Adrift Read online

  Tuss’ kiss gave as much as it took. It lit a spark at the end of a fuse she didn’t know she had. She was the one who’d pressed closer, and before she knew it, they were lying in the sand, sweaty and naked and gloriously close.

  “You sure?” Tuss had asked, all gentleman.

  His eyes flashed with a hunger that was all pirate, though, and she’d guided his hands right back to her body.

  “I’m sure,” she answered and backed it up with another kiss.

  It had been one of those rare moments when she’d been absolutely, positively sure of herself. Moments which evaded her except when she was in doctor mode, when she knew just how capable she was. Outside of work, she always struggled to trust herself.

  But not around Tuss, and certainly not that night.

  Bliss. Pure bliss. Every time she tipped her head up to the stars and remembered that tropical night, she smiled.

  But every time she dragged her thoughts back to Marco, guilt crept back in. She’d promised her first love she would be true to him forever. So what was she doing, lusting after another man?

  “Living. Loving. Enjoying yourself for a change,” her sister had declared back in Bonaire. “It’s about time you got over Marco.”

  She was over Marco. She just wasn’t sure how to start all over again.

  “Marco was a selfish bastard,” Mia had added, misinterpreting her silence.

  “Marco was sick,” she’d cried — defending Marco, as always. “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t your fault,” Mia shot back.

  No, his suicide wasn’t her fault. But it had taken her years to understand that.

  “You weren’t even there,” Mia said.

  That’s what had haunted her for so long. She hadn’t been there when Marco needed her most. She’d gone off to college while he stayed in their hometown, and though she’d visited every time he called to say how much he needed her, she had exams to study for that week. Exams, like they were more important than him.

  “You were nineteen, Mer,” Mia said.

  Yes, she was. Too young to shoulder that much guilt. Naïve enough to believe she should have seen it coming and prevented it in some way. Marco’s depression was an illness with no easy cure. She knew that now. But it had been a long, lonely road to that realization, and she still had some healing to do.

  She took a deep breath and looked out over the anchorage. The conversation with Mia had taken place back in Bonaire, though it echoed conversations she’d had with friends and family for the past twelve years.

  They were right. It was time to move on. And she’d been trying. Not really succeeding, until she met Tuss.

  Tuss, who she assumed was just a fling. The kind she’d fallen into occasionally when her body itched for intimacy and love. Not that her flings had ever delivered either—

  Except with Tuss, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind.

  She pushed that impossible thought aside. Surely she couldn’t trust her feelings with the first man she’d truly opened up to since Marco. True love wasn’t something you found in a sailor’s hangout on a hot Caribbean night. True love was something you eased into over time, right?

  True love can spring up pretty damn quickly, if everything aligns just right, the little voice replied. Look at Mia and Ryan.

  That made her pause, but only for a second. Mia was athletic and smart and pretty. Perfect, in nearly every way.

  Meredith, on the other hand, wasn’t perfect. She was just…her. And yes, she was only starting to shed the massive chip on her shoulder from having her childhood sweetheart kill himself. So it was just as well that she’d bid Tuss farewell a few weeks ago. Clearly, it wasn’t meant to be.

  You sure about that? the little voice asked.

  And damn, there it was again — the image of Tuss in the marketplace, shocked to see her again. Shock had turned to wide-eyed wonder, and wonder had turned to delight. Real delight, because eyes didn’t dance like that unless the soul told them to. And when he’d hugged her, everything vanished for a moment — the noise, the upturned market stalls, the cry of the departing ambulance’s horn. His arms formed a protective wall around her, and it had felt so right to hide away in there.

  She sat in Serendipity’s cockpit, sloshing water around the pail between her feet then squeezing out the laundry she’d been mulling over for far too long. Enough daydreaming. She had a boat to take care of, plans to make. The minute the wind changed, she’d be off on a whole new adventure with Serendipity.

  An adventure that scared the crap out of her, because sailing alone was completely different from sailing with her sister or granddad or cousins.

  She splashed some water on her face and threw back her shoulders. There was a small group of islands off the northeast corner of Grenada that sounded like just the right place to leave her worries behind. She’d have weighed anchor days ago if it weren’t for strong northeasterly winds that kept Serendipity at anchor in the snug confines of Prickly Bay.

  Just when she started wringing out a shirt, her cell phone rang, and she hurried into the cabin, then dashed back to the cockpit where reception was better. Maybe it was her mother calling from New Hampshire. Or maybe her sister, settling into a new life in New York.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Whitman? Or should I say, Dr. Whitman?” an accented voice asked.

  Not a lilting, Caribbean accent. A heavy, Eastern European one.

  She clamped the phone between her shoulder and chin to finish wringing out her clothes. Hand-washing laundry was one of the few downsides of living on a small sailboat. The upside? Quick drying time and a fresh scent, thanks to the tropical sun.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Mr. Alexei Andreiivich would like to thank you personally for saving his life. He asks for the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight.”

  She blinked a couple of times, tongue-tied. The Russian billionaire she’d saved was inviting her to dinner?

  Wait. What if he really was a crime boss of some kind?

  Suddenly she wished she’d paid more attention to the gossip of the past week, though none of it had seemed relevant at the time. She had a boat to sail. Islands to visit. Adventures to live. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Chiseled to try to erase from her mind.

  Which meant she’d spent the past days scrubbing the decks, varnishing the handrails, and researching destinations in her spare time, not speculating about Russian billionaires.

  “Dinner? Tonight?”

  “Tonight. Mr. Andreiivich will send a car.”

  “But…but…”

  A nagging voice warned her to say no, but another part of her clung to the idea. She’d seen dozens of fancy megayachts from the outside but had never been on one. When would she have another chance?

  She glanced at the tiny galley inside Serendipity’s cabin. If the forecast was right, the wind would turn soon, and she would set off on her very first solo sailing trip. She’d had plenty of lonely dinners over the past week and had plenty more to come. So she’d be stupid to say no to dinner on a fancy yacht, right?

  “Mr. Andreiivich would be very disappointed if you couldn’t come.” The man’s tone gave the distinct impression his boss didn’t tolerate disappointment often.

  Mia’s voice echoed in her mind. Live a little, Mer.

  “Well…” Meredith sputtered, checking the clock inside the cabin. Her eye stopped on the calendar beside it, and her breath caught. It was the eve of the sixteenth — the anniversary of the worst day of her life, when Marco’s mother had called to share the terrible news.

  Meredith closed her eyes as a seagull cried its mournful song nearby. This year, she was determined not to spend the sixteenth in a moody funk. Dinner out was just the distraction she needed.

  She looked at her laundry pail. Billionaires sure as hell didn’t do their laundry by hand. A little time peeking into a glamorous lifestyle would be just the thing to take her mind off Tuss.

  Er, Marco. She meant get her mind off Marco, right?

  “That would be very nice,” she said.

  A moment later, everything was arranged, and when she hung up the phone, she stared at it for a while. Had she just said yes?

  Wow, she really had.

  Then it occurred to her. How had the Russian tracked her down?

  Well, Russian billionaires probably had the means to track just about anything down. The police had taken her number, so it couldn’t have been that hard.

  She ran a hand over her hair, then stood quickly. God, she’d better get moving. She was a mess.

  Two hours later, she locked the cabin and set off in the dinghy, making a few quick stops on her way to shore. The crew of the pretty little ketch named Seashine had asked to borrow a wrench, and she had to check Wind Magic, whose owners had flown to the States for a month. Finally, she detoured around Nemo, the luxury cruiser whose crew left the dive compressor roaring away every evening, then steered the dinghy toward the dock and cut the engine to glide in.

  A gleaming Mercedes stood beside two battered minivans at the side of the road, shining like a diamond amid dull stones. Meredith locked her dinghy, grabbed her shoes, and smoothed her dress as she walked self-consciously up the ramp marked by two signs: No Dumping and Keep Grenada Clean.

  “Doctor Whitman.” The man waiting for her at the dock gave a little bow. He wore a white polo shirt above navy slacks, and something about the outfit struck her as being familiar.

  “Hello.” Meredith fiddled with her backpack. Doctor sounded so formal after weeks among barefoot sailors who rarely asked about professions. And if doctor felt formal, bowing was superformal. And her dress was so plain. Who was she kidding, heading to dinner on a fancy yacht tonight?

  A secon
d man appeared from the far side of the car, holding a cigarette smoked nearly to the nub. He took a last drag, making the tip flare red, then dropped it and ground it into the dirt with his heel.

  So much for keeping Grenada clean.

  “Popov. Yuri Popov,” the man said, studying her. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. His face was scarred, his nose crooked. The suit he wore was as out of place in the tropical surroundings as the vehicle. “Is that your yacht?”

  He pointed to Wind Magic, and she made a noncommittal sound. In her eyes, Serendipity was the prettiest boat in the anchorage, but her sturdy little sloop was hidden behind the bigger, fancier yacht, so she let it go.

  “Ready?” It was more order than question.

  She nodded and slid into the car. The door thumped closed behind her, a strangely foreboding sound.

  “Where are we going?” she ventured once they drove off.

  “Mr. Andreiivich’s yacht is in at the marina at the Lagoon.”

  She gave a tight nod. The Lagoon was part of St. George’s harbor, which meant she would cover the same route she had the day of the shooting, though it felt entirely different this time. There was no reggae music blasting over speakers. No sea breeze wafting in, either, because the tinted windows were all closed and the air conditioning on. The kids at the roadside didn’t wave or smile today. They watched the vehicle pass with silent suspicion in their eyes.

  Meredith squirmed on her leather seat. Maybe she’d catch a taxivan back.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Mercedes stopped beside a motoryacht so big, so fancy, so polished, she’d have thought it was owned by a sheik. A movie star.

  Or a rich mafioso, the skeptic in her said.

  “This way, please.”

  She exhaled a little. Wrong boat. Popov was waving her toward the end of the dock, where a small launch waited.

  “There she is.” Popov waved out to the bay. “Tsareva, Mr. Andreiivich’s yacht.”

  Meredith stopped dead in her tracks. Tsareva was even bigger than the boat at the dock. It had four decks and a helicopter on top. Jesus, it was so big, it probably didn’t even fit on the dock. It was moored between two giant pilings used by cruise ships.

  “Holy shit,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?” Popov asked.

  “Nice ship,” she covered up quickly, resuming what she hoped was a nonchalant stride.

  The launch used to shuttle passengers to the megayacht was big enough to carry a dozen guests. It had a rack for scuba cylinders built into the side — if only her sister Mia could see that — and a crew of two. Two crew, just for the launch! How many more worked on the yacht?

  One of the crew stood at the wheel, wearing a white polo shirt and pressed navy shorts, just like the second one, who whisked a cloth over the seats before turning and offering her a hand.

  Meredith stopped in her tracks. Tuss?

  He jerked upright, staring at her, equally tongue-tied.

  Meredith? his deep blue eyes asked.

  She hadn’t seen him since the shooting. He’d disappeared right after things calmed down, and she’d been busy…well, trying not to think about him. Because flings were meant to be enjoyed, then forgotten, right?

  “Hmt-hmm.” Popov cleared his throat behind her.

  Tuss’ eyes flashed, but a second later, he went back to a perfectly neutral expression as if they’d never met. A cue for her to do the same?

  “Shall I help you on board?” Popov asked. Demanded, almost.

  She took Tuss’ outstretched hand instead of Popov’s and stepped over the gap. When their hands met, little lightning bolts zigzagged through her veins.

  Okay, so maybe he was more than a crush. Maybe he was more than a fling.

  She found herself not just holding Tuss’ hand politely but lacing her fingers through his. Their bodies brushed, and a thousand midnight fantasies ran through her mind. Her pulse skipped then settled into a faster beat.

  The hard set of Tuss’ jaw signaled caution, so she only murmured a quick thank you before pulling away reluctantly. She took a seat facing forward as he bustled around the launch, mute.

  Tuss worked on Andreiivich’s yacht?

  When she’d first met Tuss, he’d been crewing for a Danish sailboat. And hell, he’d looked a lot more relaxed back then. Now, he seemed tense, anxious. But he had said he wanted to experience the Caribbean from as many angles as possible, so perhaps that’s why he’d signed on with the megayacht.

  I want to see as much of the Caribbean as I can in the next four months, he’d said that night on the beach where they’d met. I have a job lined up for next fall, working for an organization that specializes in microloans in developing Caribbean countries.

  His eyes had sparkled as he said it, and she could see him dreaming about helping people live better lives.

  Who knows? Maybe I’ll even find a job on a megayacht. They bring big money to the islands, so it would be interesting to figure out how small businesses could tap into that.

  He’d trailed off there with a sheepish look. Sorry. I get a little carried away.

  Which was just what she liked about him. The idealism. The passion. The ability to dream.

  And he wasn’t only a dreamer but a doer, working toward a dream. Suddenly, she wished she wasn’t headed to dinner on the yacht but going to shore with Tuss, and only Tuss. She’d take cheap takeout fare and an hour of conversation with Tuss over a whole evening — make that a whole week — aboard the world’s fanciest yacht. She’d ask him the countless questions she hadn’t had time for before and hold his hand the whole time. She’d watch for the smiles that started in his eyes and went on to dawn over his lips — lips she couldn’t help but picture on her mouth and her skin. Her cheeks grew warm, and she looked away from him.

  With a loud rev, the launch zipped away from the dock. Too late to back out of dinner now. Meredith hung on to her seat. Serendipity’s dinghy barely made three knots; this rocket hit twenty, just in the short ride from shore.

  She shivered in the unexpected breeze, then stood as the launch glided up to the stern platform. A heavyset man with a brown beard — Andreiivich — looked down at her from one deck above and spread his arms wide. Well, he spread one arm wide. The bandaged one stayed at his side.

  “Welcome aboard.”

  His wave had a regal air to it. Did Andreiivich greet all his guests by looking down at them?

  “Hello.” She hopped aboard, ignoring Popov’s outstretched hand.

  An attendant wearing white gloves escorted her along the curving staircase built into the aft quarter of the yacht, and it was only when Meredith was halfway up that she realized Tuss wasn’t coming. By the time she glanced back, Popov had stepped between them, closing off any hope of retreat.

  She continued up the opulent staircase, suddenly homesick for Serendipity’s small, cozy space.

  “My dear Dr. Whitman.” Andreiivich crushed her hand in his. “So good to have you as my guest.”

  She didn’t miss his heavy emphasis on the my. Clearly, the man had a thing for possession and power.

  “Good to see you recovering,” she said.

  The attendant drifted out of sight, completely ignored by Andreiivich. Did the billionaire treat all his staff as invisible nobodies? Did he treat Tuss that way?

  “I must thank you properly for saving my life,” her host said in his thick Russian accent, steering her up another set of stairs to the next deck.

  “I didn’t… I mean… Wow.” She gawked at the full-sized fountain with a statue of Venus gracing the open space.

  Andreiivich strode past it to an open-air bar and motioned to the bartender, who appeared to have been waiting there all day on the off chance that his boss might come along and demand a drink.

  Andreiivich snapped his fingers. “Two champagnes.”

  Meredith pursed her lips. Champagne was fine, but it would have been nice to be given a choice. She smiled at the bartender, who kept a completely neutral expression, just as Tuss had.

  “A toast to the good doctor,” Andreiivich announced to an invisible audience.

  “Um…to your health.”

  “I cannot even begin to express my gratitude,” Andreiivich said, smacking his lips after a sip of champagne. “But allow me to try.”

  “Really, it’s not…” Meredith protested, to no avail. He was already towing her along.