Page 71 of Chasing Caine

She shrugged. “The cliffs?”

“No idea.” I stood, holding the phone up like it would make some difference. Walked along the edge of the water, everywhere, even into the cave as if that would improve reception.

Samantha sat up, watching me. Her pinched cheeks and glistening eyes betrayed her true feelings. She was in a great deal of pain and was worried. There was no chance she was walking all the way back. “Just go up top and make the call.”

I returned to her and she reclined again, obviously more comfortable in that position. Climbing the dangerous path in the shadows by myself was a bad idea. What if I slipped and fell, then no one was up top to hear me? We’d be stranded until tomorrow. Not even together.

How high did the tide rise here? “Is the water higher now than when we came down here?”

She rolled to her side, peering along the shore. “No idea.”

I ran a hand through my hair. What were we going to do?

“We bought hiking poles.” Her voice was calming, despite the circumstances. “They’re collapsed inside my bag. I can use them like crutches.”

A motor sounded nearby in the bay. Loud, rough, but not moving fast. I launched from my position next to her to spot it. Small speedboat, sleek, dark gray with a roll bar at the back. A driver and perhaps one seated passenger.

Our saviors.

I stepped into the shallow water at the edge, slipping enough to remind me to be careful.

“They won’t be able to hear you,” she said through gritted teeth.

I waved my arms, yelled, but nothing. She was right, plus we were in shadow. I flipped on the flashlight of my phone and waved again. Still nothing.

“Antonio!”

I spun to Samantha, who tossed her phone to me, with its light on, as well. One in each hand, I waved frantically.

The boat slowed.

Per favore. Per favore.

It came to a stop, the motor barely a purr.

“Over here!” I yelled, in Italian and English.

The passenger pointed at me, the man at the helm turned, and the motor resumed. The boat headed toward us. As it neared, two passengers stood, lifting hands in greeting.

“Thank god,” whispered Samantha behind me.

They hailed me in Italian, with an almost, but not quite, Tuscan accent. “What’s wrong?”

“My girlfriend twisted her ankle, and I don’t think we can get her back to Termini before sunset. Can you take us to any town nearby? I can pay.”

The speaking man was mid-60s with gray hair. Refined. The boat was twenty feet away, but he was clearly in charge. His helmsman and another passenger were in black T-shirts and pants, well-muscled, likely bodyguards.

If I were not worried for Samantha’s safety, I would have suggested this was not the crew to help us. But the other options were worse.

“Our yacht is moored in Capri. We can take you to Marina Piccola?”

“Sì! Grazie mille!” I waded out of the water, back to Samantha.

“I can’t put any weight on my left foot,” she whispered, sitting up straight. “I tried.”

The motor churned behind me as they moved closer.

“I have you, bella.” I slung one pack onto my back, then eased the second pack out from under her leg slowly. After extending its straps, I put it on as well and slid my arms underneath her. “Just warn me if I move too fast.”

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