The Takamaka Tree (22 page)

Look for these titles by Alexandra Thomas

Coming Soon:

The Weeping Desert

Moon City

Two treasure hunters discover the ultimate prize is love.

The Mermaid’s Touch

© 2012 Lynn Patrick

When diver Jason Price’s oxygen tank fails during a hunt for sunken treasure, he knows he’s going to die. In fact, he knows the beautiful mermaid he sees swimming toward him will usher him to the briny depths. Instead, she brings him up to the surface and gives him mouth-to-mouth…which turns into a life-affirming kiss.

Maris Collier doesn’t want to think about the hot kiss or the hotter man she’d saved—she thinks he’s irresponsible for not paying attention to his equipment while diving.

Both they’re both looking for sunken treasure, and someone wants to stop them. As they are drawn deeper into danger, they know they need to trust each other with their secrets, their hearts, and their very lives.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Mermaid’s Touch

Gazing down into the dreamlike dark blue depths of the Bahama Banks, Jason Price feared that he was about to die. The rapture of the watery deep beckoned to him, willed him to give in, and it was becoming more and more difficult to fight its lure. His eyelids felt so heavy, he was tempted to let them close, but he knew it would be the last thing he’d ever do.

Breathe! he commanded himself with what was left of his survival instincts. Breathe! To forget would mean certain death, his lungs painfully rupturing inside his chest. He sucked air through his regulator, but his head wouldn’t clear. A pounding hammered at his temple and his stomach lurched.

Only one thought penetrated the painful fog behind his eyes—the air in his second tank must have been fouled somehow.

A barracuda appeared suddenly, mere inches from his mask. As Jason tried to focus on the row of sharp teeth projecting from its thrusting lower jaw, the glinting white points seemed to grow larger and more threatening. He shuddered and tried to stifle his fear, an emotion he’d never before experienced during his underwater sojourns. He remained still until, its curiosity satisfied, the menacing fish swam away. Jason sagged with relief and hooked a fin onto a coral shelf so that he could try to get his bearings.

He’d been disoriented for quite a while now, and if he could trust his distorted vision, his depth gauge read only one hundred and twenty feet. From years of diving experience he knew he’d gone down only far enough to undergo mild giddiness and euphoria—symptoms of the first stage of nitrogen narcosis—but not far enough to induce the confusion and hallucinations that made him certain he was doomed.

In any case, he’d head for the surface if only he could figure which way was up. Decreasing the pressure would decrease the effects of the nitrogen in his system. Jason struggled to lift himself from the coral shelf. It was a sloppy attempt, his legs and arms seeming to go in every direction, all without purpose.

Emotions warred within him, equally out of control. It’s no use. Give up, whispered the voice of exhaustion and despair. You must make the attempt, said the voice of reason.

Why? he asked weakly.

So you will live.

No. I’m going to die.

No sooner did he resign himself to his fate than a shimmering vision swam into the circle of his underwater light, one so beautiful, he thought it might not be so bad to die, not if he could do so in her arms. A mermaid—a turquoise water spirit with long curling tendrils of pale hair spreading around her face—beckoned to him, just as sailors’ legends told.

She seemed to study him curiously before pointing directly at him, then bringing her fist to her chest. More confused than ever, Jason wondered why she’d signal that she was low on air. The magical creature repeated both gestures, and he finally realized she was asking a question rather than making a statement.

Suspended without any sense of direction, Jason nodded and put his hands to his throat. Help!

She beckoned again, but didn’t wait for his approach. Gracefully moving forward, she tapped her mouth to indicate buddy breathing, then wrapped her pale arms around him and started a slow ascent. He allowed her to do what she would, not even fighting when she plucked the regulator from his lips.

It was true, then. She would lure him to the briny depths, enfolding him in her arms. There was no escape for him, after all.

As he accepted the inevitable she put a smooth object in his mouth and, somehow, he reminded himself to breathe. Another intake and she pulled the life-giving force from him; putting it to her own lips. She repeated the action as they floated upward, her hair tangling itself around him, joining them together.

Then she stopped, forcing him to hang suspended for a length of time. Although Jason wanted to continue the ascent immediately, he didn’t have the strength to fight her. The mermaid’s arms circling his torso and her tail wrapping around his legs were too strong for him, preventing him from moving as he would. Watching the brightly colored fish darting through her hair, he waited until his mermaid was ready to proceed because he could do nothing else.

Floating upward in dreamlike apathy, Jason allowed her to lead him through true blues turning to pale aqua to bright golden light to total darkness…

When his eyes fluttered open sometime later all he could focus on was blue ringed with violet. His mermaid’s eyes. And his breath mingled with hers because her mouth covered his own. As he clutched her warm body in his arms, Jason kissed her passionately, not caring what legends willed. For it was said, Once kissed by a mermaid, a man would be hers forever. But if he was going to die, what a way to go!

His body racked with sensations that told him he was still very much alive, Jason Price closed his eyes, prepared to meet his fate.

Can two polar opposites work together to secure Sherlock’s home?

Sherlock’s Home

© 2012 Sharon DeVita

Social worker Wilhelmina Walker did not rise to her position as head of the Children’s Welfare Agency by taking needless chances. When Michael Ryce, a reckless and arrogant detective who’s never met a rule he didn’t break, attempts to adopt ten-year-old T.C. Sherlock, Willie is outraged. T.C. needs stability and a worthy role model, not a man who lives to break the rules.

Michael Ryce knows what it’s like to grow up on the streets without a safety net. And when he meets the young T.C. he recognizes a kindred spirit. Determined to give him the childhood he never had, Ryce is infuriated when Willie refuses to consider his application. But when a crisis forces them to work together to save T.C., Willie and Ryce realize that not only do they love T.C., they just might be starting to love each other.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Sherlock’s Home:

Clutching a battered file folder in her hand, Wilhelmina Walker marched staunchly down the precinct hallway. Her temper increased with every click of her heels on the worn linoleum floor. She should have known better than to trust a man whose biceps were bigger than his brains!

For the past three weeks, ever since she’d taken over as head of the Children’s Welfare Agency, Detective Michael Ryce had been a thorn in her slender side.

Ryce was a juvenile detective,
juvenile
being the key word, Wilhelmina thought sourly, and their paths—not to mention their swords—had crossed often during the past few weeks.

Mutinous in the face of authority, Ryce was brash, brazen and pugnacious. And those were his good points!

Up until now Wilhelmina had allowed him some leeway, certain that once he became more familiar with the way she operated, they could come to some sort of…understanding. But now the man had gone too far; he’d pushed her too far.

Ryce may have been allowed to con or sidestep around her predecessor, but he wasn’t going to be allowed such liberties while she was in charge!

As head of the agency, it was
her
job to assess and approve foster homes for the children in her care. Not his. He had no right to interfere in the care and custody of the children in her ward. While she was in charge, she fully intended to see to it that Ryce follow the rules to the letter. And that included keeping his meddling, interfering hands out of her business! And she fully intended to tell him so.

Pausing outside Ryce’s door, Wilhelmina took a deep breath and smoothed back an errant lock of ebony hair. She would remain calm and professional, detached and impersonal. She would not allow the man to goad her into losing her temper. Again.

Impartial and impersonal, she cautioned herself as she threw open his door and marched inside. With her posture erect, her carriage precise, Wilhelmina stalked across the room, coming to a halt directly in front of the cluttered mess he called a desk.

Ryce was slouched low in his chair; his booted feet were propped atop his desk, and his nose was buried behind the afternoon newspaper. He didn’t even have the courtesy to look up to acknowledge her presence. Wilhelmina’s resolve to hang on to her temper flew out the window.

“Are you out of your mind?” she demanded.
So much for remaining cool and detached,
she thought dismally, annoyed that the man’s mere insolent presence could provoke her.

“The other day you said I didn’t
have
a mind, remember?” Ryce countered, without bothering to look at her.

She took a step closer. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she inquired, waving T. C. Sherlock’s battered file folder in his direction.

“I’m trying to read the paper,” he grumbled, turning another page and doing his best to ignore her. From the tone of her voice, Ryce had a feeling she’d already made up her mind about him. So what the hell was the point, he wondered, casually flipping another page.

Wilhelmina took a deep breath, spacing her words carefully. “Detective Ryce, you had no right to promise T. C. Sherlock that
you
would be his new foster parent.” The thought brought on a shudder. Putting a homeless eleven-year-old child in Ryce’s care would be like putting the inmates in charge of the asylum! Ryce was more suited to raising hell than to raising a child.

“Something wrong with me, Willie?” he inquired, using an abbreviation of her name in order to annoy her. He continued reading, deliberately trying to aggravate her. Why not? It was clear she’d made her decision. Long ago he’d learned to never let anyone know what you were thinking. Or feeling. If they didn’t know, they couldn’t hurt you. And she would never know how much T.C. meant to him. He had his pride, and he would rather choke on it than swallow it.

“Detective Ryce? Detective Ryce!” Wilhelmina yanked down one corner of the newspaper so that he would be forced to look at her. “How many times have you been suspended from the force?”

“This year?” he inquired, reaching up to absently scratch his brow. His eyes, big, bold and enormously blue, slowly lifted to hers. His gaze, glinting with a hint of amusement, pinned hers, and Wilhelmina took a deep breath.
Those eyes,
she thought dully, feeling her pulse respond to him despite herself,
ought to be outlawed.

Wilhelmina took a deep breath, struggling to gather her scattered composure. “What did you make for dinner last night?”

“Reservations,” he growled.

“How many…relationships have you had during the past year?” She shifted uncomfortably.

“How much time do we have?” he asked, dropping the newspaper into a heap and making a great show of looking at his watch before grinning into her belligerent face.

“Detective Ryce.” Her voice was tight with control. “You know very well as head of the Children’s Welfare Agency it’s
my
job to assess, choose and approve foster homes. Not
yours.
I simply cannot and will not tolerate any more of your interference.”

One dark brow lifted, and his eyes darkened, but Wilhelmina was not about to be deterred. “You had no right to discuss this matter with T.C. before you discussed it with me. I have a legal, moral and ethical responsibility to protect the children.” Now that she had his full attention, she took a cautious step closer. The man had to be made aware of all the implications of his actions.

“Detective Ryce, I will not allow you to give T.C. any more false hope of empty promises. That child has been through enough. He’s been booted around from foster home to foster home, he’s—”

“Willie,” he barked, lowering his feet to the floor with a thud. The sound echoed as loudly as a cannon in the quiet room, and she jumped. Why did the man have the ability to make her as nervous as a scalded cat, she wondered darkly, annoyed at herself as well as him.

“I think you’d better start looking in your own backyard,” he suggested, his tone of voice causing her protests to evaporate. “You want to talk about false hope and empty promises? You and that damn agency of yours are the ones who’ve been finding those so-called ‘homes’ for T.C. You find him a home; he runs away. Then you call me, I find the kid, turn him back over to you, and the cycle starts all over again. You know the old saying,” Ryce added, lifting his cold steely gaze to hers, “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”