Once she could walk, of course.
He turned the boat down a private canal and pulled alongside a dock. “If I take you into the marina, they’ll know something’s up. I know the guy who lives here. He’s at work right now. The marina is one canal down. I’ll go dock and come back and get you in my truck. It’ll take me about fifteen minutes. You wait right here and don’t move, okay?”
She nodded, trying not to start crying again. He had the sweetest brown eyes. “Thank you, Alan. I really appreciate this.”
He offered her a smile. “It’s okay.”
By the time he returned for her, she’d tried to walk and didn’t make it more than a few steps before she had to sit down again. Her idea had been to disappear so she didn’t have to involve him any more than he already was, but not being able to walk put a kink in that admittedly ill-conceived plan.
He picked her up and carried her around the front of the house to his truck and sat her in the passenger seat.
“I thought I told you not to move,” he chastised when he climbed behind the wheel.
“I wanted to see if I could walk.”
“No, you wanted to take off and run away. Now do you understand what I was trying to tell you? How far do you think you’d get looking like that? Jesus, you look like an extra in a shipwreck movie.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. He laughed, shaking his head as he shifted the truck into drive. “You’re too much, Daphne. You’re worse than my youngest sister.”
He only lived a few minutes away. He pointed out the marina when they passed. “That’s where I keep my two boats.”
She noticed the FMP truck parked in the lot. “Is that your boyfriend’s truck?”
“Yeah.” She didn’t miss the slightly wistful tone in his voice.
“You’ve got it bad for him, don’t you?”
He reddened a little. “Is it that obvious?”
“Guy in love. No mistaking the sound of that.”
His house in south Aripeka wasn’t a mansion, but nicer than middle class. He picked her up and carried her inside, where he set her on the bathroom counter so he could check her feet.
She caught a glance of herself in the mirror. “Holy crap, I am a mess. No wonder you wanted to call an ambulance.” Now that she’d warmed up a little, knew she wasn’t going to die, and had drank another two bottles of water, the worst of her injuries appeared to be her feet and her peace of mind.
“I’ll start the shower and help you get in. When you’re done, I’m taking you to a walk-in clinic so they can look at those cuts.”
When she started to protest again he held up a hand. “Listen to me. You can give them a fake name, tell them you’re my sister or something. Tell them you fell overboard and lost your purse and ID. I’ll pay for it.”
“I can pay.” She unhooked the fanny pack and removed the baggie and her flip-flops. Her clothes, wallet, keys and the cash were all dry. At least something had gone right. “I took it from him when I left. I hope it’s not counterfeit. Wouldn’t that be ironic, to survive Paulie Scorsini, and then get busted for passing fake money?” She laughed, then started sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m just so scared.”
He held her, letting her cry against his shoulder. “Hey, you’re lucky you’re alive.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll stay that way once he finds me.”
“You’re welcomed to stay here as long as you need. I’ve got plenty of room.”
“I can’t impose on you like that.” Not that she had any other options. She damn sure couldn’t go back to Daytona Beach.
He squeezed her hands one last time before turning to start the shower for her. Such a sweet guy. His boyfriend was one lucky son of a gun.
He brought her shampoo and conditioner and a comb for her hair. He offered her a steadying hand while she dropped the towels and stepped into the shower. After pulling the shower curtain closed, she carefully slipped her suit off and handed it out to him.
Trashed by her journey to shore, several long rips split the fabric torn from snagging on the rocks. “Want me to just toss this?” he asked.
“Please.”
“I’ll stand outside the door if you need me.”
“You might as well stay in here. I’m not modest.” Screw it, he was gay. Her feet hurt like hell, especially with the fresh water now aggravating the cuts in her soles. Standing felt like agony since she’d warmed up and feeling had returned to her extremities. She also realized she had scrapes up and down her legs when the water stung those, too.
She tried to work the worst of the snarls out of her hair. It was hopelessly tangled and matted, even after she washed the mud and assorted grass and other crap out of it. “I hate to bother you, but can you help me with this?” She turned around and pulled the shower curtain open enough so he could reach her hair.
She handed the comb to him. He drenched her hair with conditioner and carefully pulled at the ends with the comb. After fifteen minutes, he sighed. “Honey, I’m sorry, but it’s bad.”
“I hate it long anyway. Can you cut it for me?”
“Let me get some scissors.” He returned a moment later. “How short?”
“As short as you need to.”
He touched a place on her back a few inches below her shoulders. “Here?”
“Sure.”
She felt him carefully slide the blade along her back, snipping, then combing and snipping some more until a few minutes later he made one final long cut, in a straight line, across her back. “That’s it.”
“Thank you.” She finished showering, turning the water even hotter while he cleaned the hair up off the floor. It felt weird having shorter hair.
It felt good.
“I’ll be right outside when you finish,” he said, then she heard the door shut.
She found he’d left fluffy towels out for her, as well as a thick bathrobe and a clean pair of socks. She limped over to the counter, dried off, dressed, and pulled the robe on over her T-shirt and shorts. She still felt a little chilly.
“All safe?” he asked through the door.
“Yeah.” He opened the bathroom door.
When he saw how much pain walking caused her, he carried her out to the kitchen, where he’d fixed her some soup. “You need something in you after that night.” She ate as he sat across the table from her. “You can talk to me, you know,” he said.
She nodded but didn’t reply. She had a feeling he didn’t totally buy her story, but she wasn’t about to admit the truth.
She tried not to think about the man she witnessed being murdered. That might make her yak the soup.
Alan must have realized she wasn’t going to talk. “Once you finish that, I’ll take you to the walk-in clinic.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s okay. I imagine you’re going to sleep the rest of the day and a good chunk of tomorrow. Listen, I have to take a charter out tomorrow, but if you promise not to try to run away, I’ll leave you here by yourself.”
She might be stubborn, but not stupid. Paulie couldn’t trace her here. Not this quickly. “I’ll stay. Are you sure it’s not an imposition?”
When he smiled, her heart thumped in reply. Shaggy blond hair, those big brown eyes, sweet, gentle voice, and a hunky bod. What wasn’t there to like? He was adorable, gay or not. “It’s no imposition,” he assured her.
* * * *
The doctor bought her story about falling overboard hook, line, and sinker. She wore one of Alan’s baseball caps with her hair shoved under it. He gave her a tetanus shot, rinsed her wounded feet out with antiseptic, and stitched two of the wounds with dissolvable sutures. After putting her on a preventative round of antibiotics and admonishing her to stay off her feet for the next several days, the doctor declared Alan’s “cousin,” Jenny Walker, otherwise okay.
Alan stopped at a drugstore to fill her prescription. He got her a wheelchair they provided for customers and she held a hand basket in her lap while he pushed her through the store so she could get other things she needed. She bought some cheap tourist T-shirts and beach shorts, underwear too, giving her more than just one set of clothes.
On their way back to Alan’s, she remembered hair dye. “Dammit. I should have gotten that, too.”
He laughed. “You just survived a night in the Gulf, you’re sliced up like you lost a round with a set of Ginsu knives, and you’re worried about your roots?”
“No. I hate being a blonde. The only reason I dyed my hair was for…” She thought about it. “He is my ex now, isn’t he? Not that I probably could have left any other way.” That led to more nervous laughter, which soon turned into crying. “Jesus, I’m losing my mind.”
He parked in front of his house. “No, you’re exhausted. I bet you sleep the rest of the freaking day.” He carried her inside to the guest room, got her situated, then rolled in an office chair. “Use this, stay off your feet so they can heal like the doctor said. I already checked and it’ll make it through the bathroom door.”
Her eyelids felt like two anchors had been tied to them. “Your boyfriend is a lucky guy, Alan.”
He smiled, but it looked a little sad. “Yell for me if you need me, kiddo.”
She crashed into sleep.
* * * *
Alan closed the bedroom door. With a little time to himself to think, he needed a shower. The holes in her tale about why she jumped overboard sounded big enough to fly a jumbo jet through. With three younger sisters, he knew better than to push Daphne for more answers. She would open up to him and tell him the full truth when she felt safe enough to do it.
Until then, he’d have to wait her out.
Now the problem would be wrangling Jerald so he waited her out, too. He would want to go all cop on her ass and try to force the story from her.
Something had terrified her, without a doubt. A person doesn’t get rescued from the Gulf just to try to jump out of a boat again. Not unless they have something to hide.
Or fear.
After his shower, he sat at the kitchen table. She’d left her wallet laying there. He picked it up and looked through it. Daphne Peres. Daytona Beach address. Her driver’s license had been issued a month earlier, before her renewal date. Just moved, maybe? Twenty-three years old. She’d had her birthday that past July eighteenth. She also had a Social Security card, and a recently expired student ID for the University of Central Florida in Orlando. Well, that ruled out her being an illegal alien, most likely.
He looked up at the sound of Jerald’s truck in the drive. He’d lost track of time. It was after six already…
The barbecue. Dammit.
Jerald walked in, a pleased look on his face and dressed in a nice button-up short-sleeved casual shirt and khaki shorts.
Yum!
And…it would go to waste.
When Jerald walked in, he frowned at the look on Alan’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“You need to sit down. I’ve got a whopper for you.”
“Is this about why you didn’t call me like I asked? That’s not like you. Only reason I didn’t chew you out is I had to deal with a BUI and saw your boat was at the marina when I got back.”
“Just sit down.”
Alan watched Jerald’s professional mask immediately slip into place. “I guess this means we’re missing the barbecue?”
“Yeah.”
Jerald pulled out a chair and sat. Alan related the day’s events and handed him Daphne’s license.
Jerald didn’t speak until Alan finished. He stared at her license. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“You can’t go all Perry Mason on her.”
“Perry Mason wasn’t a cop. He was an attorney.”
“You know what I mean, Jer.”
“Why didn’t you call me when you found her?”
“Because she totally flipped out when I mentioned the Coasties. I did tell her you’re FMP and could help her. She’s scared for her life.”
He let out a long, sad-sounding sigh. “Did you call them and tell them we won’t be there tonight?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay. Do it. Blame it on me, if you want. Say I had paperwork or something. I’ll be back in a few.” He picked up her wallet and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. I’ve got to run her license. My work truck with my laptop is there.”
“You can’t report this! I told her I wouldn’t.”
“I need to find out if she’s got any outstanding warrants, or if there are any missing person reports.”
“Jer, please, I promised her.”
“I have to do this. If I get nothing back on her, I won’t call in a report.”
Alan made the call to their friends and apologized for their absence. Then he nervously waited until Jerald returned thirty minutes later. Jerald laid her wallet on the table. “She’s clean. No record, no outstanding warrants. One traffic warning citation a year ago for a headlight out. The new license was an address change from Orlando. No car currently registered in her name, but she’s got insurance through one Paul Scorsini, Jr., of Daytona Beach.” He arched an eyebrow at Alan. “You do know who they are, don’t you? This could be a major fucking deal. You realize that, right?”
“Yeah. I realize that.”