* * *
CLOTHES SEPARATED HIM from the woman in his arms, and he wished they didn’t. The heat she radiated was most intense where he could touch her smooth skin. He pressed his face into her neck and the crook of her shoulder and tried to breathe in that warmth. He slid his tingling hands higher up her torso in search of her breasts, but stopped short. Since he didn’t know who she was, that might not go so well. She was toasty enough to make him think about woodstoves, campfires, hot radiators, sunbaked adobe on the other side of the world.
Suddenly, his whole body shuddered so violently it felt as if his spine might snap. What was that? When the jaws released him, he sagged with a moan, but not ten seconds later, the jaws snapped closed again and shook him like prey. Was this what it felt like to die on the electric chair?
The woman held him tight, keeping him in one piece as his body quaked and his muscles screamed. She was talking, too, but he was lost in pain.
The first word he caught in one of the brief moments between shudders was good.
Good? Deeply offended, he gritted his teeth to keep from breaking a few when his jaws rattled together. He tasted blood and knew he’d bitten his tongue.
In the next surcease, he managed to mumble, “Not good.”
Her lips brushed his ear. “Yes, it is. Shivering is how your body warms you.”
Or, at least, he thought that’s what she’d said.
Wracked by pain, he knew one thing: whatever was happening to him wasn’t shivering. This was more like being torn limb from limb by an orca or a grizzly. Maybe that’s what was happening.
Except it couldn’t be, he thought confused, unless he was imagining her, too. Soft lips and voice, strong arms, warm.
He didn’t remember the last time he’d prayed. He must have been a boy. But he prayed now.
Please, God, don’t let me be imagining her.
* * *
CLAIRE STIFFENED. WAS that the distant sound of an outboard motor? Not a cabin cruiser, something smaller. Like the skiff sometimes carried as runabouts on large cabin cruisers?
It could easily be someone innocently exploring from a bigger boat anchored out in deeper waters. Still, she throttled any impulse to run outside and light a flare. She had to wait until the stranger could tell her what had been going on. Those certainly hadn’t been good guys on the deck of either the small freighter or the yacht. If they were hunting this man, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, too, if they found him. Just as they’d killed Mike, without a second thought.
If only this were Mike. If she’d found him floating, hypothermic but still alive. Tears in her eyes, she thought about having to apologize to Shelby for sharing a sleeping bag with her husband. Instead... Her face twisted and those tears rolled down her face. Instead, she’d have to tell Shelby that Mike was dead. Murdered. That she hadn’t even been able to recover his body to bring him home.
The stranger lifted his head with what had to be a monumental effort. Those eyes, green and gold and brown, devoured her face.
“Crying.”
He still slurred the word, but she was pretty sure that’s what he’d said. Then his teeth snapped together, and he had another vicious bout of shaking. No, that was too mild a word. Convulsing was closer to the reality.
“It’s okay,” she comforted him. “It’ll be okay.” She wished she had the slightest idea whether that had any possibility of being true.
Time passed. Hours, but she lost track of how many. Judging from the angle of the sun she saw through the open tent flap when she lifted her head, the sun was dropping in the sky. Given how long days were this far north in June, sunset was still hours away.
The shudders became mere shivers. Color was returning to his face. His hands...felt warm. He was the one to pull them from beneath her shirt.
“Burning,” he muttered. “Feet, too.”
Wincing, she told him, “That’s...good, too.”
The dark look he gave her stirred unease that reminded her—stranger. Criminal. Threat.
She kept forgetting as she cradled him, sharing her body heat to save his life. Staying afraid of a man you had shared this kind of intimacy with wasn’t easy.
Maybe he could handle a cup of tea now. She really needed to slip behind a shrub or tree trunk to answer the call of nature, too.
Oh, Lord—what if he needed the same? Was he capable of walking yet? Mike might have some kind of urinal in his kayak...but if so, she’d never been aware of him using it. And...what if the stranger needed help?
Claire pushed the extra sleeping bag away so it no longer covered their heads and began wriggling to reach the zip of her own bag so she could free herself.
A strong arm locked around her. “What are you doing?” he growled.
Ignoring the chill his gruff demand had awakened, she said, “I have to pee.”
For a frightening moment, she wasn’t sure he’d let her go, but then he withdrew the arm. “Oh.”
“What about you?” she felt compelled to ask.
He blinked a few times and finally shook his head. “No.”
“Good.” She crawled out and zipped up the bag again, tugging up the extra layers to tuck him in like a child. “How do you feel?”
“Terrible.” He gave a rough laugh. “But better.”
“The water along this stretch of coast is likely below fifty degrees. You wouldn’t have lasted long in it.”
His brow creased in puzzlement, as if he wasn’t sure what she was talking about.
And, of course, he hadn’t exactly gone for a swim voluntarily. They had to talk, but peeing came first. Getting her camp stove set up, too, and having a bite to eat. Lunchtime had come and gone.
She didn’t hear a peep from behind her as she got to her feet in front of the tent and walked away. Clearly, he was past the most frightening stage, which meant he’d live.
And meant he now posed a danger to her.
Did she have anything in her kayak that could serve as a weapon? Maybe the bear spray, which was really just pepper spray. Since she’d already set it out, she’d grab it when she got back. Turning, she studied the front of her tent from an angle and tried to remember whether she’d put it inside or just outside. She’d paid no attention as she crawled out.
If it had been outside...it wasn’t there anymore.
Chapter Three
He hadn’t lied to his rescuer; he felt like garbage. Muscles might as well be Jell-O. Man, his hands and feet especially still burned as if he’d taken a dip in a molten crater instead of the northern Pacific Ocean. Out of curiosity, he worked one hand up above his covers so he could see it.
Yeah, flaming red. Damn.
Beat being so cold he’d expected to die, though.
He pulled his hand back into the warm cocoon and listened for her return. He thought, once his brain worked again, however sluggishly, he would become intensely curious about her. Just now was the first real look he’d had of her face and then body.
Messy blond hair, long enough to be mostly captured in a braid that hung to the middle of her back. Blue eyes, vivid against a face that was as much red with sunburn as tan, and peeling in places, too. From behind, she was slender and strong, but with curves, too. Nobody could mistake her as a guy. After having her breasts pressed against his side for hours, he knew they were generous.
He lay there, rigid, listening for any sound but especially a voice. He didn’t like having her out of his sight. What if she called for help? He’d tried to tell her not to, but wasn’t sure she’d even heard him. They could use the VHF to call for help, just not on the channel all boaters monitored. Who knew? Her mobile phone might have enough bars to connect.
If she had issued a general call for help, their life spans would end shortly.
He should have followed her out, or insisted she give him custody of all electronic devices bef
ore she headed out on her own. He huffed. Sure, that would have worked. Given his condition, she could tip him over with a tap of one finger.
He didn’t hear so much as a whisper until some small noises out front had him lifting his head.
Seated on what appeared to be a folding canvas-and-aluminum chair, she was setting up a stove at her feet. He could just see her face in profile.
“If you’re awake,” she said over her shoulder, “I’m going to boil water. I have tea, coffee and hot chocolate. Unless you hate chocolate, that might be the best choice. You could use some sugar.”
He didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but she was right. “Hot chocolate.”
She didn’t comment, just put a pan on top of the flame, then rustled around in a vinyl bag. After a minute, she stood and walked away. When she came back, she had a tall mug in her hand.
From the dead man’s kayak.
He labored for a minute over that realization. Was it her husband or boyfriend who’d been shot and killed? Whose clothes he was wearing? Almost had to be. And yet she’d collected herself enough to save the life of a complete stranger. Why would she?
He sat up and, still enclosed in the sleeping bag, scooted himself forward using only his left arm until he sat in the opening created by tent flaps tied back. She didn’t turn her head, but her shoulders and back stiffened, betraying her awareness that he was moving.
“What’s your name?” he asked hoarsely.
Now she did look at him. “Claire Holland. What’s yours?”
“Rick—” He shook his head. “Adam Taylor.”
“Not Rick?”
“I’ve been calling myself that for a while. I...have to think of myself by that name.”
She didn’t so much as blink, seeming to look right through him. “Why the fake name?”
“I’m a federal agent. DEA. Those were drug smugglers.”
“Why were you shot?”
“I objected to the kayaker getting shot.” He hesitated. “You must have been together.”
She tipped her head back and said in a tight voice, “We were.”
“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t real good at sounding compassionate, but he tried. “Was he your husband?”
“No.” She didn’t want to look at him. “Friend. I’ll have to tell his wife—” Her voice broke.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“Why kill him?” Tears rolled down her face when she let him see it again. “He wasn’t any threat to them.”
“No. That’s what I said.” He tried to flex his fingers, but they were reluctant. Swollen, he decided. Grimly, he added, “And that they’d now go down for murder as well as smuggling if they were caught.”
“They didn’t...guess that you were undercover?”
“I didn’t think so, but now I have to wonder.”
“Do you have ID?”
Her suspicion didn’t surprise him. He had to say, “Never carry any undercover. All I had was a driver’s license that shows me as Richard Beckman.” He reached automatically toward his back pocket and realized he didn’t have one. He’d known these weren’t his clothes. His pants... He looked around and saw heaps of wet clothing scattered around. “I have a wallet.”
“You had a wallet. Or...maybe.” She rose with a lithe ease he envied and picked up a couple of pieces of clothing he didn’t recognize until she found his dripping-wet cargo pants. After patting the various pockets, she shook her head. “Nope. I hope it didn’t have anything important in it.”
“A few bucks. Fake Alaska driver’s license and insurance card.”
“Okay.” She returned to the camp stove.
Since she was occupying her hands by spooning hot chocolate mix into two mugs, followed by boiling water, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
“How is it we didn’t see you?” he asked abruptly.
“I was hidden behind that islet. The one Mike popped out from behind. I had a funny feeling when I saw two such big boats squeezed into a narrow passage between islands. It didn’t make sense, unless... I’ve read about smuggling. Mike was too far ahead for me to stop him, but I back paddled and squeezed up next to the rock where I could see through some cedar branches.”
“Smart.”
“As it turned out, yes. Lucky for you, too.”
“Yeah.” That came out so gruffly, Adam cleared his throat. “I wasn’t standing ten feet from the guy who shot your friend. Why did you rescue me?”
Her shoulders jerked. “You were alive. I knew Mike was gone. I couldn’t just watch you drown.”
“Thank you,” he said after a moment.
She nodded and poured boiling water into the two mugs before turning off the small flame and reaching out to hand his drink to him. “Can you hold it?”
“Don’t know,” he admitted.
He could only lift his left arm out of the sleeping bag. When Claire got a look at his hand, she shook her head. “Uh-uh. It’s too hot to take a chance of you spilling it and burning yourself.” She set it down on a reasonably flat rock. “Let’s let it cool down a little.”
He watched her. He thought she flushed, but couldn’t be sure because of the sunburn.
“Did you just contact anybody?” Adam jerked his head toward the dense forest just behind the tent.
“No!” Her head came up. “Now I’m thinking maybe I should have.”
“I won’t hurt you.” He hesitated. “I’d like to be able to tell you that you’re safe with me, but you’re not. You got mixed up in something dangerous.”
Those vivid blue eyes widened. “You think I didn’t notice?”
He grimaced. “No.”
“You told me not to use the VHF radio.”
“Did I? I...couldn’t remember.”
“You said they’d be monitoring any talk. But I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t they be long gone?”
“They might be.” He wished his thinking didn’t still feel so muddled. “But I’m afraid they might have gotten nervous. Wished they’d pumped a couple more bullets into me before they left.”
“Surely they’d know how quickly water that cold would kill you, if you weren’t already dead.”
“These guys weren’t as dumb as I expected them to be.” The job hadn’t been quite what he thought it would be, either. Adam shut down any temptation to tell her that part, not until doing so became absolutely essential. “Dwayne will be remembering the kayak floating not that far away,” he added. “What if I got to it? He doesn’t take chances.”
“Thus, him shooting you.”
Adam tried to touch the shoulder that hurt. “Guess so. Uh...did you wrap it?”
“Yes. I should take another look at it while it’s still light. I have some antibiotic ointment, but I didn’t think to put any on. The hypothermia was a greater danger then.”
He grimaced. “Is the bullet still in there?”
Claire shook her head, sending her braid swinging. “No, there’s a really big hole under your shoulder blade.”
“That whole upper quadrant hurts like hell.”
“I do have some painkillers. You can swallow them with the hot chocolate.” She reached for a bright red square container marked clearly as a first-aid kit and unzipped it. “Aspirin...no, not when you’re probably bleeding. Um, acetaminophen, or I have a few prescription-strength painkillers.”
Adam thought about it. “Let’s hold off on those. I may get worse before I get better.”
She nodded, shook out a couple Tylenol tablets and set them in his outstretched hand before checking the tall mug, apparently deciding the contents had cooled off enough, and kneeling beside him.
He took a cautious sip when she lifted the mug to his lips, then tossed the pills in his mouth and took a lot longer drink, using his own hand to guide the angle of the mug. Damn, that tasted g
ood, and the warmth flowing down his throat and spreading through his core felt even better.
“If you help me stick my fingers through the handle, I think I can do this,” he suggested.
She did, then scooted away with what appeared to be relief. Gazing out toward the water, she sipped her own drink, her thoughts well hidden.
But finally she said, “I checked my cell phone. No coverage.”
“Have you had any since you left...?”
“Anacortes. I’m from Seattle. And I’ve been able to make a couple of calls, but mostly my phone is dead.”
He nodded. The small city on Fidalgo Island in Washington State was a frequent launching point for boaters heading up the Sunshine Coast and into the Inside Passage to Alaska. Washington State ferries that serviced the San Juan Islands and carried passengers and cars to Victoria on Vancouver Island launched from Anacortes, too.
Up this way, he’d seen Canadian ferries. Waving down one of those would be good, but he’d also seen the nautical chart currently displayed in the wheelhouse of the freighter and knew this current position was at least a few nautical miles from any strait large enough for that kind of traffic or the open ocean.
Then there was the fact that he wouldn’t be paddling a kayak for at least a day or two. And that only after some lessons. He’d never been in a kayak, or even a canoe. Sending Claire Holland on her own was an option...but not one he liked. She’d be as vulnerable as her kayaking partner had been.
Unarmed, how much help would he be if he were with her?
“Have you heard or seen any other traffic since we got here?” he asked.
Her gaze skittered from his. “I...heard a motor while we were in the tent. Unless I was imagining it.”
He waited.
“Something small. A skiff, maybe.”
Adam swore under his breath.
“Did that freighter carry one?”
“Yeah, and a fancier inflatable boat, too, that has an outboard motor.”
“And...the yacht?”
Dead in the Water Page 3
