Sea Fever (8 page)

“Regina? She went to the dock to meet the ferry. I am waiting for

her to come back.”

“Why?”

“So I can go home.”

He bared his teeth. “Who is she meeting at the ferry?”

“No one. They’re off-loading supplies for the restaurant. Dylan . . .”

Margred’s eyes were troubled. Seeking. “What are you doing here?”

She had faced a demon before, Dylan reminded himself. They had

faced a demon together. He did not need to pretend with her. And Conn

had not instructed him to lie.

“Conn sent me.”

“Why?”

“He believes the fire spawn are seeking something on World’s End.”

Margred went very still. “Seeking what?”

Your child. Yours and my brother’s. But Dylan could not say that.

He did not know it to be true.

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

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“Vengeance?”

“It’s possible.”

“Then why did you not come to me?” She crumpled her apron

between her hands. “Why did you not warn me?”

“Because we do not know.”

“And because I am human now,” she guessed.

Possibly. Probably. Guilt made him stiff. “By your own choice.”

“Yes. My choice. Being human pleases me.” She added deliberately,

“Caleb pleases me.”

“Till death do you part,” Dylan sneered.

She tossed her head. “Better a lifetime with him than eternity

without him.”

“And when you both are old, will he still please you then?”

“Yes,” she said with absolute certainty.

“How do you know?”

“Why do you care?” she shot back.

The back door slammed.

“Idiot supplier sent me iceberg,” Regina said. “Four crates of—

Well.” She stopped, her gaze flicking from Dylan to Margred and back

again. She set a big cardboard box on the stainless steel counter; crossed

her arms. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Margred said. “I am leaving.”

The bell over the door jangled in her wake.

“Shit,” Regina said wearily. She ran her fingers through her straight,

cropped hair. “I was going to ask her to give me another twenty minutes.”

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“Why?” Dylan asked.

“Ma’s doing mayor stuff— waste committee meeting,” Regina

explained. “I’m covering the dinner shift by myself. Which isn’t a

problem normally, but there wasn’t room for the truck on the morning

ferry, and now I’ve got to unload the delivery myself.”

She was already moving as she spoke, sliding the carton, wedging

open the back door. There was no rest in her, no peace, only this slightly

nervous, crackling energy. And yet for the first time all day, Dylan felt

his shoulders relax.

He walked into the kitchen as she returned from the alley carrying

another big box. Through the open door he could see an old white van, its

rear doors open to reveal stacked crates and cartons.

“You are alone?”

“I just said so, didn’t I?” She sidestepped to avoid him.

He followed. “Where is Nick?”

“At Danny Trujillo’s, playing Ultimate Alliance. Get out of my

way.”

He took the box from her instead, dumping it on the counter.

She bit her lip. “Listen—”

The front bell jingled. Regina glanced toward the door and back at

him, her dilemma plain on her face.

He showed her the edge of his teeth. “Deal with it.”

The customers? Or him helping her? He wasn’t sure.

Maybe she wasn’t either, but she didn’t have much choice. She shot

him a look and stalked through the swinging door. He heard her voice.

“How’s it going, Henry? What can I get you tonight?”

Dylan unloaded two more cartons while she boxed Henry’s dinner—one lasagna to go— and took an order for four lobsters, steamed, with a

side of slaw.

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She bumped a hip against the door, grabbing up the lobsters on her

way to the cook top. “Thanks.” She dismissed him. “I’ll get the rest in a

minute.”

Dylan ignored her. Each case of tomatoes must weigh sixty pounds.

How had she gotten them into the van in the first place? “Where does this

go?”

“Walk-in refrigerator. On your left. But—”

“What’s wrong with iceberg?” he asked, to distract her.

She dropped the lobsters into boiling water. Dylan restrained a

wince. “Other than being colorless, tasteless, and relatively lacking in

nutritional value, not a thing.”

“Then why buy it?”

“I don’t. So either my mother did, or the supplier switched the

order.”

She snapped the lids on various containers: lemon, butter, cole slaw.

By the time she rang up the lobsters, Dylan was setting the last case on

the floor.

Regina blew out her breath. “Thanks. I guess I owe you.”

“I’m sure we can work out some form of payment,” he said silkily.

She snorted. “I’ll cook you dinner.”

“That’s not what I had in mind.” He moved in, trapping her against

the stainless steel counter, watching awareness bloom in her big brown

eyes.

“Too bad, because that’s all I’m offering.”

He stepped between her thighs, sliding his hands into her hair,

beneath her bandana. The pulse in her throat leaped against the heel of his

hand. “Then I won’t wait for you to offer,” he said and took her scowling

mouth.

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She tasted sharp and earthy, like sun-warmed tomatoes and olives

and garlic. She smelled like apricots. She flooded his senses, filled his

head, good, yes, this, now. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her mouth

was warm and eager. He felt the tension in her tight little body as she

pressed against him, slight breasts, narrow waist, slim thighs, all fine, all

feminine, all his, and the hunger in him developed claws that raked his

gut.

He wanted . . . something. The release of sex, yes. More. He wanted

to feel her tremble and come apart again, wanted her wet and soft and

under him. Craved her tenderness. Her touch.

He hitched her up on the counter. She hooked her legs around his

waist. He pictured himself stripping the jeans from her and pushing his

way inside, now. He fumbled for her waistband.

Her hands came up between them, flattened against his chest. Good,

yes, touch me, he thought.

She pushed, hard.

He raised his head, confused.

Her lips were full and wet, her eyes dark. The tiny gold cross on her

chest moved up and down with her breath.

“So, what’s the deal with you and Margred?” she asked.

“What?”

“You were talking to her when I came in.”

His blood roared in his head. “That has nothing to do with you. With

this.”

“Yeah?” She attempted to close her legs. He didn’t move. “Because

I won’t be used to make her jealous. Or to cover whatever thing you two

have going on from Caleb. What do you want, Dylan?”

“I’d think that was obvious.”

“Not to me.”

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He took her hand and pressed it to his crotch, where he was hard and

aching for her. “You,” he said. “I want you.”

Her lips trembled; firmed into a sneer. “Very nice. Excuse me if I’m

not flattered. Or convinced.”

He pulsed against her. “What would it take to convince you?”

Blushing, she tugged her hand away. “I don’t know. More than being

groped against the kitchen counter. Been there, done that.”

“I did not grope you,” he said, irritated. She’d pushed him away

before he’d had the chance.

“It’s not always about you, handsome.”

Some other man, then.

He narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then you shouldn’t have brought him up. Who was he?”

“Like you really want to know.” Her head came up, almost

connecting with his jaw. “It’s not me you care about; it’s who else had

what you want. Well, fuck you.”

“You ruled that out. So talk to me.”

Her snort of laughter took them both by surprise. “It was Nick’s

father, all right? I worked in his kitchen.”

“In Boston.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“Nick told me. That first day, on the beach.”

Her hand went to the chain around her neck, to the totem of her

murdered Christ. Dylan had noticed the gesture before. Did she call on

Him for help? Or was the gesture merely nervous habit?

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“Nick talked to you about his father?” she asked.

He was still looking at her chest, the gold chain, all that smooth skin

above the scooped neckline of her tank top. “He said you left him.”

“Yeah. After Alain made it really clear he didn’t want anything to do

with me or the baby.”

Babies, well . . . Babies were a serious commitment. No wonder the

guy was scared off. Dylan raised his gaze from the slight slope of her

breasts to her mouth, sensitive and a little sad.

“There are worse things than growing up without a father,” he

offered.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Dylan raised his brows.

“Mine took off when I was three years old,” Regina explained.

“But you had your mother.”

“When she wasn’t working. I wanted different for Nick.”

The shadows in her eyes disturbed him. “It wasn’t your choice,”

Dylan said.

“Not then. It is now.”

He didn’t follow. He was still hard, his brain still blurred with lust.

Regina sighed. “I can’t give Nick a mother who’s around all the

time. The least I can do is spare him some guy who won’t stick.”

Dylan frowned. “You knew all along I would not stay. It did not stop

you on the beach.”

Her pointed chin came up. “I was drunk. Anyway, that was before I

knew you. Before Nick knew you. I can’t risk him getting attached.”

“I’m not asking to move in with you.” Frustration sharpened his

voice. “Nothing has to change. I just want sex.”

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“Sex changes things.” Her eyes met his. Warm, brown, honest eyes.

“Maybe I can’t risk me getting attached either.”

His heart tightened like a fist. He was selkie. It was not in his nature

to form attachments. And yet . . .

“You underestimate yourself,” he said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Perhaps you are more like me than you acknowledge.”

Or perhaps she had more power over him than he dared admit, even

to himself.

“I have a kid. You don’t.” Regina hopped down from the counter,

brushing him aside. “You try being responsible for somebody besides

yourself sometime, and we’ll talk.”

68

Six

“I CAN’T EAT IN THE KITCHEN.” JERICHO TOOK a step back

from the kitchen door, clutching his take-out bag. The aroma of potatoes

and onions followed him into the alley, mingling with the smell of grease

from the fryer, a whiff of rotting lobster from the Dumpster. Regina’s

gorge rose.

“It would be different,” he said, “if I wasn’t taking charity.”

Regina scowled. It pissed her off that she couldn’t do more for him.

Didn’t want to do more. “It’s not charity. It’s a sandwich.”

Jericho’s thin lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. He’d made an

effort to wash, she noticed, even to shave. She could see the line on his

neck where his beard ended and the dirt began. Despite that dubious

demarcation, she had to admit he looked more approachable without the

stubble. Not as scary.

“I could help out maybe,” he offered, not quite meeting her eyes. “In

return for the food.”

Oh, no. She wasn’t looking to take on another responsibility.

Although, maybe . . .

Her relief when Dylan showed up yesterday had been a revelation

and a warning. She couldn’t count on his help with every delivery. She

couldn’t count on Dylan, period.

What had he said yesterday? “Nothing has to change. I just want

sex.” Predictable guy response.

Not reliable. But predictable.

“Sorry,” she said. “We’re not hiring.”

“I’m not asking for money.” A hint of the South flavored Jericho’s

voice like bourbon in branch water. She wondered again what demons

drove him so far from home. “Just sometimes . . . I thought I could help

out,” he repeated with quiet dignity.

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Her head hurt. She didn’t know what to do. When Perfetto’s needed

a dishwasher, Alain used to drive to the corner where the day laborers

hung out and hire a guy right off the street. But then, Alain didn’t have a

kid on the premises to worry about. Hadn’t wanted a kid to worry about.

Rat bastard.

But after all these years, the words no longer had the power to

energize her. Thinking of Alain only made her tired.

“I’ll let you know,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.” Jericho tugged on his cap, shading those clear,

haunted eyes. “Appreciate it.”

He turned to go, almost bumping into Margred as she rounded the

corner. They circled without touching, like fighters looking for an

opening. Finally, Jericho stepped back, and Margred entered the kitchen.