Will gave the only answer he could. “Lord, I hope so.”
Chapter 3
The Following Day
11:23 AM...
Cami stood on the end of the long pier that jutted into Wayfarer Island’s blue lagoon.
Er…the lagoonusedto beblue.
The approaching storm’s surge had piled the waves over the reef, churning up the sand and silt at the bottom of the shallow body of water and turning the surface a milky-looking gray that was dotted with tufts of white seafoam. The air was heavy with the smell of the sea and burned ozone. Not all hurricanes were preceded by lightning, but Julia had been putting on a show for the last hour.
Craning her head over her shoulder, Cami shuddered at the scene that met her desperate gaze. The storm’s towering outer wall obliterated the horizon, and the ocean in front of the hurricane looked fuzzy, distorted by harsh bands of rain. A bright, twisted hand of heaven sizzled through the bank of clouds, seeming all the more sinister because she couldn’t hear the accompanyingcrackof sound.
“Come on.Come on!” she whispered impatiently, turning back to see the divers climbing the swim ladder at the back of the catamaran. “Comeon!” she said louder when none of the wetsuited individuals seemed determined to get a move on.
I mean, seriously?she thought uncharitably.Can’t you wait to take off your tanks and swim fins untilafteryou’ve come to get me?
Doc, LT, and Olivia had been at it since daybreak, working in what could only be described asunfavorable conditionsto haul up the last of theSanta Cristina’sstoried treasure. Dana, the bubbly FMC employee, had dutifully remained on the sailboat’s deck, fulfilling her role as witness to the legality of the salvage. And Uncle John had been the one to captain the vessel, fighting the ever-angrier ocean in a bid to keep the catamaran positioned correctly for the divers below.
As for Cami? She’d been assigned the role of weathergirl, tasked with staying back at the beach house to monitor the marine channels for storm updates and to keep an eye on Julia via the island’s lone laptop for as long as the satellite internet connection held.
And why is it weathergirl?she wondered irritably.If the person reporting on the barometer has dangly bits, he’s a weatherman. So why isn’t the term for his female counterpart weatherwoman?
Or better yet, weatherperson?
Misogyny and the patriarchy hard at work,she decided.Even here in the twenty-first century.
And yes, she was purposefully distracting herself from her current situation. Because twice she’d radioed out to Uncle John to inform him Julia had picked up speed. Twice Uncle John had assured her they were almost finished and ready to come get her. And twice he’d called back a couple of minutes later to say,“Scratch that. Hang on a bit longer. They got a few more items to collect.”
To say Cami was feeling antsy was an understatement. By the time Uncle John had radioed in to tell her it was finally time for her to meet them on the pier, her pacing had cut a path in the beach house’s floorboards through the furniture they’d stacked the night before.
The satellite images of the hurricane made it look beautiful. Sweet even. Like the swirl of buttercream icing atop a cupcake. But Cami knew looks were deceiving.
Julia was no confectioner’s creation. She was a three-hundred-mile wide roiling ball of wind, water, and fury. And like a bullet that’d been fired from the end of a gun, she was coming. There wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do to stop her.
“Oh, thank Christ,” Cami breathed when she saw Uncle John point the sailboat’s nose toward the break in the reef.
Her relief was short-lived, however. Watching the sailboat lifted aloft on the crest of a wave only to then see it be plunged down into a frothing, watery trough was enough to make her seasick despite standing on the sturdy boards of the pier.
“Erp.” She lifted a hand to her mouth when her breakfast threatened a second act.
She’d known it would be rough sailing when she volunteered to stay behind for the last of the salvage. But she hadn’t known it would bethisrough.
Digging into her small overnight bag, she pulled out the package of Dramamine Doc had given her. She’d downed one pill on the jog from the beach house to the pier. But looking at the outraged ocean, she knew one pill wasn’t going to cut it. Unless, of course, she wanted to spend her time on the catamaran hanging over the railing and puking her guts into the sea.
Carefully placing the chalky-white disk on her tongue, she did her best to choke it down without benefit of water. Unfortunately, the sucker lodged in the middle of her throat like it came equipped with a set of fishhooks. By the time she managed to work it down her esophagus, she’d used up all the spit in her mouth and the sailboat had motored up to the end of the pier.
Doc, all six-and-a-half lean, mean feet of him, jumped from the deck of the catamaran to tie off the boat just as the wind began to sing. It was a low, melancholy moan that had the hairs on the back of Cami’s neck standing stick straight.
Doc’s too-long, forever-in-need-of-a-barber hair whipped around his face. The strands were darkened by seawater, but when they were dry they were a combination of colors that spanned the spectrum from medium brown to deep auburn to sandy blond.
He was the calico cat of the Navy SEAL/marine salvor/arrogant-pain-in-the-ass world. And why she should find his lion’s mane so fascinating was anyone’s guess. But aside from his eyes, which were sea green and annoyingly enigmatic, and aside from his smile, which was wide and a little crooked, his wild head of hair was her favorite thing about him.
And my least favorite thing about him?she thought.That’s easy. He’s a client.
Camilla D’ Angelo never mixed business with pleasure. It was her one hard and fast rule. And she’d always found it easy to follow.
