Safe Passage

And another.

And she didn’t stop until she was waist deep. Scott watched as she dived, sleek, into the steel-gray water. He held his breath as the calm ocean swallowed her, leaving nothing but ripples where she’d last stood.

Then he saw her head come up yards away. She struck out with a strong, smooth crawl. And she was going.

Going.

Straight out to sea…

Scott came to his senses in that instant.

The woman was suicidal.

She had no intention of coming back.

He started to run down to the water, buckled in pain. He turned back, hobbled to the truck, grabbed his cane. He might not be able to run with his crippled leg, but by God, he could swim. He knew once he hit the water he’d get to her in no time.

But when he looked again, he saw her dark head over the gentle swells. And he saw that she had turned and was swimming back to shore.

The relief was overwhelming. He stopped, held back, retreated to his earlier vantage point under cover of the orange-skinned arbutus, heart beating wildly.

He gave her the space she seemed to need. But still he watched. He could leave. But he told himself it was for her own safety.

He told himself this was his assignment.

These were his orders.

To watch the doctor.

But never, not once in the course of his undercover work, had he ever felt so much like a voyeur. He was looking into some very naked, private and anguished moment in this exquisitely beautiful woman’s life. He felt both privileged and dirty. As foul and titillated as a damn Peeping Tom.

He wiped the back of his hand hard across his mouth, realized his heart was still hammering in his chest. He sucked down a deep breath of salted sea air, strained for calm. She was emerging from the water, a spectral vision in the dusk. He could see now how her bra was cut low against the firm swell of her breasts. Water shimmered down her flat belly. The garter was gone. Left to the sea. Her hair was slick as a seal’s. She ran her hands up over her face and over her head. Her chin was held high and she was breathing the night air in deep. He could see her chest rise and fall from the exertion of her swim, her ride…whatever had made her flee.

She sat on the rock, upon the remains of her wedding gown, facing the ocean, her back to him.

She sat like that for a long time, until it got dark. There was pale light from a fat gibbous moon. It shimmered like silver sovereigns scattered in a path over the bay. Scott could see Skye’s silhouette against the water. Honey made a plaintive little noise at his side. It was getting cold. Still the doctor sat, damp, on her rock, wearing nothing but her underwear.

Scott crouched next to Honey, spoke softly in her ear. “Wait for me in the truck, pooch. I think the lady out there needs some help.” Either that or she was going to get pneumonia.

Scott let Honey back into the truck, grabbed his old brown leather jacket, made his way slowly over the sand of the cove. She didn’t seem to hear him approach. She was shivering, holding her hands tight over her knees.

“Skye,” he whispered behind her. A jolt cracked through her body at the sound of her name. But she didn’t move otherwise.

“It’s okay, Skye.” He carefully positioned his jacket over her shoulders, lifting her wet hair away from her back. A small noise escaped from somewhere deep in her throat at his touch. It was so primal, so basic a sound of need, it sliced clean through to his core.

“Skye, I’m going to take you home. You need to get dry. Warm.”

She turned then to face him.

He sucked in his breath.

Her face was pale as porcelain in the moonlight. Her eyes dark and big. Mascara traced sooty trails of tears and saltwaterdown her cheeks.

She looked like a broken doll.

“Oh, Skye…” He didn’t plan it, just did it. Gathered her into his arms. It was the right thing to do. The only thing. And he held her like that, under the moon, wondering what in hell he’d gotten himself into.

“Skye, I’d carry you if I could, but I can’t, with this bloody leg. Lean on me and I’ll lean on my crutch and we’ll both get there. Together.”

She did as he asked. In silence.

Honey’s face was eager in the truck as she saw them approach. Scott helped Skye into the passenger seat. She climbed in, grasped on to Honey as if for warmth, for tactile comfort.

“Is that your bike?”

She shook her head.

“Okay. So we’ll leave it here. Is there someone I can call to come and fetch it?”

She nodded.

“Fine. I’ll call whoever it is when we get home.”

Scott pulled into Skye’s driveway, heater still cranked.

“No!”

It was the first time she’d spoken since the beach.

“Not here. Not my house…please.”

He looked at her. She was still shivering under his leather jacket, arms still wrapped around Honey. “Where?”

“Anywhere but here.” She looked away, out the dark window. “The wedding stuff. The caterer’s stuff…it’s all in there. In my house.”

“I see. Is there anywhere else, anyone you want to stay with?”

She shook her head.

Scott backed slowly out of Skye’s driveway, turned down his. He couldn’t think of another plan. The woman was in shock. And if she didn’t get some clothes on, her core temperature up soon, she’d be dealing with hypothermia, as well. If she wasn’t already.

Scott ran a hot bath, then fished around in his closet for something for her to wear. It all looked foreign to him. Rex had provided him with a “writer’s” wardrobe. Scott found a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt and a fleece sweatshirt. She would swim in them, but they’d keep her warm.

While she bathed, he built a fire. He heated soup and poured a large brandy. This he pushed into her hands when she walked into his living room.

“Here. Want some soup?”

She looked deep into his eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. “Scott, thank you. I—I don’t know what to say…”