He’d grabbed the tank ostensibly because someone needed to map the bay’s bottom. He could do it, so why not? He was restless. That was all. He preferred to be on the move, to be doing something, and the riskier and faster that something was, the better. Not that checking out the bay scored high in the adrenaline category. The entry was shallow and the water almost currentless. That would change, of course, as he pushed around the promontory and into open ocean, but for now it was easy money.
Swimming out of the bay and around the island’s coastline produced no surprises. As he swam, he checked the ocean floor for obstructions, booby traps, anything that would hinder a Zodiac or a landing party. Fantasy Island, however, was as pretty below the surface as it was above, all white sand and the occasional coral head. He was all clear if the second team infiltrated by water.
The last time he’d done this hadn’t gone as well. He’d led an amphibious operation to select possible beach landing sites. The aerial pics had shown mangrove, swamp and jungle, none of which made their potential targets vacation destinations. Worse, the nautical charts were one hundred fifty years old and missing major terrain features. Swimming through the surf and the reef to make the inner lagoon had been like diving in a washing machine with blades. Fantasy Island definitely won in the looks department.
When he finally surfaced, treading water two hundred yards off shore with a quarter tank of air left, he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Laney. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who sat still. He watched, transfixed, as she pounded up the quarter-mile stretch of sand, sprinting barefoot. God knows, he should have submerged and gone about his business, but looking away was surprisingly difficult. Ponytail whipping back and forth, the muscles in her thighs flexed as she worked for more speed, and her swimsuit top...yeah. He liked that part of the view best. She was spectacular. When she reached the end of the beach, she flopped down on the sand. He grinned. Good to know she wasn’t Superwoman. Then, when she fished in her beach bag and produced her phone, his grin got even wider. The woman had a serious cell phone addiction.
Giving in to temptation, he swam in slowly, enjoying the sensual way she dug her fingers into the sand, soaking up the heat as she chatted. Then he counted. Wait for it...by the count of thirty, she’d popped up and was pacing back and forth. He should swim away. Reconning the bay was one thing and an acceptable use of his time. Cozying up with Laney, however, wasn’t really part of his job description. He wasn’t supposed to be here. On the other hand, he was a SEAL. Being somewhere unexpected wasn’t unusual.
Deflating his BC, he planted his feet on the sandy bottom. Who was he kidding? He was headed straight for shore. Toeing off his fins, he submerged and let the small waves push him toward the beach.
4
“CARSON HOSPITAL DOESN’T have your acceptance letter on file. Tell me you signed the letter.”
What were the ethics of lying to one’s mother? Three thousand miles apart, and Laney still fought the urge to look over her shoulder, because a stellar international calling plan made it sound as if Ellen Parker were standing right behind her. Tossing her cell phone into her beach bag had been her first mistake. Answering at the Jaws ringtone had been her second.
Unfortunately, her mom was a pro and correctly interpreted the ensuing silence. A top-notch hospital administrator and former oncologist, she excelled at detecting bullshit. “That letter is your second chance, Laney Parker. Do you know how many favors I had to call in to get it?”
Laney had a lot of experience fielding unhappy phone calls from her mother. And, in this case, her mom actually had a valid point. Thank you seemed too...bland. Unappreciative. Because, in truth, she did appreciate her mother’s attempts to fix the disaster she’d made of her medical career.
“I’ve signed it.” She just hadn’t mailed the letter yet, because that would mean admitting she wasn’t going back to S.F. General.
She’d been sacked. Let go. Fired out of hand. No, not fired, exactly, because she’d been politely asked to submit her letter of resignation so everybody could pretend she’d simply decided to exchange her dream job covering San Francisco’s busiest trauma bay for the much tamer, less exciting challenges of a small city ER. Her mother exhaled, the sound magnified by a stellar cell phone connection. “Give me the tracking number and I’ll follow up on it.”
Her mother made no mention of Laney’s vacation-cum-honeymoon. Of course, her mother was also a fixer. As was her father. Realizing Laney was faced with a broken engagement, an AWOL fiancé and the general end of life as Laney knew it, her mother had homed in on Laney’s unemployed status as the problem du jour and, any other time, Laney would have genuinely appreciated the effort. After all, she didn’t want to be unemployed and broke for long, especially given what this trip had cost her.