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The Open Water Swimmer
by Sabrina Devonshire

Category: Erotica/Erotic Romance/Suspense/Thriller
Description: When children's mystery writer Dana Thomas has recurring nightmares about a swimmer drowning during an open water race, she aims to change his fate. Dana's plan to remain objective makes a serious splashdown when she meets her "mission," a towering blue-eyed man with the best cut set of pectorals she's ever seen. Going incognito as a feeding station volunteer for FINA World Cup series races, she travels to Greece, Portugal, Honduras, and Tunisia to protect him. When heat between the pair sizzles, she falls hopelessly in love with this man destined to die. Elite swimmer and former Navy fighter pilot Jeff Dickson keeps dreaming he's drowning. Recently dumped by long-time girlfriend who found him too competitive, Jeff believes his driven personality and international travel schedule can't mix with love. When Jeff meets Dana, he's instantly attracted to her voluptuous body and mysterious personality. When Jeff learns she's been stalking him for weeks at swimming races, he decides she must be psycho. A series of fateful events before the final race lead Dana to believe her nightmare is about to unfold. Anticipating a dive-in and rescue scenario, Dana is shocked to discover that's only the beginning. Can she change the fate of the man she loves and survive?
eBook Publisher: eXtasy eBooks/eXtasy Books, 2012 2012
eBookwise Release Date: November 2012


Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [273 KB]
Words: 60383
Reading time: 172-241 min.

The gun sounded and Jeff sprinted from the beach into the ocean and dove in. Arms and legs splashed all around him. The water felt hot and slushy, like congealing broth. His head swam with fog thick like southern California's June gloom. Instead of knifing through waves, Jeff's normally superhero-strong arms fell to their mercy.

Swimming in hot water hurts. At first it feels like the weight of your muscles multiplied and later like someone lit a torch to them. You try not to let your brain's complaints hijack your head. But it won't shut up. What the hell am I doing out here? Why don't you quit? It shouts and shouts.

The negative chatter reverberated inside his head and he couldn't shut it down. Come on, his will fought back. You don't get paid to spew out excuses. Your sponsors pay you to win.

His hands slipped through the water, not propelling him forward. He fought, fought, fought. The lead pack had already rounded the large yellow triangular buoy that looked like a million miles away. There'd be no medals today, but he'd finish no matter what. The sloshing sounds of waves made his dry throat ache for water. Once I slap that finish pad, I'll slurp down a glass of ice-cold water. Tell them everything at the American Embassy. Once I'm done...

A sudden numbness shot through his body. His stroke cadence slackened. He fought to turn it back up, but his arms refused to cooperate. His legs, too. Damn. What is going on? His body sank instead of moving forward. He tried to shout for help, but only his eyes and nose cleared the surface while his voice gurgled through a layer of water.

His parents' faces appeared as if in a wavy mirror underwater. Then the lens of water zoomed in on his mother's face. The smile faded from her fair, heart-shaped face and she pulled her small, neatly manicured hands up to her chin. Tears streamed down her cheeks and he longed to comfort her, but his hands wouldn't move. The sight of her mourning tugged at his chest. "You're the best son any mother could ever have, Jeffrey," she said.

Oh, Mom, Jeff murmured in bubbles as his goggles filled with tears. He tried to move his frozen muscles to comfort her as his heavy, useless body descended through darker and darker water. A sharp pain like a knife shot through his left ear and a cloud of blood blocked out the image of his mother's face.

Alone in the silent depths, he felt life leaving his limbs. But he didn't want to die. He couldn't bear the thought of his mother's grief, her suffering the loss of her only son.

"No, no, no!" he shouted.

He jerked awake to find himself surrounded by cold darkness, a soft mattress under his back. He flipped on the light to see the comforting surroundings of his room.

His rugged wooden dresser sat in its normal place, with the occasional sleeve or pant leg peering out from opened, overstuffed drawers. His bookshelves were still stacked with more trophies and medals than books. Photographs of the Virgin Islands, Greek Isles and Tahiti, projecting his favorite kind of ocean--turquoise or deep blue--covered every wall.

He threw off the covers and walked to the kitchen for a glass of chocolate milk. He'd had the same dream almost every night for a week. What if it's some kind of premonition? What if I'm really going to die?

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