Mysterious Vows

No!

Her body felt heavy as stone, yet she did not sink to the bottom of the pool. Though weak, she was still breathing. It was not her time to die. There were important tasks. Clinging to that hope, she kicked and her legs responded. Her head jerked back, and she began a slow and clumsy dog paddle.

The night was utterly silent.

The men were gone.

In dim moonlight she saw the edge of the pool and the metal ladder, less than five feet away. Beyond that was the chain-link fence and the locked gate that the men had broken.

Only five feet to the ladder. She forced her arms and legs, weighted by clothing, to stroke through the thick, dark liquid. Farther than a marathon. Impossibly far...but her hand grasped the ladder. Her fingers were weak, unable to hold. If she sank again, she would never find the strength to hold on. A sob racked her body. She couldn’t give up. Not yet. She pulled herself up. Every muscle in her body strained.

Night air blasted her face. Shivering, she lurched toward safety, dragging her body halfway out of the pool. Her legs were leaden. She could not feel her feet. Fighting desperately, she clawed her way to safety. Her teeth chattered, and she tasted blood in her mouth.

But she’d made it. She was alive. Still breathing.

She looked back at the mirrored surface that should have been her tomb. And she saw...herself.

Her body was still in the water. She was floating facedown with her long black hair spread around her head like inky tentacles weighing her down.

How could that be? She looked down at her legs, encased in wet Levi’s. Her numb fingers plucked at her clammy T-shirt and twined in the red scarf that encircled her neck like seaweed.

Her hand rose in front of her eyes and she pointed toward the center of the swimming pool. She was there.

Was she dead?

Her mind went blank. Darkness overwhelmed her.

Chapter One

The June sunlight sparkled on the waters of the marina near Boothbay Harbor. The weather was idyllic, as temperate as it gets on the coast of Maine, and Jason Wakefield Walker turned his face upward to catch the warmth. The sun hovered directly overhead, above the masthead of his twenty-five-foot yacht, Elena. The masthead weather vane indicated a light wind from the north. It was noon. He had been waiting since seven o’clock this morning.

His source had left no communications since yesterday. Therefore he assumed there had been no change in plan. His assignment was to wait, however impatiently, for the arrival of Maria Ramos Hernandez.

He sat in the cockpit of the Elena and stretched his long legs in front of him. The sun’s heat penetrated his khaki slacks and eased the constant ache in his injured left leg. It felt good, but Jason was not yet ready to gracefully accept small pleasures. He’d lost too much. Silently he cursed the fate that had broken his body and reduced him to this position.

He was nothing more than a messenger boy. Waiting and sitting when there was so much more to be done.

“Jason!” His older sister, Alice, called to him as she marched surefooted along the marina walkway and stopped at the Elena‘s slip. Hands on hips, she glared at him. “What are you doing? Just sitting here?”

“Thinking.”

“Wasting your time away,” she accused.

“Not at all,” he said, glancing at his cane. “Moments of quiet contemplation befit a man in my position.”

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Socrates, but there are some of us who still try to get things done.”

Alice was a human whirlwind who was always busy—giving orders, organizing, cleaning and planning. Long ago, Jason had learned that the best method for dealing with this human cyclone was to take cover and wait until she passed.

Rapid-fire, she rattled off a list of very important tasks. “Have you done all that?”

He nodded.

“Oh? Then, I guess the rest is up to me.” Her forehead puckered in a frown. “She’s not here yet, is she?”

“No,” he said simply.

“Where is she?”

“Maria will be here.”

“I simply cannot believe that you gave her such ridiculous directions.” Teasing, she impersonated his low baritone, “`Meet me at the Boothbay Marina, slip eighty-six.’”

He shrugged.

“Why didn’t you meet her at the plane? Or her bus? It’s the least you could do, Jason. After all, she’s coming here all the way from Central America.”

“She didn’t want it that way,” he lied. He had never spoken to Maria. Only to his source.

“I wonder why. Proving her independence?” Alice theorized. “Maybe she needs to show you that she’s capable of getting around by herself. That’s good. That’s the sort of woman you need.”

“Maybe.”

A windy sigh gusted through her lips. “Oh, Jason. I’m still not comfortable with this. I wish you at least loved this woman.”

“We’ll learn to care about each other and take care of each other,” he said. “Isn’t that what marriage is about?”

“But this? A mail-order bride?”

Jason repeated the cover story that he’d told so many times. “I need a woman on Passaquoit Island. Especially now. With my injuries, I need someone around. I don’t have the time or inclination to shop for a wife. That was why I placed all those advertisements in Spanish newspapers. I’m delighted that a suitable woman has responded.”

“You could hire a nurse—”

“I don’t need a nurse.”

“A housekeeper, then. Why marry the woman?” She frowned. “You’re so eligible, Jason. Thirty-five, single, and fairly well-off. You could still be a doctor, you know, if you went back to medical school and finished your internship. It wouldn’t take—”

“Alice, stop.”

“It’s just that I know so many nice ladies that would make marvelous wives.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“A mail-order bride,” she muttered. “I’ve never heard of such a ridiculous, antiquated concept. And where is she? It would serve you right if she didn’t show up. Tomorrow is the wedding, you know.”

“She’ll be here,” he said.

Of that, he was confident. Maria’s life depended upon fulfilling this complex plan.