Authors: Katherine Irons

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

Seaborne (3 page)

BOOK: Seaborne

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“You spend too much time down here alone.” Mrs. Godwin removed ice from the small refrigerator, filled a glass, and poured lemonade over it. “You drink all of that, and I’ll leave you alone until supper. Pot roast and green beans with new potatoes.”

“Lovely.” Claire downed the lemonade and the housekeeper bustled away. Claire turned her attention to a tern perched on the railing of the pavilion. When the bird flew off, she removed her sunglasses, turned her face up to the sun, and closed her eyes.

She might have dozed, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Hello, there!”

Sleepily, she turned to see a man wading out of the surf.

“Afternoon!” He smiled and waved.

Was she dreaming?

Claire’s breath caught in her throat. He was young, no more than thirty, with long, wavy blond hair caught back in an elastic, and the bronzed skin of a Greek god. She swallowed hard, her gaze captured by the sparkle of the drops of water sliding down his muscular chest.

Should she pinch herself?

He was a god. His high forehead, classic nose, sensual mouth, and shoulders were to die for. Every inch of him was good enough to eat, from the long hard legs to the flat stomach that rose just above tight, European-style bathing trunks that left little to imagination.

Guess I’m not dead after all
, she thought, as barely remembered desire curled in her throat. She exhaled slowly, still too stricken to think of what to say that wouldn’t come out utterly stupid.

“I hope I’m not intruding.” His teeth were straight and very white, and his eyes … His eyes were the most beautiful blue she’d even seen on a man—on anyone. They had to be contacts. No one had eyes the color of the water off Nassau, did they?

“It … it’s a private beach,” she stammered foolishly. Her hands felt damp, her lips dry. Unconsciously, she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. She glanced past him, looking for his boat. He wasn’t a local guy. He must have come off a sailboat or a yacht anchored on the far side of the island.

“I didn’t mean to intrude.”

The vision halted, his bare feet planted in the sand, his broad shoulders stretching from horizon to horizon … and his chest. She swallowed again, suddenly comprehending why some lonely older women were willing to pay any amount of money for the attentions of a young stud.

“I was hoping to find a restaurant, maybe a bar. I’m dying of thirst.”

“Sorry. The nearest town is nine miles down the coast. Most of this area is national forest. Nary a café in sight.”

He looked at her hopefully.

“Can I offer you something to drink? If you’re thirsty?” She felt herself blush. “Something nonalcoholic, I mean. I’m afraid I don’t …”

“Is that lemonade?” His smile widened.

She couldn’t remember seeing him in any movies. He bore some resemblance to Brad Pitt, but side by side, he would have put Brad to shame. He had to be a professional model. There was something exotic looking about him. Maybe he was Italian or Greek. She’d gone to boarding school with a blond Greek guy, but he hadn’t looked anything like this. “Please,” she said. “Come up. There are steps on the far side.”

He was tall, easily six-two or three, just the type she’d been crazy for when she’d been young and single—before she’d met Justin. Impulsively, she wished Mrs. Godwin had taken the wheelchair. Lounging here in the recliner with her legs covered by the beach towel, Mr. Dreamy might take her for just a woman on the beach enjoying a sunny day. Just a single woman like any other … without all the drama and pity the chair would summon. It had a way of stopping conversation.

If he noticed the wheelchair, though, he didn’t mention it. He pulled out a chair beside her and sat down without being invited. She didn’t mind. She didn’t mind at all.

“There are chilled glasses in the refrigerator.”

“All the comforts,” he teased, fetching a glass and ice. She poured the lemonade from the pitcher, thankful for once that Mrs. Godwin had brought more than she could drink. It was still cool enough that it didn’t instantly melt the frost on the glass. He took a long sip, and she watched the way his throat muscles flexed as he swallowed. Her mouth felt dry.

Memories flooded her mind. Once, she would have known just what to say to a handsome stranger… . Once, she wouldn’t have hesitated to ask him out for a night of dancing and whatever followed.

“I’m Morgan,” he said. “And you are?”

His voice gave her chills. It was whiskey soft and mellow. Clearly, he was well-educated. Definitely money.

“You do have a name?” he teased.

“Claire.”

“And I don’t suppose
you’re
trespassing on this private beach.”

She suppressed a chuckle. Damn, but he was charming. She knew it, but it was too delicious not to go along for the ride. Not to pretend, just for a few more minutes, that they were just a normal couple flirting with each other. “No, I’m not trespassing,” she said. “I live here.”

His blue eyes sparked with mischief. She couldn’t get enough of them. If she could walk, she’d just stumble into them and fall forever.

“On the beach?” He glanced around. “It’s nice, but what do you do when it rains? There was quite a thunderstorm yesterday.”

She took a sip of her own drink. “It was, wasn’t it? Did you ride it out or head for a safe harbor?”

“I find a rough sea exciting.”

He smiled again, and she felt a sharp flush of pleasure. She hadn’t had this much fun since … Not in years. She tried to remember. Ever?

“So you’re a mermaid?” he said.

“Excuse me?” She should have felt nervous. Morgan was a total stranger, and she was absolutely helpless. She should have felt vulnerable. Instead, she was having a wonderful time.

“If you live on the beach? Or maybe this dock has a basement apartment?”

She picked up a strawberry and tossed it at him playfully. He laughed, and she explained about the house on the bluff. “Seaborne. It’s been in my family since the early nineteenth century.”

“That old?” He retrieved a strawberry from the bowl on the table and took a bite of it. A little juice squirted on his lip and he licked it away.

“It even has a widow’s walk.” When she was a child, she’d loved to play there. But she couldn’t climb the steep stairs now. Never again.

“I’m starving,” he said, eyeing her untouched tuna sandwich. “Do you mind?”

Suddenly, she was hungry too. “I’ll share,” she offered. They each took half and made short work of that and the accompanying chips. Morgan snapped the pickle in two, and Claire laughed. “You eat it. I can’t stand dill pickles.”

“But you …”

“My housekeeper. She knows I don’t like pickles, but she puts them on my lunch tray just the same. She reads a lot of cooking magazines, and she likes things to look proper.”

“I suppose you get kale under your crab cakes too.”

Claire chuckled. “I do. Are you certain you don’t know Mrs. Godwin?”

“She sounds a lot like my Aunt Bella. She’s always trying to feed me bananas.”

“And you don’t like them?” Claire supplied.

“Can’t abide them.”

They laughed together, and as Claire lost all track of time, she found an instant camaraderie with this handsome sea god. Before she knew it, the cliff was casting long shadows across the sand.

“Miss Claire!” Mrs. Godwin shouted from the head of the steps. “It’s getting late. Don’t you want to come up now?”

“That’s my housekeeper,” Claire said, turning her head to look up at her. “And sometimes prison guard. Would you like to—” She broke off as she looked back to see that Morgan was gone. Puzzled, thinking he’d descended the steps from the pavilion to the beach, she waited to see him appear at the water’s edge.

“Morgan?”

The only answer was the sharp twitter of a willet fluttering up from the damp sand. Claire’s mysterious visitor had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.

CHAPTER 3

“Y
ou ate all your lunch,” Mrs. Godwin said. “That’s “ wonderful.” The housekeeper had come down on the elevator and joined her on the pavilion. She wore a gray tweed sweater and a headscarf, even though Claire was comfortable enough in her short-sleeve tee and shorts. Convinced that fresh air threatened her health, Mrs. Godwin hated the breeze off the ocean.

“Mr. Richard phoned,” the older woman continued. “He said he’d been trying to reach you and you didn’t pick up. Did you fall asleep?”

Had she? Claire was still trying to figure out what had happened to her delicious visitor. How had he slipped away without her or the housekeeper seeing him leave? Was it possible she’d dreamed the whole thing?

She shook her head. No, that wasn’t a possibility. Morgan had been real enough. If she squinted, she could almost see him sitting there beside her, almost see the intense blue of his eyes.

She wasn’t imagining him. He’d shared her lemonade. A second empty glass was standing there on the table. “Did you see anyone?” she asked.

“What do you mean? At the house?”

“No, here. With me. When you called down from the top of the steps, did you see someone here with me?”

“Gracious, I hope not. How would anyone be here?” She wrinkled her nose at the notion as she gathered up the glasses, plate, and silverware and put them in a picnic basket to take back to the house. Then, she paused and stared at her with some concern. “Are you feeling all right? You aren’t feverish, are you? I always said no good will come of all this sitting on the beach. You’re bound to catch something.”

“No. I’m fine. But maybe you’re right. Maybe I did fall asleep.” Sometimes her mind played tricks on her, but she’d never lost track of reality. She could recall Morgan’s face in detail, his voice, the way he moved, the way drops of water had sparkled on his chest.

No, this was ridiculous. She hadn’t dreamed up that muscular chest. She wasn’t that creative. He’d been here. A genuine hottie had been here all afternoon.

But how … ? Claire sighed in frustration. She took so much medication that it was a wonder her mind functioned at all. Perhaps she’d lost track of the time before Mrs. Godwin had come looking for her. Maybe she’d dozed off and Morgan had already left to return to his yacht before the housekeeper—

“Miss Claire?” Mrs. Godwin brought the wheelchair close to the lounge. “You look a little flushed to me. Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to call Nurse Wrangle and ask her to stop by this evening?”

“No, thank you.” She lifted her legs and swung them over one at a time. Rigorous physical therapy kept them from looking like the useless things they were, but she had no feeling from her waist down. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she used all her strength to drag herself inch by inch into the chair. “Do you suppose they have an Olympics competition for paralyzed lifting?” she quipped.

“No.” Mrs. Godwin grabbed her under the arms and heaved her over as if she were a side of beef. “You poor little thing.”

Claire clenched her teeth as frustration knotted in her throat, and her eyes stung with unshed tears of anger. Moving into or out of the chair alone took time and effort, but she didn’t want help.

She wanted to be the way she’d been before the accident. She wanted to be the woman who’d taken first place when her university fencing team had competed nationally. She wanted to flirt and laugh with men at a singles bar and have them dying to tumble into bed with her. She wanted to ski Vail at Christmas and sky dive in Northern California with her friends from the riding circuit. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life confined to a wheelchair at the mercy of a domineering housekeeper.

She wanted her life back.

Morgan watched from the surf. Spending so long out of water this afternoon had taxed his strength, both in the energy needed to maintain the illusion that he was a human and the strain it took for him to breathe on land. He felt an overwhelming weariness of body and spirit.

Being in such close contact with the human woman should have dissolved the odd attraction he felt for her. Despite her quick wit and obvious intelligence, she was damaged, her health even more frail than the average land dweller. Although he couldn’t assess her physical condition without examining her, he guessed that she was paralyzed from the waist down.

Not that it would have been a problem if she weren’t human. Atlanteans had virtually no physical handicaps and possessed super healing abilities. Short of the impossibility of replacing a missing limb that had been cut off in battle or eaten by a shark, almost any injury would heal in a matter of hours. They suffered from none of the viruses, heart disease, cancers, and various illnesses that plagued humans.

Leaving the cradle of life, the sea, brought with it many challenges for the human race. The earth’s force of gravity and the constant assault on the earth’s surface from radiation put constant pressure on the human species. Atlanteans, who had remained in the water, were both superior intellectual and sexual beings.

The sexual part was the problem. Unfortunately, heightened sensuality was one weakness that Atlanteans suffered from, both males and females. Although some couples mated for life and remained faithful to each other, the majority, like him, took sexual pleasure where they found it. Since his kind were bound by none of the artificial human rules of morality, adults finding pleasure whenever and wherever they pleased with other adults was the norm.

Morgan reasoned that he had acquired a desire for a woman that he was forbidden to touch. It was a rare occurrence, one that he personally had never experienced, although he’d heard tales of other Atlanteans struck by this same fever in the blood. Inflamed by the unsatisfied lust for a certain object of desire—even a human one—brought weakness and both mental and physical pain.

Claire was so human that he didn’t understand how he could be attracted to her. He should have felt pity for her. Instead, he wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to touch her skin, to taste it, to nibble his way from her delicate eyelids to the tips of her toes … to lave every square inch of her body with his tongue. He wanted to inhale her scent until he was intoxicated by it, to run his fingers through her hair, suck her nipples until they hardened to tight buds, and cradle her in his arms. Even now, watching her at a distance, Morgan could feel his groin tightening with need. He wanted her as he hadn’t wanted a female in three hundred years … perhaps five.

And she had been equally attracted to him. He had read the invitation in her eyes. Naturally, most sexually mature humans desired his kind. There were legends of those who walked the earth, breathed air, yet lived on the blood of their fellow humans. Vampires, they were called. It was said that vampires possessed the ability to bewitch humans with their sexuality, but the power of these bloodsuckers—if they truly existed—would be nothing compared to the sensual lure of the Atlantean race.

He sank under the waves, reveling in the powerful surge of the tide, savoring the tangy feel of the salt on his skin. This was his element; this was where he belonged. Venturing on dry land, even for a few hours, was dangerous in more ways than he could count.

But the pounding in his head and the pressure in his groin remained as strong as ever. He seemed tangled in a web of sorcery. No matter how much reason told him to leave this place, to forget her, he was incapable of doing so. He had to find a way to end this connection before it was too late.

Perhaps the only way to rid himself of his attraction was to make love to her. It would be risky. The laws against Atlanteans and humans sharing sexual favors were rigid and strictly enforced. If he were caught, he could be severely punished.

The thought that he already could have been caught watching Claire by his greatest enemy came to him. But he didn’t think Caddoc had seen him spying on the woman. It was enough that his half-brother had witnessed the near drowning of the boy. If Caddoc knew about Claire, he would have taunted him about it. Caddoc never had the self-control to hold his tongue. The offense, having romantic contact with a human, would be even greater than rescuing one from drowning.

Morgan clenched his jaw. Tonight, he would go to Claire. But this time, he would take her into his element. Once they were beneath the ocean, he could use his healing powers to temporarily give her back the use of her legs. She would be able to respond to his seduction, to feel his mouth on her body, to enjoy each shared sensation. And he knew he would satisfy her more than any human male she’d ever been intimate with. But then, sadly, he’d have to wipe away her memory of the evening.

He told himself that if she came willingly, it wasn’t really abduction, and if she didn’t resist, what they did together would harm no one. The argument was as full of holes as the
Titanic
, but he was in no mood to be rational. As impossible as it was to believe, Claire had become an immovable obstruction. If he was to complete his mission and return to defend himself in front of the High Court, he’d have to shatter the ancient laws and seduce her first.

Claire had retired early. Mrs. Godwin’s supper had not tempted her, and she dutifully swallowed the cornucopia of medications her physicians advised, all but the pain pills. Those she dissolved in her cream of tomato soup left cooling on the table with the rest of her meal.

In bed, blessedly alone with only her small reading light lit, she tried to pick up the woman-in-distress novel where she’d left off. Reading was one of her few pleasures, but tonight, even the author’s creativity couldn’t hold her attention. She marked her place with a sheet of note paper, put the paperback on her nightstand, and was about to switch out the light when her bedside phone rang.

She knew who it was before he spoke. “Greetings, father unit,” she said.

“Hey, pumpkin. How are you? Mrs. G. said you weren’t feeling well today.”

“Never felt better,” she answered. “Ran three miles before breakfast, and then went to the gym in Linderman. It’s not state of the art, but they have decent weights. I pressed a hundred and sixty pounds.”

Her father made a feigned sound of amusement. “That’s my girl, always joking. How are you really? Mrs. G. sounded concerned.”

“My legs don’t work. I’m in constant pain. I have insomnia, and I black out without warning. Other than that, I’m top notch. I was thinking of entering the Maui Pineapple Triathlon this fall.”

“I’m worried about you, kiddo. You shouldn’t be alone up there, gives you too much time to feel sorry for yourself.”

She could picture him, robe and slippers, McCallan scotch in hand, sitting in his high-back leather chair in his penthouse library, feet resting on the ottoman. Richard had a seventy-inch, wall-mounted plasma TV with surround sound. Her father was a channel surfer, but no matter how many programs were visible on the screen, one would be BBC America and a second the world stock reports. Unlike her, Richard would stay awake watching television until midnight.

“That’s me,” she agreed, wiggling up on her pillow. “It’s a real pity party here. But how can you say I’m alone? There’s Mrs. Godwin, her son, dear Nurse Wrangle, and an endless parade of physical therapists, not to mention the cook and housemaids. I think there are three of them.”

“You should be home. With me. Where you’re close to your specialists and the hospital. Anything could happen in that godforsaken place.”

“Nana survived living at Seaborne for years.” Claire closed her eyes, unwilling to allow herself to be drawn into the same old argument. “I’m here, Richard. I’m staying here for the time being. Live with it.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line
. Here it comes
, Claire thought.
Drop the other shoe, Father mine
. As adorable as he was, Richard could be relentless.

“Justin called me yesterday.”

Claire sunk a tooth into her lower lip. Her ex. Her annoying and well-rid-of ex. As civilized as their divorce had been, she wanted no part of him, and she certainly didn’t want to relive the betrayal she’d felt when she’d caught him with Marla.

“Dad …” She rarely called Richard that. He didn’t like it. Suddenly, her chest felt tight. “Justin and I have nothing in common anymore. You know how I feel about him.” It had taken her a long time to stop thinking about what she might have done to make their marriage work. But in the end, she always came to the same conclusion: So long as she expected honesty and fidelity, they were much happier apart.

“He offered his services. He’s concerned about you too.”

“If I need a psychiatrist, I’ll find one.”

“Justin’s the best,” her father said. “And he cares about you.”

She doubted that Justin had called Richard. It was probably the other way around, and in Richard’s world of international corporate law, such small matters were of no consequence. “I’m good, honestly. And I have no intention of speaking to Justin ever again.”

Her father’s tone softened. “I’m just thinking of what’s best for you.”

“Me too.”

“I hope to be able to get up to see you soon, maybe next week.”

“That would be good. ’Night, Richard.”

BOOK: Seaborne

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