Selene Jessica Taggert wasn’t just wealthy. Her father had hit Forbes for a decade as one of America’s top one hundred wealthiest people. According to the New York Observer, Selene grew up hanging out with people like Ivanka Trump, Ariana Rockefeller, and Kick Kennedy. He recognized the surnames, at least.
He’d found several pictures of Selene. One, a shot of her on the red carpet for some Hollywood gala, another of her dressed to the nines at some inaugural ball. Both times, she was with a man whose appearance didn’t suggest he’d emerged from the woods after being raised by wolves.
And while Pete’s persona—the long hair, the untended beard—didn’t bother him, he’d taken a long look in the mirror, the words “Wait until Felipe hears” thundering through his brain, and didn’t like the comparison.
More, Vanessa’s words to Jess dogged him. “He’s never gotten over you leaving him.” And why should he? Pete barely recognized Jess in the visage of Selene Taggert, her golden blonde hair up in a tidy hairdo, diamonds sparkling at her neck, her curves outlined in a white, shimmery floor-length dress.
He would, however, recognize that smile anywhere, and something dark curled inside him as he zoomed in on the picture, recognized the look of possession on her date’s face as Selene danced in his arms.
The guy looked like a Felipe, angled face, high cheekbones, just the right amount of facial hair, dark, combed-back hair. Really white teeth.
Pete had closed the picture, shoved the phone into his pocket. And when he emerged from the bathroom, he tried not to notice that Jess watched him with such a questioning look on her face, he didn’t know what to say.
Because he wasn’t an idiot. He might have been the right man for Jess Tagg, but he hadn’t a ghost of a chance of being good enough for Selene Taggert.
But he couldn’t say that to her. Not with Ian and Sierra still out there, lost in the vastness of the Caribbean. So Pete put on his Incident Commander brain and headed over to the Coast Guard office.
He’d used his Red Cross creds to get them into the inner sanctum and land a meeting with the commander. They’d clustered around a table-sized map of the Gulf of Mexico, the Keys, and the Bahama chain. “The Montana Rose went down in six thousand feet of water. That’s over a mile down.” The commander had pointed to the location.
Pete barely remembered the commander’s name, but he did memorize the map, the depths, the various islands, and the direction of the currents. And the weather report. “According to the latest radar, the hurricane might miss south Florida,” Pete said. “But it would hit this Bahama chain, right?”
He got an affirmative.
“Could the current have taken them far enough to hit one of these islands?”
“It’s possible, but with that storm headed in, I’m not sending my crew out. We will, however, resume the search in the morning—”
“You mean after they’ve spent the night at sea, drowning?” Shae said, her eyes dark. Pete recognized a shade of Ian Shaw in her fierce countenance.
That was when he herded them outside.
He’d stood at the car, sorting through his options, his gaze on Shae, who stood a few feet away, her arms folded. “I can’t believe they’d give up the search this soon.”
“They’re not giving up,” Jess had said. “The Coast Guard just can’t go out with the threat of a hurricane—”
“Hello, that’s the point!” Shae rounded on her. “If they’re out there, bobbing around on a flimsy life raft, they won’t survive a hurricane!” She ran her hand violently across her eyes. “They’ll be lost.”
If they weren’t already. But Pete hadn’t wanted to say that. So he’d turned to Ty. “Find us a boat.”
Ty nodded and walked away, pulling out his phone.
Jess’s gaze had followed him. Then landed back on Pete.
“If he gets a boat, we’re going,” he said quietly.
Jess gave a stiff nod. But when she sighed, he knew that wasn’t what she cared about.
He swallowed and deliberately kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t talk to her about the roil of emotions inside. The sense that something had broken between them. Not yet. Instead, Pete had called Chet, given him an update.
By the time he got off the call, Ty had returned. “Done,” he said.
“Yeah?” Pete said.
“It’s a friend of . . . well, ours, actually.” He shot a look at Jess. “Winnie Henley.”
It was the way Jess glanced at Pete, wary, almost afraid, that told him something had indeed shifted in their relationship.
Something in his gut knew it couldn’t be good. “What?”
Ty shook his head.
“What?” Pete repeated, this time more quietly.
“Winnie is best friends with Colette, Felipe’s older sister—”
“Whatever,” Pete said sharply. “When can we get going?”
Not soon enough.
He hated that they’d gotten such a late start. Day three since the Montana Rose had capsized and only now were they setting out.
They’d spent way too much time last night charting a route and fueling up, and by the time the sun was sinking into the horizon, the captain called an audible.
Pete tossed in his tiny berth all night, listening to the rain on the hull, his brain consumed with Ian and Sierra and whether they might be at sea.
Helpless.
Off course.
Lost.
He’d finally risen at the first hint of dawn, woke the captain, and had them underway within an hour.
Now, with the sun breaching the morning, they were churning up nautical miles, following the current east to the Bahamas corridor. On the starboard side, Ty and Shae also held binoculars and scanned the horizon.
What they really needed was a chopper.
Jess seemed to read his mind. “How are we going to find them?”
“We keep looking. We don’t give up.”
Yet. The word hovered on his lips, and he refused to let it free. Because this wasn’t the Montana wilderness. They might, in the park, eventually find a body, or two.
But Ian and Sierra, their friend Dexter, and the rest of the missing crew could very well have gone down with the Montana Rose.
“Look, dolphins,” Jess said, pointing to the gray bodies under the water, racing with the yacht.
“At least they’re not sharks,” he said. “People get them confused sometimes. A dolphin has a curved fin. And a shark has a vertical tail fin.”
“I didn’t know you knew so much about sharks.”
“Just because I haven’t been on a yacht before doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about the ocean.”
Her eyes widened.
Aw, shoot. “I’m sorry. I’m just on edge.”
She gave him a tight smile, nodded. Sighed. Put the binoculars back to her eyes. The smell of the motor, the hum of the boat filled the silence.
“I didn’t know Nessa would be there, Pete. Or I would have never gone in there.” She didn’t remove the glasses as she spoke.
He kept his binoculars affixed. Dug past this crazy sense of hurt to the truth. “You can’t hide from your old life forever, Jess. I get it. I’m just . . .” He sighed. “We’re just very different, is all. I didn’t realize that until yesterday.”
There it was, the real problem. The fact that he didn’t know anything about the life she’d led.
The life she’d buried.
The life that had suddenly risen from the dead.
She pulled her binoculars away, her expression stricken. “What? No, Pete, I don’t know who you think I am, but the woman Nessa was talking about—she’s gone. And . . .”
He let his binoculars dangle from his neck. Turned to her. “Stop, Jess.” He put his hands on her upper arms. “There’s no reason to be defensive.”
She swallowed, her jaw tight.
“It’s just—I never realized everything you lost. Not just your family, but your entire way of life. Your . . .”—it hurt him to say i
t—“fiancé.”
She closed her eyes as if in pain.
Shoot. Because he’d sort of held out hope that she would have dismissed this Felipe as . . . maybe someone she’d once loved, briefly. Or not at all.
He’d be happy for a confession of an arranged marriage.
But he knew Jess better than that. Knew that she didn’t just hand over her heart, agree to marry someone and not mean it.
“You loved him.”
She met his eyes then. Gave the barest of nods.
He drew in a breath that felt like razors to his chest. “Yeah. I thought so. But . . . be honest with me. Felipe didn’t leave you, did he, Jess? You left him.”
Her eyes filled.
This was not at all how he wanted this conversation to go. He wasn’t ready—and frankly really wanted to hold on to the fist of anger inside. Not be overtaken by this strange swell of compassion.
But when she put her hand to her mouth and shook her head again, he couldn’t help it.
“Aw, Jess,” Pete said and pulled her into his embrace. Wrapped his arms around her, pressed his lips to her hair as she leaned into him.
She’d turned breakable, simply clutching him. He couldn’t tell if she was crying, but he thought she might be, judging by the tremble in her body, the hitch in her breath.
“I’m so sorry, babe,” he said quietly, the spear of pain in his chest burrowing into a bone-deep ache. “I get it.”
She shook her head, leaned back. Yep, she was crying, and with everything inside him he longed to reach out, wipe her tears from her beautiful eyes.
“No, you don’t. See . . . yeah, I loved him. I dreamed of marrying Felipe. And then . . .” She wiped her hands across her cheeks. “And then I realized that he wouldn’t want me—not after what I did. His family is very . . . connected. And political. And marrying me would be a very bad idea.”
Pete traced her hairline, caught a wayward strand between his fingers. “Oh, Jess, why do you always make decisions for everyone else?” He didn’t want to say it, but there it was. He met her gaze, found the right words, tearing them free from where they were trapped in his heart. “How do you know if you don’t ask him?”
She seemed as unsettled by his question as he was posing it. She bit her bottom lip, smoothed her hands against his chest, gave him such a look of confusion he just wanted to take it back.
“I . . . but . . . I choose you,” she said finally.
He wanted to weep with the softness, the earnestness of her voice. The way the hope in her eyes reached out, latched on to his.
“Shh,” he said, leaning in to kiss her. Sweetly. Lingering.
Because it might be for the last time.
He relished the taste of her lips, the feel of her softening under his touch. He’d never wanted to do the wrong thing more in his life. Just tell her to forget her past, to belong just to him. The words nearly broached his lips.
But she’d never truly be with him if the past kept rising between them. If she kept looking over her shoulder at the what-ifs. He leaned away and smoothed her hair back from her face. “Listen. You know . . .” He swallowed, tried to keep his voice even. “You know I love you. And that’s not going to change. Because I’m not going to change. Pete Brooks is the right guy for Jess Tagg.” He touched his hand to her cheek, his thumb caressing her cheekbone. “And I’m so glad you choose me. But . . .” And here came the hard part, so he fought to keep his voice solid.
“Pete Brooks might not be right for Selene Taggert. And she has to choose too.” She frowned at him, but he shook his head. “Did you not hear Vanessa? She said that your mom misses you. Your brother misses you—that everyone is worried about you. Jess, think about how Ian feels about his niece. Don’t you think your family misses you like that?”
And now he did wipe away the tear that escaped. “You owe it to yourself—and to them—to see if there is a life waiting for you back in New York.”
She stilled. Shook her head.
“Yes, babe. You need to go back and . . . and you need to face Felipe.”
“Pete—”
“And then . . .” Pete ground his jaw, and couldn’t fight the tremor in his voice. “And please, please—come back to me.”
He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t breathe past the boulder in his throat.
She sank into him again. “I’ll come back to you.”
He wrapped his arms around her. But as he stared out into the vast blue horizon, the sea churning below them, he felt just about as lost as Ian and Sierra.
“We’re lucky to be alive.” Ian stood outside the mouth of the cave, staring at the debris of the forest. Downed palm fronds, stripped from broken and damaged trees, created a web of disaster. “How did we not die, running through this?”
Sierra came up behind him limping, and he immediately put his arm around her. “How’s the leg?”
She made a face. Then stared out at the litter of the forest. “This is terrifying. I’ve never been in a hurricane before.”
Ian didn’t comment, but her words scraped up too many memories. He reached out, braced his arm on the edge of the cave.
Had he not found this cave earlier yesterday, he had no doubt they would have been seriously injured.
Or killed.
And there it was, the image of Allison’s body, bruised, broken, and bloated from seawater after her minivan had been picked up by the surge and thrown against a tree. Just a photograph on a database, one of nearly two thousand he’d looked through, hoping to be wrong.
“Ian, are you okay?” Sierra curled her hand around his arm. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”
He looked at her, barely seeing her.
Instead, his stomach roiled, probably from the emptiness. The world swayed at an alarming pitch, and if it weren’t for Sierra’s arms suddenly around his waist—
“You’d better sit down.”
He nodded, slid down to the floor of the cave, and cradled his face in his hands.
She crouched next to him.
“I just can’t escape it,” he said softly. “It was just like this—Katrina. The storm, the destruction. I found a boat and took it back to our apartment. We lived downtown, near Canal Street, in this loft Allison had designed. I could barely get there—there were electrical lines down and gas lines exposed—the air reeked. And bodies . . .” He winced, pressed his hand over his mouth. Blew out.
“I kept fearing that I’d see hers, floating . . . I . . . haven’t really talked to anyone about . . .” He looked up, met Sierra’s eyes, swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? Ian, you lived through a nightmare. I’m the one who’s sorry. I never asked you about it—I always thought it was too painful for you to talk about.”
“It was. It . . . I remember finally getting to the loft. All the windows had been blown out, and the ocean had washed in shipping containers from the harbor, and they blocked the entrances. I finally climbed up onto a balcony on the third floor and went through an open, abandoned apartment.” He drew in a breath. “She wasn’t at home, of course. And I just stood there, in the remains of our loft. The wind destroyed the place—littered it with storm debris. Pictures smashed, the furniture water-logged . . . I stood there and like a stupid person just kept calling her cell phone. Over and over. Praying.”
Yeah, praying. Probably the last time he’d prayed until yesterday.
His eyes burned, and he couldn’t look at Sierra.
“I picked up a couple guys sitting on the roof of the McDonald’s on my way back to the Superdome. And I spent two days there, searching.” He looked at Sierra. She had woven her hand into his.
“The Red Cross was collecting a database of the deceased, and every day I’d look at it, hoping not to see her. Or Daniel. I couldn’t even think about Daniel, how . . . they must have been so afraid.” He leaned back, ran his hand down his face. “If I’d told them to leave earlier—”
“Stop it, Ian. Just—enough.” She grabbed hi
s hands. “You aren’t to blame!”
He stared at her. Shivering, wet, her dark hair in tangles, her eyes so earnest. The truth simply welled up, spilled out. “What you don’t know is that Allison and I were on the verge of divorce.”
He hadn’t admitted that to anyone. Even himself, really, for years. He looked away. “When Daniel was born, I thought he would fix everything. She wanted a baby more than anything. And then, when he was about two, we realized he wasn’t developing like other kids. That’s when he was diagnosed with autism. I didn’t know what to do. So I fled into my work.”
His throat tightened.
“The last time she and I talked, before Katrina, she told me that she was moving home to her parents’. Then the storm warnings started to hit. I thought the levees would hold—we all did. I felt like if she left without me . . . I’d never get her back.” He blew out a breath. “I was afraid of losing her. And then I did.”
“Ian. You can’t keep everyone safe, can’t keep bad things from happening. They just do—and you trying to control that is just . . . is just . . . living in fear.”
“I’m not afraid, Sierra.”
Her voice softened. “You’re completely afraid. You’re afraid of loving someone and losing them.”
He blinked at her, the words lethal despite her soft tone.
“Like Allison. Daniel. And Esme.” She paused, her voice soft. “Your mom.”
Oh. His throat thickened.
“You’re afraid that a rogue wave will take you out, destroy your world.”
“Because it did,” he said softly. “A few times. I just can’t seem to catch a break with God.”
“Ian, Katrina wasn’t some divine retribution aimed at you. It was a tragedy. Just like the wave hitting your yacht was a fluke disaster. It’s not what happens to us, it’s how we respond. Being broken, being empty is part of life. But how we fill up those empty places, how we heal—that’s what matters.” She caught his hands. “You’re an amazing man, Ian. A survivor. But you heard my prayer last night. God is our refuge and our portion. Meaning, we don’t have to be enough. He is all we need. We either embrace that or we walk away empty-handed.”
Troubled Waters Page 23