Matt DeMarco's eyesight was neon green and distorted, thanks
to the night-vision goggles he was using for his fruitless
scan of the horizon.
A mixture of seawater and sand sloshed around his legs as
he continued a slow, methodical jog along the water's edge.
Nothing.
He'd been at it since midnight, a full twenty-seven hours
since the Carolina Moon should have docked at
Charleston Harbor. He knew enough about Atlantic tides and
currents to realize that if the private yacht had
experienced any sort of mechanical malfunction, it would be
drifting offshore in the general vicinity of Folly Beach.
Where the hell was Janice? His softly muttered curse of
frustration was lost in the sound of the gently lapping
surf.
She was a damn good partner and had covered his butt, and
he owed her big time. But she'd gone too far this time. Deep
under cover, she'd been in the wind for over a month, not
filing progress reports, not even communicating with her
supervisory agent. The last report she'd filed had placed
her in Charleston. And the last confirmed sighting of her
was from a week ago when she'd rented a boat to take her out
to the Carolina Moon.
Janice Cross was like a pit bull. Once she got her teeth
into something, she wouldn't let go. But he prayed whatever
she'd discovered on the Carolina Moon hadn't cost her
her life.
As dawn approached, the waters were beginning to fill
with the fleet of shrimpers and fishermen working the ocean,
rivers and oyster beds in and around Charleston.
If the private yacht was disabled, surely one of the
fishing fleet would—
His thought was lost as Matt suddenly choked in a
mouthful of briny water. Only then did his brain fully
process the fact that he'd tripped and gone flying into the
lukewarm ocean. Spitting the grit of sand, bits of shell and
God-only-knew-what-else out of his mouth, he pushed up to
his knees, feeling around in the murky water for his
goggles. No luck.
"Damn," he muttered, pushing dripping hair off his
forehead.
Glancing over his shoulder, he looked for the cause of
his dive into the shallow surf, expecting a discarded cooler
or driftwood or, more likely, one of those federally
protected, lumbering, loggerhead turtles that spent the
month of April plodding up to the dunes to lay eggs.
The first sliver of hazy sunshine illuminated the beach,
and he felt his throat squeeze tight.
This was no turtle. It was the body of a young woman
whose long blond hair swished and swayed with the movement
of the ebbing surf. She appeared to be wearing some kind of
evening gown.
Scanning the surrounding area, Matt grabbed her beneath
the arms, dragging her up higher on the beach.
Dropping to his knees at her side, he placed his ear near
her mouth. Relieved to hear a single, faint wheeze, he then
checked her pulse. Untangling the mass of long blond hair
from her face, he tilted her head back and alternated
between mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions.
When she spat out a gurgle of water, he rolled her on her
side and patted her back as she coughed and sputtered water
from her lungs.
Matt reached around and felt for the cell phone he kept
clipped at his waistband. Flipping it open, he found himself
staring at a blank screen. Sand particles crusted the
keypad. His phone was state-of-the-art, but apparently not
waterproof.
The woman's lashes fluttered, but her eyes still hadn't
opened.
"Hang on, honey," he whispered, then again glanced in
both directions. He should call fire and rescue and
the police. Normally he would have, but his current status
as a Special Agent in Charge, on loan to the short-staffed
Charleston office made that impossible without blowing his
unofficial assignment—finding Janice. The next best option
was to hand the woman off to someone else. Janice's life
might very well depend on it.
There were two guys a couple of hundred yards south. Too
far away to be of any immediate help. Crap. He
couldn't just leave her on the beach.
She coughed again, then drew in a deep, labored breath.
"I know it hurts, but you're breathing."
When she lifted her right hand, Matt noticed that blood
was trickling down from her palm and also that she had a
goose-egg-size lump on her forehead. Straddling her, he ran
his fingers along her neck and found that aside from the
fact that she wore only one gold earring, there were no
bulges or obvious distensions. She didn't have a broken
neck. As far as he could tell, her bloody hand was her most
serious injury. Matt reached for the hem of her gown and
gave a rough tug. The fabric tore easily. Though wet and
sandy, as a temporary bandage for her hand it would have to
do.
Spotting movement in his peripheral vision, Matt managed
to shift enough to avoid the sand she flung at his face.
Though she couldn't weigh much more than a hundred
pounds—wet gown included—she heaved him off her and began
clawing her way toward the dunes.
He probably should have let her go. She had, after all,
just ungratefully tossed him on his ass. Yep, he should just
let her go on her merry way. Except that she'd nearly
drowned, had a lump on her head and her hand was dripping a
trail of blood onto the sand.
That, and he didn't believe in coincidences. What were
the chances of Janice being missing at sea and this woman
rolling in with the high tide?
Realizing she might be his only lead, Matt let out an
exasperated breath and went after her. Snaking his hand
around her small waist, he lifted her off the ground. She
flailed against him but she didn't scream. Odd.
"Stop kicking," he said between gritted teeth, squeezing
her more tightly against his chest.
"Let go. You're hurting me."
Matt loosened his grip but didn't release her. "I'm not
trying to hurt you. I'm trying to help you. You're
bleeding."
She stilled as he lifted her wrist and raised her hand
toward her face. He heard a little breath catch in her
throat.
Carefully, he reached down, hooking his hand behind her
knees and lifted her into his arms. "We need to get you to a
hospital. You prob—"
"No, no hospitals." Her eyes were a rich, dark blue and
there was more than panic there. Matt saw a deep fear. Of
what? Or who?
"My cell's useless," he told her softly, "but there's a
pay phone in the parking lot." He shifted her higher in his
arms as he navigated the sand. "You can call a friend."
"Pretty gallant of you given that a minute ago you were
ripping off my dress," she said as she jammed an elbow into
his rib cage.
Air bellowed from his lungs. "Rip your… geez, lady! I
needed something to wrap around your hand to stop the
bleeding."
Confusion knitted her brows. "You weren't…?"
He glared down at her. "No, I wasn't. Call me picky, but
I prefer a willing, responsive partner to a bleeding,
semi-conscious one. You have to get some medical attention
for that hand."
He watched as her full lips drew into a grimace as she
unwound the bandage and surveyed the gash in her palm. "It
doesn't look good, does it?"
Matt reached the parking lot and carried her to his Jeep.
Setting her down, he leaned her against the car while he
opened the passenger's door. "Who do you want me to call?"
"Call?"
It was a struggle to keep from rolling his eyes. "Either
give me a name and a number or I'm taking you to the nearest
emergency room."
"I told you, no hospitals."
"That wound isn't going to heal on its own." Irritation
ratcheted up a notch or two. "No emergency contact number,
fine. No hospital? Fine, too. Get in. I'll take you to the
closest urgent-care facility. We'll make better time if I
just drive you. There's a place off Calhoun Street. We can
be there in twenty minutes or less. Or, Roper Hospital isn't
that far. We can—"
"No," she said, shaking her head so vehemently that water
splattered everywhere. "I can't—"
"—ignore that gash."
Matt knew wounds and the long, diagonal injury to her
hand was a defensive knife wound. Who had she been defending
herself against and why?
"I won't ignore it. Thank you for your help."
The fact that she averted her eyes as she attempted to
dismiss him didn't go unnoticed. Nor did the ridiculousness
of her remark. She was still bleeding profusely, so he opted
for a different tack.
He knew his own motivation for not drawing the attention
of the local authorities. What he couldn't fathom was why a
woman who'd obviously been in some sort of altercation,
obviously jumped or been thrown into the ocean, was so
resistant to going through normal channels. Seriously
strange behavior.
Tugging his T-shirt over his head, he ripped off a strip
of damp cotton and created a second makeshift pressure
bandage.
"Thank you." She kept her elbow bent and her hand above
her heart and then took a wobbly step away from the car.
Matt grabbed her by the shoulders, steadying her and
preventing her from wandering off. "You should see a
doctor," he reiterated.
"It's not bleeding as much," she said, lifting her hand
in front of his face.
Maybe her weird reaction had something to do with the big
bump on her forehead. "You need stitches, a CT scan of your
head and you've likely got water still in your lungs. You
don't want me to take you to the hospital, okay. Tell me who
to call and you can be their problem."
"Is there a third option?"
He read fear and confusion in her eyes as she tilted her
face to his. "Like?" He let the word dangle in the air
between them.
"I don't have anyone to call and I can't go to a
hospital, either."
Matt knew trouble when he saw it and as a rule, did his
best to avoid it when possible. One look at the drenched
blonde with the wide, frightened eyes and he knew
possible had just taken a vacation.
"What boat were you on?" he asked.
"Boat?" she repeated as if he'd spoken in tongues.
He looked down at her pricey-looking stilettos, which had
remained on her feet despite what she'd been through, and
said, "You aren't a mermaid. So I'll assume you ended up in
the water the old-fashioned way."
"Swimming?"
He actually chuckled at her deadpan delivery. "Most women
don't swim in an evening gown and heels. You must have gone
overboard." His mind raced forward. "There haven't been any
reports of a man—person—overboard or vessels in
distress to the Coast Guard," he said. "Did you go out
alone? Capsize, maybe?" He grabbed her good hand and turned
it palm up. "You've been in the water a long time," he said
as he pressed gently to test the loose skin on her uninjured
hand.
"How long?" she asked, and then snatched back her hand to
cover her mouth as a raspy cough rumbled in her throat.
"You don't know?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly and sparkled with a flash of
what might be anger. "Forgive me, but I guess I lost track
of time while I was losing blood, fighting currents and
floating in the ocean in the dark."
She began to slouch and he tightened his arm around her
waist. "How about you sit down before you fall down?"
"That might be a good idea," she agreed, putting up no
resistance as he guided her into the car.
Matt lifted her legs and tucked them into the footwell
before he walked around the car. On his way to the driver's
seat, he grabbed a fresh shirt out of the back of the Jeep
and shrugged it over his head before slipping behind the
wheel. He shot her a glance as he stuck the key in the
ignition. She looked like a drowned rat.
What do you know? He thought again about Janice.
"Where are we going?"
"You don't want to go to a hospital. I'm giving you that.
But we're getting you appropriate medical attention."
"How?"
"A friend of a friend. I'm Matt DeMarco, by the way."
"Matt DeMarco."
Again, she seemed to be taking the words for a trial run.
Matt drove quickly back toward Charleston, sometimes
ignoring traffic signals and often weaving through cars even
if it meant violating no passing zones and rolling through
stop signs. "You, ah, seem a little out of it," he said
softly. "Sure you don't want to rethink the hospital
option?"
"Definitely not." She shifted straighter in the seat. "I
appreciate what you've done, but you can just drop me at the
next corner."
"Right," he scoffed. "Do you really want to roam the
streets of Charleston bleeding? What do you suppose the
folks would make of that?"
Matt veered to the right to cross the Ashley River. On
the other side of the bridge, he could see the Battery, a
jutting peninsula where the Ashley and Cooper rivers joined.
If you were from Charleston— which he wasn't—you'd smugly
proclaim that the Ashley and the Cooper met to create the
Atlantic Ocean.
"Are you planning on telling me your name?"
She rested her head on the seat back, "Wasn't planning on
it, no."
"Are you being mysterious or rude?"
"Neither."
"Okay, I'll play." He took his eyes off the road long
enough to catch a glimpse of her. She was struggling to
remain conscious. Her long lashes fluttered against her
cheeks and her flawless skin had gone pale. "Keep your hand
up, the bleeding has started again." Given the head injury,
he decided it was a good idea to keep her talking. "You've
got the accent, so you're a native?"