No Quarter Given

A movement caught his attention. Squinting, he saw a lone woman about half a mile up the deserted beach. His heart thudded. It was Dana. Wading into the ocean in a dark blue one-piece bathing suit, she didn’t seem aware of his presence. Hunkering down, Griff rocked back on his heels and watched her. He was sure she hadn’t seen him. She had left a bright, flowery print towel on the beach and was moving her arms in warm-up motions. That’s right, she’d been the captain of the Annapolis swim team, he remembered. Quirking his mouth, Griff hated the thought that his brain had retained everything in Dana’s file.

She was incredibly slender, Griff observed almost with alarm. So small and graceful as she leaned down, cupping the water and sluicing it across her body. Her thighs were curved and firm, the calves tightly muscled and slim. His gaze ranged higher, to her small waist and breasts. Women would probably die of envy for her waist, Griff thought. It couldn’t be more than eighteen inches. He sat down in the sand, enjoying the sight of her economical movements. Warming up before swimming was to be applauded.

When Dana dived into the water, Griff’s breath lodged in his throat. She reminded him of a sleek, shining dolphin. When Dana resurfaced, she was nearly a quarter of a mile out to sea. She had incredible lungs to swim that far without air. Griff kept forgetting she had captained the swim team. With each stroke, she moved farther and farther out across the rose-colored mirror of the gulf, tiny ripples forming around her with each clean, slicing stroke. Shading his eyes even though he wore aviator sunglasses, Griff could barely keep Dana in sight. Worry nagged at him. She was a good mile out from the coast.