Tides of the Heart (The Maverick Key #2)

Chapter 1

The Turning Tide, years ago

I know who I am.

A Sarasota boy who spent most of high school in college classrooms and touched ground in distant places around the world before most kids got the chance to leave their backyard. One who’s on a fast track for a direct-entry PhD in marine geosciences. The youngest in my field.

There’s a rush and a peace I find while I’m swimming underwater. And yeah, I write poetry because what I see makes me feel things.

I promised my father on the day he died that I’d take care of my mother and sister and always try to do what was right.

And so far, I have.

I’m disciplined. Responsible. Focused.

So how the hell did I let myself get talked into this?

“You promised me one last adventure,” she teased this morning.

“Sorry, Cat.”

“You’ve got what, five hundred and something dives logged already? I think we’ll be okay. Anyway, this is our last chance to get those pictures.”

I knew it was a bad idea. But I went along with it anyway.

“I’m in charge. If I call it, we’re done.”

“Deal.”

The St. Augustine West Start Field Study Program wraps up next week, and we won’t get another chance to photograph the wreck.

So we loaded up and took the boat out this morning.

Since we’re both student divers taking part in the excavation, there’s nothing unusual about this.

Except that we’re diving unauthorized on our Sunday off.

If we get caught, we’re going to be in a shitload of trouble. It could cost me my transfer to Miami.

For what?

Now, we’re swimming above a skeleton of rotted timber covered with colonies of coral and sea sponge.

Once a proud member of the Spanish Treasure Fleet, the galleon now rests over forty feet underwater.

Dozens of snappers, amberjack, and sheepshead scatter away as we approach the remnants of the carpenter’s chest we found on our last dive.

The ship’s carpenter would have been respected and enjoyed the privilege of his own cabin.

His job—keep the ship afloat.

My dive buddy and partner in crime, Cathy, is midship on the GoPro, trying to get as close as possible to the chest area without entering the unstable structure.

The chest itself has been reduced to splinters, but scattered across the floor lie rulers, ax handles, and a brace and bit—centuries-old wooden tools, still recognizable connections to the past.

After I take some overview photos at the stern, I check on Cathy.

Her enthusiasm is getting the better of her. She’s way too close.

I tap my tank to get her attention and flatten my hand, pointing down. Slow down. After my third attempt, she circles her thumb and index finger to acknowledge my command.

OK.

The tension in my chest loosens. I’m not a fan of being in charge of someone else’s safety. It adds too many variables. The riskiest? The other person’s free will.

She gives me a wicked smile.

Before I can react, she squeezes between two beams of the ship to get a few feet closer to the artifacts.

Damn it, Cathy.

Annoyed, I signal for her to stop and turn around. But she’s not looking at me.

That’s when I notice the glint of threadbare fishing line knotted throughout the area.

Oh no.

Seconds stretch into slow motion. To get her attention, I call out through my regulator, letting out a muffled sound followed by a stream of bubbles.

I motion to her with my fist. Danger. Stop.

When she turns, it’s too late. Already in the thick of it, she’s immediately snarled in yards of nylon. Her eyes burst open, and she tries to move toward me, which tightens the lines. Disoriented, she hits the inflator. Her BCD expands with air, jerking her into a vertical position.

Oh shit.

She screams, spitting out her mouthpiece. A rush of air explodes from her mouth as her arms wave wildly, reaching for it.

This is how divers die.

I go still and try not to panic. Then I close the distance.

Her breaths burst out in short, hammering jets, tearing through the water. The sound is savage, like a desperate animal trying to survive. My vision narrows.

Careful not to get entangled myself, I approach her as fast as I can. Her arms flail, and she hits my face, driving my teeth into the walls of my mouth. I swallow hard, ignoring the sharp, metallic taste of blood. She’s going to die or get me killed if she doesn’t calm down.

I focus on her, grab her wrist and the regulator, and force the mouthpiece back between her teeth, holding it until she seals her lips around it.

Then, I shove the inflator hose down. It stops her rise, but she’s in trouble and knows it.

Her eyes blink open, and she stares at me blankly, her pupils blown wide.

I push away my fear. Right now, I can’t think about her little brother Michael, or Peanut, the Yorkshire Terrier she’s had since she was a teenager.

Carefully anchoring myself to a timber, I signal for her to calm down and pull her close until her mask is inches from mine. Her breathing’s still erratic, but she’s taking in a few deeper inhales and trying to regain control.

I hold her steady until she stills and lets out one controlled breath. Once she’s breathing with a steady rhythm, I take the line cutter out of my pocket and show her I’m going to cut her out. She nods.

I move behind her and pause.

Where do I begin?

So she knows I’m still with her, I keep one hand on her waist and start at the tank valve. I work my way through the lines around her equipment, arms, and legs. When I come back up, I realize I’m going to have to cut through portions of her hair.

This will hurt. Her and me. The last thing I want to do is destroy her beautiful hair. I know it will grow back, but… There’s no real choice, so I do it.

Clumps of line and strands of hair float around us, their intrusion a brief distraction to the schools of wrasses and damselfish swimming nearby. After cutting the last knot of line, I gently adjust her forward and confirm she’s free.

We stay still for a moment until Cathy’s ready to head back. At a safe distance from the wreck, she throws her arms around me, muttering something through her mouthpiece.

I cradle her head and let her hold me until she’s able to swim.

Back on the deck, we’re silent as we get ready for the ride back to the field house. I take the helm, and she sits beside me.

“I really fucked up,” she whispers.

Yeah, she fucked up, and I was stupid enough to let it happen because I listened to my hormones and not my head. I could have gotten someone killed and thrown away years of hard work and sacrifice for a few hours of fun.

Not my proudest moment.

My father’s face flashes behind my eyes as disappointment washes over me. Pulling out the titanium dive knife he gave me after my open-water certification—I rub my thumb across the blade and read the engraving.

Son, be brave. Be free.

A reminder. After every achievement, every win, that’s what he’d say. It was his way of telling me—I’m proud of you, son.

I grip the throttle and ease the boat forward.

What would Dad tell me right now if he were still alive?

He’d probably have just kicked me in the ass.

I promise to do better, Dad.

“Will you forgive me? Still friends?” Cathy asks.

I lean over and brush my fingers across her face, running them through her choppy, shortened hair. She looks up, tears in her eyes. I give her a reassuring smile. “Yeah. We’re good.”

She moves back to Virginia next week and will graduate in the fall. It’s time for her to focus on the rest of her life, and the same goes for me.

The engines drone and the wind carries across the water. I take another deep breath of the salty air, letting my muscles relax.

There’s no sense in dwelling on mistakes.

My next stop—Miami.

SoBe, Miami Beach.

An intoxicating tang of salt, sea breeze, and sunscreen fills the humid afternoon air.

There’s nothing I love more than the ocean.

That said, sharing the beach with about a million other people at the same time isn’t my idea of fun.

I’ve been in Miami for eight months now, and this is my first day off. My buddy Mark demanded it.

My suggestion was Key Biscayne. I wanted to check out Neptune Memorial Reef and take some pictures of the artificial reef designed to resemble the lost city of Atlantis. I’d packed my gear and was ready to go. But Mark pushed for Lummus Park, so here we are.

Bright, sandy, and loud. Mark fits right in. Already lit on the vodka he’s been sneaking into his tumbler. Drinking’s not my thing. It makes you stupid. Takes away all the control you have over what’s going on around you.

After weaving through the crowds, we snatch a small open spot next to the blue and yellow Art Deco lifeguard stand. I drop the cooler and bag on the sand.

Mark whistles. I sigh, glancing in the direction he’s looking. Who is it now? We’ve been here for fifteen minutes, and Mark’s already got four girls lined up to ask out.

“Nice. I’m adding her to the list.”

I follow his gaze. The lifeguard’s pretty, blonde, and about our age.

“Highly fuckable.” He tilts his head in her direction. “You want that one? I’m feeling generous.”

He’s drunk.

“Take it easy.”

“Hey, I’m just a concerned friend. When’s the last time you got laid?”

I ignore his question. The last time was with Cathy in St. Augustine.

But I don’t miss it. That wreck fiasco taught me a valuable lesson.

Stay focused. My adviser has been warning me that the committee is skeptical of my dissertation topic.

A few members are reserving their judgment, and I need to sell them at the draft review.

The rest of my life’s a blur. There’s no time for anything else. I’ve decided that this beach day is the last time I’m going to let anyone talk me into doing anything for a while.

Stay focused.

“Shit. Look at her.” He gazes toward a beautiful girl who’s dipping her toes into the waves. “She’s going to be the lucky lady tonight.” Smirking, he walks off.