by Alison Kent
“I don’t need it, Em.”
No, but I do.
The yacht was pulling away from the pier in a slow, steady hum of sound and motion. But Emily couldn’t feel the engine’s hum—not when everything inside her was squeezing tight, choking her. Battling tears, she turned to look at the island, the green slopes emerald in the sun, the beach a blinding white. Home, she thought. This was home. Not London. Not China.
Her gaze fixed on the plantation house, nestled among lush palms. The history of St. Matt’s was nearly as colorful and violent as that of the bloodthirsty pirates who’d once taken shelter in and among the islands. As a child she’d made up stories about pirates and life on the old sugar plantation. Her stories had been dramatic, rich, and her father had used to pinch her cheek and tease her—“My baby has an imagination, si?”
It had made him proud, her imagination. “You’ll be the next generation,” he’d say, pinching her cheek again. “You’ll make us all so proud.”
Half-laughing, half-crying, she’d beg him to stop pinching so hard, beg him to leave her alone, give her space. And now she had all the space in the world.
“You don’t really want to turn St. Matt’s into a tourist destination, do you?” The anguish in her voice was palpable. “You don’t.”
He shifted his weight, looked at her. “I can’t take care of the island anymore. It takes a lot of time—time I don’t have now, between managing the Altagamma and trying to control the damage you’re inflicting on my business.”
“So this is my fault?”
“It’s been war, Em. You’ve turned my life into a living hell and it’s got to stop.”
He was right. But stop how? Just let him—the Ferres—win? Again?
“Marry me and the island is yours.” His voice reached her, deep, placating. “Marry me and you’ll have St. Matt’s in the family forever.”
He knew she’d spent every important holiday here on St. Matt’s, knew all her early family memories were here. Even her favorite gifts had been given to her here. Like the shiny aqua-green bike she’d been given when she was seven. Her father had hand-painted flowers on the shiny frame, added a straw basket to the handlebars, and she’d loved the bike, ridden it everywhere. The white Vespa scooter when she was sixteen…
Her lips curved in a small, painful smile. “Marry you. How? I don’t even like you.”
“You could like me again. If you wanted to.”
He was right. She could like him. She could like him a great deal. In fact, if she carved away the hate and anger, she’d find the love she’d felt for him all those years ago…
But there was Father, and there was pride. There was fear and problems of faith. As well as trust.
Or maybe it was just pride.
She reached up, pressed a knuckle to her brow bone, trying to ease the pressure building. “There’s got to be another way to make this work, Tristano. What if we merge companies—?”
“I don’t need or want your company.”
“Then hire me. Put me on your staff. Let me prove that I’m valuable, that I can help Ferre’s bottom line.”
“I want a wife, not a business partner. And it’s children I need, not another member on my board.”
His bluntness sent blood rushing to her cheeks, her skin burning with shame. “Ironically, I don’t need a husband. Now, I wouldn’t mind sex, but I don’t need someone checking up on me and asking me where I’m going and what I’m going to do.”
“So what do you suggest? That I make you my mistress instead of my wife?”
The thought hadn’t crossed her mind, but now that he’d mention it, yes. Being his mistress would be a whole lot more palatable. “It’s an arrangement I could live with.”
He made a rude sound in his throat. “I couldn’t.”
She relished his expression. He looked like a dog about to lose his steak bone. “I could get an apartment in Milan. We could…see…each other regularly. You’d have access to me, you’d know what I was doing, and you wouldn’t worry about my activities.”
“What about children? How do you raise children in different households?”
“But we’re not talking children—”
“I am.” He caught her chin in his hand and lifted her face to his, his blue gaze hot. Possessive. “I’m Italian. And traditional. I want family, a wife. I want you. In my home. In my bed. Not in some apartment across town.”
“You’d sleep better if I were across town.”
“Probably. But the children wouldn’t—”
“I don’t want children.”
“You always wanted children. You used to say you’d have two or three—”
“That was before.” She wrenched away, moved as far from him as possible, her skin scalded from his touch, her pulse racing like mad.
“Before?” And then his expression cleared. “Before everything,” he added quietly, and those two words did indeed say everything. She’d been a different person once. “But you’d be a wonderful mother.”
“I’m sure I could get them fed and dressed.” She smiled, but her eyes felt dry, cold, like her heart, which had been on ice ever since Father had taken his life. “But the rest? No. Can’t protect them, Tristano. They’d be hurt, they’d feel things they should never have to feel, and I can’t do it…can’t bring children into the world and let them be hurt like that.”
“Everyone gets hurt.”
“Some less than others.”
“But that’s life.”
“Exactly my point.”
She felt his hard gaze, felt his disapproval. “It’s not right. You’re Italian.”
“Half.”
“And one hundred percent devoted to your family.”
She couldn’t argue that. Look at how she’d spent the past five years. Look at how she’d picked up her father’s cross and followed him into battle.
“I do love Mum,” she said after a moment, walking away from him, moving to the other side of the deck. “But…” Emily shook her head, long hair rippling. “Can’t have more. Can’t risk more. There’s not enough of me left.” She smiled almost wistfully. “I’m sorry, Tristano. I’m sorry I’ve turned out the way I have. But I am what I am, and you can’t change me.”
His expression was surprisingly gentle as he stared back at her. “No, I don’t suppose I can.”
A little later the yacht slowed, circled once in the middle of the ocean, and then dropped anchor. “Where are we?” Emily asked, emerging from one of the guest bedrooms where she’d changed into her two-piece black swimsuit.
“Fifteen miles off the coast of St. Bart’s.”
She smoothed the straps of her suit flat. “Hassel Ledge?” she guessed, naming a famous diving spot—a ledge nearly seventy feet down—home to some of the most unusual coral in the Caribbean.
“You’ve been here before?” he asked.
“Long time ago.” She’d only dove here once before, and it had been years ago. She’d been considerably younger—probably sixteen, maybe seventeen—and the seas had been rough that day, the water cloudy. Today the sea was calm, the sky a gorgeous blue, with not even a cloud overhead. But even with the calm seas they’d want wetsuits since they were going down so deep.
They tugged on neoprene suits, Emily drawing hers snug over the shoulder and zipping the front closed. The suit fit tightly, which was good.
Once dressed, Tristano and Emily crouched on deck, checking their equipment—the air, the gauges on the tank, the tubes. The procedures were both familiar and discomfiting. She’d gone diving with Tristano before, when there’d been a group of them one holiday, but her usual dive partner had been her father. She hadn’t been down since.
Emily felt the weight of Tristano’s gaze. “You okay?” he asked.
His concern felt genuine, and for the first time since arriving she felt a flicker of their old friendship, the deep ties that had once made her love Tristano more than anyone.
“I’ll be fine.”
They hit the water slowly, leisurely swam down. Despite the depth they were going to, the clarity of the water was stunning. The world was so still beneath the surface of the ocean, and Emily relaxed, her tension leaving her.
For awhile they swam together, and then, as Tristano slowed to inspect a crevice harboring an eel, Emily swam on, following the intricate beds of coral, fascinated by the vivid schools of tropical fish.
Gradually she became aware of the time—she’d been under nearly thirty minutes, and she’d swum a considerable distance, following the exquisite coral reef.
She checked her gauges. She still had oxygen. Enough for another ten, fifteen minutes, but she ought to head back—return to the boat. The last thing she needed now was Tristano worrying. He already thought she didn’t know how to manage her own life.
She took her time surfacing, aware of the dangers of rising too fast, and as she broke the surface of the water lifted her mask, removing her mouthpiece and swimming to the side of the boat.
One of the stewards was standing on the deck of the yacht. “Signor Ferre?” she asked, gesturing to the deck, assuming Tristano had already gone aboard.
The steward shook his head. “No. He hasn’t returned yet.”
Emily trod water. “He hasn’t surfaced at all?”
“No. Haven’t seen him since you both went down.”
She glanced at her watch again. Thirty-five minutes since she and Tristano dove deep. Tristano didn’t have that much in his tank. He shouldn’t push it this close.
He never pushed it this close.
Emily felt a knot in her chest. Her belly did an icy flip. She didn’t like this. She’d used to be a really good diver, but it had been years since she’d spent a lot of time in the water and her skills were rusty. Tristano was the more experienced scuba diver now, and he ought to be here at the moment. On the surface. At the boat. His tank was nearly empty.
So where the hell was he?
CHAPTER SIX
STILL treading water, fighting the curl of icy panic in the pit of her stomach, Emily glanced at her own gauges. Not much air left.
“I need another tank,” she said to the steward. “Quickly.”
“I’ll get the captain.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m not certain.”
Time had come alive. Emily felt it breathing down her neck, showing teeth. She couldn’t afford to wait for the steward to hunt down the captain, or locate another tank. Time was precious now. Fleeting.
“I’m going back down.” Filled with resolve, Emily knew it was now a matter of doing what needed to be done. There’d be no fruitless discussion, no worrying. “Let the captain know there could be a problem.”
“Mademoiselle—”
Emily barely heard the steward’s protest. She was already swimming away from the yacht, popping the mouthpiece back between her lips and pulling the mask over her eyes.
Everything was fine, she told herself. Stay calm. Panicking will only use up more oxygen and more energy.
This time as she submerged she could hear her heart pounding in her head, hear the frantic beating of her heart echo in her ears. The water now seemed too still. The ocean less clear.
It’s your imagination, she told herself, swimming deep, knowing she was a strong swimmer, capable, knowing that if anyone could help Tristano she could.
Emily knew she had just minutes left on her own tank. The pressure gauge had dropped to nothing. She had to swim fast, be smart, and not give in to fear.
Reaching Hassel Ledge, she was confronted by the immense size of the coral reef. When they’d first begun to explore the reef earlier she’d been thrilled to be under water again, and she hadn’t felt anything but excitement.
But now, facing the huge, delicate reef, she realized she’d forgotten the numerous nooks and crannies, the hollows where the coral formed beautiful caves large enough for a person to swim through. Where to even start looking for Tristano?
Emily did her best to retrace her path even as her gaze swept the coral, side to side, searching for a glimpse of Tristano’s midnight-blue wetsuit, or a flipper. Near the edge of the ledge she peered over and down. The sea shelf gave way to nothing but deep, bottomless ocean.
Her heart contracted. What if something had happened and he’d fallen down there?
No. Not possible. Tristano wasn’t a risk-taker. Not like that. She was the risk-taker. Tristano played according to the rules.
And the rules meant he’d stay on the ledge, he’d swim close to the coral, he’d—
And then she saw him. Floating face-down above the coral, his body oddly twisted.
Bullets of ice shot through her, one after the other, until she felt nothing. Why was he floating like that? Why wasn’t he moving?
She swam to Tristano’s side, tried to lift him—couldn’t budge him. He was stuck. She looked into his face. His eyes were closed, and yet as she touched him his lashes fluttered open and he looked at her, recognition briefly darkening his eyes before his lashes dropped again.
Propping him up she checked his gauges. Empty. The tank was empty.
How long had his tank been empty?
She removed her mouthpiece, put it to his lips and pressed an arm around him, gratified when he took a short, rough breath. Good. She slipped her tank off her shoulders, put it on his. There wasn’t much left in her tank, a minute maybe, and she had to get him dislodged before it ran out.
Holding her breath, Emily ran her hands down his legs and discovered his right flipper deeply wedged in a coral crevice. She tugged on his foot. It wouldn’t move.
Swimming lower, she took a closer look at his flipper. He’d obviously been struggling to free himself. His ankle looked shredded, his flipper punctured near the instep. She couldn’t reach his toes.
Slipping her hands into a different crevice, Emily felt around the bottom, trying to discover what was holding Tristano prisoner. Her fingers scraped sharp rock, traced it until it ended at Tristano’s flipper.
The coral rock had broken, a piece caving in on his foot.
Without tools she wasn’t going to be able to get him out. And she didn’t have enough air to reach the top and get the necessary tools.
Hot emotion filled her, tears burning at the backs of her eyes. This was bad. So bad. She didn’t know what to do.
And then she heard her father’s voice in her head. Be calm, Emily. Stay calm. Everything’s okay.
The fear lessened—just enough. Just enough to know she needed a breath, air, time to figure this out.
She could do this. She’d find a way. She always did.
Emily swam up a little, took the mouthpiece from Tristano and drew a breath, before replacing it between his lips. The gauges had fallen. The tank had to be virtually empty. That would be her last breath, she knew. Whatever was left was Tristano’s.
As she replaced the mouthpiece between Tristano’s lips his lashes fluttered open again and he looked at her, his expression puzzled, and then he shook his head, once. He tried to lift his arm, point, but he was too weak.
She put her hands on his chest. I’m not leaving you, she answered silently, defiantly. I’m going to get you out.
She could do it, she told herself. Her father believed in her. Her mother believed in her. Tristano had to believe in her, too.
With air bottled in her lungs, she dug around in the coral again, jamming her hands into the rock, pounding away with another piece of broken coral. Her head grew light. Specks drifted before her eyes. She shook her head, trying to focus. She had to free him. She had to.
Her father’s voice whispered in her head again. A life for a life…
No, she answered, uncertain now if it was her father’s voice or her own. Not Tristano’s life. I don’t want his life. I want him happy.
But you said…
She knew what she had said, knew far too well, and remorse washed over her. Remorse, regret, sorrow. What had she done? To him? To them? Everything about the past five years wa
s wrong.
The sea seemed to rush at her, enclose her, and in turn she reached for Tristano. She didn’t feel strong anymore. Didn’t think she could hold on.
At least she was with him. She was scared, but she wouldn’t want Tristano to be alone.
She loved him.
Her arms wrapped around his chest, she held tight, exhaled—and then suddenly Tristano was free. Moving. They were both moving—floating up.
Emily’s lungs burned, bursting for air. Her head bobbed forward against Tristano’s chest. She needed air, needed air, needed—
A mouthpiece was roughly shoved into her mouth. She gasped, gulping in air and then spluttering at her greediness. She breathed deeply, desperately, and arms wrested Tristano from her grip. She tried to protest, didn’t want to let him go, and then lifting her head, she realized that help—members of Tristano’s crew—had arrived.
Tristano was safe.
Two days later Tristano was home from the hospital after observation, and he was fine. At least physically. Mentally, emotionally…that was another story.
He burst through Emily’s bedroom door, stalked across the room to where she sat at the writing desk.
“Don’t you ever do anything so stupid again,” he said roughly, his throat raw, his voice hoarse. “What you did was stupid—stupid, stupid.”
She’d jumped when the door flew open, but the moment she realized it was Tristano, home safe from the hospital on St. Thomas, she smiled. “Welcome home.”
His brow darkened. He practically growled at her. “Don’t you dare smile, Emily Pelosi. What you did on Hassel Ledge was insane.”
“Stupidaggine!” Emily flashed in Italian, rising from the desk to face him.
She’d spent two days worried sick about Tristano—unable to now sleep despite the fact the doctors had assured her that Tristano was fine—and now finally she had proof he was well. He must be well. He was certainly in a foul enough temper.
“That’s rubbish,” she repeated, switching to English. “I was not going to let you die, or drown. Besides, you’re always taught to share oxygen during certification—”