Where It Began

Elias had chuckled at Daniel’s jaw-dropping reaction to Maria, and murmured, “I know, son.”

Daniel had asked to accompany her down to the beach. She had smiled, taken his hand, and from that day forward, had never let it go.

Then, there was Carmen. How twins could be so diametrically opposed boggled his mind. While Maria was sweet, sensual and loyal, Carmen was like a viper. Beautiful and dangerous. Any man who came into her sights was not long for this world. At least, that’s how Daniel perceived her.

Carmen had spent way too much time with her mother. Daniel suspected that the charming and seductive Rosalinda indulged in a few secret indiscretions, but that was no business of his. What was his business, however, was Maria. He had seen, firsthand, how his girlfriend’s naïveté shielded her from her coldhearted sister and calculating mother. Daniel had pegged both women as poisonous from his first encounters.

While he would always be grateful for Rosalinda’s generosity in bringing him into her home, he never extended himself past everyday courtesies or brief conversations. After he’d become older, Rosalinda’s gaze seemed to offer far more than a mother figure should. He’d always wondered why Maria and Elias couldn’t see this behavior in the other two women. He never acknowledged his own discomfort, not when Maria seemed happy.

He only wished he had known back then what he knew now. Perhaps he wouldn’t be sitting in this cockpit, anxious to restart his life while the woman of his dreams stormed below in a huff, wishing anyone, other than he, was on the Honora.

Literally. This trip was going to be hell.

THREE A.M. ARRIVED WITHOUT a sound. Daniel stretched on his bunk, immediately awake as if the water lapping the hull had caressed his senses alive. Years of sailboat racing had his internal clock set for the changing tide. Other than Maria, nothing appealed to him more than manning a ship under sail.

The heat of adrenaline surged through his veins at the prospect of running the Honora across the Gulf Stream. Clearly, it had been too long since he’d felt the sea beneath him. He could look at this trip as a shakedown for his confidence. Test the waters. Test his skills. Recapture faith in his vocation.

He was going to make this trip his way. Safely. Getting them there and back without a hitch. He’d clocked too many miles on a sailboat to let one accident, no matter how terrible, stop him from knowing exactly how to run a ship under any conditions. Besides, overcoming this hurdle would set several serious wrongs to right. He had made this promise to himself, to Carmen, to Rosalinda.

Making this run across the Gulf Stream would also help cleanse the poison in his heart that was filled by the Santiago women. He’d given up way too much for love. And though there was a very real chance that Maria might return once more to his arms, he needed this trek to reveal his own desires. Since the accident, Maria seemed more callous, the way Carmen used to be. Yet, Maria’s doctor assured him her behavior was a symptom of the amnesia. Fear often caused an amnesia victim to withdraw, or lash out, whichever reaction made them feel safer.

Once they reached the Bahamas, he and Maria might manage to enjoy the journey, as long as he ceased doubting his own abilities and helped Maria to feel safe.

He shook his head. At the rate yesterday afternoon had gone, fat freaking chance. Already his bravado was wavering. She had spoken to him more since boarding the ship than she had in a year, even if it had upset him. He’d almost forgotten how her sultry voice stirred his blood. Maybe if he played the role of a jerk, he could keep the animosity going and not worry about trying to seduce her.

Right. Even if he enraged her, he’d want to test his skills at subduing her. Hell, he used to do it all the time with her hotheaded temperament. Yes, indeed. He was screwed, no matter how he played his hand.

Her cabin was quiet across the dark salon. It was time to sail. The only drawback to the location of her berth was that the rattling anchor chain might awaken her.

Would that be so bad?

A beautiful woman’s company on a starlit morning with the trade winds pushing them across the Atlantic? Another impossible fantasy. Damn. So many dreams seemed just out of reach. Sighing, he climbed the companionway onto the deck.

She looked ethereal seated on the bow as moonlight mingled with the lantern light swaying above her head. The onboard breeze teased his senses with her perfume. Intent on the new creation coming to life on the easel, she didn’t sense him this time.

He sent a grateful prayer skyward. He wanted to watch for as long as possible. When she painted, his beautiful, talented and emotionally driven lover came to life. As usual, watching her concentrate while she created made him want her even more. It always had.

The waning moon behind them cast the tall mast and deck in silver light and shadows. Anyone else would have been facing the moon, bathing an upturned face in its thin, seductive light. But not Maria. She’d turned her back on the obvious.

Instead, she painted like a woman purging a nightmare. Agitation seemed to flow through the bristles as she slashed the ink-black canvas with haphazard strokes. She changed brushes without looking, and slowed to concentrate on what resembled singed angel wings spiraling through the star-dotted canvas past a fine line delineating night from a hollow, indigo sea. The effect was alluring. Forbidding.

Maria seemed terrified.

His breath caught in his throat. He’d catch her if she fell. Didn’t she know that? He drew closer, wanting only to comfort her.

With his first step, her head dropped.

“Why do you sneak up on me?”

The despair in her voice stung.

So, she wanted to cross swords. At least she was talking to him. “I like to see you jump, Princess. Nice to know you’ve still got a pulse.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

He waited, willing her to look at him. Not a chance. “I thought you were sleeping.”

From the way her head dropped back, he could tell she closed her eyes, as if trying to gain patience with a buffoon. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“What are you painting?”

She scrunched a shoulder. “The moon.”

He moved closer. Still no eye contact. “But the moon is behind us.”

She lifted a hand toward the open sea. “Yes, but moonlight stains the sky and sea in pieces.”

Despite the intermittent flash of the lighthouse on the point, the few boats at anchor reflected the moonlight in glittering silver.

“You see the moon in pieces?”

She slowly met his gaze, as if surprised by his question. “It didn’t occur to me to think of it like that.”

He pointed to the falling, moon-singed wings on the canvas. “And what are these?”

She remained quiet way too long before whispering, “Not what. Who.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t need to say another word. He knew exactly who the wings represented. Carmen and Rosalinda. And now he felt like a loser of the highest order for pushing her anxiety.

Elias had told him Maria felt profound guilt that her sister and mother had died while she had not. This was too raw a subject to discuss so soon, especially while she had no faith in him. He scrambled to change the subject.

“I’ll bet you’ll earn a fortune for that one.” He let admiration fill his voice. “It’s haunting and beautiful.”

“You would think of money, Del Rio.”

Another insult. She sure knew how to push him. “Name’s Daniel, if you’d care to use it.”

She ignored the suggestion. “Know what this painting would fetch?” The anger in her eyes almost blinded him. What was he supposed to say? “With your charming wit right now? I don’t think I care.”

She shook her head. “You’re right. Me neither.”

Without breaking their gaze, she reached for the canvas and tossed it overboard, a simple splash confirming its destination.

“Now, it’s fish food.”

She’d tossed it overboard.

He wanted to shake her. That painting was beautiful. Damn his own foul temper. He sucked in a quick breath and glanced over the side. The canvas bobbed faceup in the moonlight. Slack tide. Good.

He mustered all the calm he could. “I guess that finishes one masterpiece.”

She turned in her chair and started to recap her paints.

“Do you care what happens to it?” he asked.

She didn’t look up. “I tossed it. Didn’t I?”

“Then do you mind if I salvage it?”

Her glance shot to him. “I’m not surprised you would go after it. I’m beginning to think you’re a bit of a gold digger.”

Another low blow. He’d have to play along with this one. “Well, then you’ll have to excuse me.”

Slowly, he pulled his T-shirt up, only breaking eye contact long enough to tug the garment over his head. Then he went for the tie at his shorts.

She stood, panic and heat warring in her eyes. “What are you doing?”

He fought the impulse to move closer when her gaze roamed his chest in the familiar way that had usually left them sweaty and, damn him, satisfied.

He cleared his throat. “I’m going to retrieve my investment. If you don’t want it, I’ll consider it a bonus to my salary.”

Disregarding his answer, she lifted her hand, fingers outstretched, her gaze falling to his stomach. Would she…touch him? Then, as if she were coming out of a trance, his words registered. Anger mingled with heat in her eyes. “That’s my painting. You can’t have it.”

He chuckled to cover the groan rising in his throat. “Not anymore. Law of the sea. I keep anything I salvage.” He couldn’t help himself. “And that just might include you, Princess.”

Not even bothering to finish sealing the paint tubes, she crammed them into the box, slamming the lid closed.

“Why don’t you just drop dead, Del Rio?”

Daniel simply stared as she disappeared down the companionway, staggered at how empty the night felt with her absence. Once upon a time, her hands would have been all over him when he removed his shirt. How could he have hoped for her to touch him, again?

He moved toward the swim ladder. She’d forgotten the dinghy was launched. He’d pulled his shirt off just to rile her. He’d succeeded, all right. At the rate things were going, the water-drenched painting would be all of Maria Santiago he’d recover from this trip.

As he descended the ladder, he sighed, bone deep. Since the canvas depicted two souls falling to earth, no one deserved this painting more than he did.

THE WALLS OF MARIA’S CABIN closed in. How could the sight of Del Rio’s bare chest make her think she had a right to touch him—or even want to. And, Dios. The draw of his skin had her fingers aching.

Imagine. Claiming he’d salvage her along with her painting when the look in his eyes said ravage. The thought intoxicated her senses. Madre de Dios. That tanned wall of muscle and perfection he called a chest tempted her too quickly. Instinct had her fingertips reaching to brush the dark hair dusting the middle of his chest. She’d caught the impulse in time and slammed the paint box closed. Had he noticed her original intent? Heaven help her. Not even hours from home and she was losing her grip. Was she that desperate to touch a man?

Or was it just Del Rio?

She opened the paint box, forcing herself to concentrate on the slow ritual of capping and arranging her paints and cleaning the brushes. The scent of the oils soothed her. She wiped the palette clean, her body silently thrumming, her focused mind suddenly considering the idea of painting Del Rio for the second time today. This time, naked from the hips up.

Her hands stopped in midair.

What was she thinking? The rush of adrenaline coursing through her body was the same familiar drive she felt when her inspiration needed an outlet. Emotional overload spilled out onto her canvases when her passions ran high. Why would she experience this familiar, welcoming rush with Del Rio? Were they emotionally linked, and she could not remember? Dios, no. She would not even consider such a possibility. Not when her mind darkened so completely every time she probed for some kind of recognition.

The breeze invading the hatch over her bed betrayed no sound of Del Rio from above. Probably rescuing what he believed to be another piece of the family fortune, if indeed he was brownnosing Poppa for some sort of inheritance. She made a mental note to question her father about this. She needed more negative points to tick off when it came to Del Rio. Oh, yes. His belligerence was insufferable, his cocky, proprietary attitude toward her infuriating. Concentrating on these reminders should help kill any attraction she felt for him. So why did his pirate smile keep rising in her mind?

She swallowed hard. Because, she had felt a pull toward him before they even boarded ship. She’d purposely spent as little time as possible in his company. Given this undeniable attraction and her inability to recognize him from earlier years, as Poppa seemed to think she should, this man intimidated her like none other. She was doomed.

Okay, it was time to reevaluate her position if she planned to continue this trip. Del Rio was attractive…downright seductive. She could acknowledge that point. There was no way around the fact she was trapped with this man for the next few weeks. Something good had to come of this expedition. She would remember; she held that belief deep inside. Reaching the truth was her sole purpose for climbing onto the Honora.

In the meantime, Del Rio was not open for exploration. No matter what her fascination with him, until her memory was restored she could not cross into new territory, even if it held a muscled, irresistible, gentlemanly rogue who seemed more than willing to cross boundaries with her. No. No. No. Especially when she still had doubts about who he was, and his motives for taking her to Little Harbour. She had to remember first. Until then, Del Rio’s delectable body was off-limits. Period.

Instead, she’d journal her thoughts on canvas.

That was it. She’d paint her way to recovering her memory. She’d create her own, personal artist’s diary. This sail would offer therapy for channeling these disquieting thoughts and urges until she understood why they existed. There certainly were enough canvases in the guest cabin to accomplish the goal.

Satisfied with this decision, she felt confident she could remain in Del Rio’s company as a passenger on her father’s yacht.

Perfect.

Center ship, the engine rumbled to life. She closed her eyes, saying a prayer for strength. The thought of strength drew her mind to Poppa. The doctor had given her the okay to sail with the promise that Elias was strong. She wouldn’t have set foot on the Honora if she hadn’t gotten that guarantee.

After years of battling with diabetes, Elias was living on borrowed time. Diabetes was no simple disease. Her father had already progressed into advanced stages. His ankle joints had dissolved, although his feisty nature always had one believing he’d jump from his wheelchair at any moment. She suspected he had been seeking a way to keep her from witnessing his deterioration, especially his weakened heart. She would not have taken this trip if she did not believe she could recoup her memory and be fully present to help Poppa. If he worsened while she was away, there would be hell to pay.

She pushed the thought from her mind. Besides, a more immediate danger loomed. Captain Daniel Murphy Del Rio. How she’d manage keeping her distance from him on fifty feet of teak and mahogany presented a challenge. She’d pretend he didn’t exist. After all, she suspected he was only doing her father’s bidding. Arm’s length was easy with hired help. That should roast Del Rio’s pride until she could finish this voyage.

She’d push him to make Little Harbour in three days. The sooner this fiasco was finished, the better.

Settling herself at the small working table, she pulled out a sketch pad and some charcoals. Her sketches would keep her in the cabin until dawn. Daniel Del Rio could sail alone at that helm for the rest of the trip.

NOT EVEN A HALF HOUR outside the inlet, Maria bolted onto the deck, eyes wide. She clutched her stomach and lunged across the cushions wedging herself between the lifelines, her slim figure wrenching with dry heaves.

Daniel winced at her discomfort. “Didn’t eat any dinner, eh?”

She shook her head. “I’m sooo sick.”

Mal de mer brought the best men to their knees. He reached for his bottle of Gatorade and tossed it onto the seat beside her.

“Don’t worry, Princess. In a day or two, it’ll pass. In the meantime, sip that. It’ll keep you hydrated.”

She settled herself onto the cushion, sucking air deep into her lungs, too weak to object to his nickname for her.

“I could die.”

Daniel chuckled. “And to think, a short while ago, you wanted that to happen to me.”

She groaned. “Can you stop? Just for a moment?”

“The Honora?”

“No. The taunts. Pretend I’m not here. Okay?”

Like he could pretend not to breathe.

“Sure thing. I’ll imagine it’s just me and the sea on this amazing starlit night. No vomiting hottie leaning over the side, dirtying my teak while offering me a divine view of her stern.”

She shot him a venomous glare, but it lasted only a second. Like a rag doll she crumpled onto her back, covering her eyes with her arm.

“Oh, God. Can you stop this boat from rocking?”

His heart went out to her. This was not the sea-loving woman who would stay up with him during night crossings, turning her face into the wind while humming haunting songs or regaling him with childhood stories. His chest tightened. Would she ever change from the fragile, frightened woman she’d become? Would it help if he told her everything she was seeking so they could turn the ship around and not have to deal with her discomfort?

No. He’d promised Elias he’d hold his tongue and let her find her way. But this was taking things too far.

He leaned toward her. “Would it help to know you never got seasick before?”

It took only a moment to register what he meant by before. She glanced at him warily from under her arm.

“How do you know?” Accusation laced her words.

Oh, man. Maybe Elias was right. She wasn’t ready to hear anything he knew.

He shrugged a careless shoulder. “There’s a lot I know. Hang around. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

“I may have lost my memory, but there’s nothing I want to learn from you.” Her voice sounded bitter.

He shrugged again. “Probably right.”

She leaned on one elbow to sip the Gatorade. “I’m going to make this trip. Even if it kills me.”

Even if it kills me. Her words struck like a rogue wave. His hands gripped the wheel at the memory of her unconscious body floating facedown among the debris of a splintered speedboat while her twin and mother floated lifelessly nearby. A shudder ran through him. He could puke right beside her at the thought.

Reaching over her to trim the sails, he met her dark, challenging eyes and said, “I have an idea, Maria. Why don’t you just stop talking?”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE LATE-MORNING SUN splashed clear to the sea bottom as Daniel negotiated the Honora through the shallow water of the Bahamas’ West End and into the harbor without a hitch.

Maria had awakened and still lingered against the cockpit pillow, sipping coffee, her tanned feet peeking out from beneath the sheet. He’d suggested she sleep topside to keep the queasiness away. She’d slept within an arm’s length of him through the night, like a talisman.

It hadn’t taken long for Daniel to finally relax into sailing mode, aligning his body to the movement of the ocean, riding with the wind while his self-doubt disappeared behind the wake of the Honora. The sailboat skimming along alone in the night while Maria slept erased the last vestiges of fear he harbored about his ability to sail. While the seven-hour journey left him tired, he felt stronger than he had in a long time.

Earlier he had put the Honora on autopilot, hoisted the yellow quarantine flag for customs entry, brewed coffee in a thermos and buttered rolls to have waiting when Maria awoke. She wouldn’t be seasick for long, but until her sea legs kicked in, he wanted to pamper her. Hell, nothing had changed for him. He wasn’t the one who forgot they were lovers.

She yawned. “I’m feeling drowsy from the seasickness pill.”

“It’ll pass.”

She slid her sunglasses on. “So, this is West End.”

She spoke the words with open curiosity. West End boasted little more than an updated marina. The yellow, pink and turquoise buildings with aluminum roofs and white porches were recent additions.

Daniel pointed to the sun-drenched buildings along the beach. “That’s the resort. If the Honora isn’t comfortable for you, I can book you a room.”

She shielded her eyes from the sun. “Looks sweet, but I’m fine on board.”

Score one for the home team. “Well, then, other than a few packaged goods and supply stores, there’s not much here.”

Except for the large number of boats in the marina, West End seemed basically vacant. The flat sandy terrain, easy view of the water and the intense light of the Bahamian sun made this remote spit of land an oasis for weary sailors.

A smile creased those pouty lips. “I could paint this.”

While Daniel docked the boat, secured the lines and jumped off to tip the dock attendant for his help, Maria had watched from the cockpit, looking distracted. Daniel wondered if the docking routine had seemed familiar to her.

He stepped up the gangplank. “If you get your passport, I’ll clear us through customs. Until we’re cleared, I’m the only one permitted ashore.”

He found it interesting that she stayed put until he returned from below deck with his paperwork. He cooled his heels for five minutes, while she disappeared to retrieve hers.

“What? You didn’t trust yourself to be alone with me in the cabin?” He grinned when she climbed back to the cockpit.

“In your dreams, Captain,” she said, handing him her passport.

“There’s that.” Okay, friendly banter. So far, so good.

She peered over his shoulder. “Where’s customs?”

He pointed to a small coral-colored building with a slanting, shingled roof next to the fueling station. “There. I won’t be long. If you want to freshen up, we can look around when I get back.”

Thirty minutes later, quarantine flag down, Bahamian visitor’s flag hoisted, Daniel offered Maria a hand as she descended the gangplank. To his surprise, she took it. He appreciated how the breeze teased the white embroidered sundress against her curves and showed lots of smooth, tanned leg. The white thong sandals looked sexy on her feet. She seemed glad to be on dry land, but remained silent.

He wouldn’t question how relaxed she had become with him. He didn’t want to disturb this fragile, unspoken truce.

She pulled her elbow from his grasp, wrapping her arms around her waist. “I could use a cola. My stomach needs bubbles.”

He laughed. “Bubbles it is, then.”

She turned to view the marina, the small harbor ringed by a stone jetty, the Honora rocking gently at the dock. She froze.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “I feel odd. Like déjà vu. I can’t seem to shake the feeling I’ve been here before.”

Daniel sucked in a breath. He needed to say, Yes, love. You’ve been here with me. But the words died in his throat. Instead, he shrugged. “Maybe in a past life.”

He gestured down the dock to an outdoor bar doing a lively business serving brunch. “We’ll get you a cola with no ice and an order of conch fritters. You’ll feel better.”

Surprise lit Maria’s face as he realized his blunder. How would he know that conch fritters were her favorite, or that she drank soda with no ice?