Tidal Whispers (5 page)

His brows shot up, and he mouthed, “Oh?” but his eyes, shining with what she hoped was good humor, held her fast.

“I’m Circe,” she signed before extending her hand for a shake.

“Otis.” He took her hand and held it.

She should have let go. He should have let go, but neither of them did. A warmth originating where their hands touched snaked up her arm and pooled in her heart, her lungs, her belly, before trickling into her other limbs.

When he finally released her hand it was to ask, “What do you do, Circe who wrestles book racks in public libraries?”

A wicked twist of her lips had her signing, “I’m a singer.”

Otis laughed, showing his teeth, perfectly straight and white.
Beautiful
. The sound of his laughter, though closer to the barking of a seal, tugged the edges of her mouth into a broader smile.

“Kidding. I’m a …” she paused for a plausible lie, “a writer.”

Otis’s eyebrows shot up. “Why are you here in Homer?”

“Peace and quiet. To get away.” She shrugged.

“Get away? Where are you from?” Otis’s fingers and arms moved with practiced rapidity, his features animated in accompaniment.

“I’m from Greece originally … my family is, anyway. I’ve been in Alaska for several decades.”

Otis quirked an eyebrow up. “Decades? You can’t be that old.”

Circe dropped her head and shrugged. She had better be on her guard. He was too easy to talk to, too easy to relax with, too easy to like, and she shouldn’t like him because she needed him and his ship to sink to the bottom of the ocean. Shouldn’t and couldn’t were two different mindsets, and hers was sightseeing on stolen time in Shouldn’t Land.

She signed, “I’m older than I look.”

What she needed to do was find another way to best the man whose fate intertwined with her own. Her voice and freedom, or his ship and life. Without her voice, she had no life worth living, so they were nearly even.
No.
We are even.

“I don’t usually ask strange women I’ve just met out for coffee, but I don’t normally meet women who can sign.” The adorable roll of his eyes at the end tugged on her conscience. “Would you like to join me for a coffee at the shop just around the corner?” He thumbed over his shoulder.

“The Lotus Eaters Café?” she signed. Equally at home on land or in the sea, Circe kept “nests” in multiple locations. Her friends—naiads, mermaids, selkies, and other sirens—were mostly aquatic, but all tended to be solitary and territorial by nature. Eschewing most human food, Circe had nevertheless developed a taste for soft drinks, financed by the money she salvaged from her spoils. Fresh seafood—fish and crustaceans mostly—comprised the majority of her diet. Human food she avoided because she’d been taught it dulled the senses and slowed the reflexes.

She feigned reluctance at first. “Well, all right. I suppose I could.”

They began to walk, but she stopped and touched his arm, signing, “Your coat!”

He slapped his hand to his forehead. “I left my book, too!” A single finger begging her to wait one second bound her to her spot as if by magic.

• • •

Otis spun on his heel and jogged through the library to retrieve his nearly forgotten coat and book. A current of warmth still pulsed from the spot where Circe had placed her hand on his arm. The simple gesture hadn’t been anything more than a means to grab his attention for signing, but it had bowled him over like a wave ten times larger than any he’d faced piloting the Calypso.

As he slipped on his trench coat, she regarded him with her stormy green eyes. Greek, she’d said. Other than those eyes, she looked the part with her lustrous dark hair piled atop her head in a messy bun, lovely aquiline nose, long slender neck—the face of a goddess. Her body fit the deity mold, too, with curves too dangerous to handle but too devastating to ignore. Lust kicked him in the groin and demanded he take action.

“Ready now … I think,” he signed. He stuffed the book inside the satchel tucked beneath his coat to keep it safe and dry and gestured for her to lead the way. “Shall we make a dash for it?” He tightened the belt to his coat.

Circe nodded, drew in a breath, and bolted out into the rain in front of him.

Chapter 2

As Otis jogged behind Circe, the tantalizing view of her bottom, where her short jacket ended, mesmerized him. She had an energetic rhythm to her step that hinted of physical health and vigor. Images of a different type of vigorous activity flashed through his brain—of her beneath him, legs wrapped around his back, curled into the protective shell of his arms, sitting astride him, on her knees looking up at him, and …
Stop it!
He would not objectify a woman he barely knew, especially one fluent in sign language. Still, that marvelous rear view begged for more center stage time in his imagination.

Thankfully, they blasted through the door of the Lotus Eaters Café before his southern latitudes could rise for a standing ovation. How long had it been since he’d made love to a woman? Two months? Longer? No wonder he’d lost his mind over a shapely rear end and a beautiful oval face. She was so much more than that. A deep awareness of her sang through his veins.

The scents of coffee and spices—cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice and ginger—and freshly baked bread caressed Otis’s nose, crooking its finger from the bakery display case. He predicted a decadent treat in his imminent future, perhaps two if matters worked to his advantage with Circe.

Circe angled her head at the menu posted above the heads of the baristas.

“Know what you want?” he signed, when she turned and awarded him a full wattage smile. Raindrops sparkled like diamonds on her dusky lashes and brows. When a droplet clung to the end of a lock of shorter hair near her face, and threatened to splash onto her cheek, he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to whisk it away. “Rain water,” he signed with a guilty shrug.

Those emerald eyes tracked his every move, and a tinge of pink bloomed on her cheeks. “Thanks. I think I’ll have a café American.” She held her hands out to indicate a medium size, rather than signing the word.

“Two café Americans,” Otis said aloud before motioning Circe to a table for two near the window.

The barista raised her brows a tick, but otherwise appeared to understand him, and what she rang up confirmed such. The woman’s gaze darted to Circe’s retreating form, and back to Otis before making one more round trip. Her lips moved, asking if he wanted any food to go with their coffees. Otis pointed to the pumpkin bread and cranberry scones, ordering one of each. If Circe didn’t want either, the extra would not go to waste.

He joined her at the table and showed her the contents of each bakery bag, signing for her to choose.

She bit her lip as if contemplating whether she should accept his gift or not. After moving her pointer finger back and forth between the two, she shrugged and signed, “Thank you, but I really shouldn’t.”

“I shouldn’t either, but I want it anyway because it smells so good.” He gave her a wink and held a pastry bag in each hand, weighing them like the arms of a scale to once more coax her into taking one.

“They do smell delicious. Okay, I will try one, but you must choose. I cannot.” Circe wrinkled her nose, and for a moment he worried she was merely being polite and didn’t like either treat he’d selected.

Plastic knife in hand, he cut both cakes in half, reserving one of each for himself and pushing the other two halves toward Circe. Surely one of them would appeal to her, and pleasing her seemed to be his priority at the moment—an odd sensation he couldn’t quite peg any logical reason for, other than pure chemical attraction.

With a tentative finger—its nail short and unvarnished and its slender length ringless—she poked first the scone then the pumpkin bread. The pumpkin bread won the texture contest, apparently, because she lifted the slice to her lips and sniffed it before biting off a large mouthful. Her face beamed as she moved the morsel around in her mouth. Chewing, her eyelids sealed and her head tilted back, she was the picture of bliss. Her next bite was of the scone, and it, too, yielded the same orgasmic expression.

Otis’s loins tightened as Circe’s tongue caught a stray crumb and swept it inside her mouth. Watching her devour the pumpkin bread, her obvious favorite of the two, was like watching an erotic peep show. He glanced around the café to make sure no one else but he enjoyed the unbridled display.

After swallowing the last of the scone, she signed, “I have never tasted anything so good before. What are they called?”

“Pumpkin bread and cranberry scone.” He knew a foolish grin had claimed his face, but he couldn’t help it.

“Which one was the brown one? Not the beige with red spots one.” She took a giant swallow of her coffee, and almost immediately began coughing and waving a hand in front of her mouth. “Hot!” One hand resumed fanning her open mouth, her tongue thrust out and over her lower lip.

“Are you okay?” Otis couldn’t help but smile at her child-like candor, his laughter barely suppressed. He pinched off a corner of his pumpkin bread and handed it to her. “To cool your mouth.” He pushed the remaining piece toward her.

She gulped the last of the cake down. “Thank you.”

Head resting in a hand he’d propped up on the table, Otis stared at the lovely creature in front of him, so lacking in self-consciousness or guile, and utterly charming. He’d buy her all the pumpkin bread in the world for another smile like the one she had just bestowed on him.

“Where did you say you lived?” he signed.

Beautiful eyes blinked at him once, twice, three times as if she contemplated the wisdom of disclosing too much to a virtual stranger. He couldn’t blame her, especially if she was from the Alaskan bush where women were as scarce as four leaf clovers.

She opened her mouth as if to speak before snapping it shut and signing, “I’m from a small island in the Aleutians. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“Try me. I’ve fished near those islands and know them all like the back of my hand, though most are uninhabited. Tanaga? Attu?”

Circe shook her head. “I’m sorry. My family … we are very private people. We—”

He tamped down the air to end her obvious discomfort at his prying. “It’s all right. I understand.” A short pause ticked by. “You sign beautifully. I assume you’re equally eloquent with your pen. What do you write about?”

The coffee cup she had lifted to her lips stopped halfway before she set it back down and signed, “The sea.”

• • •

Circe tested a few tiny droplets of coffee on her scalded tongue. The muddy liquid was cooler, so she took a larger sip. She had to reign in her willingness to tell the human everything about herself.

“Do you write fiction or non-fiction?” Otis lifted his brows as he signed.

Captain Otis had an effect on her as if an octopus had blasted obscuring ink between her and her purpose for being with him. She swirled in the murky oblivion of his eyes, before dropping her gaze to his mouth. What would it feel like to press her lips against his, to share his warmth, touch the texture of his curly hair, trace the contours of the muscles in his arms, his back? Would his skin be soft or coarsened by the wind and surf? She scrutinized the V neckline of his sweater where a few body hairs struggled to escape. His scent was all male, human male, but exotically alluring.

“I write about the shiest, most mysterious creatures of the sea.” She took a long draft of her coffee while regarding him over the edge of her cup. Watching Otis and breathing him in turned her inside out as if putting all her secrets on display before him.

He reached inside the satchel under his coat and withdrew the book he’d checked out from the library; its title faced her.

Circe reached out and traced the gold embossed letters on the cover before flipping open to the table of contents. The chapter following selkies was devoted to her kind. She pulled the book closer and flipped to the indicated page number to read, the text angled so Otis couldn’t see what she read. The claims, presented with an air of grave authority, made her clasp a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Do not read this. It’s a wretched work of fiction.” She shut the book and pushed it back toward him.

“Spoken like an expert. Have you written a similar book that is better because if so, I would love to read it.”

“Not yet, I haven’t, but I know of most of these beings.”

“What do you know of the creatures inside?”

The urge to share her world with Otis overpowered her good sense, because for the next two hours, over three more café Americans and two more treats from the bakery, she regaled him with facts about her brothers and sisters of the sea.

During their tête-a-tête, other patrons came and went, but Circe never gave them more than a passing glance. All her attention stayed riveted on Otis. Words flew from their fingers as they shared the book and examined the pictures together. Their chairs drew closer, as if attached to magnets, until her knees did what no other part of her body dared; they touched him.

“I have to go now,” Otis signed. He poked out a bottom lip, and Circe’s heart did a little flip before dropping to her feet. “But … would you have breakfast with me tomorrow?”

Circe beamed and nodded. She had much more to learn about the good captain, she reminded herself. That was the only reason for agreeing to meet him again. It had nothing to do with his eager curiosity about her home, or his humorous observations about the sea and its denizens, too true to defend, or the graceful beauty of his hands and features as he signed with such passion about all he loved—the sea, his ship, and especially his family.

They met for breakfast, which extended into lunch before Otis dashed off for a nearly missed dental appointment. He doubled back and exacted a promise to meet for breakfast the next day, even though Circe had already agreed to such earlier.

Otis brought her flowers on the third day that stretched until nearly three in the afternoon. Circe had to cry off his dinner invitation to attend to her neglected shipwreck quota. She sunk a small pleasure craft full of drunken tourists but called upon her aquatic friends to aid them to dry land to await rescue. The tourists lived, but they wouldn’t be boating any time soon.

On the fourth day, Otis coaxed her into playing games at a local arcade. She jumped up and down and danced in a circle when Otis won a giant stuffed killer whale. Together they made silly faces in the tiny photo booth they squeezed into. They ate ugly food called corn dogs and fried chicken, all brown and crispy, that tasted better than the sweetest crabs from the Bering Strait.

Otis persuaded her to join him for a late afternoon coffee at the Lotus Eater’s Café, and when he took her hand in his—large, warm and calloused—they walked side by side in silence. Circe’s heart beat a steady warmth throughout her body, a warmth that originated where their hands clasped.

Installed at a cozy table, they sipped their drinks and smiled at each other, Circe’s hand still in Otis’s as they conversed about the intelligence of killer whales and other sea creatures.

“I swear I’ve seen a siren before,” Otis signed, and Circe’s fantasy world drowned in a deluge of self-preservation instincts.

“Where?” Did her face reflect her panic? Why had he suddenly brought up sirens? What did he know?

“In Kachemak Bay. There’s a cluster of rocks the sea birds like to hang out on. The tides can submerge the rocks, making the area treacherous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What did she look like?”

“She didn’t look like the picture of the one in my library book, that’s for sure. Not like a mermaid, but more like a regular woman. She had long dark hair, but she most definitely was not topless.” He flashed a wolfish grin. “I was too far away to see her face. I had awakened from a brief nap to find the ship on a course taking us toward the shallows and a long line of rocks that would have destroyed us. My fool first mate had been steering straight toward it, but he swore he hadn’t seen a woman and had no idea why he’d gone off our intended course and nearly killed us all.” Otis leaned close enough to rub shoulders with her as if he wanted no one to see his next signs. “She seemed like a malevolent demon bent on killing all of us.”

The knife in her gut twisted before it drove in deeper. “I wouldn’t say a siren is evil. Maybe it’s just that she’s defending her territory and sees ships and sailors as intruders.” She pulled back, creating space between them, to put them back in neutral corners.

“I suppose.” He gazed at her with a cunning smile on his face, one brow wiggling.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

He held his watch in front of her face. She turned and looked to the sky. Human times didn’t mean much to her, but they obviously meant something to him.

“It’s nearly six. Would you have dinner with me?”

Her stomach growled, but sweets from the coffee shop held no appeal. More than that, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to do what she had to do if she spent any more time with Otis. Only three days remained before the new moon, and Otis would leave in two. It was time to pull back, or she didn’t think she’d ever be able to take his ship from him and send him to a watery grave, let alone say goodbye when he departed. “Dinner? Now?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t. I have to go.” She shoved back in her chair and made it out the door before he touched her back.

They faced each other on the sidewalk. The rain had stopped, and twilight had rolled in, though it would not get dark, not for a few more moon cycles.

Otis didn’t say a word but caught hold of her hand and brought it to his lips. She stepped closer, close enough for him to slide his other hand around her waist and draw her near. His lips descended to drop a light kiss on hers.

It wasn’t enough. One kiss would never be enough.

Her hands skimmed up his chest to his shoulders and behind his neck, where they wove themselves into hair as soft as her own. Pressing closer, she touched her lips to his, exactly as he’d done, light sips to savor the warmth and texture of his skin, of his breath, scented with rich espresso.

Otis’s other arm encircled and pulled her so close they touched from collarbone to thigh. The contours of his body were different from hers, but they still fit together perfectly as if each yielded just enough to mold into one. He fitted his mouth over hers, nudging her lips apart with the tip of his tongue.