Susan Cliff - Stranded With The Navy Seal

“Nah,” he said. “I don’t die that easy.” His smile was wan, belying the boast.

“What did you do?”

“I swam.”

She gaped at him in wonder. Her head had been covered during the kidnapping, so she’d been disoriented. She’d assumed the men had pulled him out of the water for some reason, or he’d grabbed a tow rope. “You swam from the cruise ship?”

He nodded.

“How?”

“It wasn’t that far.”

Her next question was more important. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you risk your life like that? You hardly know me.”

His gaze darkened. “I know you well enough,” he said, squinting at the horizon. “Even if I didn’t, I’d have done the same thing. There was nothing else to do. Staying near the cruise ship wasn’t an option. My chances of getting rescued there were very low.”

She studied his battered face, trying to gauge his sincerity. He might have had no other choice, but he was also downplaying an incredible act of heroism. He’d swum after a motorized raft and overpowered two men—after sustaining a concussion. It was an amazing feat, almost superhuman. Most people couldn’t save themselves, let alone others. They froze in the face of danger. Cady had experienced this phenomenon firsthand as a child. She’d watched her grandfather die and been paralyzed, unable to help him.

It was the most traumatic moment of her life. Until now.

Logan removed his cell phone from his pocket. He took it apart, piece by piece, and set the components out to dry. It didn’t take long; the sun was brutal. Light reflected off the ocean, magnifying the effect. Within an hour, everything was bone dry, including her throat.

He had no service, of course. He couldn’t even send a text. He turned off the phone and tucked it away. “I’ll try again later.”

Cady stayed quiet. She doubted they’d drift into a better service area anytime soon. They were several days’ travel from Tahiti by cruise ship. She didn’t know of any other islands between here and there. She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. Maybe they’d arrive on the shore of a private resort and sip fruity cocktails at noon.

She mixed a fantasy drink with her favorite ingredients. Crushed ice. Fresh fruit. Something really bougie, like a strawberry-basil bourbon spritzer.

Logan emptied his pockets to study the contents. In addition to his cell phone, he had a wallet with cash and credit cards. She had nothing but the dress on her back. Her purse had been lost in the melee. Her shoes had fallen off. So had his.

His next project was hot-wiring the engine. He used his knife to disable the ignition and open the casing. He spent the better part of the morning with his head down, cursing. It reminded her of her father doing auto repairs. He flinched when one of the live wires singed his fingertips. After some trial and error, he twisted two wires together and the engine turned over. He flashed her a victorious grin. Then he disconnected it, killing the motor.

Her spirits fell. “We’re not going anywhere?”

“I have to save fuel,” he said. “We can’t travel far on a gas tank this size.”

“Why did you hot-wire it?”

“Because being able to move a short distance will help us get rescued. If we see a ship in the distance, we can approach it. If a plane goes by, I can fire it up and do some circles to get their attention.”

She searched the horizon for signs of an airplane or a ship, with no luck. The glare of sunlight on the water burned her corneas, and constantly scanning the area exhausted her eye muscles. When she couldn’t continue, he took over. She curled up in a ball, her stomach roiling. She wondered how long it took to die from thirst. She didn’t ask Logan, because she was afraid the answer might be one day.

The afternoon sun was brutal. He removed his shirt and dipped it in the water. Then he wrapped the wet cloth around his head, turban-style. The hunting knife he’d taken from one of the kidnappers was tucked into his belt. He looked like a storybook pirate, with perfectly defined abs and a tantalizing strip of hair below his navel.

She remembered how his body had felt against hers on the dance floor, and how eager she’d been to touch him. Their brief, lust-drenched interlude didn’t seem real. She’d never experienced such a powerful rush of attraction before. Who meets someone at a bar and wants to tear their clothes off after ten minutes? In what alternate dimension do two mature, sober people fall into a sexual trance and make out in public? She might have been embarrassed if she wasn’t so worried about dying.

“You need protection from the sun,” he said, drawing his knife. He motioned for her to move closer.

“What are you doing?”

“Cutting off this extra fabric.”

She held still while he sliced through her tulle overskirt. The serrated blade was sharp, with a wicked point at the tip. She tried not to think about where else it had been. She couldn’t afford to throw up again.

When he was finished, she used the fabric like a veil, covering her head and shoulders. It was blisteringly hot. Her lips were dry. His were already cracked.

They didn’t speak, because it hurt to talk.

After what seemed like ten or twelve hours, clouds gathered in the sky. There was a sudden, intense downpour. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, desperate for moisture. The raindrops didn’t quench her thirst, but the cool water felt like heaven against her skin. When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her. She wondered if he was thinking about the kisses they’d shared. Was it a strange, distant memory for him, too? A moment of passion that had slipped between his fingers?

He pulled his gaze away, flushing. She doubted he felt any embarrassment or shame about his behavior. Men never did. Maybe he was just sunburned, or he couldn’t figure out why he’d been so enthralled with her. She probably looked like a bedraggled sea witch. Humidity wasn’t kind to her hair.

When puddles gathered on the bottom of the raft, they both drank their fill. With the sun behind the clouds, the temperature was pleasant. For a short time, she almost felt comfortable, and hopeful about getting rescued. Then the temperature dropped and darkness fell. They spent another night shivering, huddled for warmth.

In the dead of night, she was awoken by a bump against the side of the boat. She sprang upright, clutching Logan’s arm. He was alert beside her, his muscles tense. It was very dark. There was a sliver of moon, high in the sky.

The bump came again, on the opposite side. A fin skimmed the surface of the water.

Shark.

She let out a terrified scream.

He clamped his hand over her mouth, which only increased her panic. It reminded her of the kidnapping. She’d been silenced with a rough slap during the attack, and she still had a tender spot on her cheek. His fingertips pressed into it, adding to her discomfort. She pushed his hand away, incensed.

“Shh,” Logan warned. He studied the surface of the water intently. She crossed her arms over her chest, her throat tight. She supposed that screaming wasn’t helpful, but it was a normal reaction. There were freaking sharks circling!

“Can they puncture the raft?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

His answer chilled her to the bone. She scooted closer to him.

“They won’t do it as a strategy. But if they decide to take an exploratory bite...”

She gripped the crook of his arm. “What should we do?”

“Stay calm and quiet.”

Although she wasn’t calm by any stretch, she didn’t make a sound. Neither did he. After a few tense moments, his shoulders relaxed. The sharks didn’t bump the raft or flash fins again. Hopefully they’d lost interest.