Water Bound (5 page)

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Authors: Christine Feehan

BOOK: Water Bound
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The air around her suddenly changed. It was charged, and pressure pushed on her chest. She was still reaching for her tank when she felt the tremendous swell building beneath her. Rikki turned her head and her breath caught in her throat. Her heart slammed against her chest as she stared at the solid wall of water rising up out of the sea like a monstrous tsunami, a wave beyond anything she’d ever witnessed.
2
THE wave rose over Rikki like a solid wall, lifting the boat as the swell reached her. She threw her hands into the air as if warding it off, singing her song to the sea as she was launched forward into the swollen water. She went under, rolling with the turbulence, falling, her weights taking her down. She caught at the hose attached to her suit and shoved the regulator into her mouth, grateful she’d been prepared for a dive and that she’d taken enough precautions to give the boat plenty of scope.
She sent up a silent prayer that she wouldn’t go into the abyss, or go down too fast or too deep, or any of the other hundreds of disasters that could happen. She tumbled, somersaulting through the murky depths. Her heart was racing, but she knew she had to stay calm. Every instinct in her body was screaming at her to get the hell out of there, to fight to get back to the surface as fast as possible, but at the very best that would mean a helicopter ride and being stuck in a chamber, something someone like Rikki could never do.
In spite of the wild ride, her breathing remained the same, as she tried, in the inky darkness, to figure out where she was. She didn’t want to end up in the abyss. Her body screamed at her to fight, that if she didn’t she would be dead, but her experience kept her calm, accepting of the ocean’s power. Don’t panic. Calm. That was life under the water. Death was fighting. She simply rode out the wild ride, relying on her diver training and instincts.
Something large crashed into her, knocking her backward. She glimpsed a body smashed hard against the smooth rocks of the shelf. He wasn’t in dive gear, she saw that much before he disappeared. Swearing, she swam after him, kicking strongly, knowing the water was too cold to be without a wet suit. He had no scuba gear, no way to breathe, and he was being thrown repeatedly against the rocks, which luckily were smooth from years of hard swells shaping them into polished artwork that few people would ever see. That art would most likely save this man’s life.
Kelp wrapped around her arms and held her prisoner for a moment, but she stayed still. Panicking got one killed faster than anything else. Eventually the long bulbous tubes released her and she swam toward the shelf. It took her a few bad moments to find him. His body lay against the rocky shelf, the sweep of the kelp holding him prisoner and then releasing him. He was continually pushed against the shelf, and she noted in a calm part of her brain that she’d have to check him for spines if she managed to get him to the surface.
He wasn’t fighting the kelp or trying to stabilize his body against the sweep of the ocean. She snagged his arm and he whipped around, his wide eyes staring directly into hers. She indicated the regulator and pushed it into his mouth. There was no panic in his eyes, which was good and probably indicated he was an avid diver, but there was no real fear either, and that scared her. He couldn’t just accept death—not if he wanted to live through this. The water was freezing and she had to get him topside as soon and as safely as possible. She didn’t know how badly he was injured. Minutes—seconds counted now.
She kept her arms around him, kicking strongly for the surface, willing him to hang on. She kept her gaze fixed on his, using her eyes, telling him she’d get him to safety. He was a big man. He didn’t fight her, which surprised her. Most people would have panicked. The cold was getting to him, making his movements lethargic and heavy, but each time she pushed the regulator into his mouth, he didn’t protest and he knew enough to blow out when she was using the regulator.
They stared at one another, and she swore that she felt as if she were falling into his eyes. He didn’t take his gaze from hers, not once, not like everyone else always did. It was as if they were so connected that if they looked away from one another, neither would make it to the surface. She felt as if the water flowed through her to him and back again, binding them together in a strange ritual she didn’t understand. It was hard to breathe, even with the regulator. Her entire being was absorbed into his as if their heartbeat were the same, their pulse one single beat, their lungs in unison. She’d never felt so close to another human being, not even Daniel, her fiance. She felt
part
of this man, as if they shared the same skin, the same lungs. Their eyes were staring into each other’s souls.
At ten feet, she indicated her gauge and held him to her, her hand clinging to his shirt collar, anchoring him. For the first time he moved, pressing his hand to his heart and then up to the side of his head. She spotted a blood trail and realized he was injured. He wasn’t just cold: he’d been slammed against the rocks and hit his head. That changed everything. She needed to get him to the surface much faster than she’d thought. She kicked, but he shook his head, indicating he was fine and to wait at least the required minute.
Rikki watched him closely, now a little nervous that a shark might be attracted and come up beneath them. Her stomach was in knots, an ominous sign. She took the regulator, taking in air, and then pointed up. He made no response but didn’t protest as they once again began their ascent. He was heavy and getting heavier by the moment. She felt the exact moment when he stopped breathing, saw his eyes go lifeless, but he was still calm, no fighting, no panicked moment where he grabbed and fought her. He simply was gone and she was left alone, staring into glassy eyes.
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.

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