The spire was right there, within arm’s reach.
He slammed the tip of the paddle into the rocks, then leaned all his weight into it and pushed, but the wave was too powerful and the raft simply rotated around the pivot point the paddle created.
“Coming around,” he called between clenched teeth.
“Got it!”
Remi was already moving, turning on her knees to face the other side, her paddle raised and ready. With a splintering thunk she slammed it into the rocks. The raft, its momentum slightly slowed, bounced off the rock and spun again.
Sam leaned back, dropping his center of gravity back into the raft, and reached for the throttle. His hand was halfway there when he felt his stomach rising again and heard the suddenly unmuffled whirring of the motor as the raft’s tail end came out of the water.
He had only a fraction of a second to call “Remi” before he felt himself tossed into the air. Knowing the rock was close, but not
how close, he turned his head, looking for it. Then out of the fog he saw it rushing toward his face.
CHAPTER 36
Seconds or minutes or hours later Sam felt his mind groping back toward consciousness. One by one his senses started to return, beginning with a feathery sensation on his cheek, followed by the distinct and familiar smell of green apples.
Hair, he thought, hair brushing my face. Coconut and almonds.
Remi’s shampoo.
He forced open his eyes and found himself staring into her upside-down face. He looked around. He was lying in the bottom of the raft, his head resting on her lap.
He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Am I okay?” Remi whispered. “I’m fine, you dummy. You’re the one that almost drowned.”
“What happened?”
“You slammed headfirst into the spire, that’s what happened. I looked over just as you started to slip into the water. I threw you the line. You hadn’t blacked out yet. I shouted at you to grab the line and you did. I reeled you in.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Twenty, twenty-five minutes.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “My head hurts.”
“You’ve got a gash in your hairline; it’s pretty long, but not very deep.”
Sam reached and probed with his fingertips, finding a stretchable bandage wrapped around the upper part of his forehead.
“How’s your vision?” Remi asked.
“Everything’s dark.”
“That’s a good sign; it’s night. Okay, how many fingers am I holding up?”
Sam groaned. “Come on, Remi, I’m fine—”
“Humor me.”
“Sixteen.”
“Sam.”
“Four fingers. My name is Sam and you’re Remi and we’re floating in a raft in the Black Sea trying to steal a bottle of wine from Napoleon’s Lost Cellar from a mafia kingpin. Satisfied?”