The faster the rise the faster the air expanded in the lungs, minimizing time to accommodate. Increasing the risk of exploding the lungs. Instinct screamed to inhale and exhale in a normal rhythm. But one breath of air could be exhaled for an entire rise.
Instinct had to be shut down, the brain assuming control like with a dolphin's controlled breathing. Years of diving had taught him until he rarely thought about it anymore.
But Darcy would be fighting it. And if the air continued to expand without release... Instant death.
Max kicked, rose, rapping Darcy's stomach. The underwater Technicolor that had so mesmerized him during his earlier dive now flashed by in an ominous kaleidoscope.
Brighter. Brighter still as the surface neared.
Kick. Tap. Try to remember how to pray.
The boat hull loomed in sight. Darcy hung in his arms. So close he could swear he heard her heartbeat thudding in his ears with his own.
Max burst through the surface. The fading sunlight blazed in his eyes, across Darcy's face as her lashes slid closed again inside her mask.
He clutched her to him and hauled her unconscious body toward the boat with one-armed strokes. Each slice through the water reinforced his vow. Rules and fair play no longer applied. He would do whatever it took to keep her alive. And if he lost her trust, her respect...her...in the process, it would hurt like hell, but so be it.
At least she wouldn't end up dead.
She hurt too much to be dead.
Everywhere.
Darcy hadn't ached this much since a case of the bends from a rapid decompression during pilot training. She kept her eyes sealed shut and willed away the pain stabbing every joint in her body. Memories painted themselves on the backs of her eyelids. Of the day with Max. Intense pleasure on the beach. Betrayal at his rejection. Horror in the water.
Max!
Her eyes snapped open. Dimmed lights shadowed the stark military hospital room. A bleached sheet and blanket draped over her body as white as the bandage on her arm, as sterile as the antiseptic air stinging her lungs.
Visions flashed of the knife arcing through the water. Down. Her arm throbbed. The rest blurred. Somehow she'd gotten to the surface. Max.
She searched the room—the rigid hardwood chair, the gleaming sink, rolling tray with flowers. Her gaze finally landed on the broad-shouldered man standing at the window with his back to her. So familiar. So dear. Her breath hitched in her achy chest. At her slight gasp, the shoulders straightened, turned slowly.
It was him. "Hi, Dad."
General Hank Renshaw strode across the room in three long strides. Six feet two inches of lanky uniformed paternal concern closed in on Darcy with suffocating speed.
"Darcy, baby, you scared the living spit out of me, unconscious all night like that." He started to reach, then stopped. His arms hovered in midair, wide in wingspan like the bombers he'd once flown. "Are you okay? I don't want to jostle you. I'm going to get that doctor back in here. Where the hell is he, anyway?"
He pivoted toward the phone as if already prepared to unleash the full power of the rows of ribbons across his chest and three stars decorating each shoulder all over the unsuspecting hospital staff.
"Stop! I'm fine." Darcy took his hand and squeezed, then shoved herself upright. She fought the dizziness that would send him into ordering a battalion of physicians to poke and prod her. "Max. My diving partner. Where is he?"
Darcy's throat closed on the rest of the words.
Her father's face hardened.
A trembling started in her arms. She forced herself to swallow. "Damn it, Dad, tell—"
"He's outside the door talking to the security police standing guard."
Darcy sagged back against her pillows. Screw holding her emotions in check. She'd survived a hideous day, and her father would just have to take a chill pill.
Then the rest of her father's words trickled through her relief. SPs standing guard? Her mind swirled with too many questions.
She started with the most important one. "But he's totally okay? Max?''
Her father nodded.