Page 1 of His Captive
CHAPTER 1
Lea
I’m on a ferry that is taking me from the Sunshine State to an island paradise. Thanks to a small inheritance, and a promise I have no choice but to keep, I’m going to spend a week without a care in the world. Absolute luxury. Delicious food, mocktails by the ocean, maybe a sip of rum, if the mood feels right.
I’ll get to catch up on some reading, and if the mood is good enough for rum, I might even try to flirt with a cabana boy. I’m not actually sure if they have any cabana boys where I’m going, but my grandmother sure talked about the ones she flirted with an awful lot.
But first I have to get there.
Currently, I’m standing near the edge of this rocking boat, worried about keeping the contents of my stomach… well,inmy stomach.
My hand flies to my abdomen when it spasms and I clumsily grab the rail. A jagged sliver of rust slices into my palm and I squeal, but turn it into little more than a peep, so I don’t draw attention to myself.
Great, now my hand is bleeding.
Then the boat rocks again and I fight to keep the Pina Colada mocktail I drank earlier from making a return appearance. A coconut and pineapple bubble that escapes my throat confirms it won’t taste nearly as good the second time around.
“Oh, no,” I groan, tightening my grip on the railing, despite the pain, and leaning forward. “Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up. Please don’t…”
I swallow a gag as the boat rocks the other way, which causes me to white-knuckle the railing and break off the sliver, but part of it stays embedded in my flesh. I should have bought the motion sickness patches like my friend Sarah suggested. But who gets sick on a one-hour boat trip to an island paradise?
Me. I do.
I should be taking pictures of the sun sinking into the Pacific, but I’m not even sure I can hold my phone steady, much less get a good shot.
“Excuse me, miss,” a voice with a hint of an Italian accent echoes behind me. “Are you okay?”
“I-I’m fine,” I groan, not looking back. “Perfectly fine.”
“Motion sickness is as much mental as it is physical,” he comments, walking beside me, leaning against the railing, and offering a glass filled with an amber-colored liquid. “Try to find something to focus your eyes on and sip this.”
I glance at the drink he’s offering me. I don’t take drinks from strangers to begin with, but the last thing I need right now is a glass of beer. That’ll surely make me sicker than I already am.
“I don’t like beer.” I shake my head and feel another flutter of nausea as several crested waves rock the boat.
“It’s ginger beer. It’ll help, trust me,” he says, his tone more insistent. “Ginger soothes the stomach. Natural remedy.”
The thought of drinking beer makes my stomach churn, but I’ve heard ginger helps. I’d drink gasoline right now if I believed it would get rid of this nausea. I reluctantly let go of the railing with one hand and hold it out for the glass. The hand that offers it is tanned and inked, with thick, callused fingers. The pale outline of a recently removed wedding band catches my attention more than the tattoos as our fingers brush together, but my stomach forces me to divert my gaze to the waves below us. I quickly shift the drink to my other hand when I feel the coldness on my cut.
“Ow,” I whimper.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward him so fast I nearly lose my balance. “Hold on, I’ve got a first aid kit.”
He lets go of my hand and drops to one knee, hastily opening an expensive-looking black leather suitcase.
“We’re getting closer to paradise,” the man says, his voice becoming low and soothing. “Just look at that gorgeous sunset. You don’t want to miss that, do you?”
A wave of dizziness that makes my legs wobble sweeps through me as I force myself to look at the sunset. It really is picture-perfect. The kind of sunset you’d take a photo in front of and use as your profile picture on social media. The waves are calm on the horizon and clouds that will likely bring rain are a mixture of purple and pink. They blend together to make the sky almost look like it is on fire, with the sun gently grazing the surface of the ocean.
“It’s beautiful,” I relent, bringing the ginger beer to my lips for the smallest sip I can manage.
“They say everything is beautiful as far as the eye can see on the island,” he comments, gesturing in the direction of our destination. “I tend to agree. Ever been before?”
“No,” I reply, feeling another twinge of nausea, but my second sip of ginger beer seems to ease it. “You?”
“A few times,” he answers. “But it’s been a while.”
He stands back up with a first aid kit in his hand, which he pops open and motions to me. I let him take my hand, turn my palm over, and inspect the cut. His callused hands are so gentle. I can’t help feeling a slight shiver from the contact. The ginger beer seems to be helping. Or maybe it’s the beautiful sunset. Or… I swallow hard and take a quick sip of the beer before finally getting a good look at the man tending to my wound.
