No Quarter Given. Lindsay McKenna
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this time of the evening, with the tide moving out. Hunter’s Point was his favorite getaway spot, a place where he could think without being distracted by a lot of tourists crowding the long sandbarlike island that stretched endlessly in a slight crescent, parallel to the Florida coast. The white sand met the blue-green water, the waves small and frothy. His shoulders fell and relaxed as he allowed the lap of the water and the cry of the sea gulls to take away his tension. It had been one hell of a day.
Scuffing his toes into the damp sand, Griff watched as the sun, low on the horizon, dipped behind towering cumulus clouds. His mother would have commented on what looked like the face of a dog in the clouds. Carol wouldn’t even have noticed it. What would Dana have said? Disgusted with his meandering train of thought, Griff spun around, allowing his chin to drop toward his chest, introspective.
Dana. What was he going to do about her? This morning, she’d displayed the kind of eagerness that he liked to see in a student, but didn’t often get. Her melting blue eyes haunted him. He knew she was in pain from the black eye. Having collected a few shiners in his seven-year naval career, Griff knew they ached like a son of a bitch for at least a week. It hurt to talk, to chew food and to smile. Dana wasn’t a complainer as Carol had been. If Carol cut her finger slicing a tomato, she acted as if he should take her to an emergency room.
Mulling over the comparison, Griff stopped and turned, facing the ocean. The horizon was turning a peach color, the sun behind the clouds lining it with blazing gold edges. He’d seen gold flecks in Dana’s eyes when he’d begun teaching her about the walk-around. Did gold mean she was happy? With a groan, Griff rubbed his face and tried to erase Dana from his mind and heart.
A movement caught his attention. Squinting, he saw a lone woman about half a mile up the deserted beach. His heart thudded. It was Dana. Wading into the ocean in a dark blue one-piece bathing suit, she didn’t seem aware of his presence. Hunkering down, Griff rocked back on his heels and watched her. He was sure she hadn’t seen him. She had left a bright, flowery print towel on the beach and was moving her arms in warm-up motions. That’s right, she’d been the captain of the Annapolis swim team, he remembered. Quirking his mouth, Griff hated the thought that his brain had retained everything in Dana’s file.
She was incredibly slender, Griff observed almost with alarm. So small and graceful as she leaned down, cupping the water and sluicing it across her body. Her thighs were curved and firm, the calves tightly muscled and slim. His gaze ranged higher, to her small waist and breasts. Women would probably die of envy for her waist, Griff thought. It couldn’t be more than eighteen inches. He sat down in the sand, enjoying the sight of her economical movements. Warming up before swimming was to be applauded.
When Dana dived into the water, Griff’s breath lodged in his throat. She reminded him of a sleek, shining dolphin. When Dana resurfaced, she was nearly a quarter of a mile out to sea. She had incredible lungs to swim that far without air. Griff kept forgetting she had captained the swim team. With each stroke, she moved farther and farther out across the rose-colored mirror of the gulf, tiny ripples forming around her with each clean, slicing stroke. Shading his eyes even though he wore aviator sunglasses, Griff could barely keep Dana in sight. Worry nagged at him. She was a good mile out from the coast.
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