"And just in case," Liam said, taking a shot for the hoop, "I picked up a set for you, too."
He stiffened. "Not a chance, Liam. No way is that going to happen."
"We'll see about that, won't we? Still have a couple of weeks to go…"
Before Aidan could argue, thunder rolled, grimly, determinedly and the leaves on the trees rattled as a sharp wind blasted through. Aidan glanced up at the sky, watched the gray clouds gathering.
"What do you think?"
"I think we might not get lucky this time."
"Could be days yet before we know."
"Yeah."
"You on call?" Liam asked, teasing forgotten.
"Hurricane season? Always." Hopefully the hurricane would burn itself out before reaching them, but even if the full brunt of the storm didn't hit Baywater, the accompanying winds and drenching rain could do plenty of damage.
"Hard to believe anyone would want to take a boat out in weather like this," Liam was saying.
But Aidan knew differently. Folks never figured that bad things would happen to them. It was always the "other" guy who ended up with his picture in the paper.
"Oh, there's always some idiot who thinks a storm warning is for everybody else in the city." He grabbed the ball back from Liam and ran three long strides before leaping at the hoop and dunking the ball.
Liam caught the rebound and made a jump of his own as Aidan said, "I guarantee you, right now, there's some guy out on the ocean who never should have left his house."
* * *
Six
« ^ »
She should never have left the house.
"Damn it!" Terry turned the ignition key again and listened with disgust to the pitiful whinewhinewhine of an engine trying to start—and failing.
She slammed one fist onto the dash, then gripped the wheel with both hands, squeezing it tightly instead of tearing her own hair out. "I don't believe this," she muttered, lifting her gaze to stare out over the wind-whipped ocean.
She scooped her hair back out of her eyes and stared off in the direction of Baywater. She couldn't see land. A sinking sensation opened up in the pit of her stomach—and she only hoped the boat wouldn't start feeling the same thing. The stupid boat had managed to get a few miles out to sea before the engine gave up and sputtered an ugly death. Now she could only pray that the hull of the damn thing was in better shape than its motor.
"What were you thinking?" Good question, but she didn't have a good answer.
She'd been up all night, trying to sleep but unable to close her eyes without being sucked back into the vortex of emotions that Aidan Reilly had stirred inside her. It had all started with the roar and grumble of that damned motorcycle. And sitting behind him, pressed close to his hard, warm body hadn't helped anything.
It had been so long since she'd experienced that flash of awareness, that spark of … adventure. She'd believed herself past the need or the desire for those feelings, but once awakened, she hadn't been able to put them to rest again.
She wanted to curse him for it.
But a part of her was grateful.
And then there was that kiss. She closed her eyes now and let herself feel it again. That amazing, soul-stirring, heart-crashing, bone-melting kiss. Every inch of her body had jumped to attention and clamored for more. He'd stirred something within her even more intriguing than that quest for adventure. Aidan Reilly had made her remember just how long it had been since she'd felt … anything.
She opened her eyes again and sighed as she scanned the ocean, unsuccessfully, for a hint of another boat. Someone she could wave down for assistance. She was, however, alone.
And it was all Aidan Reilly's fault.
Just before dawn, Terry had given up on sleep and surrendered to the urge driving her to get up and do something. She'd made her way down to the harbor, found a boat rental place and slapped down enough cash to allow her to steer her own course for a few hours.
That's all she'd wanted. To get out onto the ocean. To feel the wind in her face, the salt spray against her skin. To feel … free.
"Of course, it would have helped if the stupid boat would run." Muttering curses, she flipped the radio on, picked up the handset and said, "Mayday, mayday." She let up on the button and listened. Nothing. Not even static. She switched channels, spinning the dial as if it were a wheel of fortune.
Still nothing.
Why she was surprised, she couldn't say. If the engine didn't run, why should the radio work?
Oh, she really was an idiot. She hadn't thought this through. Hadn't checked the boat over before setting out. Hadn't done a damn thing to help herself.
Then she remembered her cell phone. Giving up on the radio, she rummaged in her brown leather shoulder bag and came up with a tiny, flip-top phone.
Sighing, she did the only thing she could do and dialed nine-one-one.
"911, what's the nature of your emergency?"
God, it felt good to hear a voice that wasn't her own. "Hi. This is Terry Evans. I'm stranded in the ocean, a few miles outside Baywater. I'm stalled. Engine won't turn over and the sea—" she glanced out over the frothing waves and blistering wind "—is getting bad."
"Name of the boat?"
"Wet Noodle," Terry said, cringing at the ridiculous name for the rusting pile of flotsam. "If you could just call the Coast Guard for me—"
"No Coast Guard around here, ma'am," the operator said, a low country accent drawing out her words until they were a soothing lullaby of sound. Comforting, soothing. "But we'll get someone right out to help you. You just hang on a bit, all right?"
Lowering to admit, but she did need help. Soon. She should have checked the weather before setting out this morning. Should have checked out the boat, but that would have been too smart. Too logical. And she hadn't been feeling logical this morning.
She'd been feeling … restless.
"That's good. Thanks." She nodded, as if the operator could see her. "Could you get them to hurry, though?"
Then the voice was gone and Terry was alone again. She dumped the phone back into her purse and braced her feet wide apart, to help keep her balance as the choppy waves crashed against the rusted hull of the boat from hell. Hang on?
What else could she do but hang on?
* * *
"One of Bucky's boats," Monk shouted, despite the mic he wore on his helmet. "The poor fool that rented it, couldn't even use the radio to call for help—didn't work—had to do it on a cell phone."
Disgusted, Aidan said, "I'm surprised any of Bucky's boats are still floating. The man's a menace."
Monk nodded. "Someone should put that old coot out of business."
"Yeah, but without Bucky renting out those rust buckets of his, who the hell would we have to rescue?"
Monk shook his head somberly. A bear of a man at six-four and about two hundred fifty pounds, Monk took up a lot of space and always managed to look as though he'd just lost his best friend. He leaned out and stared down at the ocean as it whizzed past beneath them, he said, "Things're getting ugly down there, Reilly."
Monk's voice came through the earpiece he wore, despite the thunderous noise of the Marine helicopter as it sliced through the air about twenty feet above the surface of the water.
Aidan looked out for himself and noticed the froth of whitecaps and the choppy sea. Storm was brewing out in the Atlantic and it was getting closer. Hell, he could feel the chopper pushing hard against a headwind. Another couple of days, that hurricane just might hit landfall and then they were in for a hell of a ride.
"Looks bad, man," Monk said, still shaking his head.
"Relax, Monk. You don't have to dive in, remember?"
"Damn right I remember," the big man said, glancing at him. "No way in hell do I go swimming in a fish's dining room. You divers are nuts."
"You know most people are afraid of flying."
"There's no figuring people," Monk said and pulled a stick of gum out of the pocket of his fl
ight suit. Unwrapping it, he added, "They'll go swimming with sharks, or sit out on a puny little boat to wave to whales, but they're afraid of a plane—precision aeronautics." Shaking his head, he popped the gum into his mouth and chewed. "Makes no sense."
"Almost on 'em," J.T. said over the mic from the pilot's seat. "E.T.A. two minutes."
Monk grabbed hold of one of the chicken straps and leaned far out of the chopper, more at home in the air than most people were on land. "Yep. There it is. Hell, whoever's on it's lucky it hasn't sunk yet. Damn that Bucky to hell and back. Prob'ly a couple hungry sharks down there right now."
"Jeez, Monk," J.T. complained. "Let it go, will ya?"
Aidan laughed as he geared up, checking his dive suit and adjusting his mask. "Just be ready with the basket. We'll bring up the passengers and leave the boat. Let Bucky worry about hauling it back in."
"Now that's justice," Monk muttered, "send the old bastard out in one of his own boats."
Aidan smiled and stepped to the open hatchway. J.T. brought the chopper in low and hovered steadily, despite the wind trying to push them back toward shore. Glancing down into the boiling surf, Aidan shot a quick look at the small boat rocking wildly with the waves, then lifted a hand to Monk, held on to his face mask and jumped.
That first second out of the chopper was the biggest rush he knew. For that one moment, he was flying. Free and easy, the wind whipping around him, tethered to neither land nor ship, and Aidan felt … alive in a way he never could if he were stuck in a nine to five job.
Then he hit the water and the icy slap of it jolted him just like always. Darkness grabbed at him with cold hands and held him briefly in the shadowy quiet. Then he was kicking for the surface again and breaching, just ten feet or so from the boat that looked as if it was going to rock itself to pieces any second.
Being one of Bucky's Bombs, it probably would.
He struck out with strong strokes and in a few seconds was grabbing hold of the side of the boat. Someone on board grabbed his hands and when he tipped his face up to say hello, his grin died.
"Terry?"
"For God's sake," she complained. "You?"
"Just what I was thinking, damn it."
Aidan shook his head, then waved to Monk, still hanging out of the chopper. In another second, the man had the rescue basket swung out into the wind and was winching it down carefully, one hand on the cable.
Turning his gaze back on Terry, Aidan hooked his arms over the side of the boat and said, "What the hell were you thinking coming out now?"
She pushed windblown hair out of her eyes and glared at him. Not much of a welcome for the guy who'd come to save her.
Her lips pinched together as if she really didn't want to answer. But she did. "I just wanted to go out on the water for a couple of hours."
"Been watching any news lately?"
"No."
"Guess not. Ever heard of Hurricane Igor?"
"Hurricane?" She shouted to be heard over the wake of the chopper.
Torn between amazement and fury at the astonishment on her features, Aidan snapped, "Get your stuff, we're taking you out of here."
"What about the boat?"
"We'll radio it in. Bucky can come get his own damn boat this time."
She stared at him. "How'd you know I rented it—"
His back teeth ground together. "It's rusty as hell and it's dead as Moses. Has to be one of Bucky's. Now let's get going, huh?"
Terry had already turned away, though, gathering up her purse and a small thermos.
"You ready?" he shouted as the rescue basket dragged through the water toward him.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
"Swing your legs over the side." He called out and reached to steady her as she did what she was told. With one hand, he grabbed the basket, hauling it closer, then looked up at her. "You're gonna get wet."
For the first time since he'd arrived, she smiled and threw her head back, tossing her hair out of her face again. "Not as wet as I thought I was going to get."
Admiration roared through him like an F-18. Amazing woman. No hysterics. No whining about the situation. No fear. Just calm acceptance and simple obedience to his orders.
Aidan laughed while he held the basket steady for her. She slipped off the edge of the boat and landed inelegantly in the basket. Ocean water sloshed over the edges and surged up through the iron grillwork to soak her pale green shorts and halfway up her T-shirt. "Whoa!" she shouted as the cold gave her a solid jolt.
She held her purse aloft to keep it dry and clutched the iron railing with her free hand. Once she was in, Aidan climbed aboard, too, then waved to Monk. The winch cranked and the basket left the water, swinging wildly in the wind, turning, spinning, while Terry's grip on the rail tightened until her knuckles were white.
Aidan watched her, noted the excitement in her eyes, dusted with a healthy dose of fear, and he felt … something. His heart hadn't been steady since the moment he'd looked up into her green eyes. Finding her out here, in rough weather, all alone, had, for one moment, scared the tar out of him. But now, watching her take the wild ride with the enthusiasm of a kid at an amusement park, he felt something completely different.
Something deeper.
Something warmer.
Something dangerous.
By the time they reached the base, she was shivering despite the blanket Monk had provided. She didn't argue when Aidan told her he'd drive her home and she was damn quiet on the trip.
But then, so was he. Too busy trying to figure out just what he was feeling to speak, he concentrated on driving—though he indulged himself more than once with quick, sidelong glances at his passenger.
They were more than halfway home when the storm jumped into high gear. Lightning sliced the gray clouds open like a knife puncturing a water balloon and rain poured out in a blinding slash.
"Glad I'm not still on the boat," she muttered, clutching the blanket a little more tightly around her.
Her voice, quiet, was almost lost in the pounding of the rain on the roof of Aidan's SUV. He gripped the steering wheel with both fists and asked, "Why the hell were you out there at all?"
She sighed and let her head drop to the seat back. "I just wanted to be out on the ocean for a while. To just … be."
"And you decided to wait for hurricane weather for this outing?"
"I didn't know about the hurricane."
"Most people check the weather before they head out in a boat."
"Well, I'm not most people, I guess then, am I?"
"Already knew that," he muttered, remembering that stab of shock he'd felt when he'd seen her, sitting in that damn rust bucket. "And why the hell did you rent a boat from Bucky of all damn people?"
"He was the only one open."
He slapped one hand against the wheel and squinted into the driving rain. It was like trying to drive through a carwash. "Well, that should have told you something right there. Nobody in their right mind is renting out boats with a hurricane coming in."
"I didn't know about the hurricane. I already told you."
He blew out a breath and took one hand off the wheel long enough to scrape it across his face. "Fine. Fine. Not going to argue that one again."
"Gee, thanks." She turned her head on the seat back to look at him. "Not that I don't appreciate the rescue, but I could do without the lecture."
"Yeah, probably." But damn it, if they hadn't been able to get to her, then what? She'd have been stranded in the middle of the damn ocean with a hurricane headed her way. In one of Bucky's boats, for God's sake. Which was about as safe as taking a cruise in a colander.
"Shook me a little, seeing you out there," he admitted finally.
"Shook me, too," she said. "Been awhile since I've been in a situation like that."
"You've done this before?" he asked, and made a left off the main highway into a subdivision of tidy homes and narrow streets. The trees lining Elmwood Drive were dancing and swaying with the pu
nch of the wind and experience told him that if Igor didn't change directions mighty damn soon, most of those trees were going to be pulled up by the roots and tossed like sticks.
"Last time," she said, capturing his attention again, "it was on the Gulf Coast. Took a hired boat out and a friend of mine ran it across a sand bar. Ripped the bottom out and we were treading water for what felt like days."
He shook his head. Sounded like something he and his buddies would get into. Why it bothered him to think of Terry being in that situation, he didn't want to acknowledge.
"It's your fault anyway," she said suddenly, her tone shifting from memory to fury.
"Yeah?" He snorted an astonished laugh as he pulled into Donna's driveway. Throwing the gearshift into Park, he yanked up on the brake hard enough to spring the damn thing, then turned to face the woman beside him. "How d'you figure?"
"Last night." She waved one hand at him accusingly. "That motorcycle ride. That—" She snapped her mouth shut, shook her head, and opened the car door to a blast of wind and rain that swamped her the moment she stepped out. She slammed the door hard enough to rock the car, then stalked around the front end and headed for the porch.
Aidan was just a heartbeat behind her. Damned if he'd let her say something halfway and then stop. He joined her on the narrow porch and was grateful for the slight overhang that kept most of the punishing rain from slamming their heads. The wind pushed at them though and slanted the rain in at them sideways. Her hands were shaking. So Aidan took the key from her and opened the door.
She stepped into the foyer of Donna Fletcher's bungalow and Aidan stepped in after her, before she could close the door on him. He swung the door closed behind him, then turned to face her.
"Thanks for the ride home," she said tightly, lifting her chin in an age old gesture of defiance. "Bye."
Terry's insides were jumping. She'd been stranded on a storm-tossed ocean, picked up in an iron basket and helicoptered to a Marine base. She'd had rain and wind and noise all before she'd had two cups of coffee.
But none of that accounted for what she was feeling at the moment. She felt as though she were balanced on the very edge of a cliff, with rocks below and no guardrail above. And it wasn't the rescue at sea doing it to her, damn it.
THE LAST REILLY STANDING Page 6
