Eighteen
Lulu surfaced slowly from a dream about salmon doing the can-can. A sound was dragging her awake—a disturbed human sound. She jerked into consciousness and blinked in the dim gray pre-dawn light.
The puzzle pieces of memory fell into place. She was on the deck of the Desperado, tucked into a sleeping bag with Tristan Del Rey, and he was moaning in distress. Still asleep, she saw when she lifted herself onto one elbow. He must be having a nightmare.
After wrestling her heart rate back to semi-normal—hey, at least the sound wasn’t from someone boarding the boat, or from Raul—she shook him lightly.
“Tristan,” she hissed. “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
His head thrashed back and forth. “No. Not him. Damn it,” he muttered.
“Tristan,” she said more loudly. Then, “Captain!”
