Hot as Hell (Deep Six 0.5)(23)

For another thing, he had saved her from the crazed terrorist who had hijacked her father’s yacht. Yessiree, Bob. So that happened.

And lastly, in the months following the hijacking, he’d helped her deal with the onset of delayed shock, nightmares, and what some might diagnose as a mild case of PTSD. Through hundreds of emails and the occasional satellite phone call, he’d been her sounding board, her sympathetic ear, her support and her light when the memories threatened to get too heavy and dark.

Yep. Bran Pallidino was many things. Brave. Funny. Sometimes taciturn. But one thing he was not was forgettable.

He is also not here…

She’d tried not to let the emptiness of her email account—the glaring, insolent, taunting emptiness of her email account—get to her. She’d tried telling herself he hadn’t responded because he was too busy hunting for the mighty Santa Cristina. But now that she was here, so close to Wayfarer Island, so close to him, she couldn’t help but wonder if the reason he hadn’t answered her invitation was because she’d read too much into their little online exchanges.

Perhaps what she’d thought was a solid friendship—and what she’d hoped was a burgeoning romantic relationship—was, in fact, neither. Perhaps he’d simply helped her through a difficult time because he was Bran, heroic and gallant and unable to countenance the thought of a damsel in distress.

Ugh. And here she’d planned this whole trip just to get close to him. Just to see him again.

Oh, sure. She’d tried to convince herself she’d done it because the girls deserved something special to celebrate their scholarships. But even her father had seen through her ploy. When she’d told him about the trip, he’d rubbed his big, bushy Magnum PI mustache and said with a considering frown, “Is this really for the girls? Or are you doin’ this so you have an excuse to go see that treasure-huntin’ man your momma tells me you been emailin’?”

Busted. I should have my philanthropist’s license revoked.

“I know who your father is,” Rick said, seeming to read her thoughts. “I saw him on TV once. Some news special or something. He was talking about how he’d gone from roughneck to oil tycoon by relying on spit, grit, and a get’r’done attitude.” Rick’s lips twitched.

“It was 60 Minutes.” Maddy shook her head with affection. It’d only taken her father ten minutes to have Morley Safer eating out of the palm of his hand. “And that’s not an act. My daddy still wears Wranglers with Skoal rings worn through the back pockets and his favorite sweat-stained Stetson to work every day. I guess you can take the man out of the oil fields, but you can’t take the oil fields out of the man.” And I wouldn’t have him any other way. She didn’t have to say that last part aloud; it was obvious in her tone.

Still shielding her eyes against the last glowing rays of the sun, she watched the floatplane disappear over the horizon. And that’s when she felt it. The remoteness. The…aloneness. There was nothing around them but miles of waves that glinted silver in the dying light. No sounds except for the chatter of the girls and the waves lapping against the sand. The isolation was profound. Absolute. Scary and exciting and exhilarating all at once.

Okay, so Bran or no Bran, she was going to make this experience a great one. For the girls. For herself. Because they deserved a vacation. An adventure. And, by God, after what she’d gone through three months ago, so did she.

And maybe you can use this time unplugged from all your gadgets and away from your empty email account to reassess your feelings for one former Navy SEAL turned treasure hunter, her conscience whispered.

Sure. Okay. That’s totally what she’d do, and—

“Were you expecting company?” Rick asked.

“Why? What’s…”

She didn’t finish her question. When she turned in the direction the ranger was looking, she spotted a small deep-sea fishing vessel slowly sailing toward the island.

Her heart leapt. Actually leapt. If it weren’t for her rib cage, she was pretty sure the thing would have burst from her chest Alien-style. One word, one name, seemed to whisper on the wind. Bran.

So much for reassessing her feelings…

*

6:23 p.m.…

“They’re on the island. My guys are in position, advancing slowly and waiting on your signal to go in strong,” Tony Scott told Gene Powers.

Sitting on the sofa beside Gene on the small sixty-foot motor yacht they’d rented under a false name with false identification, Tony watched the older man try to swallow the lump in his throat. And not for the first time, he wondered if Gene had the stomach to go through with their plan.

Just keep your shit together a little while longer, he thought, impatience gnawing on his backbone like a junkyard dog.

“Once we cross this line, there’s no goin’ back.” There was a tremor in Gene’s voice. It matched the one in the man’s hands as he absently picked at the stitching on the edge of the blue pillow tossed into the corner of the molded seating area at the back of the vessel.

Tony had always respected Gene for his courage and sense of adventure when it came to business—and to living life, for that matter—but the old fart was proving to lack the intestinal fortitude to get down and dirty when the occasion called for it. And this occasion definitely called for it.