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ancient Aztec tongue.
    Sobbing, she gave up her daughter.
    Emma howled a protest, stretching her arms out to Chloe. The man ignored Emma’s frightened cries. “Regreso por ti,” he said, and took off. Unlike Chloe, he had no trouble swimming with a toddler in tow. He headed toward the closest shore, which was about a half-mile away.
    Chloe tried to follow, but her limbs were useless, numb from cold and constricted by wet clothing. Hot tears poured down her face as she struggled to keep sight of them. Emma was her life, her love, her beating heart.
    Chloe sank into the icy depths, praying the man would make it to land. A sharp object stabbed her thigh, giving her a rude prod, and saltwater flooded her nostrils. She shrugged out of her cardigan and clawed her way back to the surface.
    After some wild thrashing and coughing, it occurred to her that she could tread water. Without Emma’s extra weight and the cloying fabric on her arms, her range of movement was much improved. She could swim. Hope burst within her.
    Paddling furiously, she attempted a basic crawl. Her shoes made it very difficult, almost impossible. She paused to take them off, her frozen fingers fumbling with the laces. Finally, she was free of them. Her skinny jeans were restrictive as hell, but there was no way she could remove them without drowning. It was hard enough to do it in her bedroom.
    Chloe focused on Emma. Her pale curls clung to her sweet head. She kept screaming, bless her. The sound was music to Chloe’s ears, guiding her onward. Her little girl had the lungs of an opera singer. Maybe Emma was her guardian angel.
    They’d been swept north of the bridge, toward the embarcadero. It was a small peninsula between the international airport and the harbor. The park-like tourist area was near Seaside Village, and just a few blocks from the city’s famous Gaslight District.
    While Chloe paddled with grim determination, their foreign rescuer arrived at the shore with Emma. The embarcadero’s grassy plateau was lined with trees and protected by clusters of large rocks, like a jetty. There was no gentle beach or gradual slope. The man scrambled over the jagged boulders, with some difficulty, and set Emma on dry land. Despite her obvious fear of him, he had to peel her arms away from his neck.
    Then he came for Chloe.
    Although she’d covered half the distance on her own, she was exhausted, and might have drowned without his help.
    When he reached her, he tucked his forearm under her chin and towed her to shore. She didn’t have the strength to pull herself onto the rocks once they arrived. He got out and grabbed her wrists, hauling her up like a dead fish. She let out a startled cry as her leg scraped along the uneven surface. Her jeans were ripped and bloody, exposing a gash on her upper thigh. The man released her arms and kneeled beside her, his brow furrowed in concern. Chloe could tell that the wound needed stitches.
    “Mama!”
    “Stay there,” she choked out, terrified Emma would try to climb down to them. Wincing, she rested her hip on a rock and closed her hand over the laceration. Watery blood seeped between her fingers, staining the denim.
    “Te ayudo,” the man said. He hooked her arm around his neck and lifted her up, supporting her on one side as they ascended the rocky embankment. With every step, pain radiated from her foot to her thigh. She ignored it, focusing on Emma. Finally, they were on the grass. The man set her down next to Emma. Chloe embraced her daughter with a strangled sob, forgetting her injury, disregarding the cold.
    They were alive. Nothing else mattered.
    After a long hug, she broke the contact to examine Emma’s tearstained face. “Are you okay, baby?” Chloe inspected Emma’s little arms and legs, her sturdy body. She was soaked and shivering, but unharmed.
    “Thank God,” Chloe whispered, hugging Emma again. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”
    The man who’d saved them stood nearby. He was wearing