Season of Storm (18 page)

There was a small shriek of delighted chatter from the woman, and then, after a minute, the engine roared, and a few moments later the man's voice, from a distance, shouted what sounded like, "You have a good time now, you hear?"

Smith frowned in curiosity as Johnny came down the companionway with a bottle of wine in his hand.

"Who was it?" she demanded.

"Our neighbours across the cove," he said. He was looking at her oddly. "Why didn't you come up?"

"But you...you told me to stay below!"

"And you obeyed me." He moved to set the bottle of wine on the counter, then turned to face her. "Those people would have helped you escape. Didn't you think of that? All you had to do was come on deck and tell them who you were."

Smith looked at him, thunderstruck.

"Why didn't you?" Johnny persisted.

She was breathing through her open mouth, staring at his face.

Because it had been them against the world—that was why she hadn't called out. Because in that moment she had forgotten that Johnny Winterhawk was her kidnapper and enemy. He had been the one she loved most in all the world, the one she felt ready to die for.

Shulamith swallowed. "I—I'm going mad," she whispered, then whirled and rushed to the companionway.

He caught her on the first step and lifted her bodily away from the ladder. "No," he said calmly as she clawed and kicked against the restraint.

"Let me go!" she wailed on a high, hoarse cry, and dragging her down to the settee he clamped a hand over her mouth.

"When they're out of earshot," he said grimly, holding her.

They were both silent then, listening to the noise of their neighbours' engine recede across the cove. An ugly hopelessness washed over Smith. When Johnny released her she slumped against the corner of the sofa and dropped her head into her hands.

"I'm not myself," she wailed. She lifted her head and looked into Johnny Winterhawk's dark eyes. "I don't know what's happening to me. I feel as though I'm going out of my mind." A sudden thought struck her. "Have you drugged me?"

"No."

She dropped her head back against the sofa, gazing at the ceiling. The hatch above her showed the darkening sky and a single star. She should wish on it.

"You wouldn't tell me anyway, would you?" She lifted a hand to her forehead, pushing her hair back. "I'm losing my volition, losing my brain. It isn't like me, you know, not to have acted on that."

"I know," he said.

"I should have gone out the forward hatch and over the side, then called to them from out in the middle of the cove."

"Yes," he agreed softly.

She lifted her head and sighed. "I don't suppose I'll get another chance, will I?" she asked, a kind of black humour coming to her rescue. "Did you tell them we had the plague aboard?"

Johnny Winterhawk looked grim. "No," he said. "I...Never mind what I told them."

"But—"

There was an odd note in his voice, and she looked up at him, surprising an expression on his face of such bleak unhappiness she jumped. "Johnny, what happened? Who were they? Did they suspect something?" she demanded.  

"No." The bleak expression was replaced with a half smile.

Johnny walked into the galley and opened a drawer. "Vicky and Harvey Mehan, from San Diego," he said. Picking a padlock out of the drawer he moved to the companionway, reached overhead and closed the hatch snugly. As Shulamith watched, he fitted the padlock. "They've sailed up the coast in that motor yacht, the
White Dolphin.
" The lock snapped shut.   
 

"Let's get some food," he said.

"Is that to keep them out, or me in?"  

"Let's eat," he said again.

So they ate their simple meal together in the cosy lamplit cabin that in spite of everything felt like a safe haven. As night fell darker and darker around the boat they talked and laughed together with such an eager meeting of minds that Smith could forget entirely what her real situation was.

And later, in his loving arms, there was no reason to remember.

Seventeen

Smith was suddenly wide awake in the darkness, her heart beating in panicked thuds.   The boat creaked softly. A breath of wind rattled though the rigging and small wavelets slapped against the hull. It crept through the part-open hatch, bringing the scent of night and the sea. Above, pinpoints of starlight showed her a clear sky.

Slowly she turned her head and looked into Johnny Winterhawk's sleeping face. He lay like a fallen Greek statue, one arm above his head, the strong, beautifully-shaped fingers lightly curled, his muscles firm and defined, skin glowing like polished marble.

Fear gnawed at her bones. She must have been out of her mind. What had happened to her? The man had
kidnapped
her, he was a criminal! And she had let him make love to her—she had
wanted
him to make love to her—not once, but twice! She had had escape within reach and she had cowered and hidden as if her potential rescuers were the enemy.
 

What was he doing to her? Was she losing her mind?

She had to get away. She had to get back to reality, to sanity.

Slowly, silently, Smith lifted the sheet and, carefully monitoring the sound of deep breathing beside her, rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Inch by inch she stood up in the pale starlight. The boat creaked and protested and another wavelet kissed the hull. Any noise she made was drowned in such sounds. She hoped.

She turned again to look at the sleeping shape of Johnny Winterhawk. His breathing had not changed. With slow, stealthy movements Smith crept towards the open doorway and into the shadowed saloon. The padlock was a dark shadow on the companionway hatch. Smith passed it, creeping silently forward towards the doorway into the forward cabin.

Seconds later, though it seemed much longer to her hyper alert senses, she was standing in the forward cabin, the length of the boat between herself and Johnny Winterhawk. She lifted a pillow and held it up to each of the hatch fasteners in turn, muffling the sound as she snapped them open.

With light grace Smith climbed onto the bed and silently eased the hatch lid down to the deck as she stood up into the night. Then, catching up the skirt of her nightgown, she hoisted herself up onto the deck and gently set the hatch down after her.

The world was at peace, dark and silent, the moon locked behind one thick fat cloud. Smith took in a deep breath and tried to get her bearings in the darkness. The closest shore was a sheer rock face. It would have to be the
White Dolphin
, then.
 

It cost her precious moments to locate the dinghy in the water—at last she saw it nestling against the hull amidships. That at least was good luck: she didn't have to creep over the deck above where Johnny was sleeping. Anyone who spent a lot of time on a yacht had a sixth sense for footfalls overhead at night, and she had no doubt Johnny shared that ability.

Smith dragged the dinghy close, stepped over the lifeline, and then, her toes clinging to the gunwale, crouched down, lowering one leg and then the other down onto the rim of the dinghy. A few seconds later she was seated by the motor, feeling around in the gloom for the twisted wire that carried the key to the outboard.

And not finding it. But it must be here! She had seen it earlier, on the curly red plastic-coated wire that was standard in the yachting world. Oh, where was the bloody moonlight when you needed it? Smith cursed under her breath, got down on her knees and blindly felt every square inch of the floor of the dinghy. Gone. No oars, either! Had he known what she would do? What did that mean?

Then she stood up, grabbed
Outcast's
lifeline again, and gazed over to where the
White Dolphin
lay on the other side of the cove. Her heart was beating in her temples and ears at a rate close to panic.  Why couldn't she think?  Why couldn't things be simple?
 

She let go the lifeline, sat down again and pushed away from
Outcast.
The dinghy floated out to the length of its line—and then drifted in the opposite direction to the
White Dolphin's
berth. No good hoping the wind or current would carry her.
 

That left swimming.

The water was deep and no doubt icy cold, but the distance wasn't all that—as long as the swimming ladder was accessible when she got there she'd probably be fine. If she had to swim around banging on the hull to rouse them she might get pretty chilled.  

Smith stood up. Another gust of wind scudded over the surface and water lapped against
Outcast's
hull. With luck any splash as she went in wouldn't disturb Johnny's sleep.
 

The nightgown had to go. It wouldn't do anything to keep her warm in the water, and it would hamper her kick. She hoped Vicky Mehan was a lighter sleeper than her husband.

Smith slipped the gown up over her head and dropped it onto the floor of the dinghy. She shivered as the breeze wrapped her naked body. After what she had experienced in Johnny's bed, the sea would be a cold lover at best.  She took a preparatory breath.

 "Beautiful," said Johnny Winterhawk's deep voice behind her, and the aft hatch cover lightly banged the deck.

Smith froze, looking over her shoulder at the dark shape looming out of the hatch behind her. Just then the full moon sailed triumphantly out from behind the obscuring cloud and painted her in silvery white—the long braid of hair hanging over one shoulder, the tensed muscles of her naked body.

The moonlight spread across the water and the yacht, illuminating the planes of his dark watchful face in all its fierce tension.

Shulamith broke free of the spell, stepped up onto the side of the dinghy and pitched into an awkward dive.

It was an icy shock to the system, stealing most of the breath she needed for swimming. She swam underwater till her heart was bursting, then broke surface in a powerful crawl, face down, her slim arms cleaving the silky surface of the swell with every ounce of her strength. After a few moments she lifted her head to take her bearings. The moon was bright on the water now, showing her the way.

A muted roar announced that the dinghy motor was coming to life. Smith's heart kicked. She couldn't hope to outdistance the dinghy. Unless...sucking in a deep breath, she dived under the surface, and had the satisfaction of hearing the motor cut to idle. He could only chase her as long as he could see her: it would be criminal negligence to risk running her down while she was underwater. She would have to surface every few yards, of course, but that wouldn't give him enough time to get very far before she went under again. She could win this. All she had to do was calm her panic and keep to her goal, and she would get to the
White Dolphin—
or close enough to scream for help before Johnny reached her.
 

Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a diver plummeting into the water. Surprised panic robbed her of all her oxygen, and Smith fought for the surface and air.

As she surfaced she took in her surroundings with a glance: the
White Dolphin
still far away across the cove, the
Outcast
behind her.
 

Johnny Winterhawk somewhere under the waves.

The obvious course would be to try to outswim him to the big motor yacht, hoping that they never broke surface at the same time, so that he could never be sure where she was. But what if he were the stronger, faster swimmer? What if he headed directly to the
White Dolphin
and beat her to it? He was big and powerful.
 

The less obvious course....

Smith dragged in a painfully deep breath and sank under the water again, then changed course, breaking into a wide semicircle that would bring her up on the other side of
Outcast,
with the yacht's hull between her and the
White Dolphin.
 

She had watched him hang up the yacht's engine key. She knew where he kept it. If it was still there.

Everything would depend on whether it was still there.

Smith surfaced silently, not looking around
,
for the moonlight glinting off her white face would be a giveaway. She was parallel now with the shadowed shape of the
Outcast,
and a few more breaths would get her there.
 

A minute later she surfaced in the moonshadow of the sleek white yacht, its length
shielding her from the
White Dolphin.
The swim ladder was folded up on the swimming platform, but would still be better than nothing. But the swimming platform lay in bright moonlight.  And cold as the water was, she couldn't risk climbing aboard until the stern moved into shadow.
 

With a little help from her. As the
Outcast
lightly rode the swell Smith tried to ease the stern into shadow. But her efforts were nearly useless, and when the yacht had moved halfway around to where she wanted it, inexorably it moved back again to its original position.