Sea Witch (16 page)

covered her with his broad, hard body, his warm, urgent mouth.

The rush was like diving—the plunge into sensation, the immersion

in feeling. Her hands gripped his shoulders. She could have this. She

could have him.

“Touch me,” she demanded.

He yanked up her dress. She was already wet and ready for him. He

made a sound, or she did, as she arched to meet his hand, as her head

dropped back against the rock with an audible thump.

She saw stars.

“Jesus. Are you o—”

She grabbed his wrist, bringing his hand between her legs. “
Don’t

stop
.”

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He didn’t stop. But he cupped the back of her head with one hand,

protecting her from the rock, and stroked her with the other, his fingers

parting her, rubbing her, making her breath catch and quicken, making

her writhe and rise on tiptoe, almost there, almost . . .

Ah
. Relief came like a burst of tiny bubbles rising quickly to the

surface, releasing in her blood.

“Well.” Caleb’s voice was strained with lust and laughter. “That was

quick.”

Margred opened her eyes, smiling languidly. “I told you I was tired

of waiting.”

125

Ten

CALEB LAUGHED AND WRAPPED HIS ARMS AROUND her.

His erection lodged against her belly.

It was surprisingly sweet to be held so, Margred mused, supported

by his strength, surrounded by his warmth, his scent. She nuzzled his

shirt.

He pressed his lips to her hairline—gently—before tipping back her

head to study her face. Her heart expanded uncomfortably. “What am I

going to do with you, Maggie girl?”

Her hand wandered down his uniform slacks. “I would have thought

that was obvious.”

His eyes half closed in pleasure. He swelled against her hand. But

then he drew back. “If I try to take you now, standing, I’ll dump us both

in the sand. Not to mention lose the use of my legs for a week.”

She arched her eyebrows. “So?”

His rare grin flashed. “So, we still have to haul ass up the cliff to get

to the Jeep.”

Margred frowned. She had never cared particularly about the sexual

satisfaction of her partners. Still, she was piqued Caleb could deny

himself, and her, so readily.

He stroked a strand of hair back from her forehead, the gesture so

tender her heart gave another quick, inconvenient lurch. “Besides, the

next time I make love to you, it will be on a bed. And I’m taking off my

pants.”

“You could take your pants off here.”

“Not unless I’m willing to pay five hundred dollars for public

indecency.”

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She arched her eyebrows. “I did not realize your nakedness came at

such a price.”

“Honey, you can see me anytime for free. But not here.” He set her

at arm’s length. “Where are your shoes?”

“I do not have any.”

“Lucy didn’t loan you a pair of sneakers?”

“She tried.” The memory made Margred smile. “Your sister has big

feet.”

“She grew into them. How about flip-flops?”

They rubbed the webbing between her toes. Margred shrugged.

“Right, then.” Caleb tucked in his shirt, glancing from her bare feet

to the rocky path. “I’ll go up, drive around, and meet you.”

Taking care of her again.

She was grateful . . . and unexpectedly annoyed.

“I can walk. I walked here.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound impressed. “Show me your feet.”

When she didn’t move, he reached for her ankle and raised it

himself. Margred curled her foot to hide her toes. Caleb didn’t appear to

notice, focusing instead on the battered sole. Human legs were built for

walking. Human feet . . . Well, the walk from the cottage had put

Margred forcibly in mind of the human story about the mermaid, the one

who wished to become a mortal woman and then felt as if she were

dancing on knives.

Caleb studied her bruised and bloodied foot, his face expressionless.

“I’ll pick you up at the beach access. We can drive to Wiley’s, get you a

few things you need.”

Buy her things, he meant.

“I have no money,” Margred said.

127

His mouth compressed. “I’ll make you a loan.”

“And how will I pay you back?”

He released her foot, brushing the sand from his hands. “I’ve been

thinking about that.”

“I’m sure you have. You think of everything.”

His gaze pinned hers. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that . . . you live very much in your head. You are always

considering consequences—what is logical, what is next, what is the right

thing to do. I do not live that way.”

“And you think it’s wrong.”

“Not wrong,” she corrected. “But it makes us . . .” She raised her

hands, let them fall. “Different.”

He stood very still, his eyes steady on hers. “Maybe it makes us a

good match.”

Maybe
. The possibility curled around her heart. But there were other

differences between them, differences he could not guess at.

Differences that made any lasting relationship between them

impossible.

* * * *

Antonia Barone slammed a tray on the steel counter and glared at her

daughter. “I don’t need you to tell me how to make lasagna. I’ve been

making lasagna since before you were born.”

Regina’s frustration bubbled like the pots on the stove. Usually she

could keep the lid on. Not today. Not when they were short-staffed and

Antonia had waltzed out in the middle of the lunch rush, leaving Regina

to deal with a horde of wet and disgruntled tourists on her own.

“I’m not telling you how to do anything. I’m just saying if we used

fresh mozzarella instead of that preshredded crap you buy—”

128

“—the people who come in here wouldn’t know the difference, ”

Antonia finished triumphantly.

“Yes, they would. People recognize quality when you put it in front

of them. If you educate their palates—”

Antonia snorted. “Educate! I’m running a restaurant, not a school.”

The bell over the entrance jangled.

Antonia jerked her head toward the front of the shop. “Go see to our

customers.”

Customers
. Sandy tourists demanding pizza. Unimaginative

islanders who liked their salad dressing bottled and their clams fried.

Maybe her mother was right.

Regina banged through the swinging door that led from the kitchen

to the dining room.

And stopped dead at the sight of Police Chief Cal Hunter with his

arm around a strange woman.

Regina gave herself a quick shake. What did she expect? Cal had

never shown any real interest in her. Any romantic interest, she amended,

recalling his kindness to Nick. Obviously, skinny, sharp-tongued single

moms weren’t his type.

No, Caleb’s tastes ran more toward . . . Well, toward curvy, exotic

women with full lips and lots of cleavage.

Like this one.

Regina watched as Caleb steered the woman forward with one hand

at her waist. Somebody had banged her up good. But even the ugly

stitches marching across her hair line only added a touch of vulnerability

that probably appealed to a big, protective guy like Cal.

She was barefoot. The restaurant’s policy—NO SHOES, NO

SHIRT, NO SERVICE—was clearly printed on the sign in the window.

Regina wiped her hands on her apron. What was she going to do?

Call the police? “Hi, Cal. Who’s your friend?”

129

“This is Maggie. Maggie, Regina Barone.”

The woman inclined her head without speaking.

“Nice to meet you.” Regina looked at Cal. “You’re a little early for

dinner.”

He did that attractive eye crinkle thing without actually smiling. “I

wanted to beat the crowd.”

“Be glad you weren’t here at lunch time, then. We had a line out the

door and nobody behind the counter. What can I get you?”

“I need money,” the woman said.

Regina blinked. “Excuse me?”

Caleb cleared his throat. “Your mother mentioned you were a little

shorthanded. I thought Maggie here might be able to help you out.”

Ha. Like he was motivated by some desire to make her life easier.

Regina looked over at Cleavage Barbie. “You got any experience?”

“What kind of experience?”

“Waiting tables, washing dishes, working the cash register. That

kind of thing.”

“No.”

No, of course not.

Regina sighed. “You talked to my mother about this?” she asked

Caleb.

“She said it was your decision.”

Great. Her mother wouldn’t even let Regina buy decent mozzarella,

but as long as there was a chance of something going phenomenally,

fantastically wrong, it was her decision.

“Okay. Well, let me get you some forms. We’ll see how you work

out.”

130

The woman—Maggie—looked at Caleb. “Forms?”

“Give us a minute,” he said.

She held his gaze for a long moment while Regina got the necessary

paperwork. “Here you go.”

With a shrug, the woman slid into a nearby booth with the forms and

a pencil.

“You can’t add her to regular payroll,” Caleb said to Regina.

Regina raised one eyebrow. “You want me to pay her cash?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone in a restaurant got paid under

the table.”

“And is that your recommendation as an officer of the law, Chief

Hunter?”

“It’s my request,” Caleb said evenly. “As your friend.”

“Well, shit,” Regina said in disgust.

He smiled, and for a second she felt like Nick, acting out for a little

male attention. “Not that it’s any of my business,” she asked, “but why?”

Caleb hesitated. “I was hoping you could keep an eye on her. Let me

know if anybody gives her a hard time.”

“You mean, besides my mother?”

Caleb’s eyes crinkled again. “I was thinking more of a male

somebody, six-two, six-four, around a hundred and ninety pounds.”

“And would this tall, skinny male be the one who messed up her

face?”

“Maybe.”

Regina felt a flash of sympathy for the woman in the booth. Men

could be real shits. But she had other people she needed to worry about.

131

“Are you expecting him to come back to finish the job?” she asked.

“Because now that school’s out, Nick is around a lot. I won’t do anything

that puts him in danger.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Caleb assured her. “I’m just working a

hunch.”

“A hunch.” Regina glanced at Maggie. The woman had abandoned

the forms in front of her and was coaxing Hercules from his customary

perch in the front window. The cat, who normally disdained the

restaurant’s patrons, stretched out his neck to sniff her fingers. Regina

considered that a point in Maggie’s favor. “What does she think about

this hunch of yours?”

“We haven’t discussed it.”

“Why not?”

“She says she doesn’t remember the attack.”

Was it Regina’s imagination, or had he put the slightest emphasis on

says
?

“Do you believe her?”

“I believe,” Caleb said deliberately, “she may not want to

remember.”

“Because she’s protecting somebody,” Regina guessed.

His expression was sober. “Or running away from something.

“Congratulations.” Caleb eased down onto the bench opposite

Margred, stretching his leg with a relieved sigh. “You have a job.”

“Money,” she said with satisfaction.

“Not until you actually start working, but yeah, that’s the idea.”

“When do I start?”

“Regina wants you on the lunch shift, maybe build your hours from

there. I’ll drop you off tomorrow on my way to work.”

132

“Tomorrow,” she repeated.

“Yeah. Tonight”—he took a breath, surprised by the jitter of nerves

in his stomach—“I thought you could stay with me.”

“In your bed.”

His words on the beach lingered between them:
The next time I make

love to you, it will be on a bed. And I’m taking off my pants
.

“Unless that’s a problem for you,” he said carefully.

“Why would it be a problem?”

He was a good cop, but he couldn’t read her face, her voice. Was she

amused? Or pissed at him?

“I want you to stay with me. But you’re not obliged . . .” He stopped

and tried again. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“You are in your head again,” she observed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You are worried if I stay with you, I will have sex with you out of a

feeling of obligation. That I will be dependent on you and resent you for

it.”

He’d gone almost thirty-six hours without sleep. He didn’t have the

energy—or the wits—for man-woman games. “Something like that.”

Margred snapped her fingers, and the big cat, Hercules, strolled over