Hunting Houston
Page 1
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Books by Sandy Steen
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Copyright
“I’m not the kind of woman you’re used to,”
Abby said.
“You have no idea what I’m used to,” Houston replied with an edge to his voice. “Tell you what, Miss Abigail, let’s say you and I agree not to deal in generalities. I’ll refrain from making any misleading assumptions about you, and you do the same about me.”
“Misleading? You think I’ve misled you?” Was it possible he knew who she was? Why she was here?
“I think you’re a beautiful woman. And I think finding out who you are is going to be one sweet adventure.”
“You may be disappointed.”
“Why?”
“This is it. Plain and simple. No deep, dark secrets. No hidden agenda,” she lied. “I’m just what I appear to be.”
“No one,” he said, “is just what they appear to be. And everyone has secrets. Some darker than others.”
Dear Reader,
Wow! What a month we’ve got for you. Take Maddy Lawrence’s Big Adventure, Linda Turner’s newest. Like most of us, Maddy’s lived a pretty calm life, maybe even too calm. But all that’s about to change, because now Ace Mackenzie is on the job. Don’t miss this wonderful book.
We’ve got some great miniseries this month, too. The One Worth Waiting For is the latest of Alicia Scott’s THE GUINESS GANG, while Cathryn Clare continues ASSIGNMENT: ROMANCE with The Honeymoon Assignment. Plus Sandy Steen is back with the suspenseful—and sexy—Hunting Houston. Then there’s Beverly Bird’s Undercover Cowboy, which successfully mixes romance and danger for a powerhouse read. Finally, try Lee Karr’s Child of the Night if you enjoy a book where things are never quite what they seem.
Then come back again next month, because you won’t want to miss some of the best romantic reading around— only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Enjoy!
Leslie Wainger
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Hunting Houston
Sandy Steen
Books by Sandy Steen
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Sweet Reason #155
Past Perfect #202
The Simple Truth #375
Run to the Moon #459
Sterling Advice #545
Hunting Houston #710
Silhouette Special Edition
Vanquish the Night #638
SANDY STEEN
Hooked on romance since she read Gone With The Wind at age twelve, Sandy credits dedicated teachers who stressed the benefits of a solid reading foundation for a major part of her success. Since her first book was published, she has repeatedly made the Waldenbooks bestseller list, received a Romantic Times KISS Award and was nominated for the 1994 Romantic Times Reader’s Choice Award.
A native Texan, Sandy leads a busy life as an author, mother of two and grandmother of one. But most of all, she is a lover of romance in print, on the screen and, of course, in real life.
For the Three Amigos.
May we live long and travel.
Prologue
A steady wind filled the sails, sending the sixty-fourfoot catamaran, Two of a Kind, skimming over the ocean like a hawk on the wing. Headed south by southwest, toward the big island of Hawaii, her twin hulls rhythmically rose and fell with the waves, and off her port side the blazing orange-red sun dipped lower and lower into the Pacific.
At the helm, Houston Sinclair turned his face to the wind, savoring the soul-deep peace that always enveloped him when he was on the open sea. In the past half hour the wind had picked up considerably, and the swells were climbing. Houston didn’t mind in the least. For him, the sea was always a challenge, always an adventure.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with sea air, feeling right with the world.
Then the world exploded beneath his feet.
One second he was standing on deck. The next, he was flying through the air.
He hit the water on his right side, almost in a fetal position. Instantly, the ocean closed over him like a shroud.
Stunned by the impact, he sank deeper and deeper. Bubbles, millions of them, filled with life-giving air, surrounded him. He was smothered in a whirlpool of bubbles, and for a terrifying second that felt like an agonizing eternity, he couldn’t tell which way was up. Which way was the surface?
He panicked.
Kicking and groping wildly, he grappled with the bubbles, his mind screaming for sanity, his lungs screaming for air. Finally, the instinct for survival, darkly primordial and powerful, took control, forcing him to look up, to follow the bubbles. His lungs burning, he clawed his way toward air, toward life. Seconds later, his head broke the surface, his body shooting out of the water like a missile as he gasped for breath. Dazed and disoriented, he went under again, and shot back up, coughing, choking—and deliriously happy to suck in sweet, life-giving air. A wave picked him up, pausing for an instant, then dropped, crashing over him. This time he fought to stay afloat, and won.
In that brief, stunning moment Houston got a good look at the Two of a Kind.
Her right hull was damaged and partially submerged. The rest of her was almost completely engulfed in flames.
Another wave snatched him up, and from his watery perch, the sky, the water, the whole world looked aflame. The last rays of the sun blasted across the tumultuous horizon, turning the sky blood red, fed like a transfusion by the flames from the blazing ship. The churning water reflected the God-made and man-made infernos, forming a flaming trinity of destruction.
“Shelley!” he screamed, realization hitting him for the first time. He tried to swim for the boat but another wave hauled him up, then down, impeding his progress, carrying him farther away from the wounded catamaran. “Shelley! Shelley, where are you?”
She had gone below to make coffee a few moments before—
A few moments before the explosion.
Oh, God, no! Please, no!
The thought that his partner’s beautiful, loving wife might be injured, or worse, made his blood run cold. He had to get to her.
Fighting the roller-coaster waves was futile. The harder he tried, the more distance the waves put between him and the boat. Houston knew the only way to reach it was underwater. He took a deep breath, preparing to dive, then stopped.
He couldn’t do it.
For a half a heartbeat panic reared its ugly head, and the thought streaked through his mind that if he went under he might not come up. This time the sea would keep him.
Finally, the image of Shelley waiting for help, waiting for him, shoved panic aside, and he dove beneath the surface. With light from the flames to aid him, Houston swam hard until he was only a few yards from the catamaran. Underwater he could see that the right pontoon, the one connected to the tiny galley, wasn’t just damaged.
It was shattered.
His head broke the surface. Flames ate away at the sleek
-lined craft, crackling and popping like the laughter of demons.
“Shelley! Shelley, answer me!”
But there was no answer.
He had no idea what had caused the explosion, but the cause didn’t matter so much as the thought that it might trigger another. If that happened…
He had to get to Shelley. Now!
The ship was taking on water. Flames leaped higher and higher over the remaining hull, cracking, hissing. The stench of burning fiberglass filled his nostrils while the wind and waves, in league to separate him from the boat, tried to drown him. In the low point between waves, he tried to swim at an angle, treading water and riding the ever-increasing swells, trying to make it to the starboard side.
Please, he prayed. Let her have been headed topside. And not in the galley!
Finally, by lunging through the water more than swimming, Houston managed to maneuver himself around the boat. Thankfully, a portion of the left hull and the wheelhouse were not on fire. But for how long? The fuel tanks were virtually full. The rest could go any minute. And the sun was almost gone.
He had to get to her.
“Shel—” A mouthful of water cut him off as a wave slammed him into the jagged opening of the damaged hull. Pain, quick and hot, shot down his leg. He screamed, the sound abbreviating to tortured gurgles as he slipped beneath the surface. He shot back up, fighting the waves. Fighting the pain.
Forget the pain. Forget everything but Shelley.
He had to get to her. The probability of another explosion increased with every passing second.
Determined to find her, Houston hauled himself on board the sinking ship, flopping onto the slanted, heaving deck.
“Shelley!” he called, trying to see through the billowing smoke.
“Hou-Houston,” finally came a choked response accompanied by the thunk-thunk of a muted bell.
“Thank God!” The heat from the flames scorched his face and the smoke thickened. She had to be topside, he decided. Near the bow. Probably holding on to the ship’s bell.
“I’m coming, Shel. Hang on!”
He started crawling to the starboard side, trying to make his way around the fire, make his way to her, then stopped.
The raft! He had to have the raft. Can’t survive without it.
“Houston. Hurry, hurry,” Shelley called again, her voice fading.
He turned his head toward the sound of her voice, weak, helpless, imploring, then turned to look at the section of molded fiberglass that served as both a bench seat and storage locker.
Then he glanced at his leg.
Bright red blood streamed down his calf from a nasty-looking gash, and mingled with seawater. With his leg cut—and no telling what injuries Shelley might have—they couldn’t survive in the open sea. They would be shark bait before the first star was visible. They had to have the raft.
“Hang on, Shel. Just hang on.”
As fast as he could, Houston crawled on his belly to the locker, yanked off the smoldering seat cushion, and reached for the two-man inflatable raft that was stored inside. With his body stretched across the deck, and his feet in the rising water, he flung the raft away from the flames and into the waves.
It inflated instantly.
Immediately, he rolled onto his belly and started crawling back up the deck. Knowing Shelley was trusting him to save her, he drove himself on, virtually ignoring what was fast becoming a wall of flames. Literally pulling himself hand over hand along the stainless-steel railing that edged the engine compartment and wheelhouse, he made his way toward the sound of her voice—a sound that grew weaker with every call.
He reached the end of the rail, his body now at almost a forty-five degree angle from the surface of the choppy water as the right hull sank deeper into the ocean, pushing the left hull into the air. Holding on with one hand, he extended his other arm as far as it would go, straining to grasp the wheel just out of reach. Finally, desperately, he lunged upward, grabbed for the wheel, and missed. His body slammed back against the deck, jarring loose his hold on the rail.
He slid back down into the churning sea.
Frantically, he tried to climb back on board, but wave after powerful wave mercilessly pulled at his body until it ripped his hands away. A massive swell jerked him up, and flung him yards from the fatally wounded catamaran.
“Houston!” Shelley screeched, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the fire and the waves crashing against the ship.
Frustrated, scared and bobbing amid the relentless swells like a cork, he waved his arms in the air, hoping she would see him. “Jump, Shelley! Just jump!”
If she saw him, he never knew.
If she heard him, called out to him, he never heard it.
The explosion drowned out sight, sound. Everything.
“Shelley-y-y!” Houston screamed, as tiny shards of debris rained down on him.
The blast lit up the ever-darkening sky, the force turning an unruly sea into a churning cauldron. Enormous waves pushed out in rings, shoving him even farther away. Far enough to see that the front of the remaining hull was gone.
Blown away.
The ship was sinking quickly now, with nothing of the catamaran left above the waterline save the top of the main mast.
He called Shelly’s name over and over, telling himself that if he had been thrown clear by the first explosion, the same thing could have happened to her.
But there was no answer.
As Houston watched, the mast of the Two of a Kind shot straight up in the air riding the crest of a mammoth wave, then vanished. Gone, was all he could think. Still, he clung to the threadbare hope that somehow Shelley had survived the explosion. He had to find her.
The raft? He had to get to the raft, so he could find her.
Through water-blurred vision he scanned the surface, finally spotting the inflated raft with its glow-inthe-dark markings. It looked so far away that for a fleeting moment despair swamped him along with the next wave. He hung in the water for long moments, the light gone, surrounded by darkness above and below. His mind spiraled toward surrender, toward giving up.
Beneath the surface, something slithered past his leg.
Cold, bloodcurdling terror exploded through his body, and any second he expected to be yanked under.
Survive! instinct demanded.
And survival was the raft.
He swam toward the floating lifesaver, his strokes as fluid as he could make them. And with each stroke, each kick, he wondered if it would be his last. With each breath he expected to feel powerful jaws take him under.
What in fact was only minutes, passed like hours before he reached the raft that seemed to deliberately bob just out of his grasp. Finally, he grabbed the side, and hauled himself up and over into the raft. He looked around, expecting to see fins break the surface, but there was nothing. His heart racing like a runaway train, he took deep, calming breaths.
“Okay,” he gasped, his saltwater-raspy voice, his harsh breathing sounding strange to his own ears. “Paddles.” He unstrapped the two small plastic paddles, then looked over the vast expanse of water. Paddle where?
A streak of white atop a wave caught his attention. “I see it!” he yelled, as if he had just seen a rescue ship on the horizon.
Maybe it was a piece of the boat big enough for Shelley to hang on to. Houston paddled like a man in a race with the devil himself, finally reaching the “patch” of white.
It was a piece of the boat. A flat piece of fiberglass approximately two feet long, one foot wide.
And mounted to its surface was the ship’s bell.
The clanger, no longer the clarion of nautical time, was twisted into a snarled ribbon of brass, and its bulb was gone. With each rise and fall of a wave, the misshapen clanger hit the side of the bell with a weak scratching sound, almost like a pitiful whimper.
Houston watched it bob in the water, heard its dead ring tolling the truth he couldn’t face.
“No-o-o!”
No! He had to try again. She was out there somewhere. She had to be.
So, he tried again. Searched again. And again. He had to find her. He had to!
He paddled until his arms felt as if they would fall off, circling what he thought was the immediate area where the boat had gone down. He called her name. Repeatedly. Incessantly.
He called until his voice gave out.
He paddled until the sun came up.
But there was nothing to see but miles and miles of empty Pacific.
At some point during the night, the winds had died, the waves calmed, almost as if, having claimed its sacrifice, the sea could again become the gentle rolling beauty that had seduced men since the beginning of time.
At some point during the night, Houston had known his efforts were futile, but he’d persisted. Not even the gash along his left shin and the second-degree burns on his arms and shoulder had stopped him. The pain from his injuries was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. The pain of facing the hideous truth.
He had made the wrong choice. And because of it, Shelley had died.
There had been a moment—maybe a half a moment—when he’d had to decide between going for Shelley first, or going for the raft. He’d chosen the raft. And while logic dictated he had made a sensible decision, shattered self-respect insisted otherwise. He had thought about his wound, about facing sharks, and in those few precious seconds he had lost any advantage he had in saving Shelley. To call what he had done an act of selfishness was pitifully inadequate.
He was a coward.
And he would die a coward.
His leg throbbed and his wound festered. Soon fever would take his sanity. It was only a matter of time before he died of infection or thirst. Or madness. Eyes closed, his face to the ever-brightening sun, he lay spent, mentally and physically.