Blue Moon (11 page)

Gabe smiled without humor. “A half an hour of snorkeling might settle things enough to go further down. There's a big difference between helping out at eighty feet and helping out at snorkeling depth.”

“Gabe, if Remy says he's fine, I'm sure he is,” Jeanne piped up in her companion's defense. “It's not like this is his first expedition.”

Gabe had seen Jeanne's type before: champion for every stray, whether it was deserving of the effort or not. That her enthusiasm did not extend to him set like a gaff in his rib. “Your call, boss,” he said, thrusting aside his niggling concern. After all, she'd had known the man longer than Gabe. “Okay, everyone partnered up?”

Gabe surveyed the group—Nick and Stuart, Jeanne and Dr. Primston. While Pablo and Gabe had dived as buddies in the past, Gabe thought one of them should take Mara Adams as a buddy. Obviously nervous, Mara sat in a deck chair, toying with the regulator on her tank. “What about it, Mara? Think you and I could partner up? That would leave Pablo and Ann.”

Enthusiasm burst on her face. “Sure. I wasn't certain . . . I mean—”

“Whoa.” Nick counted off the boy-girl pairing until he came to Stuart and gave his buddy a playful jab. “Gee,” he complained, “does this mean
you're
my date?”

“Get a grip,” Stuart shot back. “You're not my type.”

Gabe grinned at the pair's antics. “Ignore them, Mara. They're just jealous.” He motioned to his deckhand. “Manolo, help her out there.”

While Gabe slipped the vest of his BC, or buoyancy compensator, over his wet suit, he addressed the diving teams. “Okay, listen up. The top of the reef is at forty feet. Over the ledge the bottom drops to a hundred feet with some overhangs of gorgeous”—Gabe shifted from the Latin names embedded in his mind to common names—“purple and pink soft corals.” Amazing that while he'd abandoned his studies, they had not abandoned him. “Everyone keep an eye on your gauges. If your tank starts pulling you up, listen to it.” He should have turned in his thesis and received his doctorate, but by then the whole idea had soured; now all he had were these endless recriminations. “Nobody surfaces with less than 300 psi. Any problems, head topside . . . with a safety stop if at all possible.”

“Hey man, it's not like this is our first dive,” Stu complained.

Gabe grimaced, half smile, half something heavier than the weights on his belt. “Point well-taken, Stuart. Sorry, all,” he apologized. “I've been taking out tourists too long.”

“One can never be too cautious,” Pablo assured him.

Gabe gave his old friend a grateful look and glanced at Jeanne. Once again her encouraging expression, not to mention how fabulous she looked in a wetsuit, drove the shadows from his mind.

“So, if everyone is ready,” he said, “then follow Manolo to the rail and step off into an amazing marine wonderland . . . that is, it will be a wonderland as long as you adhere to the safety rules.”

Jeanne marveled at the living rainbow of color that made up the drop-off of the coral atoll. Gabe was right about this being a wonderland. Fish of every shape, size, and color moved in and about the gently waving fans, tubes, and leaves of coral. The temptation was too great for the budding photographer in Remy. He snapped shots in every direction, forcing Jeanne to prod him along to make the deepest part of the dive first.

Once reaching the bottom, they could take their time making their way back to the surface and take care of the excess nitrogen accumulating in their bodies at the same time. Their progress had been so slow, it surprised her that Gabe and Mara hadn't caught up with them. Twisting to look up toward the brilliant surface, she spied the pair.

Talk about exotic
, a strange voice in her head whispered as she noted the way Gabe's black neoprene wetsuit accentuated his fit physique. He jotted notes on a clipboard and pointed out the various kinds of marine life to Mara during their slow, steady descent.

Jeanne shook her head and forced herself to focus on anything but Gabe, lest that strange woman—the one he'd awakened this morning—stir again. Besides, Mara was enthralled enough for ten women, taking in his every word, or jot. Young and still likely to be gullible, she was about the same age as the pregnant woman—if one could call her that—who'd taken Gabe's money and left the cantina the first night that Jeanne had met him.

Remy tugged at Jeanne's arm, jerking her from her troubling reverie. Spinning, she followed his frantic gestures. A large fish swam straight at them. Stocky, dark gray on the top where its dorsal fin slanted toward its tail and a paler shade on the underbelly, it moved with astonishing speed. Jeanne recognized it instantly as a bottlenose dolphin, commonly tagged a black porpoise.

But Remy was all but panting in panic, his camera adrift, held only by the lanyard about his neck. Placing a calming hand on his arm, Jeanne made a vee with her fingers and jabbed them at his mask, then back at her own to force his attention there. Then, making the OK sign, she smiled as best she could around the regulator.

Uncertainty in his wide eyes, Remy watched the finned mammal streak past, followed by another smaller one in its wake. Jeanne retrieved the clipboard from her belt and scrawled
Mama and baby
dolphin
on it.
Poor Remy,
she thought, seeing the immense relief in his expression. Without his contacts, mama dolphin must have looked like a shark the size of a freight train coming at them.

The further they dove from the ambient lighting of the surface, the more the reef took on the ocean colors of deep blues and grays. Jeanne waved at Ann and Pablo as she followed Remy through a thermocline. The transition from warm water to cold happened so suddenly, it felt as if someone had flicked a temperature switch.

A few feet away, Remy focused his camera on her. Doubting that the lighting was sufficient for a good shot, Jeanne pulled her best smiley face, framing her face with her thumb and forefinger, the rest of her fingers spread to emulate sun rays. At Remy's nod, she paddled upward to where the calcified slope turned from snowfall white to summer brilliance.

Remy stopped to photograph a giant moray eel that snaked its way out of one cavernous hole in the network of coral, headed for yet another a short distance way. Since they were sometimes ornery critters, Jeanne was just as glad it didn't seem to notice them intruding on its turf.

At about eighty feet, Jeanne had stopped to watch Ann focus on a fire coral further below when something, or someone, ripped the regulator from her mouth with such force that she thought her teeth would go with it. She reeled about in time to see Remy trying to use her regulator. He dragged her toward him as he pulled and jerked on the equipment tethered to her.

Ruthlessly tamping down her rising panic, she fumbled for her spare regulator, dimly wondering if he had run out of air. Why hadn't he used her alternate? Regardless of the cause, Remy kept tearing her hands away like a madman, pulling on her tank. With her breath burning in her lungs, Jeanne tried to fight him off, when his camera appeared in the periphery of her vision. It barely registered before it slammed into the side of her face.

Pain blurred all else and threatened her consciousness. Like a puppet in a flurry of arms and legs, Jeanne felt jerked one way, then the other, nearly costing what remnant of breath she had left. Her throat convulsed, the will to hold on to it clashing against the reflex to gasp for the much-needed air.

Suddenly she found herself adrift, free of Remy's thrashing. From the recesses of her retreating consciousness, she felt something press hard against her mouth, grinding, forcing it open—a regulator. With the realization, she hungrily accepted it and forced herself to remain calm enough to purge it. Finally, she inhaled the deep, life-giving mix of nitrogen and oxygen.

Pulled along in a protective embrace that carried her toward the surface, Jeanne continued to breathe, trying to regulate her air intake so as not to hyperventilate. The powerful legs of her benefactor sent the two of them spiraling, body against body, in ascent toward the brilliance of the surface overhead.

Just when she thought they'd reached it, her rescuer stopped, holding her, caressing her hood in gentle reassurance. It was the decompression stop, which meant they obviously were not as close to the top as the light overhead had led her to believe. As her head cleared, she looked over her shoulder, seeking the identity of her angel—and it was Gabe holding her, soothing her, protecting her.

Jeanne could feel his heart beating against her, almost hear it. Slow and measured, his breathing might have been that of someone sleeping. She laid her head against his chest and tried to piece together what had transpired as he treaded water to maintain their position. What had happened to Remy?

When Gabe finally resumed their ascent toward the surface and their heads broke water, her fingers tangled with his to inflate her BC vest. Shoving his mask up on his head, he spat out his regulator.

“You okay?”

She nodded. The clear blue eyes and accented voice did more for her than the air and light as he helped her raise her mask.

The how of his coming to her rescue confused her. Her regulator tasted of blood when she took it out. “Where-where's Remy?”

“Not to worry,
amiga
.” Pablo Montoya's voice drew her attention to where he helped Remy to the swim ladder that Manolo had lowered over the side. “I have our esteemed professor.”

“I am so sorry, Jeanne,” Remy said, breathless and holding on to the rungs as though his life depended on it. “I don't know what happened.”

“You were drunk, you pious pretender,” Gabe accused, sticking like gum to Jeanne as they treaded water. “Narcosis.”

“You must have been feeling a bit light-headed after two atmospheres, my friend,” Pablo consoled the man as he encouraged Remy up the ladder. “Why didn't you signal your partner then?”

“Bet this won't show up in his book.” Gabe propelled Jeanne toward the boat with a kick as Remy stammered an answer.

“I—I thought I'd hyperventilated after seeing that black porpoise.”

“
Tursiops truncatus
, Prim. A bottlenose dolphin,” Gabe corrected over his shoulder. “How in blue blazes did you even get a C-card?” With a scathing look, Remy gathered his strength and climbed aboard. Gabe and Jeanne waited for Don Pablo to scale the ladder ahead of them.

“Take it easy on him, Gabe. He's trying,” Jeanne whispered, defensive, even though Remy had led her to believe that he'd been on several diving expeditions.

“What he very nearly did was drown you,” Gabe hissed. “If Pablo hadn't been nearby to help, I'd have had to choose which of you to rescue . . . and it would
not
have been your precious professor.”

“If you didn't bully him so much—”

Ann bobbed to the surface a short distance away, Mara beside her, wide-eyed. “Is everybody okay?”

“That windbag”—Gabe was just getting started—“is like a French pastry, all puff and no substance,” he grumbled. “What can you possibly see in him?”

“A scholar and a friend who—”

“Hell-ooo!” Ann hollered. “Don't mind us over here.”

“—who helped you get to where you are and knocked you senseless to tear off your gear,” Gabe finished. “And don't bother to thank me for saving your life.” He brushed her thinned lips with his finger, wiping away blood with his thumb and holding it up as if to prove his point.

The seemingly insignificant contact sent a heat wave rushing through Jeanne, evaporating whatever reply formed on her lips.

Nick surfaced with Stuart and spat out his regulator. “Hey man, what happened?”

“For heaven's sake, Jeanne,” Ann cajoled, “tell the man
thank
you
. We're taking a chill over here.”

Jeanne gave Ann a sideways glance before addressing the man holding her too close for comfort at the swim ladder. She ought to be furious. She
was
furious. Or was that her shameless hussy she felt stirring inside again? With Gabe surrounding her—
holding
hardly described how it felt—Jeanne wasn't sure what she was. “Thank you, Captain. Now if you'll let me go, I'd like to get out of the water.”

Reaching down, she removed her flippers and handed them up to Manolo, who helped her board the
Angel
. Remy sat, flippers across his lap, his gaze fixed on his bare feet. Jeanne had never seen a more downcast expression darken his face. Her heart ached for him.

Once Manolo helped her off with her gear, Jeanne sat down beside him, putting her arm around his shoulders. “Hey, it could have happened to anybody. It's probably been a while since you've gone down that far.”

“Don't patronize me, Jeanne. I should have signaled to resurface. I know that now.” Remy took his camera off the lanyard. “Although—” He took a breath. “It has been a while. I've spent most of my expeditions shipboard, helping with the equipment and applying my expertise on antiquities.” He snorted. “But I wanted to keep up with you. It seems the student is surpassing the teacher by leaps and bounds.”

Feeling Remy's embarrassment, and respecting his honesty in accepting responsibility—especially in front of the students and Gabe, who climbed up to the bridge like brooding thunder— Jeanne gave Remy a hug. “I imagine you've forgotten more than I'll ever learn. And frankly, it's good to have your expertise onboard. It completes the team.”

“Oh, please!” drifted down from the bridge, followed by the slam of the dive box lid. Docksiders scuffling purposefully across the upper deck to the helm, Gabe proceeded to fire up the engines for their return to Punta Azul.

As the variegated blue waters closed in behind the white vee of the
Fallen Angel
's wake, Jeanne stared, tired and distracted.

Lord, I'm praying for a better day tomorrow.