Hunting Houston

by Sandy Steen

  An hour later—the longest hour of her life—she sat at the very back of the boat, huddled under her terrycloth beach cover like a child trying to hide from a big bad thunderstorm.

  It was quiet except for the other women clustered around a stationary dining table twenty or so feet away, talking quietly. But when Abby had first climbed back on board she had been surrounded with questions from the other divers. Talking, talking, talking, when all she wanted to do was scream for them to shut up.

  What did she think when she first saw the shark?

  How close did he get?

  How big was he?

  How close was she to the turtle?

  Did she think the shark was coming for her next?

  Why didn’t she use her knife?

  Abby’s wide-eyed gaze had darted from one man’s face to another’s, seeing their excitement, their...envy!

  My God, she could have been killed. Tiger sharks had a nasty reputation, and were known to be almost as vicious as great whites. The beast had been twice her height in length and these…these idiots wanted to participate vicariously in her horrifying experience. Rage and gut-level terror rolled around together into a hard, snarled ball of resentment. For an instant Abby thought she was going to scream.

  Men! She hated them. She hated their thirst for adventure and their need to reassert their macho egos with conquests. Killing sharks or seducing women. It was all the same to them.

  She wanted to slap their faces—all of them. Or at the very least, shake some sense into them.

  Luckily, she didn’t have to resort to violence, because Stuart Baker stepped in and fended off the eager divers.

  What was it with men and thrill-seeking? Abby wondered, staring out over the water from her little corner of safety. Most of them seemed to be drawn to it like weak minds to Svengali. Did they derive some sort of primeval adrenaline from heart-stopping, hair-raising encounters? Some addictive rush long since tamed into more civilized channels? Was that why they bungee jumped, drove fast cars even faster and did every daredevil thing known to mankind?

  And they approached their relationships with women in the same way. It didn’t matter that the methods used to conquer, subdue, gain mastery over, were soft words, whispered promises and seductive kisses. The end result was the same.

  Abby took a deep, calming breath and realized she was mentally ranting. Raving, actually; directing every bit of her rage toward the unsuspecting male divers, when in actuality the bottom line, the very gut-level bottom line, was…

  She was scared. No, terrified. Still.

  Terrified deep down inside herself where such fears lived, waiting for the moment to erupt like some emotional volcano, spewing nightmarish phobias like hot lava.

  She looked out over the water. Blue waves. Deep, dark waves… The thought of those waves, even with breathing equipment, closing over her head, her body, made Abby’s heart rate skip to a rapid-fire count. Despite the terry-cloth cover-up, she actually felt her body break out in a cold sweat. Despite the wad of fabric she clutched in a death grip, her hand shook.

  No. No, she couldn’t go back in the water. Not now. Not any time soon. Maybe never.

  Sadness, heavy and cloying, settled around her heart. She loved the ocean. Her infrequent but much-prized trips to any place with sparkling white beaches and turquoise waters were red-letter days on her calendar. The beauty and majesty of the sea had always been a love of her heart. To give it up was unthinkable.

  But if she were forced to choose at this very moment, Abby knew she would walk away without a backward glance. So great was her fear.

  She told herself it would take time to recover from such a terrifying encounter. She told herself it would pass; she would be fine. But no matter how much she reassured herself, Abby knew that dealing with her fear wasn’t going to be easy or simple. The encounter with the shark had ripped away the thin veil of self-possessed security average human beings used to make it through a day without dying of fright; without cowering in the corners of their minds in abject terror. Her veil was gone. She felt exposed. Dangerously naked. Unarmed and undefendable.

  She told herself she was being silly. She told herself to get it together, and get on down the road.

  But by the time the catamaran docked, she was only moderately successful. She was still shaking, and the instant the boat was secured, tears gathered in her eyes.

  Oh, no, she thought.

  She was going to fall apart right here in front of the other women and Stuart’s young native assistant. In front of the group of laughing young people everyone called “water babies,” who practically lived on the docks. In front of God and everybody.

  “Miz Douglass?”

  She jumped at the sound of Stuart Baker’s voice.

  “Sent your tanks and stuff on ahead with Lonnie. Hope that’s okay.”

  “What?” Abby glanced around, and realized everyone else was gone. Only she and the dive master remained, and he was looking at her. Staring, actually. Not that she hadn’t been stared at by a number of men. Handsome men, at least. But Stuart Baker had an unfriendly, odd-looking face. His eyes didn’t seem to be a good fit for the shape of his head, and his face was much too narrow for the shape of his mouth. He looked like a jigsaw puzzle gone bad.

  “Just didn’t think you’d…” Nervously, he glanced away and began coiling the anchor rope. “No reason you should hafta tote your stuff when Lonnie’s back is strong enough to carry ten tanks. You can pick it up at the shop.”

  “Y-yes,” she said, but didn’t move.

  After several seconds passed and she still hadn’t moved, Stuart set aside the rope. He watched her, studied her face and her ramrod-stiff posture.

  “Take a deep breath,” he gently commanded.

  Abby complied without thinking.

  “Now another. And another.”

  She breathed deep, but too fast.

  “Whoa. Blow the air out slowly.”

  She did, and gradually felt better. “Thanks,” she whispered. Her cheeks felt hot—from anxiety or embarrassment, she couldn’t say—and her heartbeat had gone from wildly thumping to merely galloping.

  “I know grown men that wouldn’t have done as well as you did today. You’re a gutsy lady.”

  She looked into his eyes, and recognized not only sympathy, but compassion. Compassion born of experience? “I don’t feel very gutsy.”

  He grinned, and she was astonished to see the change. All the pieces of the puzzle suddenly fell into place. His face became symmetrically balanced. Almost handsome.

  “No. I imagine you feel like your heart’s still beating like a runaway train and your legs are made out of water.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  At the mention of water Abby looked over the side of the boat. A narrow gangplank extended three or four feet from the boat to the dock. From her point of view it looked twenty feet long and two inches wide. And the water beneath it looked deep and deadly.

  She turned to find Stuart staring at her once more, his face again misaligned. Her hands started to shake again.

  “I—I’m… I’m not sure I can go b-back in the water again. Ever,” she finished on a shaky breath.

  There. She had said it out loud. She hadn’t intended to or wanted to. The words had just come out. She was embarrassed and relieved at the same time.

  “Got a right to your feelings,” he said, almost as if he knew what it had cost her to speak the words. “Got a right to decide what’s best for you.”

  Now she was shocked. When the day began she would never have classified the rugged dive master as sensitive, much less intuitive. To her amazement, he was both.

  “Y-you don’t think I’m overreacting?”

  “Miz Douglass, you swam practically eyeball-toeyeball with a tiger shark today. Nasty business, any way you cut it. You’re shook, and you got a right to be. Any diver tells me he ain’t gut-level scared of meeting a shark in open water—especially one that’s bigger t
han him—is lying.” He bobbed his chin as if to say, So there. “You’re not overreacting.”

  Now she was ashamed. She had unintentionally included Stuart in her mental ravings against men. Abby almost felt the need to apologize.

  He walked to the gangplank, turned, and held out a hand to assist her. She took it. Gladly, gratefully, allowing him to guide her across to dry land.

  He didn’t hold her hand a minute longer than he had to. A minute longer than she needed him to.

  “Thank you very—”

  “Don’t wait on me.” He nodded in the direction of Front Street. “Got work to do.”

  Abby took several steps before it dawned on her that he was giving her time to be alone. To compose herself. To regain her balance. She turned, intending to thank him again, but he was already at his task.

  By the time she walked back into the Lone Star Dive Shop she was calmer. Not calm, but calmer.

  “You’re a star,” Houston said, the minute she came through the door.

  Leaning against the counter, he jerked a thumb toward the other side of the store. Gil Leland, Lonnie and the snorkel ladies were all gathered around a television set.

  Abby frowned. “S-star?”

  “They’re playing the videotape.”

  “Tape?”

  “The shark.”

  At that moment, the dive master and four divers from the Maui Dive Shop walked in. They immediately asked to view the tape.

  “See what I mean,” Houston said.

  He watched her watching the faces of the people viewing her encounter.

  She glanced from them to him. “They’re watching it over and over.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Want to?”

  Did she? Wasn’t living the experience enough? Why put herself through the horror twice?

  Then again, maybe watching it wouldn’t be as bad as she thought it would. Maybe seeing it from a different, that is to say, distant, perspective would help her deal with her fear.

  “Have you seen it?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  She swallowed hard, waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure. Maybe for her nerves to stop jangling. Or for him to hold her hand. Neither was likely. So, she did the only thing she could. The only thing her pride permitted her to do. She faced her fear. She faced it scared, but she faced it.

  Houston watched her gather her courage from some place deep inside herself. He actually saw her shoulders straighten, her chin tilt at just the slightest bit of a defiant angle.

  “Maybe I’d better make sure I get star billing.”

  She did the best she could to smile. Under the circumstances, she did a damned fine job. A good enough job to make Houston want to reach for her hand, tell her he was proud of her.

  Instead, he simply walked behind her toward the crowd of viewers.

  “Hey,” one of the divers said. “There she is. Our hero.”

  “Heroine,” someone corrected him.

  Everyone applauded. Houston thought he saw her blush, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Oh, it’s so exciting,” one of the snorkel ladies gushed.

  Another agreed. “Absolutely. I can’t wait to show my friends back in Tucson.”

  “Show?”

  “We all bought copies of the video,” a third chimed in.

  “There,” the visiting dive master called. “No. Wait. You went past it. Rewind.”

  Abby stood in front of the television, given a place of honor in order to view the brief, but thrilling footage, and watched. Stared. Relived.

  The others were so busy looking at the screen, they didn’t notice that the pulse beat at her throat quickened. Or that her hands started to shake.

  Houston noticed, and the urge to fold his arms around her was so strong, his muscles strained to obey. But he didn’t, of course. She would probably think he was crazy or overeager. Or both. Besides, he thought, noticing the tiny beads of perspiration along her upper lip, she was strung tight as a bowstring. If anyone touched her right now, she would probably jump out of her skin.

  He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Pretty gutsy thing to do.”

  “I was too scared to move,” she said without taking her eyes off the screen, as Lonnie rewound the tape to show it for the fourth or fifth time.

  “Not in the water. Here.”

  Abby turned her head and looked into his eyes. He was a stranger, yet without a word from her, somehow he realized what it had cost her to watch the tape. To relive her fear. Not only did he realize, but he sympathized.

  Despite her tight rein on her emotions, tears gathered in her eyes. “Can’t…I—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, Houston put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him. “We’re getting out of here.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the shop and into the sunshine.

  “Where are we going?” she finally asked, after obediently following along for almost half a block.

  “You need food.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re going to eat anyway.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No!” She jerked her hand out of his. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I don’t want food. And I damn sure don’t want you telling me what to do.”

  He pulled her around a corner onto a side street. “What do you want, Abigail?”

  Working up to a full head of steam, she completely missed the fact that he was on a first-name basis. “For you to get the hell away from me,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Get—away.”

  “No.” His response was flat. Definite.

  And enraging.

  The rage boiled up from the center of her soul like an erupting volcano. Abby slapped him. Hard. Then she slapped him again.

  Houston never flinched, never retreated so much as an inch.

  “Feel better?”

  Stunned at her behavior, Abby simply nodded.

  “Figured you would.”

  “I—I…hit you. I’m so sorry.”

  “But you do feel better.”

  Abby suddenly realized that she did feel better. A lot better. Thanks to Houston Sinclair. “You made me mad.”

  He grinned. Not a grin of satisfaction, but pleasure. “Finally. Had me worried for a minute. You didn’t need food, you just needed to vent.”

  “You wanted me to slap you.” She stated the obvious.

  “And you let me have it.” He stroked his stinging cheek. “In spades.”

  “So I would-”

  “Snap out of it,” he finished for her. “You were about to blow a fuse if some of that fear and anger didn’t find a release valve.”

  “How did you know?”

  The grin drooped slightly. “Experience.”

  “Well,” Abby said, her voice shaky. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “’Thank you’ works.”

  “Thank you. Very much.” She touched his cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

  His groin tightened, and his body flashed hot, cold, then hotter. “No sweat,” he replied, his words the exact opposite of what he was feeling.

  Abby knew she should remove her hand, but she didn’t. She also knew she should find some way to return this encounter—this contact—to a more impersonal level. But instead, she let the moment, and her hand against his cheek, linger.

  She told herself this was all part of the plan. And for the most part, she believed it. “Let me make it up to you.”

  Houston decided his blood pressure might just go through the roof if he didn’t put a stop to her touching him. To what he was thinking as she touched him. But instead, he touched her.

  He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “Not necessary, Abigail.”

  For the third time that day, Abby held her breath. But un
like her encounter with the shark, she wasn’t afraid to move. In fact, she was stunned at how strong her desire was to move. Closer to him. Against him.

  “But if you insist,” Houston said, his breath warm on her skin, “we could go to dinner.”

  “We could.” It would help the investigation. And she could handle an intimate dinner with this man. She could do that. Of course, she could.

  “Number?”

  “What number?”

  “Of your condo.”

  “Oh, yes.” She took her hand away. “Kaanapal—”

  “Kaanapali Shores.”

  “Y-you have a good memory.”

  Unexpectedly, his dark eyes flashed even darker. “For some things.”

  When she still didn’t give him the information, he said, “I’d like to add your room number to the list.”

  “Oh, y-yes. One thirty-six, and…”

  “Yes?”

  “Under the circumstances… Well, most people call me Abby.”

  “Seven o’clock sound okay to you, Abby?”

  “Fine.”

  “See ya then.”

  As Abby watched Houston Sinclair walk away, the thought crossed her mind that if she wasn’t careful, she could be letting herself in for more trouble than she had ever bargained for.

  Chapter 4

  “Any more word from Seattle P.D.?” Abby shifted the cellular phone from one ear to the other.

  “Faxing info even as we speak,” Brax said.

  “And?” She glanced over at the portable fax machine sitting on the breakfast bar, six feet from the table where she had the case file and her notes spread out in front of her.

  “Not much. You?”

  “The same. But I did meet the boys today.”

  “And how did that go?”

  She tucked the phone under her chin, walked over, and pulled out the fax. “I’m having dinner with Sinclair tonight.”

  “Good girl. Moving right along. What about Leland?”

  Abby could almost hear Brax’s long-distance smile. “He’s on the agenda for tomorrow.”

  “Playing one against the other?”

  “Not really. I don’t think I’m Leland’s type. I was in their dive shop today, and he never so much as gave me a tumble.”

  “Must be losing your grip.”