by Jill Shalvis
“Arrogant. Cocky.”
He blinked. “Cocky.”
“Yes. And a tad bit difficult.” So much for keeping her thoughts to herself. She closed her mouth before more words could escape.
“Oh, don’t stop there,” he said softly. “You’re just getting started.”
“Well, I don’t really know you well enough to continue,” she demurred.
“I think you know me plenty. But let’s do you, shall we?”
“Oh, no thanks. I have my mother for that.” She reached for the door, as if she could budge it when he hadn’t been able to.
The boat was lilting to one side. Undoubtedly the weight of the water held it closed. Christian put his shoulder to the door and shoved again. The tendons in his neck stood out in bold relief, the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining as well.
“Christian,” she said, putting her hands on his bare back. “Stop, you’ll—”
The door gave away.
He fell in, and she fell on top of him. “Sorry,” she gasped, coming up to her hands and knees in the water. He did the same and pulled her in closer to steady her. Or maybe just because.
“Têtu,” he said. “You’re stubborn.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And bullheaded.”
“They’re the same,” she pointed out.
“Obstinate.”
“Again. The same.”
“Beautiful.”
Honestly, that French accent should be outlawed. She tried to catch her breath. “It’s a shame then that you don’t want to be with me.”
“What I said was that you were better off with Andy.”
She looked into those stone gray eyes that were not in any way cold.
His gaze dipped to her mouth. Lifting a hand, he slid his thumb over her lower lip, which had her mouth trembling open.
“I make you nervous,” he noted, his voice low and French and silky soft.
Nervous. Crazy. Aroused. She lifted her chin. “Don’t be—”
“Asinine?” He smiled tightly, then took a step away from her to look around.
Behind his back, she let out a breath and put her hands to her heated cheeks. It was like playing with fire. He was bad for her, very bad, and yet she remained mesmerized, because when he looked at her, when he touched her, when he so much as breathed in her general direction, her body reacted in a very specific way.
“Bobby,” he called out, flashing his light into the room. It was dark here, dark and dingy. Things floated past them; a brush, a cell phone . . .
Christian moved toward the bunk beds.
“Has anyone ever gone overboard?”
“Yes, but always on purpose, and never a crew member.”
“But it’s possible, right?”
“Not likely.”
Then where was he? Moving into the doorway of the bathroom, she used her light and heard herself gasp in horror. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t freak out on me now,” Christian called from the bedroom. “We’ll find him.”
“I—” Oh, God. She was going to be sick. “I think I found . . . some of him.”
TWELVE
The sound of terror in Dorie’s voice stopped Christian’s heart cold. He tried to rush toward her, but rushing through this much water was all but impossible, and half swimming, half running, he felt like he was moving in slow motion.
Jesus, why hadn’t she listened to him? Why wasn’t she safe with the others? When he made it to the bathroom door, she was staring at the sink and counter, at the mirror, all of which were spattered with blood, and he lunged to her side. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s not my blood.” She turned her ashen face to his. “Bobby’s?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s everywhere!” Her eyes were glassy, and she was breathing as if she’d just run a marathon. Her entire body shivered. Recognizing the signs of shock, he pulled her close.
Over her head, he eyed the blood. Bobby had been young and lazy as hell, and had definitely pissed off just about everyone he’d ever met, especially those he’d worked for, but Christian had a hard time picturing someone wanting him dead.
She pulled free. “There’s not that many of us on this boat. And one of us—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Ohmigod. Did one of us do this?”
“Dorie, listen to me. I need you to—”
“No. I’m not leaving you.”
No, she wasn’t. No way in hell was she leaving his sight. “Sit down,” he ordered. “I need you to sit down before you fall down.”
She sat right there on the floor, right in the water. “You were in here. Earlier, right? Looking for him.”
He met her gaze. “What are you saying?”
She looked away. “Just asking. You didn’t see this?”
“No. We’re going upstairs now, where we’ll figure out our next step.”
“I vote for a helicopter ride back to Fiji, and getting the authorities involved.”
That was the best case scenario. He didn’t know how to tell her that it wasn’t likely to happen that way. If they could have gotten a helicopter evacuation, they would have by now. Unfortunately, they had no way of communicating with anyone on any shore. The truth was, their lives were in grave danger without this added complication.
Given the way she was looking at him, she’d already figured that out. She knew, and she was holding it together. She had guts.
She also had mascara running beneath her eyes, and her clothes plastered to her body. Her hair had completely rioted into a frizzy mane around her head, and she was shaking like a leaf.
Her eyes filled. “Do you think he’s . . . dead?”
“I’m hoping he’s up on deck, whining about the extra work.”
A tear spilled over and slid down her cheek, and something deep inside him cracked open.
“Not yet,” he said. “Don’t fall apart yet.”
“Okay.” She hugged herself tight. “I’ll just postpone that until later, say, when we sink like a stone. Does that work for you?”
“Yes.”
She let out a shocked laugh.
“Look, Dorie, I need you to be strong here. You can do it.”
“Is that how you get through life? Holding on to anger instead of dealing? Is that how you stay so completely calm, so cold?”
He nearly flinched at the accuracy of the accusation.
Her mouth tightened as he helped her up. “You’re missing out on life, you know. Living it this way, without feeling.”
Okay, he felt plenty. In fact, he felt so much right now he thought maybe he would explode from it. Rage at Denny for not turning back at the storm warnings. Sick for whoever’d been hurt here. Gut-deep fear for Dorie and her safety. He clamped his hand on hers and pulled her to the door.
“What—”
“Come on.” There was no time to preserve the crime scene—and this sure as hell looked like a crime scene. The boat wasn’t going to make it. Eyeing the rising water, he checked Dorie’s life vest, checked his, and then took her back into the pitch-black hallway.
His beam of light did little to alleviate the darkness, but the sudden cry from up on deck seemed to cut right through it.
“Cadence,” Dorie gasped, and lunged for the stairs. She got a few steps up before Christian managed to grab her, sending them both sprawling to their butts in the water.
As it soaked into their clothes and splattered in their faces, he kept a hold on her. She was in his lap, scrambling to get up, and he was holding her against him. Even there, in the midst of hell, he wanted to pull her close and bury his face in her hair.
“Let me go! She might be in trouble!” Squirming, she fought him like a wild cat, nothing like the meek woman he’d once believed her to be.
“No,” he said, but she fought dirty, and put a knee in his crotch. When he doubled over, she surged to her feet to make her escape.
“Goddamnit.” He grabbed her calf and tugged her back to him. “You do
n’t know what’s up there!” he hissed, then shoved her behind him so he could reach for the railing. “Stay,” he commanded her coldly, wanting her good and pissed so he had a chance she’d actually listen. “Wait.”
“Why?”
Jesus. “Because I said.”
“Christian—”
“What are you going to do, rush out there and protect her with your big, clunky purse?”
“Yes, if need be!” Then she shocked the hell out of him. She lifted her foot, the one with the ankle he’d wrapped himself, and stomped down on his foot.
“Son of a bitch!”
Slithering out of his loosened hold, she beat him to the stairs.
Gritting his teeth, he went after her. Had he actually thought she was brave, even for a second? She wasn’t brave, she had a freaking death wish!
He was behind her on the stairs in a flash, where he realized several things at once. First, Dorie was definitely wearing panties today—pink silk as a matter of fact.
And second, the storm finally seemed to have ended. It was still raining, drizzling really, but the wind was all but a memory. Given the slightest lightening of the sky due east, it was somewhere near dawn.
But too little too late, because Ethan had lowered the raft, while Denny spoke to Brandy and Cadence; whatever he was saying seemed to be making them very unhappy.
“I’m not leaving without Dorie!” This from Cadence, in a panicked cry that matched the one they’d heard.
It looked like panicked chaos to Christian, nothing close to the orderly evacuation they’d always drilled in. Then suddenly Andy twisted around, locked his eyes on Dorie, and seemed to deflate in relief.
With a hoarsely drawled “Thank God,” he reached for her. “I thought—”
“I’m fine,” Dorie whispered, and walked right into the cowboy’s arms.
Good, Christian told himself ruthlessly, searching the seas as far as he could see, which wasn’t far. No sign of anyone in the water.
Andy was still holding Dorie. Yeah, right where she should be. In fact, right where he wanted her, in the arms of a man perfectly willing to protect her and keep her safe, which meant she wasn’t his own responsibility.
So there was no reason for his gut twisting, no reason at all.
While Andy was holding on to Dorie like he might never let go, Cadence and Brandy joined the group hug like they might never let go.
“Get in the damn boat!” Denny yelled.
Ignoring him, Brandy pulled back a bit and fingered the shirt Dorie wore over her clothes.
Christian’s.
Dorie’s lips moved, and given that Brandy, Cadence, and Andy all turned to look at him, Dorie was explaining exactly whose shirt it was, and why she was wearing it.
He wanted to turn away but there was the little matter of what they’d just seen below to discuss. Feeling like he weighed a million pounds, he moved closer to Dorie. “I need to talk to you.”
“Later,” Andy told him.
Christian gave Dorie a long look, trying to convey the need for them to talk now.
She closed her eyes.
Well, hell. He turned toward Denny, who was still trying to corral everyone into the raft. “Problem.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Denny looked sincerely rattled, shaken to the core, and beaten down from the past twelve hours fighting the storm. “We’re abandoning ship. Jesus, I’ve never had to do this with guests on board. Where the hell’s Bobby?”
Christian opened his mouth, but Andy called out to them.
“Wait,” Denny said to Andy, eyes locked on Christian. “Did you find him yet?”
“Damn it, this can’t wait!” Andy pointed to the east, where the sky had lightened from purple to pink, where the horizon didn’t just fall off the earth but hit a distinct black outline.
The outline of an island.
Denny stared at it. “Thank fucking Christ.”
“Is it Fiji?” Cadence asked.
“I doubt it,” Andy said. “Maybe it’s Bora Bora.”
Denny turned to Ethan and Christian. “We’ll limp in.”
They had little choice because without the sails or their equipment—all in complete shreds and tatters—they could do nothing but.
“Ethan!” Denny called out, on a mission now. “Starboard—”
“On it.”
Christian leapt to help, directing the Sun Song to where it could be drawn in toward the island by the tide.
“Windward shore approach,” Denny yelled.
Andy shifted closer, followed by the others. “What does that mean?”
“The windward shore is where the wind is blowing from,” Christian explained.
“The waves’ll be smaller because of the reduced fetch,” Denny called, standing at the half gone helm.
Everyone turned to Christian for translation.
“Fetch is the distance of water that the wind is blowing over.”
“Leeward shore harbor!” Denny called.
Again everyone looked at Christian.
“Jesus, Denny.” He rubbed his forehead before meeting everyone’s gaze, trying to tamp down his own impatience. “The entrance is narrow. It might be difficult to enter. Especially the way we’re crawling in.”
“Oh, God,” Cadence whispered, gripping Brandy and Dorie tight. “Can this get any worse?”
“Yes,” Dorie said, her eyes on Christian. “Trust me. It can.”
Christian tried to reassure her with his eyes but she turned away. With no idea what that meant, he worked the boat with Ethan.
“I hope the island has a big restaurant,” Andy said. “I’m starving.”
“You won’t starve if we’re in the American Samoas,” Brandy said. “None of us will. Half the canned tuna sold in American supermarkets comes from the Samoa Islands.” She lifted a shoulder. “I watch a lot of the Discovery Channel.”
“Don’t worry,” Denny shouted down to them from the damaged helm, his gaze locked on the outline of the island. “We’ve made it this far, we’re not going to do anything less than cross the finish line.” He gestured Christian close. “Obviously we have no idea where we are but I think—hope—some Cook island just saved our ass.”
The Cook Islands spread across 750,000 square miles. Christian wasn’t sure how that translated to saving their asses, but not drowning was excellent. “About Bobby.”
“It’s going to be fine. In an hour this will all be a distant memory.”
“I don’t think so.” Christian glanced back at Dorie. She was with the others, in a tight group, but looking right at him. Her eyes were huge and unwavering.
“We’re still in serious trouble.”
“Are you kidding?” Denny laughed. “Bullet dodged. Lawsuits avoided. By noon we could be in a bar, checking out the local ladies . . .” But when Christian just looked at him, his smile slowly faded. “Don’t tell me. Ah, Christ, I don’t want to know.”
“You’ve got that right.”
Dorie was still looking at him, waiting for him to do something about poor Bobby. Bobby, who was not on this boat. Bobby, who’d bled all over his bathroom, and who might have not have left this boat by choice. “Denny.”
“Later. Over that beer.”
“This can’t wait.”
“Denny?” Brandy called. “Is this island inhabited?”
Everyone shifted closer for his answer, dripping wet, exhausted, and just about as far from carefree vacationers as they could get, looking more like drowned rats instead.
And they were all within listening range.
Panicking range.
“I’m banking on a lux hotel,” Denny said, charm intact. “Five star.”
Christian stared at him. There was no way to know that, and in fact, with the hundreds and hundreds of islands in the South Pacific, a huge number of them uninhabitable or even uncharted, the percentages were against them. They were more likely to find wild boars than a five-star hotel. “You can’t promise—”
Wit
h a laugh that didn’t ring true, Denny slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s just get there.”
Christian glanced at Dorie, who was still snuggled up to Andy. The guy was cupping her head close to his chest in his big home run hitting hand. Over her wild hair, Andy met Christian’s eyes, his cool and assessing.
Had she told him about Bobby? Christian doubted it. But Andy had known Bobby before the cruise. They’d been friends, which meant one of two things. Either Andy was about to be completely devastated, or . . .
Or he’d had something to do with him going overboard.
Ethan and Bobby had known each other, too. They’d worked together all season, long enough for Ethan to be perpetually annoyed and frustrated at Bobby’s lackadaisical work ethic.
Ethan hated lackadaisical.
But Jesus, hated enough to kill? It was hard to imagine.
“Did you see Bobby?” Ethan asked him.
“Later,” Denny said, looking at Christian. “We’ll get to Bobby later.”
Which left Christian to wonder about the third man who’d known Bobby.
“Let’s just get to land,” Denny said. “Where I promise to make up this whole nightmare to each of you. We’ll get a fancy hotel and meet in the bar for drinks on the house. But for now, since we’re not going rafting, if everyone could go belowdecks while we bring her in, or even to your rooms—”
“Denny,” Christian said softly, thinking of Bobby’s room, and what would be found there, “the salon would be better than belowdecks.”
“Perfect,” Denny said without missing a beat. “Everyone to the salon as we bring this baby in. Andy? Could you get the women into the salon?”
“Sure.” Andy guided the women inside. Christian saw Dorie go up on tiptoe, brushing her mouth to Andy’s ear to say something. He responded, probably drawling in that soft accent he had, and shaking his head, tried to hold her back.
Dorie broke free, patting Andy gently on the arm, a comforting gesture that had always irritated Christian whenever it’d been done to him. But suddenly he wanted Dorie to pat his arm in that same sweet, caring, comforting manner.
Clearly, he was losing it.
Then he sucked in a breath because she walked right up to him, eyes bright, looking at him with that blazing inner strength and determination he couldn’t help but admire, even when it doubled his worry.