Water Bound Page 4

  She kicked hard, taking them to the surface, rolling him onto his back, trying to keep the regulator in his mouth while she looked around for the boat. It had survived the huge swell thanks to the extra scope she'd used. It was difficult fighting her way across the distance with her burden, and she was already exhausted from the wave battering her. It took a few moments to dump the nets from the float ball and attach the hooks to his belt. There was no way to pull his weight into the boat. She would have to use the davit to haul him to the deck.

  She'd left the nets full of urchins in the water. She always left the davit line in the water to hook one float to and to save her the trouble of hooking it up from topside.

  Scrambling on board, she tore off her gloves and tossed them aside as she ran to the davit and pressed the button to raise him from the water. She caught his arm and guided him over the gunwale. His body flopped limply onto the deck. Nearly sobbing with her effort, she rolled him over and tore open his shirt to lay her ear over his heart. Nothing. Frantically she put her fingers to the pulse in his neck.

  "Damn you, don't you die on me. You were breathing a minute ago." She rolled him onto his side and lifted his middle, trying to clear his lungs, and then she began CPR in earnest, using her regulator to push air into his lungs, just as she had in the water. Twice she thumped his chest hard, trying to kick-start his heart.

  "Come on, come back," she hissed, and kept working his heart. She was determined. He'd been sharing her air, looking at her. "You are not doing this."

  She put her ear to his chest again. There! Faint. Fluttering. "That's it. You're fighting," she encouraged. "You want to live."

  She really looked at him then. He was all muscle. Total muscle. His chest and ribs were covered in scars. Bullet wounds. Knife punctures and slices. Burns. She sank back on her heels gasping. Torture. This man had been tortured methodically over time. He'd been wounded repeatedly. Who was he? Where had he come from? She looked around. There was nothing in sight, no boats, no ships, nothing at all, and she hadn't seen anything before she'd gone down the first time.

  "Hold on," she said aloud, "I'll put out a Mayday and we'll get you out of here fast."

  She turned her back on him and hurried over to the VHF radio. As she reached for it, a hand shot past hers and yanked the cable out of its socket, before whipping around her neck and jerking her backward against a hard chest. His forearm was nearly choking her.

  She dug her fingers into his pressure points and turned into his arm, applying enough weight to spin out, although he caught her by her hair and jerked her back into him. She clamped both hands over his, dropping straight down and spinning, coming back up, nearly breaking his wrist before he let her go. He closed in on her fast, too fast to avoid.

  Outraged, Rikki erupted into a fury of fists, feet and head butting. She was slight, but she had honed her skills on the street, in foster homes, in state-run homes, even in gyms. She knew how to hit in order to do the most damage, and when she was attacked, she fought back with everything in her. The man was obviously badly injured, but he was enormously strong. He seemed to know which pressure point would do the maximum amount of damage, and he was a big man, very muscular.

  Not one of her blows rocked him, but twice she kicked his thigh dangerously close to his groin. He closed in on her quickly, wrapping his arms around her and taking her down hard. She hit the deck, facedown, his knee digging into the small of her back, his sheer size pinning her so it was impossible to move. He spat something at her in a language that sounded like Russian. She couldn't understand the words, but the razor-sharp edge of the knife against her neck said it all for him. She froze, her breath hissing out in a long exhale of sheer anger.

  He must have known she was more angry than scared. In spite of his injuries, the knife never wavered. He spoke in a foreign language, obviously asking her something. His voice was intimidating, commanding, authoritative.

  That only added fuel to her rage. She forgot the knife for a moment and kicked back at him. "Speak English or kill me, but do something soon or I'm going to shove that knife down your throat." Because in spite of everything, she was getting a little claustrophobic with him on top of her and her face pressed into the deck of her boat. She had a bad habit of losing control when she was pushed this far and she didn't trust herself, not with a knife against her throat.

  There was a short silence. "Who are you? What did you do to me?"

  Her heart jumped. He spoke English with an accent. Certain tones appealed to her, and his voice had something rich that settled inside of her--that sent her temperature up another notch. "I'm the person who saved your sorry ass, and believe me, I'm sorry I bothered. I dropped two full nets of spines to save your sorry dead ass. I'm the captain, so you can just get the hell off my boat. And while you're at it, get the hell off of me."

  She didn't dare move again because the knife didn't, but sooner or later, he was bound to pass out again. She couldn't imagine that he wouldn't, and then she'd throw his ungrateful ass back to the sharks.

  Lev Prakenskii kept his weight solidly on the little hellcat spitting and snarling beneath him. He was sick, disoriented and his head hurt like a son of a bitch. He had no idea where he was or what was happening, but he had to assess and make sense of the situation fast. He was on a fishing boat. Only one person appeared to be aboard--a woman with a major attitude problem.

  She wasn't cool and calm like an operative. She wasn't afraid like a target would be. She was furious. He couldn't see that she had any weapons, only the tools of her craft. He'd never seen an immaculate fishing boat, but if there was such a thing, this was it. Everything looked to be in pristine condition, although worn with age and weather. He could kill her instantly, either with the knife or simply by snapping her neck, and throw her body overboard, seize her vessel and escape, or ...

  She made a sound of sheer anger, rage running through her like the tide. He could actually feel her resistance coming at him in waves, when she should have been scared out of her mind. There was something valiant about her. And she really had pulled him from the sea and revived him, that much was true, so maybe he owed her more than a quick death. She spoke English with an American accent.

  "Who are you?" he hissed in a menacing voice. He "pushed" fear at her, wanting to subdue her quickly because his strength was running out.

  "I'm your worst nightmare," she hissed back, in no way intimidated. Her black eyes never left his face, never blinked. She had a fierce stare that intrigued him when little did anymore. She didn't appear intimidated. In fact, she was so furious, it occurred to him she might be thinking of trying to attack him.

  Laughter rippled through his mind. He hadn't laughed in years. He couldn't remember feeling amused, yet there it was. He was exhausted, his head seemed to be splitting open, he had no idea where he was or who was trying to kill him and he wanted to laugh. This little slip of a woman thought she was his worst nightmare. She had no idea what she'd just pulled out of the sea. She used an interesting choice of words to describe herself. He was fairly certain she was exactly what she looked like--a diver, one who had risked her life to save his. He was exactly what she'd said she was--everyone's worst nightmare, the real deal.

  She stiffened, hearing the sound that had escaped his throat--something between a groan and laughter. His amusement only dumped more fuel onto her rage.

  "You'll pay for that," she hissed.

  "I'm sorry." It was just that she was . . . extraordinary. And for the first time in his life, he wasn't certain what to do with someone.

  "While you're laughing, you'd better not put one cut in my wet suit. You already broke my radio. Get. Off. Me." She enunciated each word. "You weigh a ton."

  He'd been careful with the knife. His body was shaking from cold, but he'd kept his hands steady. It was an insult for her to think that he might accidently nick her wet suit. And she should have been worried about him cutting her throat. He let his breath out and knew his strength was waning. He had
to make a decision. Life or death. He had no doubt he could manipulate a woman--he had more weapons in his arsenal than guns--but he was weak and that made him vulnerable.

  A little reluctantly, he removed the knife from her throat and eased his weight from her. The moment she was free, the woman flung herself onto her back and sat, pushing backward with her heels to put distance between them. Overheated, she tore off her wet suit top, uncaring that she was exposing soft skin to his startled gaze. She dragged a sweatshirt from behind her and yanked it over her head.

  They stared at one another across the deck. The moment their eyes met again, his heart contracted. She had the blackest eyes he'd ever seen, turbulent--stormy--a dark, fierce velvet that appeared almost as liquid as the sea itself. She looked like a wild thing, moody and beautiful and out of reach.

  "Who are you?" she demanded.

  That was a good question. Who exactly was he? He had many names. Many faces. People who saw him rarely survived. Damn, he was tired. He brushed at his face and his hand came away smeared with blood. What should he tell her? He needed her now. Needed an ally, a place to hide, to recuperate. What would appeal most to a woman like her? And that was the problem: it was difficult to get a handle on her.

  He read people easily. It was a gift of birth, of training, of years of experience. But she was difficult. She fought with the fury of the devil, was obviously a free soul out here on the sea and had the most direct stare he'd ever seen on anyone. He hunched his shoulders to make himself look smaller and less intimidating and wiped at his face again, deliberately smearing more blood.

  "You look like hell," she observed. "I can't call the coast guard because you ripped out my VHF. I'm going to have to get you to shore as fast as possible."

  He held up his hand. "No. I can't be seen." He forced a trembling note into his voice. "I think someone's trying to kill me."

  "That's a shocker," she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

  It wasn't exactly the reaction he was going for. And people thought he was a social nightmare. Where was all the womanly concern and sympathy? She was looking at him with dark, stormy eyes that still said she wanted to kick the crap out of him. She wasn't the most forgiving woman he'd ever run across. He tried a tentative smile.

  "I can't blame you for being upset. I was disoriented. I think I was just in survival mode." That much was the truth. "I didn't really understand what was going on. I thought you had attacked me."

  She took a breath and nodded, accepting his explanation. He had the feeling he would have to stick close to the truth with her. And what the hell was the truth? He didn't know anymore. He found himself rubbing his temple and wincing when he touched the raw, jagged edges of a wound.

  "I can't remember what happened. Do you know?" That sounded pathetic enough to touch even a skeptic. And he was beginning to really like her face, that pixie face with the incredible bone structure. She hadn't taken her enormous eyes off of him, almost hadn't blinked. She looked at him like he was a tiger crouched on the deck of her boat, ready to attack at any moment. She hadn't exactly relaxed.

  Her eyes were too big for her face and were heavily fringed with black lashes. Her hair was thick and a little wild, with ragged edges making her look even more like a pixie. Her chin was stubborn, her mouth generous. She regarded him with suspicion, but he could see she might just have an Achilles' heel--a soft spot for someone in trouble.

  "A rogue wave knocked me off the boat. I found you in the water, but I have no idea where you came from. There's a shelf down about thirty feet and you were being slammed into that. The fault line runs along there and I managed to snag you before you dropped off it." She poured cold water onto a clean rag and handed it to him, keeping her hands in sight and her movements slow. Then she handed him a glass. "Drink this."

  He took the tumbler from her, his fingers brushing hers. His heart jumped. Raced. His breath hitched. He frowned as he took his time drinking the contents. He didn't have reactions to women--not real reactions. Not like that. Not unexpected and for no reason. His body was freezing. It felt as if he'd been beaten with several two-by-fours over and over. It wasn't as if he needed sexual relief. So why the hell would he react to her touch? He didn't like puzzles. And he sure as hell didn't like things he couldn't explain.

  "Your name." It wasn't a question this time.

  He ran his fingers through his wet hair and kept his expression as blank as possible. He frowned as if trying to remember. What to use? He needed something as close to the truth as possible. There was just something about her that raised a red flag. Like maybe she was one of those rare people who sensed lies. And he was damned good at lying--he didn't know any other way of life. "Lev. I think it's Lev. I can't remember much."

  "Are you a criminal? A smuggler?"

  He frowned and rubbed at the blood with the wet cloth. "I don't know."

  Her expression didn't change much. Her lips compressed and some of the storm in her eyes dissipated. He'd been right not to deny the accusation. She was more comfortable with his lack of knowledge than if he'd denied being a criminal. He obviously wasn't a fisherman. He was armed and he looked dangerous, even as battered as he was. She wasn't going to buy an innocent act.

  "Do you know how you got out here? I didn't see any other boats before or after the wave hit."

  He looked her straight in the eye and allowed a touch of fear in his gaze. "I don't know. My mind is a blank. I can't remember what happened to me or who I am. But every time I think about going to the authorities, I get this very bad feeling." That was a calculated risk. She was alone on a fishing boat out in the ocean. A maverick. A loner. One who didn't frighten easily. She probably had an aversion to authority and police and questions. It was a connection between them, small, but at last he'd found one. He could find more.

  "You need a doctor. What the hell am I going to do with you?"

  Triumph swept through him. His teeth were chattering now, and he could feel the edges of his brain fuzzing over. He held on to consciousness grimly. "Thanks for pulling me out of the water." He touched his chest as if it hurt. "You did CPR."

  She scowled at him. "I used the regulator."

  It seemed important to her to let him know she had not touched her lips to his, no matter how tempting the thought might be. And--strangely--he found it tempting. She had a very attractive mouth and he mentally kicked himself for noticing. Never allow emotions to come into play. His life was at stake. She was . . . expendable. A stranger. She meant nothing.

  He attempted a small smile, although his face seemed frozen. "From the feel of my chest, the CPR was vigorous."

  "I'm not good at anything medical."

  He allowed his gaze to slide over her. She was too thin. He doubted if anyone would call her beautiful--but she had a certain wild appeal, smelling of sea and salt and wet suit. "However you managed it, thank you." She seemed too fragile to have pulled him on board by sheer strength, so she was resourceful and tenacious. Admiration for her snaked inside of him and settled somewhere he didn't want to think about.

  She held up her hand. "Don't try to stab me. I'm just getting you a blanket."

  Lev noticed she'd used the word try. She still thought she was the one in control. He watched her every movement carefully through half-closed eyes. It didn't matter that he was in bad shape. He was alert and coiled, ready to spring should she make one wrong move. She was trapped on deck with a dangerous predator--and she moved as if she knew it, keeping her hands in sight as she pulled a blanket out of the locker for him--yet he knew she didn't accept the knowledge. She obviously didn't want to get too close so she tossed the blanket to him.

  Lev didn't disabuse her of the notion that she was safe--out of his reach. He could be on her in a second and he knew just about every way there was to kill someone. He sighed as he wrapped the blanket around himself, still shivering uncontrollably. "Thanks," he murmured again. He was injured more severely than he'd first guessed because she was definitely getting unde
r his skin. He had the feeling he was just as uncomfortable with her as she was with him.

  "Look. You have a concussion, and if you've lost memory, it's severe. You were really battered against the reef before I could get to you. I have to get you help. We can't just stay out here."

  "I'm not going to die," he reassured her. "Can you recover your bags?"

  She blinked. Shocked. He'd definitely shocked her. "My bags?"

  "With your catch. You said you dumped your catch in order to rescue me."

  She waved that aside. "You need help. That comes first. I'll come back out and see if I can recover them later."

  She looked down at the water and for the first time he could read her expression. There was longing. Need. Not for her lost catch, but for something else. His mind, as clunky as it was, as shadowy and hazy, began to form an idea that left him a little shocked. An element? Could this woman be element bound? Where there was one bound to an element, there were at least three others. He'd read about such a thing but had never run across it. It was a miracle of nature. But there was that look on her face, almost loving, certainly in need.

  "Have you always lived your life by the sea?"

  She shrugged. "I don't like being far from the water. And it's how I make my living."

  It seemed impossible to just stumble accidently over something that had the potential for tremendous power. A key to one of the elements. Water. He shook his head and instantly his vision blurred, reminding him he was probably hallucinating anyway. He looked her straight in the eye again. "I'm not going to a hospital. I can't afford too many questions, not when I have no answers. Just get me back to shore and I'll find my way."

  Rikki scowled, turning away from him, trying to think when those intense eyes had her more than a little rattled. His eyes were a piercing blue, like the sea itself. He was gorgeous. She didn't get close to men who were gorgeous. She judged his height to be over six feet. Wide shoulders, a thick, muscular chest, narrow hips; he was all muscle. The man was a walking mythology statue--a poster child for women's fantasies. His face was all hard angles and planes. He looked tough and she had no doubt that he was. He was shivering continually.