Lovers In Hiding

The blue sedan stayed afloat better than Melinda Murphy’s car, and its occupants were trying to climb out onto the roof of their vehicle.

Clay cursed the powerful waves and the fate that had led him here. Doing too little. Too late.

His body wasn’t made for swimming. He didn’t have the lean lines of a swimmer. Built like a wrestler with too many heavy muscles that didn’t want to float, he struggled, took in a mouthful of water. He choked, but kept going.

He had to reach her. Minutes counted. Seconds counted.

Finally he stroked alongside her car. Stretching his hand through the open window, he yanked open the door, reached inside and grabbed her. She wouldn’t come free.

Damn it.

She must be wearing a seat belt.

Taking a quick breath, he prepared to dive under, but a surging wave lifted the car, for a few moments helping instead of hampering his rescue efforts. He reached past the airbag, unsnapped her seat belt and pulled her into his arms.

She didn’t fight him. Didn’t move. Remained completely limp.

Please don’t be dead.

Eyes closed, unmoving, she floated in his arms like a mermaid that the sea had given up to him. Her color was pale, almost gray as death, but he didn’t have time for CPR or mouth-to-mouth. Even the Heimlich maneuver was impossible in the high surf. First, he had to swim her to shore.

Although she didn’t weigh much, the waves caught at her body, trying to tug her from him. Yet this time the wind and the rolling surges pushed them in the direction in which he wanted to go.

His lungs burned with effort as he struggled to carry her. Ignoring the pain in his chest and the cramps in his straining legs, he battled the surging waves, unable to use his hands to swim while he held her, trying to keep her head above water. He fought his way back and finally his feet touched sand. But he didn’t have time to feel relief.

Didn’t have time to consider how long it would take the men in the blue sedan to give up their fragile perch on the car’s roof and make a swim for the beach. Didn’t have time to consider how long it would take them to be within shooting range.

On the beach, he collapsed to his knees beside Melinda and leaned over to examine her. He had no idea whether she had a pulse, doubted he could find it with his wet and cold fingers. One quick glance at her gray skin told him she wasn’t breathing. How long had it been? Two minutes? Three? Four and she’d suffer brain damage.

Brain damage. The ugly words cut like a razor, sharp and painful. Tilting her head back, he cleared an airway, pinched her nostrils shut. Then he placed his mouth over hers and breathed.

“Come on, Melinda.” He spoke to her, each time blowing more air into her mouth.

“Breathe.”

“Breathe.”

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the men in suits start their swim to shore, like sharks scenting prey. They’d drifted way out, giving him extra minutes to ensure her safety, which would do him no good if she didn’t regain consciousness.

“Damn it. I told you to breathe.”

Her eyelids fluttered. Maybe she responded to the urgency in his tone. Maybe her lungs needed time to fill with air, but whatever the reason, he couldn’t have been more relieved when she coughed. He turned her head to help her to spit out water. Even a teaspoonful in the lungs was enough to drown a person.

Her trembling hand rose to her head and she mumbled, “Hurts.”

Her eyes opened, and her pupils were very large, surrounded by the creamiest hue of caramel he’d ever seen. Dark hair covered her forehead, and when he smoothed back the wet strands, he discovered a lump the size of a golf ball there. Just looking at the knot starting to discolor made him wince. She needed ice to keep the swelling down. Unfortunately, he had none.

He held up two fingers. “How many?”

“Four?”

“Great, you’re seeing double.”

“That’s why there’s two of you,” she muttered then closed her eyes.

“Oh no you don’t. Melinda, you can’t go to sleep. You have a head injury. Maybe a concussion.”

“Hurts.”

Helpless, she lay in his arms, but at least her deadly gray pallor had been replaced by a much more healthy-looking olive tone. “You need a doctor.”

“I need—” Her eyes suddenly opened again, and she bolted into a sitting position, wincing at the pain the effort cost her. “Who are you?”

She sounded as suspicious as an operative on his first assignment, and he almost smiled. He supposed many women might be frightened by his appearance, black leather pants and a black T-shirt—all sopping wet. His size alone could intimidate most men, and he hadn’t bothered shaving this morning, so his jaw sported more than a five-o’clock shadow. For her to wake up in the arms of a stranger had to be unnerving, especially one as scruffy-looking as he probably was.

Of course, she wasn’t exactly ready for a beauty pageant either—not with that bump on her head that was starting to turn a wicked shade of purple. But with her tight tank top plastered to her breasts and short shorts that outlined her hips, she appeared to be a prime candidate for a wet T-shirt competition.

Thank God, a man like him would never be attracted to his charge. He didn’t go for petite, curvy brunettes with eyes like melted taffy. He preferred his women cool, blond and intellectual. Melinda Murphy, with her delicate jaw and suspicious glare looked precisely like the type of woman who was trouble with a capital T.

She’d nearly died, he reminded himself, and she wasn’t out of danger yet. Luckily the escalating wind and rising current were on their side, hindering her pursuers’ progress back to shore. Within moments, they would be swept around the point.

He didn’t want to scare her by mentioning the men after her, not while her hands trembled and her eyes reflected confusion. “I’m Clay Rogan.” He pointed to the choppy sea, noting that the blue sedan and the swimming men were now totally out of view and around the bend. “When I saw your car go under—”

Bewilderment filled her eyes, and she frowned, her full lips forming a lusty pout full of suspicion. “My car? Underwater?”

“I’m lucky I got you out. I’m afraid I couldn’t do much about the—”

Her head jerked back and forth in denial, her eyes wildly searched the churning waves as if she’d lost a dear friend. “I don’t suppose you nabbed my purse?”

“Sorry.”

Her bottom lip quivered. Oh, hell, she was going to cry.

“Don’t cry.”

He hated when women cried, because then he gave in to their demands and hated himself for it later. Only, this half-drowned mermaid wasn’t making demands. Yet she was so suspicious of him that he didn’t know whether to feel sorry for her.

Her eyes brimmed.

“Don’t,” he repeated softly but firmly, as he would to an injured child.

She paid absolutely no attention to his demand. Tears overflowed her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

He bit back a curse and gently lifted her into his lap, cradling her against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. Her entire body shook, a sob escaped and instead of offering her additional reassurances, his first thought was how holding her in his arms made him feel like keeping her there for a long time. She had a toned body, teasing curves and a bottom lip he wanted to taste.

What the hell was wrong with him? The woman was crying and all he could think about was her bottom lip? Forcing his thoughts back to practical matters wasn’t easy, although usually his focused mind stayed on the subjects he intended it to. But her combination of strength and defenselessness called to him on a level he couldn’t quite comprehend. He only knew he had to regain control of himself, before he did something stupid—like kiss her.

“Are you in pain? You need a doctor?”