the dock. As she surfaced slowly one more time, she was vaguely aware of a voice.
“Hey!” a man yelled. “Hey!”
She dove down again, her hair floating around her, her eyes open and burning in the salty water, her lungs so stretched she thought they might burst. Where is he? Noah, oh, God, baby . . . She couldn’t breathe, but she couldn’t stop searching. Had to find her son. The world grew darker and colder, and Noah grew ever more distant.
Someone dived in next to her.
She felt strong arms surround her rib cage in a death grip. She was weak, about to pass out, when she was jerked upward, roughly dragged toward the surface, a ripple of air escaping her lungs.
As they broke through the water, she gasped, coughing and spewing as she found herself staring into the stern, uncompromising gaze of a total stranger.
“Are you out of your mind?” he demanded, slinging the water from his hair with a muscular twist. But before she could answer, he snarled, “Oh, hell!” and starting kicking hard, holding her tightly, dragging her to the shore. She’d drifted away from the dock, but his strokes, strong and sure, cut through the water and pulled them both to the sandy beach, where he deposited her in the waist-high water. “Come on!” he snapped. His arm steadied her as they slogged through the lapping water and up the sandy shoreline Her teeth were chattering, and she was shivering head to toe, but she barely felt anything other than a deep-seated and painful grief. Swallowing against the pain, she tasted salt and finally roused herself enough to look at this man she’d never met before.
Or had she? There was something remotely familiar about him. Over six feet tall, in a wet, long-sleeved shirt and soaked jeans, he was rugged-looking, as if he’d spent most of his thirty-odd years outdoors.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, shaking the hair out of his eyes. “You could have drowned!” And then, as an afterthought, “Are you okay?”
Of course she was not okay. She was damned certain she would never be even remotely okay again.
“Let’s get you inside.” He was still holding on to her, and he helped her past a pair of boots thrown haphazardly on the grass, then up the overgrown sandy path toward the house.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He eyed her up and down. “Austin Dern.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “And you’re Ava Garrison? You own this place?”
“Part of it.” She tried to wring the cold salt water from her hair, but it was impossible.
“Most of it.” His eyes narrowed on her as she shivered. “And you don’t know who I am?”
“Not a clue.” Even in her state of shock, the man irritated her.
He muttered something under his breath, then said, “Well, now, isn’t that something? You hired me. Just last week.” He was pushing her toward the house.
“Me?” Oh, God, how bad was her memory? Sometimes it seemed as thin and fragile as a cheesecloth. But not about this. Shaking her head, feeling the cold water drip down her back, she said, “I don’t think so.” She would have remembered him. She was sure of it.
“Actually it was your husband.”
Oh. Wyatt. “I guess he forgot to tell me.”
“Yeah?” His gaze skated over her bedraggled, freezing form, and for a second, she wondered just how sheer her sodden nightgown was.
“By the way, you’re welcome.” He didn’t so much as crack a smile. Though darkness was settling over the island, she saw his features, set and grim. Deep-set eyes, their color undetermined in the coming night; square, beard-shadowed jaw; blade-thin lips; and a nose that wasn’t quite straight. His hair was as dark as the night, somewhere between a deep brown and black. They trudged together toward the behemoth three-storied manor.
On the back porch, the screen door flew open, then banged shut behind a woman running from the house. “Ava? Oh, God, what happened?” Khloe demanded, her face a mask of concern as it caught in the porch light. She sprinted past the garden and jumped over a small hedge of boxwoods to grab Ava as the stranger released his grip on her body. “Oh my God, you’re soaking wet!” Khloe was shaking her head, and her expression was caught somewhere between pity and fear. “What the hell were you doing . . . oh, don’t even say it. I know.” She held Ava close and didn’t seem to care that her jeans and sweater