Up Too Close

by Stein, Andrea K.

  “Mon dieu,” René said. “What is wrong with this crazy dog?”

  The combination of the pounding deck and wet, slippery dog caused him to lose his grip. The minute she broke away, the evil mutt sped back to the stern, toward CeCe. When René finally caught up, he understood.

  CeCe was gone, and the wheel was turning free. The ship yawed crazily. Chienne jumped up and leaned her paws against the back rail of the stern inside the cockpit, barking herself hoarse. She turned toward René, the barking even more frantic. He joined her in two bounds. CeCe’s safety tether was still secured to the binnacle while she hung loose, her body banging against the stern hull.

  René hadn’t prayed since he followed his grand-mere to church each Sunday when he was a boy. But he strained to remember the words while he bent over the toe rail and grabbed her beneath her armpits to haul her back aboard in one fast pull.

  He laid her limp body flat on the cockpit cushions. A dark bruise and bump was forming on her forehead, and numerous scratches bled down her cheeks. Her life jacket had self-inflated, leaving her looking like a sad, blonde puffin. He leaned close to her chest and felt a soft rising. His fingers sought her lips and faint breathing puffed against his hand.

  Briny seawater, like knives in the gusting wind, flayed René’s skin.

  He did a fast tack of the ship, then took a piece of line and tied off the wheel with Tourbillon’s beam at a right angle to the wind. In a hove-to position, the ship could bob and drift in the huge winds for a bit. He had to get CeCe and Chienne to safety and warmth below. Then he’d return to the helm and continue steering through the storm.

  When he turned back to pick up CeCe from where she lay atop the storage locker, Chienne had her paws up on the edge of the lazarette and was giving gentle licks to her favorite crew member’s face.

  René sighed and knocked the boat gently. “You lost Grand-pere, Tourbillon, but you held onto CeCe. You are redeemed.”

  When René bent to lift CeCe, the dog gave a quick yip and danced away toward the companionway to the cabins below.

  Chapter Fifteen

  25.0100ºN, 62.3500ºW

  Day Twelve, After Midnight

  Aboard Tourbillon

  CeCe moaned a little and pushed hard at René’s hands when he tried to settle her onto his bunk. Not a good sign. He pulled her back into his arms and then over his shoulder while he piled pillows onto the floor of the cabin next to the bunk and then pulled down the mattress.

  He laid her on the mattress and stacked the pillows around her. She was still muttering and not quite coherent. He couldn’t afford to leave the helm of the ship much longer, and he damned well couldn’t leave CeCe alone on the bunk with the severe pitching and rolling of the ship. She must have some level of concussion, and he didn’t want her thrown from the bunk and injured again.

  Chienne was practically on top of him in her anxious monitoring of CeCe. After he’d pulled off his first mate’s soaked foul weather gear, he wrapped a warm quilt around her and tucked the edges beneath her chilled body.

  René grabbed a dry towel from the head next to his cabin and padded the area beneath her wet hair. He looked at the vulnerable bundle lying so still. More new emotions washed over him. Tenderness and a fierce love.

  After listening to her even, deep breathing, he was satisfied she would sleep for a while. After brushing her lips with a quick kiss, he lunged up the companionway to the top deck, two steps at a time. Tourbillon was bucking like an unbroken stallion, impatient to take on the storm again and find safe waters for her passengers.

  * * *

  René tore loose the line holding the wheel and released the storm jib sheet to finish her tack and flail back into the towering waves.

  The lashing rain had subsided a bit, and as they surged to the top of a wave, a sight came into view a helmsman never wants to see. Lights. Green, white, and red high well above his line of sight. The white orb in the center sat much higher than the other two. A freighter was heading straight for them, in the darkness, maybe an eighth of a mile straight ahead. He made a split-second decision: He would not trust Tourbillon’s ancient diesel.

  Huge freighters, once out on the ocean, do not lumber along. They slice through waves which slow down smaller boats, and an eighth of a mile could close in a heartbeat for a freighter’s powerful engines.

  René grabbed the hand-held radio and made a desperate call to the bridge of the oncoming ship, hoping to God someone on watch spoke Italian, French, or English. Maybe beer Spanish. Beyond that, they wouldn’t be able to communicate. After repeating the call three times, he finally got an answer in heavily accented English. “Go ahead, Tourbillon.”

  “I’m directly in front of you, and I’m turning to starboard. Please reply.” René shouted into the radio, hoping he would be heard above the keening wind.

  At the last minute, the huge ship throttled back on her engines and began her own slow turn to the right. When the freighter turned, René was so close, he could see her lights and containers the size of railroad cars crowding the deck. The transport resembled a large city at night, moving across the waves. René never wanted to be that close to a freighter again.

  Someone had not been paying attention on the freighter’s bridge. Tourbillon was large enough to show up on radar. Once the weather calmed, he’d go up the mast and fasten some more metal at the spreaders, just to be safe and more likely to be seen.

  Once he’d given the ship a wide berth, he moved back on course and realized with a start something was wrong. Tourbillon’s running lights were out. The set of lights at the top of the main mast were dark. Nothing appeared to be functioning above decks but the damned compass light. Thank God for small favors. He sent a fervent wish to the sea gods for CeCe’s speedy recovery. He needed help.

  A few hours later the sky to the east lightened, and René relaxed his grip on the wheel. The wind gusts subsided, and the storm wound down. As they sailed farther away from the squall, the waves came down a few feet in height, so he felt comfortable turning the autopilot back on. As soon as the sun reappeared, blazing through a break in a cloud bank, the running lights flicked back on.

  René eyed the lights glowing atop the mast in the sunlight and shook his head before flipping off the switch on the battery bank beneath the wheel. He retrieved a pair of waterproof binoculars from a nearby shelf and scanned the horizon in all directions before setting the course on autopilot and heading below to check on his first mate.

  * * *

  When René slid down the companionway, the smell of coffee and bacon wafted up toward him. Merde. CeCe was up and cooking.

  He strode into the galley and enclosed her in his arms from behind. “What do you think you are doing?” He shook her a little at the same time. “You must get off your feet and rest. You got a nasty crack on the noggin last night.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “A wave swept you over the stern where you cracked your head, and I brought you down here.”

  CeCe took him in her arms and burrowed against his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He stepped back and tipped up her chin so that he could stare into her eyes. “For what are you thanking me?”

  “I made you work a double watch and sail through a storm by yourself while I was passed out under a warm quilt.” She gave him a warm smile. “So I thought I should fix you some of your favorite things for breakfast.”

  He retrieved a small, bright penlight and tipped up her chin again. “Look at me. I want to check something,” he said. Although her pupils were a little large, they were even in size, so he could breathe a little easier. “Have you thrown up?” he asked.

  Although she shook her head vigorously, the tinge of her cheeks whitened and she dashed to the nearest head, followed by loud sounds of retching.

  “Well, that answers that question,” René said. “I’m taking you to see a doctor as soon as we clear Customs in Bermuda.”

  CeCe emerged, shaky. “I
suppose that would be for the best. But first, René, you didn’t tell me how you knew your grand-pere died on the Tourbillon. Was he the owner?”

  “Oui,” René answered. “He and my grand-mere are the mysterious owners. But after the accident that claimed my grand-pere, the old ship sat in dry-dock for years.”

  “Why all the mystery?” CeCe asked.

  René had never wanted to lie more in his life. The truth wouldn’t help him win her heart any, but René found he couldn’t lie to CeCe. “To make a long story very short, she did it to test me. She wanted to see if I could take care of something ugly and in need.”

  “So far, you have done wonders,” CeCe said softly.

  “And Tourbillon returned the favor. She took care of you in your time of need, but you are far from ugly. Even so very pale, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

  CeCe laughed. “I bet you say that to all the girls you’ve rescued from storms.”

  “Non,” René replied, his tone serious. “I have never said such a thing before, though I’ve rescued many women. None were as beautiful and wonderful as you.”

  * * *

  René had just taken over the morning watch when his hand-held radio crackled to life. “This is the harbormaster at St. George, Bermuda,” a man said. “All ships must contact our office within six miles of landfall.” The message was broadcast three times. They were being hailed based on their position on radar being monitored within the office.

  When he answered the call, the man requested the name of the ship, a summary of his sailing experience, and a demand for passport numbers and information on each crew member. He also required details on their final destination on the island and the length of their stay.

  Bermuda’s prevailing rough seas combined with the reefs surrounding the island made the harbormaster’s requests a serious matter. René complied with an accounting of their credentials. From past experience he knew there would be additional contacts from the harbormaster’s office until they were safely in a berth at one of the marinas near St. George.

  CeCe joined him at the helm, a smile on her face. He knew she was just as anxious as he was to put firm ground beneath their feet. Her bouts of retching had continued ever since the night she pitched over the stern and smacked her head. He would feel a lot better when a doctor gave her an all-clear on the concussion.

  Chapter Sixteen

  32.3078ºN, 64.7505ºW

  Day Seventeen

  St. George’s, Bermuda

  CeCe cursed her roiling stomach and prayed the retching would end once she was back on land. She tried to talk René out of taking her to the doctor’s office, but he refused to be swayed.

  She knew what the doctor would say but was actually relieved. It was past time she made sure her baby was safe. She knew from friends who had children that the nausea was natural in the early months. But this, this constant sickness was epic. Something must be wrong. She estimated the pregnancy was about six weeks along, based on the last time she’d been with Jerome.

  While René carefully backed Tourbillon into the slip indicated when he’d contacted the marina, CeCe stood at the bow, crossed her fingers, and prayed she wouldn’t yack up her breakfast before the poor boat was secure in her slip.

  Once René had tied off the stern, CeCe threw dock lines to the waiting marina workers and then high-fived the forestay. They’d made it, and she hadn’t even thrown up on the deck. She turned and headed below to get Chienne so the old dog could have a decent pee on grass on solid ground.

  * * *

  René folded his hands in his lap, looked around the doctor’s clinic recommended by the marina manager, and wondered how much longer they were going to keep CeCe.

  She’d been behind closed doors for so long, he began to suspect the worst. Concussion, brain bleed, on and on. At one point he’d become so agitated, he stood and walked over to the woman at the receptionist’s desk. “She hit her head pretty hard. Are they going to have to send her to the hospital?” he asked, terrified at the thought.

  The woman smiled a slow smile and put her hand over his. “Your wife is with the best physician on the island. Dr. Jameson will explain everything as soon as he’s finished with all the tests.”

  “Oh,” René said. “She’s not my wife. She’s my first mate.”

  The woman laughed and asked, “Is there a difference?” She patted his hand again and pointed toward him back toward the uncomfortable waiting room chair.

  * * *

  CeCe dangled her feet over the edge of the examining room table and tried to strike a position where the paper robe she’d been given didn’t gap in all the wrong places. She leaned her weight to the right and tucked the excess beneath her left thigh before shifting to do the same on the opposite side.

  Being pregnant certainly changed your point of view, not to mention that of everyone around you. She’d already begun to resent the solicitous attitude of all the medical folks who had been checking on her. Dr. Jameson had explained that since she waited a bit longer than normal to check on the baby and she was having a first child at twenty-nine, he needed to order as many tests as possible to ensure her health, and the baby’s, before she and René headed on across the Atlantic.

  She made the doctor promise he wouldn’t share the information with René. The baby was CeCe’s secret, and she intended to keep it that way. Dr. Jameson had checked her head injury and pronounced her fit to finish the boat delivery. However, he’d lectured her on the need to mind her balance even more now that she carried a little person on board.

  Ick. He even shook his index finger at her to emphasize his mansplaining. When there was a light tap at the door, she jumped down and said, “Come in,” in the hope it was someone releasing her so she could get the hell away from all the well-wishers.

  A man in a white coat with a mask over the bottom half of his face stepped in and shut the door behind him.

  CeCe took in the man’s salt-and-pepper buzz cut, his ever-present desert boots, and she had to run to the examination room counter where a bedpan sat. Devin Manning, delusional spymaster and ex-business partner of that rat, Carrothers.

  She lost what little she’d had to eat and then rinsed out her mouth at the stainless steel sink. She ripped off a paper towel from the wall dispenser and dabbed at her lips.

  “Manning, you bastard. What are you doing here?”

  He whipped off the mask and moved closer.

  She backed away and said, “If you come one step closer, I’m going to scream and claim you tried to attack me.”

  “But I’m here to help.”

  “The way you helped back on the Bonnie Blue when Carrothers drugged everyone, tried to blow up the ship, and Alton and Captain Lindsay had to save us?”

  “I admit that ‘gray op’ was not one of my finest hours.” He hung his head for a moment. “But you left out one very important player on the chess board.”

  “Who?” CeCe spat out, exasperated. “And don’t give me that secret agent crap.”

  “René.”

  “René?” she said with a sputter. “Yes, he’s proven to be more than the spoiled playboy I thought he was, but still, he only happened to be there in the launch when Alton needed him. It wasn’t like René planned on saving the Bonnie Blue.”

  Manning didn’t say anything for several seconds, but continued to give her a knowing look.

  “Oh, my God. You knew your old partner planned to blow up the ship and kill us. You. Knew. And you used René to help save us. He has no idea.”

  “Of course. My pawns do not need to know my, umm, contingency plans.”

  Without thinking, CeCe leaned in and slapped him, hard.

  He clutched his jaw and gave her a little-boy-hurt look. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Because you deserve it! Our lives are not your private video game!” She threw a quick look around the small examination office, looking for something she could throw. Anything that would do some damage. A stack of specimen
cups in the corner looked about right, so she lobbed the whole batch at the little CIA, NSA, FTD, whatever weasel.

  “Miss Ahlstrom. Stop, please stop.” He stooped to the floor and picked up as many of the rolling plastic containers as he could reach.

  CeCe had already moved to a large round of cotton swabs and pitched those his way, too.

  When the batch of hundreds of small, white-topped sticks covered the floor, he gave up and straightened to face her.

  By then, tears streaked CeCe’s face and she stared down at her powder-pink pedicure. Her shoulders sagged, and she blubbered when she said in a barely audible voice, “Those drugs Carrothers gave us could have hurt my baby.”

  Devin glided over to the ransacked counter and retrieved a box of tissues. He came back and offered her one. After she blew her nose with a loud honk, he said, “The baby’s fine, CeCe. I infiltrated the lab to ensure your child is healthy.” He handed her the report.

  A sharp intake of breath tore up through CeCe’s lungs. “How did you even know I was pregnant?”

  “It’s my job to know. Intelligence is power,” he said mysteriously. “In my affairs, René was merely a pawn. But in the chess board of your life, CeCe, he could be your king.”

  She flashed him a glare.

  “Maybe not your king, but a king, or a bishop. Rook?” He thought for a bit and nodded. “Let’s go with knight, and like the knights of old, he adores his queen. He’s loved you ever since he first saw you on the Bonnie Blue. I do owe you and René. Which is why I am making sure all three of you are okay.” Manning motioned to her stomach. “All three. Are you going to tell him about the baby?”

  CeCe grabbed him by the collar of his stolen white coat and said with a growl, “It’s none of his damned business, or yours for that matter, and if you tell him, I’ll have you staked out in the desert with nothing but your head above ground, in an ant hill.” She was on a roll, summoning up the images of American cowboy television she’d thrived on during her college days in Florida.