one
Helllllpppppp!
"What the hell was that?" Clara peered over the railing. The tide was coming in, waves crashing against the rocks. Nothing but foam and stone and?—
There. A flash of red bobbing between the waves.
"Oh, hell."
She grabbed the binoculars. A man clung to what looked like the remains of a very optimistic pool float, being dragged toward the rocks. His head kept dipping below the surface.
Options: Call the coast guard—fifteen minutes minimum. Emergency rope—sixty feet, might reach. Stand here and watch him drown—not ideal, likely to create nightmares and punch a ticket straight to the fabled Hell her Catholic grandmotherliked to threaten whenever someone did something that went against her teachings.
She chose the rope.
Scrambling down the stairway, Clara yanked open the emergency kit, tied one end to the railing with a bowline knot, fashioned a loop in the other. The man had drifted closer—close enough to see his shoulders shaking with effort.
"Hey! Drowning guy!"
His head turned.
"Catch!" She swung the rope and released.
It landed three feet to his left.
He stared at it.
"You have to actually grab it," Clara called down. "That's how rope works."
He said something she couldn't hear over the waves—probably profanity. He released the raft and lunged. His fingers closed around the rope on the second try.
Clara braced her feet and pulled. Good gravy, waterlogged men were heavy. Her shoulders screamed as she hauled him through the water, inch by stubborn inch.
When he reached the rocks, he climbed the last few yards on his own. Clara met him at the base of thelighthouse stairs, where he collapsed like a drowned cat.
Water streamed from his clothes. His jeans were torn, his t-shirt—once white—clung to his chest. He was breathing hard.
"Lucky day for you," Clara said.
He lifted his head. Objectively good-looking, stubble, a jaw that probably photographed well and a nose that had been broken at least once. When his gaze met hers—warm hazel eyes, the kind that made women do stupid things—she felt a flicker of something she immediately suppressed.
Nope. Absolutely not. There will be none of that.
"Thought I was a goner." His voice was rough.
"Day's young." Clara planted her hands on her hips. "What were you doing out there?"
"Trying not to drown."
"Before that."
He rolled to his back with a groan. "My boat capsized. Storm last night. Didn't realize it'd get so choppy."
"Anyone with a lick of sense would've checked the weather forecast."
"Yeah, well. I was hoodwinked by the assumption that summertime was a safe time to test the waters." He pushed himself upright, wincing. "But my ego wrote a check my skills couldn't cash. Lost my boat, too. Seems like a fair penance."
Six hours in the Atlantic, even in summer. The blue tinge to his lips, the trembling hands. Hypothermia. Exhaustion.
