Ver-ry nice.” He opened the door for her. Inside, she caressed the leather upholstery.

  The car barely shifted under his weight as he slid behind the wheel. Reaching across her, he opened the glove box. Inside lay a small packet of white powder. He offered it to her, along with a crisp hundred dollar bill from his wallet.

  Her eyes widened again. “Hey, that’s great.” She quickly set to work. It only took her a moment to cut lines on her compact mirror and snort them through the rolled-up bill. He watched her lean back, a blissful smile on her face.

  “Oh, that’s delicious,” she finally said. She returned everything to her purse, along with the coke she had left over, and turned back to him. “By the way, my name’s Denise.” She held her hand out and, to her obvious surprise, he kissed it.

  She eyed him, appraising him. “What should I call you, sweetie?”

  He smiled again. “John. Just call me John.”

  Her laugh bore the shrill edge of a high. “Okay, ‘John.’”

  He drove them south, past the port, then east down Causeway Boulevard, to a vacant lot. He parked near the water, where they were concealed from the highway and passing cars by a screen of mangrove trees.

  “That was good stuff, hon,” Denise purred.

  “Only the best.” He reached up and stroked her chin. Then he moved his hand around to the back of her neck and weaved his fingers in her hair. “Now, let’s get down to a little business.” He pulled her toward him and guided her down to his lap.

  Denise stroked him through his pants. “I think I like doing business with you.” She unzipped his fly, and he groaned when she took him into her mouth.

  He enjoyed himself for a few minutes, then glanced at his watch. He tapped her on the top of the head and she sat up. He got out of the car and went around to her side, opening the door and taking her hand to help her. Leading her around to the front of the car, he pushed her down on the hood and hiked her skirt up around her hips, not surprised to find she wasn’t wearing any panties.

  Using his hand, he played with her pussy, making sure he’d gotten her genuinely hot and wet as he stroked her clit. In a few minutes, she begged him to make her come. That only served to increase his need.

  He paused to hand her a condom and she eagerly ripped the foil package open and slipped it on him. He slid into her and smothered her moans with his mouth while her hips bucked under him. It only took a few thrusts for his release to start. He reached up with his free hand to caress her neck. Then he squeezed, using his body to pin her against the hood and moving his other hand up to her neck.

  Her eyes flew open as she struggled against him, realizing she’d made the mistake of her life.

  His climax seemed to last forever as her struggles grew weaker and weaker. He was still coming when she died. When he finally finished, he kissed her cheek and whispered, “Nothing but the best.”

  Chapter One

  Saturday, September 9th

  Mitch Jackson glanced down and behind her at the glassy surface of the Gulf. The greenish water beckoned her from its opaque depths while the nearby diesel slick destroyed any illusion of a normal dive. She looked at Ed, glanced briefly at Jack and Ron standing on the other side of the boat, then back to Ed.

  “Clear?” she mumbled around the regulator mouthpiece.

  He nodded. “Clear.”

  She rolled backward off the gunwale, her right hand holding her mask and regulator against her face, her left clutching her gauge console.

  In the water, Mitch automatically righted herself and bobbed to the surface. She reached for her spear gun and metal fish stringer, then kicked against the mild current to the anchor line. The Gulf felt lukewarm. She was glad she’d elected not to wear a wet suit over her bikini, only a large, baggy sweatshirt and a pair of tights to protect her legs. The usually not-so-good visibility was poor, only about ten feet, with the bottom nowhere in sight.

  She dumped some air, cleared her ears, and kicked for the bottom, using the anchor rope to help her down. At twenty feet she paused to equalize her mask and ears and tighten her weight belt strap. The metal stringer she carried brushed against her leg, and she slipped it over her left arm before quickly cocking the band on her spear gun. Clearing her ears again, she continued her descent, searching for the source of the diesel slick.

  * * * *

  The day had started earlier that morning like any other. Mitch Jackson, she was Michelle only to her now-deceased mother, never realized where the events of the day would lead as she prepared for their trip. She enjoyed the slightly damp predawn chill that would disappear shortly after the sun rose. The cool morning air tempered the humidity and made it tolerable. She shoveled ice into a huge cooler loaded on a dock cart, right outside the marina’s bait shop. While she worked she listened to the gentle thumps of boats rocking in their nearby slips and the soft chiming of their rigging.

  Next to the small marina flowed Muddy Creek. Mitch heard the hearty grumbles of bullfrogs sounding off in the saw grass stands that lined both banks. She relished this time of day because there were few people around. Pete, her white-and-brindle mixed-breed pointer, looked on with an intensity that only dogs and small children seemed to possess.

  She finished up the last of their preparations for a weekend Middle Grounds trip. A pleasure trip, not a charter. Jack Torrence and Ron Smith, a couple of friends, would arrive any minute.

  Ed Grey, her lifelong friend and business partner now that her father was dead, stuck his head out of the bait shop door. “How many boxes of sardines and squid do we need?”

  “Um, get four of each. We’ll keep them frozen. Get some live shrimp, too.” He nodded and disappeared inside.

  A few minutes later, Ed returned with the frozen bait and dumped it into the cart. “If you’ll go get the shrimp, I’ll take this to the boat and unload it.”

  Mitch looked down at her dog. “Does that sound fair to you, Pete?”

  The dog softly woofed at the sound of his name.

  She looked at Ed. “You’ve got a deal.” She held the door open for Pete and went to the back of the shop, to the bait tanks, to retrieve their bucket of shrimp. Bob Keith said good morning, patted Pete on the head, and went back to stocking his shelves. Mitch breathed a sigh of relief.

  Last thing I need this morning is to get tied up talking to him.

  Mitch picked up her shrimp and returned to their boat, the Sun Run. Ed already had most of the ice unloaded.

  “Did you stock the galley?” he asked.

  Mitch dumped the shrimp into the live well. “I went to the store last night. We’re fueled up and ready to go as soon as Ron and Jack get here.” She put her hands in the pockets of her shorts and realized she’d left her cell phone in the dive shop. “I’ll be right back.”

  Their dive shop sat on the other side of the parking lot, opposite Bob Keith’s store. Dan, who ran the shop in their absence, would arrive in an hour. After finding her cell she locked the door behind her.

  Mitch returned to the Sun Run. By now, it was almost six o’clock in the morning. Ron and Jack would arrive any minute. She fired off the engines, first port, then starboard. Both diesels grumbled to life
on the first crank and she let them idle so they could warm up.

  As if on cue, Ron’s truck swung into the shell lot and pulled in beside her old Bronco. As usual, Jack looked wide awake and ready to go, his merry eyes shining. Ron, on the other hand, looked like he’d rather be in bed.

  Jack carried his bags down the dock to the boat. “I hope you have plenty of coolers on board, Mitch. I’m feeling lucky today.”

  Ed laughed. “Are you willing to make a wager on that, Jack?”

  The four stared at each other for a moment before breaking up with laughter.

  “Hey,” Jack replied, “I said I felt lucky, not stupid.”

  Mitch helped Ron stow his gear. “You look like you’re still asleep.”

  He glared at his friend. “I am. There’s only one thing I hate about going fishing with you.”

  She chuckled. “What’s that?”

  “Getting up when it’s still friggin’ dark out. Why the hell can’t we get up at a reasonable hour?”

  “This is reasonable, Ron.” She smiled. “You can nap on the way out.”

  * * * *

  Mitch and Ed had established their pattern many years earlier. She took her position behind the wheel, with Pete sitting at her feet.

  “Ready, Ed?” she called.

  He cast off the bow line and made ready to release the stern line. “Ready.” He released the stern line.

  Mitch shifted into forward and the cruiser smoothly slid out of the slip. The twin diesels weren’t fast, but they were reliable and easy on fuel. They sounded good this morning, smoothly throbbing under the deck beneath their feet. Dawn painted the sky behind them in fiery pastels while she guided the boat out of the marina and into the channel. Minutes later, they glided past the saw grass flats comprising a good deal of this portion of the Florida coastline. Channel markers slid by one after another as they left Aripeka behind them and made their way out into the Gulf.