Ride the Tide (Deep Six #3) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,24

discovering whether this day would end in life or death.

“I think you’re gonna have enough excitement today without me adding to it,” he told her.

She feigned a pout. “Spoilsport.”

“Mmm” was all he allowed before asking her to show him what she’d learned.

She went through the motions without missing a beat. If someone had told him she’d spent her life handling weapons, he wouldn’t have argued with them. Her hands were steady, her actions sure.

Sharp as a tack, he thought admiringly, admitting that the only truly foolish thing she’d ever done was set her sights on him.

Then, it was time to teach her to aim. “Turn ’round,” he told her. “Step back.”

She pressed her back against his chest, her round, tight butt hitting just below his crotch. He had to grit his jaw and silently recite the Red Sox 2004 World Series roster to keep from displaying his own loaded gun while he showed her how to extend her firing arm and use her other hand to support her aim.

It was only as she practiced lining up a target that he allowed himself to close his eyes and revel in the unqualified pleasure of finally, finally experiencing what he’d been wanting to experience all day. All week. Ever since she set foot on Wayfarer Island.

He had the tiny, terrifying Alexandra Merriweather bound in the circle of his arms. And if it happened to be the last bit of pleasure he ever experienced in this world? Well then, he might die a happy man.

Chapter 7

11:15 a.m.

“How the hell are you so calm,” Chrissy asked.

Alex made a rude noise beneath her breath. “If my outsides look calm, it’s a facade. My insides are pure chaos.”

Chrissy let loose with a windy breath. “Thank goodness. I thought maybe it was just me.”

After depositing Meat belowdecks, Alex had raced back to the pilothouse to take up a position by the back windows. Chrissy was keeping them on a straight path that would, hopefully, intercept with the Coast Guard cutter sooner rather than later. And Mason and Wolf were lying on the swim deck below, assault rifles up and at the ready for the moment when the quickly approaching speedboat got within firing range.

Seeing them so exposed had a fist twisting in Alex’s guts. It took everything she had not to lose her breakfast and her last strawberry Pop-Tart all over the pilothouse’s teakwood decking.

Some time ago, she’d heard someone say Family is where you find it. Who’d have ever thought she’d find hers with a group of grizzled Navy SEALs turned treasure hunters?

Oh, not to give the impression that her own parents were unloving or anything. They actually adored her. It’s just that they were always…distracted.

As academics, they were far more interested in discussing possible alternative forms of energy than asking Alex what was happening in her life. Dinner-table conversations tended toward topics like how the perception of “art” differed between cultures as opposed to how Alex was feeling about finishing her schooling and stepping out into the real world.

In fact, the first time she could remember someone showing a true interest in the inner workings of Alexandra Merriweather was her third night on Wayfarer Island. The entire crew had been gathered around a beach bonfire, listening to the crackle and pop of burning driftwood and enjoying the sea breeze, when Romeo leaned over and whispered, “What’s your favorite childhood memory? Who’s the one person you look up to the most? If you could choose to live anywhere in the world, where would it be? Tell me everything, Alex. I want to know all about you.”

And he’d meant it.

It had been Doc who’d found her at the end of the pier, knees tucked under her chin, rocking slightly in an effort to push away the horrifying images of that night on Garden Key. He’d tossed a warm arm around her shoulders and let her cry out her terror, softly murmuring assurances that the memories would fade with time, and promising that anytime she felt them closing in, she could always come to him to talk.

And she had. Many times over.

Then there was Bran. After declaring “A woman cannot live on Pop Tarts alone,” he’d endeavored to teach her to cook. With patience and more than a little good-natured ribbing, he’d taught her how to make an omelet, whip up some macaroni and cheese that didn’t come from a box, and grill a hamburger.

It wasn’t much. Her go-to meals still tended to come out of packages, but