by Sarah Monzon
A growl tore from Summer’s throat. Where was he? She waited until after the beep, then left a short message. “Trent, I need you to call me. Our World is giving me three days to get them photos that will impress. This is my shot. Call me.”
Hopefully he’d hear the message and call her back soon. If not… She shook her head. That wasn’t a possibility.
She pulled her car into a vacant spot in front of her building and killed the engine. Purse and peanuts in hand, she shut and locked the car door. Disappointment slithered its way down her spine. It was irrational, but she’d held on to a thread of hope that Trent’s Harley would be parked along the street. He’d made a habit of just showing up, and she’d so wished that would’ve been the case today.
The key slid into the lock, and the dead bolt turned. Summer dumped both bags in a chair by the door then walked to her desk and wiggled the mouse. She typed in the password and waited for the computer to boot up.
Where was her phone? Now wasn’t the time to be leaving it on vibrate in her purse and missing Trent’s call. She walked back to her purse and plucked it out. Her thumb pressed the home button, but the illuminated screen didn’t show any missed calls or texts.
Sitting in the black swivel chair behind her desk, she opened the web browser on her computer, then typed in her favorite travel website. She inputted the dates and location and waited until a list of possible flights showed on the screen. The next available flight was in twenty minutes. It took longer than twenty minutes just to get to the airport. Her eyes scanned the listings as she clicked the down arrow on her keyboard. There. A flight in three hours. Her finger hovered over the left click button on her mouse.
Number one rule of diving—always bring along a buddy.
She glanced to the phone on her desk. The screen reflected the light shining overhead but was otherwise black. She snatched it up and quickly unlocked and dialed.
“We’re sorry, but your call has been forwarded—”
Seriously, how could this be happening? Why have a cell phone if you don’t answer it?
The phone beeped. “Trent, I’m booking a flight that departs at 7:10 for Nassau. Delta flight A4675. If you get this message, then head to the airport and meet me there. I’m going to try to get a room at the same hotel where we stayed last time. Please, please be there. I’m”—she sighed and let her head fall forward onto the heel of her palm—“I’m going to call Jonathan after I hang up. I hope you understand.”
Calling Jonathan? Not her first choice. But what else was she supposed to do? There weren’t any other options available. As she slid to Jonathan’s contact information, she shut her mind to the possible ramifications. A girl had to do what a girl had to do. That was all there was to it.
“Summer. What are you…I didn’t expect…uh…hi.” Surprise and pain filled Jonathan’s voice.
Darts laced with guilt pierced her heart, and the bubble of excitement she’d been riding around on since Tabitha Michaels’s phone call popped. Summer hit the ground of reality with a thud. Maybe calling Jonathan hadn’t been a good idea.
She cleared her throat and tried to sound unaffected. “How have you been? I’ve missed you.”
Jonathan moaned. “That’s not fair, Summer.”
Moisture built in Summer’s eyes. “I know, and I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. You were my best friend. Are my best friend. Please tell me I haven’t lost you.” She sucked in her bottom lip between her teeth.
Jonathan exhaled hard. “You haven’t lost me.”
Summer’s teeth release their prisoner.
“But I need time. You can’t expect me to move on in a second.”
“How about three hours?” She braced herself for his answer, calling herself all kinds of heartless.
“Excuse me?”
“I need you, Jonathan. I know you said to give you time, but I need you. In three hours. Tabitha Michaels called, and Our World is giving me a chance, but I have to have the perfect photos in her hands by Friday. So I’m hopping on a plane tonight for Nassau, and I need you to come with me.”
Silence stretched until she thought her nerves would break.
“What about Trent?”
The derision in his voice was unmistakable but not unwarranted. “It’s not like that. Besides, I can’t reach him. I left a message for him to meet me there, but there’s no telling when he’ll hear the message, and it might be too late.”
“Let me get this straight. You want me to go to Nassau with you, the very place you broke my heart—”
Summer winced.
“Not only that, but there’s a chance that he’ll show up, relegating me to third wheel, and I’ll have to sit quietly by and watch you two both realize your dreams together?”
Cruel. Insensitive. Selfish. What had she been thinking? Yes, she wanted that spot in Our World, but nothing was worth this. She’d find somewhere else to take the pictures. If she stayed local, then maybe she could even hook up with a group dive or something semiprivate through a company.
“I’ll do it.” Jonathan’s voice wavered. “You’re killing me, but I’ll do it. This is your dream. What you’ve been talking about for years. I could never take that away from you.”
“No. Jonathan. You don’t have to do that. I shouldn’t have even asked. I’ll just stay local, and—”
“Summer, stop. I said I’ll do it.” His voice lowered. “I’d do anything for you.”
Summer brought her legs up in front of her and hugged her knees. She didn’t deserve his friendship. “I wish…”
“Don’t say it. I know.”
A tear slid down Summer’s cheek.
“So…” Forced levity pushed Jonathan’s words. “What’s the flight info?”
***
Trent straddled his Harley, his feet planted on either side of the powerful machine. First in line at the red light, he had an unobstructed view of the car dealership catty-corner to him. Dave Landstrom hadn’t returned his e-mail or his phone calls. Didn’t speak well of the man’s character, but Trent had determined not to jump to any premature conclusions. Of course, the lack of communication left him only one choice. Confront the guy face to face.
Conspiracy theorists were always paranoid about Big Brother knowing their every move, but a quick Google search could let any Joe off the street get a glimpse of your life. For instance, Trent now knew Dave Landstrom, a.k.a “The Storm” to his high school football team, was five foot nine inches and carried about ten extra pounds around his midsection. He had light-blue eyes, and his surfer blond hair was beginning to thin on top. The man had married a decade and a half ago and had three children—a boy, a girl, and another boy. He worked at one of the used car dealerships in town—apparently DeLand was full of them—and even coached his youngest son’s Little League team.
Dave must have changed quite a bit since Patty had hooked up with him. Now he was the family man, not the ladies’ man. Which bode well for Trent…er…rather, it bode well for Summer. Summer, who desperately needed her father in her life, so much so that she substituted him for an aloof deity.
The light changed to green, and Trent turned the throttle on the bike’s handlebars, zooming forward. Courtesy led him to meet Dave at his work instead of his home. It wasn’t Trent’s place to throw the grenade of an illegitimate child in the midst of the Landstrom family.
Trent pulled into the dealership and then cut the engine. He’d no sooner slid his helmet off than a voice spoke from behind.
“Looking to trade in your motorcycle for something with four wheels?”
Used car salesmen were like leeches—get warm bodies within their radar and they’d latch on and suck them dry.
“We get a lot of guys in here, their wives forcing them to trade in their bachelor rides for something more family friendly.”
Trent scoffed. A woman would have to pry his rigor mortis hands from around the handlebars of his bike before he’d trade it in for some soccer-mom ride.
He placed his
helmet on the motorcycle’s seat and then turned.
“Dave Landstrom.” Trent grinned. Luck was surely on his side. He’d only have to deal with the one leech instead of wading through the pond of them drifting around the dealership.
Dave started, then scrunched his face. “Do I know you?”
Trent held out his hand. “Trent Carrington.”
Dave shook it, his eyebrows still pinched in confusion.
“Name doesn’t ring a bell? I sent you an e-mail a couple of days ago. Left a few messages on your voice mail.”
Dave’s eyes widened, and he took a step back.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
The guy’s Adam’s apple jumped. He cast a quick look over his shoulder.
Trent crossed his arms over his chest, disgust souring his mouth at the middle-aged man’s show of cowardice. “It’s either here or at your house, Dave. You could have just returned my call or answered my e-mail, but now I’m here, and I’m not leaving until we have a few words.
Sweat beaded on Dave’s forehead and above his upper lip. He dabbed at his temple with the cuff of his oxford shirt. His weight shifted to the other foot, and he scanned the line of cars opposite them. Probably wishing he could dash to one and make a mad getaway. Putz.
“Are you interested in one of our functional crossovers?”
Trent followed his line of site to a newer white Dodge Durango. “No, I’m not interested in a crossover.”
“You sure you don’t want to see the inside?” He inclined his head toward the vehicle.
This time Trent looked past the vehicle. A man in a suit stood watching them from behind the floor-to-ceiling glass of the showroom. Dave’s boss?
“Sure. Show me the interior.” At least there they’d have some sort of privacy.
Dave’s posture relaxed slightly. “I’ll go get the keys and be right back.”
“Make sure you do.” Trent watched the guy scurry into the building. What had Patty seen in him? Granted, he could have changed quite a bit in twenty-six years, but still.
Trent shoved his hands into his pants pockets. He felt eyes on him and, sure enough, the suit was still watching. Creepy.
A few minutes later Dave returned and unlocked the Durango’s doors. Trent slid behind the wheel, the leather seats crackling beneath his weight. Good thing he had the protection of his jeans, or the hot leather would have burned his legs. Already the car held the heat and humidity like a sauna. No way he was sitting in a closed vehicle in the middle of summer. They’d both boil their insides. He reached over and snatched the key from Dave’s hand. The car cranked right up, instant air blasting from the vents on the dashboard. Hot, but pretty soon the Freon would work its magic.
“Look, what do you want from me?” Summer’s sperm-donor father squared his body in the seat so he faced Trent. At least some backbone was beginning to show again. Maybe the guy gained a bit of his courage back now that his coworkers couldn’t overhear the conversation.
“I want you to meet your daughter.” Plain and simple.
“This other girl you claim is my daughter?”
“Dude.” Not cool. Not surprising, but not cool.
And how would you respond if some girl showed up on your doorstep claiming you were her daddy? The thought sucker punched him in the solar plexus. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the unbidden image. He’d been careful. Used protection. Always. Besides, this wasn’t about him. Not right now, anyways. It was about Summer. And Dave, of course. Sympathy for the guy wormed its way past Trent’s initial dislike. He didn’t want to think he could possibly be Dave in twenty years.
Dave ran a hand through his hair, making the thin strands on top stick up. “What do you want me to say? Out of nowhere I get an e-mail and then several voice mails claiming I have a long-lost daughter who wants to meet me. Is it some kind of joke? Do you guys think you can get money out of me or something?”
Trent looked Dave up and down. His oxford shirt, no-name brand khakis, and scuffed penny loafers combined wouldn’t have cost a hundred dollars. If someone wanted to target a man for child support or an inheritance or whatever, that person definitely wouldn’t zoom in on Dave Landstrom.
“Summer isn’t looking for a handout. She just wants to meet her father.”
Dave’s face skewed. “How do I even know she’s my daughter? I don’t remember any Patricia Arnet.”
Trent sighed. “A one-night stand. I doubt you’d remember after twenty-six years.”
“Still doesn’t answer the question of proof. There’s no way to tell if that girl is my kid or not.” Dave crossed his arms over the bulge of his gut.
Had the guy never heard of DNA testing? Not that Trent wanted to go that far. He didn’t want Summer to get wind that her dad was questioning his role as her father. Patty had warned Trent of Summer’s fear of rejection. Asking her for some form of DNA so he could prove to her deadbeat dad he was her father could crush her. He could always steal some hair from her hairbrush without her knowing, but would some test convince Dave to step up and be the dad Summer had always longed for?
Maybe Dave would feel more comfortable easing into the role of a father of four instead of only three. Maybe if he talked with Summer over the phone first, got to know the wonderful woman she’d grown into, then he’d be proud and honored to be called her dad.
Trent slipped a hand into his pocket, but his fingers only connected with linty fabric. Where was his phone? Don’t tell me I forgot it. Well, there went the idea of giving Dave Summer’s number. He’d have to e-mail or text it.
Dave exhaled a long breath, and Trent nearly gagged on the tuna smell blowing in his face. “Look, this girl is twenty-six years old, right? She’s all grown up. She doesn’t need a father.” He rubbed his forehead. “Even if she did, I can’t be that guy for her. I have a family of my own. Three kids and a wife. It wouldn’t be fair to them to dump this whole mess on their heads.”
Disappointment, anger, a tightening sense of desperation—the emotions brawled it out until Trent’s temper landed a knockout blow. “So that’s it then? You’re just going to turn your back on your own flesh and blood? Deny your kids a relationship with their sister?” He let out a humorless laugh. “You know, Patty had been afraid she’d come up short filling the shoes of a father figure. The woman had nothing to worry about.” Trent exited the Durango and slammed the door.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Atlantic Ocean, 1689
Isabella stood in front of the large window in Captain Montoya’s cabin, cold seeping into her hand as it pressed against the glass. The view had not changed since the last time she’d stood in this spot. Still the vast ocean covered everything, no land in sight. The bow of the mighty galleon sliced through the surface like one might part a large crowd. Though the view was unaltered, she had changed immensely. No longer dressed in her stepfather’s loose breeches and cotton shirt, she was now cinched in a gorgeous brocade gown, albeit also borrowed. Where before she had been a peer to the crew, free to come and go where her duties led, now she was a prisoner in these walls, a traitor to the laws of the sea.
It was easy to fall prey to the melancholy that stalked her, to allow herself a moment of pity for her circumstances. Had she not fled her home and all that she knew for a chance at a better life, a safer existence? But every step she had taken away from a danger of which she was aware had brought her to this place with more threats and perils than she could have imagined. Would she have been better off staying in Hernando’s household? Or perhaps she could have used her grandmother’s necklace to flee to another part of the country. Only a fool would have believed she could start a new life in the New World.
Frustration knotted her gut. What was the captain doing? Had he called his quartermaster out for the man’s whispered mutiny? Could the clash of rapiers be heard on the wind? Or perhaps Captain Montoya had ordered the man to walk the plank. Not likely, as the captain was too much a gentleman for such roguish pirate behavior.
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And what of Tío Pepe? Had he learned that her secret had been discovered? Was he even now trying to formulate some plan to rescue her? Or had the captain exacted disciplinary actions for her uncle’s silence of her existence aboard the ship?
Isabella sighed and let her hand fall to her side. So many questions, and no way to obtain answers. She’d go mad if she didn’t hear of any news soon.
The lock on the door jangled behind her, and she spun. So the captain had finally returned. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. The bolt rotated, and the door creaked open.
The quartermaster. That dreadful man. What was he doing here?
Isabella took a pace back, her body colliding with the cool glass. Panic caused her heart to charge like the bulls in the annual run in Pamplona. Her eyes darted around the room. No other means of escape. The only recourse for her was to fight. She spied the small dagger Captain Montoya had left her on top of his desk.
The quartermaster shut the door and turned to bar it. Now was her chance. She sprung toward the dagger and enclosed her fingers around its white ivory hilt. It would be impossible to overpower the seasoned sailor, but perhaps a surprise attack would land her a mortal blow.
She dashed toward him, blade arced overhead.
The quartermaster pivoted, and his beefy hand caught her wrist. He swung her in front of him, slamming her body against the door. Crack! A sharp pain at the back of her skull shot needles through her head. Black dots danced in front of her eyes. The pressure of his forearm as he pinned her against the rough wood made it feel as if her chest would cave in on her.
Mere inches separated his face from hers, and the stench of rotten teeth rolled her stomach. He wrenched her wrist at an odd angle, and the dagger clanked to the ground. “Thought to kill me, did you?”
Isabella didn’t respond. Instead she met his lewd gaze, determined not to show the fear that had her legs shaking or the pain that caused her vision to go foggy around the corners.
“When I’m done with you, it will be your blood seeping between these planks, not mine.”
