Sea Lord (3 page)

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Oh, God.

Air clogged her lungs. She broke eye contact, focusing instead on the hard line of his mouth, the stubble

lurking beneath his close shave, the column of his throat rising from his tight white collar.

Even with her gaze averted, she could feel his eyes on her, disturbing her shallow composure like a stick

poked into a tide pool, stirring up sand. Her head was clouded. Her senses swam.

He was too near. Too big. Even his clothes seemed made for a smaller man. Fabric clung to the rounded

muscle of his upper arms and smoothed over his wide shoulders like a lover’s hand. She imagined sliding

her palms through his open jacket, slipping her fingers between the straining buttons of his shirt to touch

rough hair and hot skin.

Wrong,
insisted a small, clear corner of her brain.
Wrong clothes, wrong man, wrong reaction.
This

was the island, where the working man’s uniform was flannel plaid over a white T-shirt. He was a

stranger. He didn’t belong here.

And she could never belong anywhere else.

She dragged in air, holding her breath the way she had taught herself when she was a child, forcing

everything inside her back into its proper place. She could
smell
him, hot male, cool cotton, and

something deeper, wilder, like the briny notes of the sea. When had he come so close? She never let

anyone so close.

His gaze probed her like the rays of the sun, heavy and warm, seeking out all the shadowed places, all

the secret corners of her soul. She felt naked. Exposed. If she met those eyes, she was lost.

She gulped and fixed her gaze on his shirt front. Her blood thrummed.
Do not look up, do not
. . .

She focused on his tie, silver gray with a thin blue stripe and the luster of silk.

Lucy frowned.
Just like
. . .

She peered more closely.
Exactly like
. . .

Her head cleared. She took a step back. “That’s Dylan’s tie.”

Dylan’s suit. She recognized it from Caleb’s wedding.

“Presumably,” the stranger admitted coolly. “Since I took it from his closet.”

Lucy blinked. Dylan had left the island with their mother when she was just a baby. Four months ago,

he’d returned for their brother Caleb’s wedding and stayed when he fell in love with single mom Regina

Barone. But of course in his years away Dylan must have made connections, friends, a life beyond

World’s End.

Lucky bastard.

“Dylan’s my brother,” she said.

“I know.”

His assurance got under her skin. “You know him well enough to help yourself to his clothes?”

A corner of that wide, firm mouth quirked. “Why not ask him?”

“Um . . .” She got lost again in his eyes. What? Crap. No. No way was she dragging this stranger home

to meet her family. She pictured their faces in her mind, steady, patient Caleb, edgy, elegant Dylan,

Maggie’s knowing smile, Regina’s scowl. She blinked, building the images brick by brick like a wall to

hide behind. “That’s okay. You have a nice . . .”

Life?

“Visit,” she concluded and backed away.

Conn was affronted. Astonished.

She was leaving him.

She was leaving. Him. Sidling away like a crab spooked by the rush of the water. As if his magic had no

power over her. As if he would pounce if she turned her back.

His lips pulled back from his teeth. Perhaps he would.

He had not exerted the full force of his allure, the potent sexual magic of his kind. Why should he? He

had felt her yield, smelled her arousal. Her eyes, the soft gray-green of the sea under a cloudy sky, had

grown wide and dark. For a moment, as he held her gaze, Conn had felt a twist in his belly, a click of

connection like a barely audible snap in his skull.

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And then she blinked. When she met his eyes again, her own were shallow and bright.

Frustration tightened his gut.

He concentrated until his head pounded, bending his gaze and his will upon her, seeking . . . what?

Surrender? Or a vision, a sign, something to guide him.

Nothing, he acknowledged wearily.

Nothing but her face, pale between the curtains of her straw-colored hair, and his own reflection, trapped

within her eyes. The magic that had goaded him here had drained like a wave from the rocks, leaving him

high and dry.

Conn set his jaw. He wished, not for the first time, that he had the old kings’ power—or shared his

father’s disregard for anything beyond his own pleasure. But he was not his father. He had not left

Sanctuary for the first time in centuries to satisfy a need as simple as lust.

“Come with me,” he urged.

She jerked. “What?”

He would deal with her resistance later. What he would not do, now that he had found her, was let her

get away. Both his magic and his glands were clear on that score.

“To see your brother,” Conn improvised smoothly.

The girl shook her head, making her pale hair fall forward like a veil. “Dylan and I see enough of each

other, thanks.”

Conn’s face must have revealed his surprise, because she added, “He moved back home a couple of

months ago. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No. We lost touch,” Conn said grimly. Another reason Conn had been forced to leave Sanctuary and

seek out the woman of his visions. Dylan was on World’s End at Conn’s command. But Conn had

expected him to report back to Sanctuary weeks ago.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, regarding him with confusion and a hint of challenge. “Then what are

you doing here in his suit?”

Conn stiffened. He was not accustomed to having his actions questioned. To avoid explanations, he had

donned clothes. Uncomfortable, modern clothes, the best in Dylan’s wardrobe, befitting Conn’s rank.

And now this girl was challenging his selection.

“Perhaps you would prefer I take it off,” he suggested silkily.

She had very fair skin. Every blush showed. But she did not back down. “I just think you should have

asked before you raided his closet.”

“Very well. Take me to him.”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know if . . . He’s probably at the restaurant at this time of day.”

What restaurant?

“Then we will go there,” Conn said.

He watched politeness war with reluctance on her face. He admired both her manners and her caution.

But of course, he could not allow her to refuse.

“Or we could wait at your home,” Conn added.

Her eyes widened. Something flashed in those soft green depths, like a fish darting below the surface of

the water, before she dropped her gaze.

He stared, frustrated, at the top of her head.

“This way,” she said.

The road zigzagged to the harbor, bumping around hills between snug, square houses and trees burning

red and gold. Lucy followed the pavement like a spool of black ribbon unrolling to the sea,

uncomfortably conscious of every step, every breath of the man beside her.

She wasn’t afraid of him, exactly. Growing up on the island, you learned to take care of yourself and

your neighbors. Her brother Caleb, the island police chief, was rarely called for anything more serious

than teenagers lifting beers from Wiley’s Market or fishermen settling a dispute with their fists.

Until this past summer, when some madness had infected World’s End beyond the usual

“germs”—vacationers, in island-speak. A woman from Away had been murdered on the beach by a

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lawyer living on the point. A homeless vet had attacked Regina Barone in her own restaurant. And just

two months ago, an unknown intruder had broken into the clinic, nearly killing Regina and the island

doctor.

Lucy swallowed the flat taste of fear in her mouth. Not that the guy striding next to her looked like a

killer. But you never knew, did you? Bruce Whittaker, the lawyer convicted of the beach murder, hadn’t

looked like the kind of man who tortured women in his living room either.

She was relieved when the road unfurled into town. The afternoon sun danced on the waters of the

harbor, painting the peaked roofs with yellow light. Shadows stretched under cars and between buildings,

gathering under the eaves like cobwebs. The storefront windows were papered with flyers advertising a

shellfish commission meeting, a bake sale in support of the community center, free kittens.

The faded red awning of Antonia’s Ristorante extended over the sidewalk, casting a warm glow over the

tables inside. Empty tables. Empty chairs. A typical Wednesday in the off-season, between the lunch and

dinner rush.

“This is it,” Lucy announced.

Her companion glanced from the hand-lettered chalkboard in the doorway to the cat napping in the

restaurant window. “Dylan is here?”

Lucy pushed the door—he didn’t try to open it for her, she noticed—making the bell jangle. “Usually.

He—”

“Hi, Lu.” Regina straightened from the refrigerated case behind the counter, her dark hair tied under a

jaunty red bandana and a wide, white apron wrapped over her baby bump. Her Italian heritage showed

in the tiny gold cross at her neck and her big, dark, expressive eyes. Her gaze wandered over Lucy’s

shoulder; brightened with interest. “Friend of yours?”

“I just met him.”

“Oh?” The interest sharpened. “Nice. As long as you’re here, you can take his order. Maggie’s off the

clock.”

Lucy cleared her throat. “I don’t think—”

“Maggie?” repeated that deep, cool voice.

“Maggie Hunter.” Regina shot him a smile. “I’m Regina Barone.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging the introduction. “Conn ap Llyr.”

Regina stilled. Her eyes narrowed. “Nice suit.”

He regarded her the way he’d looked at the cat, as if she were a species of creature barely worthy of

notice. “Nice place.”

Regina crossed her arms over her middle. “We like it.”

Lucy’s stomach knotted. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what. But you didn’t grow up in an

alcoholic household without learning to pay attention to eyes and hands and tones of voice.

The door behind them opened. Lucy jumped.

But it was only her brother Caleb, still in his police uniform, coming to pick up Maggie after her shift.

Relief relaxed Lucy’s shoulders. Strong, patient Cal, steady as an oak tree despite the limp he’d acquired

in Iraq. His hair was darker than hers, his eyes the same gray-green.

His smile faded as he picked up the tension in the room. “What’s going on?” he asked evenly.

“This guy”—Regina jerked her head without taking her eyes off the stranger—“is Conn ap Llyr.”

Lucy watched the two men size each other up like ten-year-olds on the playground. Only ten-year-olds

never left her feeling shaky and breathless, as if they’d sucked up all the available oxygen.

Few men had the height or the balls to look down on her brother. Conn ap Llyr apparently possessed

both. “And you are . . . ?”

“Caleb Hunter. Chief of Police.”

Neither man offered to shake hands.

Lucy reminded herself to breathe. She had brought this stranger here. It was her responsibility to smooth

things over. “He knows Dylan, he said.”

Caleb aimed a look over her shoulder at Regina. “Where is Dylan?”

Regina pressed her lips together. “In back. With—”

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“Get him,” Caleb ordered before she could say Maggie’s name.

Regina disappeared through the kitchen door without a backward glance, leaving Lucy alone with the

two men. And no idea what was going on.

It was like a scene out of some old Western, she thought fancifully. The local sheriff facing down the

visiting gun-slinger in the bar. Her heart bumped. She had never liked confrontation. Still, she could

appreciate the picture they made, solid Caleb in his wrinkled uniform, the big stranger in his elegant suit.

Her brother’s suit.

Dylan swung through the kitchen door and completed the set: tall, dark, and lean in a black T-shirt

tucked into faded khaki shorts.

The air fairly boiled with tension and pheromones, almost too thick to breathe. Lucy shrank into herself,

retreating to the line of booths along one wall.

“Is it just me,” Regina asked from the doorway behind him, “or is it crowded in here?”