Chapter 17

The gale ratcheted up higher, as if in obedience to some madman whirling a gigantic turbine at breakneck speed.

And Abby’s world changed abruptly.

A fragment of driftwood hit her in the side of her face and was gone the next second, hurtling down the beach. She saw it smash against a boulder, and the pieces were gone in the screaming wind as though it had never been.

Instinct had her reaching to her temple, but she couldn’t feel anything. Her skin was numb. Wet.

But her fingertips came away slicked with crimson.

Something further down the beach caught her attention. She made out the square silhouette in the distance starting to move and tumble. The thing wavered, then began to shift down the beach.

A wooden crate that held equipment, half-buried in the sand as a prop, was being pried out by the wind.

Her lungs squeezed as she realized the full import of how bad things had gotten.

It was no longer a strong breeze. This was a full-out gale. Damn.

She had to get back to safety.

The wind tore at her, slashing spindrift across her face. Bending her head low, she tried to tunnel into the wind and hit it on a less powerful layer.

Wheeee, it seemed to say as it flew past her. Shrieked. Like a freaking sci-fi blob or the Borg, it felt as though it wanted to absorb her till she was nothing and only existed, pulled apart into little pieces, like so much flotsam and jetsam for it to toss on its spiteful vendetta.

One step. Shrieeeek. Another step.

Eyes half-closed, she shielded them with her hands as she made her way steadfastly through the tropical weather system.

Immediately ahead, she saw a sandstone boulder dance down the beach, coming straight at her. Twisting to avoid it, she was only able to move a scant few inches due to the strength of the wind.

Agony slammed through her shin as the edge caught her, and she crumpled to the wet sand.

Forcing herself to rise immediately with the pain a metallic taste in her mouth, she had no choice but to stop fighting the wind and head in the same direction it was hurtling in.

Ah, that was what it wanted. It whipped into her ass and pushed her along without asking so that she hop-skipped a few stumbling, uncoordinated steps until suddenly the gale seemed to shift its direction a fraction, and she was again in control of her weight and center of gravity, though barely.

She stumbled and ran for McMaster’s tent.

Howling winds screeched as she passed the stand of bent palms to the room-like headquarters of the shoot. McMaster’s huge tent was skewed out of proportion, the wind propelling the canvas into freaky lines. Though the wind was a bit less forceful in this micro-environment amid the heavy stand of palms.

She yanked down the zipper, and found she had no energy even to call a greeting.

Stumbling inside, she braced herself, hands on her knees, to regain her breath. Amidst heaving sighs, she gulped his name out. “McMaster?”

Nothing.

“Judd? Where are you?”

The area was dark, deserted.

Disappointment arced through her. “Anyone? Where’s everyone?”

There was no one but the wind in answer.

Casting frenzied looks around, she noticed none of McMaster’s things were around. Maybe all the stuff was stowed in one of the crates, as this was the shoot’s main storage area. It looked like the boxes from the shanty had been piled in here too hurriedly.

The side of one of the tallest crates had a rough blackboard hanging on it, and it was there the day’s memos and a basic schedule was chalked.

“I’ve got to find you guys,” she muttered to herself. They couldn’t have left, could they? He’d told her to meet everyone at his headquarters if it got bad, by six. It was a few minutes to six, right now. Where the hell…

And then she saw it, scrawled on the side.

Evacuation: 17:00. Meet at Header beach.

Disbelief became a noose around her body, constricting her breathing. The evacuation had been moved up an hour? She hadn’t been notified! She’d been obvious too, on the stretch of beach she’d been working on, if anyone had come back to let her know. Hunting further through the list of who was responsible for whom, she saw the pathetic scrawl—McMaster-Haines.

It was like a scythe slicing through her stomach.

McMaster hadn’t let her know?

Hunting wildly around her for an answer, anything to prove she hadn’t just been abandoned, she saw the shoot clipboards in the metal box. Grabbing the first one in the queue, she scanned the list. Nothing. The second one…no intel.

The wind howled through the tent, shrieking in through torn areas, flinging icy shards of pelting rain at her.

She had to get to safety. But how?

And then she noticed one clipboard in the middle of the batch, one corner suspiciously higher than the rest.

Grabbing it, she scanned it quickly. Emergency Plan it was titled at the top, in bold letters. Following that, there was a long list of action items, with checkmarks scrawled beside items that had been completed. She remembered this was needed for insurance purposes. McMaster had briefed them on the process at the pre-production meeting, back in New York.

And beside McMaster’s name it said, Abby Haines. Notified. Check.

The cold, numbing truth of it hit her in the gut.

He hadn’t notified her.

Tears streamed down her face now. So that’s what he thought of her? I don’t get in your pants, so I don’t rate a care when hell is raining down on us?

She crumpled to the ground, face in her palms, and started to bawl. Loud, wrenching sobs.

She did it for the callousness of people who claimed to love her but didn’t, who only gave her what she needed if she produced what they wanted. Somewhere in her heart, it felt like a chamber rent.

God. How had she gotten to this point? Where no one really cared?

She was a mess, snot running down her face, but who cared? No one was watching. No one cared. They’d all gotten to safety without her.

Tears slid down her face, off the end of her chin and pattered lightly onto the top of her camera case, still hanging around her neck. And suddenly, the shooter in her came to alert.

“And now I’m crying on my camera.” She sniffed abruptly, clenched her eyes, and stopped the flow.

Wiping the tears off with her thumb, she remembered what she needed to do. The thing she’d decided earlier still wasn’t done, and there was no time, literally, like the present.

Working with ice-cold fingers, she drew out the little titanium waterproof container from beside her camera in the protective case. A gag gift from one of her colleagues, it was waterproof, crush-proof, and had a little homing beacon built into it.

If she ever accidentally heaved these pictures down a gorge, well, she’d know where to retrieve her intellectual property. Whether or not it would be retrievable, that was something to leave in the gods’ domain. But she was doing what she could to protect her work from now on.

Her heart. Her lifeblood.

The essence of who she was.

Stuffing her memory card with the precious shots on it inside the padded slot, she clasped the ampule shut, then completed the steps to seal the container. Shoved it deep within a zippered pocket.

And with that, her resolve came back. Fuck Mc…er, not fuck him. But the hell with everyone else in the world. Including Dare Logan, the guy who said he’d loved her then left her and said he’d loved her again and then left her again.

She didn’t need any of them. She’d sue the pants…ugh, not the pants off McMaster if she got out of this alive. And she especially, she thought with one last resounding sniff as she swiped her messy nose on the sleeve of her non-absorbent windbreaker…

She especially didn’t need Dare Logan.

“Oh god, finally.” A male voice cut through her ruminations. “Abby.”

The familiar voice coursed through the space and involuntarily, her body stiffened. No. It couldn’t be. She slowly turned, unable to stop herself, in the direction of that damn voice.

Her eyes widened.

Standing before her in the flesh, drenched windbreaker plastered to that gorgeous, untrustworthy chest…was Dare Logan.