Christine began breathing again. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
His reply was too quick.
“Bad dream?”
He made no attempt to deny the obvious. “Everyone has their share.”
“You’ve been through a lot in the last few days. Would it help to talk about it?”
He frowned, “Did you specialize in psychiatry, doctor? Because I suddenly feel like I’m on your couch.”
“I did a rotation there, but no, I’m just a general practice kind of doctor.”
“Then let’s leave the psychoanalysis to the professionals, shall we?”
“I wasn’t asking in a professional capacity. I just thought you might like to talk about it.”
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. “And if you can get me to bare my soul and give you my inner thoughts, then perhaps you can make me your friend. Friends don’t harm friends.”
Christine tried to look hurt. Was she that transparent, or was he that omniscient? Or perhaps he’d been in situations like this before.
“Forget I asked. I was just trying to help.”
He had no reply, but looked at her appraisingly.
“What?” she asked.
If Christine had gone to the mirror she would have seen it as well. Deep lines of worry creased into her forehead and dark shadows were set under two bloodshot eyes.
“Didn’t you get any sleep at all? You look awful.”
“Of course I look awful. I just spent my afternoon in the arms of a foul pirate.”
“Don’t take it to heart.” He stood up and stretched gingerly. “It’s not a date, you know. It’s a kidnapping.”
A flippant remark. Christine remembered his frantic wake-up only minutes ago. He could certainly slap right through the gears.
He said, “I need you rested and healthy, so you can take care of me. Speaking of which, I’m famished. How about something to eat?”
She thought he was already looking better. In fact, amazingly so given the shape he was in yesterday morning. His color was good, and he showed no ill effects from the wound on his belly. The doctor in her wanted to check it, to make sure the gash was healing. On the other hand, where was gangrene when you needed it?
“You seem well enough,” she said. “You won’t need me around to take care of you much longer.” Christine suddenly realized what a stupid thing that was to say, but he seemed to ignore it as he busied himself looking through the two cupboards where provisions were kept. Next, he rooted around in the refrigerator.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m feeling better for the moment. Let’s say I do something to earn my keep. I’ll make breakfast.”
Grudgingly, she accommodated. “All right. I’ll go up top and check on things.”
Christine climbed above to find a crisp breeze whipping across the deck. She paused at the sight of the water and the stunning blue sky. It was so incredibly open and unconfined. She took deep breaths, overwhelmed with relief. Only now did Christine realize the tension she’d been under. She went as far aft as she could go to the transom and made perfunctory checks of the rigging, knowing she was really just trying to get as far away from him as she could. The air below had seemed stifling, but now her thoughts cleared. That was good, because a sharp mind was her best weapon.
The next twenty minutes were spent on deck taking care of Wind-som, and as she made her way around, Christine caught traces of the unmistakable scent of bacon frying. A carnivore. No surprises there. On her rounds, she discovered a reefing line on the jib that had frayed and was tending to jam. She made a mental note to fix it soon. Her last stop was to check the autopilot, which still held a tight, true course. Blessing or curse? she wondered.
He called from below, “Soup’s on!”
Christine charged her lungs with a few last breaths of fresh air, then went below. He had set up the table between the two bunks, complete with placemats and the appropriate silverware. It looked as if he were entertaining, the only thing missing, a pair of candles in the center.
“Have a seat.” He made it sound more an invitation than a command.
Christine sat, and he dropped a plate in front of her. A big cheese omelet, the bacon she had smelled, toast, and the last of the fresh fruit. Christine tried to remember when she’d last eaten. She ought to be hungry, but her appetite was nonexistent.
He, on the other hand, slid in across the table with a plate of his own and attacked it with purpose. He shoveled in everything, quickly and mechanically, the knife and fork in constant motion. Nothing was held to the palate, no attempt to measure subtleties of taste or texture — it was instead the elementary process of adding fuel to a furnace nearing empty. He was practically done when he noticed she hadn’t touched her meal.
“What’s the matter? Am I that bad of a cook? Or are you afraid I’ve poisoned it?”
Christine looked at her plate. “No. It’s fine.” She nibbled on a strip of bacon. Perhaps taking the meal he’d prepared would add to whatever tenuous union she could form with this person — breaking the bread, one of those ancient human bonding things. Wasn’t that what the police always did in hostage situations? Order pizza for the terrorists? More importantly, Christine knew her body might need the energy. She didn’t know when or for what, but she had to be ready.
She finished ten minutes later. He took up her plate and replaced it with a cup of hot coffee.
“So,” he said, obviously with things on his mind, “I figure it’s about three days to Land’s End. Sound right?”
Christine had taken a good look at the chart earlier. “I’d say so. Where exactly will you be getting off?”
“I haven’t quite decided, but you’ll be the first to know. In a hurry to be rid of me?”
There was a hint of playfulness in the question. She went along. “Oh, no. Stay as long as you like. And next time bring some friends. I’m sure they’re a fun bunch.”
“Indeed they are.”
“If you brought enough of them, next time you could commandeer a freighter. Maybe even a cruise ship.”
Christine thought she actually saw his rough, chapped lips crack at the corners.
“Of the two, definitely the cruise ship,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I’d hate to be forced into sleeping with my arm around some smelly old sea dog.”
“That would be disgusting.”
“Your protest is duly noted. But nothing changes.”
She sighed, and the man looked at her with something bordering on concern. “You know, you really look like you could use some sleep.”
Christine had to agree. Physically and emotionally she was drained. He started to clean up the galley.
“Go ahead. Lie down. I think I can handle the boat for now.”
She suspected he could handle it in a typhoon if he had to.
He finished cleaning and climbed up the stairs. “I’ll wake you if any-thing comes up.”
Christine looked longingly at her bunk and decided it was worth a try. She stretched out and her body was immediately grateful. Knotted, aching muscles began to loosen and relax. As wonderful as it felt, though, her thoughts were still a scramble of worrisome questions, as they’d been all day. How had she gotten into this mess, and when would it end? Three days from now in England? And how would it end? What would he really do with her? The only realistic answers were frightful. Christine pulled a blanket up to her chest, finding warmth and even a thin, laughable sense of security. The bunk was soft and she closed her eyes. Three days to England. Would she ever be able to sleep with him lurking around? That question danced lightly in her mind for a few moments, then was answered.
Chapter Four