The Wonder of You (7 page)

Roark ventured farther, one-handed, letting his rescuer belay him, and ducked under the water. Felt something
 
—a hand, perhaps. Grabbed for it and missed.

He surfaced, pulling against the grip, and sucked in a breath. “She’s down there.”

He’d stopped shivering long ago, his body heavy in the water. Gulping another breath, he went back in.

He didn’t know how many tries it took to finally grab her arm, but he clutched it and pulled her up. Gray and limp, she hung from his grip. He pushed her toward the crowd of men now attending the rescue and let someone pull him from the water.

The group dragged the woman onshore. Stood over her as Roark crawled forward. Someone turned her onto her back and landed a fist on her chest as if shocking her heart.

Didn’t any of these blokes know CPR?

Roark crawled to her, turned her on her side, and swept her mouth. He moved to her chest for compressions, but a soggy
compatriot knelt beside him and began to pump. When he’d finished, Roark tilted back the woman’s head and breathed for her. Water sputtered out of her, and her body shook.

Leaning over her, Roark waited, and the two men fell into a rhythm of breaths and compressions as the circle closed around them.

Time fell away as he begged God
 
—oddly, because he thought he’d run out of chances with God
 
—to deliver her.

Despite the woman’s improving color, the EMTs arrived without the woman having gasped a breath on her own. Roark tried not to blame himself as they added oxygen. He scrambled back, climbed to his feet, shivering as water ran off his trousers, his stocking feet dirty, his muscles cramping.

And it was then, breathing hard, feeling life in its fragile shreds, that he looked up and saw her.

Just like before, standing on a bridge, her hair flame red in the sun, her camera strung over her shoulder.

Amelia.

His heart stuttered.

She held a little girl in her arms and was talking to a local bobby.

The moment crystallized. If pulling a drowned woman out of the unforgiving waters of the north woods could teach him anything, it was not to waste time.

Every breath was sacred, and he knew he’d done exactly the right thing in moving to Deep Haven to repair the hurts he’d caused.

And despite the chaos, the tragedy hanging in the air, the brutal reality of two
 
—possibly three
 
—victims to the torrent of Cutaway Creek, he planned on grabbing ahold of life before it slipped out of his grip.

So he didn’t care that he reeked of river water, his body now racked with tremors, his mouth bruised from the resuscitations.
He edged away from the trauma, keeping his eye on Amelia as she held the little girl, her head resting on Amelia’s shoulder, arms encircling her neck.

Amelia wore an oversize blue T-shirt, dragging low over her jeans, her auburn hair lifted by the breeze. It looked like one of her sisters stood beside her.

Which meant that one of the hockey brutes might not be far behind.

They’d all closed ranks
 
—the brutes, along with Amelia’s brothers Darek and Casper
 
—to not-so-politely ask Roark to leave. However, despite Claire and Jensen’s warnings, and the brutish circle the clan had drawn around Amelia, Roark didn’t much care what they did to him.

Roark’s teeth had started to chatter, his vest soaked through, his trousers chafing, his feet cramping against the rocks as he worked his way to the bridge.

“Hey! You need a blanket!” This from a member of the fire brigade, who jogged to the open ambulance bay and retrieved a blanket. He shook it out and returned as Roark glanced again toward Amelia.

She was still talking with the officer, her hand running in circles against the little girl’s back.

The fireman settled the blanket over Roark, and recognition dawned. A tall man, black hair, big shoulders. “Seb Brewster, medium white chocolate mocha.”

Seb frowned. “You’re that Brit who’s working at the Cup. You were one of the rescuers? I saw you doing CPR.”

“Trying,” Roark said. “Not that it did much good.” He glanced at the woman, now on oxygen, her chest rising and falling. The EMTs loaded her onto a flat board for transport.

Onshore, another group worked on the man they’d pulled out of the water.

A crowd had formed around them
 
—onlookers, an elderly couple, a family. Roark glanced toward Amelia, walking toward the parking lot, her sister beside her.

“You’re a hero,” Seb said. “But you look a little shaky. Maybe you should sit down
 
—”

“Seb! We need a hand!”

Roark glanced at the man behind the voice, down on the river’s edge. Tall, brawny, blond
 
—a lumberjack, no doubt. As Seb left to help, Roark made his escape, weaving through the crowd.

“Roark, what are you doing here?”

At the sound of his name, he stopped and found Jensen on his tail, wearing a pair of EMT blues.

Jensen grabbed him by the arm. “You’re wet and freezing. You could get hypothermia.” He dragged Roark toward the second waiting ambulance. Forced him to sit on the end of the bay.

“I’m fine
 
—”

“You’re not fine. Your lips are purple; your skin is clammy.” Jensen reached for his pulse. “Are you dizzy? Or numb?”

“I’m all right.”

“Yeah, well, your pulse is thready. Listen, I have to get back
 
—they’ve just found the third body.”

Oh no. The kid. Roark clenched his jaw against a rush of cold, blunt emotion.

“I’m going to crack a heat pack. I want you to put it next to your skin.”

Jensen climbed into the bay and returned with a pack, which he ripped open and cracked. “This will start to warm your core.” He lifted Roark’s shirt and pressed it to his skin. “Keep it on your chest.”

The heat burned against him, a pocket of resolve.

“Don’t go to sleep,” Jensen said. “I’ll be right back.” He pulled out a backboard and returned to the trauma site.

Roark found Amelia in the parking lot, talking to her sister and . . . yes, Max, one of the hockey players. So the sister must be Grace.

Amelia set the little girl down, crouched before her. Grace, too, hunkered down. Max shoved his hands into his pockets, wearing a grim look.

Maybe this wasn’t the time . . . but when, exactly, did he plan on executing his brilliant plan to win her back?

Apparently his cowardice had followed him across the pond. And glued him to the pavement as the reality of his actions sank in.

He’d really done it. Ignored her father, her brothers
 
—and frankly, even Amelia herself
 
—because . . . because why?

Suddenly his actions seemed belligerent. Bullying. Even . . . selfish.

His words to Claire rang in his head. He did have honorable intent. He did want to make amends. But what if his appearance in town added to Amelia’s wounds?

He watched as she drew the little girl into her arms. The gesture reached deep, thickening his throat.

If he truly cared for her, perhaps he’d leave before she caught wind of his reappearance in her life.

He heard voices and looked up to see the lumberjack fireman and the bobby headed toward the fire engine nearby.

The firefighter pulled off his wet shirt and reached for his jacket hanging on the end of the engine. “What’s with Amelia and the kid?”

The officer shook his head. Dishwater blond, lean, no-nonsense,
this one. “I think she found their kid, although the girl doesn’t speak any English. I called Diane Wolfe with social services. She’s in Duluth for the night, so Ivy Christiansen is handling a temporary placement. I told Amelia she could take her to the lodge if Ivy approved it
 
—the benefit of having a county attorney in the family.”

“Shoot. There goes our plans for tonight.”

Roark’s head popped up, his eyes on the lumberjack.

“You two are back together?” This from the officer.

“Absolutely. And this time it’s for good. No more traipsing off overseas. She’ll have a rock on her finger by the end of the summer.”

The officer laughed. “Seth, no one would accuse you of pansying around.”

“She’s my girl. Always has been, always will be.” He winked. “I guess I’ll have to figure out another time to remind her of that.”

Roark wanted to shuck off the blanket, level himself at the bloke, but not only was the man as big as a tree, Roark might have been more affected by the frigid water than he’d supposed. The sky had started to turn fuzzy.

Still, he watched as Seth moseyed over to Amelia, slung an arm around her. Saw his expression as she shook her head. Roark didn’t like the way the look settled in his gut, low and tight.

The lumberjack moved away just as Jensen returned, this time helping to carry a body draped in a blanket.

Roark got up and made room for the solemn crew as they loaded the victim into the ambulance. He stood there, stared at the body. Shivered. Listened to the argument in his head.

Yes, he’d hurt her. But what if he went all in, right now, and told her everything? Told her the real reason why she’d found him at the bridge with Cicely and why he’d had to leave Prague so quickly afterward. That would mean, of course, scrolling back
further, through the last two years, the fire, and even before that, to Spain. And Russia.

But maybe he could put it all on the table, every last quid, and then let her decide?

Because life was fragile.

Roark threw off the blanket. Fresh air rushed in around the heat pack, raised gooseflesh on his arms. He headed toward Amelia.

He heard the yip of a siren, saw an ambulance inching forward down the highway, and heard someone call, “Make a hole!” He scampered to the side of the road, the sky taking a sudden dip to the right.

And then he was down. A full-on collapse, his hand reaching for the guardrail as his knees buckled.

“Just how long were you in that water?” Jensen came from behind him, caught him under the armpits.

“Twenty minutes?” He blinked back shadows, his eyes on Amelia, but she had loaded the little girl into her orange Kia. “I have to talk to Amelia.”

“Not today. Not right now, buddy.” Jensen hauled him up, flinging Roark’s arm over his shoulder.

“But I have to tell her something.”

Except he felt pretty sure his words slurred.

“Declare your undying love later, when you know you’ll live.”

“No
 
—I mean, yes . . . but . . .” The words seemed to fray around the edges. What was it? “I shouldn’t have lied.”

“We know that
 
—”

“No, see, I’m not just a bum who broke her heart. I’m . . . the heir to the Constantine fortune . . .”

Suddenly it seemed so ridiculous, the declaration more like babbling than a revelation.

Jensen seemed not to hear him. Until, that is, he got to the ambulance. “Climb in and lie down. There’s room for two in here, and I can’t let Your Majesty perish on my watch.”

Oh, his eyes wanted to close, his body sinking into the gurney. He could feel Jensen covering him up.

“Not . . . royal. I’m rich. Very, very . . . very . . .”

Then the darkness won.

“I
KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE.
Wake up already and tell me. Are you rich or not?”

The voice slithered into the darkness, parting it and tugging at Roark. Everything hurt as he shuffled through the cottony shadows toward consciousness. Toward
 
—

Where was he? He’d woken in the cabins of sailboats in the Caribbean, in European hotels, in Russian train compartments and tents perched on the northeast face of Kilimanjaro. On at least two occasions he’d found himself in a local detention center and, once, in a rank French prison. And yes, he’d experienced the surreal moments of waking in a Scottish hospital ward, his head having taken a good knocking on the rugby field.

He blinked, found himself in a cubicle of a room, the window
small, framed by pink curtains, a midafternoon sun casting shadows. A cotton blanket was pulled to his chest, an IV pinching his arm, and in the chair beside him . . . Oh, he knew this woman. “Claire?”

“I know you were probably hoping for Amelia, but sorry, bub; you’ve got me.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Five years.”

His eyes widened. “Uh
 
—”

“Gotcha.” She winked. “A couple hours. Your body temp was dangerously low. But they fixed you up, and you’re cooking right along. Out of the woods. Just in time, because I think Amelia’s about ready to leave.”

He blinked again at her words, trying to push himself off the pillow. “She’s here?”

“Oh no, you don’t.” Claire caught his shoulders. “There you go, Mr. Freeze. Back in the bed until you get the all clear from the doc.”

He winced. “You didn’t say anything to Amelia about
 
—”

“Your being . . . How did Jensen put it? Rich? Very, very . . . I think there were three
very
s.” She shook her head, smiled. “Nope. In fact, let your broken heart rest at ease; she doesn’t even know you’re here. I saw her come in with the little girl she found at the falls. She and Grace are having her checked out.”

He let out a sigh.

“I can run and get her for
 
—”

“No.”

That came out sharper than he’d intended. “I think I’d prefer to be standing when we talk.” So she could, what? Have less guilt when she walloped him? Because that’s suddenly how their
conversation ended in his now-aching head. The warmth probably rushing back to fuel his brain with common sense.

He’d come to Deep Haven to win her back. Which meant, sadly, keeping secrets.

And Claire only confirmed it when she folded her arms and nodded. “Probably wise, given the weighty news of your impending inheritance. Because I’m guessing you didn’t mean very, very, very rich in
friends
, right?”

He let out a pitiful chuckle. “No.”

“So then . . . You said
heir
, which conjures up thrones and kingdoms. Should I address you as Your Highness?”

“Please, no. I’m not royal. I’m just the heir to the throne of the Constantine group of hotels. My grandfather named me as his successor when he passed.”

“Successor. Sounds royal. And hotels are sort of like palaces. Which leads me to ask . . . why didn’t you mention this when you came to dinner? Rich guy who lives in an efficiency flat over the coffee shop
 
—what’s up with that?”

There it was. The very conversation he’d have with Amelia. Inevitably leading to . . .

“My grandfather’s money has only caused me heartache, so I like to keep it out of the introductions.”

“One of those I-don’t-need-or-want-my-money guys. Spoken only by people who
have
money.”

“Stop being so rough on him, Claire.” Jensen came in, holding two cups of steaming coffee. “Your new boss, Kathy, sent these up. Apparently you’re a bit of a legend now.”

Jensen handed Roark a coffee. Leaned against the wall. “Okay. I’m ready.”

Ready? Oh, right. “It’s not that I don’t like money
 
—of course
I like money. It’s just the way people look at you when they
know
you have money.” He glanced at Claire.

She frowned. “Touché.”

He took a sip of the coffee and felt the heat travel to his belly, fortify him. “And the last woman I loved died because of . . . well, because of me, but also the fact that I have money.”

Jensen set his coffee cup down and crossed his arms.

Roark couldn’t escape it now. He sighed. “I was an assistant manager at one of our branches in Paris
 
—a five-star, with a view of the Eiffel Tower. On the night before I turned twenty-three, I had a party. Invited all of Paris and more
 
—hosted it in the ballroom. Took the cap off the budget.” He blinked hard, looked away. “The place was jammed with guests
 
—most of whom I didn’t know. I’d purchased my own fame and drank it in.”

He still hadn’t pinpointed why he’d needed the adoration of thousands. When he closed his eyes, regret could yank him back to the moment when the screaming began, right after Francesca’s toast. “We’re not sure how, but a fire started on one end of the ballroom. In the chaos of the fire alarm, I got separated from Francesca, my fiancée.”

Claire glanced at Jensen at the word
fiancée
. Roark took another sip of coffee. “We found her after the fire. She’d been trampled.”

“Oh, Roark.” Claire rested her hand on his arm. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He met her eyes. “It was my party.”

He couldn’t bear to confess the rest
 
—how he’d made a few choices that had landed him on the side of God’s wrath, and the hotel fire only confirmed it. “So I quit. Left the hotel industry, the infamy of my mistakes, and have been wandering around the world since then, trying to figure out how to live with myself.” He
set the coffee on his bedside table. “Then I met Amelia. She didn’t see me as broken or damaged or even rich. Just as the guy who made her laugh. Who could speak a couple languages, introduced her to Nutella crepes, and helped her see the world through the different f-stop settings on her camera. I wasn’t the hotel heir who burned down the Constantine Paris, or the grieving fiancé, but a photography bum on holiday. Who happened to be taking the same course she was.”

Jensen raised an eyebrow. “
Happened
to?”

“That might be a stretch, but in my defense, I
was
going to tell her. Just not yet. And not until I’d cleared the way with Cicely, Francesca’s sister. The woman Amelia thought I cheated with . . .”

“That’s why you didn’t tell her who Cicely was,” Claire said. “Because then you’d have to tell her the whole story about the fire.”

“Ending with the fact that my uncle wants me to report to the board in two months to ease into leadership.”

“And you didn’t think Amelia would jump at the chance to helm the empire with you?” Claire asked.

“I don’t know. I just knew that I’d had enough of women seeing only the euros attached to my name. Amelia didn’t . . . and then the omission became gaping, and I didn’t know how to bridge it. I’m not sure what to hope now. Especially since she’s already dating someone else. A big guy named Seth?”

Claire’s mouth formed an O. “Right.”

“His family owns Turnquist Lumber, and he’s the heir to his own throne,” Jensen said. “A sort of Deep Haven royalty, as it were.”

Roark winced.

“So when are you going to tell her?” Claire said.

“Tell her?”

“That you’re rich to the third power. You know, ‘very, very, very’? How rich is that, anyway?”

He sighed. “Add a comma for every
very
.”

The room went quiet as Claire
 
—and probably Jensen too
 
—did the math. Their expressions confirmed the resolve inside Roark. In fact, he doubted that they would hear anything else he said. That was why . . . “I can’t tell her. Not yet.”

“But
 
—”

“No, he’s right, honey.” This from Jensen. “If he tells her, he’ll never know if Amelia loves him for his money or for himself. He has to win her back without the money.”

Thank you, Jensen.

“But with Seth in the way, it does get tricky,” Jensen added. “He has hometown advantage.”

“But Roark has you and me.” Claire got up and patted Roark’s shoulder. “The first thing we’re going to do is get you out of this bed, get you back to our place, and fill you with warm stew, Your Highness.”

“Claire
 
—”

“I’m just kidding. I’m going to call you Caesar instead.”

A guy who just tied the knot with the woman he loved shouldn’t feel like he was choking.

Maxwell Sharpe should definitely not feel as if something dark and lethal had climbed inside his chest, waiting, stalking, ready to devour him.

To gnaw away at his joy.

The feeling had started on their wedding night, at a resort on Isla Mujeres, the Caribbean breeze warm through the window, the
waves a melody against the shore, singing into their cottage. In the cool, sweet night air, Grace Christiansen
 
—now Sharpe
 
—slid into his arms and became his wife.

Afterward, as he’d stared at the ceiling, her hand on his chest, her blonde hair splayed out on the pillow, her breathing full and deep, Max wanted to weep with regret.

Thankfully, the feeling had died in the sunlight of the day, in the glorious abandon of their honeymoon, and he’d thought himself free of it. They’d flown back to Minneapolis, and he’d agreed to the impromptu trip north to Evergreen Resort to tell Grace’s family the good news. Or at least he hoped it would come as good news.

They’d eloped. The word sounded like a gong, a thunderclap of doom resounding louder with each mile northward.

But Grace didn’t seem flummoxed by the fact that they’d denied the family a trip down the aisle, a chance to dress up and stand in honor beside them as the couple made their vows. In fact, she thought it might be a relief after the drama of Casper and Raina’s recent news and with Owen still on the run.

Maybe he knew her family better than she did.

Because even though the Casper-Raina-Owen triangle seemed soap opera worthy, it all paled when set against the brutal reality of Max’s terminal future.

A future that played cruel games, because while right now he proved to be the poster boy for health and vitality, playing forward for the St. Paul Blue Ox, one day his body would ambush him, his latent Huntington’s gene striking like a sniper to his future. And sadly, he wouldn’t go quickly and easily either, but mercilessly, one languishing day at a time, while Grace cared for him, watching him suffer.

Yeah, Max had no trouble at all picturing her father’s reaction to the bombshell of their elopement.

Because he could hardly stomach the shame of succumbing to his own desperate heart, falling in love, breaking his own rules, and marrying a woman who would sacrifice her best years watching him die.

His troubles seemed to vanish, however, when they pulled up to the accidental drowning of practically an entire family. Two members had died on-site, and the mother later, at the hospital
 
—leaving behind a little girl who, providentially, landed in Amelia’s care. And was apparently now in the care of Grace Christiansen. Er . . . Sharpe.

“She should be more traumatized than she is, so we’re going to watch out for shock,” said the doctor on call in the ER, where Amelia and Grace had taken the girl on the advice of Kyle Hueston, deputy sheriff.

The girl sat on an examination table in her pretty pink dress, those red ribbons in her braids loose, kicking her skinny legs against the metal and playing a game on Amelia’s iPhone. She hadn’t responded to their questions, although Amelia claimed she’d spoken Russian or something like it at the river. She’d finally found a name for her
 
—written on the inside of her jacket. Yulia.

Amelia sat behind the girl, reaching around her now and again to help with the game. Grace talked on her own phone to Ivy, working out the child’s sleeping arrangements.

It helped that Grace already had Ivy on her speed dial, as her sister-in-law.

“Weren’t Mom and Dad cleared as foster placements last year when they took in my cousin? Don’t you think
 
—? Oh, okay. But temporarily?”