Siren's Call (2 page)

Exhausted by the long reach of memory, his shoulders slumped. Suicide wasn’t the answer and he knew it, but somehow he couldn’t break the spell of the water. And, truth be told, he didn’t really want to.

Steeling himself against the incoming wash of waves, Kenneth walked into the water. Each determined step took him farther out into the all-consuming sea . . .

The fool. The
damn
fool.

Binoculars pressed to her eyes, Tessa Lonike frowned as she watched the man standing onshore strip off his clothing. What was it about these extreme athletes that made them think a swim in the bay during a severe thunderstorm would be a good idea? Given the temperature of the water, it would take only minutes for hypothermia to set in.

She sighed. Humans should know they weren’t made for the water.

Leaning into the rail circling the deck of the thirty-foot-high lighthouse, Tessa adjusted the focus on her high-powered binoculars, zooming in for a closer view.

Even from a distance she could tell he was tall, at least six feet, thin, definitely a swimmer’s physique. Though his features were indefinable, the long dark hair whipping around his face and shoulders gave him a sexy, bad-boy appeal. If he thought he could take on the water and win, more power to him.

Her breath caught in her throat when he unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them off his hips. She was expecting to see a pair of those lycra-jammer swim trunks so popular with the local male swimmers.

A gasp rolled past her lips when he revealed himself to be one hundred percent bare-ass naked. Stepping out of his jeans, he stood proud and unashamed at the water’s edge. He didn’t flinch when a roll of thunder released a torrent of rain, the heavy drops slashing at his pale skin with brutal intent. The man was obviously an exhibitionist.

As the keeper of the Little Mer Island lighthouse and one of the area’s search-and-rescue volunteers, it was her job to keep an eye on the bay. With a storm about to make landfall, most people knew to get the hell off—or out of—the water. Summer had passed without a single incident. Soon fall would settle in, and then the freezing snows of winter. She’d be locked on this frickin’ island with little more to do than twiddle her thumbs until spring’s thaw.

Wiping the water off her lenses, Tessa lifted her binoculars for another look. Surely now that the rain had arrived, he’d give up his insane idea and go home. Thunderstorms blowing in off the North Atlantic had a tendency to get dangerous. High winds and crashing waves were sure to drive boats and bodies alike against the rocky shoreline. Not to mention the powerful undertows that could drag you under in the blink of an eye.

As if to second her concerns, thunder clapped around her, shaking the lighthouse. Lightning streaked to earth, striking the tower’s aluminum rod that was designed to take its charge safely into the ground.

“Get out of the water, idiot,” she murmured.

Instead of abandoning shore, the naked man entered the sea. Making slow progress against the waves, he began to swim, traveling through the water with strong, determined strokes. Within seconds it became clear he wasn’t heading toward the lighthouse, the usual destination of endurance swimmers. Though the isle was privately owned by her family, it didn’t stop stragglers from coming ashore.

The man unexpectedly stopped, treading water. Then he dove. Disappeared.

A long minute stretched into two.

Nothing.

The water grew choppier. Waves crashed harder against the shores. Rain fell in sheets, obscuring her view. The wind howled, a banshee singing the doom of another soul taken under by the unforgiving bay.

“Aw, shit,” she cursed lightly under her breath. The damn fool was a suicidal fool.

Tearing off the deck, Tessa took the stairs two at a time heading to the first floor. There, the lighthouse was outfitted with the emergency radio system allowing her to communicate with the Harbor Department on the mainland. Moored at the docks, a twenty-seven-foot Boston Whaler waited for action. Her sister Addison would be one of the women piloting the rescue boat. She wouldn’t be happy either. Addison hated being called to pull a dead body out of the water.

By the time she’d hit the last step, Tessa had already figured out it was too late to summon help. She’d have to handle this one herself. Cold shock could severely limit a swimmer’s ability to rescue themselves. It could also cause them to ingest water into the lungs, especially if they gasped while under the surface or while submerged by a wave. Drowning was death from suffocation. Anyone who wanted to commit suicide in the water need only take a few gulping breaths. Asphyxia would soon occur.

Leaving the lighthouse behind, she ran the short distance toward the edge of the island. On the north side was a stony ledge that was good for diving.

Barely stopping to strip out of her clothing, Tessa launched her body over the rocks and into the water with a single smooth motion. Her aim was that of the expert swimmer, her slender figure slicing through the churning waves like a knife.

Disappearing beneath the surface, Tessa felt the tell-tale prickle of iridescent scales rippling across her skin. She caught her breath, anticipating her shift from an inhabitant of the land into a being of the sea.

From the waist down an instantaneous metamorphosis took place. Bone and muscle twined, fusing her two human legs into one before reshaping them into a long, slender, fishlike tail. Painless and swift, the sorcery of her modification from human to Mer occurred within the span of a second.

Born and raised in these waters, Tessa had always known she was different from the humans living onshore. Though human beings and mermaids were anatomically similar on land, all those similarities vanished once she hit the water. Far beneath the waves, where no human eyes could see her, Tessa became her true self—a strong, vital, confident woman of the seas.

Churned by the storm wailing above, the water was muddy and as dark as a tomb. The murk boiled around her, thick and almost impenetrable even to her super-sharp eyes.

Propelling herself at top speed, Tessa headed in the direction where she’d last seen the suicidal swimmer.

Precious seconds ticked away as she searched for the man she’d seen onshore. Beneath the surface, the water was bone-chillingly cold. As a Mer, Tessa was comfortable hot or cold. For a human, surviving would be difficult. In this temperature he’d have perhaps ten minutes before muscle impairment set in.

Struggling past the impulse to panic, Tessa forced herself to slow down. The water filtered in and out of her lungs as easily and naturally as she breathed air.

If he’s dead
. . .

She clamped her teeth against the acidic nausea of dread. No! She would find him. She would save him. It was her fault he’d gotten this far out into the water in the first place. If she’d been paying attention instead of worrying about her starved libido, she would have recognized the warning signs sooner.

Making several more passes through the area, she sensed rather than visually recognized his presence. A shadow. A wisp. Hair loose and tangled.

Head whipping around, she zeroed in on the body gently bobbing beneath the water’s surface. His arms were floating outward, as if he were reaching for her in appeal. But his unseeing gaze stared right through her. There was no light, no life, in his eyes.

Fear lanced through her. Was she too late to help him?

Gasping painfully, Tessa quickly swam over to the fading man.

If he still has any life, I can save him
. The thought offered a glimmer of hope.

Reaching out, Tessa cupped the man’s face between her palms. Beneath the water, a mermaid’s kiss could save a man’s life, granting him the ability to breathe. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the precious air he needed to survive.

Tilting her head, she pressed her mouth to his. Summoning the magic known only to the Mer, she exhaled, passing the vital spark of life from her body to his . . .

 

T
he boat skimmed across water as clear and shiny as a newly polished mirror. Though the bay was calm and untroubled, Kenneth Randall felt his stomach make a slow backflip. Swallowing hard against the rise of nausea, he quietly fought the urge to vomit.
Good grief
. He’d had no idea a quick trip across the Penobscot would make him sick as a dog.

Tightening his grip on the edge of the flat-bottomed skiff, he glanced down into a depth unfathomable to the naked eye. A prickling sensation ran up his spine. The bay looked unwelcoming, ominously unpredictable. Because the weather changed from day to day, its tides often presented intimidating challenges to navigation and piloting.

Kenneth shivered. His muscles bunched with tension. Though the water was tranquil, he couldn’t help thinking back to the day he’d almost sacrificed his life to that all-consuming abyss in a moment of despair.

He frowned as images of walking into the choppy water flashed across his mind’s eye. Through the hazy labyrinth of time and distance he still couldn’t remember what had happened after he’d gone under. Every time he tried to put the pieces together, the indistinct pictures melted away, slipping back into the murky void lingering around the edges of his skull.

Despite the fact that it felt strange to admit it, he had a feeling he hadn’t been under the water alone. Someone—some
thing
, some benevolent presence—had hovered nearby, keeping him alive when he should have perished. Whether it was the design of a higher power or the provenance of pure luck, somehow he’d survived. And while he wouldn’t go so far as to label the underwater presence an angel, he couldn’t shake the deeply rooted notion he’d been visited by a being of purity and beauty.

Digging deeper into the murk surrounding that day, Kenneth’s stomach tightened at the fleeting, half-conscious impressions crowding into his brain.
Female
. Yes, he was absolutely sure the presence was a feminine one.

A flush prickled his skin as his heart sped up, filling his veins with hot adrenaline. Since that time the same faceless siren had visited his dreams, ushering in a sensually erotic delight. He was absolutely convinced he’d experienced the feel of her hands caressing his skin with a sensitive, compassionate touch. The breath seeping from his lungs had been restored by her kiss . . .

Kenneth choked down a lump of frustration before taking a few quick breaths to calm his fluttering stomach. “I definitely need to get my head on straight,” he muttered under his breath.

The idea his sea nymph was nothing more than the apparition of a mind gone awry had occurred to him on more than one occasion. The siren had to be the figment of a desperate imagination. He’d spent months in therapy working through that day. His therapist had even identified the notion to be part of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Survivor’s guilt in the wake of two painful events had obviously put a lot of pressure on his subconscious mind. His body was relieving the stress in the only way it knew how, through sleep. Coming from the mouth of a professional, it all made perfect sense.

Forcing his gaze away from the water, Kenneth settled his attention on the island ahead. As the transport motored closer, he could see a traditional Cape Cod- style home—right down to the whitewashed exterior and gray-shingled roof—that stood several hundred feet behind a high concrete wall designed to break the worst of the waves.

The lighthouse was perched staunchly nearby, a guardian warning ships away from the dangers of land ahead. According to what he’d been told, he’d washed up, battered by the rocks and unconscious, on the island’s rocky shore during the storm. The island’s owner had reportedly pulled him to safety, alerting shore patrol to the emergency.

Kenneth hoped by returning to the island he could talk to the woman who’d rescued him. Surely she could help him put the final pieces of that day together.

“You guys never last.” A raspy voice shattered Kenneth’s internal monologue, reminding him he wasn’t alone on this voyage into the unknown.

Kenneth glanced over his shoulder. Outfitted in clothing that had seen better days, the owner of the boat manned the rudder. Loaded with supplies destined for the island, the motor-powered vessel wasn’t the prettiest or fastest on the bay. Rather, she was seaworthy and worked hard, a necessity for people who made their living in the coastal waters off Maine’s shores. Dubbed
Lucky’s Lady
, the small craft was as sun-weathered as the grizzled old man piloting her.

Feeling a twinge of tension in his shoulders, Kenneth loosened his grip on the edge of the boat. “I didn’t catch what you said,” he admitted, shouting his words over the whine of the motor.