Course of the Heart (2 page)

“I said get off my damned boat.”

“Not until I get what I came for!” A big hand reached down and lifted Brad from the deck. She followed his footsteps as they disappeared from view and then a loud splash.

“I can’t swim,” Brad screamed.

More splashing.

“Really?” the man asked.

Samantha nearly laughed at the cynicism in his voice. Within seconds there was another splash. More commotion in the water. Brad squealed like a child, and screamed. The sound of flesh on flesh. No more sounds from Brad. The boat shifted as labored breathing sounded from the back of the boat. Was the man pulling Brad from the water? She couldn’t decide if she hoped that to be the case or not. Two pairs of legs reappeared through the vent. Some slapping. Brad cursing. Brad mumbling and scuffling toward the side of the boat. Sloshy boots on the pier, running away.

“I’ll be back,” Brad shouted from a distance.

“You do and I won’t save your ass, next time. And if I catch you on my boat again, you’d better bring along a couple buddies.”

Samantha heard a door slam and the truck speed away. As she continued to peer through the vent, she witnessed dripping wet, broad shoulders as he knelt before her. His large hands moved across the surface of the deck.

“Shit, this is never going to come off.”

He stood and disappeared from sight, and his footsteps faded. She gently lifted the top of the locker, but lowered it again as the footsteps returned. She burrowed deeper under the lifejackets as quietly as she could. His shoes appeared again outside the vent and the top of the locker opened.

“No girlfriend here, asshole.”

She covered her mouth to keep from making a sound. As she was about to reveal her presence and beg for mercy, the top fell shut and she heard a clicking noise.

“Now, that ought to keep the riff-raff out of my business,” His chuckle made her want to laugh. His footsteps faded and then sounded from somewhere below her. More sounds, then silence. She waited for a few minutes and then pushed gently against the top of the locker.

As she feared, it wouldn’t budge.

She wasn’t going anywhere, at least for now.

Samantha contemplated shouting, then hesitated. She was safe here, at least for now. If she revealed her presence he might kick her off the boat, and she had no place to go. Brad would find her if she went to the bus stop. She’d stay put and pick a more opportune time to escape.

The soreness and exhaustion of the last hours surrounded her. Her eyes soon grew heavy and she found it increasingly difficult to keep them open. She snuggled against the life jackets, and felt safe, at least for the moment.

She followed that feeling quickly into sleep.

Chapter 2

She woke to the sound of footsteps, as the first hint of morning light showed through the vent. The man unlocked and opened the locker on the other side of the deck, then muttered disapproval. He knelt and examined the boot marks from the night before. Despite the cool of the morning, he was shirtless with swim trunks and no shoes.

She pressed her face closer to the vent, affording her a better view. He sported a tattoo on his left shoulder. A star? The muscles in his arms and flat stomach glistened in the faint light. With long blond unruly hair and a light scattering of blond hair across his chest, arms, and legs, he was big, much bigger than Brad.

As she silently appraised him, he turned and seemed to stare through the vent at her. She wanted, needed to turn away, but was transfixed by the consternation on his handsome features. He was almost pretty, yet the face was all man, with the lightest colored blue eyes she had ever seen, prominent even in the pale light. Something about those eyes . . . then it hit her.

Of all the luck!

She had to pick the boat of Drew Richey? There were few women along the eastern shore who didn’t know him in some sense, Biblically or otherwise. Fortunately she was in the otherwise category, and then only slightly. She had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. The sooner she got out of there and to the bus station the better.

She watched his muscular calves as he walked toward her locker. The cat would soon be out of the bag. There was a jingle of keys and then metal on metal. The top to the locker slowly opened. She made herself as small as possible, as visions of being thrown into the icy marina water raced through her mind. She couldn’t see him but could feel his presence.

“Where’s the . . .?” The lid came crashing down. “What did I do with . . .? Must’ve left it in the back of the Jeep?”

She remained quiet while she watched him walk across the deck again. The boat shifted and she listened as he made his way down the pier. She realized she had to pee. Badly. When the sound of his retreat faded, she pushed opened the top of the locker and scrambled out from under the jackets. The cool air shocked her sweaty skin and for a moment she wanted to crawl back in. But the urge to urinate was strong. He had not bothered to secure the hatch, so he probably wouldn’t be gone long. But surely she would have time for a quick trip to the bathroom before making her escape. If she met him walking back to the boat, she would smile and be neighborly, as if she had come from one of the many other boats along the pier. Boaters did that, didn’t they?

Below deck, she located a tiny bathroom and sat, relishing in the relief, before hurrying back up the steps to the deck.

He was nowhere in sight.

She looked both ways, and ventured a quick glance toward the parking lot. No monster trucks that she could see. She stepped up onto the pier and began walking. Halfway to the parking lot, she panicked.

Her backpack.

She made an about-face, raced back to the boat and jumped onboard. With the backpack around her shoulders she turned once again for the pier. From the corner of her eye she saw him, approaching from far down the pier. She quickly ducked.

“Jeez.” She was trapped. If she stepped from the boat she would surely be seen. She jumped quickly back into the locker and lowered the top, digging her way under the jackets and again positioned her face toward the vent. Within seconds the boat shifted as he stepped onboard. He made a beeline for the locker and opened the top. She flinched, and wondered if she were as adequately concealed as before. The sound of rustling plastic interrupted her thoughts and it felt as though he had jumped into the locker on top of her. The top slammed and she reached above her, only to find a case of bottled water weighing against her hip.

Thanks for the water, Mister, but I won’t be staying.

He continued to mull around the deck. Why he had to pick the early morning to work on his boat, she couldn’t fathom. As she recalled, another bus left for Mobile at eight a.m. She had to make that one.

Why wasn’t he sleeping like the rest of the marina? She decided to wait it out. She settled back in and quietly pushed the water to the side and found a warm, comfortable position. He would have to go below soon, surely. Or if she were lucky, he would go away, so she could be on her way.

She yawned and slipped back into a deep, restful sleep.

Sail Out
heeled slightly to starboard on a southeastern reach, fueled by brisk nor’easter’ winds. The shift in wind direction came with a significant drop in temperature. Drew leaned against the bulkhead, shielding himself from the cold breeze. Clad in swim trunks and a sleeveless light sweatshirt, he fought valiantly to catch the warmth of the afternoon sun, as he held the wheel steady with an outstretched foot. Although he needed sleep, he wanted the distance of a couple of more hours to get the thirty-nine foot split cabin Morgan Out-Islander sloop out of possible ship traffic. Once out of the main channel, he could set the autopilot and alarm, and get some serious rest. If anything bigger than a dinghy got within a hundred yards of the boat, the alarm would wake him.

He had made great time the first day out. He should be mid-Gulf within three days, a hundred or so miles due west of Tampa. The winds wouldn’t always be this favorable, so he needed to ride the front while he could, even though it would mean sailing non-stop for seventy-two hours. He secured the wheel as a precaution. Despite fighting to stay awake, he began to slip into a semi-conscious state. As he hung onto the edge of reality, his mind began to play tricks on him. He kept hearing the voice of a woman. Small sounds of distress. Whimpers. An appropriate haunting, given his less than chivalrous past with the opposite sex.

He shook himself awake and was thankful to find that the noises had stopped.

Caffeine. That would do it. He double-checked the security of the wheel tie, walked down the ladder to the galley, and retrieved a cola from the icebox. As he stood in the galley, popped the top, and took a pull from the can, the noises returned. He was awake now and his senses went on full alert. The sounds were indeed coming from on deck. He took a couple of steps up the ladder and cautiously looked out into the cockpit.

A whimper, a bump.

He hurried up the ladder, took the boat hook and held it in both hands, ready to fight.

A mumble, another bump, from the port locker. He moved cautiously closer, using his make shift weapon to slowly lift the top. The locker hatch flew open and a woman, dressed in black, with cuts and bruises on her face sat straight up. She looked like a cadaver in a coffin. Her head turned toward him and she screamed.

He staggered backward, tripping over the boat hook.

“What the . . .?” He scrambled to stand and picked up the hook. His hands shook as he pointed it toward the woman.

“Please don’t hit me.” The cadaver spoke and turned defensively away.

“Who, what—” Drew couldn’t form a coherent sentence, as he realized the woman was indeed alive. “How did you get— What happened to your face?”

She shielded her eyes from the sun as she staggered from the locker. She leaned back against the locker and touched her face gently, surveying a cut below her eye.

“I am so sorry,” she said, her lips quivering. “I fell asleep. Please don’t throw me into the water.”

“What? Throw you . . .?”

Her eyes struggled to adjust to the bright light. The black jumpsuit she wore looked out of place, but it clung to her slender, well-curved body in all the right places. Her eyes were as dark as night and her raven hair was long and shiny, cascading down her back. She was nearly a foot shorter than his six foot three height. Even with the bruises and cuts, he could see that she was a beautiful woman. Drew stood for a moment staring at her, licking his lips. Why was she dressed this way? Why was she there in the first place?

“Would you please not look at me like that, Mr. Richey?”

“Have we met?”

“Oh, no.” Her answer oozed with sarcasm. “So don’t give me that ‘don’t I know you’ look, buster. I’ve heard about you plenty, and I’m
not
your next meal.”

He shook his head, and felt the anger rise. “Look, lady, don’t flatter yourself. Pardon me for staring, but you aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Well excuse me, but I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me to be here.” She shaded her eyes and made a three-sixty turn. “Where is Fairhope? And for that matter, where is land?”

Drew pointed north and then west and laughed. “Land is that way and Fairhope is that way, best I can tell about sixty miles across the Gulf.”

“What!”

“How long have you been in that locker? It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and I’ve been under sail since seven this morning. You are hell and gone from Fairhope.”

“Well, take me back,” She lifted her chin and crossed her arms. “I need to be at the bus station before dark.”

“Take you back? Bus station? Are you crazy?” Drew combed the hair from his face with his fingers. “I couldn’t take you back if I wanted to, not in two days’ time running out of this wind, and certainly not before dark. Like it or not, you’re stuck here, and on a course for the Florida Keys.”

“I can’t go to the Florida Keys,” she said, puckering pretty lips.

“Lady, you don’t have a choice.” He realized he didn’t know her name. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Sam, Sam Bartlett.” She looked dazed.

“Sam?” Drew was exasperated. “What kind of name is that?”

“It’s short for Samantha, thank you.”

“And what the hell are you—” Drew caught himself as he remembered. “That cowboy, last night?”

Samantha looked downward.

“Is he the one who—” Drew lowered his voice and pointed to her face.

“Yes,” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes.

“Hey,” Drew moved toward her and then stopped, suddenly unable to find a use for his arms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t put it together until now. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry, I should never have jumped on your boat last night.”

“Forget about it.” Drew remembered the first aid kit he’d bought the day before. He pointed to her face again. “Let’s go below out of this wind and see to those . . . see to that.”

“Thank you.” She turned toward the locker. “May I have one of those bottled waters?”

“Sure, of course. You grab it, and I’ll get the first-aid kit. There are extra clothes in the guest stateroom aft. Feel free to get out of that . . . whatever it is you’re wearing.”

“Thanks.” She reached into the locker and retrieved her backpack.

“You’re welcome.” He set the autopilot and alarm, and did a double take when he saw she had brought a carry-on.

“Mr. Richey?”

“Please, call me Drew.”

“Mr. Richey?”

“Or Mr. Richey, if you like.”

“Thank you for showing up when you did last night.”

Drew couldn’t think of a response, and instead, turned and made his way below.

She locked the door to the guest stateroom and stripped the jumpsuit from her body.

How convenient.

He just happened to have shorts and smaller tees onboard, even though they were a bit too big for her. There was probably an entire wardrobe of women’s clothes aboard for all she knew. She had heard the rumors about the many women who had been on his boat. While in high school, she had even been invited a few times, through her best friend, to go for a sail with him. Knowing his reputation, she had always refused. She picked through the clothes and made her selection, holding the items cautiously to her nose. At least the clothes smelled clean.

She unlocked and opened the door slightly, looked down the short hall and out into the main cabin. He was nowhere to be seen. Holding one hand over her breasts and the other between her legs, she slipped out the stateroom door and into the bathroom, a bag of personal items under her arm. She took the spray nozzle and quickly washed her body and hair, and dried off with a clean over size towel she found in a cabinet. After brushing her teeth, applying deodorant, and dressing, she toweled her hair as dry as possible, and tiptoed barefoot through the main cabin and into the galley.

She found him rummaging through a cabinet. At least he had the decency to put sleeves over those muscular arms. Either way, she wasn’t buying anything he was selling. She would be nice to him, but that was it. After all, she didn’t want to end up in the water. No amount of manly charm was going to lure her into his web of love ‘em and leave ‘em. No sir.

She smiled benignly and sat across the table from him. He frowned as he surveyed her face again, and moved around the settee and sat next to her.

“I promise I won’t bite.” He moved closer and opened the first aid kit. “But I can’t deal with those wounds from across the table.”

With his hand he gently moved a damp strand of hair from her face. He wore a solemn, concerned look, as he took a closer look at her injuries.

“Man, this guy did a number on you. Should’ve let him drown.” He stood, walked over to a cabinet and unlatched it, revealing several bottles of liquor. “You’re going to need some anesthetics. What’s your pleasure?”

“Oh, I see. Get the girl a little drunk, is that how you do it?” She could see right through that earnest handsome expression. “I’ll have you know I don’t drink . . . that much.”

“Well, too bad . . . Lady, I wasn’t offering you a cocktail. I was offering something to numb you a bit, for medicinal purposes only.”

She lifted her nose again and shook her head.

He shrugged, closed and latched the cabinet. “Suit yourself.”

He folded gauze over the top of an alcohol bottle and upended it quickly. He began gently dabbing the gauze to a cut.

“Ouch,” she said, flinching. She ignored the ‘I told you so’ look on his face, and backed away. “Do you have any rum?”

“With Coke?”

“Do you have Diet?”