Wild Blue Under

by Judi Fennell

  What was she supposed to ask him again?

  The seagull chose that moment to swoop back into the room, landing on the coffee table. Surprisingly, she was glad for the interruption, but she hoped the health inspector wasn’t planning to stop by any time soon or she’d end up having issues with two local government agencies.

  The bird ruffled its feathers, doing a wing-over-wing thing on its back, then settled down on its belly—a little too close to her plate. At least it hadn’t stolen anything. Yet.

  But just in case, she put the beer down and slid the plate sideways, then tucked her hair behind her ears. That was more to be ready in the event this one decided it needed her hair for a nest than because of any wayward curls obstructing her view. “Does it have a name?”

  Rod swallowed the bite he’d just taken. “He.”

  “Sorry?”

  “He’s a he. Not an it.”

  Okay… “Oh. Does he have a name?”

  “Livingston.”

  She laughed. “That’s original.”

  The bird hopped to its feet, one wing stretching toward her.

  “It’s a famous name. I figured he’d do it proud,” Rod said, tossing a piece of English muffin at the bird.

  “You really shouldn’t do that. It only encourages them.”

  The gull took his time with the muffin, and Val could have sworn the thing, er, Livingston, was giving her the Evil Eye. She lifted her tuna melt to take a bite. “So how’d you end up with a pet seagull?”

  The bird turned its bill toward Rod who sighed, then tossed another piece of muffin. “Oh, he’s not a pet. He just sort of showed up.”

  “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about what to feed him.” She nodded at the muffin. “Seagulls are like trash dumps. They’ll eat anything.” Including someone’s lunch.

  The bird proved her correct as he took off from the table right then and grabbed half her tuna melt in his beak.

  Okay, so that was her dinner, but dammit! He could have taken off a finger.

  Rod plucked the foul fowl from the air in mid-flight, stormed over to the window, and tossed the bird out with a, “Good night, Livingston. We’ll see you tomorrow,” before he slammed the glass shut with a rattle loud enough to make her wait for the crash. Luckily, it didn’t come.

  “Sorry about that,” Rod said, reaching behind his neck to massage the muscles there as he headed back to the seating area.

  The apology had the added bonus of stretching every taut inch of skin; that sexy line above his hip looking incredible as his shorts sank lower.

  The temperature spiked in the room. She’d like to attribute it to the fact that he’d stopped any airflow when he’d shut the window, but, honestly, who was she kidding?

  “How about some air-conditioning?” She took another swig of beer, needing something to cool her off. Although, short of flying in an iceberg, the A/C was probably the better bet.

  Or dressing him in a parka—and he’d probably look good in that, too.

  “Air-conditioning?” Rod stopped a foot from the sofa, drew his hand from his neck and shoved it onto his hip. Which only highlighted that hipline even more.

  “Yes. You know, that unit in the window in the bedroom? Turn it on. It should do the trick.”

  Rod turned so precisely that he could have been military, then strode to the bedroom. A few moments—or sixteen perspiration droplets falling from her lip—later, the low hum of the ancient unit emanated from his bedroom.

  No, she wasn’t going to think about low hums and his bedroom in the same thought.

  Again with the not-working thing.

  She elected not to finish her beer. It was time to find someplace else to lay her head for the night, or she just might end up begging to use his left pectoral. Or his right. Really, she wasn’t picky.

  She was on her feet, halfway around the table, when Rod walked out of the bedroom, his shorts still low, no line of boxers anywhere to be found. So, either they’d headed south, too, or he didn’t wear any…

  “What are you doing?”

  Lusting after you? “What do you mean?” was the answer she elected to verbalize instead, thank God.

  “Your leg. You need to stay off it.”

  Oh. Her leg. Right. Injured.

  Val shook her head. For crying out loud, her ankle was fine and he was just a guy. She’d worked with construction workers, some of whom had taken great pride in their physiques. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a naked chest before.

  “It’s much better. I should be going.” A long time ago, actually. “It’s getting late and I need to find a place to stay.” Val skirted the rest of the table and limped toward the door, grabbing her bags from the floor where she’d dropped them, thankful (she guessed) that he didn’t stop her.

  “You don’t have any place to go?”

  After the conversation with Mr. Hill, that wasn’t a question she wanted to answer right now. “Sure. The motel always has rooms.”

  Rod ran his fingers through his rumpled hair, then put his hands on his hips. The waistband gapped just enough to be inviting.

  “There are two sleeping quarters here, Valerie. You can use one of them.”

  Oh she did so want one of them. Preferably the one he was sleeping in.

  Bad idea, Dumere.

  “That’s okay. I’ll head over to the motel and—”

  “Valerie, that’s ridiculous. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not in the habit of kissing every woman I meet. You’re more than welcome to stay here. We’re going to be traveling together. Our fathers knew each other. It’s not as if we’re strangers.”

  “Rod, you’ve already come to my rescue once today. I’ll be fine.”

  Fine being a relative concept. She was wiped out. Finding out her deadbeat dad had left her an inheritance, followed by the possibility of losing Mom’s store… it’d been one emotional punch after the other. Throw in lust for good measure, and, well, frankly, she was beat.

  “Then let me make up for tossing you out of your home.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Where would you be staying tonight if not for me?”

  “Well, here, but—”

  “Never mind.” Rod strode to the door and picked up a pair of running shoes. “I’ll go to the motel. This is your home. You should sleep here.” He took a step toward the door, but Val put a hand on his arm.

  “Now who’s being ridiculous? You paid for the apartment.”

  He looked at her hand on his arm then back into her eyes. “It seems we’re at an impasse. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Val dropped her arm. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

  He leaned back against the doorframe, away from her, but not enough that she wasn’t aware of every inch of him being only inches from her. Especially when the corner of his mouth pulled up in a half-smile that was way too sexy for her own good.

  He might not be in the habit of kissing every woman he met, but since she was the only one around, she might not mind if he took up that practice.

  “No. It’s called compromise.” He slid his hands into his pockets and crossed one foot over the other. “You stay in that bedroom.” He nodded to the smaller one closest to the door. “And I’ll stay in mine. Fair enough?”

  When he cocked his eyebrow like that, he definitely made her forget why she shouldn’t agree to this…

  “Or are you worried I might be too much of a temptation?”

  And when he smiled like that, he made her remember every reason she should.

  Or maybe that was why she shouldn’t.

  See? She was exhausted. And the bedroom door had a lock. “Like I’m going to answer that. But I will take you up on your offer—only, no more funny stuff.”

  “Funny?” Rod reached over her head to close the door
and turned the deadbolt with a loud click. “Trust me, Valerie. Funny is the last word I’d use to describe any ‘stuff’ you might want to revisit.”

  No way was she touching that invitation. Val left him standing there and headed into the bedroom, locking the door behind her.

  Revisit? He should be so lucky.

  She climbed into the twin bed and clicked off the light on the bedside table.

  Or maybe she should be…

  Chapter 8

  Drake Cabot, second in line for the Mer throne now that that Reel had left the sea, sat at his parents’ table in the temperate, volcano-warmed waters of Atlantis for the weekly command-performance family dinner. Gently waving sea fans, brilliantly colored corals, and hundreds of sea creatures surrounded them—all were his father’s toadies.

  That was the thing with this place. No privacy. Someone was always watching. Wrasses, gobies, angelfish. Hades. Gary, the moray, had claimed the giant sea-snail shell on the mantel Drake’s first day of school—and hadn’t budged since. And, Milli or Melli, or whatever her name was, had draped her eight tentacles around the stalactite over the table for the last five moons and hung there like a chandelier, always listening.

  Why anyone would want to listen to the nonsensical chatter of his sisters, Drake couldn’t imagine. He’d much rather be back in his home waters of the Caribbean.

  Kept clear of nosey angelfish and stupid chubs by the hagfish he’d persuaded to work their slimy magic, his home was his refuge. If not for the magical Travel Chambers that turned the three-hundred leagues between Atlantis and home into just a flip, swim, and a tail-flick, he’d have an excuse to miss these time-wasting family dinners.

  “So even if Rod brings The Hybrid home, one of us could still marry him, right, Daddy?” Doria picked up her tuna fillet with her fingers. Uncouth. As if she’d make a decent queen.

  “Honestly, Doria, do you really think he’d pick you?” Andrea threw back a swallow of kelp wine with all the finesse of a grouper. “At least I’ve had a conversation with the man.”

  Doria and Andrea had to be the two biggest waterheads in the sea. It was stunning that he was related to them. Stunning and disappointing. He could see why his father, one of the six members of The Council, had pinned his hopes of dynastic brilliance on him. His sisters couldn’t pronounce the word ‘dynastic,’ let alone understand what it meant.

  He picked at his seagrass salad while Doria tossed a snail shell at their sister. “Asking him which road The Coliseum is on isn’t having a conversation, Andrea. It’s acting like a blind whale shark. Everyone knows where The Coliseum is. All you have to do is look up and swim in a circle. You can’t miss it.”

  His sisters bandied insults back and forth while his father, Nigel, systematically cut his meal, one bite at a time, followed by exactly six chews, then a sip of wine.

  Drake had to give his dad credit; were these two his daughters, he’d be guzzling wine by the cask.

  Of course, that’s what happened when you weren’t careful when doing “the deed.” Doria had been that little surprise.

  Drake looked at his mom. Hair in a bun, a pair of coconut shells lashed together with seaweed for a shirt, the purple-tentacled sea anemone his father had given her for their engagement now snoring quietly above her ear, Mom had retreated into her shell in the selinos since he’d left home. He felt bad for her, in a way. From the stories he’d heard, all she’d had going for her was being the daughter of a somewhere-in-the-line-of-succession heir to the throne.

  His father had been caught in the oldest net known to Merkind, yet knowing Dad’s social aspirations, Drake had to wonder how much of it had been an accident.

  Once Rod and Reel had been born to the High Councilman, however, his father’s hopes of a succession to the throne had been relegated to hoping one of his grandchildren would rule—effectively ending any hopes dear ol’ Dad had of power.

  But Drake hadn’t given up. Reel was out of the running since he’d abdicated any claim to the throne by marrying a Human and living as one, and Kraken—an heir only his mother had known existed—was no longer a threat. That left only Rod in his way.

  The throne was within his grasp.

  Drake sloshed a slice of sea cucumber in the guava sauce. He was sick of coming in third—and hearing about it his entire life. The Tritone brothers had always finished ahead of him. Better grades, better athletes—how had a two-legged Mer beaten him in water polo anyway? Drake didn’t even want to think about that tournament. The biggest embarrassment of his life.

  And his father hadn’t let him forget it.

  “So, Drake.” His father actually looked at him. “Have you heard from Ceto recently?”

  Ceto? The mother of all sea monsters? The denizen of the Bermuda Triangle? The two-tailed Mer—both literally and figuratively—who hated The Council and lived near him?

  Actually, he had.

  He’d advised her to stay away from the stupid booze cruise off one of the islands. Pickled Humans could not taste good and were hazardous to her health.

  “Um… no, Dad. Why would you think that?” As a rule, everyone tried to stay away from Ceto.

  Which was why his plan was working so well.

  “It’s said she’s been in better spirits recently, and I just wondered if you’d heard why.” Nigel waved over their Serving Cuttlefish for the tray of oysters—complete with gleaming pearls. Dad did like to remind himself of his wealth and power—most of which would disappear when that Hybrid returned to her “rightful” place as governor of the ocean that the Cabots had cared for since Lance Dumere had admitted to the utter idiocy of cavorting with a Human and leaving “evidence” of Mers behind.

  And The Council considered her more worthy than him to rule the Southern Ocean? Let’s see how they’d do when he was ruling all of them.

  “The Council gave Ceto that Human to keep her busy after turning Kraken loose last year. Didn’t that do it for her?”

  “Did it?” The oyster shell paused halfway to Nigel’s mouth, his eyes widening in innocence.

  But Drake knew better.

  The old man thought he’d pulled one over on him. The Council had hired Ceto to watch him the minute Reel went aground. Talk about the crab pot calling the steamer kettle black…

  Members of The Council might be old—and one of them his own father—but they weren’t stupid. Drake was next in line. It only made sense they’d be concerned he’d try something.

  With very good reason.

  “Beats me, Dad. I try not to get in her way, you know what I mean?”

  Actually, he’d gone out of his way to get in her way—with exactly the results he’d wanted.

  Ceto had been known to hold a grudge for… well, a lot longer than recorded history. So when The Council had stripped her of her propagating abilities and given her the token Human to amuse herself with, Drake had seen an opening.

  He’d promised her her freedom if his plan worked, in return for her lying to The Council about his actions. So far, it had been a bargain made in… well, if not Olympus, not Hades either. It worked for both of them.

  “I’ve heard she doesn’t like the Human,” said Doria, slurping a snail from its shell with noises unworthy even of a catfish. “Supposedly he talks too much.”

  “Then he ought to be perfect for you,” chimed Andrea. “Maybe you ought to go see Ceto.”

  “No way. I like to keep my tail.”

  Nigel cut another piece of fillet, his eyes never leaving Drake.

  “So what are you doing to keep yourself occupied these days, Drake?”

  Again, an answer Drake had prepared—with just enough nonchalance that Dad would assume it was real. After all, dear ol’ Dad thought he was incompetent; he didn’t want to ruin the image.

  Especially now.

  Drake waved off the squid who propelled over to him with a
plate of shrimp in his tentacles. “I’m working on an underwater writing utensil that will make tablets, urchin spines, and octopi ink obsolete.”

  “Hmmph.” Nigel bit into another slice. “If it works, we’ll have to look into getting you a patent.”

  If.

  Dad had to preface the statement with “if.”

  “If it works,” “if you pass,” “if you finish…”

  Never “when.”

  But now… When this plan worked, he’d be out from under Nigel’s thumb and finally get the respect the Mer should have shown him his entire life.

  Drake met his father’s gaze across the table through the anemone centerpiece, looking for some sign of approval.

  And just like always, there was none.

  Ha. The old man didn’t know what he’d planned. Didn’t have a clue what he was up to.

  Not yet.

  Because the thing was, Nigel would probably try to stop him. Oh, the old salt would love to have him on the throne, but not the way Drake was planning to do it. No, apparently getting someone knocked up was an acceptable way to insinuate yourself into the succession lineup, but murder wasn’t. Dad was a real stickler for the rules.

  Heh. Whatever worked. As long as it did. Then the method wouldn’t matter.

  He couldn’t wait to show Dad the results. Have him accompany him to the crowning ceremony, then watch Fisher’s daughters line up to marry him.

  Watch his father bow before him.

  Drake helped himself to more of the scallops scallopini they had, ad nauseum, every week. Things never changed around here—

  But they were about to.

  Because, come Hades or high tide, there was no way Rod was going to make it back to claim the throne.

  Drake had hired JR to ensure it.

  Chapter 9

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Should we tell him, Maybelle?” The two sparrows shared their breakfast, huddled beneath Adele’s weather vane in hopes of both avoiding the nasty weather that was rolling in with the clouds and finding out why that herring gull was back, this time tapping the outside of Valerie’s window.