High Seas

By Madelon Smid

Computer genius, Sam Pradzynski seeks missing people and property. Emotionally drained, he books a relaxing kayak trip and becomes caught up in the suspicious activities of his beautiful guide. Fascinated by a woman who believes protecting him is her job, he follows her lead, but questions her tactics. For eight years, marine biologist, Marin Reyes has searched for her young siblings. When she steals vital documents from the island compound of the war lord who abducted them, Sam and Marin are forced into a dangerous game of hide and seek. Trapped between her growing affection for Sam and her desperate need to save her siblings, Marin loses his trust. But love lifts the truth from loss, forcing Sam to re-evaluate, and seek the greatest treasure of all, the woman who holds his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jun 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781509201945

Madelon Smid

Madelon Smid is nature's child and happiest when she's kayaking a river or skiing down a mountain. Her characters share her love of adventure, risk and living fully. An avid reader, she discovered the romance novel at fourteen, then found writing them even more satisfying and sold her first romance in 1991. She parted ways with her first love - romance, to build a successful career as a nonfiction writer, co-authoring the Canadian Best Sellers Smart Women and Smart Women Get Smarter. The desire to spin fantasy into gold for her readers drew her back. She lives with her husband by a lake in Saskatchewan, where she writes about the strength and passion women and men demonstrate when they conquer the trials of life and love.

Book preview

Inc.

The sound of a plane engine

had her gaze jerking upward. The thrum of the engine came closer. Had Qiang sent up a plane to search for her? She stood, closed on Sam with a few running steps. He turned just as she launched herself at him. She drove him to the ground. Air rushed out of his lungs in a woof as he hit the sand with her weight on top of him. She wriggled up so she could reach his lips.

Kiss me, she demanded, crashing her lips onto his. The plane flew over, the sound of the engine faded, as she welded their lips together. Hope escalated, then crashed. The engine became louder. The plane had banked for another pass.

Sam grabbed her braid and jerked, pulling her away from his mouth. If you want them to think we’re lovers, you need to do a better job than that. He smiled a mean smile.

A second later, she was on her back, his powerful frame covering most of her. His lips settled over hers, his tongue sank deep. One leg pushed up between her thighs, his hand cupped her breast. His kiss consumed her. She forgot about the plane, about Qiang’s men, her mind blanked and her hormones clamored. His mouth claimed hers—hot, wet, and seeking. He pulled passion from her like a miner panning for gold. His tongue swirled around hers, raising a gasp, a panting breath from her. He swished across her lips with expertise and finessed the corners of her mouth, searching out bright glints of excitement. Then he went deep, extracted everything she had, felt, wanted, needed.

The sound of the plane engine faded. That seems to have convinced them. He stopped as if nothing had occurred…

Praise for Madelon Smid

"A riveting read so well written with detail, it’s hard to believe it’s fiction…HIGH GROUND is a detailed contemporary military thriller, complete with a hot and lusty romance, this story has something for everyone…"

~Dianne Greenlay, Author of the Quintspinner Series

~*~

"HIGH GROUND turned out to be far more than I anticipated."

~Barbara Thrasher, co-author

Smart Women Canadian Entrepreneurs

~*~

"I was fascinated by the climbing visuals the author was able to create using her arsenal of descriptive language [in CLIMBING HIGH]…I also loved the chemistry that the author created between the two main characters. I was silently cheering them on to succeed!"

~René Thiele, Xpan Interactive Ltd.

~*~

"[from] the physical suspense of climbing mountains to the intellectual suspense of high finance [in CLIMBING HIGH]…there is a sensual, romantic tension throughout the book. I…found the multicultural aspect refreshing."

~Laurie Hutchinson, Publicist

~*~

"…CLIMBING HIGH…was money well spent! I laughed, I cried, I felt fear, and…great joy as I read…"

~Lisa Cheeseman, MBA

High Seas

by

Madelon Smid

Daring Heights Series, Book 3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

High Seas

COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Madelon Smid

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2015

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0193-8

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0194-5

Daring Heights Series, Book 3

Published in the United States of America

Dedications

Dedicated to Kay, Barbara, Reale, Laurie,

Sandra, Nadine, and Dianne —

the women who’ve paddled the waters with me

and shared a portion of my life.

With gratitude

for the many lessons we’ve learned together.

~*~

My thanks to Den, who puts me in, takes me out,

and designs all the clever racks for my kayaks.

~*~

Thanks to my editor, Lori Graham,

who makes the publishing process as painless

and pleasurable as paddling on a pond.

Other Madelon Smid titles

available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.:

CLIMBING HIGH

HIGH GROUND

Chapter One

The only thing stopping Sam Prazynski from approaching her was his knowledge of women. And everything about this woman said, don’t touch. Don’t even think about touching. Well, she was plumb out of luck, because he’d been thinking of nothing else since he’d walked onto the scruffy grass by the public launch and seen her slim hips and tight little butt bending over a kayak. She was packing the back cargo hatch with practiced efficiency. His heart tapped out a rhythm like sticks on a snare drum, anticipating she’d signed up for the same tour he’d selected. That would be nice, because while he might not be in a touching position—yet—he had no doubt he could be soon.

Sam loved women. He loved the way they smelled and felt, the way they laughed and pouted. He even loved the way they bitched—the pissier their mood, the greater the challenge. He admired their inner strength and outward compassion, so much that he’d spent years perfecting the art of softening a brittle woman, or soothing an angry one. With a little time, he assumed he’d figure this one out, figure his angle and connect.

She straightened, watched him full out, her hands loose at her sides, her head tilted left, showing caution around a strange man, as a smart woman should. Yet, she pulled back her shoulders, shifted her weight onto her back leg, appearing confident she could handle the situation. Her little chin, elevated to a haughty angle, told him she’d guessed her bottom had taken up a lot of his attention.

She tossed her long braid behind her back. The skein of black silk disappeared leaving her features in stark relief. A generous mouth sculpted for kissing drew his attention. Black eyes, with the shimmer of starlight chasing across their surface, met his gaze, chasing his cockiness into a space so deep and mysterious he floundered. He struggled back to self-assurance.

How could someone that tiny have such an impact? He calculated she’d fit under his chin. There wasn’t an extra ounce of weight on her anywhere, from her slightly tilted breasts beneath the orange tank top, to the gorgeous toned legs that flowed from those tantalizing hips. She was buff for a woman. The silken skin taut over curving biceps and shapely shoulders begged for a soft shower of kisses. She obviously did a lot of paddling.

She was also street savvy. She didn’t approach or speak, just kept her eyes directly on him, letting him make the first move. No way could he say she invited his attention, no way could he approach without her being on guard.

I’m looking for M.J. Reyes, he lifted his voice, letting the breeze carry the question. He cocked his hip in a non-threatening stance. Do you know where I can find him?

"You’re looking at her. What can I do for you?"

God, he was tempted to tell her, see if she’d drop the pointy chin, lower her straight little nose, take a step back or forward, brazen it out, or retreat. I’m booked on the two week kayak tour. Where should I unload my kayak? The words brought him within arm’s length of her. Now he held out his hand. Sam Prazynski. Seattle. I think you have all my paperwork and payment in order. An intriguing look flashed across her face. Consternation? Rejection?

You didn’t get my phone message?

No message. He dropped his hand when she didn’t offer hers. But I haven’t checked since I boarded the ferry to Nanaimo this morning. He pulled out his smart phone, slid his thumb across the screen, and listened as her voice told him the trip had been cancelled.

Kind of short notice, isn’t it? He looked up. This time he could easily read her expression, apologetic.

I’m sorry I didn’t catch you before you started out. A large family group booked for this one, and the grandfather died. I phoned you right after they cancelled. You’ll see in your contract MJ Tours can cancel because of bad weather or low numbers.

Looks like you’re getting ready to head out. He nodded his head at her packed kayak sitting on the concrete launch. It took some time to schedule this trip around my work. If you’re taking out another group, maybe you can fit me in.

Her lips parted, white teeth bit down into the plush lower flesh. Her eyes flashed as they met his. Again, he had the sensation of falling into space. The glowing obsidian swallowed his preconception of beautiful gemstones, placing black diamonds at the top of his list. They glimmered, a brilliant contrast to her olive-toned skin, the iris so dark it melted into the pupil. Latin American, he guessed by the way she said her Ys and softened her Ts creating a sensual overtone. What does the M in MJ stand for? Marina, Marin? His curiosity pushed in front of caution.

Now she did take a step back. Marin…how do you know that?

He held up his hand, fingers curled, as if coaxing a butterfly. Hey, just a guess. I know Marina in Latin means of the sea. Just seemed apt.

She pulled her five feet two inches into a tight line. I am not taking another group out, sorry. I am going out on my own.

For two weeks?

Probably, depends on conditions.

Conditions looked pretty good last time I checked. It’s supposed to be warmer than usual for mid-June, with no big systems moving in. Mind telling me where you’re going?

Does it matter?

Yes, if you’re going to give me the bum’s rush, just because you didn’t get enough interest in this tour, you could at least give me some satisfaction.

Nanaimo through Northumberland Channel, paddling a big circle through the Gabriola Passage continuing southeast through more islands into the Georgian strait, and back past Cowichan Bay to Nanaimo.

That sounds even better than a tour of Broken Group Islands off the west coast. So why can’t you take me along? It’s always safer to have a buddy. I’ve read those waters have a high concentration of Orca and Humpback whales in them. I’d love to see them. I’m outfitted except for food supplies, which were part of MJ Tours responsibility.

No. She turned away, her shoulders stiff. I’m sorry. It’s not possible.

I can give you some character references, if you’re worried about going out with a stranger. He flashed his winning smile. Women told him the slash of dimples in his lean cheeks, the warmth of sky blue eyes in bronzed skin, melted their good intentions faster than soft-centered chocolates in the sun.

At Harvard, Jake and Josh calculated his smile had a 98% rate of getting him what he wanted. They’d set up a flow chart, measured the results. Now it seemed the 2% failure rate had kicked in.

I’m sorry. I can’t take you with me. I will write down the names of several other Kayaking Outfitters working out of Vancouver Island. I’m sure you’ll get on with one of them.

Her reluctance made him all the more determined. Used to easy conquests, her disinterest intrigued him. He wanted the opportunity, so he could probe her puzzling behavior. Sam played his trump card. Okay, if you’ll just refund my money, and of course, recompense my travel expenses, due to short notice, I’ll get out of your way.

Teeth chewed at her bottom lip. Her eyes narrowed; this time he clearly saw her consternation. I’ll see that your refund goes out in the next mail.

She played well for someone with a losing hand, he decided. No. I’ll need the cash. If I do get on with another outfitter, they’ll want the fee up front. Though Sam made more money than an out of control gambler could lose in a year, he wouldn’t let her bluff. His mouth tightened when he saw the flash of vulnerability. Worry? He felt like a shit, yet couldn’t make himself back away. Something stronger than fair play drove him. He heard her teeth click together.

If you’d provide me with names and contact information, I’ll check your references. She headed for an old fishing shack, leaning like an ancient mariner just above the concrete ramp where they stood.

Sam followed her into a dim interior permeated with the smell of fish and rotting wood. She stopped at a glass counter filled with kayaking equipment, handed him a pad and pen. I’ll need at least five, in case I can’t reach a couple. Her little chin rose.

He hid a smile. He loved her confidence and her assumption she had authority over him. He could have her slender body on the floor in seconds. Yet, she didn’t acknowledge his superior height and strength.

He handed her his phone. You’ll get faster results if you make the calls on this. My contacts will take a call from my number, but screen an unknown one.

He wrote their names, adding their titles so she’d gain confidence—Jacob Ingles, CEO of JDI Inc.; Joshua Chandler, President, The High Ground Foundation; RG Gribbs, Safeguard Security; Siree McConnell Ingles, Forensic Accountant; and Cat Duplessis Chandler, bodyguard. He figured she’d go for a woman’s opinion first and watched while she found Cat’s number and hit connect.

I’ll wait outside, he decided, knowing she’d ask more questions if he wasn’t listening. He wanted her convinced she would be safe with him.

While he waited, he mulled over her quick about face when he’d asked for his money. He guessed she no longer had it. If her funds were that tight, why? His eyes narrowed at the thought she might be a profligate shopper or have a gambling addiction. Yet, her clothes were simple and inexpensive, her poker face nonexistent, and she wasn’t a risk taker, or she’d have tried to play him longer. Drugs. No. He shook his head. She looked too healthy. An expensive boyfriend? He doubted she’d subsidize a man. He saw something intrinsically pure in her, not the purity of innocence, but of values. He read her as someone who held themselves to a strict moral code. Definitely, she wouldn’t allow a guy to leach off her.

He settled on a rickety bench outside the door, rested his head against the weathered building, and soaked up the early summer heat. Feathery cirrus veils danced against the blue dome of the sky, teasing as they hid then revealed the sunshine he sought.

She stepped clear of the shack, her slender body backlit by the late morning sun. You can bring your vehicle through the marina gate, over there. She handed him his phone and a key on a floatable plug and pointed to the south edge of the marina. I’ll collect your food supplies and water and meet you by my kayak. We launch in the next thirty minutes, or miss the last of the outgoing tide.

Seemed his friends had come through for him, yet again. Sam never took them for granted. He texted a quick thank you as he headed for his SUV. He drove through the gate and unloaded his high volume Telkaw. He’d paddled a lot of miles off the coast of Seattle, San Diego, and Puerto Vallarta in her and she’d performed beautifully.

The hatches on Marin’s Nomad GTS were closed. She’d filled two dry bags with rations and two four-liter wine bladders with water, then piled them on the cement ramp.

He unloaded three dry bags holding his emergency supplies, sleeping bag, clothes, and toiletries. His tent was protected by a heavier vinyl bag and he dumped a personal floatation device, drinking bladder, paddle, and spare onto a growing pile. The water in Departure Bay stretched like a piece of green glass, a slight ripple distorting its surface, so he packed his dry suit, gloves, and booties in a spare dry bag. He held back nylon shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Grabbing his waterproof sandals from the floor of the back seat, he looked around.

You can use the facilities and change inside. She straightened from inspecting his gear and pointed. Sunshine flashed off something bright around her throat, an enameled fish hanging from a gold chain.

Do you have everything on the list I sent you? She seemed suspicious of his tightly-packed supplies, though the fact he’d checked off ‘expert’ in the boxes provided should tell her he had a lot of experience.

Emergency whistle, Swiss knife, matches. She ran down her copy of the list.

He patted the pockets on his personal flotation device. Check and check, he replied, throwing his polypropylene skirt onto the bow of the kayak. I’ll just park and change. He drove to the parking lot, leaving her frowning down at his kayak.

That’s it. He stood up from fastening his rear hatch, the last of his supplies packed. I believe MJ Tours provides my charts. He pulled out a GPS locator, fastened it on the deck.

He looked up, caught her staring at his butt, and gave her a pass when she looked so adorably flustered. He took the charts she held out from their plastic-sealed pouch and unfolded them. I studied the Hand Islands, so could you give me a quick run-through of our itinerary.

She moved closer, bent her head over the chart, and traced with a slender finger the route they would take. She smelled like sun-warmed caramel and sea salt. Gleaming tendrils of her hair drifted across his jaw. Her silken skin lured. He could barely keep his mind on what she said.

Her finger tapped over Nanaimo on the map and she moved away.

New territory for me. Friends did a similar trip and told me the waters were teeming with wildlife. I’ve seen a few whales off the coast of Washington and California, but would love sighting a big pod.

If you’re ready, we’ll launch. Without responding to his enthusiasm, she grabbed the toggle at the front of her loaded kayak and pulled it down the ramp.

He debated lifting the other end, a typical part of kayaking in a group. She didn’t want or expect the help, so he grabbed his own toggle and maneuvered into the shallow water lapping the worn cement pad. With his PFD zipped, he settled into his seat, happy the quiet waters made a spray skirt unnecessary, so he could soak up more sun. Checking the drinking hose from his water bladder mounted behind him, he threaded it through a loop on the shoulder of his PFD and pulled his paddle from the bungees fore and aft. She’d already moved off the ramp and, without looking back, headed for the mouth of the marina.

Once clear of the docks, they wove amongst pleasure crafts of all types, their wakes raising intricate patterns on the silken surface of the ocean. He followed thirty feet behind her giving himself enough room to react if she changed direction or pace, yet staying within hearing distance. He’d slathered on sunscreen in her tiny bathroom and tugged his floppy, brimmed hat low on his brow. Dark glasses filtered out some of the dazzling chop, where sunlight danced on water. She settled into a comfortable pace, faster than most of the women with whom he’d paddled. He wondered if she felt the need to show off, would slacken with time, or if she was testing his abilities. After twenty minutes, he guessed it was her norm.

There was a lot of marine traffic in the narrow passage between the mainland and Newcastle Island. It took a little over an hour to reach Jack Point where they swung south into the Northumberland Channel. Traffic lessened and he settled into the zone, a nebulous state of free thought, his mind drifting, slack, his body loose. He needed this vacation, had for six months. Two particularly difficult cases had kept him working longer than he’d planned. After months of searching, his team had found the young boy kidnapped by a child molester. The parents had their son back, but Sam knew he’d been too late to prevent damage to the young body and mind.

Immediately after, the FBI requested he locate some highly confidential information that had strayed out of their department in the hands of one of their female agents. He’d tracked it from her, to her lover, to the black market, placed a false bid, obtained indisputable evidence of the crime, and left the FBI mopping their sweating brows with relief. So now it was his time for relief from the pressures of work.

He’d turned off his phone in the bathroom at her shanty. He’d use it only in an emergency. No one could reach him, ask him for anything. Surrounded by nature, her sensual call drawing him on, he felt liberated.

They paddled through lunch, a handful of crackers and cheese she passed him, another of trail mix he pulled from his supplies. The west shore of Gabriola Island had long since given way to the narrow length of Mudge Island. Link Island unrolled in a long thin scroll along his port side. Midafternoon, she veered east toward a jutting point. Until then, she’d been keeping a fair distance from shore, moving in a straight line point to point. Now she turned and entered a narrow, shallow passage. From the chart wedged under the bungees on his bow, he figured they were in the waters separating Link and Long Islands.

Rocky cliffs topped with a fuzz of green rose beside them. A sea lion barked and waddled off a ledge, cutting into the water with the grace of an Olympic diver. High above, cantilevered houses hung over the swirling waters like diving platforms over a pool.

She set her paddle across her cockpit and waited until he closed the space between them. I’m gathering samples here. It will take me about half an hour. She pushed a skein of hair from her eyes.

You can stay in your kayak or stretch your legs. She brushed the hair away again, pointed to a high ledge on the shore. That’s a good place for sightings.

Her impersonal delivery, a type of running away, prodded his instinct to chase. He leaned across the small distance separating their kayaks and brushed the silken strands out of the tangle of her eyelashes, tucking them behind her ear, with competent fingers. Thanks, Marin, I’ll do that.

She jerked back from the touch of his