Degrees of Wrong (22 page)

I tore my attention from Nicoli’s arresting hold and looked at Ralph. “Yes. Yes, I do need to address something with you, Ralph.”

I heard Nicoli’s sharp intake but wouldn’t look at him. “I had wanted to send that blue-eyed soldier a bill,” I told him with a professional demeanor.

Nicoli let out his breath, snickering again, his expression smug. I swallowed—gulped, really—and berated myself for my weakness. Ralph frowned at the two of us, and I knew what he was thinking. I was thinking it too.

Nothing good could come of this.

I sat in the back row of the transport pod with Dr. Folsom. Admiral Rudd sat next to Nicoli in the front, who maneuvered us through the darkness of the water.

“There’s a pretty sizeable storm brewing topside,” Nicoli said. “We’ll have just enough time to port before it hits.”

I leaned closer to the glass shield, peering into the suffocating darkness. It was hard to imagine a tumultuous storm tossing waves on the surface when we glided serenely through the lulling calm below. I’d read that waves in the ocean during a hurricane could swell to over one hundred feet in height. Although I knew Nicoli would never surface during hurricane conditions, I still couldn’t help focusing my stare upward, looking for disturbance as we moved closer to shore. Soon the pitch black eased, and sunlight—real, true sunlight—reached its alluring fingers through the salt water to greet us. Dr. Folsom patted my hand, smiling at me.

My excitement dampened when we surfaced. The waves rocked the pod, the wind tore at the shield. In the distance behind us, dark clouds warned us to hurry. Ahead of us, the long dock and the white beach still teemed with sunshine, oblivious to the imminent battering. Past the beach, I saw a small yellow house, presumably the one I would call home for the next seven days.

The shield began to retract as Nicoli said, “We’ll need to be quick. The water’s almost too rough to port.”

Dr. Folsom bit her lip. “I’m sure we can make it.”

She didn’t want to return to the
Bellator
any more than I did after seeing the welcoming sunlight. The sea spray slapped at us now—an effect exasperated by a fickle wind that couldn’t decide which way to blow—and it put me in a fighting mood. If Nicoli changed his mind about porting, I’d have no choice but to tackle him. I was ready to plunk my boots on solid ground.

He maneuvered the craft next to the dock and secured us to it. With movements more fluid than should be possible, he was standing on the planks, extending his hand to Dr. Folsom. The pod catapulted with the waves, and she took a few moments to steady herself before she attempted to reach out for him. On her second try, she grabbed his hand and he pulled her to the safety of the pier.

With my turn next, I stretched on my tiptoes, reaching for his elusive hand. At first contact he jerked me up, out and against him—and had the audacity to wink at me while doing so. I rolled my eyes, pushed away, stomped my foot. His laughter would have been much louder if not for the wind catching it and sending it away from us.

I joined Dr. Folsom as she stood at the edge, waiting for the admiral to retrieve our small travel bags and toss them up to us from the pod. She caught hers and started toward the beach, the wind whipping her hair like a flag. I giggled as she struggled to hold all flailing strands with one hand.

Admiral Rudd hadn’t noticed my attention was diverted until it was too late. The bag struck me in the face and launched me backward off the other side of the pier. My body met with water, and my limbs turned limp with fear.

Though I couldn’t open my eyes against the sting of the salt, I felt myself sink farther and farther down, my boots filling with water, serving as my anchor. Even if the terror allowed it, I didn’t have the know-how to synchronize my movements in order to swim to the surface. In an effort to keep calm—my first sensible thought—I hugged myself and held still, trying to reserve what little oxygen I’d gulped in panic before plunging beneath the waves.

The darkness closed in on me, the sunlight not able to penetrate my eyelids at this depth. The current pulled my body, but I wasn’t sure if I travelled toward, away or parallel to the shore. Time did not exist here. It seemed like seconds and it seemed like hours since I submerged. My lungs began to ache with my need, and it occurred to me I’d be unconscious soon.

The hand that gripped my arm was none too gentle, and it jerked me from the depths at a speed impossible to comprehend. I couldn’t open my eyes, but I knew whose arm encircled me, whose strong determination pulled me to the surface. My head broke the water, and I took in a life-saving breath—right before a wave crashed down over us. My mouth was open and I received a small part of the ocean into my stomach.

“Breathe, damn it,” he commanded. His arm tightened around my waist, and I complied, taking in a breath so big it hurt my chest.

“Again!” he ordered, and I did.

The waves were so forceful and overbearing that I didn’t realize immediately what was happening when I was hoisted upward. Strong hands laid me on the wooden pier. A warm body collapsed next to me, rolled almost on top of me. His hands were on my face, brushing my hair out of the way, stroking my cheeks.

I coughed and took in another chestful of refreshing oxygen. I rubbed at my eyes and tried to blink away the saline that still burned and distorted. As the details sharpened into focus, I recognized his face—inches from mine—and that telltale jaw clenched to a teeth-busting tight.

“Damn it, Elyse! You can’t swim.”

“I already knew that. You mean that wasn’t in my
file
?” I snapped between coughs.

“No, it wasn’t,” he growled. Suddenly I was jerked to my feet by my forearms, my legs swept out from under me. My teeth chattered uncontrollably now, which was the only reason I didn’t tell him to put me down. That, and he was warm.

“Let’s get her to the house before that storm hits,” he said.

The salt water still affected my vision, but I guessed by the way I jostled around in his arms that he was running. I wrapped my arms around his neck in case he planned to drop me on the sand when we reached it—he was mad enough to do just that. But instead, his arms tightened around me in response. I guessed we were in the house when the wind stopped thrashing my hair into horrible knots.

“Take her to the third-floor bedroom,” Dr. Folsom said.

“No,” I said, hoarse. “I can walk, Nicoli. Put me down.”

He tightened his arms yet again and leaned his face down to me. “Be quiet for once, Dr. Morgan. Let me ascertain that you’re okay.”

Without any kind of exertion, he bounded us up the stairs, and he opened and shut a door without losing his grip on me. The lights flicked on when we entered the bathroom. He put me down and waited for me to steady myself.

“Get the salt water out of your eyes. I want you to see how angry I am.” He turned me to the sink.

I did lean down and flush my eyes, but not because I had been commanded to. I heard the shower run behind me and whirled around.

“You need to get in the shower before that storm hits, Dr. Morgan. The lightning isn’t far off, and we wouldn’t want to tempt fate twice in one day, would we?” I noticed he’d taken to calling me Dr. Morgan again.

“Get out,” I told him. “Before you start tempting fate yourself.”
Because I’m not getting undressed while you’re here.

He grabbed my shoulders and shook me once, hard, pulling me closer to him with the action. I braced myself for the yelling. “Do you know how close you came to dying, Elyse? Any idea how—how—?” He growled and ran his hand through his near-sopping hair. He looked as though he’d like to say more, but I could see him holding back. He shook me again, releasing me with a near push, and opened the door to leave. “You have literally one minute to get rinsed off before I come back in here and pull you out of the shower myself.” Despite his anger, he shut the door softly.

I stared after him wide-eyed for two more seconds, peeled off my wet clothes and flung myself into the hot running water. By the time he came back—which might have been one minute and fourteen seconds later—I was wrapped in a bathrobe I’d found folded on the wooden shelf and sat on the counter drying my hair with a hand towel.

I could see his surprise at my success. I thought he might award me some sort of world’s-shortest-shower medal, but then I noticed he had already showered and re-dressed himself. He cradled something pink under his arm, which he abruptly threw in my face.

I held up the contents, a scrumptious bundle of magenta flannel. “Pajamas?”

“I went for your travel bag first, but when I saw it couldn’t be saved, I tried to find you instead. I’m sorry for your loss,” he said meanly. “Dr. Folsom is lending these to you for the evening.”

“It’s morning.”

“It’s evening in the Maldives, Dr. Morgan.”

“Thanks for the update, Captain Marek.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Dr. Folsom is anxious to see you. Get dressed and come downstairs.”

Right before the door shut I stuck my tongue out at him. So, when he immediately reopened it, he caught me in this pose. “Is that an invitation?” he asked, though not in his usual playful tone. I clamped my mouth shut and took a step back, shaking my head.

“Didn’t think so. Get dressed.”

I stared at the door for a few more seconds to make sure he wouldn’t come back, and satisfied, proceeded to don the comfortable sleepwear. Dr. Folsom and I wore almost the same size. I opened the door to the bathroom and found myself in a bedroom with a huge dark-wood canopy bed adorned with pristine white bedding. The curtains in the room matched the comforter, and they undulated like belly dancers in the breeze from the open windows.

The room was simply appointed and homey with a tall chest of drawers, a small vanity and seat, and a plain nightstand by the bed, all carved out of the same dark wood as the bed. There was nothing state-of-the-art about this house, and I liked it.

I opened the bedroom door and found myself in a short hallway. To my left a set of dark-wood stairs led down, and to my right a stairwell spiraled to the next floor. I made my way down two flights, creaking as I went. The last step landed me face to face with Dr. Folsom.

“Oh, Elyse. My goodness. Are you okay, dear? How are you feeling?” Anxiety pooled in her eyes.

Abused, rejected, tired. Also, my eyes hurt. “I’m perfectly fine.”

She took my hand and led me into the large room that served as the kitchen, dining area and living space. The only light came from several candles and, married together with the old-fashioned décor, they cast an inviting warmth hard to resist, especially with the storm unfurling outside.

Nicoli sat on the couch in the living area, staring into the flames of a cozy fireplace. He didn’t look up when I arrived, which spliced my nerves like ribbons. Attentive one moment, negligent the next. He simply had too much power over me. I wondered if I had the same, if I could get under his skin the way he could mine. I decided it was worth a try.

Admiral Rudd reclined at the tall dining table with a fresh cup of tea. “Glad to see no lasting damage was done.” He smiled. “Very sorry about that, Dr. Morgan.”

“Oh, it wasn’t your fault. I was trying to escape.” I almost laughed when the admiral’s mouth dropped open.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nicoli’s head snap toward me. I could feel the intensity of the glower, and I smiled widely at Dr. Folsom.

“Maybe next time.” I shrugged. She gasped.

His reaction confirmed my suspicions—I could get under his skin too. And I was going to pay for it. He sprang off the couch and toward me. I maneuvered into the kitchen behind the island counter. I grabbed the biggest butcher knife in the block and held it with the business end pointed toward him. He stopped, but I could see his hesitation was not out of fear. He looked to the admiral, who jumped up and ushered Dr. Folsom up the stairs.

“Don’t you hurt her, Nicoli,” she called as the admiral hauled her up the staircase.

When they were gone, Nicoli strode toward me, enraged. I stabbed the air in front of him as a warning. Deep down, I regretted grabbing the thing—the only one getting stitches out of the deal was me, and we both knew it. It shook in my hands. He took another step forward.

“I’ll cut your heart out,” I told him, desperate, waving it around as if I were spreading peanut butter into the air.

He stopped. His expression softened. “You nearly did that to me already today, love.”

I stared at him, horrified. He was playing the game again, amid my poor knife wielding and empty threats. I wasn’t prepared for this change in tactics. Or the tortured expression on his face.

“Stop that,” I snapped.

He smiled slightly. “Stop what, love?”

“It’s Dr. Morgan, remember, Captain Marek?”

“I do not want to fight with you.” He took a small step closer. “I told you, it’s the last thing in the world I want to do with you.”

I swallowed, hoping he didn’t notice. Because swallowing is something everyone has to do at some point, not just because they’re nervous. “I’ve been thinking about this, really thinking about it. And I think you suffer from bipolar disorder.” I trembled as he stepped closer again.

He laughed softly. Before I could even see what transpired, I was turned around in his arms, the knife safely on the counter, and his lips were at my jawline, brushing against it lightly. The shiver was instantaneous, involuntary.