The Hunted

by Anna Leonard

  So what had she done about it?

  Hidden, and hoped he would go away. Or find some other female to try to overwhelm, instead of her, even though the thought of him even looking at another woman, much less touching one, made her furious.

  Beth stared up at the ceiling, exasperated with herself. Clearly, hiding wasn’t working. And avoidance wasn’t making her mood any better, either; she was more of the “confront and be damned” sort, normally.

  “So confront and be damned,” she said, shutting down the computer. “You’re already in the mood for it.”

  Just making the decision made her feel better. What on earth had she been dithering about, anyway?

  Because you’re sort of still seeing someone, a little voice reminded her. Because you don’t know this man; nobody knows this man. Because you don’t like to act on impulse. Good reasons, cautious reasons.

  But she had the feeling that logic and caution weren’t going to help her here.

  Ready to leave, she paused in front of the mirror beside the door—there more to enlarge the appearance of her office for the occasional visiting client than for personal vanity—and studied her reflection. She had put the makeup basics on that morning, out of habit: mascara and eyeliner to play up her eyes and make them seem greener, and a slick of gloss on her lips, more to keep them moist than to add any color. It was the bane of her existence as a teenager, how quickly her skin dried out even on a normal day, requiring moisturizer on a daily basis to keep her lips from cracking, but now she rarely even thought about it.

  Hair, washed and—as usual—tucked behind her ears, where it feathered out slightly. She needed to either trim it, or let it grow out again. Skin, clean and healthy-looking—no cracks or blemishes to ruin her confidence, thank God for small mercies. Her eyes were reasonably bright, and not just from exhaustion, and her features hadn’t developed any disfiguring lumps or bumps overnight.

  She made a horrible face at herself, like a moonstruck guppy, and felt a little better. She wanted to scare the guy off, not attract him! Remember that?

  Grabbing her windbreaker off the peg, she shoved her keys and wallet into the pockets, clipped her cell phone to her waist and, at the last minute, tucked a battered old Red Sox championship baseball cap on her head, to keep the sun out of her eyes. Properly arrayed, she went out in search of her target.

  It wasn’t really a search. The moment she left the safety of her office, she knew where to go, like a cat following the freshly enticing smell of tuna.

  Sure enough, she found him on the beach—the same beach where he had been washed ashore, two weeks ago.

  Anger shifted inside her as she spotted him, having to share space with a wicked sort of pleasure. She was just—only just—willing to admit that there was a warm satisfaction in being chased after. Even if she wasn’t interested. Which she wasn’t. Truly.

  Waiting for anger to get the upper hand again, she stood back and watched him for a while. He was sitting on what looked like an overturned bucket, working at a makeshift easel made of driftwood. In jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked pretty much the same as any guy around town. Any well-formed, lean and yet nicely muscled guy around town, anyway, and there wasn’t, sadly, an overabundance of them.

  From the curve of his shoulders, the sprawl of his knees, she knew that he was at ease, his arms moving freely as he sketched, occasionally looked up and out over the ocean. But she knew, somehow, that he knew that she was watching. And she wondered, suddenly, if she was really the hunter…or the prey, drawn in by well-placed bait.

  Damn it. There. The anger—and the caution—was back.

  “You’ve been asking about me,” she said, coming close enough to be heard without raising her voice beyond her normal tone.

  He didn’t jump, or show any sign of being startled, but kept making long, swooping movements with the crayon in his hand.

  “I have,” he replied, not looking at her.

  “Why?” She had meant to sound angry, or annoyed, but to her horror, her voice came out more plaintive, more inquiring.

  “Nathan said that you’d be easier to catch if you thought you were catching me. And that getting you intrigued would mean getting you annoyed, first.”

  Beth stopped dead, not expecting that answer at all. Well, he won points for honesty, if not style or smoothness. And Nathan was a dead man.

  “Oookay. Bluntness is absolutely your strong point. But why do you want to— Wow.” She had stepped close enough to see what he was drawing, and it blew everything else out of her mind, up to and including her irritation. “You’re good. I mean, you’re really good.”

  He still didn’t stop drawing, and he didn’t try to shield the work from her this time, either. “Yeah. I am.”

  He obviously had no modesty, either. But she was honest enough herself to admit that he’d earned the ego. The seascape in front of her wasn’t a reproduction of the calm face the ocean was currently showing them, but the brewing of a storm just below the surface, all tightness and swells building. There was tension in the scrapings of color, suggestions of terror and damage to come, that were echoed in the flat green sky overhead. And yet, for all the menace, there was love and beauty there, too, in the depth and stillness of the waters, and the low soaring figure of a single white bird.

  It moved something in her, connecting with her restlessness with an almost audible click.

  He paused, a stick of dark blue in his hand, as though contemplating adding more color to the water.

  “No more,” she said almost involuntarily, although she knew better—knew how much she hated having someone hang over her shoulder when she was working.

  “I think you’re right,” he said. But she got the feeling that he wasn’t talking about the sketch.

  “Why did you hide your work from me, before?”

  He shrugged, and she got the feeling he was embarrassed. “It mattered.”

  “What?”

  “Anyone else…they could see them. It didn’t matter. I didn’t care. You…it mattered what you thought. And I got scared.”

  That was, in its own weird way, the sweetest, sexiest thing anyone had ever said to her, and another of her defenses went down without a struggle.

  “Why did you come down?” he asked her calmly, but she heard something in his voice, a faint quaver, that made her think that he wasn’t as calm or indifferent as he seemed. “Not to critique my form?”

  Oh, no. He did not get to play hard to get, not after dragging her here, even if he hadn’t actually done any physical dragging. “It’s a public beach. More, it’s a public beach down the road from my home, a fact I get the feeling you know quite well.”

  She had been stalked. The thought should have disturbed her more than it did. But standing next to him, the anger was damned difficult to hold on to, scuttling sideways like a greased crab. In its place, she felt that restlessness, the tingle…and that, more than his attentions, made her angry all over again. She had no control over what he might or might not do, but she could damn well control her own body!

  And she had no interest in being interested in some boat-losing, seemingly penniless, rough-handed handyman who was going to waltz in and then waltz out of her life. No matter how hot he was, or how beautifully he captured the sea’s moods on paper. She didn’t need her body deciding who she was going to get hot for, like a pet bitch in heat.

  “You don’t feel it?” He sounded upset, like she had insulted him, or something.

  “Feel what?” Beth took an emotional step back, if not a physical one. She felt things, hoo-yah she felt things, but be damned if she was going to admit them to him.

  Although to be fair, her restlessness arrived before he did, so she couldn’t blame him for that, entirely.

  “I thought this would be easier,” he said, almost to himself, and for the first time his confident posture slumped a little.

  “You know that you’re not making any sense at all, right?” she said, exasperation trumping both
anger and desire, and leading to an almost overwhelming urge to put her arms around him, to feel that lean body melt into her own for comfort. Why did this man make her totally unsure and yet so certain? Beth didn’t like it at all, but she couldn’t make her body turn and walk away.

  “Hey.”

  A stranger’s voice made them both turn. Beth didn’t know why she was so surprised—it was, as she had just pointed out, a public beach, and one that was popular for joggers year-round.

  But the woman who was approaching them wasn’t a jogger: she was wearing a leather jacket and dark slacks, and had sunglasses on her nose, even though it wasn’t all that sunny out at the moment. She was an older woman, although not in any way decrepit or even frail-looking. In fact, there was a vibe to her, an intensity, which made her seem out of place on the beach.

  “You… You’re Dylan Meridith?”

  Beth felt Dylan tense up, without even looking at him, like the woman had said something offensive, even though her tone was casual, friendly. When he didn’t respond, she glanced sideways, and saw that he had put down the crayon and covered the drawing pad carefully, as though he was getting ready to pack up and go home.

  “That probably depends on who’s asking,” he said calmly. “You need a shutter rehung? A wall painted? I’m not much good with roofing or chimneys, though.”

  run.

  Beth felt her muscles tense. She didn’t like the look of this woman, and she didn’t like the way she was looking at Dylan. Not like a woman looked at a man, but…well, a little like a woman looked at a man, but also like a butcher looked at a cow. That wasn’t a combination that could be good, anyway.

  Then the woman turned and looked at her over her sunglasses, and Beth’s muscles went from tense to screaming. Those eyes were round, almost like an anime character’s—and about as flat and empty of humanity as any cartoon ever was.

  run. The thought had more power to it, more urgency.

  “And who are you?” the woman asked, her voice an unnervingly pleased purr. “We weren’t expecting you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Beth’s spine stiffened, and she heard her mother’s coldest, most politely Yankee tones come out of her mouth. She did not like this woman, not at all. Every inch of skin on her body was warning her that the civilized veneer of suit and sunglasses hid a very real danger to her—and to Dylan. Especially to Dylan. she’s waiting on identification. they have rules; I have to confirm, somehow, I don’t know how…run. before she knows for certain.

  “Beth. Run.” Dylan’s voice was flat, uninflected, but carried a weight of urgency behind it. The exact same way the voice in her head had sounded.

  “Too late, Beth.” The woman looked behind them even as Beth heard the sound of heavy feet on the sand. Two, no, three men behind them.

  “Confirmation. Maybe even two for the price of one,” the woman said to the newcomers. “A nice day’s work.”

  “Run!” Dylan shouted, grabbing and pulling Beth’s arm, dragging her not up the beach, but down it—toward the waves.

  “Stop them! But don’t damage them!” the woman yelled. Her hair whipping into her face, Beth couldn’t see anything but the sand under her feet, and Dylan’s hand on her arm.

  “When we hit the water, swim. Don’t look back, just follow me, and swim.”

  She was about to argue when a sharp crack sounded, and Dylan jerked to the side, dragging her with him.

  “They’re shooting at us!” She had never heard a gun before, not in real life, but she had no doubt whatsoever what that noise was.

  “They won’t hit us. They can’t risk it. But they’ll try to herd us, pen us somehow. They need us alive.”

  Beth wondered if that was supposed to be reassuring.

  “Keep going,” he said, a little out of breath. “And swim!”

  With that advice, they hit the salty water, and he pulled her with him deeper into the waves, his fingers digging into her skin and down onto the bone until she cried out. Salt water went into her mouth as he pulled her down and she choked. His fingers let go, and she heard that voice again in her head: swim.

  She dove into the water with an almost automatic motion, slipping below the surface of the waves and striking out into deeper water. One stroke, then two, then she lost count as she swam. Her heart pounded in her ears, the sodden weight of her clothing dragging at her and slowing her down.

  this way. Something nudged her side, and she rolled away in a panic.

  this way, the voice repeated in her head, and she turned blindly toward it. trust me, and live. Something swam over her, holding her down, and she started to panic, her eyes opening underwater to see a dark shape moving in the water next to her. Not a human shape.

  Not a shark. That thought came with a wave of relief, even as her mind tried to identify it. Long and rounded form, sleek and curving around her…

  A dolphin? Too wide, too squared off. A seal. A seal was herding her out to sea. The impossibility of everything overwhelmed her, and a seal seemed the least of it all. Where was Dylan? What had happened to Dylan? Had they shot him, after all? The panic overtook her then, making her struggle against the current and her insistent guide. beth. daughter of the waves. trust me, and swim.

  Her breathing slowed, and her arms started stroking again, her body following the dark shape through the water, rising every now and again to take a breath of air before sliding back to the safety under the surface.

  It wasn’t until the water cooled around her body, indicating that they had gone far offshore, that her motion slowed, and her escort allowed her to stop and tread water.

  Her head broke the surface, blinking the water out of her eyes and trying to adjust to easy access to air. They weren’t that far out; the figures on the beach were still visible, if small, but they clearly were not willing to follow, not without a boat.

  “We’re safe. For now.”

  You couldn’t jump while treading water, but Beth made a pretty good attempt at it when Dylan’s voice sounded just next to her ear. His black hair was slicked back with water the same way hers must have been, but on him it looked good. His eyes were odd-looking, like he was wearing thick lenses in them, and his skin had a flush to it that seemed at odds with how cold the water was.

  “How… Who were they? They shot at us!” Now that she had a moment to breathe, panic and outrage rose in her throat. “They came for you! That woman, she knew your name, she was there and the way she looked… Who were they? And why the hell are we out here, what happened to the seal? What did you mean, she needed confirmation? Of what? And how the hell are we going to get home, with them waiting out there?”

  She paused, catching her breath, and glared at him. “And if you say ‘swim’ I’m going to hit you.”

  She looked adorable, sleek and water-slicked and flushed with the effort both of swimming and anger. Dylan felt himself getting almost painfully hard again, the restlessness and adrenaline moving in another direction, one focused entirely on the female form in front of him.

  He was no virgin—unlike their sea-dwelling cousins, seal-kin enjoyed sex for its own sake, not merely producing pups—but he had never been knocked over so much merely by the sight, the touch of a woman. Dry, she had been tempting enough. Sleeked with seawater, her skin moist and flushed with exertion… Imagining what she might taste like, the skin on her back, the inside of her thighs, the soft folds of her flesh…he was pretty sure the water around him started to steam a little.

  Not now, damn it! With effort, he brought his mind into control of the situation, and the heat died down. A little.

  “I’m sorry.” He could tread water for hours, but she couldn’t. He had to get her to safety. “They came for me, yes. Hunting me. It’s a thing, a rule…to avoid mistakes, they have to get confirmation, somehow, before they try to take me. Us. Everything else…this really isn’t the place for this discussion.” He cast a look over her shoulder. The figures on the beach were fewer: they had gone to get a boat. The woman would
not have come Hunting unprepared: they were running out of time.

  “Please don’t hit me,” he said. “But we need to swim a little more.”

  “And then you’ll explain?” She sounded, for the first time since he had met her, uncertain, lost.

  The desire, the need to protect her, that had risen hot and fast on the beach, still controlled him, even more than the desire to mate. His nature would not allow her to remain in danger—but he knew enough by now to know that her nature required answers, or she would never go with him.

  The moves he had thought of to woo her, human or seal-kin, were matters of instinct and heat. Explaining to this woman what he was…and now, with a Hunter on his tail, explaining that, too? He hadn’t thought that far.

  All right, he hadn’t thought at all. It wouldn’t be the first time. But he was thinking now. He had to: both their lives depended on it.

  “I’ll explain…everything. But first we need to get you out of the water and somewhere safer.”

  She couldn’t argue with that, not with the sound of bullets still ringing in both their ears. Could she?

  “Swim,” he said again, and saw her hazel eyes darken in annoyance. She was going to argue. Impossible female. No wonder he’d been dragged so far to find her—no female he’d ever met could make him so crazy.

  He couldn’t help himself, he reached forward and touched his lips to her own, intending only to reassure himself that she was real, that he hadn’t dreamed her up out of his fevered imagination. But the moment he touched her, everything other than that touch was forgotten: danger, explanations, confusion all fell away and there was only them, only that amazing, intoxicating touch. Her lips were cool, wet, and tasted like the sea and sand, and a hint of the lilacs that grew all around her house. She drew back, but not far, and when his hand reached up and tangled in the slick strands of her hair, drawing her closer, she didn’t resist.

  She didn’t wrap herself around him and beg him to do sweet, rude things to her the way she had in his dreams, true, but her lips softened, sweetening until he almost forgot about the humans waiting on the shoreline for them.