was all she could do to keep filming while Sean stood and leaned out, tagging the shark’s slippery back as easily as if he’d been giving a fellow surfer a high five.
Daniela had been fighting a breakdown for most of the day. The sight of him taking such a shocking risk, and doing it with ineffable nonchalance, almost sent her careening over the edge. Somehow, she continued to point the camera at the thing in the water, a now unrecognizable mass of shiny black flesh and red-soaked teeth. Birds swooped down around them from every direction, literally plucking strings of meat from the mouth of the monster.
Time seemed to slow down and speed up after that. One moment, they were out on the water, watching the brutality of nature, survival of the fittest in action, a violent blur of sound and motion and color. The next, they were sailing through the air, disappearing into a blanket of late-afternoon fog.
Too numb to speak, she held herself as stiff as a board while the crane lifted the whaler up to the landing.
The day was almost over, she realized with bleak surprise. In this bizarre, uncivilized place, what would nightfall bring?
All three men were staring at her, so she took the camera away from her face, finally, and felt the world crash into sharp focus. The landscape was too foreign, too harsh for tender eyes. The sea was too dark, too blue, too vast.
“Here,” she mumbled, turning off the camera and handing it to Jason.
Sean helped her out of the boat. The instant her feet hit ground, her knees buckled. “Easy,” he said, steadying her. His arms felt even stronger than Jason’s, and twice as disturbing. She righted herself, her face growing hot.
“When did you eat last?”
“This morning,” she said, embarrassed by her shakiness, and annoyed with him for calling her on it. Worse, her body tingled from his touch. Even through layers of clothing, his hands left an imprint on her skin.
She backed up a step, bumping into Jason.
“You’re in for a treat, then,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “It’s my turn to cook. Have you ever had lumpia?”
She nodded. “I like it.”
Jason walked forward, leading her toward the footpath. “I knew you would. The rest of the week, we have to suffer through bland, ordinary fare. On my night, we dine in style.”
Her lips curved into a wobbly smile.
“Please tell me you’re planning to make something spicy and Mexican and extra-delicious when it’s your turn to cook.”
She glanced back at Sean and Brent, who were trailing behind them. Sean seemed displeased, perhaps because Jason was acting as though he wanted her to stay. “I’m not a big fan of super-spicy food, actually. The part of Mexico I’m from isn’t known for that. But if you have the right ingredients, I can make tamales.”
Jason made a murmur of interest and inquired about the recipe, keeping his hand at her waist as they continued down the hillside. If Sean had touched her this way, she’d have bristled, but with Jason, she didn’t care. In a far corner of her mind, she knew he was humoring her, trying to get her to focus on mundane pleasantries rather than the nerve-jolting bloodbath they’d just witnessed.
As they reached the end of the path, the sun dipped low on the horizon, leaving the island cloaked in shadows and damp with mist. The temperature had dropped considerably, and there was a chill in the air that seemed to invade her very bones.
The inside of the house was warmer, but the creaky old Victorian had been built to withstand pounding rain and gale force winds, not for enjoying cozy nights by the fire. There was no lighted hearth, no golden glow and no central heating.
The place lacked ambiance, with its sturdy furniture and bare walls, but it had a certain dorm-room, flophouse charm. Adding to the collegiate atmosphere, Taryn was sitting at a worktable, scribbling in a notebook under the light of an antique lamp.
The sight of her sunny, California-girl beauty made Daniela’s stomach twist.
Elizabeth headed upstairs, escaping any possible future drama. “I think I’ll go freshen up before dinner.”
“No need for formal wear,” Jason said. “We’re dining en famille.”
Rolling her eyes at his lame joke, she left the room. No one in their right mind would bring anything but work clothes to Southeast Farallon.
Brent sat down on the couch by the window and began checking his camera equipment. It registered with Daniela that he had strong, elegant hands. Sculptor’s hands. He was also handsome in an understated way, with short brown hair and fine blue eyes.
In the chaos of the attack, she’d hardly noticed.
Daniela snuck another glance at Sean, feeling raw, emotional and distinctly out of place. He stared back at her, saying nothing. It was obvious that he didn’t want her to stay, but she couldn’t go anywhere tonight.
Jason cleared his throat. “I already put your bag in your room, Daniela. Taryn will show you the way.”
The girl’s chair scraped against the scarred hardwood flooring. “I’d be happy to,” she said, standing.
“I think I can find it.”
Taryn waved her off. “Don’t be silly. I’ll give you a tour.”
Before Taryn and Daniela went upstairs, Sean and Jason beat a silent retreat, disappearing through the door and into the twilight. It didn’t take a genius to know they were going outside to discuss her. And decide her fate.
“Come on,” Taryn said, smiling as if there was nothing amiss.
Brent looked out the window, craning his neck for a glimpse of the other men and making no attempt to curb his curiosity.
With a sigh, Daniela followed Taryn, forced to stare at the girl’s perky little bottom as she ascended the stairs. Taryn was tall and coltish, model-slim in her formfitting leggings and oversized sweatshirt. The same outfit would have made Daniela look like a tree stump.
“Do they always do that?” she asked.
“Do what?”
She nodded toward the front door, where Sean and Jason had just exited. “Give each other dark, brooding looks and talk outside?”
“No,” Taryn admitted. “They acted like best pals until…”
You came. Daniela knew what she’d been about to say.
Terrific. One afternoon on the island, and she was like a disease.
“This is the bathroom,” Taryn said brightly, opening a door on the right side. It was small and dreary, with old-fashioned fixtures and a plain white sink. “The downstairs toilet flushes better, but this one works if you have to pee in the middle of the night. And here is the ever-popular shower.” She slid open the frosted glass door, inclining her slender arm with the panache of a television model.
Daniela peered into the putty-colored stall. It wasn’t fancy, but it was clean. “Jason said there’s no
