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Authors: Katherine Irons

Tags: #Romance, #Paranormal, #Fantasy, #Chick-Lit, #Mythology

Seaborne (10 page)

BOOK: Seaborne
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“What is it they tell a cowboy when he falls off a horse?” he asked as he caught her in his arms.
“Get right back on.” She laughed, wrapping her legs around his waist.
He leaned close, closer. Her lips were so beautiful. He kissed her, forgetting everything else but how good she tasted. He’d lost count of the sexual encounters he’d had, of the number of his lovers, but he’d never felt so out of control with a woman.
Claire had captivated him. He was completely in charge; she was in his world. Yet, she held the power in her small hands … in those pink lips … in her touch.
She snuggled against him, tangling her fingers in his hair, pressing herself so tightly against him it was almost as if they were one. The sweetness of her kiss made him giddy, and they sank down and down… . Until, abruptly, he felt the sandpaper skin of Lilura rise up under them.
Claire didn’t seem to notice. She parted her lips, opening to him, and he touched his tongue to hers. His need for her soared; he could feel his pulse pounding, his staff growing hard as stone. He couldn’t get enough of her. Her scent drove him wild.
“Claire …” he groaned. “My Claire.” She was as hot for him as he was for her. She wanted him with every ounce of her being. He caressed her breasts, the soft skin of her waist, the sweet curves of her buttocks. There was only one way to end this … only one way to satisfy the need that pounded in his blood.
“Justin.” Richard opened the door to his apartment. “Thanks for coming.”
Justin stepped inside, handed his former father-in-law his umbrella, and removed his raincoat. “It’s pouring out there.”
“I’ll take your things. I gave the housekeeper the afternoon off.”
“Sorry I wasn’t available the other day. Patients.”
Richard ushered him into the living room. “Coffee? A martini?”
“No, thanks.” Justin sensed a change of attitude in the older man’s greeting. They’d never been close, and he’d always felt that Richard considered him not quite good enough for Claire. Things were quite different now that Claire was damaged goods. He glanced around the room, noting the oil over the fireplace. “That’s new, isn’t it? Not a Picasso?”
Richard shook his head. “Afraid not. A Damario. He was a student of Picasso who obviously copied his master’s style. But I thought it might be a good investment.”
Justin studied the painting. The colors were good, but overall, it was an inferior piece. He’d hoped that Richard had bought it believing it was a Picasso. Personally, he abhorred modern art. He much preferred the French Impressionists.
“Sit down, sit down. You don’t mind if I have a drink?”
Justin shrugged. “Your house.” He took a seat and leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Now, what’s all this about Claire being suicidal?”
Richard leaned forward, the glass gripped tightly in his fingers. “I’m afraid she is. I’d like to have you talk to her.”
“You said she wouldn’t see me.”
“I know that’s true, but what did you tell me? She may not be in a position to make those decisions in her condition. I’d like you to talk with her. Evaluate her.”
“She’s in Maine, correct?”
“Yes, at Seaborne.”
“I made a lot of mistakes during our marriage,” Justin said, with what he hoped was the proper amount of regret in his voice. “The divorce was entirely my fault, and I take all the blame, but I’ve never stopped loving your daughter. It took losing her to make me realize what was truly important.”
“So I can count on your help?” Richard asked. He put his glass on a coaster.
“Absolutely. Anything within my power.”
“I’ve been thinking of going up to Seaborne. If you could go with me, maybe the two of us …”
“When were you planning on making the trip?”
“Next week, at the latest. I’ve made inquiries about a private clinic in Switzerland. They’re making some wonderful progress in stem cell research—specifically spinal cord regeneration.”
“So there is hope that she could regain use of her legs?”
“They’ve agreed to see her, but if I can’t get her out of Maine, I can’t get her to Switzerland.”
“You’re certain this clinic is legitimate?”
“Yes, I am. They can’t give any guarantees, but Claire might be a candidate for their program.”
“But not if she’s emotionally unstable.”
Richard nodded.
“What makes you think she’s capable of suicide?”
“Not one thing, but everything together. Her willingness to bury herself up there—to spend her days alone on the beach.” Richard got to his feet. “She’s so depressed. And the things she says. We’ve always been close, but now she’s walled me out of her life.”
“I won’t sugarcoat this, Richard. It does sound serious. I can’t tell you how much this disturbs me. I still care very much for her. And I had hopes she could find it in her heart to forgive me.”
“I suspected as much. That’s why I felt free to contact you, that and your stellar reputation.”
“I’d need to see her to confirm your opinion, but, if it were me …”
Richard rose to the bait. “Yes? What would you suggest?”
“I’d have her committed to a good hospital until she’s stable enough for treatment.”
CHAPTER 10
T
his couldn’t be real. Claire was floating through a fabulous dream, an adult fairy tale more intriguing, more intense, than any she’d ever read in a children’s fairy tale. The most beautiful man in the world was holding her, kissing her, wrapping his strong legs around her as he whispered love words into her ear. And it was all taking place, fathoms under water, on the back of a giant manta ray… .
But she wanted more. Morgan’s caresses had whipped her to a fever pitch. His mouth and tongue on her breasts … his lean, seeking fingers touching her most secret places had brought her to the precipice of sexual ecstasy. She needed him inside her, filling her, plunging deep. She clung to him, her nails digging into his bare shoulders, hips arched to press against his hard erection. “Please …” she whispered. “I want you. I have to …”
Without warning, the ray undulated, the raspy skin rippled, and the creature uttered what could only be described as a long hiss. Claire felt Morgan tense, and she sensed that something had drawn his attention from her. She opened her eyes. “What …” she began. She blinked, trying to clear her mind of the sensual haze that clouded it. “Why—”
“Shh.” He pressed two fingers to her lips and rose off of her, before pushing her flat against the manta’s body.
Again, the massive bulk rippled as the ray glided through the water, swimming upward through blue halos of shimmering light. From the corner of her eye, Claire glimpsed the big male manta. The dark eyes were no longer friendly, but had taken on a fierce expression.
“
Melqart
,” Morgan muttered between clenched teeth.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I’m taking you back to land,” Morgan said. The man who had held her so tenderly seemed changed as well. Morgan’s mouth thinned, his lips were hard, and his skin stretched taut against bronzed cheekbones. From somewhere, he had produced a sword—not just any sword, but the replica of a two-thousand-year-old Greek warrior’s sword she’d seen in the British Museum.
He crouched beside her on the manta ray’s back, weapon gripped in his right hand, no longer her mysterious lover, but some fierce warrior from another time.
“No,” Claire protested. This wasn’t right. This was her dream, not a nightmare. She wanted Morgan to make love to her, not turn into Ulysses and fight sea monsters. “I don’t want to go home. I—”
“Quiet! Your voice will carry.” He peered into the shadowy depths, and when she tried to see what he was watching, she caught the faintest hint of several white, wispy, formless shapes.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she insisted. She didn’t like this twist in the dream. “I want …”
Morgan turned his gaze on her. For a moment her brown eyes felt the force that seemed to pour out of his, and then she was caught in a tumbling tide of sights and sounds. It was the same as falling off a bucking horse. One moment her seat was secure, the sky above, the saddle under her, and the next, she slammed into the ground. Hard.
Shaken, Claire lay there, hoping nothing was broken, trying to remember where she’d been, what mount she’d been riding when she’d been thrown. She opened her eyes, afraid of seeing hospital white, smelling the acrid odor of antiseptic, and hearing the rhythmic beep of a monitor or an overhead speaker blaring “Code blue. Code blue! Stat!”
She waited for the familiar rush of pain, the deep ache that accompanied a broken bone or the pulsing red agony of a shattered neck. Nothing. She touched the sheets, the pillow, wiggled her hands, arms.
For an instant, she couldn’t remember a single thing, not even her own name. Scenes flashed across the screen in her head like a black-and-white slide show. A splash of waves. A Vermont license plate.
Click. Click.
A lobster swimming along the ocean floor.
Click. Click.
A huge manta ray flying out of the water.
Click. Click.
Morgan holding a Greek sword.
She brought her palms to her face and breathed deep. One word echoed in her head, a nonsense word, over and over.
Melqart
. Melqart? What was that? “Melqart?” she said aloud.
“Did you call me?” Jackie pushed open the bedroom door and peered in. “Did you need something?”
Jackie
. The dominos fell into place, one by one. Claire took another breath. She was in her own bed. It was morning by the way the light was flooding through the French doors, a sunny day, later than she usually slept.
“You all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Claire said. As fine as someone can be who’s paralyzed from the waist down. Someone who can have the best, most vivid dream in the world and manage to screw that up too. “Come in.”
Jackie, somewhere in her forties, was short and stout, with features that could only be described as plain. She wore blue jeans, high-top sneakers, and an oversize T-shirt. Her streaked blond hair was caught back in a no-nonsense ponytail, and her caramel-colored skin bore not a trace of makeup. Jackie was the only employee in the house who refused to wear a uniform, and Claire loved her for it. Jackie was prompt, hardworking, and also the only one at Seaborne who never treated her as though she was handicapped.
The maid only worked part-time, but she was such a whiz at cleaning that even the indomitable Mrs. G. tiptoed around her. Jackie had an accounting degree from the University of Maine and had worked at a high-powered advertising firm for ten years before chucking it all to return to her hometown and marry her childhood sweetheart. She was the mother of four, all active in school and church, and all honor students. Jackie was a woman who knew her own mind and cut life to fit her own pattern.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my visitor,” Claire said, remembering that it was Jackie who’d let Morgan into the house yesterday. The fuzz was clearing from her brain now. She could remember Morgan coming up to her room. She didn’t remember what had happened after he’d gotten here or when he’d left, but she was sure that would come.
“Who?” Jackie placed a bouquet of yellow rosebuds on the table in front of the window. “Aren’t these pretty? Don’t know who sent them. No card. Petal’s Petals brought them out early this morning.”
“My friend. The man you let in yesterday. Just before you left?”
Jackie frowned. “I didn’t see any man. If you had a gentleman caller, maybe he sent these flowers.”
“Are you sure they’re for me?”
Jackie nodded. “Miss Claire Bishop, Seaborne. Can’t be any more specific. But I didn’t see anybody here yesterday. ’Course, I left a little after four. Carmen had t-ball practice. I told Godwin I had to pick Carmen up. The coach wants the parents there on time or the kids sit on the bench. And Evrard couldn’t get off work.”
“Oh.” She supposed Morgan must have let himself in. Funny he hadn’t said anything about it. She wondered if he’d sent the roses.
“Is there a problem?”
“Problem, no.” Claire smiled at her. “Did the new uniforms come in?”
Jackie nodded. “Nice. Really nice. Those old ones were a disgrace. When we went to play the Juniper Honeybees last year, our kids almost got laughed off the field. It was good of you to buy new ones for the team.”
“My pleasure.” Claire glanced at the clock. “What time is it?”
“After ten.” Jackie waved at the breakfast tray beside the roses. “I brought that up at nine. Your coffee might be getting cold by now. I’d be glad to run downstairs and—”
“No, that’s fine.” She’d overslept. She hadn’t heard a sound until a few minutes ago. “Didn’t Nurse Wrangle come—”
“Oh, forgot to tell you. Jane will be coming in Wrangle’s place. Seems the white tornado drove her SUV into the marsh last night.” Jackie grinned. “Nurse Wrangle and the principal from the high school. Together.”
“Were they hurt?”
“Nobody was hurt, but they shot so far out into the muck that it took the fire company in a boat to rescue them.” She winked. “Of course, Willihand might be in worse shape this morning after his wife found out who’d he’d been with at eleven o’clock at night.”
Claire tried to appear interested. She wanted Jackie to leave her alone, so that she could have time to sort out what had really happened with Morgan, but Jackie loved her gossip. And she was too nice a person for Claire to want to spoil her newsflash for the day. “I’m really not a fan of Wrangle’s.”
“And who is, other than Mrs. G.?” Jackie chuckled. “They gave some story about them planning a special jobs fair for health professionals at the school, but nobody believed it. If they were, they would have been at the school and not on the road to Woody Point. Nothing out there but teenagers making out. And one
willing
principal, if you get my meaning. Anyway, Jane will be here this afternoon to help out.”
“Thanks, Jackie.”
“Do you need any help?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d bring my chair over here.” Her wheelchair was near the window. Someone must have moved it from its normal place by the bed. She certainly hadn’t left it there last night.
Of course, she didn’t have the faintest idea what she’d done last night. All the same, walking probably wasn’t one of the possibilities. But Morgan had been here. Just because Jackie hadn’t seen him didn’t mean she’d imagined him. Did it? The chances were, they’d talked, maybe even had a soft drink, and he’d gone on to do whatever it was that he did.
“One more thing,” Jackie said.
“Yes?” She’d been thinking about Morgan so hard that she’d almost forgotten that Jackie was still in the room.
“There was a phone call for you a few minutes ago. I looked in, but you were still sleeping. It was a Mr. Kelly. I wrote it down by the kitchen phone, but he said you didn’t need to call back. He was mailing you a dossier. Priority mail. Should I have woke you?”
“No, no, that’s fine.” Kelly. He must have discovered something. But, she wasn’t going to get her expectations up. She’d wait until the information arrived. “Do you know when Wrangle will be back?”
“Next week. Her SUV was totaled. All that mud in the engine. Water up to their—” Jackie grinned. “To their waists. Messed up the seats, ruined the sound system, not to mention the engine. She’ll be driving a rental until her insurance comes through.”
“And maybe by then, I’ll have found a replacement for her.”
“I hope you do. Personally, I can’t stand the woman.” She tapped her forehead. “A little wacko, if you ask me, but of course, I’m just the maid.”
“Uh-huh,” Claire said. “I hear you.” She chuckled. “You, Jackie, are not just anything.”
“That’s what I tell Evrard. If he hadn’t swept me off my feet, I’d have a corner office overlooking the harbor and I’d be driving one of those foreign sports cars instead of baking brownies for Boy Scout Troop meetings.” She picked up the breakfast tray and carried it over to the bed. “Peaches and blueberries. They’re still good. Call me if you want anything. I’m going to start on the downstairs’ bathrooms.”
Once Jackie had gone on to complete her chores, Claire lay back on the pillow and tried to figure out what had really happened to her the night before. She could remember parts of a swimming dream, but most of it was hazy. Only Morgan’s face was clear, that, and an image of his hair, all loose and flowing in the water. If it hadn’t happened, it should have.
She took a sip of black, cold coffee, a bite of the fruit, and then set about getting out of bed and into the shower, never an easy task.
Morgan watched the beach, not certain if he wanted Claire to come down to the pavilion this morning or not. Yesterday had been a close call. He didn’t want to think what could have happened if he hadn’t sensed Melqart’s outriders before they’d found him. He’d glimpsed four, maybe five, but they were illusive ghostlike creatures, about six feet in height and eel-thin, with glowing red eyes and gaping maws. They generally hunted in packs, and humans were their favorite prey.
If he’d been alone, he would have remained with the mantas and taken his chances. But it would have been impossible to protect Claire and hold the pack off at the same time. He’d put her in mortal danger to satisfy his own needs, and he was ashamed of it.
Normally, the hordes hunted the more populated beaches, riding the undertows and pulling down lone swimmers, often children or those who ventured into the sea at night, and sucked the life out of them. Sometimes they ripped victims apart with their teeth, causing humans to assume it was a shark attack. Other bodies they simply abandoned once they had their sport. Those corpses washed up on the shore or out to sea, seemingly accidental drownings. Melqart’s minions fed off Atlanteans and other humanoid species as well as humans, but generally were too cowardly to take on even a single armed warrior. Not that Morgan considered himself a real warrior; Orion wouldn’t have thought so.
Morgan had trained as a king’s son. He’d gone into battle and killed his share over the years, but he didn’t have the twins’ ability to forget the enemies he struck down. His father was probably right. He wasn’t the stuff to make a Poseidon, high king of Atlantis. But he had no qualms about seeking out and destroying Melqart’s followers wherever he found them.
They were an ancient evil, neither fish nor mammal, but all too real. Like colonies of insects on land, the shades seemed to think and act collectively, rather than as individuals. So far as he knew, each was both male and female in the same body. They communicated by rudimentary groans and shrieks and some sort of telepathy, but spirit or flesh, they could be killed only by slicing them in half. Cutting off a clawed appendage or what appeared to be the head and jaws didn’t appear to be fatal.
BOOK: Seaborne
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