by J. Haymore
Ethan frowns down at the schedule. "Is this wise?" He points at my hours. "Tara has an hour by herself from ten to eleven. Is it safe to have her out on deck alone at night?"
Seriously? I gape at him. He doesn't know me from Adam, so what right does he have to imply I can't handle an hour alone on watch at night?
Nalani puts down her fork and sighs. "It wasn't easy to make this schedule work with only five of us. It's just an hour, and most of us should still be awake at ten." She turns serious brown eyes on me. "My rule is to always wear your PFD and a harness while you're on watch alone, got it?"
"Got it," I say dutifully, but I focus on my salad, jabbing my fork into a piece of lettuce.
"We'll see how it goes for a few days, and then we'll revisit. And if we have any bad weather, we'll all be up and working, so Tara won't be alone."
"I'll be fine," I assure both of them.
Ethan's lips are flat and tight. He's not convinced this is a good idea. But he doesn't say anything, which is a good thing because, honestly, if he pushed this one too hard, I might blow a gasket.
It's true I'm the most novice sailor here, so I ultimately understand the rationale behind his question. But it still annoys me. And if he doesn't even have the respect for me to believe I can handle an hour on watch alone, why would he want to kiss me? All that heat must have been a product of my overactive imagination.
Damn it.
* * * * *
The days are clear and summery. The ocean and sky are our constant companions. So much blue. None of us seem prone to seasickness, and we all have acquired our sea legs. We don't stumble around with the constant movement of the Temptation anymore—instead we move with the boat, our bodies instinctively predicting its motion.
We are four days out to sea. It's late morning, and I'm on watch by myself—Mick is done with his portion of the morning watch, and I have another hour before Ethan will show up. I'm sitting on the trampoline—the mesh cloth strung between the two hulls in front of the bridge deck—my knees tucked against my chest and my arms wrapped around them. The sun's rays heat through my light jacket, and sweat breaks out on my skin under the bands of the personal flotation device—the PFD. The harness that attaches me to the base of the mast flutters in the light breeze, under the billowing foresail.
The Temptation slides through the waves, moving quickly over the water with no motor and only a gentle wind powering the cat forward. The boat takes full advantage of that power, collecting it in its sails until they're full and its hulls are carving their way inexorably toward the other side of the ocean.
There have been no near kisses, or near-imagined kisses, between Ethan and me. Instead, he has been unfailingly polite. At times I feel the heat of his gaze, but then I realize he studies everyone else equally intensely. I must have imagined that near-miss kiss, because he's so infuriatingly, unflinchingly civil, and he acts as if it never happened.
Nevertheless, he is everywhere. He surrounds me, permeates the air, wends his way under my skin. There's nowhere I can go to be free of him...of his intensity, of his presence. He's always close by, within just fifty feet of me, but it's more than that. Ethan has overpowered every square inch of the Temptation. His presence whispers over the contours of the cat, brings my flesh to life and makes the air feel cleaner. The wind brushes over my face and murmurs "Ethan...Ethan...Ethan." I breathe it in, and my lungs expand, and I feel alive.
A part of me wishes I could jump overboard and swim ashore and try to escape it, escape him...because I like this feeling. And that scares the crap out of me. I could so easily lose myself to this. To him.
I don't want that. I'm finally getting my life under control. I've been working so hard. Allowing thoughts of this man to consume me can't be a good thing.
But I don't know how to stop them. He's everywhere. I see him throughout the day and for a big portion of the night. He works side by side with me when we're on watch together. His body is graceful and powerful as he works the lines and sails, and I have made a study of his expressions, from the cold, icy flatness he uses on the satellite phone with his work colleagues to his warm—albeit distant—politeness with everyone on the Temptation.
With me, he's a perfect gentleman. I'm used to the relaxed easiness of Kyle and most other Californians, but Ethan opens doors for me and helps me down steps and makes sure I get my food and drink before he does. He stops short of rising, but his posture straightens whenever I enter the cabin.
But he's closed off. He only exposes little pieces of himself. He allows the world to see only what he wants us to see: The confident businessman. The competent sailor. The quintessential gentleman. The leader.
But I know that's not all there is to him. There's more to why he's here. There's more to his past. There's more to that almost-kiss. There's more to the way he looks at me. I wish I knew what that more was.
The mystery of Ethan should scare me farther away, but no. It only adds to my fascination.
If we were on dry land, I'd run. Logic would tell me to get as far away from him as possible and forget him as quickly as possible. The sheer force of my draw to this man—it makes me feel out of control, nervous, and so self-conscious I'm at a loss as to what to do with myself.
But I can't run away—we're stuck in the middle of the ocean. The only true separation from him is when I'm alone in my cabin. And even there, thoughts about him consume me. How insanely gorgeous he is. How he intrigues me, how I want to learn more—everything—about him. How his lips would feel if we'd actually kissed. How it would feel to have those hands touching me.
I press my forehead to my knees, sighing, and my gaze catches on the empty coffee mug sitting beside me. It's at about this time every morning that I go down to the galley for my second cup of coffee to sip through the remaining couple of hours of my watch.
I stand, my legs flexing and bending to accommodate the Temptation's constant motion, intending to head over to the bridge area to check the autopilot, GPS, and radar again to ensure all will be well with no one on deck for a few moments.
Kyle emerges from the cockpit, his blond hair fluttering in the breeze. "Hey!" he calls. "Stay put—I'll join you. Aaaannd…" he sings, raising a mug into the air, "I've got coffeeee!"
He steps on the deck and begins to walk toward me, but then, suddenly, his feet slip out from under him. His body lurches backward. The coffee cup flies out of his hand as his arms flail, scrabbling for purchase. The cup crashes on the deck and shatters. He goes down hard, and his head thuds against the edge of the deck.
And then…he simply disappears.
Fear rises in me so powerfully and so quickly, there's no time to think—only to react. I sprint toward the cockpit, but my harness holds me back, and my numb fingers wrestle with it as I run. I finally unclip it and toss it away as I leap into the cockpit.
I poke my head in the cabin door, and bellow, "Man overboard! Man overboard!" before turning back toward the Temptation's wake.
Oh God. Where is he? The ocean is spread out before me, an unbroken canvas of blue. I can't find him. He wasn't wearing a life jacket. He could be drowning...unconscious...
No. This won't happen to another person I care about. The previous times I was helpless to prevent it, but this time I'm not.
I lunge for the horseshoe-shaped flotation device hanging from the rail at the back of the boat and rip it from its perch. Someone shouts behind me, and people run out onto the deck, but right now I don't give a damn about any of them. All I can think about is Kyle. About getting him back.
I duck under the lifelines and emerge onto the steps that descend to the water, all the while scanning the water behind the Temptation.
The catamaran rises over the crest of a wave, and there it is. A flash of red. Kyle's shirt. He floats facedown in the water. It's only a matter of a minute or so before he drowns.
I dive off the end of the catamaran. Cold water bites my skin and glues my clothes to my body. My arms churn the water, one hand g
ripping the line of the life preserver.
I power up a wave and slide down the back face of it. At the top, I search desperately until my eyes lock on the red blob of Kyle's shirt. Thank God he wore red.
It seems like eons pass, my panic ratcheting up every second. Every few seconds, I look up, peering over the waves until I see that flash of red.
I finally reach him, gasping as I grab him and roll under him so he rotates and his face is out of the water. The horseshoe float hooks around his back, and my life jacket keeps me afloat even though he's completely limp in my arms. His weight threatens to drag both of us down, even with my PFD.
With my arm braced behind his head, I turn him in the direction of the Temptation. The waves surge under us, trying to flip him over, but I hold firm, my lungs straining for air. I've never swum so fast.
"Kyle?" Shake him, wake him up! But I can't shake him. He could have a head injury. "Please wake up," I beg. "Please, please wake up."
He coughs, spitting out water, and takes in a great, shuddering breath. His eyes don't open, but they do flicker under his lids.
"Okay." I grip him firmly, cursing when seawater splashes on his face. "You're okay."
I search for the Temptation. The catamaran is far in the distance—it appears so small from here. People are on deck handling the helm and the lines, but I can't tell who's who, and they're out of hearing range. Sails flap wildly as the boat turns and begins to head toward us.
"Hang on," I tell Kyle. "They're coming."
The Temptation takes a few minutes to get back to us. It makes a wide circle around us, dragging a rope that trails to us as the boat pulls away. There's another life-preserver type of buoy at the end of the rope, and I secure it around Kyle, who's still unconscious.
By this time, fear and adrenaline and the cold water have combined to make shudders rack my body. Barely paying attention to what they're yelling at me from the boat, I move my hands to Kyle's chest and lips to make sure he's breathing. "Wake up, Ky. Please. Please."
But then Ethan's words register. He calls out, "Swim with him. We're bringing him in."
Up on the Temptation's deck, Mick works a winch, winding it around and around. Kyle and I are pulled closer to the cat until the waves begin to slap us against the boat. Nalani is at the wheel, steering. I wedge my body between Kyle and the hull as one particularly steep wave smashes me against it, knocking the wind out of me.
"Goddammit!" Ethan growls from somewhere above me. "Are you all right, Tara?"
Still gasping for air, I give a weak thumbs-up in his direction. Ethan looks a million miles away up the steep angle of the side of the boat. His lips are compressed into a thin line, and a muscle ticks in his jaw.
Ethan—not Nalani—seems to be the one in charge. He turns and bites out an order, inaudible over the wild flapping sound the sails make. However, it's clear that neither Mick nor Nalani question the sudden change in leadership. Nalani yells, "Got it!" and Mick grits his teeth as he works the winch, holding a looped rope over his forearm.
I turn away from the Temptation and wrap my arms around Kyle, pressing myself against the comforting rise and fall of his chest, keeping his face above water and whispering, "Just hold on, Ky," as they reel us in.
Chapter Four
Ethan calls down to me as I grip Kyle in preparation to battle another wave. "We're going to bring you over to the stern."
It takes several minutes to drag Kyle and me around to the back of the boat, and Mick begins to hoist a very limp, very heavy, waterlogged, and unconscious man from the water. Mick's sailing skills are put to good use as he manipulates various ropes and pulleys and a winch to lever him out. I try to help by pushing Kyle up. His skin feels clammy and cold under my hands, which scares the crap out of me.
As soon as he's on deck, I scramble up the steps behind him, but then dry, powerful arms close around me, and Ethan hauls me out of the water.
He tucks me against him and carries me to the cockpit as I try to squirm away. I need to get back to Kyle. Why hasn't he woken up?
Twisting as much as possible within the lock of Ethan's arms, I see Mick and Nalani kneel over Kyle, whom they've arranged on his back on the opposite side of the cockpit floor.
"I need"—breaths saw harshly from my throat—"Kyle."
Ethan lowers me onto the white vinyl bench seat in the cockpit and unclips the PFD. I turn away from him and try to get up, but his hands close around my shoulders, pinning me to the seat. Fingers digging into my flesh, he shakes me gently until I turn from Kyle to him.
"Tell me you're okay, Tara. Just say you're okay."
Why is he so concerned about me when Kyle is obviously the one who's been hurt? I want to yell at him to let go of me and let me go to Kyle, but the expression on his face stops me cold. I suck in a deep gulp of air.
His eyes are glassy, his lips thin, and his skin pale. There's no sign of his usual steady control. The intensity is still there though, and right now, it's directed at me.
"I'm fine." I don't know why he's so upset, but the urge to reassure him is overpowering. I reach up and graze my fingertips over his cheek, staring into his glassy eyes. "I'm okay. Just…I need to go to Kyle and make sure he's okay too."
His fingers loosen their hold on me. He swallows hard, then nods, his shoulders straightening, and the implacable flatness returns to his eyes. "All right."
Shaking off the soaking-wet PFD and letting it fall to the cockpit floor, I duck under his arm and hurry over to Kyle. Ethan is right behind me when I drop to my knees at Kyle's side.
"Kyle?"
His eyelids flutter. He coughs again and then starts to gag.
"Turn him over," Ethan commands.
We roll him onto his side while he throws up seawater onto the cockpit floor. Finally the coughing and choking sounds subside, and we settle him onto his back.
"Sh…it," he rasps, dragging the back of his arm over his forehead.
Nalani exhales in a relieved sigh as she pushes his matted blond hair out of his eyes. He blinks at her, his green eyes bright, and says groggily, "What the fuck happened?"
"You fell overboard, I think." She turns to me, a question in her eyes.
"Yes," I confirm. "You slipped and banged your head on the way down and passed out."
His eyes sink shut. "That would explain the headache," he mumbles.
My hammering pulse has slowed down…a bit. Adrenaline is still a powerful buzz under my skin. Ethan's arm wraps comfortingly around my shoulders, and I take Kyle's hand. His eyelids flicker, and he sees it's me before they close again. He squeezes my fingers weakly. "Why're you all wet, T?"
Everyone's quiet for a second—the only sound is the loud flapping of the sails. Then Nalani says, "She jumped in after you."
Kyle's hand tightens around mine. "Course she did," he mumbles.
"Tell me where it hurts." Mick's fingers move around on Kyle's scalp.
He reaches a spot on the top near the back, and Kyle winces. "There."
Mick's hands leave Kyle, and he stands. "I'll get some ice for it. It's going to be a whopper of a goose egg."
Kyle shivers. I don't blame him—we're dripping wet, and even though it's warm and sunny, my clothes are heavy and the wind sends a cold bite through me.
Ethan rubs my shoulder as if trying to infuse warmth into it.
"Can you stand?" Nalani asks Kyle. "We need to get you dry."
"You too," Ethan murmurs in my ear.
"I think so," Kyle says. Then he winces. "But I might puke."
"No worries," Nalani assures him. I've never seen her so patient and calm. She and Ethan help him stand, then he straightens and shoots a grin at all of us.
"I'm good. Really. No problem. Just a splitting headache." Holding the back of his head, he staggers through the companionway, and he and Nalani disappear down the steps that lead to their cabin.
"Come on," Ethan tells me. "You need to get changed."
Numbness washes over me, and I passively let
him remove my sodden shoes and socks. Then he leads me down into my cabin, where he opens my dresser drawers and pulls out underwear, a pair of sweats, a bra, and a T-shirt, asking me with each item, "Is this okay?"
I just stand there and nod, feeling like some kind of automaton as he lays everything on my bed. Who cares about clothes right now?
A slow tremor begins in my stomach and spreads to my limbs. It grows in intensity until it isn't a mild tremble but a full-blown, teeth-chattering shake. There's no hiding it from Ethan. Is this a panic attack? Probably…but it's different from any I've ever had.
Ethan gently removes my jacket and then works the soaking-wet pants down my quaking legs and helps me to step out of them. That image of Kyle slumped over, head down in the water, repeats in an endless loop in my head. I just came close—so close to losing him. I can't lose Kyle. He's all I have left.
Tears squeeze out of my eyes and run down my cheeks. My fingers clasp on to the top lip of the built-in armoire to keep me from crumpling to the floor. The mirror above the armoire shows my face cast with a sickly yellow pallor. Wetness darkens my matted blond hair. My blue eyes are wide and shining as if I'm astonished about something, and my lower lip trembles. I look fragile, like an autumn leaf shaking in the wind, ready to crackle into dozens of tiny, brittle pieces.
Ethan has left to fetch a towel from the bathroom, but when he comes back, he sees my heaving shoulders and the tears, and his mask of calm collapses.
"Jesus Christ," he rasps out. He gathers me into his arms and sits on the edge of the bed with me on his lap. He rocks me, holding me tight against him. I'm wearing only my wet panties, a dripping T-shirt, and my bra.
The nasty, raised red scars that slash down my right leg, the ones I usually hide from people at all costs, are fully exposed. So is the bruise from the fall on the marina ramp—now an ugly purple-and-yellow bloom across most of my pale thigh. But I can't even bring myself to care that Ethan can see these ugly flaws. Bone-deep shudders rip through me, and my teeth chatter. Sobs tear from my throat. I wrap my arms around Ethan and bury my face against his solid shoulder.
