Desperate Measures

by Christy Barritt

  “Where are you going?” She clutched his arm.

  “I’ve got to get Rich.”

  “But—”

  He leaned toward her, locking his gaze with hers. “I’ll be okay, Samantha. I’ll be back. I promise.” His voice sounded steady and sure.

  Finally, she nodded. Through the watery curtain around her, she watched as John disappeared. She prayed fervently for his safety as the wind whipped around and thunder shook the ground.

  Only a man of character would go back to save the person who’d betrayed him. She only hoped that, in the process, Rich didn’t stab him in the back again.

  After a few minutes, John’s blurry figured appeared pulling someone behind him. He deposited Rich at the tree across from her and he sagged there, nearly lifeless.

  Samantha soaked in the man’s expressionless face. “Is he okay?” she asked.

  John nodded. “He’s still breathing, just unconscious. He’ll be fine.”

  John sat beside her and wrapped his arms around her, sheltering her from the storm.

  Her heart burst with love. Here was a man who’d sacrifice himself for her safety. He’d go through discomfort and pain to give her a little more peace of mind. How could she not have seen this earlier?

  She couldn’t wait to tell him.

  A gust of wind sent cold rain and leaves smattering into them.

  They could do this. She’d survived Billy’s threats over the past year. She’d survived Billy. A nor’easter wasn’t going to take her out.

  As lightning broke through the sky, she braced herself, knowing she could conquer anything with John by her side.

  NINETEEN

  The coast guard rescued Samantha, John and Rich three hours later. A small window of opportunity had broken in the storm, and the coast guard had seized the moment.

  A helicopter took them back to the mainland, where they were taken to the hospital and examined by doctors.

  That night, after they were released, they’d camped out at Nate and Kylie’s place. Connor and Rusty were waiting for them there. They’d managed to catch the last ferry, right before the storm got bad.

  Meanwhile, Rich had been arrested. The police were still piecing together everything, but it appeared that Billy had been in disguise as Agent Walsh. John suspected that he’d followed Kylie to the island and had fired the shots at Samantha that day. Samantha couldn’t believe that, being a cop, he’d missed. But she was thankful that he had. Billy was also being investigated for Lisa’s death.

  The local detective had hinted that the FBI would be getting involved, and that it seemed there was a long list of crimes Billy was responsible for.

  Because of Samantha’s text message, Nate had alerted the authorities about the documents hidden in the safe-deposit box. Samantha had been cleared of all allegations, in both the death of her husband and Lisa.

  In all of that craziness, John and Samantha hadn’t had a moment to talk. Not to really talk.

  With Connor asleep, Samantha closed the door behind her and stepped into the hallway. All was quiet in the house. Nate and Kylie had obviously gone to bed already.

  John was waiting there, leaning against the wall with his phone in hand.

  He held it up, a twinkle in his eyes.

  He’d gotten her text message.

  Her cheeks heated at the thought. If her life hadn’t been on the line, she probably wouldn’t have admitted those things to him. But she honestly didn’t think she’d ever see him again.

  She didn’t regret sending it, though.

  “John, I—”

  Before she said anything else, John had closed the space between them in three long steps, and Samantha was in his arms. Their lips met, this time without any hesitation.

  “I love you Samantha Rogers,” he whispered. “I know it seems too early, too fast, but it’s true. I love you.”

  “What about Alyssa?”

  He shook his head. “I have to let it go and forgive myself. Alyssa would want that.”

  “When did you realize all of that?”

  “A lot of things become clear when the life of someone you love is on the line. I didn’t know how any of this would turn out, but I knew if I survived this, I had to stop letting the past hold me back.”

  Joy burst in her chest, spreading warmth all the way down to the tips of her fingers. “I love you, too. I’m so glad you were in the restaurant that evening when I decided I was going to leave. I’m so glad you told me about Smuggler’s Cove.”

  “I’m glad you were crazy enough to give the island a try.” His fingers laced through hers and he pulled her closer. “Now that you’ve been officially cleared of the charges, will you be returning to Texas?”

  She snuggled closer to him. “I was hoping I might still have a job on Smuggler’s Cove. I’m a pretty good handywoman, even if I do say so myself.”

  He grinned and brushed a stray hair from her face. “I’d say you’re pretty good, too. I was hoping you might make your position on the island permanent.”

  “Hmm...” She tapped her chin playfully. “I’d definitely consider that.”

  John’s eyes lost some of their sparkle for a moment. “What do you think Connor would say?”

  “As long as he’s with Rusty, he’ll be fine. I think he’s become pretty fond of you, too.” She rested her hand on his chest.

  A huge grin stretched across his face. “The feeling is mutual.”

  Their lips met in another kiss.

  And somehow, all of the mistakes and messes of her past seemed to disappear and the promise of a bright new future loomed on the horizon.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from SUNKEN TREASURE by Katy Lee.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for visiting the fictional Smuggler’s Cove with me. The town is loosely based on Tangier Island in the Chesapeake Bay, a place where it truly does feel like time has stood still in many regards. I hope you enjoyed John and Samantha’s story. When I first introduced John in Keeping Guard, I knew I wanted to tell his story one day.

  I’m currently working on Ed Carter’s story. Ed was first introduced in High-Stakes Holiday Reunion. I’m really enjoying his book, which is the second in the Smuggler’s Cove series. It features a nurse with a secret, an ex-CIA operative, a creepy old house and a raging storm on a secluded island.

  I hope you’ll remember that there’s someone we can trust throughout all of the storms raging in our lives, no matter how hopeless our circumstances may feel at times.

  I love hearing from readers. You can find me at www.christybarritt.com. Be sure to sign up for my newsletter to get updates on my latest releases.

  Many blessings,

  Questions for Discussion

  Would you like to live in a place like Smuggler’s Cove? What would you like or dislike about it?

  Have you ever been falsely accused like Samantha was? What feelings did you experience? How did you overcome the situation?

  Samantha had to choose between paying for a crime she didn’t commit or going on the run. Have you ever been between a rock and a hard place? How did you react? What advice would you give others in that place?

  Is running away from your problems ever the right choice? Why or why not?

  Why is facing our fears so difficult? When is a time in your life you’ve done something even though you were terrified?

  Guilt can be a strong motivator for our decisions. John definitely struggled with the emotion after the death of his wife. How do you deal with guilt? How can we determine when our guilt is a sign that we’ve done something wrong or when guilt is an emotion that keeps us in bondage?

  Samantha feels like every man in her life has let her down. Sometimes she projects those
feelings onto God. How can we differentiate our disappointment in people from the unfailing love of our heavenly Father?

  What prevents you from trusting people? Have you ever been hurt or let down after trusting someone? Did that affect your future relationships?

  John gave up a secure job in order to follow his dreams and allow change in his life. Do you choose the safe and familiar or the new and unknown?

  What’s one thing in your life you’d like to change? Are there small ways you can go about implementing that change?

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Love Inspired Suspense story.

  You enjoy a dash of danger. Love Inspired Suspense stories feature strong heroes and heroines whose faith is central in solving mysteries and saving lives.

  Enjoy four new stories from Love Inspired Suspense every month!

  Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

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  ONE

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Rachelle Thibodaux said with her camera held steady at her eye. From her boat and through her telephoto lens, a diver could be seen holding a Thibodeaux lobster trap in his hand, swiped right off the ocean floor. The poacher, dressed in a black, full-bodied wet suit, jumped up on the diver’s platform of a luxurious mega yacht with his dinner in hand. Her dinner. “Get your own bug catchers,” Rachelle grumbled. “Judging by your ride, you can afford it.” She let her camera fall back to her chest where it found its perpetual home, hanging on the strap around her neck. “You’re going down for stealing my pots.” Well, not technically her pots, she begrudged, but her uncle’s. She sped up her turtle-slow, thirty-two-foot lobster boat that also belonged to him. She had a poacher to catch before the thief made off with her livelihood.

  Stolen lobsters only increased market prices, and in turn, that meant sales lost to the competition. Which also meant lost jobs. There was no way she could lose this job because of another’s crimes. The idea of more undeserved penalties being slapped on her shoulders brought on an unusual wave of seasickness, even with the sea around her at a dead calm. She supposed a year of paying for the sins of her father was what brought the nausea on so quickly, but it was the idea of having to take a job on the island again that really unsettled her stomach.

  Because it would also unsettle her life...again.

  Images of this past year’s disapproving faces aimed at her had her pushing the throttle to its fullest speed, a race to catch a thief before he ruined everything. Her job at sea allowed her to live on the Island of Stepping Stones after her father’s tsunami of an arrest knocked her facedown.

  Literally.

  She didn’t think she’d raised her head and looked an islander in the face since the sheriff carted her father away—and the islanders had turned their shocked and accusing eyes on her.

  More waves of nausea doused her, but it was the wave of panic that had her reaching to the locked drawer on her right and pushing the four-digit code to release the latch. She had to make sure her job at sea remained intact...whatever the cost.

  Fidgety fingers opened the drawer where a black revolver with a rosewood handle lay alone, looking sinister and lethal. Her uncle Jerome kept it aboard for protection purposes. Traversing the ocean alone left one vulnerable. Hijacking, shark attacks and—case in point—thievery could occur at any moment. But even so, Rachelle winced at the idea of picking up the gun. She wouldn’t shoot at anyone, she reasoned. If she used it, it would only be to shoot it in the air to stop the poacher in action. It would show the thief she meant business.

  Her hand curled around the revolver’s handle and stilled. Could she really shoot a gun at all? Should she? What if it awoke a part of her better left undisturbed? The part that proved it didn’t matter how well she behaved or how isolated she made her life out here at sea. That deep down, the islanders were right. She was just like her father.

  A killer.

  She relinquished the cold, wooden grip and, instead, snatched up her camera again. The only thing she would be shooting today was pictures.

  Rachelle brought the boat to a standstill and raised the black SLR. The diver filled her viewing screen, and Rachelle brought the thief up close and into focus. “Turn around so I can see your thieving face,” she said under her breath while she set the camera to shoot off multiple shots in a row for that split moment when the diver turned toward her.

  Click. Click. Click.

  The diver froze.

  There was no way the mechanics of the camera could be heard from this distance, but the rumbling of her lobster boat’s motor could be. With one leg still in the sea and the other on the dive platform, the diver lifted his face and turned.

  “Smile for the camera, you—”

  Rachelle cranked her focusing ring to bring the diver’s face into full frame, unsure if what she viewed through the lens was real. Could it really be? Was her poacher a woman?

  Long, curled lashes swept over a pair of flashing, gray curved eyes. Definitely a woman. Not even the diver’s mask could hide the feminine glare through the lens. For a brief second, Rachelle’s finger stilled over the shutter release, then remembered this chick was a thief. It didn’t matter if she was a female. Gender played no role in the ability to sin. A lesson Rachelle gave herself daily.

  She took the shots at rapid speed before the thief threw the contraband into the boat and disappeared inside. Through the viewfinder, Rachelle zipped around the yacht looking for her or perhaps another person somewhere around the deck and sails. Did the thief work alone? Rachelle took a few shots of a black flag with some sort of words scrawled across it at the top of the mast. She also snapped a few of the boat’s name painted on the stern. The Getaway.

  How appropriate.

  A spike in temperature boiled Rachelle’s blood. This poacher would not be “getting away” with her crimes any longer.

  Rachelle dropped her camera back to her chest and accelerated her boat’s speed again. The engine kicked in, rumbling as the bow plowed through and sliced the dark ripples of rolling waves.

  She expected the thief to take off, but the yacht remained anchored. The distance between them shortened. Rachelle wondered if the poacher had a conscience and was in the middle rethinking her devious deeds, but then a popping noise wrenched through the air and all thoughts flew from Rachelle’s head as millions of tiny pieces of sharp shards from her pilothouse windows flew in at her.

  Sent careening backward to the floor, she sat there dazed, her eyes scrunched, her arms raised to shield her face. After opening her eyes, she realized she’d let go of the wheel in her fall—and the boat still moved. She got to her knees in a rush to grab hold of the throttle and halt the boat from moving forward. Her hands shook on the handle...and bled.

  Bright crimson gripped her attention. Blood. Her hands dripped with blood. Her blood. What happened? Her mind was muddled with confusion. Then another window blew inward. More glass shards spewed over her like a blanket of sharp needles. Her mind awoke from its tangle in an instant. Only one thing could be powerful enough to obliterate tempered glass.

  A gun. The thief was shooting at her with a gun. And these were not warning shots. They were meant to kill...or at least stop her from chasing anyone down. Rachelle’s forehead stung where the shards penetrated her skin as if they were the bullets coming at her.

  Rachelle eyed the radio above on the dashboard. Did she dare get up to make the call? But she couldn’t sit here waiting for—

  The hull jolted with another hit.

  Would it ever end? Rachelle whimpered at the realization that it would only end when the shooter found her mark.

  Crouched low, Rachelle covered
her head with her hands. A sprinkling of glass fell from her hair to her thighs. The sharp edges, glinting with her blood, transfixed her. This was really happening. She had to do something before it was too late. It had to end before she was killed.

  She got to her knees. Her thick rubber coveralls protected her legs from the blanket of glass beneath her. After today, she would never again complain about how the oversize trousers looked like orange whale blubber on her.

  If there was an after today, anyway.

  Without lifting her head above the dash to give the shooter a target, she fumbled for the radio above. Pain punctured her palm where she touched more glass covering the top of the unit. Rachelle gripped her lower lip in her teeth. Her shaking fingertips found the receiver, and as she twisted around and leaned her back against the console, the receiver’s spiral cord pulled tight across her face. Her position kept her hidden from flying bullets and gave a clear view out to the aft deck where today’s catch filled large, blue buckets. She’d gladly give the bugs up to the poacher in exchange for her life. The woman could have them all.

  With two hands she brought the radio microphone to her mouth. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is Rachelle Thibodaux on the Rita Ann. I think I’m 54 degrees— No, I’m not sure. Um...I’m drifting two miles due east off Stepping Stones Island. Someone’s shoot—”

  One black-gloved hand and black diver’s hood appeared at the starboard side of her boat. The shooter was coming aboard!

  Rachelle let go of the receiver to grab the gun drawer. The radio’s spiraling cord yanked the mic back in fast action to some unknown place above, but all Rachelle could focus on was getting the gun. This time she had no choice but to brandish the weapon.

  And use it.

  Her fingers tripped over the key code.

  Access denied.

  She didn’t dare look away from the neoprene-covered head partly exposed on the other side of boat’s wall.