Janelle Taylor

by Night Moves

  Spencer had to be here.

  He had to be.

  If he isn’t, Beau thought grimly, there’s no place else. We’ll have to give up….

  Give up?

  No, he thought fiercely, clawing his way toward the soggy sand pinnacle, struggling against the numbing exhaustion. He wouldn’t give up. Not the way he had before, with Jeanette and Tyler.

  This time, he wouldn’t give up until he knew for certain that there was no hope.

  He had reached the top.

  He could see over the dune.

  At first, realizing the beach was no longer there, he was disoriented. There was nothing but blue-black, rushing water wherever he looked.

  Then he saw it, rising from the edge of the sea like a volcanic island.

  The rock.

  And he saw him.

  The child.

  Spencer.

  Relief swept over him, even as an enormous wave swept over the rock.

  “Spencer!” Beau bellowed, his heart lurching as he watched the little boy desperately grasping for a hold on his massive granite refuge.

  Spencer didn’t hear him. The power of the sea drowned out Beau’s voice.

  He stared, his heart in his mouth, praying harder than he had ever prayed before. For a moment, his view was obscured by the water.

  He squeezed his eyes closed.

  When he opened them again, the wave had ebbed.

  Spencer was still there.

  And Beau understood in that instant that this wasn’t the first wave that had threatened Spencer’s life—or the first time he had triumphed, holding his territory. Pride swelled within him to meld with the sheer terror of the little boy’s predicament.

  Spencer had been out here too long. He was soaked, weary, rapidly reaching his limit. The next wave might be the last for him. There was no time to waste.

  Beau turned to Mike, who was scrambling up the dune behind him.

  “He’s there!” he shouted over the hurricane’s roar. “We have to get him now, before he’s swept out.”

  He swallowed hard over a sudden lump in his throat and raised his voice to shout, “Hang on, Spencer! I’m coming! You’re going to be all right, fella!”

  “Where the hell is the kid?”

  The pirate was moving slowly but purposefully toward Jordan.

  She stared at him in mute defiance, grateful that Spencer was anywhere other than here.

  “Where’s the kid?” he demanded again, nearly stumbling over a low table.

  He was obviously in pain, perhaps a bit disoriented.

  Yet that didn’t help her.

  Her foot was so swollen and painful that she knew her own movements, should she try to flee, would be even more sluggish than his.

  Yet she had to try. She couldn’t just lie here and let him close in on her like a black bear lumbering ominously toward a wounded kitten.

  Besides, he no longer had the gun—a fact he might not be aware of.

  Not that she had it, either. Rhett had said he was going to put it somewhere safe, and she had no idea where. Thankfully, neither did the pirate.

  Jordan forced herself to meet his violent gaze as she pulled herself to her feet. The pain was intense, but her instinct for self-preservation was even sharper. She was going to get away from this madman—or die trying.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he snarled, upon her more quickly than she had thought possible. He was reaching for her before she could move.

  She ducked, wrenching herself from his grasp.

  He grabbed her again.

  She struggled. She kicked, bit, scratched, screamed, all to no avail. She found herself being dragged across the room.

  Yet she realized, first with incredulity and then with panic, that he wasn’t taking her toward the stairs. He was heading to the French doors that led to the nearest deck.

  The one overlooking the turbulent sea, whose waters now covered the ground three stories below.

  Beau held his breath as he dove into the choppy sea, the rope around his chest providing little reassurance.

  The rope was anchored to a nearby post, and Mike stood by, ready to assist if he got into trouble. Mike had volunteered to be the one to swim over to the rock to get Spencer, but Beau insisted. The little boy was incredibly shaken, probably in shock. After what he had been through with the pirate, there was no telling what he might do if he saw a stranger swimming toward him.

  He still hadn’t seen or heard Beau.

  He was facing the black horizon as he huddled on the rock, soaked and shivering, his knees pulled up to his chest. He looked as bedraggled and forlorn as Jordan had when Beau spotted her on the stairway at the house. The sight of Spencer, and the knowledge that his intervention was sorely needed, tugged on Beau’s heart now as it had before, with Jordan.

  He couldn’t let anything happen to either of them.

  A wave washed over his head the moment he surfaced, and he emerged sputtering, with a bellyful of burning saltwater.

  He battled the churning sea, determined to get to Spencer as wave after wave pounded the rock.

  Exhausted, he could hear Mike’s shouts of encouragement as he swam within reach. The wind seemed to have died down, if only slightly. Beau realized that Spencer would hear him now, too, if he called out.

  He opened his mouth to shout the child’s name just as another skyscraper of a wave bore down on the rock.

  It swept over Beau as well, tossing him upside-down and dashing his skull against the unforgiving granite. Miraculously, he recovered, surfacing for air as a searing pain in his head nearly blinded him.

  “Spencer!” he shouted, his voice hoarse with strain and acrid salt water. “Spencer, hang on! I’m going to get you down from there!”

  There was no reply.

  Beau looked up at the rock and saw that it was empty.

  A deluge of rain soaked Jordan as the pirate shoved her out onto the deck. The painted wooden planks were slippery beneath her bare feet. She lost her balance and toppled toward the floor, but he reached down and yanked her upright again.

  “You’re done,” he lashed at her, his face a twisted mask of rage. “This is it, you understand? And when I’m through with you, it’s the kid’s turn.”

  “Try and find him,” she retorted, breathless with fury.

  “Believe me, I will.”

  Not before Beau does, she thought vehemently, clenching her teeth as he slammed her body against the wooden railing.

  As a new pain exploded within her and his rough hands closed over her upper arms, she realized his intent.

  And there was nobody to stop him.

  “Beau!” Jordan heard herself screech as the pirate bent her upper body backward over the rail, high above the torrent of charcoal-colored water. “Beau!”

  Where was he?

  Where was Spencer?

  Now only one thing was certain: if Beau didn’t appear to rescue her in the next split second, she would be flung over the railing to her death.

  For a few long, desolate moments, Beau was alone in the stormy sea.

  He opened his mouth and howled Spencer’s name, the effort torturing his raw throat and his strained lungs.

  Then, miracle of miracles, he saw something bob up only yards away.

  “There he is!” Mike shouted behind him.

  Stunned, elated, Beau frantically paddled toward the child.

  Spencer was struggling in the water, thrashing about, his arms flailing helplessly, making it clear that he couldn’t swim.

  “Keep your head up, Spencer!” Beau screamed, only to see the little boy plunge from sight beneath another fierce wave.

  “No! Spencer!”

  Beau dove for the spot where Spencer had disappeared. His arms were outstretched, his searching hands encountering nothing but water.

  It was just like before.

  Anguish ripped through him as he surfaced only long enough to gulp another breath before diving again.

  He went d
eeper this time, swinging his arms in wide arcs from front to side, praying as fervently as he had on that other stormy night.

  Then, his prayers hadn’t been answered.

  Tonight, they were.

  Just as his breath ran out and he was rising toward the surface again, Beau’s hand ran into something soft…

  Squirming …

  Alive.

  “Beau!” Jordan shrieked. “Beau! Help!”

  But he wasn’t here.

  He wasn’t coming.

  He couldn’t save her.

  Jordan struggled against the pirate’s viselike grip, knowing that this time, she could only rely on herself. The battle was hopelessly mismatched, and the pirate had the upper hand. She couldn’t possibly overpower him.

  She was bent backward over the railing, his evil face looming above her.

  Looking into the black depths of his gaze, she thought about how this monster had killed Phoebe. Her best friend. Phoebe, who had everything to live for, had been murdered in cold blood, along with her husband, leaving their only son an orphan.

  Jordan thought about what would happen if the pirate got his hands on Spencer. How he would slaughter an innocent, terrified child to settle some score for some maniac.

  There was only one way to make sure that didn’t happen.

  A fresh burst of fury-fueled adrenalin pumped through Jordan’s depleted veins. With a grunt of exertion and a burst of superhuman strength, she pushed upward, forward, with all her might.

  Caught off guard, the pirate wobbled …

  Loosened his grip …

  Lost his balance and sprawled on top of Jordan.

  She heard a sharp crack.

  For an instant, she was convinced it was gunfire.

  Then she felt the railing beginning to give way beneath their combined weight.

  Time seemed to slow down so that every second felt like a minute.

  She got hold of her attacker and pushed down on his body, using it as leverage to push herself forward.

  She felt the planks of the deck firm beneath her feet once again.

  Felt the pirate’s hands clawing at her.

  Heard the splintering sound beneath him.

  Then, just as she wrenched herself free, it was over.

  The railing broke, hurtling the pirate over the edge in a three-story free fall.

  And then, for Jordan, everything went black.

  Clutching the water-logged child in his arms, Beau allowed Mike to haul them both to safety with the rope.

  As he staggered onto the dune with Spencer cradled against his chest, Beau could hear the little boy choking and gasping for air. It was the sweetest sound he had ever known. Spencer was alive.

  “You saved him, Beau!” Mike threw an arm around him. “I don’t know how you did it.”

  “I don’t either,” Beau murmured, stroking Spencer’s soaked hair.

  Looking skyward, he muttered silent thanks as tears mingled with the salt water streaming down his face.

  “Jordan?”

  Dazed, she opened her eyes.

  Had somebody called her name?

  She was lying on the deck.

  Rain was falling.

  It all came back to her in a rush.

  The pirate.

  Beau going after Spencer.

  The storm …

  The storm?

  As Jordan turned her head, wincing from the terrible throbbing above one ear where she must have hit it on the deck, she realized that something was different.

  There was a strange lull in the wind.

  How long had she been unconscious?

  She started to sit up.

  Somebody stopped her, touching her face.

  “Jordan, take it easy.”

  She realized that it was Beau, hovering over her, caressing her cheek.

  Again she tried to turn her head, needing to see him. She moaned as the pain sliced through her skull once more.

  “Shh,” Beau said, “it’ll be all right.”

  “Spencer?” she managed to ask. “Is he … ?”

  “He’s fine.”

  Those two words flooded her with relief. Spencer was fine. Beau had promised that he would save Spencer, and he had.

  Gratitude surged through Jordan. She struggled to find the words to tell him, but a deep-seated numbness had taken hold.

  All she managed was, “Where … ?”

  Beau knew what she meant. “He’s inside. There’s a cut on his arm that Mike’s bandaging for him—not a deep cut, so don’t worry—and then we have to get out of here before the back end of the storm swings through.”

  Out of here? She didn’t want to get out of here. She didn’t want to go anywhere. All she wanted was to lie here forever in the gentle rain with Beau’s fingertips stroking her.

  “I’ll carry you,” Beau said softly, and she felt him lifting her into his arms. Then she could see his face—his beautiful face—looking down at her with an expression she had never seen there before. She had never seen it on anyone.

  He carried her across the deck, away from the broken railing where the pirate had fallen. Did Beau know what had happened? She tried to tell him, but he shushed her.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “We know. His body washed up.”

  “What about Rhett?”

  “He’s okay. Everybody’s going to be okay, Jordan. Including you.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “No, thanks to you,” he said. “I can’t stand thinking about you out here with him. He was trying to push you over, wasn’t he?”

  She nodded. Again, the blinding pain in her skull. Her eyelids fluttered, wanted to close, but she forced them to stay open. She wanted to look at Beau, as long as he was looking at her and wearing that expression.

  Balancing her in one arm as though she weighed no more than Spencer, he reached for one of the French doors leading back to the living room.

  “We have to go,” he said again, opening it. “Before the wind kicks up again.”

  “Maybe the worst of it is over,” she said hopefully as he carried her inside.

  “It isn’t, Jordan,” he told her grimly. “This is just the eye of the storm. The worst is yet to come.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Ms. Curry?”

  Jordan looked up from the lukewarm Styrofoam cup of coffee she was clutching in both hands. A balding middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit stood in the doorway.

  “I’m Detective Rodgers with the Philadelphia police. I’ve been working on the Averill case.”

  He looked like every police detective she’d ever seen on television, from his wardrobe to his no-nonsense demeanor as he strode toward her.

  She set her coffee on the scarred table in front of her and rose slightly to shake the detective’s hand before sinking once again to the cheap metal folding chair. It groaned beneath her weight. This police station in rural Dapple Cove, North Carolina wasn’t exactly the lap of luxury—-not that Jordan would expect it to be.

  But this was where the Coast Guard had brought them after the rescue. There was a hospital here. And a low-budget hotel, which happened to have a couple of empty rooms, once the storm had passed and evacuees started returning to their coastal homes.

  Here it was, two days after Agatha had blown out to sea, and all Jordan wanted was to go home to Georgetown, collapse in her bed, and sleep for a week.

  But that couldn’t happen for at least a few more hours. Her flight out of here wasn’t until later this afternoon, and before she could go back to the hotel, check out, and leave for the airport, she had to meet with this man who had flown all the way down from Philly to discuss the case with her.

  “I know you’ve been through the wringer,” the detective said, flashing her a sympathetic look.

  She smiled grimly. “ ‘The wringer’ doesn’teven begin to describe it, Detective.”

  “I’m sorry about the loss of your friend.”

  Phoebe.

  A lump rose i
n her throat. She nodded.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you some questions,” the detective said.

  “I understand. It’s all right. I’ll answer what I can.”

  And she did. They spoke for well over an hour, with Jordan recounting every detail she could possibly remember about what had happened from the moment Phoebe showed up on her doorstep last week.

  Finally, Detective Rodgers leaned back in his chair and said, “I just want you to know that we’ve managed to get Gisonni in custody on an unrelated charge, but we’re going to get him for this, Ms. Curry. One of his associates is willing to testify that Gisonni hired that hit man to go after your friends, and after you and the kid.”

  Jordan’s head throbbed where she had hit it on the deck the other night. She knew that she still had a faint purplish-green bruise on one temple, and didn’t even have any makeup to cover it up.

  The Coast Guard hadn’t allowed them time to gather their belongings from the beach house before they fled during the eye of the storm. All she had thought to bring was her purse containing her keys and her wallet containing her identification, cash, and credit cards. At least she had been able to buy a few articles of clothing and some toiletries at the local five-and-dime, to get her through these few days. Makeup wasn’t among the necessities.

  But when she got back home, she would cover the bruise. She didn’t want to see it every time she looked into a mirror for the next few days. It made her think of the ugly scene on the deck.

  She told herself that she should be glad the pirate was dead. That it was either him, or her and Spencer. That he deserved his violent end.

  But the truth was, she couldn’t seem to shake the chill that came with knowing a man had died right in front of her. And because of her. She had sent him over that railing to his death. Yes, it was self-defense. But she had the feeling that she wouldn’t soon recover from the knowledge that she had caused somebody’s demise.

  Nor would she feel completely safe again, even with the hit man out of the picture.

  “Why would anyone testify against Gisonni?” Jordan asked wearily, sipping her coffee, now grown cold. “Especially one of his own associates?”

  “Trust me, Ms. Curry, this guy’s not doing it because he’s looking for a good citizenship award. He knows he’s going down on a couple of other charges—racketeering, for one—unless he testifies against Gisonni.”