Siren's Surrender (31 page)

Blake’s inner antennae swiveled. He knew what the sisters were capable of doing when they pooled their Mercraft. It would be possible for one of the girls to teleport themselves outside the compound, no problem. He realized the only thing really keeping the women put was their own good graces. Any one of the Lonike sisters had the capability to turn lethal in the blink of an eye.

We still don’t really know what we’re dealing with
, he thought.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he ventured.

Kenneth frowned. “Of course you wouldn’t, Whittaker. You’re one of
them
.”

Blake shook his head. “That’s true. But I’m still looking at it from the point of view that you’re safer here than outside on your own.” He raised a hand to his neck, still mottled with fading yellow bruises. “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to run into any of those Ishaldi mermaids in a dark alley. They’re vicious and they’re out for blood.”

Tessa delivered a steaming cup of coffee. “He’s right, Ken. We weren’t prepared to defend ourselves against them and they kicked our tails all over the place.”

Addison reached for her wine. “That won’t happen a second time,” she muttered after taking a sip from her glass. “I’ve been practicing my Mercraft and I’m really getting the hang of it. I think I could hold my own.”

Gwen’s eyes narrowed. “That’s precisely what I don’t want to do. I don’t want humans to think we’re all vile, violent creatures who go around blasting each other to bits.”

Addison shrugged. “Why not? Humans do it all the time.”

Gwen sighed. “You would think we could reach a point in evolution where violence wouldn’t be necessary.”

Tessa looked up. “Isn’t that something we all wish for?”

“Well, the world doesn’t work that way,” Kenneth said. “It’s always going to be an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”

Skipping the sweetener, Blake added milk to take the bitter edge off his brew. “That’s enough to make me want to skip the coffee and go straight to the whiskey.” He lifted the steaming mug to his face, closing his eyes and inhaling the rich aroma.

Kenneth killed the rest of his beer and crushed the can. “You a drinking man, Whittaker?” he asked.

Blake sipped his coffee. Damn, it was strong enough to eat through steel. He recognized the fact that Randall was prying, trying to get a little information out of him. He didn’t blame the man. “I drank a little before my son was born,” he admitted. “It was getting to be a problem, so I did some time in AA.”

“So it’s under control?” Kenneth asked.

Gwen shot a sharp look toward her brother-in law. “Really, Kenneth. There’s no need to pry.”

Kenneth laughed. “Ah, come on Gwen. It’s all in good fun. He knows everything about us. We should know something about him. Kind of a fair exchange of information.”

“You did sleep with him,” Addison added bluntly. “Wouldn’t you like to know something about the man you bumped uglies with?”

Gwen instantly turned ten shades of red. “Oh, God,” she murmured. “You people are too much.”

Blake shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said. “My life’s pretty cut and dried. I grew up in Port Rock and joined the army after I graduated.”

“So you’re a local?” Tessa asked.

Blake shrugged. “Somewhat. I haven’t been around there for almost sixteen years.”

“Any particular reason you left?” Kenneth asked.

Blake felt his stomach curdle around the coffee he’d consumed. What had began as a pleasant evening was beginning to take a turn for the worst. He never talked about his mother, had never told another living soul what she’d done to him.

But his mother’s ghost refused to stay buried. No matter how hard he tried, he’d always found it impossible to put Loretta Whittaker to rest. His mind was plagued with horrors of the past and the sorrow that both his innocence and trust had been taken from him at such an early age.

Remembering how the water had closed over his head time and time again, he felt a chill creep down his spine. His heart slammed heavily against his rib cage; he suddenly had difficulty breathing. It was as if a giant’s hand had gripped his body and was closing, tighter . . . tighter . . .

Drunk and filled with hate, his mother was not particularly concerned about the psychic wounds she’d inflicted on her young son. She’d beaten and belittled him until she’d made Blake fear and mistrust women.

Jaw tightening, he fought the squeeze of icy fingers around his heart. Long, sharp nails dug deep, and—damn, it hurt! He had hated being a child, hated the feeling of helplessness.

As a boy, he’d learned to keep out of his mother’s sight as much as possible. The less Loretta saw of him when she was drinking, the better.

“I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I’m an only child.” He’d often thanked God he didn’t have a sibling. He couldn’t stand the idea of someone even smaller and weaker being put through hell, too.

Regaining her composure, Gwen gave him a little smile. “Oh? So you were the single spoiled brat, eh?” She reached for her own glass of wine, taking a tiny sip of the rosy liquid.

Blake shook his head. “Oh, my mother thought I was a brat, all right. And she knocked the hell out of me every chance she got.” There. He’d said it. Might as well give everyone a shock. It hurt to say, but he accepted the reality.

Gwen glanced up sharply. “You don’t sound like you’re joking.”

Blake didn’t want to look anyone in the eye. He stared into his half-empty coffee cup instead. “My mother abused me,” he said quietly. “In short, she hit me. A lot.”

Silence. Dead silence. Who wanted to hear things like that?

He glanced up. Everyone’s faces were taut. No one spoke.

Good way to scare people off,
he thought.
Tell them your dirty little secrets.

Gwen finally cleared her throat. “I’d suspected something,” she said. “I’ve felt the tension boiling under your skin at certain times.” She cocked her head. “It’s always there, but it’s worse when you’re near water.”

Blake’s stomach coiled into tight knots. Now that he had started talking, he couldn’t seem to stop. “When she was pissed, really pissed at me, my mother would fill the bathtub with cold water. She’d hold me under until I’d nearly pass out, then pull me back up again. The harder I struggled, the longer she kept me down.” Even though his pulse was pounding like a jackhammer, he spoke in a clinical matter-of-fact way, relating the events the way he’d recount unpleasant facts to a superior. It helped distance him from the trauma. If he didn’t get emotional, it didn’t hurt as much.

“By the goddess,” Tessa murmured. “That must have been horrible for you.”

Blake raised his chin a notch. “I survived.” Refusing to cringe, he kept going. The poison he’d held bottled up inside his soul was finally coming out. “But I never trusted women. It’s why things didn’t work out between me and Debra. I was always afraid she’d get emotional and hurt Trevor to get even with me.”

“The way your mother got even with you?” Addison asked.

Lifting a hand, Blake pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, rubbing hard at his burning lids. “Yeah. My dad wasn’t any kind of a champ, and neither were the bastards she took up with after he left. I can’t tell you how many stepfathers I cycled through.”

He shook his head, making a mental count. There were at least eight, maybe more. Sometimes his mother married them, sometimes she just shacked up. Loretta Whittaker had the magic touch when it came to picking scummy losers. They’d drink and beat her. She’d drink and beat Blake.

Yeah, the neighbors often heard the ruckus and called the police. The cops would take one look at his staggering, bloodied mother and her equally battered kid and haul the current doped-up son of a bitch off to jail. Yet no one ever bothered to ask Blake just who exactly was doing the hitting.

Always, men were the baddies, the ones who swung a fist or a belt. His mother was good at playing the victim, too. She knew how to manipulate the system so she’d come off looking like the innocent, injured party. By the time he’d gotten old enough to evade his mother’s murderous rages, he’d learned one lesson, and learned it well.

Look out for yourself, because no one else will.

Once he’d left Port Rock, he left for good. Even when he’d been informed of her slide into illness, he’d refused to go back. A few months later he’d gotten word she’d died, a victim of the cancer riddling her uterus. He didn’t claim her body, and the county had done what it did with most indigents. She’d gotten a cheap cremation and a scattering over the bay by some morgue assistant.

Blake hoped she liked the water better than he did.

He couldn’t say he’d ever loved his mother. Nor could he claim he missed her now that her time on earth had ended. The only thing he’d felt after her passing was numb relief. Her grief in this life was over.

He realized then he hadn’t really been living himself. Just existing, marking the days off, one after the other. Having Trevor had helped bring a little joy back into his life. But even his happiness over Trevor’s birth was tainted by the fears he harbored deep in his heart. Perhaps if he’d simply opened up to Debra and shared his feelings instead of continually stifling them, things might have worked out between them.

Gwen gave him a sympathetic look. “I can’t imagine how hard it was for you,” she said, watching him closely. Was she looking for signs of deception? He wasn’t sure.

Blake wished she was closer, just so he could reach out and touch her. Desire rose. He wanted to get her alone, just so he could tell her their one night together had meant everything to him. But he had to stay silent. She was the one who’d backed off. He had to respect her wishes, no matter how much it hurt.

He drew a quick breath, silently willing away the unwelcome emotions swamping him. “It’s over and done with.” Having finished the coffee, he put the cup aside. “In case you’re all wondering, I’ve never told anyone. I lied through every psych test I ever took. They always thought I was the perfect soldier because I didn’t freak out under pressure.”

Her head cocked subtly. “Must be tough always holding people at arm’s length.” Despite the distance separating them, there was a definite connection. He could feel it. Really feel it.

Gathering the remnants of his composure, Blake glanced up. He couldn’t look at the faces around him without feeling a particular funny twist in his heart. Instead of placating him or trying to offer their interpretations, they had simply listened to him talk. He hadn’t intended to spill his guts like a kid in the counselor’s office, but now that he had, he felt better. The millstone around his neck seemed to fall away. For the first time in his life he’d been totally honest about his past.

Why he’d felt compelled to share . . . Well, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was because he wanted to forge a more personal connection with Gwen, as if by opening up he could show her he was more than a bastard with a badge.

He genuinely felt these were people who cared, people who would accept him at face value if only he’d be honest. Even though he’d only known Gwen and her family a short time, he liked them. They were such a close-knit group. Even Kenneth Randall, a human, had managed to fit in just fine.

It was something Blake wanted for himself. Badly. But how could he be honest and build a relationship with Gwen when his job demanded he practice deceit?

You’re playing with fire,
he warned himself.
And you’re going to get burned.

L
ocated just outside Fort Lauderdale, Mimosa Springs, Florida, was a planned community, a location desired by the upper-middle-class because of family-friendly orientation.

Kendra Newsome and her boyfriend resided at the Sherwood Forest apartment complex, a distinctive blend of timeless Spanish architectural design and impeccably maintained tropical landscaping. Its close proximity to all of South Florida’s major metropolitan areas made the location perfect for a young couple.

Parking his rental car, a nice sporty Lexus, in the visitor’s area, Jake wound his way around a swimming pool with a heated whirlpool spa, a basketball court, an exercise facility, and a tennis court. Apartment number 12 was on the second floor.

Pausing a moment to check his reflection in a window, he adjusted his blazer. He’d made sure to dress well: crisp slacks, white shirt, fitted jacket, no tie, along with a five-hundred-dollar pair of Italian leather boots polished to a high sheen. Though shorter and darker, he’d kept his hair at a flattering chin length. He didn’t like the gray tinted contacts, but since they matched his new passport he wore them anyway.

He looked good. Respectable. Trustworthy.

Confident he could pull off his plan, he rang the doorbell.

A few minutes later the door opened just a crack. A chain spanned the two-inch space. Even though Mimosa Springs had one of the lowest crime rates in the nation, it was better to be safe than sorry when living in a large city.

Half of a pretty girl’s face appeared. A dog yapped loudly in the background. “Yes?” she asked. By the tone of her voice, she clearly hadn’t been expecting company.

Jake flashed his best movie-star smile. “My name is Jean Luc D’Marquis.” He gave her his false name though he’d dispensed with the phony French accent. “I understand your name is Kendra Newsome.”

The single eye staring through the crack narrowed. “That’s right. What would you want with me?”

Jake widened his smile. “I’m here because of your mother, Gail Davis Newsome.”

A frown. “My mother passed away two years ago.”

He nodded. “Yes, I am aware of that. But did you know your mother had a sister, Jolesa Davis?”

“Yes, I think that’s right,” she answered from behind the impenetrable shield of her door. “I never met her, though, if you’re looking for her.” The dog’s incessant yipping almost drowned out her reply.