Death Echo

48

DAY FOUR

STRAIT OF GEORGIA

4:50 P.M.

Blackbird rose on the breast of the creaming wave. Wind combed salt spray from the sea and dashed it over the windshield. Hands light on the wheel, Emma held the yacht’s bow into the weather, enjoying the swell and rush of water. Mac was at the dining table, awash in charts. He kept them corralled with a casual ease she envied. She was just learning to be at home on the restless strait.

He was at home.

Her phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” Mac said, reaching into her purse. “It’s Faroe.”

“So talk to him. I’m busy.”

Mac answered the phone. “We’re about an hour south of Campbell. Where are you?”

“Hello to you, too,” Grace said.

“Sorry. I was expecting your husband. Hello, how are you, how is Annalise, and why are you calling?”

“Faroe is looking at reports from various Canadian marine weather stations on his computer. He’s making unhappy noises.”

“We’re fine. Blackbird may be beautiful, but she’s not just a pretty face. She’s built for this part of the world.”

“How is Emma taking to it?”

“Fish to water,” Mac said. “Quick and smart. You may not get her back.”

“Thinking about keeping her?” Grace asked, amused.

“Yes.”

“What does she think about it?”

“No screaming yet,” Mac said.

“Give yourself time. It doesn’t always happen for new lovers the first few rounds.”

Mac made a choked sound. “Joe wants to know if you’re going to run through the night,” Grace continued.

“No. Even if the water was calm and my first mate had all the appeal of moldy concrete, I wouldn’t run in the dark past all those coastal log yards unless something bigger and meaner than me was closing in fast.”

“See any cruise ships?” Grace asked.

“Four of them so far, but none are headed toward Campbell. You expecting trouble from a bunch of retired folks on their dream vacations?”

“No. I just always wanted to see a cruise ship from a distance. All those lights and glamour.”

“Only at night. Close up in daylight, at the end of a season, cruise ships look like hookers after a hard night.”

“You and Faroe. Not happy unless you’re captain. Let us know if anything changes. We’ll do the same. Hello and good-bye to your first mate.”

Mac closed the phone and answered the question Emma hadn’t asked. “Faroe is following the weather up here and got nervous.”

“Is this the kind of water you call snotty?” Emma asked.

“Getting there,” Mac said. “If I want to use the electronic charts, are you happy steering by compass for a few minutes?”

“Better that than autopilot. It doesn’t correct fast enough for this kind of water.”

“Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said without heat. “So I’m a slow learner.”

Suddenly she felt his heat and sheer bulk along the left side of her body. The warm, slightly rough surface of his fingertips traced from her left cheekbone to her jaw, her throat, and lingered on her pulse. Her heart stopped, then beat double time. His breath brushed her ear.

“Emma-love, you are anything but slow.”

She plucked at her sweater and let out a long breath. “Getting hot in here, Captain.”

Teeth closed gently on her earlobe. “If the water was calm, it’d be a whole lot hotter. But I want to be in Campbell before dark, so medium warm is as good as it gets for now. Hot comes later.”

She cleared her throat. “You keep nibbling like that, you’re going to distract me.”

“My hands are in my pockets,” he pointed out.

She moved her head quickly, caught one of his fingertips, and sucked it into her mouth for a thorough tasting. She released it slowly, enjoying the flush of color high on his cheekbones.

“My hands are on the wheel,” she said.

He took a long breath, then another. “Point taken. Damn it.”

She laughed softly and moved aside so that he could get to the chart plotter while she steered. “All yours, Captain.”

“Promises promises.”

“I keep mine,” Emma said.

“So do I.”

She cleared her throat. “So…good. I won’t have to date myself tonight.” She shook her head hard, trying to clear the haze of lust.

“God, Mac. Is it something you were born with, or did you take classes?”

“In what?”

“Sexual heat.”

He blinked, then smiled slowly. “I’m learning from my first mate. One hell of a teacher. Can’t wait for night school to begin.”

She blew out her breath and ignored him. It was that or jump him, and Blackbird really did need a guiding hand. Two hands, actually. The waves were building with the wind. And the wind had teeth in it, forewarning of the cold autumn gales Mac had talked about.

“Is this weather as bad as it looks?” she asked after a time.

Mac didn’t even glance up from the electronic chart plotter he was putting through its paces. “Not for us. If we were in a small boat, yes, I’d already be ashore or real close to it. Out here, size matters.”

“Not touching that.”

“Ever?” he asked.

“Not hearing you. La la la la. Not a single tempting word.”

Mac laughed and quit teasing her-and himself-for the moment. He checked the boat’s position, the tide, the currents, and the time to Campbell River. It would be an interesting ride. They were right on schedule for a beating from the steep tidal currents just south of Campbell River. The wicked water would slow them down, but they should make Campbell before dark.

Mac could hardly wait.

But he kept at work on the chart plotter, trying out various possibilities for the next day of running. The beauty of a boat like Blackbird was that speed opened up so many choices that a six-knot boat didn’t have. The downside was that choices led to more opportunities to screw up.

That’s how you learn, Mac reminded himself. And along the learning way, you try real hard not to make the kind of mistakes that are fatal.

Not to mention praying that somebody else didn’t make those mistakes for you.