Lake Michigan
2:02 a.m.
Come on. Come on, Eve silently begged the small inboard engine as she leaned down into the cramped motor compartment, checking the plugs and the fuel lines even though she’d already checked them three times before, and they were working fine. Which mean they weren’t the reason the engine had suddenly stalled out. And it wasn’t the dreaded zebra mussels—those pesky little critters that’d been introduced to the Great Lakes by the bilge water from transoceanic vessels—that’d fouled the lines. Because there was no tell-tale sooty residue near the output port. Which meant…what?
What the heck was wrong with the stupid thing?
She wracked her brain, coming up with a big load of nada. Which wouldn’t normally be a problem. Just like being engineless on a sailboat wouldn’t normally a problem. Sailboat equals sails, after all. Sails catch wind and voila! The boat moves.
Except for tonight…
Because tonight there wasn’t a breath of wind. Tonight Lake Michigan showcased a glassine surface, not even one tiny ripple marred its blue-black expanse. Tonight it was an inky mirror, perfectly reflecting the glittering stars overhead and the minute glow of Chicago’s city lights far, far in the distance.
Please tell me whatever is wrong with you is something simple. An easy fix, she begged the motor.
But in the general way of inanimate objects, the engine refused to answer her.
Thump. She pushed up and spun around in time to see Billy toss a big, yellow waterproof flashlight onto the turquoise cushion of the captain’s chair. The softly glowing LED lights that ran the length of the sailboat’s cabin and surrounded the small wheelhouse washed his dripping form in faint, bluish light. He tugged off his sopping T-shirt using that quintessential guy-move where he reached over his shoulder and grabbed the collar, dragging the entire garment off in one fell swoop. It landed on the teakwood deck with a splat. And if the sight of his mile-wide chest with its smattering of hair, and his tan, corrugated belly wasn’t enough to make her heart skip a beat, then the stars tattooed just inside each of his hipbones, emphasizing the delineation of his abdomen muscles and accentuating the large veins that ran down into his groin certainly were.
Holy schnikes! Billy is ripped! Like seriously, brutally, cause-a-girl’s-tongue-to- hang-out ripped. And, sweet Lord in heaven, those tattoos. He hadn’t had them twelve years ago. And just looking at them now, looking at the perfection of his male body, watching the crystalline water droplets run down his chest and his stomach into the waistband of his swim trunks was enough to make the breath catch at the back of her throat, and caused most of her blood to pool hot and heavy between her legs.
Well, that’s an improvement, I suppose. Because ever since she’d stood in the parking lot at Delilah’s, contemplating the fact that her father might be the one behind the attempts on her life— and certainly after she’d discovered he and Blake had conspired against her with the press—her blood had been like ice.
“Jesus Christ!” Billy yanked off a set of diving goggles and tossed them onto the captain’s chair to join the flashlight. Grabbing the white fluffy towel that was draped over the back of the seat, he used it to roughly scrub the water from his hair before moving to dry off his arms and chest. “That water is colder than a penguin’s backside.” He shivered once, then shook himself like a dog shaking off water before wrapping the towel around his shoulders.
Cold? Yep, she remembered just how cold it could be. Which was why she hadn’t put up a fight over which one of them would jump overboard to see if whatever was wrong with the engine had something to do with the propeller.
And speaking of…
“Did you see anything?” she asked, unconsciously licking her lips when her gaze snagged on one lone droplet of water as it rolled lazily down the center of his torso until it dipped into his bellybutton, reemerged, and got caught in the thin line of hair that arrowed down the lower portion of his stomach.
Ripped. Jacked. Buff. A whole slurry of descriptors tumbled through her head, but none seemed quite up to snuff when it came to encapsulating the wonder that was Billy and—
“We ran over some sort of rope, I think. The damn thing’s wrapped six ways from Sunday around the prop,” he said, bending to wring out what water he could from his loose swim trunks. “I’m going to need to go back down there with a knife and see if I can saw it loose.”
Saw it loose…which meant he’d have to go back into that frigid, pitch-black water time and time again. Coming up for air, going back under. Rinse and repeat until he was a human popsicle. Although, it would certainly go much faster if she just went with him. She could hold the light while he worked on the rope.
She could hold the light…in all that endless, frigid, pitch-black water…
The memory of the scooter ride, of the weight of her backpack pulling her down, down, down into the abyss flashed through her head and refroze her blood in an instant.
“Crap,” she cursed, biting her lip and glancing out over the lake. “Crap, crap, crap!” She turned to slam the teakwood hatch down over the top of the engine compartment.
Blam!
The loud report echoed out over the water and gave her a tiny niggle of satisfaction. But not enough to mitigate the tsunami wave of self-pity and frustration and…fear that threatened to engulf her. And was it too much to ask that Fate throw her one, just one—she didn’t need more than one, but she’d like just one—flippin’ bone? Seriously? After everything, didn’t she deserve just a teensy, tiny break?
She reached up to fist both hands into her hair, her wet hair, which reminded her how twenty minutes ago she’d tried—without any luck—to shower away all her cares and worries. The maneuver usually worked. Being out on the water, on her Catalina 34-foot sailing yacht nostalgically named Summer Lovin’, with none of the bullcrap day-to-day… things around her, save for the absolute bare necessities, she was usually able to find some clarity, some…peace.
But not tonight. Because either her ex-husband or her father or both were trying to kill her, and they’d apparently teamed up years ago to ensure she’d not only lost what little free will she had, but also completely annihilated any chance she had of making a life with the one and only guy she’d ever had the good fortune to love and…and…on top of all of that, an innocent man was dead because of their duplicity, because of them, because of her.
Blood running down a beer belly…Bearded mouth slightly open…Gray eyes glassy and dead…A red puddle of waning life steadily growing on the floor beneath a bar stool…
The images invaded her brain like a disease, and shoot! Now, she was going to lose it. She was supposed to have toughened up. She was supposed to have grown a set of brass ladyballs, but right now, despite her best efforts, everything was catching up with her, pressing down on her, pressing in on her. And she was going to lose it.
She bit her lip to try to hold it all back, but the sharp pain of her teeth sinking into the delicate pad didn’t work. The world around her began to dissolve into a jumble of fuzzy shapes as tears welled in her eyes. No, no, no…Don’t do this. Don’t—
“Hey, hey,” Billy padded over to her, throwing a heavy, damp arm around her shoulders. “It’s no big deal. If I can just cut it away—”
“Y-you’ll need m-my help,” she sobbed, turning her face into his shoulder, breathing in the crisp smells of lake water and Billy. And it was official. The dam had broken. No, not broken. Exploded. Suddenly, she was shaking and bawling and probably working herself up to be a big ol’ snot factory. But she couldn’t help it. It felt like the entire world was out to get her, out to punish her for…for…“And I-I,” she hiccupped, “I’m scared to go down
