Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
JUNE
“What all did you get?” I frown at the three brown paper bags from the marina. “That’s a lot of bags.”
“Water. Sports drinks. Nothing too exciting. No one saw you, right?”
“For the last time, no one saw me. I stayed in the cabin. Which, for the record, was awful. Now tell me what you got?”
The incorrigible man just pulls out a water bottle. “Drink up, princess.”
While I chug it, because he’s right, I need to hydrate, he makes a quick call on the satellite phone to his HQ, muffling his voice as he talks to his chain of command. He rattles off the coordinates of my beach, with instructions for Pierce to meet us there.
My stomach twists at that.
GPS coordinates are numbers, tidy and neat. They don’t convey the enormity of what it means to let other people in on where we’re headed.
I swallow, watching the blue-on-blue horizon line fly by. It was my dad’s and my secret. Just our place, though other people knew about it, and sometimes we even saw other people on that stretch of lonesome beach.
But giving it to the government, so Pierce can meet us there? It feels wrong .
It feels like fully admitting that my dad was a criminal, and it hurts.
It’s silly, illogical, but that’s the truth.
“We’re here.” I focus on the jetty looming on the port side of the boat. Massive blocks of rough black granite mark the edge of the channel. White water froths along the manmade rocks, waves crashing onto the barrier as the tide rushes out.
“So this is it, huh?”
There’s no judgment in Dean’s voice, but the question rankles.
Words stick in my throat, so I nod, silent.
Past the jetty, the remote beach, the very tip of South Padre Island, clean sand stretches as far as I can see. Patches of dark brown line the edge of the surf, seaweed left glistening on the shore as the waters recede. Sea glass hides among the tendrils of washed-up vegetation; at least, it used to.
My father always loved pointing it out. He’d signed me up for jewelry making classes, brought me supplies and endless sea glass when I was in middle school and fascinated by the stuff.
We spent countless mornings searching for it, washed ashore after stormy nights, too many lazy afternoons spent picnicking on this very beach to count.
“This is it, huh?”
“Yeah, it is. What about it?” I ask softly, waiting for him to call me on the way I’ve been happy to bury my head in the sand all these years.
He peers at me, his gaze softening. “It’s beautiful.”
His eyes never leave my face.
I take a deep breath, slowing the boat even more as we approach the shallow sandbar.
“Grab the anchor for me?” I turn it into a question at the last minute. My fingers rapping against the wheel. “We don’t want to risk running aground. We’ll anchor here and to swim in.”
He doesn’t respond, and for a moment, I wonder if he has it in him to obey. Finally, he nods. A strange look passes over his face, like he wants to say something, and then he simply climbs up to the front of the boat and opens the hatch where the anchor lies coiled and waiting.
“I’m going to cut the engine and angle onto the sandbar,” I yell up to him. “Hang on.”
He nods once, squatting low.
I promptly forget what I’m supposed to be doing.
His thick legs are a sculptor’s dream, or a personal trainer’s, likely rock-hard like the rest of him.
My lips part on an exhale, my fingers grip the wheel more tightly.
Get it together, Horny McHornster . One wrong move and the strong riptide along the jetty could push the boat too far off...
I cut power to the engines, pushing another button to raise the dual propellers. The mechanical whine of the bilge pump replaces the sound of the diesel engine.
Thank god that’s still working.
Checking the depth finder, I allow the boat to continue cruising forward on momentum alone. Fifteen feet, now eight, five, and?—
“Throw it now,” I bark out.
Dean reacts in an instant, tossing the anchor with skill that only comes from years of practice.
That might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.
The rope uncurls near his feet, and he keeps one hand on it as it sinks into the water. Snapping taut after a few seconds, he ties it off on a bracket.
I am a sucker for a competent man, and Dean is about as competent as they get.
He grins back at me, and I realize I’ve been staring. The cocky wink that follows makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with adrenaline.
A wave, stronger now that we’re in shallower water, breaks on the sandbar, rocking the boat, and I force my gaze away from him.
“We need to get the crabs back in the water. If they die on the hot deck, our dreams of a crab feast go with them.” My voice comes out slightly strangled.
“Got it.” He heaves the sack over the side, like he’s done it all his life. His forearms flex as he ties the rope off to the boat with ease.
Competent, caring, and cool as a cucumber under pressure? The dash of cockiness doesn’t exactly hurt, either.
I sit, open-mouthed, slightly dumbfounded, as it hits me.
Okay, extremely dumfounded.
I am attracted to him.
I admire him, even. After years alone, too focused on work, on finding the Santu Espiritu to make room for a man. Of course I was going to like him. Dean’s the first man I’ve allowed in my orbit since college, and I couldn’t have picked out a better match from a mail-order boyfriend catalogue. Not that they make those. Not that I’ve looked.
Under all his sharp edges and stubble, under all that bravado hides a secret soft interior.
Now he’s taking orders from me.
A little too easily.
My eyes narrow.
“Why aren’t you arguing with me?” I strip off my dress. No reason to get it all salty.
“Why would I?” He puts his hand over his eyes, shading them from the brutal sun. “You know what you’re doing.”
“You didn’t seem to think that,” I check my watch, which has a dangerously low battery, “about an hour ago.”
“Dr. Legarde, you made your point. I’m choosing to trust you.” The words strike a chord, and I look up at him. He pauses, his golden-brown eyes unflinching from my face, and I tug at the bikini string around my neck. “Why don’t you grab two of the bags and hand them down?” With that, he lets the ladder down from the side of the boat and hops into the water frothing over the sandbar.
Wordless, I duck into the small cabin, ignoring the walls pressing around me. Breathing deep, I haul all three up with a watertight bag, then load the brown bags into the watertight one. Dean takes it easily, tossing the strap around his chest.
“What about the crabs?” He points to the rope hanging off the side.
“They’ll be better in the water till we’re ready for them.” I check to make sure everything is secure before turning back to Dean. “That is, unless one of the locals gets hungry and decides they’re easy taking.”
“Locals?” Confusion wrinkles his brow.
“Sharks,” I clarify.
“Sharks,” he repeats.
“This is their home,” I tell him, gesturing to the ocean all around.
“Well, we better hope they aren’t hungry. He offers me his free hand, that elusive dimple making an appearance as his abs ripple.
I clear my throat, unsure where it’s safe to look.
Not his broad chest, white scars standing out against otherwise tanned skin.
Not the dips between his hips, the tease of dark hair on his lower abdomen.
His smile it is. All white teeth and dimples, promising danger and something much, much, sweeter.
“Don’t worry, I’ll catch you if you fall.”
I scoff. “I’m not going to fall.”
I reach for his hand. Cool water licks my skin, and I shiver as goosebumps pebble my flesh, holding his steady hand even harder.
Water pulls against us, and my eyes lock on his.
“Wave,” I warn.
“Tide’s going out,” he says at the same time, grinning down at me. “We need to make it fast.”
“I know.”
“Race ya?” Dean’s eyes flick over my body. “Winner take all.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re on.” I’ve never been able to resist a challenge, and I’m certainly not going to start now.
Without another glance, I dive into the water, slicing through the waves with sure strokes born of years of practice. Maybe my watch will even deign to consider this my exercise for the day. Unlikely . As I break the surface for air, angling my head from the surf, I waste a split second looking for my competition.
Dean is in line with me. He barely seems to notice the waterproof bag he’s towing behind him. He’s matching me stroke for stroke, massive arms and shoulders working like he’d been born to swim. Of course he’s a good swimmer, he’s a Marine.
Losing to him suddenly doesn’t seem so bad.