by Selena Kitt
The nuns faced the front of the chapel and bowed as one towards the altar, then turned to face each other, and bowed again. As they did so, Michael saw one nun—a very tall nun—from the side.
And then the man who never took the name of the Lord in vain, who never used an obscenity, whispered one succinct word. "Fuck."
* * *
Twenty minutes later, he sat in the convent's small garden with Emily at his side. He wanted her so badly, but even he would not stoop to bending her over the bench in a convent garden. Still, he couldn't help but wonder what nuns wore under their habits. Did she have panties on? He hoped not.
He knew the nuns were going to hide her, but it had not occurred to him that the nuns would hide her… as a nun. Though it was brilliant, once he thought about it. In the black robe with her head veiled, only her blue eyes gave her away.
"Why didn't you tell me?" He shook his head. "Why didn't you get in touch with me?"
Her eyes went wide in the dim evening light. "Because you told me not to. I guess… I don't know… I believed you. You said you'd come back for me when it was safe. I never doubted that."
"Still…" He blew his mouth out in a frustrated sigh. "This changes things." He thought about it for a moment. "Do the nuns know?"
Emily snorted. "They're nuns, Mike. They're not idiots."
"Have you gotten any…" for a second he couldn't even think of the word, he was so flustered, "prenatal care?"
"No, but the nuns have been taking very good care of me. Giving me the best food."
She grabbed his hand and pushed it against her belly. He was surprised at how firm it was.
"The baby kicks all the time. Keeps me up at night."
Mike slipped off the bench and knelt in front of Emily, held her hands in his huge ones, against her thighs. "Now you have to marry me. You know that, right?"
Emily looked away. "We'll talk about it."
Mike felt his jaw begin to clench and he fought down his frustration. "Damn right we will," he muttered. "So where is it? The Gospel?"
"We hid them. In a cave up in the mountains. I figure it worked for the Dead Sea Scrolls for two thousand years."
"Them?"
"There were more. We had to get them all back."
"So you went back into Aleppo." It was a statement, not a question. "Again."
"Well, there was a ceasefire and… yeah, I did."
"I owed you a good ass-busting after that last adventure. This is what I get for letting you off the hook."
"You know, Mike, this ass-busting is going to have to stop."
Mike snorted. "Not a chance, baby. Not a chance."
The End
Bethany Burke
Publisher and CEO of Blushing Books
Bethany has been writing professionally since the mid 1980s. In the early 1990s, bothered by the what she perceived as an increasing trend towards "politically correct romance," Bethany began self-publishing her spicy romances and sending her xeroxed books out through snail mail. With the dawn of the Internet in the late '90s, Bethany was freed (at last!) from all those tiresome late night trips to the 24-hour Kinkos and from standing in line at the post office. She launched her first website on a September day in 1998, went out for dinner, and came home to find that sixteen people had bought one of her books. She never knew how they found her, but she's never looked back.
Visit her website here:
www.blushingbooks.com
Visit her blog here:
http://www.blushingbooks.com/blog/
Wrecked
(The Frog Prince: A Modern Wicked Fairy Tale)
By
Selena Kitt
Chapter 1
Distress call.
It had been faint, and he hadn't been able to get it to come through again, but he was almost sure of it.
Nah, you're imagining things. You've been alone on this island too long.
Daniel stood at the shore, scanning the water with a keen, trained eye, seeing nothing but sea and darkening clouds. The wind was kicking up, whitecaps appearing merrily, like popcorn, roiling and turbulent. Storm coming. Of that, he was sure.
He did a thorough scan of the sea again, using the binoculars hanging around his neck this time, before turning his attention to securing everything in the clearing around where his house sat—he'd hammered that together himself using leftover construction supplies from a building site in Santiago.
The island, located off the coast of Chile, didn't technically belong to him, and he supposed the house he'd built on it didn't either—but there was no one there to challenge him. Other than a small village on the other side, he was the only inhabitant. And he liked it that way.
He wasn't a misanthrope, exactly. But after spending years as a U.S. Navy Seal, this place was just what he needed. He'd spent enough time following a rigid routine, giving and following orders in a world where the often delusional strivings of men wore something thin in him. Something that needed a place like this, where he could recover.
Not that the world of men had done near as much damage as the world of women. Dealing with the feminine lash of the elements out here was far less complicated than dealing with the unpredictable feminine out there in the world. He'd spent a year alone already, this little island serving as a sort of decompression chamber, smoothing out all the rough edges, like water over a rock.
Daniel cocked his head as he stood in the doorway of his small house, listening to the crackle of the radio. Listening for that faint call again. It had sounded high and light—a woman? Out there alone?
You're imagining things. You're finally cracking up.
But he knew he wasn't. He was no Tom Hanks castaway. He hadn't started talking to himself and he didn't need any objects to talk to either.
He had chosen this life. He'd created a small, self-sufficient world. There were a few dozen people living on the other side of the island, ranging from islanders who had been there from time immemorial to fishermen passing through. Every week or so, Daniel would walk across the island and visit, have a drink or two at the island's one bar and trade stories and weather talk with a few of the locals. He knew they viewed him as an eccentric, tight-lipped about his past. But people liked him.
That was all the human interaction he needed. Or wanted.
Okay, there was one island girl who occasionally came to visit. She would stay a day, maybe two. They never talked. Didn't have to. She only spoke broken English anyway.
Then she would disappear and he didn't know when he'd see her again. It was a perfect, uncomplicated, once-in-a-few-moons liaison.
Other than those few distractions, he was busy with survival—which took more time than people might expect—and his own thoughts. If he kept himself busy enough with the former, he didn't have much of the latter, which was sort of a relief.
He spent the rest of his time meditating, practicing thinking about nothing at all. He truly didn't miss cell phones or the internet and the constant barrage of information, not to mention demand for attention, they brought. He had his shortwave radio—including a Morse code key in case the reception became too poor for the voice frequencies, which it often did out here.
As if on cue, the shortwave crackled and spit and he turned up the volume, refining the tuning. Then he sat there with his ear pressed close to the set.
Nothing.
He was about to put it down, finally convinced that he really was losing it, that maybe it was time to head to the mainland…
"Mayday—mayday!"
It was so faint, barely audible. Like the ghost of a message. But he was almost sure it was a woman. Or—maybe a child? That thought made his blood run cold.
"Mayday!"
For a moment, the voice was loud, if distorted, the radio vibrating in his hand. Then the message broke off.
Someone was in trouble. That was the bad news. The good news was—at least he wasn't going crazy.
He checked the Morse code frequencies.
Nothin
g there.
But he kept listening.
* * *
There was nothing for a while. Long enough for him to heat up a bit of coconut milk.
Then the automated distress call detector went off, a piercing two-tone alarm.
His GPS told him the call was coming from west of the island—just where he had been looking not long ago.
And it was close.
The corrugated metal roof rattled over his head. Big storm moving in. He went out to the shore again to have another look, this time with a better pair of binoculars.
There. Yes.
Had he missed it before or had the wind pushed it further inland? The damned thing was hard to miss—a large, luxury yacht, listing badly.
Daniel took immediate action. Back at the house, he sent out an urgent SOS relay. He didn't know if anyone would get it, especially with the storm moving in. But even if they did, he was the closest. He had to take action now.
He kept the RHIB—rigid-hulled inflatable boat—always ready in case of emergency. Although out here, the only likely emergency would be his own. Still, you could never be too careful.
The equipment was already stowed, the boat gassed, and he'd inspected the motor routinely just three days ago.
He threw off his clothes, pulled on a heavy duty wetsuit and took off, pushing the boat in front of him down the beach. It splashed into the water and he jumped in, starting the motor, and he was off, bow bending up toward the sky.
The seas were rough and getting worse.
A ship that size—there could be a dozen or more survivors. And given that it was a yacht, most of them would probably be panicked.
The RHIB was too small for that many people, but he had multiple flotation devices and lifejackets, and an abundance of tow line. If worse came to worst, he could tow some of them, although in this weather, it would be slow going.
As he neared the ship, he realized his fears of a large number of panicky crew and passengers were unfounded. The ship seemed abandoned, port side listing heavily downward, the sea rolling over the deck, towards the central cabin. The stations usually occupied by emergency lifeboats were empty, at least on this side of the vessel, indicating people had escaped. That didn't mean they were out of trouble yet, but better in a life raft than on a sinking ship.
And it was definitely sinking.
He could see the top of the cabin clearly. Anyone alive on board and topside would have to be in that dead space he couldn't see, over on the starboard side of the cabin. He imagined someone lying on the bulkhead—usually vertical but now slowly approaching horizontal—holding a radio and calling for help.
Maybe he'd picked up the distress call before they all abandoned ship. Odds were there was no one there after all, which was a bit of a relief. He could head back to land, secure the boat, and weather the storm inside.
Daniel watched as the ship tipped and sank further, glimpsing something that made his stomach lurch.
A thin, bare arm rose up, as if reaching for something, and then disappeared again.
My God.
Someone was still on the boat.
Then a face appeared—pale, bedraggled, framed by long red hair—confirming his worst fear.
The woman was lying down on the starboard side of the central cabin, and now she was peering over the edge.
"Ahoy!" The wind whipped his words away.
She stared at him in disbelief as he brought the boat closer.
This was going to be tricky. The waves were bobbing both vessels up and down something fierce. As the yacht leapt and rolled, the portside deck railings were alternately up above the waves, and then awash with them. Badly stowed, loose items, including several cables and ropes, slithered about the yacht like giant snakes. Those would be dangerous if he got too close.
"I'm going to throw you a line," he called to the woman. "Grab it."
She stared, uncomprehending. Clearly, she was exhausted and terrified. Then he saw her nod.
Daniel stood in his boat, which wasn't easy to do. He knew had to act quickly because the storm was only going to get worse. Swirling a coil of rope around his head a few times like a cowboy, he hurled it toward the woman. It sailed perfectly over the edge of the cabin and onto the far bulkhead where she was lying.
"Tie the rope to you!"
As if in a dream, she picked it up, putting the rope around her waist. She was wet and visibly shivering. Daniel saw her tying the knot improperly and knew it might not hold, but it was hopeless trying to communicate that to her under these conditions.
His boat thumped against the yacht, part of the railing snagging momentarily on the engine. If it didn't unsnag—but then it did.
Thank God.
Now he saw the real problem. Getting this woman off the boat required more hands than he had. He needed someone to man the boat and keep it from getting caught on the railing or in the flotsam while he went aboard for the rescue.
But he was only one man. He was going to have to figure out how to do this on his own.
"You need to jump!"
She stared at him with wide eyes, vehemently shaking her head. He saw her eyeing the drop—it was a long one—and understood her hesitation.
"I'll catch you! Don't be afraid!"
The woman rolled her eyes at that but at least she began to move. Slowly, she lowered herself onto the top of the cabin, which was approaching vertical, sliding down it. There was a hand railing at the bottom and she stopped herself with her feet on the rail, clinging as tightly to the side of the cabin as she could.
She was closer, anyway. The woman looked over her shoulder at him, visibly shaken. There was a look of fear in her eyes, but determination, too. Spunky little thing. How in the hell had she gotten herself into this pickle?
Daniel stood in his little craft—as upright as he could manage in the turbulent waves—holding his arms open, motioning for her to jump. She frowned down at him, shaking her head again.
If she continued to cling to the ship, he could try to grab her before she sank beneath the waves. But the incredible suction caused by the downward motion of the ship might pull them both down with it. And the storm was really moving in now. Thunder rumbled overhead. The wind made everything unsteady.
Suddenly, the yacht keeled over even further, the railing moving deeper into the water. The top of the cabin, now almost completely vertical instead of horizontal, tilted towards him. The woman trembled, leaning against the top of the cabin, bare feet balanced on the narrow railing.
She turned her head to look back at him, her eyes wide and wild. There was nothing to hold on to and she was practically standing now. He'd been in enough dangerous situations to recognize the fear and panic on her face. Her movements were slow, zombie-like—very common in distressed people trying to make decisions in surreal circumstances.
The woman turned her gaze downward, where the yacht was relentlessly sinking, inch by inch, into the sea. He saw a look in her eyes he didn't like. The pause that comes on the edge of finally giving up—a fundamental tiredness with all things. He knew that look. He'd seen it enough in the mirror, before he moved to a place where there were no mirrors.
"Hey!" His voice caught her attention and she looked back up at him, surprised, as if she'd almost forgotten he was there. "It's okay. You're okay."
Her mouth opened but she didn't say anything. Then she closed it again and shook her head, slowly this time, side to side.
"I've got you." He had to practically yell over the sound of the waves against the boat and the threat of thunder over their heads. "Just let go. I'll catch you. I promise."
He'd maneuvered the boat as close as he could manage. The rope was still around her waist. As long as her messy knots held, even if she missed the boat, he would be able to save her.
Daniel held his arms out and their eyes locked. For a moment, there was just the two of them and nothing else. The yacht, the boat, the storm—it all became a backdrop. She was a mess—her sundress soaked, f
eet bare, face streaked with salt and mascara—but it was the light in her eyes, those sea-green eyes, that caught his attention. That look of determination was back again.
"It's okay." He mouthed the words, lifting his arms toward her, gesturing with his hands.
Jump.
Jump.
She jumped.
Really, she fell—backwards toward the boat. But she managed to push off the railing with her feet, giving her a little bit of momentum. Daniel took two steps forward and caught her, cushioning the drop by allowing himself to fall too, still holding her, onto the inflated gunwales of his boat.
It was a damned good catch. He couldn't have planned or imagined it any better.
She wiggled in his arms like a landed fish, panting, and swiping hair out of her eyes to look back at him. "Wh-who are you?"
Not even a 'thank you'—just a demand to know the identity of her rescuer. Daniel looked at her, bemused.
Her teeth chattered and now, up close, he saw her lips were starting to turn blue. He'd have to get her out of her wet things eventually—she was just wearing a sundress—but for now he turned her around and sat her in the bottom of the boat. She accepted the blanket he threw over her with a shudder.
"Stay here," he instructed, taking one of her hands—such small, delicate hands, her nails red and perfectly manicured—and placing it on a safety handle. "Don't let go of this."
She clung to the handle with big eyes, watching him maneuver. The boat was bouncing wildly in the waves. The most important thing now, he knew, was to make sure his boat was clear of the yacht before it went down or this rescue mission would be for nothing.
Looking up, he saw the yacht rolling over ominously. A jet of water shot out of an open porthole. She was going down fast now. As the cabin tipped under the sea, the hull rolled into view, and the ship began to sink, stern first. He saw the name of the ship—Feckless.
