God; his easy grace was nothing less than transcendent.
As assignments went, it was tops. Sonny fell in love with the Pacific all over again, and could have observed wave after unadorned wave break upon the sandy beach, delighting only in the joy of indefatigable Mother Nature. Studying handsome athletes in their prime, perfectly muscled bodies encased in slick black wetsuits that left little to the imagination-perhaps it wasn’t exactly a spiritual pursuit, but it was a great perk.
The problem was neither spiritual nor physical, but professional: the subject did nothing but surf. He didn’t sign autographs, give interviews, or pose for photos, even with hardcore fans, and he certainly didn’t condescend to acknowledge novice surfers. He might nod to his comrades or exchange a combination of words only they could understand, but even this level of communication was rare.
If still waters ran deep, Ben Fortune went fathoms.
His rejection of tourists, newcomers, and inexperienced surfers was rude, but his general attitude toward women was downright weird. Bikini girls were as assiduously avoided as the dank, lice-infested piles of seaweed that frequently washed ashore.
It was odd, for he was a man who had a reputation with the ladies. To hear it told, Fortune’s second-favorite sport, once upon a time, had been scoring with chicks, and his success in this endeavor had been almost as prolific. He’d fathered a child out of wedlock when barely of legal age to do so, and after seven years of sowing his wild oats on the contest circuit, he’d finally married the baby’s mama. Since then he’d been a good boy, faithful to his wife, by most accounts, even in the three years since her death.
Sonny’s original strategy to approach him in a tiny bikini and trip all over herself asking for his autograph appeared to need some rethinking.
Perhaps Fortune was making amends for his misspent youth with this self-imposed stint of abstinence. Or he had a secret girlfriend (or boyfriend, one never knew). Or maybe, in an act of God befitting a surfing philanderer, an Aussie tiger had made off with his willy, as well as a piece of his surfboard, during that much-publicized shark attack along the Gold Coast.
If anything was going on with parts seemingly whole and certainly well-defined beneath his wetsuit, Sonny wasn’t privy to it, and neither were her colleagues. All reports claimed Fortune lived like a monk, surfed like a madman, and had only one woman in his life.
His sixteen-year-old daughter, Carly.
Sonny crouched behind the group of rocks below the stone steps leading from the street down to Windansea Beach. She’d been following Carly Fortune since the teenager snuck out of her multimillion-dollar La Jolla residence a few minutes ago.
The house wasn’t as ostentatious as it sounded. Snugly sandwiched between other family homes of similar price, it was moderately sized and favorably situated, with the nonexistent yard space and spectacular oceanfront views typical to the area.
Fortune probably could have bought the entire block, but for a guy who lived and breathed to ride waves, being able to count less than a hundred steps from your back door to the best surfing beach in San Diego probably meant more to him than marble flooring and suburban sprawl.
Fortune got up at 5:00 A.M. every day to (what else?) surf. He was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, allowing his daughter a certain amount of leeway for mischief.
Sonny didn’t underestimate the cunning of the average sixteen-year-old girl, but she was an expert at ghosting, and could have kept up with Carly Fortune in her sleep. Needing little concentration for the task, she placed a call to Grant on her cell, having been given specific instructions to check in with him at 11:00 P.M., her time.
It was late in Virginia, but Grant kept odd hours. For all she knew, he’d been at a charity fund-raiser this evening.
“Grant,” he answered in a terse voice.
“Vasquez.”
“What have you got?”
“I haven’t got jack.”
“Then why are you whispering?”
“I’m following someone.”
Carly Fortune, much to Sonny’s surprise, wasn’t meeting a boyfriend to smooch with or a friend to sneak a joint. She was walking out into the surf like a virgin sacrifice!
“Gotta go,” she said, closing the cell phone and scrambling to the top of the tallest rock in the vicinity, no longer concerned with being seen. Carly was wading into the 50-degree Pacific, fully dressed. Not only that, Sonny thought, studying the play of moonlight across the surface of the water, she’d chosen a spot with a killer rip current.
Sonny wasn’t the type to begrudge a teenage girl her high jinks, but Carly was in the worst possible location for a polar plunge. Even if the girl stayed calm and let the current take her out, or remembered to swim at an angle instead of spinning her wheels trying to get back to the beach, she’d be in for a grueling workout.
If she lived.
Sonny wasted a couple of seconds stowing her gun between rocks. Placing the 911 call, she ran down the uneven slope of sand toward the water, yelling out to the girl as she listened for the operator. “Carly!”
The surf was heavy, pounding-it was difficult to hear the voice on the phone right next to her ear. Either Carly couldn’t hear her, or didn’t want to. While Sonny watched, her dark head dipped underwater.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
Sonny kicked off her sneakers and shucked out of her jeans, resting the phone on the crook of her neck. “There’s a girl drowning at Windansea Beach. Carly Fortune, 561 Neptune. At the base of the stone steps. Hurry!”
By that time the icy surf was swirling around her thighs. Sonny threw her cell phone behind her, hoping to hit the sand, and pulled her sweater over her head, letting it fall into the water. She dove, ducking under the waves breaking against the sandbar. As soon as she started swimming, her strokes strong and sure, she felt the pull of the undertow, taking her out to sea.
The water was shockingly cold and the current surprisingly powerful. It occurred to her that she was in danger, despite her excellent health and extensive training. Riptides were deadly in summer, in warmer water and broad daylight, with lifeguards and other swimmers all around.
Under these conditions, the risk was tenfold.
In the few seconds she’d been submerged, the cold was already turning her muscles into jelly, and her lungs were fighting to contract and release every breath.
Sonny considered saving her strength for the swim back to shore. It was difficult to maneuver inside the current, and she wasn’t sure she could locate Carly no matter what she did. Then she saw the girl’s head bobbing up, mere inches in front of her. Putting every negative emotion behind her, she kicked furiously, reaching out…
…and coming up with an awesome handful of Carly Fortune’s inky black hair.
She jerked, pulling the girl’s chin above the surface and shoving her forearm underneath it. Positioning their bodies so they both faced the shore, she concentrated on keeping Carly’s head above water long enough to give her a few instructions.
“If you want to live, you’ve got to help.”
Carly nodded, clearly conscious and possibly not even hysterical.
“It’s too cold to ride this out. We swim to the left, on three.”
She nodded again, spitting out a mouthful of water, and gasped, “Okay.”
Sonny almost laughed with relief. Drowning people were notoriously difficult to handle. She was lucky to find Carly Fortune in such an amenable state of mind.
“On three,” she repeated, summoning strength. “One, two, three,
They pumped their legs in a wild burst of energy that defied the cold and used panic to its benefit. Carly kicked Sonny in the shins a few times in her fervor, but Sonny’s limbs were so numb she barely felt it. Just when it seemed their efforts were all for naught, that the mighty Pacific was intent on crushing them in her icy grip, they broke free of the current and floated like buoys in calmer waters, drifting up and down on a lull between waves.
Sonny released her. “You did good, kid. Can you swim?”
Carly treaded water experimentally. “Yeah.”
Never letting the girl out of her sight, or her reach, Sonny swam alongside her until their feet hit sand. If not for
