My Greek SEAL (2 page)

Most of the swimmers are already gathered there. I call on my exhausted brain to remember names. Sherry, Scott, Margie, Jan, Maryann, Randy...Oh, and Libby is the guide. And? No more names are coming to me. My brain refuses to cough up even one more. Shit. I’m not looking forward to asking, what’s your name again? They’ll think I’m a moron.

“Good morning,” I say to no one in particular.

I get an assortment of greetings in response. I wrench my lips into a smile as a jolt of nervousness strikes. I haven’t spent much time on boats. There are hundreds of boats moored in this harbor and I’m not sure which one is ours. There are tiny fishing boats, mid-sized yachts and sailboats. I glance at a rickety looking wooden boat a hundred or so feet from the dock. What if that’s the boat we’re getting on? Maybe it will sink or a rogue wave will tip us over or...Stop. Breathe. But I don’t know how to breathe any other way except fast, especially now that my heart is racing a mile a minute. I should have learned how to do yoga breathing. I haven’t even boarded the boat and already I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack. I recall all the people in the movies who breathe into a paper bag. I have some of my stuff in zip loc bags to keep it dry. I wonder if that could work. No. Everyone will think you’re nuts. Or I guess it’s batty they call weird people in England.

Libby sits waiting for us in an inflatable boat tied to the dock. Her sticking-up-in-every-direction blond hair shouts bed head. Her mouth stretches open in a yawn just before she shouts that she’s ready to take groups of six at a time out to the
Ionian Goddess
.

The two British couples are engaged in deep discussion. Libby waves her hand at me, apparently thinking she’s got a better chance of attracting my attention than anyone else’s. I stride toward the boat and look tentatively at it bobbing in the gentle waves. Boarding gracefully could be a task. The interior of the craft is slick with water and all the rubber surfaces look slippery.

“Hand me your stuff first,” says Libby.

I pass her my bag and she places it in the center of the boat.

Libby leans around me before shouting again. “Are you people going to get on board the bloody boat or not?” She’s smiling so I can tell she’s more amused than irritated.

“We’re on our way,” Maryann answers.

I look at the space of water between the dock and cautiously place the ball of my all-terrain-sandaled foot on the rounded edge of the inflatable boat. It lurches. I pull my foot back.

“It’s okay. Come on ahead.” Libby reaches for my hand. I grab it and allow my foot to slide over the curved rubber surface of the boat’s side.

“Don’t put your foot there. Step inside the boat,” Libby urges. With her free hand, she adjusts her sunglasses, which have bright red rims.

“Oh, okay.” My legs feel too far apart to be even close to stable as I launch my lead foot onto the flat surface of the boat bottom. It’s rocking in the gentle waves. Whoa. I wave my arms to regain my balance. I need to re-establish some semblance of equilibrium before I pick up the second foot from solid ground.

That’s when my gaze lands on a drool-worthy man walking nonchalantly down the stairs. I first notice he’s not wearing a shirt. It’s very hard not to notice that every perfectly defined muscle on his chest is tanned to a deep bronze that exaggerates every cut and contour. The sprinkle of dark hair on his chest only makes him look more masculine. Damn, he’s hot. I’m so spellbound by the sight my eyeballs could pop out and splash down in the water in front of me. My tongue and the roof of my mouth feel as dry as the Sahara Desert. My heart races. My eyes water and sting because I can’t blink. If I do, I might miss a second of this spectacular view.

Where the hell did the to-die-for man come from? He wasn’t at the meeting the previous night. Is he part of our group or here to board a different boat? I silently hope he’s with us. Then I reprimand myself for that thought, telling myself now is about the worst time for me to get distracted by some random hot man.

He has to be Greek. His hair is a tangled mass of dark curls and falls well below his shoulders. Dark thick wing-shaped brows draw attention to his large, expressive eyes. Holy shit. My gaze takes a delicious detour back to his body, where it’s already spent too much time lingering. My eyes soak up the view of the muscular planes of his chest and follow the line of dark hair over his six-pack abs until it disappears into his swim trunks. This is the kind of man you dream about and then wake up mad and pounding your pillow over it because you want to be back asleep and not awaking anytime soon.

Libby tugs on my arm, urging me onward. “You’d think you never bloody seen a man before. Would you stop gaping and get your backside on this boat?”

“Oh, sure.” I lift my lagging foot from the dock and raise it over the rim of the inflatable boat. My gaze refuses to unglue itself from Hot Man’s Chest. My foot catches on a rope along the top of the rim. The boat and my body lurches and my hand slips from Libby’s grasp. I look below me and see that the boat has pulled more than two feet away from the dock on the taut rope. I’m in imminent danger of a splashdown.

My arms flap like wings through the empty air and my body tips and sways and I think how embarrassing this situation is just before I make a dramatic splash into the bay.

CHAPTER THREE

I wish I could swim underwater for several hundred yards so when I surfaced, no one would see my embarrassed face. But Libby warned us swarms of jellyfish reside in this secluded bay and that it’s got a mud bottom and isn’t as clean as the blue water we’ll be swimming in the rest of the day. A mud breakfast and a jellyfish-sting facial aren’t things I want to experience so I pull frantically toward the surface, sputtering for air.

I’m greeted by the man’s laughter. It’s deep and full-bodied and so sexy.

Too bad he’ll never take me seriously. He’ll probably always see me as the bimbo who fell overboard looking at his pecs.

Shit. Until a week ago, everything was orderly and predictable and no one ever seemed to take notice of anything I did and I wouldn’t have minded a little attention. Now when keeping a low profile seems paramount to maintaining my sanity, I make a complete idiot of myself. I feel the curious gazes before I see them. I raise one hand and grip the side of the boat.

“Here, let me help you.” Libby shakes her head as she leans over the side of the boat and reaches for my arm. “You need to step more carefully. That move was a bloody wreck. If you can’t even board the rib without going overboard, I don’t know what you’ll do out on the big boat when we’re in rough seas.”

I know answering her reprimand will only prolong the agony, but I feel I owe this safety conscious guide an apology. “Don’t worry. I’ll be more careful from now on.”

She grips my wrist tight. Her bulky arm muscles flex as she hauls me out of the water and she presses her lips together, but doesn’t grimace. At least rescuing me wasn’t a major strain for her sturdy, strong body.

Bending my knees, I lower my butt down on the curved rubber rim of the boat. Water drips from my hat and hair and my drenched wrap clings like a cocoon to my body. I straighten the sunglasses that by some miracle remain perched over my ears after the plunge.

Libby waits for five others to board the boat before pushing away from the dock. I force my gaze to remain on the gray rubber floor of the boat. I won’t spare a glance toward the hot Greek guy laughing at my expense. There’s no ambivalence on my part about what I hope he will do next. I hope he climbs into the sailboat moored to the dock or turns around and walks back up that steep stone staircase. I hope to hell he’s not swimming with us.

If only I’d holed up in my apartment and imbibed on Chardonnay and ice cream instead of flying to Greece and opening myself up to all this public humiliation. I’m not up to this.

Behind my sunglasses, tears well and threaten to drip down my face. This is so awkward. I don’t want to be here. I feel far too vulnerable and out of sorts. I long for safety. I want to cling to it and hang on for dear life.

I pluck the drenched hat from my head and wring it out quickly over the side before placing it back on my head. I exhale audibly, clench my jaw and vow to feign calm and composed.

“Hey, love, don’t let what just happened ruin your day,” says Maryann in her crisp British accent. “Your belongings will dry in the sun in a jiffy and your swimming costume is going to get wet anyway once we do our first swim.”

I glance up to meet Maryann’s gaze. Smile lines radiate from the corners of her eyes. Her expression suggests a warmth and acceptance I need to see. Even better, everyone else on the boat is acting like it never happened. Maryann’s husband, Randy, is engaged in an animated conversation with Scott, an older man with a graying head of hair and mustache and a stretched out Speedo. His wife, Sherry has her head down and is fumbling around in her dry bag for something.

“I guess you’re right.” I wonder how old Maryann is. Forty-five perhaps?

“Here we are. I would like you all to meet the
Ionian Goddess
.” Libby steers the boat up alongside the weathered, wood-hulled cruiser—the old battered boat I feared we would be boarding—and throws a rope up to Dmitri, who we were told would be the lead guide and boat captain. I wait for the others to exit before climbing the ladder myself. Maryann, Randy, Margie and the Londoners whose names I can’t remember peer over the side anxiously as if they expect me to do a splashdown encore.

I wave my hand at them in irritation. “Don’t worry, I’m on top of this.” It’s a cinch to climb the ladder and step in the boat with grace when the surfaces aren’t slick and my gaze isn’t fastened on some gorgeous Greek guy’s chest. Once I’m standing on two feet on the deck of the
Ionian Goddess
, my audience disperses and Libby pushes back from the boat and drives away to shuttle over more passengers. I try not to think about how I’ll react if Mr. Hot Body shows up soon.

I follow Maryann toward the front of the boat. She cranes her head around and waves her hand. “Come on up here with us. There are nice places to sit on the bow. Plus you’ll get the best view of the islands.”

Six large blue beanbag chairs are neatly placed around the edge of the bow deck, just inside the railing. They look cushy and comfortable. Nice. I have to say they look much more comfortable than my hotel room bed. Maybe I’ll just drop into one of those and sleep all day. “Thanks for the suggestion. This looks like a great place to hang out. But you walked right toward this area. How did you know to come here?”

Maryann laughs and sets her bag down beside one of the beanbags. “Oh, we went on holiday here last summer as well.”

I drop my dry bag beside the beanbag directly across from her and Randy. “You must have enjoyed it a lot to come back.”

“Oh, yes, it was swell. You won’t believe it. The views and the swims are so lovely. “

“I can believe it. Even here, the view’s amazing.”

The water in the bay looks smooth as glass and the sky and the mountains and the houses on the far side of the bay in Nidri Town are orange from the rising sun. A few stray clouds linger over the arid peaks. I’m tempted to pull out my camera and take a photo, but then remind myself that this won’t be a vacation I’ll want to remember.

“It is a lovely morning,” Maryann says in a wistful voice, gazing off into the distance.

“It’s beautiful.” I untie my wrap and wring it out over the side. Afterward, I tie it onto the railing for the wind to dry. I dig my well-worn beach towel out of my bag and secure it around my waist, sure that the threadbare towel and my dripping wet hat make an amazing fashion statement.

I don’t mind the wet swimsuit. The damp fabric feels refreshing against my skin since it’s got to be at least eighty-five degrees outside and climbing. I’ll round my estimated temperature up to eighty-six for a quick metric system conversion. Eighty-six Fahrenheit is thirty degrees Celsius. I memorized the Fahrenheit equivalent of twenty, thirty and forty degrees Celsius before I left Tucson, figuring it would be easy enough to estimate temperatures in between. At home I never much think about Celsius versus Fahrenheit, meters versus yards, and gallons versus liters. It’s only on the rare occasions I leave the U.S. that I’m rudely reminded we’re the only ones not using the metric system.

I slip my sunglasses off, use the corner of my towel to dry off my face before replacing the lenses over my ears. I drop into the beanbag chair and release a long sigh.

Maryann leans toward me, frowning. “Maya, you look vexed. Your shoulders are going to stick to your ears if you tense those neck muscles any more. You’re on holiday. Just forget about life and enjoy the day.”

I smile and give her a faint smile. “I know. You’re right about all of it.” She thinks I should enjoy the day. Relax. Yes, that’s exactly what I should do. What any normal person would do. I’m on vacation, after all and I spent an exorbitant amount of money to get here. I’m thousands of miles away from the crooked boss who fired me to avoid paying commission he owed me on a six-figure sale. Thousands of miles away from the attorney who, for a hefty fee, is working to collect what I’m owed.

I let out a long sigh. Why should I allow all that to ruin this lovely day in the Greek isles? The sky is blue and untainted by smog or car pollution. The water on the horizon is a rich, cerulean blue. Even now, I can hear the gentle slap of the water against the boat’s hull. It’s soothing me, urging me to allow my heart rate to slow, my breaths to deepen, to forget. I’m in Greece. Here, I don’t have to worry about paying the rent or if the utilities might get turned off or whether I’ll have enough money to cover gas and groceries. Here, the worst thing that could happen is an embarrassing tumble into the sea. And that’s already happened.

I gaze out toward the mouth of the bay, imagining what the surrounding islands will look like. Like Lefkada, I imagine that they’ll be made of limestone and covered with olive and fir trees. There will be quaint villages with stone-paved streets and coffee shops and restaurants where you can order spanikopita and fried cheese.