Chapter 10: Epilogue - Thirteen Months Later

Checking the speed carefully and adjusting the helm, I glanced back behind the Riva. Bianca's hair had grown longer in the last year. It now streamed out behind her. She still insisted on white bikinis but was now, at fifteen and a half years old, filling them out with slightly more mature lines, yet she remained a slender, willowy girl.

I watched her ride the single water-ski, holding the towrope handle with one hand, her other waving to me - the signal. She gave me a smile. I waved back, the sign that I was ready, all was set.

With an almost lazy move she leaned steeply to her left, the water-ski cutting sharply across the boat's wake as she picked up speed, her shoulder almost touching the sea. Riding hard out to port, she straightened and rode the waves. I checked the speed and path of the boat again. We were good. Looking back over my shoulder I watched concentration emerge on her pretty face, a familiar serious look, her eyes studying her path, judging, estimating.

She looked calm and in control, no wavering. I found myself holding my breath. The moment came.

Bianca finally gripped the towrope handle with both hands and, with fluid elegance, she leaned back and over to her right, her shoulder almost touching the water as her ski carved deep sending up a rooster tail. The cutback across the boat's wake gained jaw-dropping speed as she fought the pull of the boat, racing out to the starboard side. She'd judged it perfectly, rising to vertical just as her ski hit the wooden ski ramp.

Knees bent to absorb the impact, she raced up the ramp at an insane speed. I held my breath as Bianca launched off the top into clear air, torquing her body into a three-sixty twist, her ski whirling. She continued into a seven-twenty, her body plummeting towards the sea with startling speed. My gut clenched. I was sick with apprehension.

Suddenly Bianca straightened and got her ski under her just as she hit the water, knees bending sharply to take the impact and, for one brief second, I thought she'd nailed it. My smile of relief and pride never formed. Her ski wobbled and twisted and, in a massive spray of saltwater she fell, the towrope flying up into the air.

I slowed the Riva and turned, cutting the throttle to idle while reeling in the towrope. Safely stowed, I went to pick her up. Her big, big smile and glittering Egyptian blue eyes spoke of her excitement. I didn't smile.

"Did you see?" she exclaimed, treading water, the ski floating next to her. "I almost made it, Julian!"

"You're crazy, Bianca," I muttered, reaching out to take the ski. Dropping it in the boat, I reached out again and grabbed her wrist, hauling her out of the Mediterranean effortlessly. In a familiar move she un-stuck the bikini top from her still petite breasts and un-plastered her bikini bottoms eliminating a camel toe and wedgie before taking a towel to her straggly blonde hair.

I returned to the helm to get us moving, my heart still in my throat.

BIANCA DRIED HER HAIR and smiled. Julian was grumpy, again. He'd get that way whenever he thought she was in the slightest danger of hurting herself. She loved it.

"Why couldn't you have taken up knitting?" he muttered, thrusting twin throttles forward.

Bianca went tumbling back into the bench seat with a laugh as the Riva reared up and launched itself forward like an Arabian horse set free. Julian was such a boy. She knew he did it deliberately, too. His grumpiness was just one way he expressed his love for her. He was abnormally protective, not smothering, but watchful. Water-skiing was a good example. He really didn't like her jumps, really, really didn't like them, but no one else was allowed to pilot the boat. No one - no exceptions.

With her hair just damp, Bianca leaned back, her face turned up to the sun and let the warm summer wind wash over her, loving the smell of saltwater. She could see Julian's frown and she smiled.

In the last year she'd learned so much about him. After Uncle Marco's death Julian had insisted they return to Livorno, her home. She'd been furious at him, swearing never to speak to him again when she'd been taken by the child services agency. In anger, she'd gone mute, refusing to talk to the police or the social service workers.

Julian had surprised her. Somehow he'd arranged for a judge to appoint him her legal guardian, probably bribery, and two days later she was back with him. Try as she might she'd been unable to give him the cold shoulder when she'd seen him, running to him and throwing herself into his hug, his green eyes soft and smiling.

But the last year hadn't been without stress. First had come statements made to the police about the kidnapping and she'd had to carefully avoid talking about her relationship with Julian. Then the lawyers got involved as they tried to recover the money embezzled from her trust fund by Uncle Marco, and she'd been forced to make more statements, trying to remember what she'd said to the police and be consistent.

But worst of all was seven months ago. Bianca shivered at the memory. She couldn't remember ever being so scared, even when being kidnapped. They'd settled down back in Nice. Julian had found a private school for her that was walking distance from their house but he never let her walk alone, always taking her and picking her up - another sign of his protectiveness.

It was a Tuesday morning mid-December, the weather cool and blustery. His absence in bed woke her up. Julian, in red tartan boxers, was standing at the window looking out over the Mediterranean.

Wondering what was up she'd called out, "Julian?" and he'd turned.

Bianca had known immediately. It was in his eyes, a sadness she'd not seen before. Her throat had closed, tears welling. Julian's memory had returned.

It had been her deepest, most secret fear. She'd been terrified he'd remember and stop loving her. Maybe he had someone else, or loved someone else and, with his memory back, she'd lose him.

Sitting up in bed, she'd trembled and tears had welled. "You've remembered, haven't you?" she whispered, unable to stop looking at the sadness in his beautiful green eyes. He was sad for her. He was sad at how it would hurt her, his feelings changed. She could see it in him.

Her world slowly crumbled. It was the end, the worst day ever, ever. She couldn't stop her tears from tumbling silently, wet on her cheeks.

Julian had shocked her. He'd rushed over, wrapping her in his arms and, cradling her gently, rocked her. His leathery, musky scent had filled her senses, his hug warm. She hadn't heard him for the roaring in her ears, the utter sense of loss hurting so much. But slowly his voice broke through, begging her to tell him what happened, what was wrong?

She told him. His green eyes narrowed. He frowned and told her nothing could be further from the truth. He'd talked about remembering his younger brother, Charlie, the loss he felt and the acute guilt. When his brother had asked him to go out and play in the quarry, Julian had refused, telling his brother to bugger off. It was the last time he saw Charlie and his life was changed. His parents were torn apart, a mother drinking to forget, a father leaving. And if only ... if only Julian had said okay so much would have been different.