And then he hit the icy water, plunging deep, the contact stealing the air from his lungs. Stunned, he fought the swells, his heavy clothes, himself, eyes open as he searched for the flames that surely went along with the explosion.
Jesus, not another fire. That was his only thought as panic gripped him hard. He opened his mouth and—
Swallowed a lungful of seawater.
This cleared his head. He wasn’t on the oil rig in the Gulf. He wasn’t in the explosion that had killed Gil, and nearly Tanner as well. He was in Lucky Harbor.
He kicked hard, breaking the surface, gasping as he searched for the boat, a part of him still not wholly convinced. But there. She was there, only a few feet away.
No flames, not a single lick. Just the cold-ass swells of the Pacific Northwest.
Treading water, Cole shook his head. A damn flashback, which he hadn’t had in over a year—
“Omigod, I see you!” a female voice called out. “Just hang on, I’m coming!” This was accompanied by hurried footsteps clapping on the dock. “Help!” she yelled as she ran. “Help, there’s a man in the water! Sir, sir, can you hear me? I’m coming. Sir?”
If she called him “sir” one more time, he was going to drown himself. His dad had been a sir. The old guy who ran the gas pumps on the corner of Main and First was a sir. Cole wasn’t a damn sir. He was opening his mouth to tell her so, and also that he was fine, not in any danger at all, when she took a flying leap off the dock.
And landed right on top of him.
The icy water closed over both of their heads, and as another swell hit, they became a tangle of limbs and water-laden clothing. He fought free and once again broke the surface, whipping his head around to look for the woman.
No sign of her.
Shit. Gasping in a deep breath, he dove back down and found her doing what he’d been doing only a moment before—fighting the water and her clothes, and herself. Her own worst enemy, she was losing the battle and sinking fast. Grasping the back of her sweater, Cole hauled her up, kicking hard to get them both to the surface.
She sucked in some air and immediately started coughing, reaching out blindly for him and managing to get a handful of his junk.
“Maybe we could get to shore first,” he said wryly.
Holding on to him with both arms and legs like a monkey clinging to a tree, she squeezed him tight. “I’ve g-g-got y-y-you,” she stuttered through already chattering teeth, then climbed on top of his head, sending him under again.
Jesus. He managed to yank her off him and get her head above water. “Hey—”
“D-don’t panic,” she told him earnestly. “It’s g-g-gonna be o-o-okay.”
She actually thought she was saving him. If the situation weren’t so deadly, Cole might have thought some of this was funny. But she was turning into a Popsicle before his very eyes, and so was he. “Listen, just relax—”
“H-hang on to m-me,” she said, and…dunked him again.
For the love of God. “Stop trying to save me,” he told her. “I’m begging you.”
Her hair was in her face, and behind the strands plastered to her skin, her eyes widened. “Oh, my God. You’re trying to commit suicide.”
“What? No.” The situation was ridiculous, and he was frustrated and effing cold, but damn, it was hard not to be charmed by the fact that she was trying to save him, even as she was going down for the count herself. “I’m trying to keep you from killing me.”
The flashback to the rig fire long gone, Cole treaded water to keep them afloat as he assessed their options. There were two.
Shore or boat.
They were at the stern of the boat, much closer to the swimming platform than to the shore. And in any case, there was no way his “rescuer” could swim the distance. Though Cole was a world-class swimmer himself, he was already frozen to the bone, and so was she. They needed out of the water…fast.
With a few strokes, he got them to the stern of the boat, where he hoisted her up to the platform, pulling himself up after her.
She lay right where he’d dumped her, gulping in air, that long, dark hair everywhere. Leaning over her, he shoved the wet strands from her face to better see her and realized with a jolt that he recognized her. She lived in one of the warehouse apartments across from Lucky Harbor Charters.
Her name was Olivia Something-or-Other.
All he knew about her was that she hung out with Sam’s fiancée, Becca; she ran some sort of shop downtown; she dressed in a way that said both “hands off” and “hot mama”; and he’d caught her watching him and the guys surfing on more than one occasion.
“Y-y-you’re bleeding,” she said from flat on her back, staring up at him.
Cole brought his fingers to the sting on his temple, and his fingers indeed came away red with his own blood. Perfect. Just a cut though, no less than he deserved after that stupid stunt of shocking the shit out of himself with the wiring and then tumbling into the water. “I’m fine.” It was her he was worried about. Her jeans and sweater were plastered to her. She was missing a boot. And she was shivering violently enough to rattle the teeth right out of her head. “You’re not fine,” he said.
“Just c-c-cold.”
No shit. “What the hell were you thinking?” he asked, “Jumping in after me like that?”
Her eyes flashed, and he discovered they were the exact same color as her hair—deep, dark chocolate.
“I th-th-thought you were d-d-drowning!” she said through chattering teeth.
Cole shook his head. “I didn’t almost drown until you jumped on top of me.”
“What h-h-happened?”
“I was working on the electrical wiring and got shocked and fell in.”
“S-s-see? You needed help!”
He absolutely did not. But arguing with her would get them nowhere, except maybe dead. “Come on, the plan is to get you home and warmed up.” Rising to his feet, he reached down and pulled her up with him, holding on to her when she wobbled. “Are you—”
“I’m f-f-fine,” she said, and stepped back to look down at herself. “I l-l-lost my favorite b-b-boot rescuing y-y-you.”
She called that a rescue? “Can you even swim?”
“Y-y-yes!” She crossed her arms over her chest. “A l-l-little bit.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “A little bit? Seriously? You risked your life on that?”
“You were in t-t-trouble!”
Right. They could argue about that later. “Time to get you home, Supergirl.”
“B-b-but my b-b-boot.”
“We’ll rescue the boot later.”
“We w-w-will?”
No. Her boot was on the ocean floor and DOA. “Later,” he said again, and grabbing her hand, he pulled her across the platform, through the stern. He needed to get her off the boat.
She dug her heels in, one in just a sock, one booted.
“What?” he asked.
Still shivering wildly, she looked at him with misery. “I d-d-dropped my ph-ph-phone on the dock.”
“Okay, we’ll grab it.”
“Y-y-yes, but I d-d-didn’t drop my keys.”
“That’s good,” he said, wondering if she’d hit her head.
“Y-y-you don’t get it. I th-th-think I lost my k-k-keys in the w-w-water.”
Well, shit. No keys, no getting her inside her place. This wasn’t good. Nor was her color. She was waxen, pale. They couldn’t delay getting her out of the elements and warm. “Okay, plan B,” he said. “We warm you here on the boat.” Again he started to tug her along, needing to get her inside and belowdecks, but she stumbled against him like her limbs weren’t working.
Plan C, he thought grimly, and swung her up into his arms.
She clutched at him. “N-n-not necessary—”
Ignoring her, he got them both into the small galley, where he set her down on the bench at the table. Keeping his hands on her arms, he crouched in front of her to look into her eyes. “You still with
me? You okay?”
“Y-y-y—” Giving up, she dropped her head to his chest.
“Not okay,” he muttered, and stroked a hand down the back of her head and along her trembling frame.
Truth was, he wasn’t much better off. His head was still bleeding, and his shoulder was throbbing. He had nothing on her, though. She was violently trembling against him. Easing her back, he got busy. First he cranked the heater, then he opened their linens storage box, pulling out towels and blankets, which he tossed in a stack at her side. “Okay,” he said. “Strip.”
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