Tempest Rising (7 page)

What a moron
, was my first thought.

My second thought was that there was no way he was going to make it back to shore. Not in the middle of all this. He was going to drown trying.

I fumbled for my cell phone, started to dial 911—in the winter there were no lifeguards on these beaches—even as I kicked off my shoes, some unconscious part of me already preparing to plunge into the water to try and save the idiot.

Only, as precious seconds passed, I figured out he didn’t need saving. Before my pissed-off, terrified eyes, he stood straight up in the middle of the thrashing waves.

For one brief, bizarre moment the water was so high that it looked like he was hovering on the surface of the waves—literally walking on water.

But then the wave crested and I realized he was actually surfing the monster waves, his board cutting through the disturbed water like a knife through soft-serve ice cream. His red swimsuit was a beacon of insanity.

My God
, was all I could think as I watched him maneuver through the waves like a maestro.

My God, he was good.

And my God, what I wouldn’t do to be out there with him—suicide or not.

The waves bucked and roiled around him, but you would have thought he was having a picnic out there amidst all that crashing. He never faltered, his body staying in perfect form as he rode the wave in much farther than even I would have been able to on my best days.

When he finally dropped back down to the board, I was as disappointed as I was relieved. Watching him had been like watching art come to life.

I started across the squishy, waterlogged sand, unsure what I was going to say to the guy. But approaching him was almost a compulsion, one I had no desire to resist.

We made it to the water’s edge at the same time. I stopped uncertainly as I got my first real look at him rising out of the ocean like Poseidon himself, all muscles and wet, sleek, tanned skin.

He towered over me despite the fact that I stand close to six feet, without shoes. And he was gorgeous—so gorgeous that I couldn’t help staring at him. Thank God he didn’t seem to mind, and was in fact studying me right back.

He had a fallen-angel face that was as compelling as anything I had ever seen. Perfectly chiseled, amazingly crafted, he was so beautiful I almost wanted to reach out and touch him, just to ensure that I hadn’t made him up in all my topsy-turvy angst.

His too-long black hair hung in watery clumps around that face and his smoky eyes watched me with a sexy intensity that belied his easy grace on the surfboard. He wore a strange necklace, a rawhide band with some sort of pouch attached to it, and his biceps were covered with oddly glowing black tattoo bands in an intricate pattern of symbols I had never seen before, and which certainly didn’t seem normal. It was a design that was echoed beneath his muscular pecs and—I saw when he dropped his board—across his broad shoulders as well. My fingers itched with the need to paint him.

Who was he and why had I never seen him out here before? A guy that surfed as well as he did would have to ride the waves a few hours every day to stay at the top of his game. This wasn’t my normal beach, but I surfed here enough to recognize most of the hard-core wave riders.

“Hey,” he said with a grin. “What are you doing out here? It’s pretty crazy today.”

My heart stuttered. “That’s what I was going to ask you. Who tries to surf in this?”

He shrugged good-naturedly. “Someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“Or someone with a death wish. You could have died out there!” I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth, or the shrewish tone they were delivered in. What was wrong with me?

“I started out before it got this bad. I wasn’t expecting it.” He shivered and it registered for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a wet suit.

“I’m sorry. You must be freezing.” I stepped back to let him pass, but he didn’t move, just stared at me with those intense eyes that made me both fluttery and strangely relaxed at the same time.

“I’m cool.”

“Don’t you want to get out of the rain?”

“I like water. Don’t you?”

My stomach somersaulted, though I didn’t know if it was because of the knowing way he’d asked the question or because part of me wondered how his lips would feel against mine. I think it was probably a combination of both.

Mark
, I reminded myself, as I took one giant mental step back. Despite our earlier fight, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate me ogling some other surfer. Especially one who looked like this.

The relaxed feeling left as easily as it had come.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Why did people keep asking me that? Did I really look so bad?

His voice was gravel and salt water and warm, sweet syrup combined when he said, “Your lips are blue and you’re soaked to the skin. But other than that, you look great.”

He’d answered my question so casually that it took me a minute to realize I hadn’t actually said it aloud. I did freak out then, stumbling away from him like he’d suddenly grown six-inch fangs.

“I need to go.”

“Okay.” He glanced toward the road. “Is that your car up there?”

“Yes.” I slipped my hand into my pocket, prepared to dial 911 for entirely different reasons this time.

“I’ll walk you up—the rocks around here get pretty slippery in the rain.”

I should have protested. I mean, I didn’t know this guy at all—and no matter what he said, he wasn’t from around here. He could be a crazed serial killer who picked his victims from isolated beaches. But the second he touched my elbow, a strange warmth spread through me and I found myself walking with him despite the voice in my head screaming no, no, no!

He helped me up the slope I had stumbled down earlier, his support making the ascent much easier than it should have been. I glanced at him from beneath my lashes, then stared, transfixed, at the way his muscles bunched and flexed as he moved.

What was wrong with me, I wondered again. It wasn’t like I’d never seen a muscled-out guy before. I mean, Mark was pretty well built—as were Logan and Bach and the others. They all had six-packs and rock-solid biceps, so what was so special about
this
guy?

Why was he having such an odd effect on me?

When we got to the top, he pulled his hand away from my arm, and the comfortable warmth immediately dissipated, leaving me cold.

Lost.

And strangely uncertain.

Despite the riot of feelings rocketing through me, I made no move for the safety of my car. I just stood there, watching him watch me and wondering what was supposed to happen next.

“It was nice meeting you …” His voice trailed off questioningly.

“Tempest. My name is Tempest.”

“And I’m Kona.”

Kona. I turned the word over in my head. “You’re Hawaiian?”

“Something like that,” he said with a smile.

“Samoan?” My dad had taken us on a tour of the Pacific Islands during last year’s summer vacation. I had loved every part of it, especially the crystal-clear water and glassy waves.

“I’m a little bit of everything—I don’t really try to label it.”

I flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I went to a bunch of the islands last year and really loved them. The people were fabulous.”

“I wasn’t insulted.” He reached for my hand this time, stroked the inside of my wrist with his thumb. Normally I would have taken a swing at any guy besides Mark who’d touched me like that, but there was something compelling about Kona, something that made his touch feel safe instead of threatening. “Which one was your favorite?”

The feel of his skin sliding against mine had my breath catching in my throat. I tried to answer the question, but the string of words that had come out of his mouth made no sense to my oversexed brain. “What?”

“The islands? Which one did you like?”

“All of them.” I told myself to pull my hand away, but once again my body and my mind weren’t on the same wavelength. Only this time, the lack of communication didn’t seem so bad. “Each one had something different. But I guess I liked Fiji the best. Tahiti and Bora Bora were so crowded.”

“Wow, you really made the rounds.”

“My dad was a professional surfer for years. Every summer we go someplace we can catch good waves.” Someplace where we might spot my mother, but I didn’t tell Kona that part. My dad’s little obsession was no one else’s business.

“That’s cool. You’re pretty lucky.”

His words snapped me out of whatever weird trance I’d been in since I’d first seen him—with my loss of humanity looming over me like Godzilla over Tokyo, I felt anything but lucky.

I pulled out my cell phone, pretended like I cared about the time. “I’ve gotta go.”

“What’s the matter? You turn into a pumpkin at twelve twenty-five?”

“How’d you know what time it was?” I looked him over—the only thing he was wearing was a pair of red and white board shorts, no watch or cell phone in sight.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine.”

“It’s a gift.”

“What is? The time thing or the dodging questions?”

“Both.” Kona smirked a little.

I couldn’t decide whether he was laughing at me or not. My spine stiffened at the thought and I pulled away, digging my keys out of my back pocket where I’d shoved them. “Anyway, thanks for the help up. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

His amusement grew more pronounced at my obvious brush-off. “I think you can count on seeing me again, Tempest.”

His words had me flushed all over again, but for different reasons this time. Which was completely ridiculous. I cared about Mark. I wasn’t looking for something—or somebody—new.

Still, when Kona turned away and started walking down the road in the opposite direction, I called after him. “Hey!”

He turned, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

“Where’s your car?”

“I like to walk.”

“It’s raining.” God, I sounded so lame. But it sounded worse to say what I was really thinking, that some reckless driver like myself could come barreling around one of the curves at any minute and wipe him out.

My lameness didn’t seem to bother him, as he walked a couple of steps back toward me. “It would be raining whether I had a car or not.” He glanced at the still-pouring sky. “But you be careful. The roads are slick.”

“Do you need—” I bit the words off, horrified at the fact that I had almost offered some guy I didn’t know a ride. Where was my sense of self-preservation?

He just waved and started back down the road.

“Kona!” I called after him again. This time he didn’t turn around, didn’t even pause in his trek up the sleek, treacherous road.

I watched him for a minute, two, until the rain made it harder and harder to see. Blinking rapidly, I rubbed the water out of my eyes, wanting one more clear picture of him for my mental scrapbook. But when I looked again, he was gone. I narrowed my eyes, looked for that telltale flash of red. There was nothing—he had disappeared as if he had never been.

It wasn’t until I was in my car, fumbling with the controls for my heater, that I realized the whole time he’d been touching me, I hadn’t felt the cold.

Chapter 5

That night, and every other night for the rest of the week, I had strange dreams. Each one started out the same way. I was surfing a really wicked barrel and doing a hella good job of it. I was right in the center of the glass house and there was water all around me—above my head, below my board, on either side of me. Only the path in front of and behind me was clear.

I rode the tube all the way in and was having a really great time doing it, but instead of ducking out like my dad had taught me, I got caught inside as it crashed around me. I tried to find my way out, tried to get back to shore, but the water kept pulling me down—deeper and deeper below the surface.

I didn’t need a degree—or three—in psychology to know that if I told anyone about the dream, they would say it was a by-product of my near-drowning experience. And they’d probably be right. Except, and this was the kicker, even if the dream was partially because I’d almost drowned, it was also about a lot more.

Just how much more was what had me staring at the ceiling in the middle of every night, willing myself not to sleep. Of course, every night I eventually lost the battle and was sucked, not just below the surface, but into a world I had never let myself imagine.

My mother was there, as were any number of other mermaids—and Kona. They darted in between wreckages of old planes and ships on the ocean floor, played with colorful schools of fish and with each other, built towering castles of coral and sand.

In general, it should have been a reassuring dream, a promise of happiness to come if the worst happened and I lost my battle for humanity. But underlying all the bright colors and laughter was a darkness that terrified me. One that seemed to creep over the ocean floor, enveloping everyone and everything in its path.