Switched (12 page)

“I have a friend,” I said.

“The more the merrier.”

He was going at my neck pretty hard and kneading both of my breasts. I felt a bit like bread dough. “You’ll like her better,” I said.

“This I doubt.”

My hand formed a fist. It was déjà vu all over again. I was just about to give him a right hook across his head when someone big plopped on the couch next to me, making my cushion poof and throwing me up in the air a few inches. Bruno stopped what he was doing and straightened his back as if he was caught stealing from the church’s offering plate.

“Hello there, Bruno.” I was shocked to see Doyle sitting next to me on the couch. He had never mentioned he knew the tycoon and certainly not on a first name basis. I righted myself and sat back. I was surprised at how happy I was to see Doyle, especially after we had made a deal to remain benignly indifferent to each other. But not only did he have a whole savior thing going for him, I noticed my butt was humming much more than before, and I didn’t think it was because the captain was revving the engines.

“Commander Wellington,” Bruno said.

“Not quite commander. Chief inspector,” Doyle corrected.

“This is a great honor for me. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Bruno asked.

“I’m with Debra.”

“Who is Debra?”

“You were just fondling her breasts.”

Bruno’s eyes flicked toward me and he smiled. “Ah, yes. The beauty.”

“Yes. The beauty. She’s with me.” I shot Doyle a look but he avoided me, intently staring at Bruno instead.

“Oh, this might be an awkward situation, then. Let us calm things down with a couple Cubans.”

He snapped his fingers again, and a half-naked man appeared with a box of Cuban cigars. Bruno and Doyle lit up, the smell making my stomach pitch and roll. Doyle puffed out smoke. “How’s business, Bruno?”

“I’m not sure it’s wise for me to tell you.”

“Probably not. Bruno runs guns to terrorists,” Doyle explained for my benefit.

“‘Terrorist’ is such a vulgar word,” Bruno said. “Anyway, we’re friends, remember?”

“Bruno helped us with a situation, but he’s not a friend,” Doyle explained to me.

“This is very unfortunate about the beauty,” Bruno said, obviously disappointed. “Perhaps we could make a deal for her? Perhaps you would like to enlarge your café or perhaps retire altogether?”

It was
Let’s Make a Deal,
and I was what’s behind curtain number three. I should have been insulted, but I was fascinated, like I was watching a movie about a billionaire gunrunner and the anti-terrorist cop who was after him. In fact, it was all that, except for the movie part.

Doyle laughed loudly, as if Bruno had said the funniest thing in the world.

“That’s what I thought,” Bruno said. “Oh, well. I cannot have everything I want, but I come very close.” He winked at me and dragged on his cigar.

I swallowed and took a couple deep breaths through my nose. Where was the damned horizon? I didn’t think I could last much longer. The smell of the cigars was putting me over the top.

“Are you all right?” Doyle asked me. “You’re green.”

“Don’t say green. Where’s the horizon?”

“Let’s get you some air.”

“She needs something to eat. A little paté will do the trick,” Bruno insisted.

“Don’t say paté,” I said. “I can’t . . . I’m gonna . . . here it . . . ” I hopped up and spun around. I tried to make it to the door, but I was too late. Nature called. I projectile vomited like I was going for the gold in the projectile vomiting competition at the Olympics. I sprayed my stomach’s contents in a high arc and hit the stuffed peacock right in the eye. The rest of the buffet didn’t fare too well, either.

I started to cry because I had humiliated myself in front of the rich and beautiful people and because I knew I wasn’t finished. My stomach was ready to blow again. If that wasn’t enough, my tears were interacting with the eyelash glue, sealing my eyes shut.

“I can’t see. I’m gonna—” I started.

“I’m here,” Doyle said, putting his hands around the back of my waist. “Come on.”

He guided me out onto the deck. I stumbled barefoot, unable to get my balance with the rocking yacht. Doyle practically carried me. The noise outside was incredible, and the wind was blowing with a vengeance. “Here,” he said, placing my hands on the railing.

I didn’t need any more invitation than that. I was sick again, but this time over the side of the yacht.

After a few minutes, I started crying again. “I don’t want to be sick,” I blubbered. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m dying.”

“I’ll get you home,” Doyle assured me.

He walked me to the back of the yacht, but the boat to return to shore was gone. Ditto the helicopter, and according to the captain, we would be out to sea for another four to six hours.

“I can’t! I can’t!” I cried like a three year old. My eyes were sealed shut, and I thought I was going to throw up again. The feeling was overwhelming. “Shoot me!” I ordered Doyle. “You’re a cop. You must have a gun. Shoot me in the stomach. Make me feel better.”

“I’m English,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“I’m sick! I’m blind! I have no shoes!”

“And your face appears to be melting off,” Doyle added. “You should probably stop crying.”

I felt my face. It was goopy with wet makeup. I started crying again.

“How far are we to shore?” Doyle asked the captain.

***

“Are you crazy?” I yelled into the wind.

“It’s only a mile and a half to shore,” Doyle said.

“A mile and a half!”

“You’ll ride on my back. I’ll do the swimming.”

“No! I’ll drown you!”

“You won’t drown me. I’m a strong swimmer.”

I had thrown up three more times. I had to get off the boat before I died. Doyle had found Maisey and informed her that he was going to swim me home. Nobody else on the yacht seemed at all sick from the rocking. They were drunk and stoned and too busy having sex with strangers to feel any ill effects. I had never felt worse in my life. Never.

“I’m not going to ride on your back, Doyle,” I said, wagging my finger at him.

“I’m over here,” he said. “You’re wagging your finger in the wrong direction. Listen, you’re going to ride on my back, and I’m going to swim you to shore so you can feel better. I’m not going to take orders from a woman whose face is melting off and whose eyelashes have stuck together. You look like two caterpillars have eaten your eyeballs.”

I sniffed. “That was uncalled for. I’m sick.”

“Here we go.”

Before I could fight him off, he had me around the waist, and we were sailing through the air off the side of the yacht. We hit the water in a double belly flop, and the impact thankfully knocked my giant fake eyelashes off my face.

“I can see! I can see!” I said.

My euphoria was short-lived. The yacht was sailing off, and we were left in the middle of the Mediterranean, alone, floating in the dark waves.

“What did you do?” I shouted at Doyle. “This is scary! It’s dark. We’re in the ocean.”

“It’s the sea,” he corrected. “Hop on.”

“I’ll drown you,” I protested.

“I’m getting angry. And I’m English.”

“I have no idea what that means.” I put my hands on his shoulders, and he started swimming for shore with me on his back. I tried not to weigh him down. I kicked with my feet, trying to help him, but I kept getting hit in the mouth by the waves. I gasped and choked.

Doyle stopped swimming. “Will you stop that? Just let me pull you. You’re swallowing so much seawater, you’re going to get sick.” Actually, I realized, I was feeling infinitely better now that I was off the yacht.

“I don’t want to drown you.”

“You’re making it worse. Trust me. I can do this.”

I felt horribly guilty, but I complied and let him take my weight and breaststroke toward shore. It was a dark, moonless night, and the lights of Mallorca were dim and far into the distance. I had never been so far out to sea and never in the dark. It was terrifying.

“What if we get eaten by sharks?” I asked.

“Not a lot of sharks in the Mediterranean.”

“Define
a lot
.”

“I’m almost sure we won’t get eaten by sharks.”

“Define
almost
.”

The water was choppy, and the waves made it hard to swim. It took double the effort in those conditions, but Doyle never slowed. I worried uncharitably that something would happen to him, leaving me alone in the dark water.

“Are you feeling okay?” I asked him.

“It’s easier to swim if I don’t talk.”

“Maybe you should take a break.”

“No need.”

“Don’t drown.”

I held on to his granite shoulders. “You’re really muscular,” I said. “But I never see you work out.”

“I take it easy when I’m in Mallorca.”

I tried to focus on the lights of Mallorca, but I was often drawn to the inky blackness of the sea. It went on forever. Deep, dark, with God knew what underneath.

“I feel better,” I said. “I don’t feel sick anymore.”

“That’s good.”

“What a party. All those rich people and the half-naked waiters? The helicopter pad? It was crazy. And to top it off, the tycoon turned out to be a lecherous gunrunner.” I was hit with a bolt of realization.  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” I shouted into the night.

Doyle stopped swimming and we treaded water, bobbing up and down in the waves. “What? What?” he asked, concerned.

“Bruno the gunrunner,” I said. “His name. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.”

“Can you think of it later? How about when we make it to land?”

“Is Bruno’s last name Perrier?”

“Yes. No relation to the water.”

“Doyle, I found Bruno’s card in Felicity’s wallet,” I said. I expected music to play like in the last scene of a mystery when the culprit is revealed. But there wasn’t any music, and Doyle was unimpressed.

“Come on,” he said, taking my hands and putting them on his shoulders again. He slipped back into a steady stroke toward shore.

“Don’t you see that Bruno’s a suspect?” I asked.

“Bruno’s always a suspect. He’s scum.”

“A suspect in Felicity’s disappearance.”

Doyle didn’t respond, but I didn’t need him to. I knew I was onto something. Perhaps it was living Felicity’s life that had made me so obsessed, but I felt I owed it to her to uncover the truth, find her, and bring whoever was responsible for her disappearance to justice. I didn’t think she was just partying with a viscount somewhere.

We swam in silence the rest of the way. Doyle never slowed, and I did my best to pretend that I wasn’t in the middle of the deep, dark sea because every time reality hit me, I got a big case of the heebie-jeebies.

It was almost a surprise when we neared the shore enough for Doyle to stand. I wrapped my legs around his waist. “I don’t want to stand because I don’t know what’s down there, and it’s freaking me out,” I explained.

There were a few lights still on in the hotels lining the beach, but it was late and Mallorca was quiet. Doyle recognized where we had landed.

“We made it to Cala Ratjada,” he said. “That’s good. We can sleep on the beach for a couple of hours until sunrise.”

He dragged me to the empty beach, and we lay down with my head on his chest and his arm wrapped around me. His breathing slowed. The night was hot and humid, and I was warm even though I was wet.

“That was very nice of you, swimming me back like that.”

“It was nothing,” he murmured. He was already half asleep. I couldn’t blame him. He had just completed a Herculean task.

“You’re kind of chivalrous,” I continued. “You saved me.”

Doyle opened one eye and turned toward me. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. You were very heroic. Not that I need to be saved. I’m not a helpless female, you know.”

“Of course you’re not.” He pulled me closer so that I was almost lying on top of him. He touched my cheek. “Your face is back,” he noted.

“That’s good.”

“Uh-huh. I like your face.” His fingers trailed a path to the back of my head. “Your hair is still red. That was some temporary dye you used.”

“That’s good,” I said. I didn’t know what I was saying. He had gotten me so hot, steam was bouncing off me and my clothes had dried, which was odd because my insides had turned to liquid. “You look good in the dark. Big with muscles.”

“I’m not going to ask you if you’ve ever had sex on the beach,” he said.

“I haven’t, but I bet you could teach me how.”

I don’t know how sex on the beach is for other people, but for me on the quiet, deserted beach in Mallorca in the middle of the night under a moonless sky with a warm wind blowing, in the arms of a beautiful man who had just gone above and beyond the call of duty to save me, it was bliss.

Sure, there was the sand to contain with, but Doyle was gentle, making love with a new tenderness. If his swimming me through the sea to safety was the entrée, making love was the dessert. He kissed and caressed every inch of me and cradled my body like I was the most valuable thing in the world and he didn’t want to break me.

It had been a crappy night, but the morning was turning out nicely. We had slept in each other’s arms for two hours until the sun came up. Through an evening of adventure and lovemaking, we had settled into a relationship. We had become a couple.

Doyle helped me up and dusted me off. He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and stared into my eyes. I could tell that he had made a decision about me, just like the moment when you settle on steak over fish at a restaurant. There was ownership there, too. I recognized it in his serious expression, the way he took my hand as if it was an extension of his.

It was a pleasant feeling, being someone’s, being cared for. But a warning light went off in my head. I had a history of throwing everything away to keep that pleasant feeling. I had thrown away my career for Jackson.  And that throwing away ended in disaster. It was dangerous being someone’s.

We walked hand in hand to a nearby restaurant. Doyle knew the owner, and he allowed him to use the phone.