Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  “Because it’s weird,” Dave said.

  Brett wasn’t sure what he meant. This had seemed like the perfect idea. A treat for Willow, who loved treats so much, and good for his business and her own. But something was making the hair rise at the back of his neck.

  A few yards away, Crystal and Tom climbed into the van, and Tom backed and turned the van with its trailer attached. Dave glanced at them, then at Brett, and said, “They’ll be following along with a GPS. Somebody has to pick everybody up at the end. We could follow along behind them.”

  “Good idea.” Brett had brought binoculars, but the balloon was already over a hill and out of sight. He headed to the car and climbed in. Without the cane, now, which was something. He was seeing the surgeon tomorrow. He’d felt this past week like he had his life back, and better than before.

  Just not right now.

  Dave bumped through the pasture behind the trailer, and Brett thought about Nourish’s books. Last week, he’d called the restaurant-supply company Willow hadn’t recognized. A man had answered, had given him information about pricing and location readily enough—“Out of a shed on the boss’s property. It’s not a shop.”

  “Where?” Brett had asked.

  “Surfers’ Paradise.” Which jibed with the information on the invoice.

  When Brett had said he was calling from Nourish, the answers had become guarded, and when he’d asked about the order for the missing patio heaters, the man had said, “I don’t know about that. You’d have to ask the boss.”

  “Can you look it up in your books?” Brett had asked.

  “Above my pay grade, mate.” The accent had gone more Australian, surely: flatter, and with the vowels more drawn out. “I’ll leave a note for the boss, shall I?”

  “Please,” Brett had said, but the call hadn’t come, and a second and third call and two voicemails had yielded nothing more. Once he finished his meeting this afternoon, he was taking a drive to Surfers’ Paradise with Dave and checking out “the boss’s property.” But first, he was spending some quality time with Willow. He should have figured out something they’d both enjoy doing, instead of this. Horseback riding on the not-beach, maybe.

  He was sitting up front with Dave. They could see the balloon now, and the green van ahead of them, tracking behind and inland. When Brett used the binoculars, he could see the dots of heads in there. The balloon looked absolutely serene, wafting over the countryside about five hundred feet up, the rainbow stripes gorgeous in the early-morning light. It was going to be great footage, and it was only an hour. After that, Dave could drop them at his place, and Brett would get the benefit of all Willow’s excitement. Nobody did “excitement” like Willow. Just the thought of it was working him up. There’d been a lot to miss this past week.

  Dave said, “I’m wondering, mate. If the bloke driving the van is married to the sheila in it, why did I see him with the other one?”

  “What?” Brett asked.

  Ahead of them, the green van sped up, then took a right turn onto a secondary road at speed, the trailer nearly fishtailing. Brett asked again, “What?”

  Dave was frowning. “They’re coming down, looks like. This isn’t Ballina. Not even Suffolk Park. What’s that fella playing at?”

  Brett could see it, too. The balloon was dropping much more quickly than it had ascended, then abruptly rising again. Dave had his foot on the gas, keeping up with the van. He said, “Bloody hell. That’s a transmission tower. They’re going to hit it.”

  Brett did his best to hold the binoculars still. His heart was beating harder, but the rest of him, as always, was slowing down. Binary form. Yes/no answers. He focused in, and saw it. The flash of silver towers, the balloon lurching upward, nearly vertically. A bad moment when he thought surely it would hit the tower itself, and then tip, because that was what happened when a wicker basket hit an unmovable object at speed.

  It seemed to nearly graze the top spike of the tower, but then it was past, and descending again, and Brett told himself, Breathe.

  Dave took a left. The van was flying now, then Dave was slamming on the brakes as the road ended in a clump of trees.

  “It’s a run for it,” Dave said, opening his door. “Closest we can get.” Ahead of them, Tom and Crystal had spilled out of the van and were standing, hands shading their eyes, staring to the left, where the balloon was coming in. “There’s a track over there to the beach. We’ll have to ford a bit of water to get there. Can you run, mate?”

  “Yeah,” Brett said. He did, following Dave, and Tom and Crystal came after them, then pulled ahead. Dave glanced back. “Don’t wait for me,” Brett said. “Go.”

  Down a path between trees, with still water on either side. Some kind of lagoon. Splashing through water to his knees, because the tide was high, then back onto the path again. Soft sand that tried to catch his foot, to turn his leg, then up and over a hump and down again.

  Brett was bringing up the rear when they made it onto the beach. Tom was shouting, “Amanda. Amanda. Oh, my God.” The balloon came in fast, skimming the narrow strip of high-tide sand from north to south, hit the sand hard with one edge, then jolted and tipped, and somebody stood up on the downward side. The seaward side. Somebody holding a camera. Another figure stood up fast—the pilot—and the balloon rose again, ten feet above the sand, then higher over the water. The basket tipped some more from the weight of the two people on one side being thrown against it, and the two figures just . . . slid, straight down into the sea.

  A burst of white light, and the balloon was rising again fast, the nylon crumpling.

  It was on fire.

  Down the beach, a truck was accelerating straight up the sand, pulling a trailer. Boat, Brett thought, recognizing the red-and-yellow flags down there. Surf life savers. He could only spare a glance, though. Another two figures had left the basket, farther out to sea, one after the other. The sun glinted on blond hair, and didn’t glint on black. Amanda and Jamie. A long moment, and the fifth figure launched with purpose from more than forty feet up. Red sweater shining bold as courage, strong as love.

  Willow.

  Ahead of him, Tom and Crystal had stopped running. Tom had his hands over his face and was saying, “Amanda. Amanda. Oh, my God. What am I going to do?”

  Brett didn’t care. His leg was on fire and threatening to buckle, but he was still running, and so was Dave. All the way down to meet the truck, nearly at the water’s edge, where a lone man was releasing a lever and dropping a small inflatable powerboat to the sand.

  Dave was wading out into the water already, going for the two figures struggling to shore. Dressed in khaki and gray, and drowned-looking. The pilot, and the cameraman.

  Brett didn’t stop. He got to the boat, then was helping a young guy with salt-blond curls pull it into the water and shove it out deeper. Knee height. Up to his thighs, then, as another wave came in. He said, “Give me a life vest. You’ve got three still out in the water,” launched his body up, dragged his good right leg into the boat, and pulled his left one up after it.

  The kid was already in himself, had moved to the back and started the engine. He said, “Under your seat,” and Brett found it, pulled it over his head and fastened the straps, then yanked the lever to inflate it as he scanned the choppy waves.

  “There,” he shouted, pointing. “To the left.” A head, then an arm. Somebody swimming.

  The boat turned, circled, cut power, and pulled up alongside the swimmer. Streaming dark hair, blue eyes with terror in them. Brett got a hand down, Jamie took hold, and Brett pulled him in. The boat rocked, but it stayed afloat.

  There wasn’t room for two more in here, and it didn’t matter. As soon as Jamie was aboard, kneeling at the bottom of the boat, gasping, his clothes streaming water, the kid driving the boat was heading out again. Slowly this time. Searching.

  Brett tried to remember the direction the balloon had been moving. “Farther right,” he yelled, gesturing, and the kid adjusted.

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sp; They were so slow, and there was nothing out here, just the dip and rise of the swells. The engine roared, and Jamie’s teeth chattered. He was saying, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” over and over, and Brett thought, Yeah, buddy. Keep praying, and kept looking.

  Something there, to the right. He pointed, and the kid got closer.

  Not a head. A fin.

  “Dolphin,” the kid yelled, and Brett breathed again. “Somebody over there, too.”

  Another dark head, appearing for an instant, then disappearing under the waves. No waving hand. Somebody whose strength was nearly gone. The boat picked up speed, was circling again, and Brett reached his whole arm down this time, got a hand under her arm, then his other one. The kid had grabbed hold of his belt, and Brett was pulling up with everything he had.

  Amanda. Her face bleached white, her eyes staring. Coughing and choking, collapsing into the bottom of the boat.

  The kid took off again. He was holding a bright-yellow radio in one hand, talking urgently into it, but Brett wasn’t watching. His eyes were sweeping those endless swells of blue, the sun sparkling on their tips like all this was fun.

  A glistening shape leaped into the air, its body describing a perfect arc. Behind it, another one did the same.

  More dolphins. Brett said, “Head over there, where they are. The dolphins.”

  “You see somebody?” the kid asked.

  “No. But I think she’s there.”

  Come on, baby, he thought. Come on. Swim.

  The dolphins didn’t scatter as they approached. They were swimming in a huge circle, two of them nudging something between them. Or somebody. Somebody floating on her back, her body still.

  Brett didn’t remember getting in the water. He was just there, swimming to her, amazed in one part of his brain that he still knew how. The life vest held him up, and then he had her.

  She jerked against him in protest, then opened her eyes and her mouth like she was going to scream. She said, “Brett. You came,” heaved in a breath, then cried out. “Hurts. Something’s wrong. Inside. Hurts.”

  The boat turned a tight circle, and the kid tossed Brett a line. Three people in a too-small boat. He wrapped it twice around his hand, got Willow more firmly under the arms, hauled her back against him, and yelled to the kid, “Pull us in.”

  “You got her, mate?” the kid asked.

  “I’ve got her,” Brett said. “And I’m not going to let go.”

  The dolphins followed them almost all the way.

  Willow woke up slowly. She didn’t want to. She hurt.

  She could hear Brett talking from the other room, and she could see light seeping in around the drawn blinds, so it was daytime, and she was at his house. But which day? She’d woken and slept, woken and slept, so many times, she had no idea. She got herself off the bed, which made her gasp some, and hobbled into the living room, where Brett was sitting at the table, making notes on a yellow legal pad while he talked.

  When he saw her, he said, “I’ll call you back,” and rang off. That was nice.

  She said, “I’m going to . . . brush my teeth. In a . . . minute. But I wanted to see you first. What day is it?”

  “Wednesday morning. One day later. And you’re breathing too shallowly. Take those deep breaths.”

  She wanted to say, It hurts, but he knew it hurt. She tried, and it hurt. Heaps.

  “Did you take a pill?” he asked.

  “No. I was a bit . . . confused.”

  “Sit down. I’ll get one. Actually, two.”

  She thought, Crikey, you’re bossy, but she sat down, and he came back with the bottle and a glass of water. He even took the tablets out and handed them to her. “No pneumonia,” he said. “That’s an order.”

  “On the plus side,” she said, trying to breathe through the words, and the fire in her chest, the pain everywhere, “cracking a couple of ribs makes me think you were even tougher, with that leg. On the minus side . . . ouch.” Everything hurt, like her entire body was one big bruise, because it was. Her ankles weren’t broken, but they felt like it.

  “Not to mention,” Brett said, “that you were saved by dolphins. I’m beginning to think you really are a mermaid.”

  “Saved by you, too, mate. I didn’t say enough yesterday. I didn’t . . .” She was tearing up. Again. It had to stop, but she couldn’t make it happen. “That was too hard. I know what that took.”

  “It wasn’t, though.” He sat down beside her and took her hand like he could see straight into her heart. “It was an easy choice all the way. Doesn’t mean I didn’t wake up sweating about five times last night imagining it turning out differently. I’m taking swimming lessons. Time to face this thing down and get over it. I don’t want to be wondering, next time, if I can hold you up.”

  “There’s not going to be a next time. How many times in your life are you in a hot-air balloon accident?”

  He tightened his hold on her hand and said, “I don’t think it was an accident.”

  Something clicked into place in her mind, like a key opening a lock, even through the pain and the fuzziness. She could almost hear it happen. “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  The lock was open, so was the door, and she could see inside to the thing that had nagged at her through the ride in Brett’s car to the same hospital where he’d been taken. She’d lain on the back seat with her head in his lap, and he’d kept his arms around her and had talked to her the whole way, keeping her there with him. She’d thought, Thanks, mate, and still, that memory had nagged.

  Later, too, on the bed in A&E. Thinking about the moment when the dolphins had appeared, like a sign and a talisman, telling her not to give up, to have faith, because there was protection in the world. And then thinking about the moment when she’d opened her eyes and Brett had somehow been in the water with her, holding her up, and she’d known she could let go of the effort and the fear and let him do it. And all the while, there’d been that connection knocking at the door, trying to get itself made.

  She said, “That balloon accident,” and Brett said, “Yeah,” like he knew. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

  It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe, for that matter. But she had to tell him this. “It was on Neighbours, a couple seasons back. I watched it, even though I don’t watch often, because it was so hyped up. Season finale.”

  “What was? And what’s Neighbors?”

  “TV soap, a big thing in Oz, been on for longer than I’ve been alive. They had a cliffhanger season finale that was a . . .” She had to stop and take some breaths again. “A hot-air balloon crash.”

  Brett had gone still, his eyes watchful. “And?”

  “And,” she said slowly, “the baddie sabotaged the fuel tanks. People jumped, or fell, I can’t quite remember. Through trees. When we were going down yesterday, I kept thinking, I’ve seen this before. Somebody died, but it was somebody the villain hadn’t meant to kill. His wife, who’d stowed away. Dunno how you stow away on a balloon. She hit her head, and had her skull drilled through.”

  “Uh . . .” Brett said.

  “With an electric drill, to relieve pressure on her brain. Thanks for not doing that.”

  “You’re welcome.” He looked diverted for a moment. “That’s the most random thing I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Yes.” She wanted to jump up. She didn’t. “It’s so random, you’d only think of it if you heard about a hot-air balloon ride and were reminded of it. How do you prove somebody did it, though? If they did? That balloon has to be gone. Halfway to New Zealand by now.”

  “Nobody was thinking,” he agreed, “about rescuing the balloon.”

  His phone rang, and he glanced at it, then picked up. “Hi,” he said. “I was going to call you. I’d like you to come get us. Soon as you can.”

  On the phone, Dave said, “That’s why I’m ringing you. The Civil Aviation Safety Authority’s talking to everybody, a mate of mine says. They’ve been having a yarn with Andy, and they’re on their
way to interview Amanda and Tom now. They’ll be by to talk to Willow soon, I reckon. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Head over here now,” Brett said. He should have kept the car, but he’d been so glad, yesterday, to have Dave handle all that. Binary decision-making or not, he wouldn’t have done too well at finding the hospital with Willow in the car, or even at driving her home.

  “Already on my way,” Dave said. “Fifteen minutes.”

  Brett hung up and said, “Dave’s coming to get us. The authorities are trying to figure out what happened. I think we should go help them out.” He eyed her shirt, which was, again, one of his white button-downs, and all she was wearing. He hadn’t had anything else to put her into when he’d brought her home. “You may want to wear a pair of my shorts, or your jeans are dry, if you can manage. I’m not sure how your sweater made out in the salt water. Let me know if you want my help.”

  By the time he’d got her into the back of Dave’s car again, wearing his shorts, because it was easier, with his shirt hanging over them, she was gasping. He knew it hurt too much, pain pills or no, but there were all these threads hanging out there, and it was time to start collecting them.

  “You could . . . tell me what’s going on,” she said, leaning back against the seat.

  “Deep breaths,” he reminded her. “I’d like you to be surprised. It’ll work better. More effective, and more natural to anybody watching.”

  “I should think about this,” she said, closing her eyes, “but I don’t feel well enough.”

  Dave looked at Brett in the rearview mirror, and when they got there, Brett said, “Come in with us, if you don’t mind.” He wanted all the ammunition he could get.

  When he rang the bell, nothing happened for minutes. Finally, though, Amanda came to the door, looking fragile, harassed, and pale without her makeup, in a T-shirt and shorts.

  “Willow.” She blinked, her face crumpling before she restored her expression. “Hi. You didn’t answer my texts. I wasn’t sure what . . .”