by Tawny Weber
“There is a dive scheduled tomorrow. You could go out, try your hand. Dominic is quite good, he’d be an excellent guide to teach you.”
“No, thanks.” Darby didn’t dive. No way, no how. Flashes of the nightmares that’d haunted her for years danced into her head to do a quick boogie before she shoved them right back out again. Looking at the water might give her a nice feeling of inspired peace—much as looking at a work of art would—but the idea of being in it any deeper than her toes? That sent a nasty shiver right down her spine.
“You don’t dive? Instead, you are lounging and relaxing.” He nodded his thanks to one of the white-shirted waiters as the man set two drinks on the small table, each garnished with a pineapple spear. Not one for alcohol in the afternoon, even on vacation, Darby ignored hers. As soon as Michael had taken a long sip through his straw, he gave her an assessing look. Not the pervy older-man kind, but more a sizing up.
“You seem athletic. Fit, yes?”
“Not fit enough for diving,” she said, heading off that idea.
“No, no diving. You don’t want to spend time with certification to dive when you could be relaxing instead. Hiking, though. You could hike, yes? If nothing else, you should visit the Hanalei Valley Lookout. The view? Exquisite.” Just as Darby’s shoulders started to relax, he waved his hand toward the half-dozen bodies riding the waves. “Or perhaps surfing? Surfing is an adventure. One every person should experience and you do look like an adventurous soul.”
“Not that adventurous,” she said, putting on her best lying-in-court face. The one that convinced judges and juries that she spoke the absolute truth. “You had it right with relaxation. That’s my entire focus this vacation. To lie on the beach and soak up sunshine.”
Then, because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings and it actually had sounded good, she added, “But I do want to visit the Lookout. And the waterfalls.”
“Excellent. I’ll arrange a car for later today.” Before she could protest, he got to his feet. “And soon, you try parasailing. It can be your adventure.”
Parasailing?
Like, on a surfboard with a sail on the ocean?
Even as Darby gave Michael a noncommittal smile, she thought, no. No, no, a million times no. Dominic might have seduced her into any number of wild sexual delights, but there was no way in hell he’d convince her to straddle a stick of wood attached to a flap of fabric and ride the waves like some kind of water-skimming daredevil.
“Perhaps you’ll try tandem parasailing. Dominic is skilled, he can teach you,” Michael said, giving her one last smile before moving off to greet another guest.
Dominic certainly was skilled. Lips pursed, her gaze shifted to the ocean again.
Tandem?
Hmm...
* * *
IT TURNED OUT that Darby loved parasailing.
Who knew?
Two days later, she realized that she apparently also enjoyed moonlit sails, beach volleyball and hiking through Namolokama Falls.
Of course, the common denominator in all of that was Dominic. The sexy, intriguing, entertaining Dominic.
Darby grinned as she juggled her overstuffed beach bag to use her key card to open the hotel room door.
Dominic, who challenged her to try new things. To revel in new experiences. Every minute with him was alive. Enticing, exciting, invigorating.
Darby stared out the floor-to-ceiling window for a long second, basking in the view of the ocean.
Who knew?
There was life outside of work.
And she was enjoying every second of it.
As if mocking her thoughts, her cell phone rang out, loud and demanding.
For three long, glorious seconds she debated ignoring the call. She was on vacation. She had a date to get ready for. She could call back later.
But duty, as ingrained as her ambition, won out.
“Hello,” she answered with the swipe of her thumb.
“Darby?”
“Mother,” she greeted as she dumped her beach bag on the overstuffed chair just inside the door. She automatically ran her fingers through her windblown hair, trying to push it into place, then fluffing the ends. “How are you doing?”
“Not well, actually. Dr. Sternberg said it’s nothing, but he’s running tests for an ulcer. Which says it all, doesn’t it?”
It said that Laura Raye and her ongoing affair with hypochondria was a force to be reckoned with. Sometimes when Darby was feeling generous, she thought her mom needed a hobby. Something to distract her from swimming in the deep well of worry she’d gotten so used to. In her less generous moments, she figured the woman had dived so deep into grief in the years after Danny died that she was addicted to the misery. And like any addict, after she’d sucked the sympathy dry over the loss of her son, she’d had to go looking elsewhere for her fix.
Darby wasn’t sure what it said about her that her generous moments were few and far between. So maybe it was guilt over her lack of sympathy—or she was simply riding the feel-good wave of her vacation—that had her digging deep for compassion.
“Tests are smart. It’s always good to know what’s going on,” she said, trying to sound encouraging. “You’ll feel better once you know what you’re dealing with.”
Or she’d decide the doctor was conspiring to hide her actual test results for some reason or another.
There was always one reason or another.
Before she’d even finished the thought, her mother was off and running with her litany of reasons why the doctor hadn’t taken her seriously enough to offer a true diagnosis. He should have done more tests, his nurse had taken an unfair dislike to her, her insurance wasn’t good enough to demand better testing...
Darby tossed her purse on the bed and kicked off her shoes. She might as well get comfortable. This would go on for a while.
God. Why couldn’t her mother just be happy? It’d been better when Danny was alive. He’d been her world, even before the divorce and definitely after. In her bitter moments, Darby figured her mother had been so obsessed with Danny that she’d barely noticed her workaholic husband’s absence. And his death seven years later? She’d missed the child-support payments, but it’d seemed like a fair trade for an end to visitation visits.
Bare toes digging into the plush carpet, she crossed to the minibar and, after her fingers hovered over the tiny bottle of tequila for a moment, grabbed a bottle of water.
She carried it to the bed before curling up, with her back against the pillows and forehead resting on her upraised knees.
And she listened.
Three minutes turned into five, then into ten. She knew her role. She was a sounding board. Input and opinions were as unnecessary as they were unwanted.
“Don’t you have any pull, Darby? You work for the government. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
Ahh, there it was. Darby’s role. To do something.
“Why don’t we wait for the test results before worrying.”
“But they won’t be in for days, maybe longer. Can’t you call the hospital? Use your credentials and put a rush on it?”
Rush the doctor’s test results.
Dig into the Navy’s cover-up.
Track down the men responsible for filling Danny’s head with crazy visions of being a SEAL.
Prosecute the maker of the equipment Danny had used in his dive since there had to be a defect to blame. Not user error.
Prove, once and for all, that the death of Ensign Daniel Raye had been someone else’s—anyone else’s—fault, rather than his own.
“Mom, I work for the US Attorney’s office. I don’t have any jurisdiction in the medical field or any power to demand that your doctor bypass his usual channels to speed up test results.” The swift inhalation of brea
th came over the phone line with enough power that Darby was surprised it didn’t ruffle her hair. Before she could get hit with the fury that she knew accompanied it, she added, “But I’ll call your doctor’s office. I’ll see what I can do.”
She didn’t bother to add that given patient confidentiality, that call wouldn’t net any actual information. She was sure, in some part of her mother’s mind, the woman knew that. But facts barely flittered over Laura Raye’s reality.
“It’d make a stronger statement if you went into the office and demanded those results in person. I know, I know—you can’t because you moved all the way across the country and can’t be bothered to come back and deal with my problems.”
And people thought she’d moved to California for the great weather and career advancement, not necessarily in that order.
“It’s almost Friday. You must have time coming, Darby. Make it a three-day weekend and fly back. I don’t know why you didn’t put your law degree to better use working somewhere you’d be paid well. And I suppose since it’s a ridiculous amount to live in that decadent state, I’ll pay your way. I don’t mind.”
Subtext—being a federal prosecutor was only convenient when Laura wanted her daughter pulling imaginary government strings. Further, since Darby was clearly frittering away her substandard income on living it up in decadence, Laura would tap into the funds she should be saving for old age to fly her daughter home.
Darby lifted her head and pressed the water bottle against her cheek, trying to cool the heat pulsing beneath her skin. But it ran too deep. So she unscrewed the cap and gulped down a few swallows, mentally reciting various examples of tort law until she knew both her thoughts and her tone were clear of emotion.
“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t fly to Virginia this weekend.” Since any mention of the fact that she was living it up in Hawaii was akin to a confession of guilt on par with matricide, Darby skipped right over that fact. “Text me your doctor’s information and I’ll call tomorrow and see what I can do.”
“I really think it’d be better if you came in person.”
“Mother...”
“Fine, fine. If they do find that I have some horrible, debilitating disease, will you come home then? Or will you stay away, selfishly wrapped up in your own life while the last member of your family dies?”
Wrapped up in her own world? Darby knew better than to defend that she’d been away at her first year at Columbia studying prelaw, busting her ass to make scholarship grades when Danny died. Was that selfishness when she, a raw, grieving nineteen-year-old, had flown from New York to Little Creek alone and on her own time to claim her brother’s body?
For the next three years, Darby had juggled college and the responsibility of trying to help her heartbroken mother through the shock, misery and pain of losing her favorite child. A responsibility that even she had to admit she’d failed.
Was it any wonder she’d followed her father’s path instead and put every iota of her focus on her career?
“I’ll call you after I talk to the doctor,” she finally promised. She deliberately didn’t mention she wasn’t in her office putting in her second round of forty hours for the week. Why admit that she was wasting a decadent amount of money to lounge poolside in a lush Hawaiian resort, having an affair with a stranger, wasting time that was better spent furthering her career.
By the time she’d finished her call, the last thing Darby was in the mood for was meeting Dominic for a romantic, moonlight picnic on the beach. She debated leaving him a message, but whatever excuse she offered, she figured he was stubborn enough, gentleman enough, to come to her room to check on her.
So she changed out of her pleated shorts and silk tank top into a slip dress the color of morning. She tucked her feet into the gunmetal pumps she’d worn over on the plane, finding comfort in the stilettos’ extra five inches. Vanity demanded she at least swipe a coat of mascara on her lashes and a slick of gloss on her lips.
She cast a look of regret at the pillow-strewn bed, tossed her phone and room key in a tiny beaded cross-body purse and, with a deep breath, forced herself to leave the room.
She’d said she’d meet him at the bar, and the bar was where she’d be.
* * *
NIC WAS HALFWAY out the door when his cell phone buzzed.
“Savino,” he answered, one hand on the doorknob while he waited to see if it was a private call.
“Jarrett, here, Commander. Just checking in to make sure you’re having a good time and not wasting your vacation worrying.”
“What would I have to worry about?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Jarrett said with that gruff walrus laugh of his. “But in the interest of bringing you up-to-date, Ramsey has brought in a new attorney. They’re calling for a tribunal.”
“And?” Nic asked, not sure why that was a surprise, or why it would concern Jarrett enough for the man to be calling.
“And, they are making noises about a deal. Offering up names in exchange for special consideration.” At Nic’s continued silence, the Captain added, “In the absence of Admiral Cree, it falls to me to respond.”
Ah. So that’s what the call was about. He stepped back into his room and shut the door.
“You want my input?”
“Well, it is your team at stake,” Jarrett countered. Then he huffed out a breath and in a more conciliatory tone, said, “The decision falls under my jurisdiction, but it’s your team, your reputations on the line. I have too much respect for you and Poseidon to make this call without hearing your thoughts.”
In other words, he wanted Nic to tell him what he wanted him to do.
“No special consideration,” Nic told him. “No breaks, no deals. Ramsey is going down. All we need is a little more time and we’ll have a line on everyone involved. Every element, every treasonous act, every traitor.”
Nic said the words with the same fervor he’d used when he’d taken his vow as a SEAL. Because they were the same. Exactly the damn same.
“You have new intel?” Jarrett prompted, his voice on edge. Nic pictured the guy in his office, ready to leap up and run after any lead Nic offered.
“We’re close” was all he said. Because as much as he trusted Jarrett, he wasn’t outing anyone on his team or their progress until the details were solid.
“Close?” Jarrett repeated expectantly. But when no information was forthcoming, he huffed again, cleared his throat and said, “Who is taking point while you’re gone? I’ll liaise with them before moving forward.”
“My team. My call.”
“Fine,” Jarrett said after a long pause. “I’ll delay this new attorney with a few layers of red tape. You’ll fill me in soon, right?”
“When I get back.”
He knew Jarrett wanted to argue, just as he knew he wouldn’t. To make it easier on the guy, he ended the conversation.
But he didn’t leave the room yet.
Instead, he considered the ramifications of Jarrett’s call. He wanted to believe the Captain would stand firm against Ramsey’s attorneys. But he knew that while Jarrett was a clever tactician, a solid instructor and a damn good desk jockey, the man wasn’t known for his fortitude. Cree was the backbone, the heart and the force behind Poseidon. Jarrett was faultless at carrying out Cree’s orders, but on his own, the guy was lacking.
Nic glanced at the clock on the nightstand. He was supposed to meet Darby in a few minutes. He’d been looking forward to seeing her, and had some damn hot plans for the night.
But priorities were priorities, so Nic did what came naturally.
He dialed the phone and put duty first.
* * *
DOMINIC WAS LATE.
Darby blew out a sigh as she glanced at the clock for the third time in as many minutes.
She
should leave. If he couldn’t bother to be here on time, why should she bother to wait? She’d only come out of courtesy. She’d planned to cut the evening short. Why not cut it completely and go curl up in her jammies?
Even as she mulled a dozen excuses to leave, she shifted on the cozy, low-backed stool at the far end of the bamboo bar and let her gaze wander. Wreathed with flowers in watercolor hues of orange and pink, the bar hit the high end of upscale with its glinting bottles before a mirrored wall and servers dressed in crisp white shirts while bustling to hustle drinks.
Music played loud enough to be heard over the crowd that was two deep around the bar. Partying, celebrating, vacationing. She scowled.
They were all so damn happy.
Well, almost all, Darby noted, watching a statuesque redhead throw her arms in the air.
“This is ridiculous. A ten-minute wait for a table? I told you to make reservations.”
Ready to be distracted from her brooding thoughts, she turned to watch the disgruntled diner and her companions. Twentysomethings, well-dressed and already sporting an alcohol-induced glow, the two couples jostled for a spot at one of the tall tables overlooking the pool.
“I asked about reservations but the front desk said we didn’t need them. Besides, ten minutes isn’t long,” the man next to her defended.
“I’ll bet everyone’s in here trying to get more information about the incident,” said a buxom blonde, her eyes dancing with glee over her martini glass.
“What incident?”
“I heard some guy almost drowned,” she exclaimed, sounding almost as excited at the prospect as she might over finding a half-off sale on Valentino. “He had, like, a heart attack underwater and everything.”
“That’s not what happened, Marla. I heard it from the bell captain. The guy partied too hard last night, then went diving this morning with a hangover.” It was hard to tell if the man’s look of disgust was over the guy’s drinking, his hangover or over his girlfriend’s glee at someone else’s misfortune.
“The man was dehydrated, overheated from the sun and sick on top of it. He was lucky that one of the other divers was even better than the instructor. Like, a dive master or something. As soon he realized what was happening, that guy hauled the hungover dude to the surface. Saved his life, maybe.”
