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.
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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
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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.
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“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.”
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“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.”
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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
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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.
I tried to stomp my foot, but he pressed me into the counter. Despite the
humility of having a large knife taken away from me like a toy from a child, I
was not uncomfortable in this position. I relaxed, showing him I wouldn’t
“Do you think it would be safe to allow the admiral and Dr. Folsom to come
down and have dinner now, love? Or shall I occupy your attention further?” he
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whispered in my ear. Again, his lips brushed at my throat and moved to just
behind my ear.
“They can come down now,” I told him, whispering also. “Captain Marek,” I
added symbolically, to let him know we were still fighting.
He whirled me around in his arms, and I knew he was going to kiss me. He
leaned in and pulled me closer, and I braced myself for the damage it would do
to me later. Because I wasn’t going to stop him.
“Is everybody okay? Oh,” Dr. Folsom called from the stairs. “I didn’t mean
to— Am I interrupting something?”
Nicoli released me abruptly, left me standing there, staring after him in a
state of swoon. He ran his hand through his hair before seating himself on the
couch, a sure sign that he didn’t appreciate the interruption—and that our close
call affected him too.
The clarity in my voice surprised me when I said, “Nicoli was just
apologizing for his outburst.”
He laughed once, sharply, but never looked back.
Dr. Folsom appeared doubtful. “Uh, well, I was going to make some soup for
dinner. Would you like to help me cut the vegetables?”
I smiled at her sheepishly as I returned the butcher knife to its home and
retrieved a smaller one, more suited to the task.
The soup turned out to be delicious and the conversation captivating.
Admiral Rudd regaled his past adventures on previous ships and how he
ascended to his position on t
he Bellator. He informed me he’d be retiring next year, and Nicoli would assume full command.
Although this probably wasn’t news to him, Nicoli didn’t comment on the
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at hand, opting instead to stare broodingly into his bowl and throw me dark
glances between bites. Dr. Folsom eyed him but said nothing.
After dinner the admiral invited me to take advantage of his library wall
beside the fireplace. After helping Dr. Folsom clear the table, I stalked over to his massive collection and shopped the titles. The storm outside ravaged the house
tirelessly—perfect reading conditions—and I hoped it would last all night.
Admiral Rudd adjusted in his chair. “That was a rather enjoyable meal,
wouldn’t you agree, Nicoli? Hot soup, stimulating company.”
“Yes,” Nicoli drawled. “We should have stubborn, temperamental, upstart
doctors over for dinner more often.”
The observation paused me briefly in my title search, but I picked up where I
left off, ignoring his remark as if it had been about the weather. Apparently, he was still sore about my near drowning. Or my pulling a knife on him. Or my
taunting him.
Also apparent was the fact that Nicoli Marek had grown too accustomed to
the company of men, in general. For his benefit, I decided to serve him a much-
needed dose of feminine hostility—I was going to educate him on the many
delightful facets of the silent treatment.
I selected my book, a nonfiction about ocean exploration, and plopped down
on the couch where Nicoli had been sitting. I pulled the throw blanket over me
and immersed myself into this vastly unknown—to me—territory. My eyes
burned, became heavy, the lack of sleep last night dragging down the lids. But
the book was just too interesting to put down, and if I was going to ignore Nicoli, I needed a distraction.
Later, I couldn’t recall anything after page one.
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I awoke surprised to find myself in the huge canopy bed on the third floor,
nestled comfortably into the covers. Instinct told me how I got there. I sat up and stretched. And stopped hands-over-head like a robber. Nicoli was sprawled out
next to me on top of the comforter, his black pajama pants contrasting against the sterile white of the bedding. He slept soundly, his chiseled chest heaving up and down with even breathing.