by Jan Springer
“Even if no one recognizes her out there and the bad guys don’t see her berthed here, they might think we aren’t here and not come ashore. It’s a good plan all the way around, Emily. You did good in thinking of it.”
She nodded, feeling anything but good as she watched the boat drift toward the point.
“Or she’ll get dragged out to sea, or capsize against the rocks and be lost forever,” she whispered and watched Sweet Lies disappear around the point and felt as if the boat was disappearing from her life forever.
He didn’t say anything. She knew he was thinking the same thing.
* * * * *
The sadness at the loss of her boat still clutched painfully at Emily’s heart. Even concentrating on trying to crack the password was useless as she kept casting glances at the bedroom windows and the looming grayness outside.
After releasing her tugboat to whatever fate it would encounter, they headed back into the house. Chance had asked her to delay making the Caesar salad as he wanted to head back up to the lamp house to keep an eye out for boats. Grabbing some fruit, he took off.
More than an hour had passed and it was getting gloomier by the minute. Soon it would be completely dark, and if no one came, they would be here for the duration of the storm, which according to the newscasts would last a good twenty-four hours with high winds being forecast for up to several days afterward.
She found herself wondering if someone would spot her boat before it was pulled forever out to sea? Would someone come to the island and take them away? She’d told Chance she didn’t want to leave her home, but now that she’d had time to think on it, she did want to get out of here. She was nervous and anxious and she didn’t like this feeling at all.
The wind was howling like a hyena out there. Giant waves pounded the shores below her lighthouse with such ferocity she swore she could feel the bed where she sat cross-legged with the computer in her lap shaking ever so slightly. She didn’t think there had ever been such a bad storm. But she knew she could be overreacting because of what happened today with the drug plant on her boat. She could also be feeling a bit uneasy because Chance wasn’t nearby in case someone decided to break in. That’s probably his real reason for being up in the tower. To make sure they didn’t get any surprise visitors.
Refocusing her attention to the laptop, she sighed with annoyance at the Access Denied words. She’d tried every password she could think of and nothing worked. Now her eyes smarted from staring at the computer screen, yet her mind and hands ached to keep busy so she wouldn’t concentrate on her anxiety.
It seemed an eternity since Chance had shown up at her place. A lifetime. As if he’d always lived here with her. As if…Steve had never left. She stopped herself. Her thoughts were going haywire. Chance Donovan and Steve McCullen were two totally different men with similar personalities. In this world it was quite possible two men could be similar, wasn’t it?
He had a comparable grin to Steve. Almost identical color of hair with the same golden highlights. His chin had a cleft, whereas Steve didn’t. And his eyes were a different color. Yet the rest of him looked eerily the same to Steve.
A muscular build. Wide shoulders. Lean hips. Powerful thighs.
Although it had been dark last night when he’d come to her room and she’d taken him into her mouth, she knew his cock was the same size as Steve’s. And the way he’d thrust into her pussy had a similar rhythm to Steve.
She moaned out loud at the thought of how hard and perfectly he’d plunged into her. Long, deep strokes that had her orgasming and exploding within moments. Her pussy throbbed and clenched in remembrance, making her want to start masturbating right here on the bed. It certainly would take her mind off things, wouldn’t it? she mused.
But she couldn’t masturbate. Not with Chance around. He could come in anytime and catch her.
She smiled to herself wondering what he would do if he found her lying naked on her bed, her legs spread wide and her fingers rubbing her clit and plucking her breasts.
Would he climb onto the bed and start fucking her? Or would he think her pathetic for displaying herself like that to him?
Okay. Stop! She needed to think of something else besides Chance.
Flicking off Steve’s laptop, she got off the bed and headed for the wall safe behind her wedding portrait. She needed to do something else to keep her mind occupied and she knew just what to do.
* * * * *
Emily set about cleaning her home with a vengeance. She’d vacuumed the first floor, lugged the vacuum cleaner up the narrow stairs to the loft, cleaned the rugs and then under the bed. She was about to turn and leave when she spotted a lip balm container sitting on the window sill of his room.
She couldn’t help but smile as she remembered Steve also needed lip protection out here from the fierce winds. Her gaze dropped to Chance’s green duffel bag. It was still propped against the wall where she’d placed it the morning after he’d arrived. Apparently he was one of those men who didn’t like to unpack.
Looking down at it, she shook her head. Didn’t he realize all his damp clothes needed to get dried? They would be smelly now, sitting in the damp bag. She’d have to wash them. Her gaze dropped to the chair where he’d draped the clothing he’d used belonging to Steve. With all the excitement she’d forgotten to tell him to bring down the clothes that needed washing or drying.
Opening the drawstring, she lifted out two wrinkled shirts and a pair of heavy track pants then heard a strange rattle at the bottom of the bag. Digging past some underwear, she gasped when she spied three pill bottles.
A shiver of unease curled through her as she withdrew one. She didn’t recognize the name of the drug being prescribed nor did she recognize the name Richard Call on the label. Reaching inside the bag again she took out the other two bottles.
One read Prednisone. The other said Cyclosporine.
A shiver of alarm ripped through her as she remembered why people took these types of medications. Both were anti-rejection drugs for organ transplant recipients.
Why would Chance Donovan have anti-rejection drugs for a man named Richard Call?
Looking into the bag, she saw a brown leather wallet. Digging it out, she flipped it open. Right there on one side of the wallet in a plastic window was a driver’s license for a man named Richard Call. Her mouth dropped open in shock when she saw a very familiar man’s picture on the license.
Why on earth wouldn’t Chance Donovan tell her his real name was Richard Call?
* * * * *
Chance shivered as he stepped into the lamp house from the outside terrace of the lighthouse. It was damn cold out there and getting colder. Blasts of rain shot against the windows like bullets and he jumped as a silver bolt of lightning zig-zagged out of the black sky about a third of a mile to the north. Thunder followed, crashing around him like an explosion.
He grimaced at the racket. That was too close for comfort, he mused as he flicked off the inside lights of the lamp house and headed into the cold, damp stairwell that would lead him down to the keeper house and to Emily.
At the thought of Emily, he picked up his pace. He hoped she wasn’t fearful of the storm. In the past she hadn’t been afraid. She’d grown up with violent ocean weather and was as tough as nails when it came to howling winds and pummeling rain storms. He just hoped lightning wouldn’t strike the tower and burn this place down and spread to the attached keeper house.
Okay, stop toying with these scaredy-cat thoughts, my man, or Emily will think you’re a wimp, he pondered, and found himself grinning at that thought. Wimps wouldn’t get far with his strong wife. So he’d better act just as tough as she was when he got down there or she’d have a field day teasing him.
He was halfway down the stairs when the several bare light bulbs, which illuminated the steep stairwell flickered to brown and then brightened into a yellow glow again. Another jolt of thunder exploded around him.
He stopped and held his breath as a sense
of foreboding snapped through him. He’d forgotten to check the generator to make sure there was fuel. He should have done it earlier but he’d forgotten with hanging out in the lamp house, waiting to see if anyone came as a result of the tugboat floating out there on the ocean.
But in the way the winds had picked up into a violent pitch over the past half an hour and now the darkness and the storm lashing the island, he doubted anyone would venture out here. Emily’s tugboat was tough and pretty seaworthy, but with no one at the helm aiming it in the right directions against the huge waves it had probably capsized in the increasing swells and was lying at the bottom of the ocean.
Visions of the movie Perfect Storm flipped through his head. He’d watched that movie on Daniel and Jo’s DVD player just a couple days before he’d come here. It had been a good movie. The boat that the actor named Clooney had piloted reminded him of Emily’s tugboat and the ocean scenes made him homesick for this island and, oh hell, he’d wanted to be with Emily.
Sadness swept through him as he thought how the loss of Sweet Lies would put a crimp into Emily’s plans for expanding her seaweed business. On top of that, she’d worked so hard today raking the weed on the beach and hauling those filled baskets onto the boat. The thought of her losing the tug and the haul was probably making her feel like shit tonight. Just as it was making him feel bad.
Sighing, he pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck. It was definitely getting colder. When he pushed open the lighthouse door, an icy blast of wind slammed into his tender face, making him wince.
And then he noticed something out of the ordinary. The lights in the keeper house were off.
Gazing back inside the stairwell he’d just come down, he only saw blackness. The electricity must have just gone off. If the generator was in good working order it would kick in within seconds and the outside lights would come on.
He stood at the doorway and watched lightning streak out of the sky about a quarter of a mile away. Thunder crashed and shook the wooden deck beneath his feet.
But the lights didn’t come back on.
Dammit!
Stumbling into the wild wind and pummeling rain, he shut the door behind him and waited for the next flash of lightning. It came quickly and he oriented himself. Luckily right in front of him the deck railing hovered into view and he grabbed a hold of it. The cold metal felt icy beneath his fingers and sent a volley of shivers coursing up his back. This time he didn’t have the raincoat for protection and he was drenched in cold wetness within seconds. Stumbling along the railing, he winced as the wind screamed in his ears and the precipitation stung his face like a bunch of bees.
Shit! This storm was certainly going to be a bitch. He couldn’t see a thing as the rain and darkness virtually blinded him. Hopefully he was going in the right direction. If not, then he could most likely end up falling off the cliffs into the roaring surf below, his drowned body carried out to sea.
Okay, enough of those bullshit thoughts. Stay focused. The railing was solid and aside for the opening to the stairs down to the ocean, it would lead him to the generator shed.
Using his memory, and with the help of the silver flashes of lightning, he moved quickly. Glancing over the railing, he caught his breath as the giant white-capped waves pummeled the beach and huge dock below. For a second, he thought he saw a figure moving along the wharf toward the shed. But it was gone so quickly he had to believe it was just a figment of his imagination.
He picked up his pace, and a few moments later the guardrail stopped and his hand touched the wooden shed housing the generator. Ripping open the door, it was almost yanked out of his grasp due to the violent winds. Quickly he stepped inside the musty, damp room, welcoming the refuge from the wild wind and pouring rain.
Years ago he’d placed a self-generating battery-less flashlight on the shelf just inside the door for such emergencies. He hoped it was still here. Running his fingers along the black wall, he found the shelf and sighed with relief as his numb fingers wrapped around the frosty handle of the metal flashlight.
He’d found it. But would it still work after all this time?
Feeling the small crank on the side of the flashlight, he grabbed it and turned it few times. Damn, but it worked! The yellow light flickered and burst to life.
He shone the light around the murky shed to the generator in the far corner. A second later he opted to yank on the starter rope instead of wasting precious moments checking the fuel, praying the generator would work. To his surprise the old relic wheezed and puffed to life. A long second later obscene gas fumes permeated the air.
Why the generator hadn’t come on was something to worry about another time. The fact it was working and the nearby jerry can was full made him grateful whoever had screwed around with the boat fuel hadn’t been sabotaging the generator.
Opening the door, he smiled at the outside lights splashing through the silvery rain, illuminating everything in sight. Leaves and sand peppered his face as came out of the shed. Closing the door firmly behind him, he rushed across the deck and let himself into the lighthouse.
“Emily!” he called out as he tossed his wet jacket onto a peg just inside the door and removed his soaked shoes and socks. “That’s one hell of a storm out there! I’m going to take a shower!” he called as he started unbuttoning his wet shirt.
He padded down the hallway and stuck his head inside her bedroom. The laptop sat on the bed but no Emily. And the house seemed awfully quiet.
“Emily!” he called out as a fringe of uneasiness snapped through him.
No answer.
Shit. Where was she?’
Maybe upstairs in his room? Had she been snooping through his things? A rush of urgency pushed him to head upstairs. But she wasn’t here either. Back downstairs, he called out several times but she was nowhere to be found.
Panic edged away his uneasiness. Had someone come and taken her. In this weather?
Is that what he’d seen down there on the wharf? Someone taking Emily? Oh shit. Or had it been Emily? He gazed at the pegs where she kept the raincoats and array of sweater on a string of pegs. Her raincoat and her rubber boots were missing.
Shit! Why in the world would she go down to the beach in this weather? She knew how dangerous it could be.
Okay chill! he admonished himself. He had to keep his head. Needed to get his shoes back on. Needed to get something dry to wear and go out and look for her.
Grabbing an old sweater off the peg, he struggled into it. It was small but warm and would help keep his body from going into hypothermia out there. Yanking the raincoat he’d used earlier off the hook, he grimaced at the soggy feel of his bare feet slipping back into the wet shoes.
He rushed outside and caught his breath at the fierceness of the storm. Rain and wind continued to lash against him, and despite the roar of the pounding surf below the cliffs and the crash of waves rolling onto the beach, he continued to call out her name as he made his way down the dangerously slippery rock steps, hoping to hell he’d made a mistake in thinking she was here and that he’d missed her when he’d gone into the generator shed and maybe she’d just gone up the tower to look for him. Instincts told him that wasn’t the case. Now more than ever he believed he’d seen someone down on the beach earlier. That someone had to be Emily.
Fuck! He was going to give her so much shit for coming down here alone in this storm. All around him lightning danced a dangerous dance. Blades of silver forked through the sky, zapping into the ocean. Thankfully they’d installed lamps along the stairs as well as a couple of lamp posts down by the wharf. Despite the half-decent lighting he held tight to the flashlight. Just in case the generator died.
He shouted her name again as he stepped off the bottom step and started toward the wharf, squinting and cursing as the sand painfully peppered his face. Christ! She could be anywhere. She could even have…
Chance clamped his jaw shut. No, he wouldn’t think about that. Emily was fine. She had to be.
“Emily?” he called out, feeling both anxiety and relief rip at his guts to see she was okay. Taking care not to slide on the slippery wet wharf planks, he began to make his way toward her.
She turned at his voice, but her hands still covered her face.
“Chance! I’ve got something in my eyes!” she screamed.
“Give me your hands!” he shouted.
She didn’t move and he figured maybe she hadn’t heard him above the drone of thunder. Beneath his feet the wooden planks trembled with every crash of the waves and he hoped to hell the wooden structure he’d braced the other day would hold on until they were back on land.
Impatience raced through him as he watched her continue to cradle her face with her hands. Dammit! He couldn’t check her eyes now. It was too dangerous out here. Grabbing her elbow, he hauled her off the picnic table. Ignoring her surprised screech, he swept her into his arms.
She seemed as light as a feather as he carried her quickly along the pier, bracing himself against the pummeling gusts of wind that threatened to blow them into the churning waters nearby.
The harder the wind blew, the angrier he got. How the hell had she been able to get this far without being tossed into the ocean? She should know better than to come out here in this kind of weather. What was wrong with her?
Overhead, the buttery yellow string of metal lamps shone fiercely through the silver downpour and he was able to gaze down at her face. The hood from her raincoat had blown down and her hair was wet and matted. He could tell her skin looked red from being beaten by the cold wind and her eyes were scrunched tight due to whatever had gotten into them. Her lips were slightly parted and he noticed her teeth were chattering. Her body trembled against him from the cold, or maybe it was from fear at her close call. Despite his concern about her eyes, he couldn’t help but notice how nice she felt cuddled against him as he carried her up the steep stairs and across the deck.
