Brenda Harlen - Dangerous Passions

But how much of a chance? How could she ever have expected to succeed in this battle against nature? Maybe she couldn’t. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to give in, either.

She would persevere—in a minute.

For now, she just wanted to float. She used the last of the air to reinflate the life vest, then dumped the empty tank. Her limbs felt heavy and weak. She was exhausted, physically and mentally, and shivering uncontrollably. She was tempted to give in to the fatigue and the cold, to close her burning eyes and let herself drift into the blissful oblivion of sleep.

Logically, she knew she had to keep moving, she was still a long way from the island. How many more strokes would it take to reach the shore? One hundred? Two hundred? More? How was she ever going to find the strength when her arms and legs were already numb?

The questions shook her already-faltering confidence. Weariness weighed down her limbs; despair filled her heart. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was supposed to be on vacation—a much-deserved holiday before she accepted the promotion she’d been offered and moved to Paris.

She’d always wanted to visit France—stroll the Champs Elysées, cruise the River Seine, climb the Eiffel Tower. There was so much to look forward to; so much she might never get a chance to do.

No, she refused to succumb to negative thoughts. She would swim and swim until she couldn’t lift her arms or kick her legs anymore. She would make it to the island. She would.

But for now she tipped her head back and let her eyelids drift shut—just for a second.

More than two hours had passed since Mike had watched Shannon slip over the side of the Femme Fatale and into the ocean. Two hours during which he’d tried to anticipate and match her path through the dark water. Two hours without a single glimpse of her.

He’d seen her climbing overboard, but he’d been too far away to reach her before she submerged. And he couldn’t signal to catch her attention because doing so would alert Peart’s men to her movements and his presence. So he’d watched, silently, helplessly, as she’d disappeared into the sea.

She had to be very brave or completely desperate to think she could survive such an escape attempt. He guessed she was a little of both.

He squinted against the brightness of the rising sun as he scanned the water again. During the night, the ocean had seemed black and treacherous. In the light of day, it was gloriously blue and temptingly inviting. It wasn’t, however, any less deadly. And with every minute that passed, the likelihood of Shannon’s survival decreased and his feeling of failure intensified.

He refused to give in to it; refused to give up. He refused to fail again.

But the memories hovered at the back of his mind, haunting him, taunting him. Memories so real he could almost smell the heavy scent of the Righarian jungle, feel the drip of moisture from the sodden leaves down his back, taste the fear that had risen like bile in his throat. And he could see—all too clearly—the picture of his friend as he lay dying: his helmet knocked askew, his blond hair matted with crimson blood, his dark eyes wide as they stared unseeingly at the man who’d let him down.

They’d been through so much together, seen so much death and destruction. But nothing they’d seen had prepared Mike for the shocking horror of Brent’s usually smiling visage hideously twisted with pain.

He blinked in an effort to dispel the gruesome image. The picture didn’t disappear, it only changed. The blond hair grew longer, darker, until it was brilliant auburn, the dark eyes softened to the color of green moss, the lips became wider, fuller, yet remained twisted in an expression of unbearable agony.

No—he refused to believe he was too late.

He started the engine again, steered slowly through the choppy water.

Shannon jolted, blinked into the bright sun.

She was tired and cold and so incredibly thirsty. She licked her parched lips, tasted the sharp tang of the ocean’s salt.

So thirsty.

She shivered.

So cold.

Her eyelids drifted downward again.

So tired.

Then she heard it, the low drone of a motor across the water. Fatigue was chased away by fear, her heart sinking like the empty tank she’d discarded as tears of frustration and despair filled her eyes.

Dammit.

She didn’t have the energy to swear aloud, but the oath echoed in her mind. She hadn’t come this far only to let Drew find her, and she sank lower in the water now, hoping the boat would pass by without noticing her.

But as the vessel drew nearer she realized it was too small to be the Femme Fatale.

Relief surged through her as she forgot about the island and started praying for a rescue. A tourist charter, a fishing boat—she really didn’t care.

She waved her arms over her head, hope expanding in her chest as the boat turned toward her. She continued to tread water as the vessel slowed and drew nearer.

Then she recognized the man at the helm.

Her jaw dropped, and she choked on a mouthful of seawater.

It was the man she’d met on the beach.

The one she’d invited back to her hotel room, almost made love to, and had last seen racing after her at the marina.

What was he doing out here?

Mike had never been as happy as he was when he recognized the spot of neon orange bobbing in the water as Shannon’s life vest.

He slowed the boat so she wouldn’t have to fight the waves churned up by the motor, then cut the engine completely as he came nearer. She was here. She was alive.

He hurried toward the ladder at the back of the boat to help her board. He was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He wasn’t too late. He hadn’t failed her.

The realization, the relief, almost overwhelmed him.

Until he got closer to her.

Her deep-green eyes were shadowed and glassy with fatigue, her skin was pale and waxy, and she was shivering. He recognized the visible symptoms of impending hypothermia and knew she’d been in the water too long.

“I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever find you,” he said, deliberately casual. He didn’t want to alarm her by remarking on her physical condition. He just wanted to get her out of the water.

Shannon, apparently, wasn’t so eager. She made no move toward the ladder and her only response to his comment was, “Why were you l-looking for m-me?”

“It’s a long story,” he admitted. “Why don’t we talk about this on our way back to Miami?”

“B-because I’m not g-going anywhere with you until I know who you are and what you’re d-doing here.”

Who he was?

Mike’s concern escalated. Maybe it wasn’t just hypothermia. Maybe she’d suffered some kind of trauma or head injury and had amnesia.

“You know who I am,” he reminded her. “Michael Courtland.”

“I know that’s who you s-said you were,” she admitted.

Okay, so she didn’t have amnesia, just a sudden case of distrust. He felt ridiculous carrying on this conversation over the side of a boat while she was shivering in the water, but he could understand that she needed some reassurance. He didn’t know what had happened on that yacht to make Shannon jump overboard, but he knew it had to have been significant for her to take such drastic action.

“I don’t know what Peart told you, but I’m exactly who I said I was.”

She frowned. “Who’s P-Peart?”

“Andrew Peart. The guy you left the hotel with.”

“He said…” she trailed off, as if reluctant to confide anything the other man had told her.

As anxious as Mike was to finish this conversation, he was more anxious to get her out of the cold water. The bluish tinge of her skin worried him. “Would you please climb onboard so we can continue this conversation on our way back to Miami?”