Sidney Sheldon’s The Tides of Memory. Сидни Шелдон

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      Toni waved frantically at Billy, beckoning him over. “Come back!” she shouted into the wind. “You’ll get yourself killed out there!”

      Billy cupped a hand to his ear in a can’t-hear-you gesture. Leaving the boys on the shore, Toni swam a few yards farther out and shouted again. “Get back here! You’ll get hit.”

      Billy glanced over his shoulder. The nearest yacht tenders were at least fifty yards behind him.

      “It’s fine,” he called back to Toni.

      “It’s not fine! Don’t be a moron.”

      “Two more dives.”

      “Billy, no!”

      But it was too late. With an effortless flick of the legs, Billy disappeared beneath the waves again, earning himself more gasps and claps from the beach.

      Toni bit her lip, waiting anxiously for Billy to resurface. Ten seconds went by, then twenty, then thirty.

      Oh, Jesus. What’s happened? Has he hit his head? I should never have taken the stupid bet and encouraged him. I know how reckless he is. He’s like me.

      Then suddenly there he was, shooting up out of the blue like a dolphin at play, waving a huge oyster shell. The crowd on the beach whooped and cheered. Billy cut the thing open and pulled out a pearl, to even louder applause. But he shook his head sadly at Toni.

      “It’s too small. My princess needs a pea.”

      “Cut it out,” Toni shot back angrily. The game wasn’t fun anymore. Couldn’t those idiots on the beach see how dangerous this was? “Get back here, Billy. I mean it.”

      Billy shook his head. “Two minutes left!” And with a deep gulp of air, he was gone again.

      “WHY DON’T YOU LET ME PILOT the tender, sir. You sit back and relax.”

      Daniel Gray was an experienced crewman who’d spent the last twenty years working on rich people’s yachts. The Braemar Murphys were no better or worse than most of the families Daniel Gray worked for. But their son, Charles, was an entitled little prig. He’d clearly been drinking, and should not be left alone at the wheel of an expensive piece of equipment like the Celeste’s tender.

      “I’m perfectly relaxed, thanks,” Charles Braemar Murphy drawled. “Just bring me the strawberries and champagne I asked for and let my mother know I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

      “Very good, sir.”

      Dickhead. I hope he runs aground and spends the next decade paying his old man back for the damage.

      IT TOOK BILLY HAMLIN FORTY-FIVE SECONDS to surface this time. He still seemed to think it was a joke, barely pausing before he went back down again.

      Furious, Toni turned away—no way would she spend the night with him now, however big his damn pearl, or his damn anything else, might be. As she swam back toward the boys, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. It was a rowboat, a tiny, old-fashioned wooden affair. What the hell is that doing out in the shipping lane?

      No sooner had the thought occurred to her than she saw two tenders, one gliding sedately through the water, the other, a few seconds behind it, going dangerously fast, churning up a choppy wake as it roared toward the shore. The first tender saw the wooden craft and veered to avoid it, changing course fairly easily. The second seemed totally unaware of the danger.

      “Boat!” Toni waved frantically at the second tender. She was in shallow water now and was able to jump up and down as she shouted and flapped her arms. “BOAT!”

      CHARLES BRAEMAR MURPHY CAUGHT THE FLASH of blond hair and the familiar white bikini.

      Toni was waving at him.

      “Hey, babe!” He waved back, speeding up to impress her, but found he needed to clutch the wheel for support. That Chablis must have really gone to his head. “I brought you something.”

      It took a few moments for Charles to realize that people on the beach were waving at him too. Hadn’t they ever seen a yacht tender before? Or maybe they’d never seen one as powerful as the Celeste’s.

      By the time he saw the rowboat, and realized the danger, he was seconds away from impact. Crouched inside, two teenage boys huddled together in terror. Charles caught the look of pure panic on their faces as he hurtled toward them, and felt sick. He was close enough now to see the whites of their eyes and their desperate, pleading expressions.

      Jesus Christ.

      He lunged for the wheel.

      THE TWO LIFEGUARDS LOOKED AT EACH other.

      “Holy shit.”

      “He’s gonna hit them, isn’t he?”

      Grabbing their floats, they ran into the water.

      TONI WATCHED IN HORROR AS THE second tender sped toward the rowboat. As it got closer, her horror intensified. Is that …Charles? What the hell is he doing?

      She opened her mouth to scream, to warn him, but no sound came out. Thanks to Billy’s antics, she’d already shouted herself hoarse. That’s when she realized with chilling finality: Those kids are going to die.

      DEEP BENEATH THE WAVES, BILLY HAMLIN plucked a fifth oyster shell from the sand. It was cool and peaceful down here, and quite beautiful with the sun shining its dappled rays through the water, casting ethereal, dancing shadows across the bed.

      The chances of him finding a pea-size pearl were almost nil. But Billy was enjoying showing off for Toni and the crowd on the beach. He felt at home in the water, confident and strong. In the real world he might be Charles Braemar Murphy’s inferior. But not here, in the wild freedom of the ocean. Here, he was a king.

      Grabbing the oyster tightly in his hand, he began to swim back up toward the light.

      WRENCHING THE WHEEL TO THE RIGHT with all his strength, Charles Braemar Murphy closed his eyes. The tender banked so sharply, it almost capsized. Clinging on for dear life, Charles heard screams ringing in his ears. Was it the boys’ terror he was hearing, or his own? He couldn’t tell. Salt spray doused him, lashing his face like a razor. The tender was still moving at a terrific speed.

      How had it happened so quickly, the shift from happiness to disaster? Only seconds ago he’d been deeply, profoundly happy. And now …

      Heart pounding, teeth clenched, Charles Braemar Murphy braced himself for the blow.

      THE CROWD ON THE BEACH WATCHED openmouthed as the tender careered uncontrollably to the right, farther into the shipping lanes.

      At first the wake was so huge and the spray so high it was impossible to make out what had happened to the rowboat. But at last it emerged, bobbing wildly but still intact. Two boys could be seen standing inside, waving their arms frantically for rescue.

      The relief was overwhelming. People cheered and cried and jumped up and down, hugging one another.

      They made it! He missed.

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