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“Go and sit down before you pass out. You’re pale.”
“I’m okay,” she lied. Or was it the truth? She was shaken up by the phone call yet being here with Noah, beneath a clear, star-lit sky, a balmy breeze drifting off the western coast of France, she found it impossible to give herself over to catastrophizing things completely.
“I’d feel better if you sat down.”
“I’ll make a tea,” she said as a compromise. “Would you like one?”
“Coffee,” he responded with a gruff nod, then softened it. “Thank you.”
The narrow staircase was pitch-black and her heart rate shot through the roof as she fumbled around for a light switch, sweat beading on her brow in a familiar panic reaction until she found it and flicked it, flooding not just the staircase but also the boat’s interior with a warm glow. You’re safe, you’re safe.
Below deck, the catamaran was surprisingly well-appointed, modern and stylish without being over the top grandiose. The interior ceiling was dark wood, the details matched but the floor was a cream linoleum, easy for hosing out. The furniture was white leather, and as she looked around she saw a single bedroom, with a very large bed, under the bow of the catamaran. A smile touched her lips; it widened when she realized there were portal windows on either side of the bed. Okay, being stalked was a waking nightmare, but this was most definitely a silver lining.
A comfortable, neat sitting room boasted a sofa that tucked right along the side of the boat, beneath the windows, and a coffee table in front was made of tempered glass. The kitchen was all dark timber, well-appointed, with electric frying pans, a sandwich press, and enough packaged, long-life food to make Max think they could hide out here for months. The thought pulled her up short, because far from being silly or sarcastic, the idea lodged in her brain and refused to budge, so she was forced to admit – only to herself – that being stranded on this yacht with only Noah for company would be a form of nirvana.
She stared out at the ocean as the boat motored across it, the lights of the shore becoming a distant smudge very quickly, so she exhaled a breath of tension she hadn’t known she’d been holding, watching the disappearing marina until the kettle was boiled. It didn’t take long to locate what was required for their drinks and a moment later she was carrying them upstairs. Noah stood at the wheel, on the windward side of the boat, so impossibly handsome and in control that her stomach did a funny little squeeze.
“Find everything okay?”
She nodded, handing over the drink, shivering a little as out here, well into the Bay of Biscay, the wind had picked up. Noah saw – of course he did. What didn’t the man observe? – and reached into a narrow, weatherproof hutch at his side, removing a dark blue jacket with a hood and reflective patches on the sleeves. She placed the drinks down to his side and took the jacket appreciatively, sliding her arms into it before Noah moved in front of her and zipped it up, his fingers moving slowly, body close to hers, his breath on her forehead making her tummy tangle and tighten.
His eyes roamed her face and he looked as though he wanted to say something, or perhaps he was just reassuring himself that she was okay? He turned back to the wheel and continued to steer the boat for a few more minutes before cutting the engine and dropping the anchor with a soft but mechanical winching sound. Once secure, the silence was palpable. He took his coffee and moved to the leather seats at the front of the catamaran; Max followed, her hands cupping the tea for warmth.
The smell of salt filled her nostrils, the gentle lapping of the boat calming even when her pulse was rushing through her veins, in hyperdrive.
“This is so peaceful.”
“Yes,” he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees as he stared first at the shoreline and then at Max.
She sipped her tea, watching him. “How do you know he won’t find me here?”
Noah’s frame tensed almost imperceptibly. “He won’t.”
“But your boat must be registered in your name. If he knows who you are, your company…”
“The boat is registered through about a thousand different companies to avoid exactly that,” he said brusquely. “It’s my ultimate bolt hole, a place I know to be completely off-grid. The marina berth is held by a dummy corporation with no way of tracing it back to me, it’s completely safe.”
“Do you use this rescue of last resort often?”
“Never. You’re the first person I’ve brought here, Max.” He held her eyes over the rim of his cup as he sipped the coffee. Steam vapour blew towards her and out of nowhere she contemplated the transience of life, the brief and intangible moments that are impossible to grab hold of. “A bolt hole doesn’t really work if you tell the whole world about it.”
She massaged her lower lip with her teeth. “Have you never needed to use it before?”
Again, his whole body tensed and her heart kicked up a notch.
“You’re worried,” she murmured, drinking her tea to stop her voice from quivering. “You think this guy’s getting close.”
He stared at her with that steely look of his. “I missed something tonight. I couldn’t take my damned eyes off you, Max, and I missed something. If I put you in harm’s way, then I will never live with myself. I need you here. Safe. While I work the problem with my team, analysing footage of tonight, tracing the call, trying to put all this together while being assured of your safety. There’s too many moving parts otherwise. I have to protect you.”
Her heart stammered and for a second she let herself believe he was talking to her as a woman, that his drive to keep her safe was about her, personally, rather than his professional determination and a soul-deep need to undo the loss he’d experienced with his sister, the guilt he felt for not having been able to save her.
“You live in America, right?”
If he was surprised by the conversation change, he didn’t show it. “Yeah.”
“So why have a boat in Europe?”
“I have clients all over the world,” he reminded her. “I’m never in the states for long. Or anywhere in particular.”
