Where It Began. Kathleen Pickering
Her steps slowed to a cautious tread as she approached the wharf. She still hadn’t noticed Daniel. Panic tightened her features as she stared at the dock.
She stopped as if an invisible wall blocked her passage. Her chest heaved in quick breaths, tightening the thin, crimson fabric of her halter top.
Daniel’s gaze caressed her face then traveled slowly down her body, over the rise of her breasts, down to her waist, where an inch of tanned, flat stomach peeked out from the waistband of chino shorts. They stopped midthigh, exposing the long, tanned length of those unending legs that once knew the touch of his hand. Daniel stifled another groan as she jammed her paint-stained fists into her pockets and looked up, her eyes begging for help.
Her fear wrenched his heart. Damn his doubts. He bolted for the dock, and offered her a hand, a peace offering in more ways than one.
“Here, let me help you.”
Like a finger snap, her panic disappeared. Maria raked him with her gaze, glanced at his hand and ignored it.
“Did you stow my art supplies?”
Daniel rolled his eyes, flattening his palm against his board shorts. “You bet, Princess. Your twenty tons of paints, brushes and canvases. I’m glad you thought to pack at least one bikini.”
He headed back to the Honora. Over his shoulder he said, “Casting off in ten seconds, sweetheart.”
MARIA STARED AT DEL RIO as if he spoke a foreign language. This trip had been her idea. Why was she so terrified? She couldn’t move. Every muscle gripped her bones like a vise, refusing to yield. The sun burned hot on her head and shoulders. The monkeys laughing in the banyans around her studio called as if begging her to stay. The soft scent of grass blended with the brine of the Intracoastal as land feuded with water in her mind. Just watching the yacht sway at the dock made her stomach heave.
Her blood grew cold as the familiar rumble from the center of the sloop rose on the air. Oh, God. Del Rio already had the engine running. The acrid smell of exhaust churned her anxiety. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she watched him, one hundred percent pure, bona fide male, standing at the helm.
His colorful board shorts and a small rip in the shoulder of his sun-faded blue T-shirt made him look more like a surfer than the captain of the Honora as he checked the instruments. Poppa had reminded her that Daniel had sailed his entire life. Won awards for racing some of the most sophisticated sailboats. Oh, he could handle a helm all right. Those tanned hands looked more than capable. She just didn’t like what the sight of those strong, slender fingers did to her belly.
Damn. This was not about Del Rio. Boarding this ship was about Carmen and Momma. Enough.
With not even a glance in her direction, Del Rio jumped onto the dock and began untying the bowline. Next, he’d work his way to the spring line, the stern line, and then he’d cast off.
“Hold on, Captain. Give me a minute.”
Her palms itched. Perspiration drenched her, pissing her off royally. She didn’t expect this reaction and needed a moment to collect herself.
He faced her, arms open. “I have to be in Australia in three weeks. Let’s shove off.”
Inhaling a searing breath of earth and sea, Maria bolted forward. She didn’t stop to think until she was locked in her cabin, poised over the toilet, throwing up what little toast and tea she’d managed to eat at lunch.
The engine accelerated. They’d left the dock. The forward motion of the ship had her heaving again. She flushed the toilet and sat on the floor, her cheek pressed against the closed lid. Becoming panicked and ill had not been part of her plan.
She moaned as a thought occurred: maybe she hated sailing and Del Rio knew it. Maybe that was what he’d tried to tell her last night.
She slammed open the toilet lid and heaved once more.
DANIEL STRAINED TO HEAR any sound from below. He’d given Maria the bow cabin, which left him hard-pressed to hear anything, even through the open hatch topside. He hoped the snug but luxurious quarters would give her a sense of security since he felt her terror right down to his bones. Until she overcame that fear, they’d get nowhere. The familiar feel of the wheel beneath his hand sent a surge of pleasure through him. He’d be careful this time. He’d do everything by the book. Yet, no matter how sleek and fast the Honora, and how comfortable the wheel felt in his hands once more, the passage to the Bahamas would seem endless.
For both of them.
As the Honora glided down the waterway, Daniel glanced back at Reefside. Elias’s shock of silver hair revealed his presence on the rooftop terrace. Of course, the old man chose to witness the beginning of the end. Daniel should have known better. Loyalty to family ruled a Latin heart. Maria had to regain her memory before any of them could move forward.
Damn the bastard for knowing exactly what needed to be done.
CHAPTER THREE
THE RATTLING OF ANCHOR CHAIN woke Maria. She’d managed to move from the toilet to her bunk, more a bed in the center of the forward, V-shaped cabin, and fallen into a brief, dead sleep. She barely remembered flopping onto the bed. Somewhere in her haze she’d heard the three horn blasts signaling the bridge opening. But to drop anchor now meant they hadn’t entered open water. What was Del Rio thinking?
She rolled off the bed, her knees like rubber. She’d never been seasick in her life—that she could remember. And they hadn’t even left the Intracoastal.
Water. She needed water.
A bottle of mouthwash perched on the sink in the head. She rinsed her parched mouth, spitting out the burning liquid.
Her reflection in the mirror said she already looked like the dead. As she splashed water on her face, the gentle hum of the engine ceased. She stopped, listening. Why were they stopping? Maybe Del Rio had a change of heart. That had to be the answer. Not good. She might be sick, but she was determined to see this journey through. She opened the medicine cabinet, grateful to find the roll of antacids. Chewing two, she headed for the deck.
The warm, salt air caressed her face, a welcome change from the air-conditioning below. Del Rio had his back to her, snapping off the cap from a Modelo Especial. He tipped the beer to his lips and didn’t even turn to greet her.
“Why have you stopped?”
The Hillsboro Inlet Bridge lay off the stern, the inlet a football field’s distance off the bow. The ocean blanketed the horizon in turquoise luminescence beneath the setting sun. She looked back at Del Rio, his profile to her now as he gazed across the small harbor.
He took another swig. “I thought you might want a second chance to jump ship.”
Her enthusiasm for getting out to sea overrode her disquiet at his arrogance. A glistening bottle of water stood in the beverage holder. Whether for her or not, she twisted off the cap and downed half the bottle before speaking.
“I’d like to get under way, if you have no objection.”
The beer bottle stopped halfway to his lips. “Oh, I have an objection.”
The heat of his gaze made her pulse leap. “Why are you drinking beer when we should be sailing?”
He moved around the deck table, his intentions like a heat wave. He stood close to her, a boa constrictor measuring its prey. His skin smelled of suntan lotion, his breath a sweet mixture of barley and hops. She refused to budge, though she ached to slap his concerned, irresistible face. Instead, she drank from the water bottle.
His gaze moved to her throat as she swallowed.
“We can’t sail into West End in the dark. The reefs are too dangerous.”
She didn’t expect this answer. “For goodness’ sake, then why did we leave so soon?”