‘Okay,’ Ash said, his eyes back on the water, his hands firm on the controls. ‘We’re not far from the island. Let’s see if we can get there before this storm gets any worse.’
‘We’ll get there,’ Zoey said with a confidence she wasn’t sure she truly felt.
Fate could go hang.
* * *
What kind of idiot took a random boat out in these waters at night without checking the forecast? Ash berated himself mentally as he clung to his tenuous control of the boat. The waves crashed against the sides and Ash tried desperately to focus on the task in hand and not get distracted by images of his late wife giving him hell in the afterlife for getting her best friend killed.
With Grace gone, he was responsible for Zoey. It wasn’t as if her parents had ever been able to let their own issues go long enough to care about her, and since the odds of her actually finding true love and settling down—at least long enough to get through a wedding reception—seemed to be getting slimmer, he was it. He was all the support she had left—and he was doing a lousy job of it so far.
The sky was growing blacker, the kind of doomed darkness that foretold of disaster to come. Maybe he should just have let her marry David after all. Sure, he’d probably have been throwing her a divorce party within six months, but at least she’d be alive to celebrate it, instead of dead at the bottom of the ocean.
He glanced to his left. Zoey was holding on tight to the rail beside him, obviously determined to stand by him—as much as he wished she’d just get to safety below. The waves weren’t too big yet, but they were going to get bigger...
Then, suddenly, he got a glimpse of what he was looking for. Refuge. Safety. A fully stocked drinks cabinet, he hoped.
‘There!’ He risked raising one hand from the controls to point. ‘Do you see that?’
Zoey leant forward over the rail, squinting into the distance and almost giving Ash a heart attack at the same time. ‘Is that the island?’
‘I hope so.’ Ash braced himself and started to turn the boat. He’d studied the online maps and satellite footage well enough to know that the new acquisition was the nearest island to the one he’d recommended to David for the wedding. It had to be the right one. Hopefully. ‘And if all else fails, it’s an island.’ Dry land had to be better than water right now.
As they grew closer, Ash could make out the outline of a wooden villa at the water’s edge, the traditional stilts meaning it was half over the ocean and half on land. The roof looked to be the usual thatch, and he recognised the terrace layout from the photos of the recently acquired property he’d been looking at a few days before. This was the place they’d been searching for.
Best of all, there was even a mooring point for the boat. Ash just hoped it would hold overnight.
Once the wedding was over, Zoey was going to want to leave again, after all. Well, eventually, anyway.
Getting the boat moored securely was a battle in itself as the threatened rain began to fall.
‘Run up to the house,’ he yelled at Zoey, his throat sore with the effort of getting her to hear over the storm. But Zoey shook her head, her wet hair whipping around her as she held on tight to one of the stern lines as he crossed them to tie up.
Stubborn. Just like Grace. No wonder they’d been such good friends.
Finally, finally, the yacht was as secure as he could make it. He’d just have to hope that was as secure as it needed to be. It was too late to do any more. The wind that had been steadily rising had reached a screaming pitch now, whistling and screeching through the trees and across the water. Looking back out to sea, Ash couldn’t tell where the rain stopped and the waves started.
‘Come on.’ Grabbing Zoey’s hand, he dragged her up from the small jetty towards the front door of the villa, already dreaming of what they’d find inside as he fumbled for the hidden key and tried to recall the security code he’d saved on his phone.
This place was perfect. Ash had read all the specs on the flight out. The villa was the newest jewel in his father’s property crown, freshly refurbished to Arthur Carmichael’s exacting standards. If a person had to take refuge from a storm and a potentially furious bridegroom, this was the spot.