Rachel Gibson: Lola Carlyle Reveals All

He shrugged. “I can’t say.”

“You told me you could!”

“If you were dating a congressman or somebody with connections, the search would be intensified and the chances of a quick rescue more likely. But the fact is, I’m sure they’re trying to figure out your connection in this. Whether you were taken against your will or not. I can tell you that no one will rule out the latter just because you’re a famous underwear model.” He took a bite of his granola bar and slowly chewed.

She wasn’t a famous underwear model any longer, but she didn’t bother to enlighten him. And no one in his right mind would believe she’d stolen a yacht. “What about you? Won’t someone be looking for you? A wife? Family?”

“No,” he was all he said before he stuck the box of granola bars under one arm and walked out of the galley.

Obviously, he didn’t want her to know anything about him, and that was fine by Lola. She really didn’t want to know any more about him than she already did. He was a thief and someone hated him enough to beat him up. That was enough info for her. She had more important concerns. Namely, finding a way home.

She scooted from behind the table and slid the knife and scabbard beneath her underwear at her hip. The elastic kept it in place. She grabbed her sunglasses with the light blue lenses and a pony-tail holder from her purse. She went in search of a pair of binoculars and found them in a cabinet in the salon. In the emergency kit she’d discovered last night, she found a mirror, an orange flag, and a whistle. Of course, the aerial flares were still there but were useless to her now. She grabbed the three items from the box and headed outside. Max had lifted the hatch to the engine room, but she spared him only a glance as she headed down the foot-wide gunnel to the bow of the boat, Baby hurrying behind her.

Years ago, as part of her recovery from bulimia, she’d had to learn that she couldn’t control everything all the time. She’d learned the difference between controlling her disorder and letting it control her. It had taken a long time to recognize the difference, but it was a lesson that she used in every aspect of her life.

Lola could not control the currents nor the direction of the wind, but she would not just sit around and wait to be rescued. She had a life waiting for her. A life she loved and had worked hard to achieve. She had a business to run and a private detective to hire. She’d be damned if she’d just sit around and tweedle her thumbs with “good old Max.”

A stingy breeze touched Max’s cheeks as he raised his head out of the engine room and glanced toward the bow of the boat. He leaned to the left and looked down the gunnel. She was still at it. Still sitting at the tip of the bow, her legs dangling over the side, staring through a pair of binoculars, searching for a rescue vessel with her signal mirror in one hand. Even though Max had no way of telling time, he figured she’d been at it for about three hours. He could have told her that using a signaling mirror in the ocean was futile and pretty much a waste of time and energy.

First off, if anyone was looking for them, they wouldn’t know where to begin the search. Second, a mirror worked in the desert, not on the ocean. And third, most survivors reported seeing between seven and twenty vessels before they were actually rescued. If another vessel was out there, they’d think the refraction of the mirror came from the sun hitting the surface of the water. But he didn’t bother telling her anything because he liked her on the opposite end of the yacht. Away from him. Busy with something pointless and safe.

It wasn’t likely he and Lola would be rescued today. Probably not tomorrow, either. Which suited Max just fine. He needed time for his body to heal, and the last thing he wanted was a distress beacon or flare signaling his position to every Tom, Dick, or drug lord in the area.

The sun beat down on his shoulders and he grabbed a fistful of his black T-shirt and pulled it over his head. The humidity was so thick he could cut it with his hand, and using his shirt, he rubbed the moisture from his neck and chest, then he tossed the shirt onto the deck.

As he’d lain awake in bed last night, he’d gone over every exigency scenario in his mind. When he’d risen with the sun, he’d discovered that what he’d fear the night before was realized: They were dead in the water.

He’d found the circuit breakers that had tripped due to the fire, and he’d switched them back on. Until the diesel fuel ran out, the engines and generators were operable and would provide electricity throughout the yacht. But even though the engines were operable, without a way to navigate or control the speed and direction of the craft they were useless except to provide power inside the cabin. The water tanks were filled to half capacity, and Max figured that if they conserved fuel and water, they had enough to last about thirty days. After that, things would get dicey.

The navigational and communication systems had been destroyed beyond repair. That morning, he’d taken one look at the melted fiberglass and plastic and electrical components, and he’d known that there was nothing that he could do to get the systems up and running.

The ocean current was pushing them in a northwesterly direction at what Max estimated to be about two and a half knots, or a whopping three miles an hour. At their current rate of speed and direction, they would drift close enough to one of the Bimini Islands to be spotted by sports fishermen. Hopefully, in just a few days, nice friendly fishermen would see them and take them to the nearest harbor.

Unless, of course, the wind blew them south, in which case they might end up in Cuban waters. Max looked up at the clear sky, at the few straggling cumulus clouds. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed a Cohiba cigar.

He really wasn’t worried about dying at sea. Barring a storm or accident-which, given what had taken place the night before, wasn’t an unrealistic consideration-every floating vessel reached land or was discovered at sea. The only question was, how long would it take?

When he’d risen, he’d gone through every cupboard, cabinet, closet, and storage compartment. He’d found fishing equipment, nonperishable food, clothing, an electric razor, and a box of condoms-ultra-thin. Medium. What he hadn’t found was a spare radio or any communications equipment. There were no weapons on board, either, which made him vulnerable and jumpy and reinforced his belief that laying low was his best option at the moment.

While Ms. Carlyle had snoozed on the aft deck, one long leg exposed from hip to toe, he’d search for the Emergency Positioning Radio Beacon. He’d needed to find it before she did. He’d planned to dismantle it until he felt the time was right to use it-if ever. The EPRB was bolted to the side of the yacht where it was supposed to be, but when he’d opened it, he’d discovered the batteries were not only old but corroded, rendering it useless.

He’d looked in the survival kit for fresh batteries, but they hadn’t been changed since the kit had been purchased in 1989. Needless to say, they were all dead also.

He hadn’t lied to Lola earlier when he’d told her he didn’t know if anyone was looking for him. By now the Pentagon knew he was missing, and they would also know that a yacht was missing out of Nassau Harbor. Whether they connected the two would be conjecture on his part. And if they did suspect him of commandeering the yacht, they were more likely to wait for him to come in than to come looking for him. At least for now.

Andre Cosella was a different story. He would be looking. The big man wouldn’t know where to search, but he’d be looking. That was the problem with drug lords, they weren’t happy when you had to kill their son. If Andre found Max, it would get real nasty, and Lola was better off not knowing about that. She’d sleep better at night if her biggest concern was how to use the signal mirror.