It took him fifty-two minutes from in to out, and when he hit the street lugging a bunch of bags, he was feeling pretty damn proud of himself. And, as he headed for the marina, he caught himself whistling and realized that, for that precious moment, he was at peace, headed out to sea with Cara. It might’ve been one of the fantasies he’d had down south of the life he would’ve liked to live if he could’ve done anything he wanted. But for today, it was real.
Ditching his purchases for the gala in a couple of guest lockers, he headed for the water with the bathing suits, still whistling.
“Hey!” She waved from a slip halfway down the dock, where she sat perched on the gunwale of a jaunty motorboat with sleek lines and a big-ass engine. When he came level with her, she said, “I went with horsepower over wind power so we’d be certain to make it back in time for the gala.” A grin lit her face. “And because I feel like going really, really fast.”
“Then let’s get going. Fast.”
They set about casting off, working smoothly as a team, just as they had back at the museum. And as they did, he made only a token effort to hold back a surge of pure male appreciation for a gorgeous woman dressing up a powerful machine. With her hair slicked back into a tight braid and the gleam off her narrow black sunglasses mimicking the startling white streak in her hair, wearing a new polo shirt emblazoned with the marina’s logo over her own black pants, she could have passed for anything from an employee to a rich owner, and would’ve gotten second and third looks no matter what. More, she moved about the boat with the easy grace of someone who hadn’t just spent a few months aboard a whale-watching boat, but was a natural, to boot.
She turned around, caught him looking, and went still. He fully expected her expression to flatten out, maybe go annoyed. But then her lips curved and her eyes warmed, and she called, “Less staring and more doing, mister!”
His heart kicked a funny beat and he snapped a salute. “Aye, Captain.”
That set the tone for the afternoon, as they roared out to sea and then up the coast with the throttle wide- open and the wind in their faces. They didn’t talk much, didn’t touch each other aside from a friendly shoulder or hip bump in passing as they traded off on driving, or maneuvered around the narrow space belowdecks where she had stored food from the marina’s snack bar, which was predictably overpriced but not half-bad.
Beyond the galley was a low-ceilinged room with a wide sleeping platform, but they kept the door shut by unspoken consent and stayed mostly on deck, breathing the salty air and leaning into the whip of the wind. And although they both kept a sharp eye on their surroundings and had weapons hidden beneath their clothes or, once they were in their bathing suits, close at hand, the threats all seemed mercifully far away.
At noon, as they throttled down to putt-putt past a sea lion rookery and did bad impressions of the hugely raucous creatures, Sven was as relaxed as he’d been in the past… gods, he didn’t even know how long, eased by the roll of the waves beneath the boat and the way they could just be together, without chattering or trying to impress each other.
At two, as they turned back with a shared look of reluctance, he was in a pleasant haze brought on by the warm sun, moist sea air, and her company. And it wasn’t that she was so unobtrusive that he could pretend she wasn’t there, that he was alone as he often preferred. Exactly the opposite, in fact, as he found himself turning toward her to point out the things he saw—here a small pod of dolphins, there a rocky outcropping that should be a postcard and probably was, and beyond it a cormorant just coming up from a dive and hopping up onto a rock to cock his long black wings and hang himself out to dry.
Gods above, he thought as she laughed up at him, her expression open and animated, and so damn beautiful it made his heart hurt. Why can’t it always be like this?
Why couldn’t they just be two normal people who’d met in a normal way—at a bar, on the beach, somewhere that didn’t come with the rules and ungodly pressure of Skywatch? If this was the kind of thing she was picturing when she talked about the life she wanted to lead after the war, he could see now how it could be a powerful motivator. He’d never really thought that way, never really looked beyond the war. Now, though… it twisted him up inside to know that if they were seeing her future now, he wouldn’t be in it. Not only because he believed her when she said she was going to walk away and not look back, but because his instincts said so. He was no prescient, but somehow he was certain that whoever the guy was in her future happy day on a boat, it wasn’t him.
He must have stared at her too long, because she tipped down her sunglasses to look at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” When she didn’t look convinced, he crossed to her and took her hand. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t pull it away, not even when he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Right now, in this moment, it’s nothing.”
She shook her head and reclaimed her hand, but squeezed his fingers in parting. And for the next couple of hours they were mostly silent, lost in their separate thoughts.
Still, at five, as they motored back into the marina and did the seesaw routine required to slide the boat back into its original position, crowded one among many, he didn’t want to let go of the day.
In the past, by now he would have been chafing for some time by himself. Instead, when she would have hopped out of the boat he talked her into one more soda, a few more minutes of them quietly chatting about nothing in particular—the view, the birds, the strangeness of being on the water after spending so long inland, and how quickly it felt like home. He didn’t want to leave, didn’t want the day to be over.
“It’s not over, not really,” she pointed out when he said it aloud. “But it is time to shift gears, get suited up, and head for the gala.” Her fingers worked at the beads of condensation on her can of Diet Coke, suggesting that she was tensing up and getting excited for the op, just as she had been that morning.
He couldn’t blame her—the cloak-and-dagger stuff was pretty cool, and he was usually just as excited to get rolling. He wasn’t, though.… If anything, he wanted to full-throttle it back out of the bay and not look back.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this, he thought but didn’t say. The equinox was only a few days away and they needed the screaming skull. So instead, silently vowing to make damn sure she made it out in one piece no matter what, he said only, “Promise me you’ll be careful?”
Her eyes sparked, but she must have seen something in his face, because after a brief hesitation, she nodded. “Okay, I’ll promise… if you do the same.”
How long had it been since anyone had told him that before he headed off into action? Shit, he didn’t know, just like he didn’t know why it hit him so hard now, punching a tight fist beneath his heart. Or, rather, he knew, but it was better if he pretended he didn’t. Not because Carlos was worried about his magic and focus, or even because of the other winikin, but because she had been right to call him on his bullshit. He didn’t get to have her unless he was ready and willing to be there for her a hundred percent… and that was the one thing he knew he couldn’t give her.
Damn it all.
He could give her this, though. “Yeah. I promise.”
Her expression firmed, going more serious than it had been only moments before, as if she had caught some of his mood. “Okay, then. Let’s do this.”
They headed for the marina’s clubhouse, where she had gotten day passes as part of the rental, and they separated to their respective locker rooms to get gala’d up.
He emerged sometime later and settled down to wait in the pretty cobbled courtyard that the marina maintained for its guests. Pulling out his phone, he cleared a few texts and skimmed through the e-mails, finding nothing critical. He was just starting to type a reply to the forward an old wreck-diving buddy had sent him—bad joke, even worse picture—when movement from the ladies’ locker room caught his attention.
He looked up and saw Cara. He froze.
And he stared.
The snow-white gown shimmered with the movement of beads and unidentifiable glittery things that picked up the light and dipped and clung to her curves. One of her shoulders was covered, the other bare, and the subtle contrast between the gleaming white and the cream of her skin made him want to touch and taste, as did the severe perfection of her twisted-up hair with its zigzag stripe, and how it was softened by a couple of curled sections that fell free to cover the earpiece she wore to match the one he had on. The skirt had seemed longer when the saleslady had held it up, but he wasn’t complaining about the way it hit Cara midthigh, showing off legs that seemed far longer than her diminutive size would suggest; nor was he complaining about the narrow silver
