Tides of Hope. Irene Hannon

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      Spending time with Kate was not a good idea.

      With each encounter, her appeal grew. And that was scary. At least the ride home was short, Craig thought, as he drove his car through the pouring rain.

      “It’s the next street on the right. Lighthouse Lane.”

      Kate directed him to a small clapboard cottage tucked into the tiny dead-end street.

      “Thanks for the lift. I really appreciate it.”

      “It was my pleasure.” The rain continued to beat against the car, the water isolating them from the outside world.

      As he looked at her, he suddenly had the urge to touch her hair. To smooth away the shadows under her eyes. To assure her she didn’t have to face her problems alone.

      Where that urge came from, he had no idea. All he knew was that it threatened to shatter the control he’d mastered as a rescue swimmer. He needed that control. Nothing—and no one—had ever managed to shake it as quickly as Kate. Worse, she’d done it without even trying….

      IRENE HANNON

      who writes both romance and romantic suspense, is the author of more than twenty-five novels. Her books have been honored with both the coveted RITA^® Award from Romance Writers of America (the “Oscar” of romantic fiction) and the Reviewers’ Choice Award from Romantic Times BOOKreviews magazine. More than 1 million copies of her novels have been sold worldwide.

      A former corporate communications executive with a Fortune 500 company, Irene now writes full-time. In her spare time, she enjoys singing, long walks, cooking, gardening and spending time with family. She and her husband make their home in Missouri.

      For more information about her and her books, Irene invites you to visit her Web site at www.irenehannon.com.

      Tides of Hope

      Irene Hannon

      Blessed are those who mourn,

       for they shall be comforted.

      —Matthew 5:4

      To my mother, Dorothy Hannon—

       With loving memories of a very special bird’s nest

       that always graces my Christmas tree…

       and The Good Life

      With special thanks to the following individuals

       for their generous assistance:

      BMC Terrill J. Malvesti, United States

       Coast Guard; Julie & Karsten Reinemo,

       Topspin Sportfishing Charters;

       Erika Mooney, The ’Sconset Trust;

       Michael Galvin, Nantucket Chamber of Commerce.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Epilogue

      Discussion Questions

      Chapter One

      “Sorry to interrupt, sir. But I’ve got a hot one for you.”

      Swiveling his desk chair away from the foggy view of Nantucket Harbor, Lieutenant Craig Cole looked up from the boat-hours report he’d just started reading and gave his executive petty officer his full attention. “What’s up?”

      “A complaint, sir. From the owner of one of the local charter fishing operations, who isn’t too happy about a safety citation we issued this afternoon. The captain asked to speak with you, but you were at that special Conservation Commission meeting. I’m not making any headway, so now that you’re back I thought you might want to take over.”

      The subtle twitch of his aide’s lips put Craig on alert. Boatswain’s Mate First Class Ben Barlow had been stationed on Nantucket for two years, and he’d been an invaluable—if slightly irreverent—source of information since Craig’s arrival four weeks ago, guiding him through several rocky passages. Another one seemed to be looming on the horizon.

      “Okay, Barlow. What’s the story?”

      The man walked into the office and handed over a copy of the citation. “It’s pretty straightforward. Expired flares.”

      Craig scanned the document. The vessel was an older boat, a thirty-one-foot Wellcraft Suncruiser named the Lucy Sue. Although it was equipped with a sufficient number of flares, they were out-of-date. The inspection had been done by the station’s newest—and youngest—crew member, but Craig considered the man to be dependable and conscientious.

      “This looks in order. What’s the problem?”

      His aide’s lip twitch gave way to a grin. “The captain says we’re being hard-nosed. The flares are only a month out-of-date, and she says everyone knows they’re good for at least six months longer than the expiration date. However, she claims she did intend to replace them before resuming operation this season.”

      She. Craig checked the name on the citation. Katherine MacDonald. Was the captain’s gender the source of Barlow’s amusement?

      Lowering the sheet of paper, Craig appraised his aide. “I don’t care what she says. This is a clear violation of regulations.”

      “I explained that to her, sir. But she isn’t backing down.” The man tried to stifle his grin. Failed.

      Craig’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know this woman?”

      “No, sir. But I know Chief Medart had a lot of respect for her.”

      From what he’d heard about his predecessor, Senior Chief Sandra Medart was a solid officer. He’d found no evidence of a lax operation during his brief tenure, though it was more laid-back than he was accustomed to, after his past three years at headquarters in Washington, where protocol and procedures reigned supreme.

      “Are you suggesting that Chief Medart let personal feelings influence her enforcement of the law, Barlow?”

      “No, sir.” The man’s reply was prompt. “But Captain MacDonald has lived on the island her whole life, and she’s been doing fishing charters for at least a dozen years. I believe she’s descended from an old island whaling family. Her roots here are deep.”

      “That doesn’t exempt her from the law.”

      “No, sir. She’s waiting in my office, sir.” The man inclined his head toward the door.

      Listening to an unjustified tirade hadn’t been part of Craig’s Friday afternoon agenda on this last day of March, but he’d expected some backlash once Nantucketers got wind of the beefed-up inspection program he’d implemented earlier in the week. And PR was part of the job in a command post—especially this one, as Admiral Paul Gleason had reminded him when he’d called to tell Craig his request for reassignment had been granted. This would be his first test, Craig supposed—smoothing ruffled feathers without backing down from his firm position on safety-regulation enforcement.

      “Send