against the blowing sand.
At least she hadn’t stopped and turned off her engine. She could simply keep driving, circle to the main road and report the creeps to the cops. She might lose a half hour of sailing time, but she knew trouble when she saw it.
However, when she tried to head back toward the road, the sedan blocked her. Quickly, more annoyed than frightened, she whipped the steering wheel the other way and made a skidding U-turn, her wheels sinking into wet sand and lapping waves. She easily made the turn and glanced over her shoulder, figuring she’d lost the men in suits.
Then she again spied the blue sedan on her tail, speeding toward her. It looked ready to ram her, smash her to a bloody pulp. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal.
Her car skidded like oil on a hot skillet. Failed to accelerate quickly enough.
The sedan rocketed into her car’s trunk. Her car veered into the ocean and water rolled up to her tires, up to her bumper, onto the floorboards.
Soon it would be up to her neck, making her keep her head above water to avoid drowning. A huge wave lumbered over the hood like a runaway mule, kicked into her windows, tossed the car up and smashed it into another taller wall of dark water. She banged her head and fireworks shot off in a sea of darkness. Her airbag inflated.
And then her world turned black.
CLAY GUNNED HIS Harley down the beach, blasting a spray of sand behind him, skidding to a stop short of where Melinda Murphy’s car had just been forced into the water by the blue sedan. At the first sign of trouble, he’d kicked his bike into gear, wishing he’d had more power. She wasn’t going to die on his watch.
Running toward her, he flung his jacket behind him, stopping for only a few seconds to kick off his boots. His heart was hammering so hard he barely heard the roar of the waves pounding the rocks by the pier like a hammer. Barely noticed the cold water that numbed his extremities. Barely noticed how suddenly the sunshine was disappearing as thunder-clouds thronged dark and dangerous overhead.
He refused to lose her. Not after he’d stayed awake, driving all night to reach her.
Yesterday, after learning he couldn’t catch a commercial flight to Daytona’s tiny airport, he’d chosen to ride his bike from Virginia to Florida. Maybe he should have chartered a special flight. Or flown into Orlando or Jacksonville. Or hired protection for her until he’d arrived to take over himself.
Wishing he could sprout fins, his frantic dash into the water slowed as he was forced to wade through the waist-high waves. He forged right by the blue sedan that had been caught by a wave and spun upside down, trapping its occupants inside.
Clay’s clothes absorbed water, slowing his progress, but he lunged forward, straining every iota of energy out of his powerful thighs, breathing hard, balancing on each crest of water, praying he could make it to Melinda before she drowned.
His first assignment. He wouldn’t blow it before it began. He wouldn’t have a woman’s life weighing on his conscience, wouldn’t live with failure.
Fifteen minutes ago, at noon, when he’d reached Melinda’s rented house, he hadn’t been too alarmed that she wasn’t there, especially after a neighbor told him that she’d driven off with her windsailer strapped to her car’s rack. Clay had followed the helpful neighbor’s directions to the beach, and he’d obeyed the speed limit. Now he wished he hadn’t.
The tide was kidnapping her, holding her hostage in its fierce grip, the car bobbing and spinning and rolling like a sinking boat. The blue sedan fared no better. When the sand dropped from beneath his feet and the water reached his chest, he started swimming, his arms windmilling, his legs kicking.
Water was filling the inside of her car, each incoming wave pouring in with fierce surges. Fear of watching her sink before his eyes made his tired limbs fight through the water. If she disappeared completely before he reached her, he might not even find the vehicle. Right now he could only see her sailboard strapped to the roof, about to be washed under the surging water.
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.”
