Windswept (4 page)

Already into the red.

If she waited any longer, she’d drown. If she hurried up, she’d be torn asunder from the inside out.

Something in her snapped and she started kicking upward. Drowning was a given if she stayed down, but she might have a tiny chance of survival if the dive team got her to a decompression chamber on time. If the dive team noticed her at all. If her body could somehow hold out. If…

She kicked upward, but her fin caught on something. She glanced down and nearly spit out her regulator. The crazed diver was back, and he was pulling her down. He took firm hold of her fin and yanked. She could already picture the knife in his other hand. He’d slash and stab and leave a trail of blood to join the last bubbles trickling out of her tank. Even if that didn’t kill her, the sharks would be on her in an instant and—

The man jerked her foot so hard, her fin nearly came off. She kicked back in self-defense, launching all kinds of crazy plans. Maybe she could knock his regulator out of his mouth and take it for herself. Maybe she could—

He pulled harder, and nothing she tried worked against that brute strength. The man was forcing her down, working his way up her body until they were nearly mask-to-mask.

She sucked in a lungful of air, ready to kick him hard, but there was no air. Her lungs grabbed at nothingness. The tank was empty. Her air was out. Worse, his hands clamped over her wrists and locked them together.

He really was crazy. He really did want to kill her.

She flexed her knee to slam him in the balls, but her legs were tangled with his and it didn’t work. She glared because that was all she had left. Glaring, then dying. Would he watch as she gulped water and slowly drowned? Would he push her away like a flopping fish? Would that evil face—

He shook her a little, and she blinked.

It wasn’t the man who’d attacked her. The man locking both her hands in one of his wore a black wetsuit, not a blue one like the man with the knife. He was bigger. Stronger.

Familiar.

She blinked again. His eyes were deep. Intense. Worried.

Green eyes….not her attacker.

Ryan.

If she’d had any air left, she would have cried.

Ryan pulled his regulator out and guided it toward Mia’s mouth, telling himself it would be all right. Just like he’d told himself on the long flight from New York to Bonaire and during the interminable hours going from dive shop to dive shop to track her down. Somehow, it would be all right. She’d listen and forgive him and everything would be all right.

But fuck, who was he trying to kid? They were one hundred and thirty feet down with less than half a tank of air between the two of them.

Damned if he knew how that happened, other than he’d turned from Stanley to see Mia sprinting off after another diver. A diver who’d attacked her when she got close. Every instinct screamed for him to go after the man and exact his revenge, but that would mean leaving Mia, and he couldn’t do that.

Calm down,
he willed her to understand.
Breathe easy.

Her eyes were jumping all over the place, but at least she’d quit trying to claw her way to the surface. That would be certain death, and both of them knew it.

Eye contact. That was the key. He had to keep her focus on him and not on the odds, which were pretty fucking slim.

So he channeled all kinds of calm juju her way and hoped she’d gotten enough air, because he sure as hell would need his regulator back pretty soon.

He ran his hands over her gear and traced her spare hose down to the slashed-off end.

Jesus.

He stuck the end in his mouth and caught the last little trickle of bubbles because, who knew? That might just make the difference in the end. When that tapered off, he concentrated on her eyes and on letting an even trail of bubbles out of his mouth. That was the first thing he’d learned in his first dive course with the Navy all those years ago: no holding your breath when using compressed air. It was either breathing in or breathing out. In or out. And right now, with Mia sucking on his air like a shisha pipe, his only choice was out.

She clamped two hands over his regulator and sucked like she was never letting go, but gradually, her eyes zoomed in on his and her breathing slowed.

He cursed himself for bringing his old gear to Bonaire — the outdated set with a single regulator and no second breather unit — but it was all he had, and it wasn’t like he could bring along one of the NYPD sets for this trip.

Feeling his way along his hip, he pulled his air gauge into view.

Shit.

Even if he had two regulators, the air supply would be awfully tight. Too tight, and Mia was gulping it like a fish.

He made little up and down motions.
Slow down. Slow down
. Then he flicked his fingers toward his face. If he didn’t get any air soon, she’d be the one dragging his body to shore.

She took a last drag of air and pushed the regulator at him, and though he’d told himself he wouldn’t be greedy, it was so sweet, so clear, he couldn’t help it. A breath, two breaths, and he passed it back to Mia.

She stuck her thumb up and he nodded. Just like it had always been with them: perfect communication from the first minute they’d met in that pool in New York. Well, perfect communication on some issues. On others… Well, not so good, as it turned out.

Focus, Hayes. Focus.

He fluttered his fins twice and let his body rise, trying to conserve energy. Every kick meant more oxygen used, and they couldn’t afford that. He kept a firm grip on the shoulder straps of Mia’s vest, too, keeping eye contact. That was the easy part, because her sky blue eyes were like the ocean. He could look and look and never get tired of searching those depths.

If they did survive this — no,
when
they survived this, he decided, because he had to believe — he’d find that maniac diver and rip him limb from limb just so he could piece the guy together and do it all over again.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, hand over. They had a pattern going now, and Mia’s breaths were more controlled. Jesus, the woman was tough. Navy-SEAL tough, and he ought to know. She shot him a little smile when she handed back the regulator, and even if it was forced, it gave him hope. Mia, smiling for him. Maybe if they made it out of this alive, she’d hear him out.

But he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Right now was about getting her out of this alive.

Everything ticked over in slow motion, even though it was life or death. It was always like that, in the thousands of training exercises and the couple of real-life close calls that he’d always, always aced. Except there never seemed to be as much on the line as right now.

The water muffled all sound and movement. There was nothing but the trail of bubbles, shooting to the surface the way he wished he could. His universe became Mia’s face and the air and depth gauges that showed numbers he really didn’t want to see but had to face up to if they were going to get out of this alive.

One hundred feet, and running out of air fast.

Eighty. He held her eyes, willing her to ascend slowly.

Sixty. The sunlight grew brighter, teasing and tempting them both.

He tightened his grip on Mia’s vest, making sure she ascended slowly past the fifty- and thirty-foot marks.

When they came up on twenty feet, he tugged on her vest. Now came the tricky part: stopping to decompress when the surface seemed so unbearably close. He raised a hand in a stop sign and pointed to his watch.

Her eyes flicked there then back to his face, and her brow tightened.

Yeah, he knew just what she was thinking. They didn’t have enough air for a proper ascent with carefully timed decompression stops. Four minutes at twenty feet was what his dive computer was showing as the minimum.

Mia pulled his air gauge over and held up two fingers.

He shook his head and held up four. Two wouldn’t do it.

Stubborn as ever, she held up three.

He shook his head again. Four. He’d never ordered her to do anything, but damn it, this wasn’t negotiable.

She pointed at the air gauge.
We don’t have enough.

He made little patting motions in the water.
So we’ll have to slow our breathing down.

Her face twisted toward the surface, and he knew just what she was thinking. On a normal dive, either of them could ascend that little bit without any trouble. But they were coming from deep, deep down, and the tiny bubbles in their blood needed a chance to dissipate. Otherwise—

There was no otherwise. There was only death.

He cupped her cheek and brought her eyes back to his. Couldn’t help stroking a thumb across her cheek.

Not there. Look here. Look at me.

If she looked at the surface, she might bolt for it, and he couldn’t let that happen. They had to take this one step at a time.

Her chest rose, then fell, and she closed her eyes. Took a smaller puff of air this time and handed the regulator back.

He nodded. Small, controlled breaths. If anyone could do it, it was Mia. He pictured her swimming laps in the pool where they’d met. Mia with her perfect breath control and perfect strokes. Perfect everything, like the way she’d carve a flip turn then whiz past him like he was a rookie and not the best swimmer in his squad.

She had a perfect smile, too, and it always felt like she had a deluxe version of it just for him.

At least, that’s the way it used to be.

A whole school of barracuda flitted past, all silvery scales and pointed teeth. There’d been a rainbow of fish around the wreck, too, and you’d think that after two years of diving in New York Harbor, he’d have been entranced. Diving in New York was like submerging yourself in pea soup that had gone sour; here, it was like looking out from a mountaintop on a very clear day. But all he’d had eyes for was Mia. With her hair floating around her head, she looked like a mermaid, and the wavering beams of light cutting through the water all seemed to focus on her. Mia with her determined eyes and taut arms and silky touch. God, she was something.

Focus, damn it!

He glanced at his watch. Three minutes forty seconds down. Three minutes fifty seconds. Three minutes fifty-five. He nodded, and she nodded back. Time to continue the ascent. Slowly, carefully. Or as slowly and carefully as the ticking clock allowed.

Ten feet. Baby depth, really, but not today. His dive computer blinked, signaling a six-minute stop.

Six minutes. An eternity. Especially with the air gauge dipping closer and closer to empty.

Mia had her hands clamped around his vest now, too, and they waited out another interminable stop as close as a couple of intertwined eels. The front of her vest bumped his, and some base part of his mind wished for the alternative: skin to skin, like all the times they’d lain clasped tight in her bed, coming down from another high. Which was probably an inappropriate image, but if he did die, he’d go thinking thoughts like that, because that was a hell of a lot better than imagining bubbles expanding in his bloodstream and killing him from the inside out.

The surface was so close, but he didn’t dare look up. Didn’t want to check the air gauge, either, but he had to.

Mia must have read it in his face, because she pulled the gauge over and immediately paled. Yeah, it was going to be tight.

He tried doing the calculations. Even with a mind that was a little foggy from lack of air, he knew it was better to wait out the full decompression stop than to rush. Worst case, they could shoot to the surface after the stop…

No, he realized. Worst case, they’d be dead.

No, absolutely worst case, he would live, and Mia would die.

He made his next intake a shorter one and passed the regulator back to her. Whatever calming effect his gaze had on her, she was doing the same for him.

We’ll make it through this,
her look said.
We’ll be okay.

He risked a slightly deeper breath and nodded.
Okay.

With every endless second of that decompression stop, the urge to kick to the surface grew, until wrestling that temptation became the fight of his life. If he hadn’t been with Mia, he might have even taken the risk and given in to the instinct to rise. But instincts couldn’t be trusted, not when it came to diving with compressed air. His Navy days had taught him that, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to unlearn it now. Everything came down to calculations and self-control.

Four minutes into the decompression stop, two to go. Air in the red zone. Death hanging over his shoulder, leaning in with a greedy grin.

He inhaled, passed the regulator to Mia, and watched her suck air in, all nice and calm — until her eyes went wide and her hands fluttered. She made chopping motions across her throat and jabbed her thumbs up.

Out of air! Out of air!

If it hadn’t been for Ryan’s insistent grip on her vest, Mia would have shot straight to the surface. But with his hands on her and his eyes, too — calm, bottomless eyes that promised everything would be okay — she kept her last shred of control and ascended slowly.

He flickered his fingers in front of his mouth.
Exhale.

Right. Exhale, with the lungful of air she never got. She forced a weak trail of bubbles from her lips as she let her body rise, waiting for a ripping feeling to set in as the air in her veins expanded and tore her insides apart.

But there was no tearing, only a burning pain from lungs desperate for air.

Exhale, damn it!

She squeezed another couple of bubbles out of her lungs. Watched the sun grow brighter, the surface nearer. Her lungs screamed for her to open her mouth, but she fought the urge back. That second decompression stop had been too short. Much too short. Somehow, she had to drag this all out.

Almost there…

Ryan’s grip tightened on her vest.
Not too fast.

It was a little like swimming laps next to him, when her body would beg for a break while her pride had her digging for just a little more speed, a little more glide. A little more air.