Chapter One
Mila
Going Under
“Hey, Mila, don’t throw it so hard. You know I’m a shitty swimmer,” Claire squeals as the Nerf football flies past her outflung hand and splashes behind her.
I laugh as I tread water, my long brunette curls fanning out around my shoulders like a bundle of water snakes. “Don’t be such a wimp, Claire. Put some effort into it,” I shout back.
“I’ll give you effort,” Claire puffs out as she lunges for the ball where it bobs in the choppy water a meter or so beyond her reach. “But I’m saving it for the office. My strength is better spent dreaming up the next brilliant design for a client, not horsing around in salt water.” At last, her fingers close around the spongy orb, and she hurls it back at me in a single motion.
I catch it inches in front of my face. “I agree. You’re not winning any quarterback awards with an arm like that,” I tease.
“Oh, get over yourself,” Claire says with a grumble, spitting water in all directions. “I’m an artist, not an NFL hopeful. And I’m not part fish, either, like you.” She turns and paddles her way toward shore. “If we stay in here much longer I swear I’m going to grow scales. I’m going to dry off and bag the last rays of this magnificent Australian sunshine.”
“Landlubber!” I call after her, tossing the football into the air and flipping onto my back to kick it with my foot as it comes down. The last rays, indeed. We’ve been on vacation in Australia nearly two weeks, and I can’t believe our time is almost over. In a few days, it will be back to the grind for both of us at our design office in New York City.
I bounce the ball off the top of my foot and punt it back into the air. I watch Claire’s slim figure emerge from the waters of the Pacific Ocean and stride onto the sand of the world-famous Bondi Beach, her skimpy, neon-orange bikini clinging tightly to her wet skin. Every man on the beach is gawking at her, including the tanned, blond hottie who turns his head in her direction from his perch atop his lifeguard tower.
Damn my best friend and her traffic-stopping bod. I’m not jealous, exactly; Claire and I have known each other forever, but I did wish my own physical roadmap was a little straighter and a little less hairpin curves. Standing side by side, I was the hourglass, while Claire was the swinging pendulum. And she had a set of cans even a porn star would envy. I have great tits, too, but not the Barbie doll waist and legs to go along with them like Claire. Maybe the hunky lifeguard liked a girl with a little more meat on her bones and afro-esque curly hair. Will he stare at me the same way when I stride onto the beach from the watery depths? I wonder.
While I love the ocean and Claire the terra-firma, both of us are artists at heart. Right out of college, Claire and I started our own graphics and interior design business called Church & Strait—a melding of our surnames, Mila Churchwood and Claire Strait. It had been a financial stretch to set up shop in the heart of New York City, but to attract the kind of clientele we wanted, New York was a no-brainer. We’d worked hard, and this little holiday down under was our self-imposed reward; and for me, a much-needed balm to soothe away the pain of losing my mother. It’s been a year, but I’m still coming to grips with the fact I am now officially an orphan.
The Nerf ball hits me on the head and splashes down in front of my face. I wince as saltwater lands in my eyes, and I squeeze them shut on reflex. Upon opening them, I see the ball drifting out of reach on a receding wave. My eyes still sting, but I move toward it, determined not to let it escape out to sea. I paddle over the swells, but the ball maddeningly seems to move farther away from me with each stroke.
I kick against the pull of the waves, suddenly realizing how much stronger the undertow is, just these few yards out from where Claire and I had frolicked earlier. I know I should start back to shore, but the ball starts moving toward me on a big swell, so I stop swimming to let it come to me. The swell becomes a dark wall of water as it rises, my little ball caught in its grip. I turn and swim away from it, realizing that if I can catch the wave just right as it breaks, I can body surf into shore like a pro. Maybe that will impress the nice-looking lifeguard?
I feel my body rising with the tide, and I stroke harder to keep speed with it. It’s stronger and faster than I thought, and instead of being lifted into the crest of the wave, the watery wall engulfs me with a fury, pitching me forward into a crazy somersault. Underwater, I struggle to regain control over myself, the surreal quiet of the ocean surrounding me, filling my ears. I lose my sense of direction, not knowing which way is up or down. I can’t feel the sand beneath my feet; I don’t know how deep I am. I’ve never known panic in the water before, but it’s introduced itself now. I need air. I need to get to the surface.
The pressure of the ocean finally relents, and I scramble in what feels like an upward direction. I know I shouldn’t expend further energy, but my lungs are desperate for air. I kick toward the light above me and, in the longest moment of my life, I finally break the surface. I gasp and cough, sucking in mouthfuls of blessed air. My limbs feel limp, and I can barely keep my head above the water in the rolling surf. Through my blurred vision, I can see the golden strip of beach, but it seems far away. How did I get this far out? Can I get back? I’m so tired.
Another wave sloshes over my head, drenching me once again. I can’t stay here. I force my numbed arms and legs to move, propelling me feebly forward. My Nerf ball drifts past me as if in mockery. It will probably make it to the beach before I do.
If I ever do.
I strike the ominous thought from my brain and focus on getting to shore. The choppy water seems to fight me, battering me from all directions. I hear splashing; I can make out figures on the beach, halfway into the water as if walking toward me. Then a voice. Close by. Huh?
“It’s alright, just relax. I’ve got you.”
The confident and comforting voice holds a deep Aussie twang. I want to give up and drift into the sound of it. Thank God. I’ve been rescued. Strong arms slip under mine, steadying me in the water.
“You’re alright, kiddo? Are you injured?”
“No,” I say, my voice shaky and gasping. My vision clears as I raise my head and gaze into the bluest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen, set into a rugged, tanned face. “I just want to go in. My friend...”
The handsome face smiles and transforms into something much more than handsome. But I’m too upset to appreciate it.
“Don’t worry about your friend,” he says. “Let’s worry about you. Hang on to me, and I’ll give you a tow in.”
He pries my clinging hands loose and turns his back to me, placing them on his shoulders as he faces toward shore. Instinctively my arms twine around the muscular cords of his neck. My body lifts along with his, and he begins stroking powerfully toward land. My legs trail between his as they whip-kick purposefully, the muscles of his thighs rubbing against mine. My heart thuds against the solid curves of his back.
A small crowd is gathering on the beach. I recognize Claire’s orange bikini among the throng. I feel relieved and embarrassed at the same time. I was supposed to be the swimmer, yet she’s the one with her feet safely on the ground while I needed rescuing from the deep. The lifeguard tower is empty, and a shudder passes through me as I realize who I’m practically choking to death with my arms around his throat. Impressive, not.
Sand materializes beneath our feet, and the man drags me upright as he finds his footing and slogs toward shore. Claire rushes toward us, but my hero isn’t done yet. Before I can balance myself, he scoops me into his bronzed arms like a helpless rag doll. The crowd cheers.
I keep my eyes lowered, too mortified to meet that blue gaze again; instead, I fixate on the droplets of water sliding down his sculpted pectorals as he stalks up the beach with me slung in his embrace. Fuck, the guy is built. I should feel lucky that my rescuer is so fit and strong; I’m no lightweight, especially sopping wet. But what I feel is not luck. Helplessness, indignance, yes. If there weren’t a crowd of people staring, I might allow myself to feel something else.
“Thank you!” Claire shouts, breathless, as she accosts us on the wet sand. “Oh, Mils, are you alright? What happened out there?”
“Just lost her bearings, I reckon,” my Aussie rescuer says. “No worries. The tide’s coming in—catches folks unaware sometimes.” He sets me on my feet. My toes squelch into the water-laden sand. “It’s why I’m here.” He lowers his face toward mine. “Y’alright, darlin’?” he asks, out of earshot from the others.
Still looking down, I realize with horror that my bikini top has shifted, exposing my tiny goddess-figure tattoo and one shriveled nipple. Good Grief. I hurriedly cross my arms over my chest. “Yes, fine, thanks.”
I feel his smile even with my eyes averted. It radiates through the air between us, as palpable as the sun. Ordinarily, I’m not shy about my body, but this occasion is anything but ordinary.
Claire grabs me by the shoulders. “You scared the shit out of me! Thank goodness this man…” She cocks her head toward the grinning blond Adonis. “… has such quick reactions.” Her eyes linger over him as she speaks. “I could have lost you!”
“Ah, now it’s not as bad as all that. She was never in any real danger,” he says, pushing his wet, sun-bleached locks off his forehead with one hand.
“Thanks to you... we owe you big time, Mr…” Claire carries on, her head tilting and eyes widening to elicit an introduction.
“Derric,” he says, his smile unwavering.
“Mr. Derric?”
“Just Derric,” he replies, stepping back a pace. His gaze floats back to me. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of your protective girlfriend.”
“Claire,” Claire supplies immediately. “I’m Claire, and this is Mila. I can’t thank you enough for what you did, Derric. Let us at least buy you a drink later. Are you free this evening?”
“Claire!” I warn, my voice slipping down an octave. “The man’s just doing his job.” My friend and business partner is completely shameless when it comes to interacting with men. I know this; why is it I don’t want her interacting with this particular one? I clutch my arms tighter around myself. My legs feel wobbly, and I start to shiver.
“As it happens, I am free tonight,” Derric says. “Besides, I think I’d better follow up on Miss Mila here.” He casts a worried glance over me. “Are you sure you’re alright, love? I can radio for a taxi, or take you to the hospital? Can’t have any casualties on my watch.”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I insist, leaning on the word ‘fine’. “I’m a good swimmer, honest. I just… got caught off guard. Like you said. It won’t happen again.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Though I’d be quite happy to rescue you another time... Mila.”
Claire sends a pointed look my way as he speaks my name, then returns her focus to Derric. “We’re staying just there,” she says, pointing to our high-rise condo-hotel visible from the beach. “They have a great bar next door. Join us there, say, nine o’clock?”
Derric casts a glance at the building. “Right. The Mambo Wambo. Know it well. Nine o’clock it is.”
I finally risk eye contact and find myself entrapped in Derric’s luminous azure gaze and infectious, dimpled smile. The man is fucking h-o-t.
“See you then. Be well, ladies.” The way he says it comes out like “laydees” and I stifle a giggle along with an unexpected twitch of my private muscles. The Aussie accent is charming as is, but hearing it from Derric’s mouth makes it that much more attractive.
“I need to sit down,” I say while watching Derric’s incredible butt walk away from us and back to the guard chair.
“I think I need to sit down,” Claire declares. “I believe someone’s got eyes for you. Come on.” She guides me to where we laid our towels out earlier.
“Only for my boobs, I’m sure,” I say, adjusting my bikini top into place.
“Well, they are kinda hard to ignore,” she quips. “But you underestimate yourself, Mils. Why shouldn’t a man be attracted to you for something other than your tits?”
“Because next to you I look like a time-warp escapee from Woodstock,” I answer as I wrap myself in my oversize beach towel. My hair is already starting to dry into its familiar dreadlock-like coils. “I’m not exactly a candidate for The Bachelor Australia.”
“True. But you’re an artist. You’re beyond all that plastic phoniness. You’re earthy and real. Some guys like that.”
I snort in protest. “Most of them don’t. You don’t have to prop up my ego, Claire. You know you’re the type men go for, not me.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see about that around nine o’clock,” Claire says with a smug smile. I can tell she wants Derric for herself but is just too good a friend to let it come between us. It’s one of the many things I love about my best friend and design partner.
“You didn’t have to be so obvious. Buy you a drink, sailor?” I mimic. “Jeez. So not original.”
“Oh, who cares,” Claire says with a wave of her hand. “Day after tomorrow we’re on a plane back to New York. Let’s just have a little fun until then, okay Mils? A little fling never hurt anybody. There’s no one here we’ll ever see again in a million years.”
“You mean, ‘what happens in Australia’...”
“Never happened!” Claire finishes.
We both laugh, and I know she’s right. We could have a threesome with Mr. Lifesaver tonight if we felt like it, and no one would ever know about it. All I plan to bring home from Australia is a killer tan and good memories.