“I really doubt?—”
“Please.” He fixed his gaze on her, pulling on every ounce of his magnetism to win her over. “You’re the only real connection I’ve been able to find. I’m getting desperate here.”
Finally, she relented. “Fine. But don’t get your hopes up.” She reached for the expensive Birkin bag she’d dropped onto the couch near her. But before she could reach it, a bodyguard stepped back into the cabin. He drew back at the sight of Jack.
“What the fuck?”
“It’s okay, he’s just looking for his sister. You can stand down.”
“Unless he wants to go for a ride, he better get off. Captain says we’re about to set sail.”
“No problem.” Jack rose to his feet, positioning his body so that he blocked the tote bag. “I’ll step off now. Thanks for not turning me into that crazy cop.”
The engine started up, and the yacht gave a gentle shudder as it shifted into its action mode. Celine jumped to her feet and motioned to the bodyguard. “Go tell them to hold off a second so Jack can get off.”
Jack used the microsecond of her inattention to grab the phone from her bag and slide it into his back pocket. “Looks like I’ll have to jump,” he joked as he strode toward the outside deck. “Where’s the stunt double when you need him? Thanks for the drink, Celine. Next one’s on me.”
Hoping she wasn’t looking too closely at his ass as he hurried toward the exit, he took the short flight of steps in two strides. The prow of the yacht was already a few feet away from the ramp, but the stern was still within jumping distance. Or would have been, if he’d gotten there in time.
Didn’t matter. He had to get off this Jessie-less yacht where he’d have no hope of finding his sister. Racing toward the stern, he calculated the distance between the deck and the ocean, which was a good twenty feet down. He reminded himself that people probably jumped off for fun on a sunny day, took a deep breath, and plunged off the side. At the last minute, he remembered the thing about keeping your body straight like an arrow, and clamped his arms to his sides.
Then his feet hit the surface and all thoughts fled in a rush of swirling harbor water. It was both warmer and dirtier than ocean water, and it seemed to take forever to rise back up. He surfaced, spluttering and gasping. He checked behind him on the status of the Swan Song. Had it left the marina already? No, it had paused and was idling several yards away from the float. Damnit, he didn’t want it to pause. He wanted to get out of this disgusting water and find Tina and the Salty Gal.
He filled his lungs and dove deep. Forcing his eyes open, he plotted a course under the float, through the murky water. How much fuel had dripped off the hose and into this water? He didn’t want to think about it. He swam hard until he reached the other side of the ramp, and chose a pier post as a good place to surface. Although his lungs were bursting, he took his time lifting his head from the water, staying as low as he possibly could to keep from being spotted.
Stay away, Tina, he silently chanted. The last thing he needed was for Celine’s bodyguards to see him with her. Hand over hand, he pulled himself along the wet, slimy ramp until he reached the Salty Gal. He swam around to the outside, pulled himself up using the side rail, then rolled his body over it, landing with a thud on the floorboards.
“Shhh,” he said to anyone who might be onboard, which turned out to be both Tina and Captain Sparrow, who were sitting in the cabin watching the yacht through binoculars. They must have missed him jumping off.
Tina started toward him, but he hissed, “Get down. Out of sight.”
She didn’t argue, just dropped low, crouching next to the padded benches that lined the cabin.
He rolled over onto his stomach and coughed out filthy water. The greasy chemical taste of marine fuel clung to his tongue. Revolting. “Water,” he gasped. “Back pocket. Get it out.”
29
Tina motioned to Captain Sparrow to roll her a plastic water bottle from the case he kept onboard for passengers. Once she had it in hand, she crawled across the deck to Jack and opened it for him. He spent the next few minutes washing out his mouth, gagging, spitting, and otherwise ridding himself of whatever he’d swallowed in the past few minutes.
“Is that what I look like after a boat ride?” she murmured to him.
“Shut up.” He gagged. “Back pocket. Grab it.”
“When a man asks me to grab his ass, I usually tell him to shove it, but for you…” She gingerly reached into his back jeans pocket, so sodden it was hard to get her fingers under the fabric, and tugged out a cell phone. “Is this—” She hardly dared hope.
“Celine’s. Yes. Could be dead by now.”
It was the latest version of iPhone, safely ensconced in an expensive case that was probably guaranteed to survive being dropped in water. But grimy harbor water might be more than it could handle.
She crawled back to the cabin, where the captain sat on his chair, with his legs crossed at the ankle, sunglasses perched on his head, watching their antics with bemusement. “Got any rice onboard?” she asked him.
“Basmati or long-grain?” he deadpanned. “Just kidding. Why would I have— Actually, hang on.”
He dug around in a cabinet and pulled out a box of Uncle Ben’s white rice in a Zip-loc bag. “You got lucky.”
“Pour it into a bowl.”
“No can do. This is survival rations, that’s the only reason I have it onboard.”
