Ride the Tide (Deep Six #3) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,25

she loved all the time spent in the kitchen with him, exchanging movie quotes, singing songs, and dissecting the differences in the way they’d been raised.

Yes, the men of Deep Six Salvage had come to mean the world to her. Now two of them were gearing up to get shot at. So it was a pretty safe bet the dead last thing she was feeling was calm and—

Chrissy sat up straighter. For a blessed minute, Alex thought maybe she’d spotted the Coast Guard cutter. Then Chrissy’s grip on the wheel went white-knuckled, and that was the only warning Alex had before the catamaran took a rogue wave broadside.

It wasn’t much in terms of what the sea could conjure when she was really trying. The crest was only three or four feet high. But it was enough to make the boat list precariously.

Alex forgot the first rule of sailing: Keep your feet planted shoulder-width apart. She lost her balance, and the only thing that saved her from getting a face full of decking was her hip hitting the back console with enough force to make her teeth clack together. Mason’s pistol slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor. Skidding across the decking, it came to rest in the corner, barrel out, malevolent black eye blinking at her.

Her heart jumped into her throat. She expected to feel the deep, burning pain of a bullet slamming into her leg, because that’s how it happened in the movies, right? The dropped gun went off and maimed the dumbass who’d mishandled it?

But to her great relief, there was no bark of discharge. No stab of searing agony. Thank goodness she hadn’t proved Mason right by accidentally shooting herself.

“Sea’s getting rougher.” Chrissy’s voice was sandpaper. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Alex assured her. The adrenaline coursing through her system saved her from feeling the pain in her hip, even though she knew she’d be sporting one hell of a bruise in the morning.

If you live that long, an insidious little voice whispered at the back of her head.

She’d been doing her best to keep herself from even considering that option, evidenced by her fire-eyed demand that Mason give her a job. She knew from that night on Garden Key that when she was left to twiddle her thumbs, nothing but worst-case scenarios swept through her brain.

She bent to retrieve Mason’s pistol, and the menacing weight of it, the lethal promise of its purpose, traveled from her palm into her arm. She felt as if a part of him was with her.

Had there ever been a man born who was warmer or more solid than Mason? If so, she’d yet to meet him.

That’s how I’ll get through this, she decided. By imagining him beside me, lending me his strength.

“How much longer you figure we have?” Chrissy cut into her thoughts.

“Not sure.” Alex was dismayed to see the speedboat closer still. Close enough that she could make out the features of the men on board. “Not much longer, because I—”

That’s all she managed before the evil sound of gunfire punched through the air.

* * *

11:19 a.m.

“Looks like our newfound friends are anxious to get the party started!” Wolf shouted above the roar of the catamaran’s diesel engines and the ping, ping, ping of nearly spent rounds ricocheting off its twin hulls.

Whizzing bullets would have most guys pissing in their pants. But Mason and Wolf weren’t most guys. Fifteen years in the navy had inured them to itchy-trigger-finger syndrome. Unlike their attackers, they would wait until the speedboat was close enough to make each shot count.

As the seconds ticked by, Mason’s gut filled up with a tight, hot emotion he recognized as fury. Pure and simple, he was wickedly…nay, righteously pissed.

This isn’t supposed to be my life!

Not anymore.

And it sure as shit wasn’t supposed to be Alex’s life.

The thought of her up in that pilothouse with a gun in her hand was enough to make him want to hurl. She was all things soft and gentle, and this, whatever the hell this was, promised to be anything but.

“You were right!” Wolf called. “They haven’t seen us yet!” Obvious because their assailants hadn’t aimed rounds their way. Instead, the fuckfaces on the speedboat concentrated their fire at the spot on the deck above where the inboard engines chugged.

Mason had decided they should take up a position on the swim platform not only because it afforded them unencumbered views out the back of the catamaran, but also because the dingy and