Читать книгу Wicked Secrets - Anne Marsh - Страница 12

3

THROWING UP ON a public beach was rude. But Mia’s stomach wasn’t on board with being polite, the pounding headache building between her eyes demanded relief of one kind or another. She’d captured some great pictures of her cousin with the mock veil. The ATV ride had gone well. But the zip line...big mistake.

One of their guides had thought it would be fun to encourage them to spin upside down, and his impulsive gesture had triggered an episode of motion sickness she’d really rather forget. If she’d only stayed upright, her prescription would have continued to do its job. Instead, the overzealous guide had given her meds a workout her head couldn’t handle.

Not ready to confront a world that rocked violently up and down, she kept her eyes screwed shut. The rustle of palm fronds overhead was actually somewhat soothing. If she was lucky—and, given the way her day had gone so far, she probably shouldn’t be investing in lottery tickets—the darned tree wasn’t sporting any coconuts. Her head simply couldn’t take any more knocks. She waited for a moment for the universe to weigh in, but her life remained coconut-free. Good times.

“Mia?” Her cousin’s voice floated through the darkness, demanding attention. A hand squeezed her shoulder.

“That’s me,” she muttered.

“Are you okay?”

No. She absolutely, positively wasn’t.

“I’m going to head back to the boat and sleep off this headache,” she said instead. No way was she ruining her cousin’s day. “You guys finish up your shopping and I’ll meet you on the main deck for dinner.”

Tomorrow.

But there was no way she’d make it back on board without an assist right now. She could lie here. Work on her siesta skills. Maybe, if she closed her eyes for a few minutes, she wouldn’t need a helping hand from the boat’s crew. And there were worse things than taking a short nap beneath a palm tree, right?

“Are you sure?”

“You bet.”

“You want me to take your things for you?” Bags rustled.

“That would be great,” she groaned. Anything you want. Just go.

Ten minutes and a quick siesta.

All she needed was time to settle her stomach, and then she’d be good as new.

* * *

THE THUNDERSTORM MOVING toward Discovery Island had painted the last visible portions of the sky an ominous purple. The Fiesta cruise ship was a tiny white blob on the horizon...taking Mia and any chance of a reunion hookup with it. Temptation removed.

Even though Discovery Island wasn’t really his kind of place, Tag had to admit the evening scene was a fun one. Tourists strolled down the boardwalk, debating dinner options and enjoying the sea breeze. None of them looked at the horizon and weighed the possibility of a rescue call against the height of the waves and the distance to the ocean’s surface. He loved his job, and the siren call of the storm building on the horizon promised action and a good fight. When the rain and the waves hit, wreaking their usual havoc, the island would need him. He’d have things to do.

Sitting still and watching wasn’t his thing, because he didn’t run with the vacation crowd anymore than he did with the casserole crowd. The avid interest of Discovery Island’s long-term residents in his dating life was off-putting. To say the least. The attention shouldn’t have bothered him since he was used to living life in a fishbowl. But Discovery Island was a small place, and some days it felt more like he was a tasty squid swimming in a shark tank at a very public aquarium. Even the rescue-ops part of the job had dating perils—his last rescue, the eighty-one year-old Ellie Damiano, was still trying to set him up with her granddaughter.

Somehow, the things he rescued always stuck to him. Sure, he might have wrapped an arm around Mrs. Damiano and talked with her. But what other choice did he have? She’d just driven her car off the road and into two feet of water. She’d needed an ear to bend, and he had two perfectly good ones. He’d listened. And listened. And then listened some more. He swore, Mrs. Damiano had more to say than anyone he’d ever met before. Now she was grateful, wanting to do something nice for him, and he didn’t have the heart to turn that down.

He just didn’t want to go out with her granddaughter.

As the last few sunbathers packed it in, vacating the creamy strip of sand between the boardwalk and the surf, he turned away from the radar showing only empty waters around Discovery Island—no enemy hostiles or floundering commercial liners or even a capsized fishing boat—and got down to business. The sooner he said the words, the sooner he could get on with what needed doing, so he turned back to face the two men in Deep Dive’s command center. He’d served with both Daeg and Cal for multiple tours of duty, but the bond between them was more than a shared set of missions. There was no one he’d trust more with his back, and each of them had stood by the others on rescues.

“I re-upped.” Short and sweet. A declarative sentence rather than a question, because his going back to San Diego wasn’t open for negotiation.

Cal looked up from the mountain of paper on his desk and cursed. “Don’t tell me. This is Mrs. Damiano’s fault. You could try going out with her granddaughter and see if a date stops her.”

The man had five-o’clock shadow at midafternoon and a pyramid of Red Bull cans teetering in front of him. He’d been the one to conceive of the dive business in the first place, convinced the small California island where he’d grown up was in desperate need of an adventure diving outfit. Plus, he’d taken on the task of setting up a search-and-rescue program for the area. The local Coast Guard was overwhelmed and focused more on running down drug traffickers than fishing distressed pleasure boaters out of the water. Cal, of course, was committed to keeping everyone safe. Juggling both meant less sleep for everyone, although his buddy had never complained.

Reaching over, Tag swiped a stack of papers from Mount Paperwork. Cal didn’t protest. The first one was an invoice for emergency supplies, but the second was for parts for the chopper. Lots and lots of parts. Lovely. They needed a mechanic. Or stock in an aviation company. Their used bird was a work in progress with more face-lifts than an aging beauty queen. The chopper was also an expensive work in progress, as Cal liked to point out with annoying frequency. Restoration had been Tag’s responsibility, in between running dives and setting up training exercises. Apparently, he should have made time for bookkeeping. Or kidnapping an accountant.

“I can handle Mrs. Damiano.” Not. The old woman redefined determined. “Our CO needs a pilot,” he said, when the silence stretched on too long.

Daeg signed a check and shoveled papers into an envelope. “You’re not the only sailor who knows how to fly a bird or run a rescue op,” he pointed out.

True enough. The Spec Ops boys were planning on taking out a drug op in South America, however, and their CO knew the mission would hit a personal hot spot with Tag. Passion counted, because a soldier who took the mission personally would go the extra mile every time.

Passion aside, he was also pretty much the only man available at the moment. “He asked. Most of the other guys are already assigned. I’m not.”

Cal cracked a new can of Red Bull, tipping it in Tag’s direction. “Cheers, then.”

Mission accomplished, Tag kept right on sorting, circling and adding invoices. Maybe before he went away, he’d post on craigslist for an office manager. The silence built up until Tag was itching to move. But he had more numbers to add, and shoving the pile back on to Cal’s desk wasn’t happening. The guy was exhausted.

He grabbed a stamp, peeled and stuck. “We need help. Office help.”

“Speak for yourself.” Cal flipped Tag the bird. “Because I’m doing just fine here, and Dani’s going to be helping us out in a month or two.”

Daeg grinned. “She estimates another two to three weeks. Just long enough for us to get really desperate.”

Dani Andrews, Daeg’s fiancée, was an actuary and damned good with numbers. She was in the process of setting up a freelance business on the island, but she was currently snowed under with clients. She’d promised to help out just as soon as she could clear the decks, and bringing her on board would be great. The heap of papers on Cal’s desk listed sideways, and Cal cursed, making a grab for the topmost invoices as Mount Paperwork toppled over and hit the floor.

“Right. Or maybe we can’t wait.”

Cal scooped up the papers and deposited them back on the desk. Shoving to his feet, he prowled toward the front of the dive center. The air was thick outside, vibrating with tension as the purple clouds swept closer and closer toward the island.

Cal stared outside with the same kind of longing Tag felt. “Storm’s moving in.”

“Not a bad one.” The thunderstorm headed their way was the usual summer fare. It would bring plenty of heat and some flash-bang. It wasn’t the kind, however, that led to flooding and rescue calls. He could go home and crash. This would be a quick, wet, loud summer storm, but the property damage would be minimal, and no one would be getting hurt. No one would need him tonight.

A good night.

The wind was picking up, whipping the tops of the palms back and forth. The beach was all but deserted now, except for a single woman leaning against a palm, seemingly asleep. She wore a navy blue sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over her head, and a pair of cotton shorts that hugged her butt and left her long, tanned legs on display. Maybe she was grabbing a last moment of toes-in-the-sand fun or maybe she was waiting for someone. “You’re staring.” Cal punched him in the shoulder.

Maybe. But he wasn’t responsible for where his eyes went when he was thinking. Some things actually were beyond his control. Kind of like his one night with Mia, his head—and another body part—reminded him. His lack of control should have embarrassed him, but she’d been right there with him. He’d never been one for picking women up at a bar, but for Mia he’d made an exception, and he still wasn’t sure why. Not because she was gorgeous—although she was and that had certainly helped persuade him—but for some other reason he couldn’t put into words.

“I’m staring at the beach,” he countered. Liar.

“A beach with women on it.” Daeg said, coming up behind them. He’d met his fiancée on Discovery Island when a bad tropical storm had sent him out to rescue her from a flooding Jeep. Tag didn’t need or want to know what had happened when the pair had holed up to wait out the storm, but he’d seen the ring—and he’d seen the look on Daeg’s face. The man had fallen, and fallen hard.

Tag raised a brow, because no way he was letting Daeg off easily. “Now you’re looking, too.”

A small smile tugged at his friend’s lips. Yeah...they were both busted. “I’m not dead.”

No, but Daeg was disgustingly happy with the soon-to-be Mrs. Ross. Although Tag strongly suspected the bride would keep her own name. Independent, strong-minded and fun, Dani was the perfect woman for Daeg, and Tag was happy for them. He really was. He knew he sported a big-ass grin whenever he thought about the two of them and this place. Discovery Island had the heart of a small town, a heart he recognized. He’d been born and raised in Rutland, Vermont. In his small New England town, plenty of people knew his name and his business. You kissed a girl, and every relative, every member of her church, started looking for commitment and a ring. So far, Discovery Island had been a good station. It certainly wasn’t fighting a losing battle against street drugs.

Not that Rutland was any kind of inner city ghetto with urban blight on display on every corner. Nope. The clapboard houses in his hometown were run-down some, but when the snow fell or the leaves changed, pretty enough. The problem had been the baggies of drugs flowing in from urban centers, marked up and selling fast. He’d had friends boast about fortunes made selling heroin they’d bought off the runners who made daily trips from New York City to Vermont.

More than one of his high school friends had kept hidden stashes of cash, guns and drugs, tooling around in an SUV and making deals. Just blue-collar folks sucked into a morass of drugs and all the accompanying bad shit. It was your neighbor breaking into your house and boosting your electronics because he was jonesing for a fix and flat broke. Tag had lost a girlfriend to drug addiction. He’d stuck it out for as long as possible, but then he’d finally had to let go. He had a feeling, though, Daeg was going to have the happy ending.

“You’ll be a dead man if Dani catches you eyeing the scenery.” A grin split Cal’s face.

“Right.” Daeg rocked back on his heels. “And Piper won’t mind at all if you’re looking at other women.”

Cal held up a hand. “Hey, you started it. I’m just finishing things here. Closing the loop. Making sure you all behave.”

Right. While Cal and Daeg bickered amicably, Sleeping Beauty woke up. Levering herself away from the tree and grabbing her towel, she wrapped the blue-and-white stripes around her like a cloak, bent over and threw up. Then she curled into a small ball, as if even the thought of moving was too much. He knew the feeling, but he also knew the skies were close to opening up and drenching the beach. She couldn’t stay where she was. She’d either be brained by errant coconuts or drowned.

Maybe she was drunk.

Or had some kind of virulent bird flu.

Whatever her issue, it wasn’t his problem. Still, when she heaved again, his own gut twinged in sympathy. Daeg frowned, and Tag didn’t have to look over at Cal to know the other man’s face reflected a similar concern. None of them could walk past a civilian in need of a rescue.

“She need an assist?” Cal fished his cell phone out of his pocket, clearly running possible rescue missions through his head.

“Ouch.” Daeg winced sympathetically as the subject of their attention hunched over, looking more miserable by the second.

Surely someone would show up and lead her off. She couldn’t be here by herself. One set of dry heaves later, however, and she was still alone. Damn it.

Daeg hummed a few bars of the Lone Ranger theme music. “He’s going to do it.”

Cal looked at him. “Yep.”

Tag didn’t even have to ask. “Someone has to rescue her. You two could volunteer.”

“Sure, but we don’t have to,” Cal admitted cheerfully. “We’ve got you to go in for us. Plus, you’re the only one who’s still single, just in case she’s like Mrs. Damiano and decides rescue service is a synonym for dating service.”

Daeg hesitated. The guy’s white-knight complex would get him into serious trouble someday. Pot meet kettle. “You’ll take care of her?”

“Yeah.” Joking aside, it went without saying none of them would leave a woman alone on a beach in distress. Since he was the only one who didn’t have someone waiting at home for him, he figured that made him tonight’s rescuer elect. “I’ve got her.”

“If you need help—” Again, some things didn’t have to be said.

He flipped Cal the bird. “I’m good. Go get on with your life. Kiss Piper for me. Have some fun.”

He strode down the boardwalk, hung a left and crunched his way out onto the sand. Yeah, he liked his combat boots because, sue him, the military gave good boot. Part of him thought rushing to the lady’s rescue was a stupid idea, but then she made a small sound of distress and finished unloading the contents of her stomach on the palm tree next to his bike. Okay, scratch that.

She needed help.

Five feet away and closing fast, he spotted a flash of pink. Which could have been a coincidence. Plenty of women had pink swimsuits, and the last female he’d seen in a pink swimsuit was supposed to be on a cruise ship at sea. Not here.

Two feet out, he scuffed the sand because he didn’t want to add a heart attack to the woman’s woes. She had the towel pulled up over her head like a cloak, one suntanned arm braced against the sand. This close, he could read the word bridesmaid on her arm where someone had written it in sunscreen. It was the kind of practical joke he’d play on Daeg—or that Mia’s bridesmaids might have thought up. Damn it.

Please, please, don’t let her be here.

* * *

SOMEONE LARGE AND MALE crouched down beside her. Usually, Mia would have taken defensive measures, but right now she was too miserable to care. The world swung in dizzying circles, making her stomach lurch up and down.

“Mia?” Okay. She cared. She recognized that deep growly voice. Tag was back.

Don’t groan because you might puke on his feet. “I already bought you a thank-you drink. Don’t you ever go away?”

He pressed a bottle of cold water into her hand, and, okay, she might have moaned. Even if he couldn’t be bought off with beverages, apparently she could.

“All the time. In fact, I have a date with Uncle Sam in six weeks. Rinse and spit.”

To her eternal shame, she did as he ordered. He measured her pulse, then tilted her head back to check her pupils. She let him because, right now, she was too wiped out to fight. If Tag had apparently decided to become her very own EMT tonight, she’d work with him. Tomorrow was plenty of time to take issue with his high-handed behavior.

“Follow my finger,” he said gruffly, moving his finger first left, then right. “Alcohol? Bird flu? Bad run-in with a zip line?”

His face was close to hers. Kissing distance, in fact, although she bet kissing was the last thing on his mind right now. His eyes were hazel with gold flecks, something she either hadn’t noticed or had forgotten. Huh. Her Senior Chief had pretty eyes.

“Zip line,” she muttered, when he let the silence stretch on.

“How?” Brow furrowing with concern, he immediately started palpating her arms as if he feared she’d somehow fallen off the zip line and then crawled to the beach to lick her wounds.

“Geez.” She knocked his hands away. “I didn’t fall off the thing. I just got dizzy.”

He rocked back on his heels. “You’re motion sick?”

“Got it in one.”

He eased her upright. “Okay. Deep breath.”

“I know what to do.”

“Uh-huh. This happens often?”

When he turned her forearm over, she spotted the bridesmaid temporarily tattooed on her skin.

“I owe someone for that.” Probably her cousin. It was exactly the kind of thing Laurel would do.

“Let’s focus on you right now.” Tag slid his thumbs down her wrist and pushed on a spot. “Give me ten,” he said, when she tried to yank her arm away.

Leaning backward against him, supported by the strong column of his thighs, was no hardship. Her fingers flexed, finding denim. Shoot. There was nothing professional about this, although he didn’t seem to mind.

“How were you injured?” He sounded matter-of-fact, but she’d bet he wouldn’t be happy if she trotted out all of his vulnerabilities with a cheery let’s discuss.

“Uncle Sam and the call of duty. Now, go away.” The words sounded childish, but she didn’t care. The world wasn’t swinging quite so badly anymore, the nausea dissipating now that her stomach had emptied itself. Yeah, the worst was over, but she was so not winning any prizes for elegance. Good thing she wasn’t still attracted to Tag.

“You don’t really want me to leave.” Amusement colored his deep voice.

“And you’d be wrong. Ask me why.”

His hand rubbed a small, lazy circle against the back of her neck, and the water bottle returned to her mouth. “Small sip.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because you threw up on my motorcycle.” She followed his pointing finger, and, sure enough, there was a big black Harley parked beside her palm tree haven. She’d missed his tires. Score one for her. “And because you need help.”

“You make a career out of rescuing damsels in distress? And, for the record, I didn’t hit your bike.” She sounded bitchy. She knew that. Accepting help, however, was out of the question. She stood on her own two feet. Or, she admitted wryly, lay on her own butt. Whatever it took. With her brothers and her father all being active duty, bitchy had been the only way to hold her own. Give them an inch and they’d smother her with love and concern. Of course, Tag wasn’t offering love, but, still...she had this. She’d led a team in Afghanistan until she’d retired, so handling a bout of motion sickness was child’s play.

“You want to ask me why I’m so certain you need help?” His calm voice annoyed her, she decided. As did the supreme confidence with which he moved his hands over her body. She just might live, however, thanks to his nifty acupressure trick. Two inches down her wrist and press hard. She could do that.

She took a good look around her, expanding her world beyond the sand, the man and the Harley. Post-sunset shadows painted the sand with stripes of dark. The cruise ship sailed at five o’clock. The beach around her had emptied out, and the sun was no more than a red-orange sliver above the horizon. And...no ocean liner bobbing away on the water or even anywhere to be seen. She asked the obvious question, even though she knew what the answer was going to be. Too late. You snooze, you lose.

“What time is it?”

“Seven.” He extended the wrist with the dive watch so she could see for herself.

“They sailed without me.” Her brain tried to kick into planning mode, but a bout of motion sickness always wiped her out, leaving her fuzzy-headed. Finishing her siesta here on the beach had sounded like a decent enough plan—she could figure things out in the morning.

“No public camping on the beach,” he said pleasantly, as if he’d read her mind. “Go ahead and say it. It won’t kill you.”

“Fine. Can you recommend a hotel for the night?” The emergency twenty bucks and the cell phone she’d shoved in her shorts pocket wouldn’t take her far. She’d have to call for cash and new cards. Rejoining the cruise was probably not feasible—the ship was headed down the California coast for a quick pit stop in Ensenada, Mexico, and then to Cabo, where everyone would get off and fly home. By the time she made it to an airport, her cousin would already be airborne.

“Mia.” She felt rather than saw him shake his head. “That’s not happening. You can spend the night with me.”

“I’m fine.”

Liar.

Her gaze dropped to his hands. His strong, capable hands that were holding her up because otherwise she was likely to butt-plant on the sand. She hated feeling weak. Hated being weak.

“You can’t stay here,” he said, using his calm, logical voice again. She wondered what it would take to get him angry and loud. “You’re sick. You’re homeless. And, since I don’t see a purse, I suspect you’re broke, as well.”

“You certainly know how to lift a girl’s spirits.”

He kept right on talking. “So, the way I see it, you need a place to fall back to for the night.”

He was right, damn him. She chewed on her lower lip as she thought her situation through. Twenty bucks simply didn’t go far, and she didn’t have so much as an ID with her because her cousin had taken Mia’s purse back to the ship. Tag didn’t say anything as he waited for her to come to the obvious conclusion.

“Are you going to make me say it?”

His sigh ruffled her hair. “Yes, Mia, I am.”

Problem was, she was best at giving orders. Not taking them. He didn’t say anything else, though, and he was right, damn it. She needed somewhere to spend the night, she was temporarily broke and she knew him.

“Take me home with you.” She wouldn’t, couldn’t say please.

“You got it.” He rose smoothly, setting her back on her own two feet. So why, if he’d given her exactly what she’d wanted, did she feel disappointed?