Page 106 of Sapphire Sunset

“Isn’t the beach closed?” Scott asked.

“I’m not counting on a three-year-old to read the signs.”

Before Logan could pull away from Connor, he seized his arm.“Logan, the caves. If I left the gate open—”

“Youdidn’tleave the gates open last night. Butwe’ll check to be sure. Because we’re going to check everywhere. Because we’regoing to find this kid.”

As cries of Benji began to echo down all the hotel’scorridors and reverberate through its public spaces, Connor took the beachstairs three at a time.

Once they hit sand, Logan and Scott started checking underthe row of mini catamarans, and Connor, his heart racing, went straight for thegate to the sea caves.

It was locked. Thank God.

Just in case, he opened it with his key, raised theflashlight Logan had given him, and set about a search of the caverns he’dexplored as a boy, calling out the name Benji over and over. The only responsewas his own echoing voice and gurgling water and the nearby roar of the surf.Dread tightening his chest, he angled the beam into the frothing water next tothe boardwalk. The tide was so much higher than it had been the night before.If the boy had somehow climbed the gate and wandered in here and been… Hecouldn’t finish the thought.

Connor emerged from the cave, squinting in the sunlight, andmade his way to the bend in the boardwalk that hugged the cliff’s face. Here hehad a good view back toward the sand. And that’s when he saw a bright spot ofred at the far side of the beach, yards from where the opposite cliff plungedto the sea.

“Logan!”

Connor was running now, sand punching into his shoes as hewent. His cry and speed had landed Logan and Scott on his tail.

The opposite end of the crescent-shaped beach had no cavestructure, but a series of jagged offshore rocks that turned into a shrunkencityscape of tide pools at low tide. Now it was high tide, and clinging to oneof the rocks was a terrified three-year-old boy in bright red pajamas, sobbinghis heart out. Connor saw immediately how it played out. At low tide, the moundof rocks probably looked like a perfect castle for a curious little explorer.Then the tide had started to come in, and a toddler’s hesitation had turnedinto fear and then paralysis, and soon the castle became a buoy amidst a vortexof roiling seas channeled by the jutting rocks on both sides.

Connor had experienced one full-on panic attack in his life,on a flight that lost power in one engine and had to make an emergency landing.

This was worse.

Logan ordered Scott to call the fire department and requesta Coast Guard rescue, then he joined Connor at the rocky edge.

“Benji!” Connor called.

The boy jerked in response to his name, and Connor thoughthe might slide free of the spray-slick rocks he clung to, and only then did hisprecarious position become clear. He was so small, so afraid, and clinging tothe rocks as the waves came in again and again would require an adult’s poiseand steadiness at least. He had neither.

“Connor.” Logan sounded so cool and calm for a second Connorthought he might be hallucinating. He turned to him and saw that he’d removedhis coat. He wasn’t sure why because in his head he was still seeing Benji’stear-stained baby cheeks and his agonizing grimace. Logan closed the distancebetween them, grabbed the back of Connor’s neck, and looked straight into hiseyes. Connor was too startled to make sense of what he was doing. “Whateverhappens, whatever comes next, promise me something.”

“What?”

“Don’t go in the water.”

“I promise, but—”

But before Connor could finish the sentence, Logan planted ahard kiss on his lips, turned, and dove headfirst into the waves.

Drowning was fighting.

Drowning was exhaustion.

So Logan gave himself completely to the violent sea, madethe current his ally. Summoned his hours of training at the Marine Corps WaterSurvival Course on Coronado Island where he’d played both rescuer and panickeddrowning victim, learned well the tricks water and its omnipresent threat canplay on the body and the mind. He’d timed his dive to coincide with the incomingwave and felt a surge of triumph when he realized it was pushing him inwardtoward the cliff’s base. Now it was a matter of letting the retreating currentslam him into the rock rather than pull him out to sea.

He thought he was on track when his head broke water and hesaw the little boy several feet ahead of him, between the wave that was drawinghim out to sea and the shore. He’d missed.

No choice but to let the wave draw him back, farther andfarther. No mad strokes, no exhausting kicks. Floating. Breathing where hecould. Waiting for the next surge. Mother of God, it was taking its sweet time.The boy’s wide eyes got farther away, his wails swallowed by the surf soundsthat were right at Logan’s ears. His back. His life.

Then everything around Logan started to rise, so fast itplugged his nostrils with stinging salt water. But it was lifting him, workingwith him, serving him. He’d made the sea his bitch.

He hoped.

And then his stomach slammed into the rock at what must havebeen fifteen miles an hour, and the wind went out of him with a sound thatwould have made people laugh during a cartoon. But he had his arms around therock.

---