The Erotic Expeditions - Complete Collection (53 page)

No
, Kirk thought.
Let her go!

But Emile didn’t realize there was a problem and kept pulling. With the respirator in her mouth, Mel couldn’t tell him anything was wrong. Despite the water coming at him from every angle, Kirk tore the respirator from his own mouth.

“Let her go!” he yelled as the deck crashed down into the water again, nearly sweeping Emile overboard.
 

Whether he had responded to Kirk’s order or the water swirling around his knees, he let go. Mel splashed backwards into the water, her legs through the ladder up to her thighs. Though she grasped at the handrail, she couldn’t reach it. Her body was whipped one direction and then another with the chaotic churning. Her arms flailed, trying to get a hold of anything that might help. Still swimming on the surface, Kirk took a giant breath and then submerged. At the ladder, he grabbed the top rung. Though he nearly collided with Mel, he managed to grip her vest in his other hand and shove. As she sailed clear of the ladder, Kirk broke the surface and took a breath. Mel’s head popped up not far from his.

“You okay?” he yelled, as the rung in his grip yanked him around.

She returned the okay sign rather than take out her regulator.
 

Good, she was still thinking.
 

Still gripping the top rung, he whipped himself around the ladder with every bit of strength he had. As it started to rise in front of him, he grabbed both handrails. Using the momentum of the upward swing, he quickly brought up his knees. In a single swift movement, he vaulted past the ladder rungs, over the edge of the deck, and landed on his feet. Emile, Seydou, and Jaston, their eyes like saucers, watched from behind the aft wall. Emile made to descend to the dive deck again but Kirk held up his hand.

“Stay there!” he barked and then whirled back to the ocean.

Mel was treading water about ten feet aft, resetting, looking for her chance. He motioned to her to take her time and she gave the okay sign again. Slowly, she edged closer as the deck slapped up and down and the ladder dipped in and out of the choppy water. Kirk hung on to the handrail and set his goggles on his head. Finally, as the boat came down after a particularly big swell, Mel kicked furiously and darted forward. With a hand on the railing, she immediately swung her hips, legs and knees forward and landed on the ladder just as it was rising. She stood up as Kirk leaned out and grabbed the back of her vest at the tank. They waited, swaying together, moving in time with the crests and dips. On the next big swell, Kirk took the weight of the tank and pulled upward as Mel climbed the rest of the rungs. Finally, she was standing on the diving deck.
 

• • • • •

Mel used both hands to pull herself through the aft opening, lifting the fins high, and immediately made for the deck bench. She sat heavily, pulled the respirator from her mouth and gasped. Though it was hard to see through the water spattered mask, she could make out the three Haitian men opposite her. Then Seydou yelled something and shoved one of the others, though Mel couldn’t tell who. In moments, the three of them had disappeared and Kirk was in front of her. Her lungs were still laboring to catch up but she at least took the mask off.
 

She heard the anchor winch whine and the engines roar to life, as Kirk unsnapped the closures on the front of her vest.

“How you doing?” he said, lifting the scuba tank away as she slowly wriggled her arms free.

“Fine,” she said, wiping long strands of wet hair out of her face. “I’m fine.”

Except that she wasn’t fine and she didn’t sound like it, not even to her.

Although her knees and thighs had taken the brunt of the thrashing from the ladder, it was her hips and abdomen that hurt. It was a dull, low-level pain that she couldn’t localize and, even as she tried, it started to fade.

Kirk had put both tanks and vests near the compressor and returned to sit next to her. The chop of the waves gave way to the rhythmic skipping of the hull as the boat picked up speed.

“Mel, what is it?” Kirk asked.

His muscular thigh was warm against her leg. For a moment, she imagined herself just giving in and turning to him. But she couldn’t do that, as much as she wanted to,
she couldn’t
. His revelation of the Gold Fleet to the kidnappers had cut deep. So deep, it had split the old wound of her father’s later life wide open. The Gold Fleet wasn’t just ransom or treasure. It was her father’s only legacy to her, all that she had left.

She shook her head and watched the wake of the boat off to starboard.

“I didn’t betray your father,” Kirk said. “He betrayed me.”

Mel whipped her head around to him but before she could say anything, he plunged on.

“I discovered the San Juan before I met Earl. It was me who told him about it. He promised we’d dive it after the Margarita. Then he fired me and went to find it himself.”

Mel’s mouth hung open at the bald nerve. She sputtered for a second, not even knowing where to start, it was so preposterous. Kirk took hold of her hand.

“I didn’t want to say anything, I wouldn’t have, except for what he told you. I–”

Mel yanked her hand away and stood.

“How
dare
you?” she seethed. “
He
betrayed
you
?”

“I can prove it,” Kirk said, standing.

“Of course you can,” she yelled, sweeping away the hair that had blown into her face. “Now that he’s not here to defend himself. Now that you want to rewrite history! Well, I’ve
seen
how you treat your dive partner. I’ve experienced it first hand.”

Jaston appeared at the door of the main cabin and came up the steps, holding the gun out in front. As the boat skipped along, he lurched as he stepped onto the deck and the aim of the gun swung wildly. Despite her rage, both she and Kirk paused, their eyes riveted to the gun. But as he took another step, it was clear that Jaston wasn’t just unsteady. He was drunk. In his other hand, he held an open bottle of wine he’d apparently found below.

As the boat rocked, Jaston stumbled toward Mel.

Though it’d been the furthest thing from her mind, a dangerous idea suddenly formed. Without another thought, she grabbed the gun. For a moment, she thought she had it but Jaston was strong, even drunk. He yanked it back but she had it by both hands and didn’t let go.

“Mel, no!” she heard Kirk yell, just as the gun went off.

ISLAND MAGIC

An Erotic Expedition Novella

PART 3

By Hazel Hunter

Mel watched Kirk’s fist sale directly into Jaston’s face, snapping his head back, as her ears rang from the gunshot. Even as he went down, though, Jaston’s grip on the gun was tight. Mel held on hard and was yanked down to the deck as Jaston fell.

“Mel, are you–”

Kirk’s voice suddenly cut off as the shattering of glass replaced it.

Mel looked up to see Kirk falling toward her.

“Kirk!” she screamed.

She just barely had time to catch his shoulders as the two of them crashed to the deck, his head landing on her chest. Air rushed out of her lungs as her back smashed into the deck but she scrambled to a sitting position and cradled Kirk’s head in her arms.

“Kirk!” she yelled.

Had he been shot?
 

Oh my god. Did I get him killed?

“Kirk!” she yelled again, running her hands and eyes over his torso, stretched out on the deck and over her legs. She didn’t see any blood. Suddenly, she was aware of Seydou looming over them. In his hand was the broken neck of the wine bottle that Jaston had been carrying. Seydou was glaring at Kirk.

Mel looked into Kirk’s face and ran her fingers behind his head. Though his hair was wet, as expected after a dive, she distinctly sensed something warm. She quickly withdrew her hand. There was blood.

“Oh no, no, no,” she muttered. “Oh please no.”

What have I done?

As she bowed her head over Kirk’s face, the deck of the boat rocked and bumped. Kidnapped by three pirates from Haiti as they’d searched for lost treasure, their predicament had never seemed hopeless. Despite being attacked by Jaston in some voodoo ritual and being forced to turn over their finds from the Gold Fleet, it had never seemed desperate.
 

Not until now.

“Kirk,” she said to him, barely audible over the engines, wind, and waves. “Please be okay.
Please
.”

Seydou dropped the broken bottle to the deck and bent over Jaston. He slapped his face a couple of times and the man stirred. Emile’s young voice called down from the flybridge above and Seydou yelled an answer, in Creole, which Mel didn’t understand.

She ran a hand down the side of Kirk’s face, his eyes still closed. He might have a concussion or internal bleeding or…she didn’t
know
what.

Why did I do it?

Jaston had seemed too drunk to hold onto the gun and, when he’d lurched close to her on the pitching deck, she’d thought she’d take it from him. But she’d been wrong.
 

Kirk had said over and over that they’d bide their time. She looked at him, wearing the black body suit he’d dived in hardly twenty minutes ago. His diaphragm rose and fell steadily but, other than that, he lay completely still, except for the tossing of the waves.

Why didn’t I listen?

She’d been angry. They’d been arguing–about the past, about her father, the old wrecks, and ancient history. She shook her head. It was all so unimportant now.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

• • • • •

“Please, he needs a doctor,” Mel pleaded for the fiftieth time.

But Seydou was unmovable–and angry. Though the storm had almost passed and they were safe at anchor in Lulu Bay, the last thing he wanted to do was stay the night on a boat. He’d apparently had enough of living on boats. Unfortunately, Kirk was too big to be easily moved.

Mel sat on the deck with his head cradled in her lap. The bleeding at the back of his head had stopped and his heartbeat and breathing were good but he still hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Jaston needs a doctor!” Seydou spat.

Rotund Jaston had made himself scarce below decks since Kirk had punched him. Blood had poured from the man’s nose and it looked as though it were broken. But at least he was conscious.

Emile sat nearby on the bench, his young face worried. Maybe he was worried about Jaston, or maybe about Kirk, or possibly even about Seydou’s anger. There was no way to tell but he held the gun that Seydou had given him and kept it pointed in Mel’s direction. Mel kept one hand on Kirk’s chest, feeling the strong heartbeat.

“
Stupid
,” Seydou muttered, glaring at her then at Kirk. His dark wrinkled face was contorted in anger, his eyes narrowed almost to slits under the thick flattop. “
Stupid
,” he yelled.

Mel couldn’t disagree. Luckily, the wild gun fire hadn’t wounded anybody.

“I’m sorry,” she said, yet again. “I’m sorry.”

“You do not know sorry,” Seydou said, before he spun on his heel and stalked below.

Mel gazed down at Kirk’s face, peaceful, as though he were sleeping.
 

I should have listened.

She shook her head a little at the thought. Listening wasn’t one of her strong suits. Nor was biding her time. Exploit Emile, Kirk had said. The boy never stopped looking at her. She glanced at him and he quickly looked away, though the gun remained pointed at them. Was it the same gun that she’d tried to take? They all looked alike. The moment came back to her in vivid detail as she squeezed her eyes shut: the feel of the metal in her hand, the snap of it firing, the shot ringing in her ears, and then the smashing of glass and Kirk falling. When she opened her eyes, she realized she was rubbing his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, as her eyes teared up. “Please just be okay.”
 

She sniffed a little and wiped her eyes.

It was a miracle no one had been shot. If Kirk would just open his eyes then–

A light touch on her shoulder made her jump and she turned to see Emile offering her a handkerchief. His delicate eyebrows were knit together in worry. Though the handkerchief was tattered and looked like it’d been used to wipe oil from an engine, she remembered Kirk’s words. Emile was the key.

“Thank you,” she said, though she didn’t know if he understood English. As she took the cloth, she made sure to make contact, just a light brush of her fingers against his. He nearly leapt out of his skin, abruptly sat back on the bench, and beamed at her. She dabbed lightly at her eyes and nose and then placed the little rag in her lap. It was the last thing she felt like doing but she looked up and smiled at him. “Thank you,” she whispered and his head bobbed in response.
 

She stared down into her lap and glanced at Kirk’s face.

Wake up, Kirk. Please wake up.

Kirk leaned into the gale as the helmsman of the Santo Domingo struggled to keep her on course. But as the rain pelted them like a thousand needles and the small wooden galleon tossed on the forty foot seas, it was clear he had lost control. Men were running to and fro on the main deck, trying to spill the wind from the canvas. A man in officer’s dress pointed and bellowed orders but his voice was whipped away. Though it might have been midday, the sky was deeply black and purple and the swirl of the clouds created by the hurricane arched above them.

I’m on the Santa Domingo. This is 1605.

Kirk swung his gaze in every direction. To port, another ship was dimly visible, turning about.

“She’s broaching!” Kirk yelled and pointed.

When he looked back to the deck below, an enormous wave swept completely over the top of it, taking several sailors with it. As the sails buffeted, a great shuddering shook the entire vessel. Wood groaned as the boat began a slow sickening spin.

Men clung to the railings and masts, some screaming and others praying.

The ship was going down.

• • • • •