Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

drifting away and almost impossible in a storm which is why you need to wear your safety harness and attach your tether in high seas.”

“Trust me, I won’t be going into the water. I’d die of fear before I drowned.”

“We should probably do a man overboard drill,” Brad said.

“I think you’ve scared me enough for one day.”

“Last thing. The flare gun is in the foresail locker.”

“That only works if someone’s out here to see it,” I said.

“Don’t worry. We will be fine. I promise.”

CHAPTER TEN

My mind raced as I climbed into our stateroom berth. The trip horrified and challenged me at the same time. Scaring myself seemed like just desserts, but facing my fears also expressed my core personality. Whenever I had encountered obstacles, whether in school or the operating room, I had tackled them head-on. Man had become the apex predator, because of the human mind, and I believed I could reason my way clear of any predicament.

Brad climbed in beside me. He slipped his hand under the sheets and caressed my hip.

I froze. I had known this was coming. We had not had sex during the last two months of my pregnancy and only twice after my body healed from giving birth. Then my libido had died with Emma.

I pretended to be asleep—a cowardly response—but I did not have the energy to reject him again and explain why I was not ready. Maybe I did not wish to confront the possibility that my reluctance involved more than grief.

“Dagny? I know you’re awake.”

I rolled over and met his eyes. “I can’t.”

“It’s been six months.”

“Not yet, I’m sorry.”

“You’ve always enjoyed our sex life,” he said.

I looked away. “That was before.”

“It’ll be therapeutic for you, take your mind off things. If you—”

“I’m not in the mood. I—”

“Focus on your body, don’t think about anything.”

“It isn’t right,” I said, my chest tightening.

Brad leered at me. “Or is it exactly what you need?”

“I want to make you happy, really I do.”

“It’ll feel good. Relieve your tension.”

“I’m sorry. Not tonight.”

His expression hardened. “I understand, and I’ve been patient, but I have needs.”

“Soon.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

He threw the sheets aside and stomped into the head. His outbursts had come more frequently since Emma’s death.

Brad had joined the staff at New England General Hospital a little more than a year ago, and a few weeks later, I had completed my five-year general surgical residency and left to become a fellow in pediatric surgery at Boston Pediatric Surgical Center. Brad had courted me for almost ten months before I agreed to go out with him. I had not dated much, and he had movie-star looks, so I had thought, why not?

The answer arrived three months later when I got pregnant.

A month after Brad and I began dating, I missed my period. I had assumed it was stress, but then I had missed it again the next month. I had taken a pregnancy test and sat on the toilet staring at a blue cross on a stick. I had insisted Brad use a condom, for disease prevention and as a prophylactic measure, but I had become pregnant anyway. It had elated and terrified me.

I always believed a fetus was a life, so I had not considered abortion. Brad had proposed, both to his credit and to my relief. I had not known him well, but Emma had needed a father, and I had lacked the resources to care for my child and continue my fellowship. Brad’s family had money, and he had seemed sincere, so I accepted.

Later, I tried not to judge myself for my rash decision, because hormones had hijacked my system. We had only been together for a few months, and everybody seemed shiny and flawless during the early stages of a relationship. At the beginning, everyone showed their best selves to their significant others. Dating was like a job interview, except with raging hormones and the future hanging in the balance. It only took a few months to discover the corrosion on Brad’s spotless image.

I shook away the memories.

Brad muttered over the running water in the head. Sexual frustration made him crazy, and I doubted any other woman had ever refused the gorgeous doctor with the perfect body. He had charisma, sex appeal, and family money—all aphrodisiacs to single women.

So many pretty nurses around him every day.

Not having sex was difficult for him, but worse, this rejection came from his wife. It had been hard for him to swallow, but his anger sprang from deeper psychological roots. His experience had conditioned him to get what he wanted. His parents had spoiled him and when things did not go his way, his frustration turned into anger.

And violence.

The head door opened, and Brad glowered at me with a familiar glint in his eyes—wild, hungry—like a lion stalking its prey. The hair rose on my neck. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

On the seventh day of our voyage, I awoke on the couch in the salon. Afternoon naps had become part of my daily routine. The yacht pitched up and down, but I had my sea legs and barely noticed. Now, the motion relaxed me, and when I lay in bed, it lulled me to sleep like a child. I pictured Emma in her crib and stood.

It had taken six days for us to cross the Java Sea, longer than expected, because the winds had shifted and weakened. We sailed northwest toward Singapore, between the islands of Java and Borneo, with the South China Sea to our north. Brad said we should reach the Strait of Malacca, between Indonesia and Malaysia, sometime this evening.

The most dangerous part of our voyage lay beyond, in the vastness of the Indian Ocean.

The sun hung low on the horizon and the breeze cooled. It happened fast, like someone had thrown a switch. I slipped on a crimson Harvard sweatshirt over my bikini. The temperature hovered in the mid-seventies at night, but the