8:35 p.m.…
Alex tossed the anchor overboard and watched it sink to the shallow, sandy bottom. She’d sailed the catamaran to within forty feet of the beach on Garden Key, and on an impulse she decided to forgo using the dinghy to make it the rest of the way.
It’ll take too much time.
Tucking her glasses into the front pocket of her shorts, she pinched her nose and chucked herself over the side of the sailboat, hitting the water like a lead anvil—gracefulness had never been her strong suit. The sea was colder than she anticipated when it rolled over her head. The average water temperature in the Gulf of Mexico this time of year was anywhere between sixty-five and seventy-five degrees. But the raised goose bumps on her bare arms and legs told her this particular spot was far below the norm.
She came up sputtering.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she heard Mason curse. Sound traveled easily on the water. “Of all the crazy-assed—”
She wasn’t sure how he ended that sentence. She was too busy stroking for shore. With every second that passed, with every inch she gained toward the beach, the composure she’d managed to don in the last few minutes slipped away.
Ninety minutes…
Ninety minutes!That’s how long she’d been forced to sit out there, desperate to know what was happening after they’d gone overboard. Longing to help. Terrified out of her mind.
Ninety minutes of conjuring up a million horrible scenarios that ended with Mason and Bran dead or dying—after all, there had been all that gunfire right at the start. Ninety minutes of wringing her hands and tearing out her hair and deciding to pull anchor and set sail to help, only to remind herself that Mason had told her to stay put. Ninety minutes of pacing. Ninety minutes of peering through the binoculars. Ninety minutes of angry crying that turned into scared crying that inevitably gave way to frustrated crying. And around and around it’d gone in a vicious circle.
And then, after all that crying and pacing and hair-pulling and hand-wringing and second-guessing had come the three gunshots. Just three.Bam!Followed byboom, boom!Then more silence. Silence that was eventually broken by the roar of an outboard engine grumbling to a start. That had lasted all of about fifteen seconds before the deeper sound of inboard engines resounded across the open water. Through the binoculars, she’d watched the fishing boat emerge from around the side of the fort and zoom away from the island, its twin motors frothing up white water that played havoc with the dingy trailing behind the boat on a long rope.
It was then she’dreallyhad a meltdown of near-nuclear proportions. Because she’d known with one-hundred-percent certainty that Mason and Bran weren’t on that boat. No way would they have left her floating alone without a word.
They’re dead.
Her heart had shattered, just…crash.And a million sharp pieces had shredded her soul. And then she’d seen it…
It had risen above the brick parapets, glorious and golden and bright beside the light of the low-hanging moon. The flare.
He’s alive! They’re alive!
She’d raced to start the sailboat’s engines. And when she’d rounded the island, and through the binoculars saw Mason waiting for her on the beach—all big and strong andalive, his shaggy black hair glinting in the glow from the lighthouse, his granite jaw set at that stern, uncompromising angle—she’d wondered if it was possible for a person to die from sheer joy and relief.
“Damnit, Alex,” Mason said now, his voice shockingly close.
She splashed to a stop, coughing on the seawater that invaded her mouth when it opened in a shockedO. He’d waded away from the beach to meet her and was standing in water up to his chest. The waves toyed with the silver piece of eight he and all the rest of the Deep Six Salvage guys wore around their necks.
Even without her glasses on, she could see his expression wasn’t exactly welcoming. Neither were his words. “You couldn’t bring the dinghy with you? Now I have to swim out to the—”
She didn’t let him finish. She was so happy to see his sourpuss face and hear his cantankerous complaints that she swam straight into his arms, squeezing him until he grunted. Burying her nose in shoulder, she breathed in the unique scent of him. Watercolor paints and coconut oil.
Yes, big, bad Mason McCarthy was an artist. That’s how he’d gotten the SEAL nom de guerre of “Monet.” Though she rarely heard the others actually call him that. Maybe because watching him sit on that little stool with his easel and his paint palette was like watching an elephant performThe Nutcracker. It simply boggled the mind.
She gave him another heartfelt squeeze and decided it was sort of like hugging a sack of potatoes. He was all hard and lumpy…and hot. “What happened to your shirt?”
Not that she was complaining. Mason McCarthy in the semi-buff was quite a sight to behold.
She pulled back to find he had the strangest look on his face. It wasn’t derisive or sarcastic. It wasn’t even mildly annoyed. Nope. It was…shocked.Or pained, maybe?
“What?” She peered into the water around them. “Did you step on a jellyfish or something?”
“No.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.
And then it occurred to her… “Is Bran okay? Oh, for the love of… He’s not hurt, is he?” The roar of her heart sounded like a waterfall in her ears.
“No.” Now his eye was twitching.
“Madison Powers? Is she okay?”
