Page 8 of Uncharted Desires
She turned on her heel, leaving him on the deck. She was done with whatever it was her body was trying to do with this man. She knew better than to go down that road.
“Good night, Kat,” Weston said. For good measure, she held up her middle finger in his general direction. She wouldn’t forgive him simply because he said one nice thing.
He laughed as she walked away, but Kat refused to give him the satisfaction of looking back. She rounded the corner of the deck toward the stairs and stopped to take in deep breaths. Between the alcohol and such a close encounter with Weston, she was struggling to find her equilibrium.
For a moment, she thought she saw a shadow cross the deck and wondered if he had followed her. Turning to investigate, she looked across the dark deck, but seeing nothing, she dismissed it and continued to her cabin.
Kat’s annoyance toward him lingered as she made her way back, hoping Lydia was alone. Lydia and the tour guitarist didn’t have a relationship per se, but rather a no-strings-attached touring friendship that left Kat currently without a room.
A sudden cry for help stopped her in her tracks. She paused and listened. There it was again. Turning, she sprinted up the stairs and ran back on deck, nearly stumbling over the coils of rope on the teak wood. Another cry for help echoing through the night drew her attention to the edge. Trembling, she leaned over the starboard railing’s top rung and saw Weston struggling to get back onto the boat. His hands were clenched around one of the railings of the deck below, his feet slipping and sliding against the wet hull as he tried to climb up.
“Oh my god!” she exclaimed.
“Kat,” he yelled. “Go get help!”
Her head whipped back and forth, scanning the deck for someone who could help them, but everyone had already gone to bed and the noise of the engine prevented Weston’s yells from being heard by anyone not nearby.
“Can’t you swing down onto the lowest deck?” she suggested, eyeing his position. It was possible he could make it . . . Maybe.
“No, Katy,” he replied, his voice strained with exhaustion. “Not if I don’t want to land in the ocean. Can you please just get help?”
With a frustrated whimper, she backed away from the ledge. What the hell was she going to do? Any minute now West would fall into the ocean, and she needed to save him.
Turning, she frantically ran down the upper deck, hoping to find someone or something to help him. How he had flipped off the edge of the yacht was beyond her. She crisscrossed the deck looking for someone to help her, fear and frustration growing inside her at a rapid rate.
He should really give her a large severance package after this. Why was there no one around anymore?
She sprinted down to the deck, catching a glimpse of Weston who was hanging on for his life, waves crashing against the sides of the yacht. She had to do something, and quick. She could tell his arms were getting tired.
Her eyes landed on the bright orange life buoy hanging on the wall.
Why was it hanging so high?
Frantically, Kat looked around for a ladder or something to stand on, catching sight of a large storage bin down the deck. She ran to the bin, unhooking it from the wall and pushing with all her strength. It was heavy, but not immovable. Kat pushed, her muscles screaming at her to stop, but she knew she had to get the buoy. Finally, her energy almost spent, she pushed the box under it.
Without hesitation, she leapt onto a storage bin and snatched the buoy, barely able to reach it. She ran to Weston, urgency pushing her forward, and threw it down to him.
“Here, grab this!”
He observed it swing back and forth, doubt clear in his eyes. “And you’re going to do what exactly?” he asked with trepidation. One of his hands started slipping from the rung.
“Jesus, Weston, just grab it.” She tied the rope to the railing, pulling on it. “Look, it’s tied off; you’re not going anywhere.”
His other hand slipped off the rung, and he grabbed the buoy. “Now what?” His blue eyes pierced through the dark as he held onto the buoy for dear life. His feet were still perched on the edge of the boat.
“Swing yourself over to the lower deck.”
Weston looked at it dubiously, though it didn’t look far away from their current vantage point. She watched his hesitation play across his face. “I’m not Tarzan,” he grumbled.
“Just do it!” Kat stomped her foot on the deck.
He made a sighing sound and slowly pushed up, his feet walking across the boat, the rope and life buoy protesting under his weight. He was surprisingly calm and sure-footed, while Kat could feel her heart about to beat out of her chest.
“There you go,” Kat said as she eased him along. “You’re almost there.”
One scoot of his foot after the other, Weston had moved as far as the rope would take him. “Now what?” He stared up at her, dangling from the side of the yacht, the deck still too far away to lunge onto.
“Stay put!” Kat yelled, her voice trembling. “I’ll find more rope.” She scanned the area for another life buoy, desperation seeping in. There was no time to waste, and not a rope or second buoy in sight. Panic welled within her, but she tamped it down. She had to save Weston first, panic later.