UPON THE STORM Read online

  The elevator rose smoothly. Christy gripped the rail behind her back as if she expected it to fall the full fifteen stories of the building. "I can't," she whispered.

  Jerry looked at her oddly. "But it's a wonderful chance. It seems that the head of Hurricane is quite a fan of your work. It was his idea." Jerry's brow furrowed for a moment. "He wants to see you alone first, but I'll be waiting."

  Christy took a deep breath, fighting for control. Personal fame was something she didn't dare risk. "I am … a very private person, Jerry. I could never do something like this."

  "At least listen to the proposal," he urged, clearly puzzled by her reaction to a plum most people would have jumped at. For his sake, she thought, she would listen. But nothing on earth could change her answer. The elevator doors slid open.

  The heavy, carved-wood door was bare except for the letters HPI just below eye level. If she hadn't known, she never would have guessed what kind of business was conducted behind that door; she appreciated the presence of subtlety in an unsubtle business.

  The office was small but comfortable, with several plush chairs and a lovely antique table that apparently served as a receptionist's desk; it was empty now. Jerry gestured toward a door to the right.

  "Go on in. He's waiting for you."

  Christy looked at him for a long moment. This seemed very strange to her, and she could see Jerry wasn't happy with it, either. But the head of Hurricane Productions apparently got things his own way. She looked at the inner door, which was marked Private. Only then did she realize she had never asked the name of the man she was about to see. She looked back and was startled to see the outer door closing behind Jerry, clicking shut with a final sound.

  Shrugging off a strange sense of foreboding, she reached for the inner door. Seconds later, she was wishing she had listened to her instinct.

  "Oh, God," she whispered, staring at the man standing by the window across the room.

  "Don't run. Please."

  The husky plea froze her, and her chin came up at the word run. Then it dropped. She couldn't deny that running was exactly what she'd intended. And exactly what she'd been doing, for a long time.

  Her mind was reeling. The only thing it could seem to absorb was the fact that he was wearing that jacket, the one in the picture on the plane, the same one, she realized now, that he'd been wearing that day. She could see the jagged scuff mark on the right shoulder, could see the dark stains on the battered leather. She wondered why he didn't buy a new one. It wasn't as though he couldn't afford it. She almost laughed at herself, seizing on the most inane thing…

  Even though he'd known, Trace was as stunned as she was. The image he'd carried for so long, the picture he'd told himself couldn't be true, was here before him. And he'd been right. The vision wasn't true; the reality was much more vivid. He'd thought her beautiful then; he'd never guessed she could look like this. That pale blue cloth caressed her slender yet voluptuous figure, giving her gray eyes a blue tinge that made them look like the first touch of sunrise on the night sky…

  Neither one of them said any more, each seeing in the other's eyes the unraveling of the skeins of memory, knowing that they had both battled to bury the memories in some dark, cold place. And that this was the moment to set them free…

  * * *

  Two

  « ^ »

  He'd never been so furious. Who the hell did Ringer think he was, anyway? Directors were a dime a dozen; it was his name, his face, that sold the show, and he'd damned well had enough of that arrogant little—

  He swore sharply as the car skidded on a turn, then yanked the wheel around and jammed his foot once more on the accelerator. His scowl was as dark as the sky, his mood considerably darker.

  They could just sit and stew, he thought with a grim pleasure, Roger had tried to placate him, to stop him, talking of the time lost, the shooting schedule, the crew, the network brass, none of which he gave a damn about, and he'd said so in one short, crude phrase.

  Seeing he wasn't getting anywhere that way, the man had tried to dissuade him by bringing up the approaching storm.

  "I grew up in Corpus Christi," Trace had snapped. "Don't tell me about hurricanes. Besides, it's supposed to veer north, anyway. Just call and get me the damn ticket, Red."

  He'd used the nickname intentionally, knowing Roger hated it. It had had the effect he wanted; the older man shut up.

  So he was home, under threatening skies, pushing the rental car to the limit. He had his own expensive Italian sports car at the house, kept there for whenever he took a notion to drop in and play the hometown-boy-made-good, but he hadn't wanted to send for it. The last person he wanted to see was his self-righteous little brother.

  Or his mother, with her constant sniveling about how hard her life had been. When his father had been alive, she'd railed at him for not making enough money. When he'd died—probably nagged to death, Trace thought bitterly—she'd complained that he'd left her in dire need, although she always seemed to have enough for a new dress, while Trace and Tony went without jackets through more than one wet winter.

  When he'd pushed himself to the limit and then beyond, working every day after school until dark, trying to make enough money to quiet her wailing, he'd wound up in the hospital, and she had screamed at him for what it was costing. She'd worked herself into a frenzy of self-pity at having been left a poor widow at thirty-four, with never a thought for the son who had lost his father at sixteen, or his even younger brother.

  He supposed she had wanted to convince him that she was special and deserved to be pampered. What she had accomplished was to convince him that she was spoiled, greedy and impossible to please, and he'd sworn the day he got out of the hospital that he would never try again. And if he looked upon the rest of womankind in much the same way, he didn't care.

  He skidded to a halt in the nearly deserted marina parking lot and slammed the door as he got out, his anger still simmering, as it had been ever since he stormed off the set and told the world in general to go to hell.

  Robert Ringer was a stiff-necked son of a snake, and Trace Dalton had had his fill of being ordered around like some bit actor. He was the star of this show, and if they'd forgotten that, it was time they remembered it.

  He strode down the gangway to the dock, his anger growing at the fact that it seemed to be pitching under his feet. He ignored the intense swaying of the trees and the fact that the sound of the wind was occasionally punctuated by the crack of a small branch snapping under its force. He looked for one of the dock boys, ready to snap out an order to get his boat ready, but none was in sight.

  "Afraid of a little swell and a few gusts of wind," he muttered scornfully, walking to the end slip that held the long, low, powerful speedboat. He'd bought it a few months ago, after the end of the first season. It had been a little foolish; the series had ended strong after its shaky start, but that was no guarantee it would continue that way. He hadn't cared; the need to show up everyone who'd told him he was a fool had been much greater than any caution he had felt. And the need to show Tony. Especially Tony.

  He rolled back the canvas cover, a little perturbed at having to do it himself in this wind. What the hell do I pay these guys for, anyway? he grumbled as he stuffed the roll of blue canvas into the locker at the head of the slip. As if conjured up by his thoughts, an astonished young man in one of the marina's red shirts appeared.

  "Mr. Dalton? It is you! What are you doing?"

  "What does it look like?" he asked sarcastically.

  "But the near-gale warnings have been up for hours, and they're talking about going straight to strong gale warnings right now! Even the Intracoastal is too rough. You can't go out now!"

  Trace stared at him icily. "Don't tell me what I can't do. I've had a bellyful of it. It's my damned boat, and if I want to take it out, I will!"

  "But the hurricane—"

  Trace cut him off with a brief, harsh suggestion about what he could do with his hurrican
e. He'd heard on the radio that it wasn't due for hours yet, and even then, Corpus Christi would most likely get only the fringes. He would stick to the protected Intracoastal Waterway, the long stretch of water between the Texas coastline and Padre Island, and he would be back in plenty of time. And right now, tackling the storm-driven seas suited him just fine.

  He cast off, letting the throaty roar of the motor drown out the boy's continuing protests. As soon as he was clear of the breakwater, he shoved the throttle forward, sending the sleek craft slicing through the rising swells. The rush of air whipped his hair fiercely, and the slam of the hull as it hit the water was strangely satisfying. Even the surrounding gloom, ominous in its rapidly darkening intensity, seemed to fit his agitation.

  He went on and on, barely aware that the swells were growing, the wind sending foam from the waves in streaks. His agitation grew with the conditions, until it changed somehow from anger to a sort of reckless exhilaration. Somewhere in his head a little warning was trying to be heard, but he didn't want to listen.

  Then an out-of-synch swell hit him, coming from a different direction than the others, and he came back to reality with a sharp thud. He realized that the waves, even here on the leeward side of the long, narrow strip of land that was Padre Island, were beginning to surge above him. And the warning that he'd ignored came crashing home; he would be fighting a dangerous following sea all the way back. He edged the throttle back, and when the next swell lifted him out of the trough, he looked around.

  What he saw in the distance, on the Gulf side of that tiny strip of land, sent a chill rippling down his spine. Those waves had to be ten feet high, if not fifteen. Streaks of wind-whipped foam marked every surface he could see, spray was starting to kick up, and he could hear the howl of the wind on that side, ominously, and even more menacing than the wind that whipped him here.

  He had no choice but to run for it, but the thought of taking the low, broad-beamed little craft back with that heavy swell behind him was not a pleasant one. Serves you right, he thought, swearing fervently at himself. You'll be lucky if you don't have to beach it to save your stupid neck.

  He battled the surging water for what seemed like forever; if he made any headway, he couldn't tell. He had to slow to keep the bow of the boat from digging in as it slid down the slope of the waves; at best the stern would lift clear of the water and the prop would race. At worst…

  He didn't want to think about the worst, but he knew with a grim certainty he was going to have to. Caught in a wider trough than he'd been seeing, he edged up the throttle just a little, only to have the propeller scream as a sideways swell lifted it clear. The vibration as it hit the surface again rattled his teeth and nearly wrenched the wheel from his hands, and when he heard an ominous crack from somewhere abaft of him, he knew his luck had run out; it was time to run for the beach. Any beach.

  Just turning into the swells was a relief in itself. He cut the throttle back even more, dreading the sound of the racing prop when it was lifted clear of the water and the hideous shudder when it came back down and bit deep. He slowed till he was barely making any headway at all, just enough forward movement to be able to steer, all the while aware that he was becoming rapidly exhausted.

  Everything else seemed to fade away; his reckless flight and his reason for being here dwindled into foolish insignificance. He was fighting for his life now; he knew it in his soul, even if he refused to acknowledge it in his mind.

  He almost made it. He could see the beach, wind whipped, wave torn and utterly beautiful. He was so tired he even thought he saw someone there, a slim figure in red, a bright splash of color in a world gone wet and gray. Then a wave—one of those crazy, rogue waves—appeared, some freak combination of cross seas that surged above him like a giant, seeking claw. It gripped the little boat like a toy, and he hung suspended for one brief second before it slammed him down in a crushing blow.

  He heard a tearing, splitting sound, and then he was falling, or flying, he wasn't sure which, because he couldn't tell the sea from the sky. Then the water closed over him, drawing him down with frightening strength. He fought, hanging on desperately to the one gulp of air he'd managed to take before he'd hit.

  Just when he thought he couldn't last, he broke the surface and sucked in a breath that was half water. Coughing and gagging, he tried again and got more air this time. He tried to smother his panic. He'd been close enough to shore to see whatever that was that looked like a person. He could make it … if he could just figure out which way "it" was.

  He rode a swell up for a look; it wasn't as close as he'd hoped, but it wasn't impossible. At least, that was what he told himself. He could do it, with a little luck. Unless, of course, he'd run as completely out of that as had the boat he'd been so fond of. He thought of tossing up a prayer, but decided in a brief moment of grim self-knowledge that if there was a God, He probably wouldn't believe in any sudden changes of heart from someone like Trace Dalton.

  And for a moment he thought he wouldn't need any help. He was, incredibly, drawing closer to the beach, which was now deserted, if indeed that slash of red hadn't been his imagination. He was exhausted, his arms and legs felt like lead weights, but he kept going, every stroke an agony of effort. Every time he found a swell to ride forward, the cost seemed to be searing minutes of being dragged down by the undertow. Still, he thought he could do it.

  Then, just as he was trying to speed up his stroke to pick up another swell that might gain him a few more precious feet, he caught a glimpse of something out of place, something menacingly solid in the midst of the swirling water. He had only a split second to recognize it as a splintered, twisted mass of fiberglass and metal before it caught his temple, sending a blinding flash of light and a searing stab of pain through his head.

  Nothing was working. He tried to send the message to his arms to keep stroking, to his legs to keep kicking, but something was wrong. The salt water stung his eyes, and he realized he was looking up at the surface, not the spray-clouded sky. With every feeble movement the ache in his chest increased.

  Doggedly he kept trying and was rewarded with a stronger kick, but it cost him. The ache became a burning, piercing pain, he heard a roaring in his ears, and he knew he was down to seconds.

  The part of his mind that was rebelling against the pain told him to let go, lured him with the promise of peace, sweet, painless peace. The grim, self-abasing part of that mind, newly awakened, told him nobody would miss him much. Tony, maybe, in memory of the days when they had been so close, and perhaps the fans, who didn't really know him…

  The pain in his head faded to nothing beside the agony of his lungs, and he made one last desperate effort to overcome the sluggishness of his rattled brain. It took the last of his air, and in that moment he felt his hand break the surface. He tried to follow it up, but there was nothing left, and in the fraction of a second before he opened his mouth to end it, to let the sea have her victory, his only thought was what a damned stupid way to die.

  It wasn't anything like he'd expected. He'd wondered, in the time after his father died. He'd thought it would be bright light, or pitch-black, not this weird, in-between fog. Even the first gulping intake of water had been different than he thought it…

  Something hit him in the chest, hard. It hit him again, then grabbed him by the throat. So this was it, he thought from that gray, floating place he'd gone to. Funny, it didn't really hurt. He must be getting close to the end…

  No sooner had he thought it than the pain struck. Searing, scalding pain, from his throat to the pit of his stomach. It ripped at him, a hundred times worse than that earlier agony. So the promise of peace had been a lie, too, he thought ironically, like everything else. He tried to curl in on the pain, ashamed of the tears that were stinging his eyes, thinking that he was proving himself a coward as well as an idiot; he couldn't even die with any kind of style.

  The grip on his throat tightened, then moved, tilting his head back. Then, over the ro
aring in his ears, which had become strangely distant, a word.

  "Breathe."

  They talked to you? he thought in astonishment. It had been a low, strained voice. Odd. He would have expected calm. He wondered where he would wash up, when it was over. If he ever did.

  "Breathe … damn it…! Help me!"

  Again harsh, broken up by gasping breaths. Breaths? They had to breathe? The pain came again, worse this time, but surpassed by the shock of realization: The pain was air rushing into his lungs. Confused, he struggled to look for the source of the voice.

  "Don't … fight … me."

  Fight? He'd given that up, hadn't he?

  "Just … float … and breathe."

  A soft voice, husky between the gulping breaths. A nice voice. Soothing. Damn, it felt real, whatever it was. It felt like hands holding him, tugging at him. Lifting him. Then the pain again, clawing, tearing. Air. Where was he getting air? Or was this part of it? Had his mind just surrendered its grip on reality in these final minutes?

  "That's it … easy … can you … kick?"

  I'm supposed to help? This doesn't make sense. But is it supposed to? And why am I able to just float here and analyze this like it was a script? The pain again. It was air. Or did the water just seem like air, afterward?

  "Come … on." The tugging was stronger, the roar that had faded somewhat was back, and he could hear the rush of the water again. "Kick … if you … can. Get there … faster."

  Did he want to get there faster? If it would stop this burning, racking pain, he did. He tried vaguely to follow her instructions. Her? Where did that come from?

  "That's it… Again."

  I can't figure this out. I'm just so tired…

  "Again!"

  Okay, don't get mad. I'll kick.

  "Keep … going."

  Why am I doing this? I'm tired. Isn't this supposed to be over? I wish that roaring sound would stop.