She took a shallow breath and slipped into the bilge’s rising seawater. Under water, the engine’s roar was a nightmarish, alien grumble. Above her, the shaft spun, threw air onto her nose. Oily liquid licked over her lips, teased her skin. Half-dizzy, she eased beneath the prop shaft.
Her hand found the catwalk. Clutching her ponytail with her other hand, she levered herself out of the bilge water and into safety. She hauled herself onto the catwalk, heaving for breath and trying not to cry.
Chris coughed a couple of times. This wasn’t just diesel fumes. It was exhaust fumes, fumes that should have been ejected from the boat’s stern just like car exhaust from a road vehicle. She had to get out before they choked her, killed her.
And I didn’t swim through a stinking bilge to die now.
She worked one foot onto the catwalk. The other caught on something in the bilge, then she got it loose. On shaking hands and knees, she backed toward the hatch just like she’d always done when she came below. The familiar way. As she got closer to the engine room, the catwalk lightened with the stray beams from the overhead lighting system shining through the hatch.
Then she was in the engine room and could stand. At her first deep inhale, the exhaust fumes nearly choked her.
Shit.
She had to get out, to get above, into the space and fresh air and some kind of bright light. Queasy, dizzy, she reached for the engine room door.
It was locked.
Chapter 6
“McLellan! Smitty! Down here! Let me out!” Chris yelled, banging on the door with her fist until her hand ached.
She pressed her oily ear to the steel and listened. Nothing but the metallic clatter of Hortense patiently chugging along.
If both men were on the flybridge, they’d never hear her.
She turned the door’s L-shaped handle and shoved. The door wasn’t locked because the handle turned. No, it was stuck. Or blocked.
Her mind flashed on the broom she’d kicked aside in the passageway. Had the yacht’s motion shifted it, caused it to wedge against the door?
She pounded the steel door twice, more from frustration than panic. “Dammit,” she muttered, then coughed when she inhaled.
She irritably kicked the door, then reeled back, fighting dizziness. She dropped onto the tool chest, knocking a stray screwdriver into the floor. Don’t be stupid. Don’t waste your energy. Think.
No crawl spaces between this engine room and Claire’s. No hatches up into the office above. Why wasn’t the extractor fan working? Without it, there was no way of venting the exhaust fumes, which shouldn’t be in the engine room in the first place. The acrid, cloying stench irritated her eyes, made her stomach roll as badly as the yacht.
She blinked rapidly to clear the tears away. Oily water eased in runnels down her arms. She ran one greasy hand through her hair to get it back out of her face. Hortense rumbled and rattled, never missing a stroke. Chris’s gaze snapped suddenly to Hortense’s massive bulk. I’m an idiot.
Abruptly she stood, grabbed the emergency stop lever on the top of the engine and pulled.
Hortense obediently chugged to a halt.
Chris had to sit down again. The room reeled around her; the yacht’s careening up and over waves turned her stomach. If she puked now she’d probably pass out from the blood rush to her head. She swallowed, held on. Coughing, she leaned her head on the wall behind her and stared at the join of floor and wall, trying to stay conscious.
Across the passageway, Claire continued her grumbling for what felt like all night. Night. Yes, it was night and way past her bedtime. Footsteps pounding on the staircase jolted her from a doze. A man shouted something she couldn’t understand. A snapping sound, then the door swung open.
“Christina!”
McLellan’s strong arms went around her and lifted her. Floor, shoulder, cologne, shirt, wall, ceiling. She closed her eyes and concentrated on not throwing up. By the time she opened her eyes again she could see stars beyond the aft deck’s ceiling and a cool, fresh wind hit her full-on. McLellan had propped her in a deck chair and was reaching in the fridge for a bottled water. Obsession lolled in the waves, Claire vibrating comfortingly deep in the hull.
McLellan swabbed her face with a towel doused in icy water.
“Damn,” she muttered, then started coughing.
His strong hand supported her head until the spasms faded. “That was close,” he murmured.
She leaned her head on the chair’s back. “You have no idea.”
“Need a drink?”
“Something to settle my stomach.”
She closed her eyes. The fridge snicked open and the seal broke on a plastic bottle’s cap.
“Here.”
He held the soda to her lips and she drank gratefully. There was nothing in the world like a cold Coke Classic going down hard and fast. It worked wonders on the human body and attitude. At least the darkness had quit crowding on the edges of her vision as her stomach latched onto the soft drink.
“Hang on,” he warned, pulling the bottle away. “Don’t make yourself sick.”
The wind, tinged with Claire’s exhaust, blew over the rail and weakened her knees. Behind the fumes, she could smell the metallic scent of rain. The storm she’d seen on the weather fax earlier, headed their way. She just wanted to lie in this chair and feel cold rain on her skin. And breathe.
When McLellan dabbed her cheek with the towel, she said, “I’m okay. Really.” Her voice sounded like it’d been sanded down to the bone.
“You don’t look okay.” His voice was firm, steady. He kept wiping her face, and she realized she felt comforted. “What happened? Why are you wet?”
“I was tightening a packing gland when the engines started.”
His puzzled frown said he didn’t understand, so she shook her head, the explanation caught in her aching throat. “There’s an exhaust leak somewhere in the engine room.”
“How the hell did the broom get wedged against the door?”
“It was lying in the floor and I kicked it out of the way. It must have rolled back in the wave action.”
He refolded the towel to a clean spot and passed it over her lips, held it there. She met his gaze, intense in the darkness. He hadn’t turned on the overhead light, she realized. There was nothing but starlight shining on them, and the dim glow of a galley lamp.
He drew the towel slowly down her jaw, down her neck. He frowned when his gaze wandered to her torn sleeve.
“The prop shaft caught it when the engine started.” Her voice scraped and trembled.
He pressed her oily hand against his cheek. “Promise me.” His warm breath on her wrist felt like a caress. “Promise me you won’t go down there alone again.”
She didn’t answer. For this moment, she felt safe. If he hadn’t found her, she’d have either suffocated in the fumes or drowned in the bilge—
“The bilge pumps,” she said, her brain finally starting to fire on more than one cylinder. “The bilge pumps weren’t running.”
“Damn.” He pressed the towel into her palm and headed through the salon.
She struggled out of the chair to follow him across the salon’s steady gray planking, then the galley’s tile, then the teak and holly strips of the pilothouse. The steel railing of the stairs leading up to the flybridge chilled her hands. Her fingers felt hot, like sunburn. McLellan’s back, just in front of her, was a mile away. He turned his head and cursed, then wrapped his arm around her.
“Why didn’t you stay put?” he growled as he guided her to the flybridge’s bench seat.
“Good Lord, Chris, what happened?” Smitty asked, eyes wide.
“Bilge pumps,” McLellan barked. “Are they running?”
Smitty switched each pump on manually. In turn, the amber lights above the switches flickered on. “Yeah, everything’s good. Hortense quit all of a sudden—”
“I pulled the plug,” Chris said. “I was working on the stuffing box when you started her.”
<
br /> In the eerie green instrument lighting, Chris saw Smitty’s face go still. “Holy shit.” He abandoned the wheel to sit next to her, take her hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Why the hell did you start the engines?” God, her voice sounded rough.
“The depth meter went crazy. I had to keep us from running aground. I thought you were just sticking your head in, not climbing around down there.” He squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry, Chris,” he said as he pulled her into his embrace.
She felt helpless to do anything more than wait for him to let her go. Her muscles had long since given in to shock and fatigue, her throat still felt like a scratching pad, and she tasted chemicals. Beneath his shirt, Smitty’s heart beat clear and strong.
“I’m okay,” she protested.
First things first.
“Are we away from the shoals now?” she asked, pulling away. She stared at his white shirt. She’d imprinted it, like a crime scene outline.
“Yeah,” he was saying. “It was the weirdest thing. The GPS hit a dead spot and then all of a sudden the depth meter started screaming. I had to get us off the shelf or whatever the hell was down there.”
Her brain, bleary as it still was, recognized the dead spot phenomenon. The itinerant cruisers had mentioned it to her when she talked about traveling near the ICW—an area where GPS devices sometimes lost contact with the satellite. Rumor had it the Navy and Coast Guard occasionally tested a GPS-blocking device around that area, and it blocked satellite transmissions for several miles, even into the gulf.
“Don’t start Hortense again,” she said. “There’s an exhaust leak.”
“We should haul ass for a doctor,” McLellan said from the helm where he held the wheel.
“No, I’ll be fine after a while.”
“How long were you breathing carbon monoxide?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. Just a few minutes maybe. There’s not much carbon monoxide from diesel.”
“It was a fog in the entire lower passageway. What makes you think you’re okay?”
“Look, just give it until we get to New Orleans. I’ve not lost motor function or my ability to speak. I’ll get a checkup when we land.”
“Probably a day late, though,” Smitty said grimly.
“We can make it up on the run south. As long as the bilge pumps keep working, we’ll be fine.” Chris hesitated. “I’ll be fine.”
McLellan’s face was cut stone in the dim light but he said nothing.
She pushed the stray lock of hair back from her forehead. The lock that would have killed her if it’d wrapped around the prop shaft in the dark. How long would it have taken them to find her body?
“I’m going to shave myself bald,” she said to no one in particular.
“Don’t you dare,” McLellan said softly, his frown clearing a little. “Come on. You can’t shower and sleep in your cabin with the stench in the passageway. Fumes everywhere. You take a shower in the guest bathroom and I’ll make up the upper crew bed for you. Smitty can handle the boat.”
“I’ve still got two hours on my shift.”
“I got it,” Smitty said. “Least I can do after almost killing you.”
McLellan shot Smitty a hard glance and Chris felt Smitty stiffen. “Come on, Christina.”
She took McLellan’s hands and let him pull her to her feet. His arm went around her as he guided her to the stairs.
“I’ll go first,” he said, “in case you fall.”
“I’m not a total invalid,” she insisted. “I don’t need help.”
His skeptical look annoyed her even more, but she didn’t have the energy to argue. She was just tired and shaky, not on the verge of collapse. Still, it was nice to have his arm around her as they navigated through the pilothouse into the galley, then into the upper passageway to the guest head. His arm felt just like she’d thought it would, just as it had around her earlier.
“What do you want to sleep in?” he asked, leaning in the forepeak bathroom’s doorway as she turned on the shower. “Do you have a nightgown or something?”
She caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked like a refugee from a forced labor lube and tune. Black grease and oil smeared her hair and face. Her shirt hung awkwardly on her frame; the ripped sleeve had taken part of the side seam with it and her bra showed there. Her cheek and the bridge of her nose sported a light red streak, like a faint burn, but from what she didn’t know and couldn’t remember.
No wonder he thought she was going to pass out on him.
Something to sleep in. Something soft and comforting. She nodded to him. “Top right-hand drawer. A T-shirt and the gray sweat pants.”
He closed the door, leaving her alone in a space that was suddenly too small. She braced her hands against both walls to steady herself. How long am I going to be shaky? She stripped off her nasty shorts, then pulled off what was left of her shirt, dropped them in a slimy heap on the floor.
She closed the frosted shower door behind her and leaned into the warm spray. The new water heater was doing its job, she noted absently. The shampoo she’d put in this bathroom for Natalie’s return, a wildflower scent, smelled wonderful.
A rush of cool air over the shower door startled her. Outside, she saw a figure draping a towel over the bare rod, then laying pale garments on the toilet seat. He paused, as if waiting for something or thinking about speaking. Then the bathroom door clicked closed.
She shivered. McLellan couldn’t see her through the frosted glass but she felt exposed. Bare. Vulnerable. She ran her hand through her wet hair, down over her taut breast. Be honest. She felt aroused, knowing he was just out there while she was just in here.
Stop it. It’s just been a long time.
But it was more than that. She’d nearly died. She wanted to feel the weight of him on her, keeping her covered up, safe from everything that threatened to hurt her. She needed comfort, raw and physical, to remind her she was alive.
She twisted the shower knobs to Off and opened the door. Cold air struck her like the back of a hand. She hurriedly toweled off and slipped into the oversize T-shirt and comfortable track suit pants. Better, she thought, then caught sight of herself in the slowly defogging mirror. Her eyes were still red-rimmed, irritated with the fumes, she told herself, and it made her irises that much bluer. Preternaturally blue. She opened the door.
The smell of hot chocolate wafted in her direction and her knees weakened again. Perfect. McLellan stood at the drying rack in the galley, putting away the dinner plates.
“Hope you made enough for two.” She perched on a galley stool, feeling a bit stronger from just the shower and the smell of chocolate.
McLellan grinned and tossed his drying towel over his shoulder. “Comin’ up.” He poured her a cup. “How many marshmallows?”
“I didn’t know we had marshmallows.”
“Because you didn’t do the shopping, Captain. I did.”
“I like having a galley wench,” she teased, then stopped short as her gut clenched at the normalcy. No tears. Not now. “Three, please.”
He handed her the sweet-doctored mug. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” She forced a smile as she sipped the best cup of hot chocolate she’d ever tasted. “This is certainly helping.”
His eyes narrowed. “You had a helluva close call.”
“Two or three times over, when you think about it.” She put a death grip on her mug. “Guess I have a few lives left.”
“I’ve been there a couple of times myself,” he said as he settled onto a stool next to her. His gaze, which could be so gray, so distant, studied her so intently she wanted to squirm. “My line of work is dangerous, but at least I expect it to be.”
“Have you been shot?”
“Once, yes.”
“How long were you in the hospital?”
“How long do you think you can avoid talking about how you feel?”
When she didn’t answer, he leaned close. “You didn’
t promise me.”
She carefully sipped her chocolate. “Promise you what?”
“That you won’t go into the engine room alone again.”
She faced him then, meeting his gaze squarely. “If you’d been with me tonight, we’d both have died.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed briefly. “I went down there while you were in the shower. You left a trail of oil all the way to the stuffing box. There was a handprint on the hull.” His eyes darkened, but with what emotion she couldn’t say. “Promise me, Christina.”
“I can’t—”
“You can do whatever you want once we get you and your sister home,” he said irritably. “But until then, I don’t want you down there alone. I want someone with you so this doesn’t happen again.”
“It was a freak accident.”
“I saw the prop shaft.” He swung off his stool and paced into the galley. “I understand now what it could have done to you.” His hands fisted as he strode back to her, then abruptly he let go to take her face in his hands and kiss her hard.
Yes. His anger made him rough with her, made his lips and tongue demanding. Yes, this. Exactly this. He threaded his fingers through her hair, licked the soft spot just under her ear. His shoulders, solid under her hands, flexed as he palmed her breast through her smooth cotton shirt. It had been so long. Connor, she thought, and didn’t know if she said his name aloud.
He abruptly pulled away. “I’m sorry.” He stroked her drying hair, then shook his head. His fingers trembled slightly as he let her go. “I’m out of line.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She wanted to tell him to kiss her again, but he was right. This was business. They had to concentrate on Natalie first. This…temptation…would distract her. Make her wish for something that would just get in the way of saving her sister.
And the last time he’d kissed her, Obsession had come close to being hulled. She didn’t believe in signs, but maybe it was time to start.
Chris clamped down on her awakened and unanswered need, tried not to feel the heat pooling in her core. “I should get some sleep,” she said, then before McLellan could reply, she fled from her bar stool into a strange and lonely bed.
Dead Reckoning Page 9
