Page 72 of Moonlit Hideaway
“I don’t care. Let’s do it.” He opened the stateroom door and dragged her up the stairs onto the deck, where she met the two young men, presumably Russ and Linc, while a priest stood by. She realized with shock that one of them was the helicopter pilot, and the other one had been at the pilot’s wheel. If she’d been more suspicious and had Sheriff Davis pick them up for questioning the day before when she’d heard Howie’s story, how different things might have been.
Her hopes rested on the Coast Guard ship, which hovered nearby as both boats dropped anchor.
“Tell them they can board after we have the weddings,” Marco ordered, signaling the priest.
Instead of officiating a ceremony, he presented them with marriage contracts to sign, with Russ and Linc signing as witnesses.
The Coast Guard sent a small dingy but never boarded or asked her any questions. She wanted to shout aloud that she needed to be rescued, but instead, she had to endure Marco’s iron grip around her shoulder and plaster a smile on her face as she waved goodbye.
Sierra gazed through burning eyes as the wizened priest clambered aboard the Coast Guard cutter, clutching their hastily signed contracts. Her last hopes of salvation receded as the priest waved to them, and Marco ordered Russ and Linc to bring up the anchor and take the yacht up to cruising speed.
Standing at the railing with Marco’s arm clamped around her, she lost her footing and leaned over the edge.
“If you’re thinking of jumping, you’re more a fool than Huck,” Marco sneered. “Now that we’re married, I want you prettied up and wearing something sexy in the stateroom below.”
“Sure, but I’ll need my own private quarters to dress,” she simpered, barely able to hold back her bile.
“Russ, prepare the bridal chamber for my bride,” Marco ordered as he lifted a chilled bottle of champagne from an ice bucket. “We’re alone at last, darling.” Marco’s chuckle oozed with sinister delight. “No one can stop us from reaching our Caribbean honeymoon now.”
Revulsion shuddered through her as his gaze crawled over her like venomous spiders, and his slithery tongue made a show of licking his wide alligator mouth.
“I’m getting seasick.” Sierra bent double over the rail, holding her belly, unable to stop the retching as she threw up bile into the sea. Perhaps Marco would be too disgusted to approach her. She just wanted to die. Fall into the ocean and drift away.
Bile seared Sierra’s throat as she gagged out her stomach contents. She pictured shattering the champagne bottle over Marco’s leering face. Instead, she turned her back, shoulders rigid, while she silently screamed out over surging gray waves. Hank couldn’t imagine her distress now. She dreamed that Hank would come with those stormy gray eyes, a knight riding over the roiling ocean, relentless as the tide and that he would teach this demon that ironclad contracts could never contain the human soul.
Her tears fell into the water, a silent prayer to God above, as the yacht picked up speed and headed back toward the channel. She’d get to see the lighthouse and maybe spy the beaches where she and Hank had walked hand-in-hand with their souls knit together.
Marco possessed only flesh and title—an empty victory. She would teach him that the soul caged behind her ribs still arched toward true love. Toward the innkeeper, who saw beneath her star-studded facade to the lone swan inside.
And forever would she sing for that quiet harbor and his big heart, waiting for death and an eternity in his arms.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When push came to shove, Hank always knew he would stand alone. One man against the elements. One man in the gap, holding back the breach. One man to save the one woman meant to complete him. Brushing off Howie’s feeble attempts at reining him in, Hank jumped into his truck and headed for the marina. Sierra was out there somewhere in the sound with her mortal enemy, and he’d be damned if he didn’t stop the madness.
His only boat was a small Carolina skiff, and he was going up against a superyacht—one large enough to sport a helicopter on board. But what Marco didn’t know was the tricky waters of the sound and the inlet where sandbars loomed in unexpected places. Hank had been reading these waters for years, and he knew the shifting sand like the lines on his palm. Tell-tale signs like tiny wavelets, darker and lighter patches, different shades of blue, and the presence of pelicans and seabirds all meant variations in the underwater landscape.
He barged by several of his poker buddies, carrying two rifles as he boarded his skiff. They called out to him, but he ignored them as he untied his boat and motored away from the dock. Blood roared in his ears, nearly as loud as the straining outboardmotor, as he pushed the vessel to top speed in search of the sleek superyacht out on the misty waters.
He lifted a pair of binoculars with one hand on the wheel, desperately scanning the horizon. If Marco were headed toward the mainland, he’d be wise to follow the buoys for the Swan Quarter Ferry; however, if he had other ideas…
The skiff surged forward, growling with diesel fumes and rearing over a swell. Where could they be? He gripped the wheel as if it were a lifeline to the woman who had anchored herself deep within his heart.
Sierra Rayne. Mine.
Breathing a prayer, he squinted through the gray horizon as a large ghostly vessel crossed toward the south. Could it be Marco wasn’t headed for the interior, that he was going out to sea? Hank gunned the motor, straining it to its pathetic top speed to catch the yacht, which appeared to be cruising with ease.
The asshole was heading to the inlet, giving Sierra a torturous glimpse of all she would be leaving behind. By now, Hank had no doubt Sierra loved him. She was sacrificing her future for his and tying herself as a prisoner to keep Emma safe. Steering his skiff toward the treacherous inlet, one no longer used by commercial shipping, Hank gritted his teeth as the icy spray battered against his face. He squinted against the salt stinging his eyes and pushed his skiff to the limit.
“C’mon, sweetheart.” His plea fell on deaf ears as the churning waters of the inlet tossed the skiff. His thoughts raced as erratically as the current concealing hidden shoals that could spell instant disaster. Sierra, his vibrant and fearless heart, was now in the clutches of the ruthless Marco. The memory of her arms and the taste of her kisses fueled his drive. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—let her future be lost to the abyss of the mob.
As if mocking him, Marco’s superyacht, with its sleek, predatory shape, sliced through the churning inlet with aneffortless glide. Hank pushed harder, trying to force Marco to make a mistake. He knew that the yacht’s deep draft made it vulnerable in the shallower waters of the inlet. He couldn’t let the larger boat escape into the open waters of the Atlantic, where its larger size gave it the advantage of both speed and stability. Raising a rifle to his shoulder, he shot at the yacht to let Marco know he had company.
True, he was like a tiny gnat bothering a bear, but if he could get close enough, if he could force Marco into making a mistake, into taking a course just a little too close to the treacherous sandbars…
The skiff bounced and bucked as he pushed it into the inlet. Spray flew in his face, and he rode the edge of a sandbank, trying to cut off the larger yacht. The boat scraped with a scratching sound, but its flat bottom cleared the barrier. Yet he was no closer to catching the faster boat.
He couldn’t let the yacht reach the open ocean where its speed would take Sierra away. His engine screaming at max throttle, he steered the skiff deadset at the other vessel. But as he drew near, the yacht veered sharply, throwing up a wall of water over its rolled gunwales. The skiff rode higher than other boats, and even though he took on water, he barreled ahead and fired more warning shots.
