Maybe This Time, page 41
“If you’d feel more comfortable, we can wait out the storm,” Kevan said, looking concerned again.
“No, let’s go for it. I need a hot bath and a bed to feel more comfortable,” she confessed. “It’s been one of those weeks.”
WATER SPLASHED over the side of the boat. Alyssa dipped her head to shield her eyes from the salty spray. She clutched the dashboard in a death grip and peeked at Kevan.
“Check your life jacket.” He yelled over the roar of the boat’s engine and a loud clap of thunder. “Cinch it down!”
Hard, squally rain pelting her, Alyssa nodded. Rough seas had her stomach queasy, her head throbbing. The pleasant hour’s ride had digressed to a treacherous nightmare. “What about you?” she shouted back.
“Too small.” His voice carried on the roaring wind.
The sky grew darker. Night quickly approached. Could Kevan see? Could bigger boats in the Gulf of Mexico see their running lights?
She turned to ask him, but his expression stopped her. Intense concentration etched his face. Gripping the steering wheel had the muscles cording in his forearms. The churning seas grew more violent by the second, and Kevan looked as though every ounce of energy in his massive body was engaged in keeping them afloat.
The heavy rain continued to beat down on them. Darkness fell. How long had they been out here? She couldn’t see her watch. Three hours? she guessed. Four? It seemed like forever. Where the Hell was Paragon’s island anyway? An hour, his secretary had said. One bloody hour.
Lightning streaked the black sky for a brief second, illuminating vicious white caps on the choppy swells. Her head bowed, her gaze fixed at a point off her right shoulder, she caught a flashing glimpse of trees. “Buchannan!” she screamed, pointing to them. “Go there!”
He nodded and began turning the boat. The waves pounded the hull, jarring her teeth, her spine. God, just get us to land. Just don’t let us drown.
A second flash of lightning lit. Over the sea of foam, she glimpsed the trees bending to the whipping wind. They looked so far away. So small . . .
Waves crashed steadily over the bow of the boat. Then a new sound caught Alyssa’s attention. A train howled in her ears. The urge to cover them, to stop the shrill, painful noise, warred with her knowledge that she had to hold on. The sound grew louder, louder, louder.
Trains . . . Oh, God. Oh, God. A water spout! She whipped around in her seat. “Buchannan!”
A shadowy flying object clipped the side of his head. He slumped forward over the steering wheel. The boat sped up, turned parallel to the waves. More and more water swamped the hull. And Buchannan did not move.
Fighting the gravitational pull that pinned her against the seat, Alyssa struggled to get to him. She slung her sodden shoes from her feet and grabbed the windshield with both hands, pitting herself against the wind, the salty spray stinging her eyes, the flood of water filling the boat. She dodged flying debris, inched her way closer, closer. “Buchannan. Buchannan, answer me.”
He still didn’t move.
The howling train sound, shrill and piercing, threatened to shatter her eardrums. Fear, gripping her, intensified.
The engine sputtered and died. Kevan rolled back, his head lolling against the side of the boat. Blood streamed down his face.
Flinging wet clumps of hair back from her eyes, Alyssa braced her legs, forced herself to wait until the boat rolled. When it did, she lunged for him. But the boat didn’t dip as it had been doing—it raised high, spun, then slammed down with a powerful splat on the churning water’s surface. Her ankle smacked against the seat support. Pain shot up her leg. Before she could think, both she and Kevan were in the water.
Choking, she spit the saltwater from her mouth and screamed. “Buchannan! Buchannan, where are you?” Treading water, she twisted in a circle, searching the darkness. “Buchannan!”
Then she saw a dim shape—his white shirt. Dear God, he was face down—and—and sinking!
Her instincts told her to dive. She ripped off her life jacket and followed him, slicing through the choppy surface and spreading her arms wide.
Her lungs clamored for air, her chest drew tight, painfully tight, but she couldn’t go up. Somehow, she knew this was her only chance to find him. Blinded by the darkness, she felt for him, widened her search, praying he was near. Her chest throbbed, screamed for oxygen. She felt disoriented, and gave herself a good mental shake. Something hard rammed into her back. Stifling a gasp, she whipped around. His shoulder!
Relief washed through her. She felt her way to his head, twisted him, and started kicking her way to the surface, her ankle protesting the pressure. Seconds later, she realized that, unconscious, Kevan would breathe—and drown.
Sliding her fingers across his cheek to his lips, she pinched them together. Then, wrapping her free arm around his neck, she clipped his nostrils closed.
Her lungs screaming for air, her leg muscles cramping, her ankle throbbing, she broke the surface. Gasping in great gulps of air, she raised Kevan’s head.
Battling the waves, trying to tread water and keep both their heads above water, she felt his throat until she reached his pulse point. It was faint, but steady. A wave splashed her face, burned her eyes. She cursed Duncan Foster, his lousy boat, his inadequate equipment—and Buchannan, for not coming to. Her hand on his chest, she felt him draw in a shallow breath, then rolled him onto his back.
Looking around, she stopped dead in the water. Where was the boat? She moved slowly, waiting for lightning. Which way were the trees? Turning in a circle in the water, she dragged Kevan with her, and saw an ominous, dim shadow.
Straining to see, combating the angry waves, trying to roll with the swells, to keep Kevan’s head above water, she worked her way toward the dim lump, convinced that it had to be the boat. What else could it be?
Her muscles burned like fire, protesting her every stroke. “Just a little further, Buchannan. Just three more feet.”
A wave crashed into her face. She sputtered. Lightning flashed. Dead ahead, a fin protruded from the water. Her heart lurched. Terrified, stunned, she couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her gaze from that fin. Something bumped against her back. She screamed and jerked. The boat! Her hand slipped and she lost her grip on Buchannan. Grabbing at him, she caught his sleeve and pulled him back.
Quickly, she slid down the hull and worked her way to the back ladder, dragging Kevan, watching for the fin, cursing the darkness. Every tidbit she’d ever heard about sharks tormented her. Noise attracts them. They circle their prey. They feed at night. Blood increases their appetite. She thought of Buchannan’s injury, knowing that his blood was seeping into the water, calling the shark.
She felt her way past the outboard motor and grabbed the ladder, twisting until she hooked her leg over the rung. How in the name of God was she supposed to get Kevan into the boat? Twice her size. Twice her weight. And where in bloody Hell was that shark?
“Damn this darkness! Damn it!” she cursed, struggling with Buchannan’s limp weight, turning him in the water to catch him under his arms. Though aided by the buoyancy of the water, the first two rungs were difficult. “One more,” she told him. “Please, God. Just one more.”
Again and again, she tried, but she couldn’t lift Buchannan high enough to drag him over the edge of the hull. The blasted motor was in the way. Motion, she decided. Motion would give her momentum.
Forward and back, she rocked, faster and faster, until Kevan’s legs arced close to his chest. She grabbed his pant leg and jerked. Oh God, she was falling forward—into the water! Screaming her frustration and fear, she flung her body backward.
Her body slammed onto the boat-deck with a bone jarring thunk. A scant second later, Kevan fell across her, his shoulder smashing into her chest. Her breath swooshed out.
Sprawling on the deck, winded, she instructed herself to breathe, and reached for his shoulder. Panting, she called out to him. “Buchannan.”
Gasping, she inched around until she freed her chest, then felt her way to his face. “Damn the night. Damn the dark, damn night.” She stopped her fingers on the side of his face where she’d seen the blood. They grew warm and sticky. “Buchannan?”
He didn’t answer.
She scooted out from under him and turned him over onto his back. “Buchannan?” Hovering over him, she dipped her forehead to his chest, tears burning her eyes. “Buchannan, for God’s sake, please.”
But Kevan uttered not a sound.
Thirty-one
THE SUN BEAT down on her back. Before fully aware or awake, Alyssa felt the throb at her temples, the grit of wet sand under her cheek. She cracked open one eye. The glaring white boat deck blinded her, and she quickly squeezed her eyes shut. Boat deck? Buchannan!
She sat up, searched the shambled deck, but found no Buchannan. Above the top of the hull she saw trees. Relief and fear mingled inside her. She rose to her feet, sore all over, and called out. “Buchannan?”
How had they gotten to land? Was he all right? The boat had bottomed out on the sandy shore. Where were the hotels? The cottages? And where in bloody Hell was Kevan Buchannan?
Squinting against the strong sun, she looked up then down the stretch of sandy white beach. Desolate. Isolated. No sign of life. A sinking feeling seized her. Had he come to, stumbled around, and fallen overboard? “Buchannan!” she screamed.
She fought panic. He couldn’t have fallen overboard. He couldn’t have. He’d been unconscious.
She’d ridden out the storm before falling asleep. If he’d come to, he’d more than likely been groggy, disoriented. He could have stumbled . . .
“Shut up,” she told herself. “He—he didn’t.”
Tears came anyway. At first just a steady flow coursed down her cheeks. But anger at him leaving her, at her fear of being left, warred with an inconsolable sense of loss, and her silent tears grew to deep, racking sobs. “Damn you, Duncan Foster. Damn you and Paragon Oil. Damn your blasted contract, and your bloody boat, and . . . and . . .” She hugged herself with her arms. “Oh God, Buchannan. I knew you. I—I knew you!”
She bowed her head and cried.
Water splashed. Alyssa looked up.
“A bit lazy this morning, aren’t you?”
“Buchannan,” she whispered breathlessly. “Buchannan.” She half-jumped, half-fell, out of the boat. Pain shot through her ankle. Wincing, she hobbled through the shallow water to him, flung herself against his chest, and locked her arms around his waist. “Oh, Buchannan. Oh, God. You’re okay.” She smiled up at him. “You’re okay.”
Kevan’s heart contracted, and he circled his arms around her. “I’m fine, Alyssa.”
A fresh stream of tears washed her cheeks. “I—I thought—”
She couldn’t say the words, but she didn’t have to say them. He gently brushed her cheeks with his thumbs. “I explored the island,” he said in a soft voice. “Don’t you remember me telling you?”
She squeezed him closer. “No.”
He held her head to his chest and stroked her hair. “Come to think of it, you did just grunt.”
Lifting her in his arms, he held her for a long moment, then met her gaze. “Your ankle,” he said. “You shouldn’t be walking on it.”
“If you think my ankle’s bad, you should be inside my head.”
He frowned. “Pain?”
“Major pain.”
“Happen often?” he asked, walking toward the shade of the palm trees.
Resting her head against his shoulder, she closed her eyes and murmured. “Mmm-hmm. Dr. Samuels says it’s stress.”
“Well,” Kevan stepped ashore, “this time you’ve got cause. I hope that harbor master’s life insurance is paid up.”
“I hope Foster’s is, the jerk.”
Kevan sat down under a palm tree and held her on his lap. “Lie down and I’ll massage your head.”
She scooted until her neck rested on his thigh, then closed her eyes. “Where are we?”
“Later. Right now, relax.”
Looking down at her face, at the sweep of silver-tipped lashes shadowing her cheeks, Kevan had to remind himself to breathe. Slightly parted, her lips looked soft and kissable. He drew tiny circles with his thumbs, starting in the center of her forehead and rippling wider until he reached her temples. Then he added his fingertips at the base of her skull, working up, then down, her neck.
“Mmm, that feels so good.”
He agreed. Her throaty murmur had his heart thudding. What would kissing her be like? Would she be anything like he’d experienced in his fantasy? Aggressive? Gentle? Intoxicating? He studied the shape of her jaw, the slope of her neck, the curve of her shoulder exposed through the gap in her blue silk blouse. Creamy smooth, soft-looking, touchable. The kind of skin that once touched, a man would feel forever.
“There aren’t any hotels here, are there?”
He sighed. “Afraid not.”
“No phones, or anything else?”
“Afraid not.”
She opened her left eye and squinted up at him. “This island is little and deserted, isn’t it?”
“Afraid so.”
“Will the boat start?”
He swallowed hard, stalling to gauge her reaction.
“Well,” she asked. “Aren’t you going to say ‘afraid not’?”
“The gas line is hacked.”
“Hacked?”
“Can’t this wait?” he asked. Her forehead had wrinkled with worry or pain. He didn’t know which, but either wouldn’t help her headache easing.
“I want to know.”
“The line looks hacked,” he said. “The prop looks chewed.”
She scooted so that his hands worked her shoulders. “Probably the shark.”
“The shark?” His hands stilled. “What shark?”
“Rub, Buchannan. I ache like the dead. The shark that almost had us for a snack.”
“What?” he roared.
She jumped. “Shh!”
“What the Hell are you talking about?” he shouted in a whisper.
She whispered back. “During the water spout, we were thrown overboard. Jaws came calling.”
“Water spout? Overboard? Jaws?” His blood drained to his feet. “How’d we get back into the boat?”
“I fell us back in and bailed out what water I could until you came around. Well, groaned, anyway.”
He cast her a wary look. “How do you fell someone anywhere?”
“Calm down, Buchannan. We made it, didn’t we?” She grimaced and put his hand on her forehead. “I couldn’t lift you.” She squinted up at him. “You’re a big man. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m petite.”
“Tiny,” he corrected her.
“Whatever.” She stifled the urge to yell at him. She hated being called tiny. Hated it. Next to him, King Kong would look tiny. But she was not. She was petite.
“What about the shark?”
“I’m getting to that,” she snapped, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “I saw it. But I couldn’t lift you over the hull. I decided if I could get your body moving, maybe momentum would carry us. It did. We were falling back into the water. So—”
“So you fell backward into the boat and pulled me with you,” he finished. “Good God, Alyssa. I could’ve crushed you.”
“You did.”
“Is anything broken?”
“My spirit’s a little bruised and my disposition is shot to hell, but other than that, I’m fine. Move a little to the left, would you? God, my head’s splitting. Oh, yes. Right there.”
Kevan moved his thumb to her temple. The woman was incredible. She risked her life to save him. Fought rough seas in a storm, a water spout, outran a shark, and fell him into a boat. “Good God.”
His stomach knotted. Hers growled. “Hungry?” he asked.
“Famished. I could use some dry clothes, too.”
“There aren’t any,” he advised her. “The restraining straps broke. Both of our cases are gone.”
She let out a resigned sigh. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“We’ve got food, though. And fresh water. We’ll be fine. There’s a little lagoon—”
“For pity’s sake, Buchannan. How can you sound so calm? We’re stranded. We’ve got no engine, no oars, no radio—”
“You’re going to make your head start up again,” he warned.
She frowned up at him. “Shut up and rub, Buchannan. Would you just rub?”
He ran his fingertips along her scalp and smiled down at her. “Things could be worse, you know.”
She flashed him a glare. “Rub.”
HE WAS ENOUGH to vex a saint. Alyssa glared down at Kevan. Sitting in the sand, his back braced against the tall palm, the blasted man looked completely content. “Look, Buchannan, I’m fed up with your attitude. I should’ve let you drown.”
He cocked his head and looked up at her. “So why didn’t you?”
Why couldn’t he get irrational—just once? He wasn’t bloody human. “I couldn’t afford to. After we kill Duncan Foster—”
“Slowly, of course,” he interjected.
“Of course,” she agreed. “And after we demolish Paragon Oil, I need you to get that bloody contract with them. Joint venture, remember?”
“I’m not apt to forget. That’s all I’ve heard out of you for the past three weeks. But tell me, if we kill Foster and demolish his company, why do we want the contract?”
“We don’t,” she said. “We just want to be the ones to tell him to stuff it.”
“Tell who?”
“Are you paying attention, Buchannan? Foster. We want to tell Foster to stick his contract in his ear.”
He shook his head. “You’re driving me crazy, woman. If Foster’s dead, how are we going to tell him to shove his contract?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Buchannan. I don’t mean to really kill him. I just want to blister the man’s ears for a week or two.”
“Oh. And you want me to blister him, too.”
