by Jill Shalvis
“Stick with Andy.”
She shook her head. “What?”
“You heard me. And you know why.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
Turning away, he took a few more things from the shelves, and dropped them into a backpack for himself. “You need to make sure they’re drinking plenty of liquids—”
The boat pitched again and she put out her hand to brace herself against the wall.
He simply spread his legs and remained steady. “They’ll need you to remind them to keep drinking. If anyone turns nonresponsive, come find me.”
She studied his broad shoulders, and the invisible weight there. He either didn’t want her, or didn’t want to want her. She voted for option number two. “You must get tired of this.”
“Being a doctor?”
“Babysitting passengers. Storms. Not having your own space.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “Most people assume my job is the best job on the planet. Sailing for a living. Taking care of the occasional seasickness. Or splinter.”
She ignored that because he was most definitely not taking care of her splinter. “I would think that this job might be a bit . . . claustrophobic for you.”
He turned away, but not before she saw the truth in his gaze.
Why did he do it? Why did he stay? “Did you mean it when you said I should be with Andy?”
“I mean everything I say. Always.”
TEN
Christian made it up to the deck, then leaned against the hull, eyes closed, body tight. His body had been tight ever since he’d first laid eyes on Dorie, but he could get over that.
What he couldn’t get over was the way she’d gotten inside him. Just looking at her, with those wide, expressive eyes, all that untamable hair, that sweet expression, which said she might be a little naive but was willing to try anything . . .
He wasn’t used to such conflicting emotions. There hadn’t been many in his life he’d let get to him. His mother, yes. She’d been the center of his universe, but he’d lost her so young he could scarcely even remember being held by her. After that he’d been sent from his native France to live with his father, who’d been a traveling medic, a man not much for warmth and affection. Later there’d been women, even a few Christian had found himself attached to, but no one who’d made him want things.
Until now. He wasn’t sure what it was about Dorie, or what he wanted exactly. She had a way of opening him up and laying him bare, even while being so damned annoying he wanted to wrap his fingers around her neck and squeeze.
No, that was a big, fat lie. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, and his body.
And his tongue.
Even more unsettling, he wanted more, more than he’d wanted in a long time. She’d made him feel this way with a single glance of those soulful eyes, the ones that always gave her away; gave away her insecurity, her vulnerability, her sweet, loving nature.
Her attraction to him.
An attraction he’d all but told her to give to Andy instead. Definitely that was for the best. The two of them would enjoy their vacation, and then go on their merry way.
And Christian would still have one long year left in his own personal hell . . .
He could hear someone swearing—Denny. The winds and rain had lessened slightly. One thing in their favor. Now if they could survive the seas, limp into the next port, and get the passengers safe on land . . .
“Goddamn piece of shit scuppers, fuck me if they won’t goddamn work.” More from Denny, who was slapping at his instruments—those that were left. “Hell, fuck, shit—”
“You kiss your maman with that mouth?”
Denny didn’t laugh, or make some smart-ass comment in return, which had Christian taking another good long look at him. They’d worked together a long time now, and though there was an ease, a familiarity, there was not a kinship. They were too different for that, but it didn’t take close kinship to see Denny was overly pale, and not pissed off as Christian had first thought, but something far worse.
Scared.
“Shitty day, mate,” Denny said without looking at him. “I’m running warps and using the drogue. But the waves are traveling faster than the boat, breaking over our stern. Pushing us sideways. We’re going to broach.”
“Let’s loop lines on the port primary winch—”
“You think I haven’t tried that?” Denny shoved his wet hair out of his face. “We’re out of gear. We have to switch to passive techniques, no other choice.”
Passive techniques meant giving up and hoping for the best. Christian had never been good at passive. Never. Spending his younger years traveling Africa, South America, wherever his father had been needed, they’d gone, all the while gathering life skills. Those years had been exhilarating, adventurous, and educational as well as exhausting, but had left him with a certain sense of invincibility.
Yet he didn’t feel so invincible now.
Another wave hit them hard. The deck became a grave-yard as things washed overboard.
“See?” Denny yelled over the mountainous seas slamming into them like a battering ram. “Screwed.”
“The storm’s weakening.” In fact, he could see the edge of it on the far horizon, just beyond the swirling gray massive clouds.
Blue skies.
“Hope it’s not too late.”
It wasn’t like Denny to be such a defeatist, and Christian took another good look at him, noting the deep gash above his left eyebrow. “What happened?”
“Bastard wave. I hit the helm. While I was down, the water carried away the front of the mainsheet and block, and tore things loose by the tiller. Almost tore me loose as well.”
Christian moved directly in front of him and studied his eyes. He looked okay. “You need to take a few minutes off, give your brain a rest.”
“Well, fuck me.”
“I’ll pass. You need a few stitches.”
“Later.”
Christian set his backpack down between his feet, where he could make sure it didn’t slide away. He pulled out gauze as Dorie had done for him, and straightening, he dabbed at the cut. “Where’s Ethan and Bobby?”
“Checking out another little problem.”
“Which is?”
Denny’s mouth tightened even more, his gaze remained straight outward, at the storm raging. “We’re taking on water. Can’t radio for help either, not with the radio trashed by the lightning strike. Our spare and all our spare supplies in the raft are gone as well.”
“Well, you radioed yesterday, right? So someone knows we’re out here.”
“Storm blew us off course. Way off course. Truth is, I have no clue where we are, and neither will anyone looking for us.”
Christian’s stomach sank. Definitely not so invincible now. If they’d already been off course when the distress signal had gone out, there was no telling how long help would be. “I’ll take over for a bit, you need to rest.”
It spoke of exactly how bad off they were that Denny let him. He took the helm, or what was left of it, and tried not to think about anything other than keeping them afloat.
Dorie found Brandy sick as a dog. Cadence wasn’t in much better shape. Convinced they needed sustenance, she put on her life vest and attempted to make her way to the galley, thwarted by the heavy rocking of the boat. But she was far too determined to let a little wind and water stop her, and finally, bruised and battered, she made her way up the stairs.
If Christian caught her, he’d probably be pissed off, but he was the one who’d put her in charge of the patients, so really he had no one to blame but himself.
She didn’t see Christian. She didn’t see anyone as she fought her way to the deck, where for a moment she just stood, holding on to the railing for dear life, staring at the bow of the ship as it lifted and fell, making her feel as if she stood on a seesaw. Worse, she knew it was daytime but the skies were so dark and stormy, it could have been before dawn for all the light the d
ay was giving off.
Rain pelted her, the wind whipped at her, and the dark, misty gray air seemed to take on a life of its own, swirling around her, almost swallowing her up.
With the fog and mist so dark and heavy, she couldn’t even see five feet in front of her, and she began to rethink this whole needing food thing, even more so when she heard the haunting voices again.
“Not again,” she said to herself, trying to blink the fog away. “I’m not hearing things—”
“It ends here...”
Or that’s what she thought she heard, and frustrated by her lack of vision, she rubbed her eyes as if she could rub the storm gone. Blinking hard, she tried to focus—
“Ohmigod,” she whispered to no one, staring ahead at the shadowy silhouette of two men, locked together against the railing. She couldn’t tell if one was trying to help the other, or—
The shadow on the right collapsed and tumbled over the railing.
Vanishing from sight.
The boat pitched, and she went flying into the hull, hard enough to rattle the teeth in her head, and when she scrambled to her feet again, she was alone on deck.
No shadowy figures at all. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes, and looked again. Still nothing.
Real, or Memorex?
Racing back downstairs, she burst into Cadence’s room, only to find Brandy and Andy there as well. Dripping all over the place, she counted heads.
“You just missed Ethan,” Andy said, munching on a chunk of cantaloupe. “He and Bobby put together a feast for the stowaways.”
Brandy lifted her head from her prone position on the bed. “And since Christian took over for Denny for a bit, the captain popped his head in on his way to get some shut-eye. He thought the storm would blow over by afternoon, but he promised to make it up to us.”
Dorie stared at them. Everyone was accounted for. Which meant not only was she hearing things, she was now seeing things. No more hitting her head, she decided, sinking wearily to a chair. Her brain couldn’t take it.
Christian helmed the boat for hours, which took all of his brain power so he couldn’t think of anything else. Finally, at some point in the late afternoon, Denny came back on deck, not looking so rested, but fit enough.
Christian left him to hit the galley for food.
Ethan sat at a table, studying a map.
They’d been in tight situations before, the tightest actually, and through it all, Christian had never seen the chef look anything but perfectly put together. Now Ethan didn’t look perfectly put together. His hair was wild, and so were his eyes. He was covered in sweat or rain, or maybe both, and when he saw Christian, he shook his head. “We’re kicking the bucket. Jesus Christ, we’re really kicking the bucket.”
“Not necessarily—”
“Denny’s not pulling this one out of his ass, not this time.”
“Where’s Bobby?”
Ethan lifted a shoulder. “Haven’t seen him in awhile.”
“Is he sick?”
“Probably just lazy.”
Denny yelled for them then, and they ran on deck. When he saw them, Denny shook his head and called, “Prepare the raft.”
Christian took one beat to stare at Ethan while the horror sank in, and then he whipped around, back the way he’d come, down the stairs to get to their guests.
To Dorie.
He found her, always with Brandy, Cadence, and Andy, all together in Cadence’s bunk, playing cards. Cadence and Brandy sat on one side of the bed, Andy and Dorie on the other, so close their thighs were touching. In fact, Andy had his hand braced on the mattress, extremely close to Dorie’s ass.
“I’m winning,” Dorie told Christian. “They wanted to play—” She stopped talking at the look on his face and slowly rose to her feet, holding on to the wooden frame of the bed for balance. “What’s the matter?”
“We’re going to have to go up on deck.”
“Why is that?”
How to tell someone with eyes like a soulful river that she was in danger, more danger than she’d ever been in her life?
“Christian? You’re scaring me.”
Outside of being in bed with a woman, he’d never been much of a toucher. It seemed too personal, too . . . close. But he reached out now and squeezed her hand. Maybe he did it to see if there’d be that odd charge of current between them—there it was—maybe he did it to see if he could get her to look at him the way she sometimes did, with wonder and anticipation.
She did that, too.
Suddenly he wished he’d found a way to be alone with her, to strip them both down to skin and go for it, just to see if this crazy thing would go away. “I’ll explain on the way.” He moved forward and helped them all off the beds. They’d already put on their life vests, and were as ready as he could get them. “Let’s go.” He pushed Cadence and Brandy toward the door, then Andy.
Dorie pulled on his arm until he looked down at her. “The storm isn’t over yet.”
“No.”
“Then I can only think of one reason to go up on deck.” Her breath caught. “Do I need to be freaking out, Christian? Because I’m about an inch away from it right now.”
He looked into her eyes and thought about missed chances. Too damn many of them. “The object of heavy weather tactics is to avoid capsizing, and believe me, Denny is a master of heavy weather tactics.”
“But the waves are high.”
True enough. And he knew that if they were non-breaking waves, they couldn’t capsize a conventional boat with good stability, and the Sun Song had great stability.
But the waves in the wake of this storm were breaking, and therefore could capsize them if high enough. A skilled crew had to maneuver the boat under reduced sails or bare poles, which was good because they were down to bare poles. “It’s going to be okay. Denny’s up there, he’ll tell you what to do.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to get Bobby.” He pushed her to the door. “We need all the hands we can get.”
“Where is he?”
“Not sure. He vanished a while back.”
Dorie paused, a look of concern coming over her face. “You haven’t seen him?”
“No.”
“What if he went overboard?” she whispered.
“He’s too experienced for that. He might be sick in his bunk.”
The others were already out the door and moving up to deck level, but Dorie held her ground. “Christian—”
“You’re going. I mean it.”
“Earlier, I thought I saw two men on deck, near the front of the boat, at the railing. They were hugging. Or fighting.”
“What were you doing on deck?”
“Getting food. It was so foggy and misty, I couldn’t be sure, and then when I blinked, they were gone, so I figured I imagined it.”
“You probably did.”
“Right.” But she didn’t sound convinced. “I’ll wait here while you go look for Bobby.”
“No.”
She’d dressed for an island adventure in a gauzy shirt and tank top, that ridiculous purse over her shoulder, her eyes just a little too shiny, and he thought, Hell, if she loses it now . . . but she didn’t. Instead, she did something completely unexpected.
She cupped his face. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and he felt a shock of anticipation churn through him to match the storm outside.
“There’s just one thing I have to do first,” she said.
Before he could ask what, she closed the gap in one jerky motion that had her purse banging into his side, and kissed him.
Definitely not what he’d have expected from her. What he expected was that after last night, she’d keep her distance. But he’d underestimated her, and he sure as hell underestimated what her kiss would do to him.
It made him forget. Made him forget he was unhappy, trapped. Made him forget the storm, that their lives were in danger, made him forget everything but her, this. Her lips on his felt like the simples
t, sweetest, warmest, most moving kiss of his entire life. Because of it, he didn’t have a chance in hell of keeping his own distance, so he gave up and hauled her closer, sliding his tongue to hers, running his hands down her body and back up again, an event that created another first—an instant tidal wave of heat within him.
He could feel her heating up, but then, far before he was ready, she ended the kiss.
“I didn’t want to regret not doing that,” she whispered. “I don’t want to leave with any regrets at all.”
Her cheeks were red, her mouth still wet, and though he knew it wasn’t easy for her, she met his gaze straight on.
She was the bravest woman he’d ever met.
“No regrets then,” he agreed. His voice came out all low and rough and just a little bit hoarse, as if he were ill.
And he was, he had to be, given what he did next.
He yanked her back up against him, swallowing her little cry of surprise with his mouth. He figured the rough movement would either terrify her or piss her off, and he half waited for her to gut check him with that ridiculous purse, maybe drop him to the floor.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she let out the sexiest little murmur he’d ever heard, and shrink-wrapped herself to him. He heated up even more. If he got any hotter, their clothes were going to spontaneously combust and fall off. Her fingers were in his hair, her tongue in his mouth, and he lost himself in the sweet, hot, giving feel of her as she arched against him, panting for air as if maybe she hadn’t come in far too long and he was the only man on the planet who could get her there. Some half-baked idea began to take root, that he was that man, that he could take her right here, right now, and show her.
Before he could, she once again pulled free and stared up at him, breathing like a wild woman, weaving slightly.
He wondered what she saw when she looked at him like that, as she slowly brought her fingers up to her swollen, still wet mouth, as if shocked to the core that she’d let him kiss her like that.