But that was before her evening, which had started out normally enough for a bachelorette party, had rapidly descended into disaster. One minute she’d been surrounded by the debris left over from the gift-opening frenzy, a tipsy bride-to-be and a dozen giggling colleagues chanting, “Take it off, take it off!”, the next she’d been scrambling through the open window between two ornamental shrubs onto the restaurant’s upper deck.
She’d turned away from the embarrassing sight of a buff young guy stripping off his clothes to the bump-and-grind music blaring from the private room’s speakers just in time to see a dozen people leap from the party boat into the lake.
Flashing back to her senior year in high school when a group of pot-smoking students had set fire to a boat, Lilah’s heart stopped for a couple of beats.
Praying it was just another excuse for youthful high-jinks, she held her breath and waited for them to return to the boat. But the longer she watched the more uneasy she became, especially when it became apparent that someone was clearly in trouble.
With her heart surging into her throat, Lilah lurched to her feet and scrambled over the table to the window, knocking over half a bottle of Chianti and a jug of margaritas. Cutlery, glasses and flowers from the centerpiece went flying. There was a lot of high-pitched shrieking and Lilah had a brief glimpse of shocked expressions and open-mouthed gapes as she dived out the window.
Luke Sullivan folded his arms across his chest, tipped his chair back against the wooden railing and smiled as whoops and whistles of encouragement competed with the stripper music pumping from the system. Greg Turner, the man about to take the walk of insanity down the aisle, grinned goofily as Lindi—or was it Mindi?—ripped off her sparkly skin-tight blouse. She shimmied her balloon-shaped rack in the groom’s face while her twin rubbed her awesome curves against him.
It wasn’t that Luke had anything against stripper twins or lap dances—heck, he’d participated in enough as a wild student and then again in the army to appreciate the manly tradition. But at thirty-two, you’d think Greg would appreciate something a little less clichéd. Something like … poker night.
Yeah, Luke mused as the girl rolled her hips like a belly dancer. If he ever lost his mind long enough to get hitched—God forbid—he’d prefer poker night stag. Now, that was a civilized way to mourn the end of bachelorhood. If he were inclined to matrimony, that is, which he most definitely was not! He’d watched his parents’ marriages fall apart too many times not to want to put himself or any kid through that kind of hell.
Besides, poker night was a great way for a bunch of guys to kick back, puff on Cuban cigars, guzzle beer and nachos, and talk trash as they bet on a pair of kings. He had a sneaky feeling Greg’s wild younger brother had organized the strippers more for himself than the groom.
And while the twins were certainly impressively endowed, Luke thought with a yawn as his gaze slid to the people strolling along the boardwalk below, he preferred his women a little less surgically enhanced. And a lot more natural. Women were not meant to look like they carried alien pods on their chests. They were meant to be soft and curvy. Kind of like the woman dodging through the crowd, barely missing a collision with a couple of teens on skateboards. Her movements were urgent, as if she was either fleeing from someone or racing towards something.
Instantly alert, he pushed away from the wall and the chair legs hit the deck with a thud. He scanned the crowd for a knife-wielding pursuer but saw nothing suspicious and turned back in time to see her ditch her strappy sandals and hike the slinky dress up a pair of spectacular thighs, before taking off down the pier.
Grinning with masculine appreciation at the flash of long, smooth limbs, Luke rose and headed for the deck railing to get a better view. The woman slowed down enough to shout and wave her arms at the party cruise heading for open water. When no one responded, she shook her head and threw her arms up as if to say, “What now?”
Then, to his growing astonishment, she wriggled out of that short, snug dress—a sight way more erotic than the striptease going on behind him—and headed for the lake at a dead run.
Now, this, he thought as she launched herself off the pier, was way better than watching a couple of barely legal dancers prance around in strips of sparkly fabric. Her body entered the water with scarcely a splash, only to reappear seconds later as people began heading closer to watch the crazy woman take a swim in her underwear.
Just before the gathering crowd blocked his view, Luke saw her strike out, but not for the boat, as he’d expected. Instead, she headed away from it.
Puzzled, he scanned the water, stilling as he caught sight of movement a couple of hundred yards out. The person’s flailing arms told him everything he needed to know.
Someone was in trouble.
Without further thought, he vaulted over the balcony and ignored the cries of surprise as he dropped to the boardwalk below. Wincing when pain shot through his recently healed thigh, he tucked in his body and rolled to his feet in one smooth move, before sprinting after her.
Barely a minute after the woman had entered the lake; Luke was stripping off his own clothes and taking a running dive off the pier. He knew just how cold the water was and braced for the instant brain freeze.
Despite his training, he tensed as his body hit the water. Jee-hose-phat. It was freezing. After fifteen years as far away from the Pacific North West as he could get, the waters of Lake McKenzie still felt colder than the North Atlantic in midwinter.
He surfaced and sucked warm air into his lungs before setting out, his powerful strokes quickly eating up the distance. He was still a good forty yards away when he saw the woman disappear beneath the surface. A girl flailed nearby, alternately sobbing and screaming, “Trent! Trent!” as she tried to stay afloat.
She must have spotted Luke because her litany changed to, “Help him, help him! I couldn’t hold on.” She coughed and wiped her face with a shaking hand. “He … he j-just slipped under and I c-can’t find him.”
“Stay here,” Luke ordered as he swam closer. “And calm down. Panicking won’t help.” He sucked in a quick breath and followed, his powerful kick immediately taking him several feet below the surface. As he descended, he searched for signs of the boy—and the woman.
Fortunately, light from the huge moon hanging over Lake McKenzie penetrated past the surface, eerily illuminating the cold, silent depths. Luke shuddered before he could help himself. He remembered quite vividly the summer his little brother had almost drowned in the lake and hoped, like that night twenty years ago, everyone walked away having learned a valuable lesson.
Luke looked for bubbles and when he caught sight of a silvery trail rising to the surface, he swam towards it just as a figure rose from the dark depths. It was the woman. She hadn’t seen him yet and when he reached out to get her attention she jerked violently and turned.
Her eyes went huge and her mouth opened, as though he’d startled her. A couple of large bubbles escaped and a flash of panic crossed her features. She flailed then began kicking vigorously for the surface.
Realizing she’d swallowed lake water, Luke followed, grabbing her arm and pulling her upwards as he shot past. The moment their heads broke the surface, she slapped at his hands and fought for breath. Feeling a little guilty for scaring her, he grabbed her shoulders and demanded, “Are you trying to kill yourself?”
She made a feeble attempt to pull away but Luke tightened his grip and ignored the furious
