by Sharon Sala
Her dismissal of his manhood fueled Ortega’s hate even more. He moved closer, ready to take her there on the deck, when someone shouted from below.
It was the first time Kelly had ever felt relief on hearing someone shout “Fire!”
Dominic spun abruptly, telling Jose to guard her, and bolted toward the door leading below deck.
Jose grinned as he straddled her legs, then ran a hand down the front of his fly, as if promising Kelly that he was next.
But that didn’t scare her. In fact, his presence was almost a gift, because for the moment they were alone. As if on cue, he leaned down, reaching for the bodice of her dress. He grabbed it and pulled, ripping it away. Now, except for a pair of panties, she was completely nude. His mouth went slack as his gaze slid to the lushness of her breasts.
In that moment Kelly pulled her legs up against her belly, then kicked, driving the bones of his nose into his brain with the heel of her right foot. Jose Garza was dead before he hit the deck.
Kelly rolled to her feet and grabbed the knife from his hand just as a gun-toting guard came running up the steps. She kicked again, taking satisfaction in the sound of breaking bone as his head suddenly lolled on a broken neck.
With only moments to spare, she checked the horizon, then stared in disbelief. Unless she was dreaming, what she was seeing was the skyline of Galveston.
Before she could react, she heard someone coming back up the steps. Whatever had been on fire down below had obviously been dealt with. When she saw Dominic appear, she tensed. He saw the bodies of the two men on the deck and reached for his gun. Kelly threw the knife before his gun cleared his belt. It hit with a solid, sickening thud, piercing Ortega’s chest and burying itself up to the hilt. The last thing she saw before going over the side was the disbelief on his face.
The water enfolded her, wrapping her in the cold wet arms of freedom. Even if Ortega was dead, it didn’t mean she was safe. There were still men on the boat, and they had the guns, not her.
Then she thought of the anchor chain and dived under the hull. If it hadn’t been for the buoyancy of the water, she would never have been able to tangle the anchor chain through the blades of the propeller. Almost out of breath, and afraid of what was waiting up above, she kicked off from beneath the boat and began to swim, surfacing only after she’d put some distance between herself and her captors.
She looked back only once when she broke the surface of the water. Men were running about the deck with cell phones at their ears, while others were leaning over the side, looking for her. Just then a shout went up as someone saw her. She took a deep breath and was going back under when she heard the captain trying to start up the engine. The propellers sheared instantly, leaving them dead in the water.
It was the only break Kelly was going to get. She surfaced again a few moments later, took one last look toward the west to get her bearings and began to swim.
* * *
There wasn’t enough electricity to make Texas comfortable in July. And for that reason Texas Ranger Quinn McCord had opted to use up some mandatory leave by fishing at the Galveston beach. It wasn’t any cooler there, but it was wet, and the cove where he was fishing was, for the moment, unusually quiet.
He kept thinking of his partner, Frank Hardy, and how much he would have enjoyed being here. Frank liked to fish. Quinn didn’t. But today Quinn was fishing for Frank, because last week Frank had been murdered. Four months from retirement, Frank Hardy had walked into a bar to meet Quinn, then died at his feet. Of course the bullet in his back had helped matters along. Quinn’s reaction had been to put a third eye on the forehead of the scum-sucking back-shooter and ask questions later. Thus the reason for his mandatory leave and the still-brewing anger in his gut.
He picked up a chunk of fish from the bucket near his feet and worked it onto the hook, then cast into the surf. The odor emanating from the bucket, as well as from his hands, set his teeth on edge. It was only Tuesday, with six days remaining in his week of R and R. He wasn’t sure, but he might just go mad from the lassitude.
A stiff and unexpected breeze suddenly lifted the Texas Rangers baseball cap from his head and sent it rolling across the sand. He dropped the fishing rod and gave chase, retrieving it moments later. It wasn’t until after he’d knocked off the sand and was turning around that he realized someone was coming out of the surf.
He settled the cap back on his head and readjusted his sunglasses as he continued to watch. He didn’t know when he became aware that it was a woman, but he knew to the second when he realized she wasn’t wearing any clothes. It was right before the breath in his lungs somehow sank into his belly, then did a one-eighty flop. He tried to tell himself the reaction was from lack of breakfast and not his self-imposed moratorium on sex, but it was a hard sell. Except for a pair of thin, filmy panties that had gone transparent when wet, she was as naked as the day she’d been born. And, like the flesh and blood man that he was, he stood in silent appreciation of the sight, thinking how Frank would have loved to be standing beside him right now.
He tossed around the thought of a polite retreat and then ignored it. If she wanted to skinny-dip on a public beach, then she couldn’t be the bashful type, so he watched, admiring the length of bare leg emerging from the receding water, and unconsciously took a step forward.
Quinn saw her freeze as she caught the movement of his body. Swiftly, she turned to face him. It was then that he saw her panic, at the same time that he saw the blood trickling down from her hairline. The cop in him took over as he realized she hadn’t gone skinny-dipping after all. He started toward her, and as he did, she took a tentative step backward.
At that point, Quinn stopped.
Uncertain how to proceed without frightening her more than she already was, he lifted his hand then called out.
“Lady…are you all right?”
She staggered on her feet, then squinted, as if trying to adjust her vision to the man before her.
“Mel? Mel Gibson?”
Quinn frowned. “No, ma’am. I’m sure no Mel Gibson.”
“Could have fooled me,” she said, then looked over her shoulder and then back at him, as if debating with herself as to whether to face the devil she knew or the one she did not. Something seemed to settle her decision as she turned her back to the water and began coming toward him. Before she’d gone a yard, she began to stumble.
Quinn cursed beneath his breath and bolted toward her, catching her as she went to her knees. Her long dark hair was plastered to her shoulders in ribbons, and her skin was as cold as ice. It seemed strange, considering the heat of the day, and he feared she was going into shock. He kept reminding himself that he’d sworn to uphold the law, not break it, and wondered if there was a catch and release rule for mermaids on this beach.
“I think I need help,” she mumbled, and started to shake.
It was then that he saw the scratches and cuts on her arms and belly, and a large and fading bruise on the right side of her face. Whatever had been happening to her hadn’t happened all at once. It looked as if someone had been beating the hell out of her for the better part of a week.
Waves broke against Quinn’s legs as he scooped her into his arms and started wading out of the surf toward shore. He headed toward his truck, her head lolling limply against his shoulder as he went. Moments later, he slid her into the passenger side of the seat and then reached across her, retrieving his cell phone from the console.
At that point the woman opened her eyes, saw the phone in his hand and grabbed his wrist with surprising force. Her teeth were chattering and her lips were blue, but her voice was surprisingly firm.
“Hey, Mel…what are you doing?”
“Calling an ambulance and then the police.”
She shuddered, then took a deep breath, not knowing how far Ortega’s power might reach. She opted for staying out of public. Maybe they’d think she drowned.
“If you do, they’ll find me. If they find me, I’m dead.”
“Who?” Quinn asked. “Who’s after you?”
She pointed back toward the ocean, then slumped forward.
Quinn grabbed her again, just in time to keep her from banging her head on the dash of his truck. With a heartfelt sigh of frustration, he settled her into the seat, then took off his T-shirt and covered her nudity as best he could.
Now what? he wondered. Don’t let who find her? Was she one of the good guys or one of the bad ones? Just because she was beautiful and naked didn’t mean she was innocent. He wasn’t sure what to do.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, then looked out at the horizon, wondering what—or who—she’d been looking for.
She moaned, and it was enough to drag him out of indecision. He glanced at her one last time, then went to retrieve his things. Leaving the bait bucket on the shore, he folded up his lawn chair and grabbed his gear, then loaded everything into the truck.
The woman was still lying motionless inside the cab. Her stillness was beginning to concern him even more than what she’d said. Making sure she was safely inside, he shut the door. By the time he slid beneath the wheel and started the engine, he’d made up his mind to trust her. Every instinct he had told him he was probably making a mistake by not notifying the authorities, but he kept remembering the fear in her eyes when she’d looked back at the sea.
Then he reminded himself that he was a Texas Ranger, so technically, the authorities had been notified. He just needed to get her warm and dry, and her wounds tended. After that, he might get the answers to his questions.
Satisfied that he’d worked out the immediate details, he began to back away from the beach toward the access road. When the tires hit firm ground, he turned the vehicle around and headed toward his motel.
He was so busy watching the woman and the traffic that he almost didn’t see the sleek cigarette boat paralleling the shore. But when he glanced up in the rearview mirror and saw sunlight catch on the windshield of the boat, his heart skipped a beat. It didn’t have to mean anything. There were plenty of boaters, but this one was going slow—too slow—as if searching for something or someone. He looked again and saw a trio of men standing on the deck with binoculars, searching the coastline. When the skin on the back of his neck suddenly crawled, he laid a protective hand on her shoulder and stomped on the gas.
About five minutes into the trip to Quinn’s motel, a horn honked loudly behind them. Kelly gasped, then sat up with a jerk. As she did, the T-shirt that Quinn had laid over her body fell into her lap.
“Christ almighty,” she muttered, and grabbed the shirt with both hands as she looked wildly around.
The look in her eyes made Quinn withdraw as far away from her as possible.
“Easy, lady, it’s only a—”
“Who the hell are you?” Kelly asked, and then clutched her head, as if the sound of her own voice caused her pain. But when she raised her arms, the T-shirt fell back into her lap.
Quinn didn’t know whether to answer her question or hit the brakes and get out of the truck. Something told him that putting distance between himself and his reluctant mermaid was a really good idea. However, traffic precluded the notion, so he kept his hands on the wheel and pretended he didn’t see the lush sway of her breasts as she picked up the T-shirt and pulled it over her head.
* * *
Kelly Sloan felt as if her face was going to implode. The pain between her eyebrows was wrapping around her head with increasing tension. But the pain was nothing compared to the fact that she was nearly naked and riding with a stranger. She had a vague memory of calling him Mel, then decided she’d imagined it. Desperate to put something between them besides panic, she managed to pull the T-shirt over her head. Having done that, she dropped her head between her knees for fear she would faint.
“Lady?”
The man’s voice was gentle, as was the touch of his hand on her back.
“I’m all right.” Then she took a deep breath. The intake of oxygen was too much. “On second thought, no I’m not,” she mumbled, and slid off the seat onto the floor.
“Son of a—” Quinn didn’t finish what he’d been going to say as he floored the gas and shot through the intersection. The motel was closer, or he would have headed for the hospital right then.
Only a couple of minutes later, he pulled off the highway into the motel parking lot and slammed on the brakes. Once the motor stopped, the silence in the cab was almost frightening. Quinn glanced around the area, then at his watch. It was obviously still early for tourists. From all appearances, the guests of the Sea Gull Inn were still sleeping.
He jumped out of the truck, palming his room key as he circled the cab. When he opened the passenger door, the woman’s legs slid out. He caught them—and her—before she hit the pavement. Then, lifting her into his arms, he headed for his room, thankful it was on the ground floor.
A tousle-headed man wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts and a hangover came around the corner with a bucket of ice. He eyed Quinn, then the woman he was carrying, and lifted the ice bucket as if in a toast.
“Way to go, buddy,” he said, then lurched into his room.
Quinn played along by grinning and nodding, but he kept on walking. Seconds later, he had the key in the lock. When the door swung inward, he strode through quickly, careful not to bang her head on the frame. Only after he’d kicked the door shut and laid her on the bed to check her vital signs did he begin to relax. Her pulse was strong and steady. He checked her hairline for the source of the blood flow and found a small break in the skin near the crown of her head. It didn’t look serious, but he couldn’t be sure.
She needed a doctor. The possibility of a concussion was too strong to ignore, although instinct told him that the worst things wrong with her were exhaustion and hypothermia. Her skin was cold as ice.
He slid his hands beneath the hem of the T-shirt and ran his fingers along her rib cage, checking for broken bones. Almost immediately, she flinched, then moaned.
“Ooh…sorry, honey,” he said softly, then rocked back on his heels. He had nothing resembling first aid supplies. At the least, she needed to be examined by a physician, not a beached cop.
But he couldn’t forget the urgency in her voice, begging him not to call the cops. Until he knew the reasons why, he would have to err on the side of caution. The best he could do was clean up her cuts and douse them with alcohol. Ice packs would have to do for the bruising, and a few quick prayers for the stupidity of what he was about to do would suffice for the rest, but not until he got her warmer. He cleaned up the scratches, used a washcloth for a bandage on her head, and then piled all the bedcovers in the room on top of her.
* * *
Somewhere in the back of Kelly’s mind, she sensed she was safe. At least for the time being. Even though her eyes were closed, she knew she was lying on a bed. The sheets were soft against her skin, as was the pillow cradling her head. She could hear the man moving about the room and remembered the strength of his arms. Twice she tried to open her eyes, but each time the gentleness of his touch as he urged her to lie still reinforced her need to let go and just sleep. Only once did he cause her pain. When he did, she heard the tenderness and regret in his voice.
She was trying not to go under. Fearing, if she did, the memories that would come. But exhaustion and the relief of knowing she’d cheated death—and Dominic Ortega—were too great. When she felt the warmth of the covers he was pulling over her body, she gave up the fight and let go. Just for a while. Just until she was warm.
It was her last cognizant thought until she woke up in the water.
Chapter 2
The woman was still shivering, despite the pile of covers Quinn had put over her. He knew he needed to get her warm, and the quickest way he knew how to do that was a hot bath. He ran the tub full of water, keeping it as hot as he dared. Hesitating only briefly, he slipped the T-shirt over her head, then carried her into the bathroom. Gently, he began lowering her into the tub, unpr
epared for any kind of protest. But when the water reached her knees, it obviously triggered a memory she would rather forget. She bucked in his arms, then began to thrash and moan. Before he knew it, she’d swung a fist in his direction. He ducked as she cursed and then swung again. At that point, he realized the wiser thing would have been to wake her first.
“Lady…lady…it’s okay. I’m trying to help you, remember? You’re freezing cold. You need to get warm.”
She swung at him again and slung a long, shapely leg over the side of the tub, still trying to get out.
“Christ almighty!” Quinn said and, in disgust, just let her go.
Unprepared for the sudden freedom, Kelly slipped and then sank beneath the water before coming up sputtering, still ready to fight. Only there was no one trying to push her head beneath the water or stick a knife to her throat—just a wet and rather disgusted-looking man watching her from the doorway.
“I’m sorry I’ve misunderstood your quest,” Quinn said. “If I had realized earlier you were trying to drown, I would have left you at the damned beach.”
And then Kelly remembered—everything from the knife sinking into Ortega’s chest to the stranger on the shore. He’d probably saved her life.
“I’m sorry,” she spluttered, wiping hair and water from her face. “I thought you were…I mean…I didn’t know where I was.”
Quinn’s frustration faded. “You were trying to get away from someone, weren’t you? Who is it? Who are you afraid of?”
Kelly grabbed a washcloth from the edge of the tub and held it over her breasts.
“Do you think we could continue this conversation after I’ve finished my bath?”
Quinn eyed the minuscule bit of terry cloth she was using as a shield. He wanted to tell her he’d already seen all there was to see and then some, but he figured it wasn’t the prudent thing to do.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I’ll lay some dry clothes on the bed for you to put on. Yell at me when you’re ready to come out and I’ll close my eyes.”
