He was at a loss. His experience with pregnant women was limited to his memories of his mother when she'd been carrying Shiloh, and he knew better than to compare his tough, dauntless sister to the complaining woman he remembered.
"Can I do anything? Get you anything?" She shook her head. "Want me to get Con?"
"No! Don't you dare." Shiloh's eyes flashed warningly. "This is the first full night's sleep he's had since we found out about the baby. He's been up every night, pacing the floor, holding my head when I've been sick, and generally being worried to death. He's been afraid to even touch me, until I—"
She broke off, color staining her pale face, and Linc smothered a knowing smile as the memory of that wet interlude in the shower he'd almost interrupted came back to him again.
"Anyway," she went on determinedly, "I've finally got him convinced that the worst is over, and I want to keep it that way. Thanks to his nonexistent father, he's scared enough about this as it is, and I won't have anyone making it worse by making him keep worrying about me."
Linc's mouth twisted. He should have known his perceptive sister would be thoroughly aware of her husband's doubts. "Yes, ma'am," he said meekly.
After a moment, Shy smiled ruefully. "Sorry. Hormones in turmoil. I tend to get that way lately."
"Like a tigress defending her mate? I've got news for you, sister of mine, you've always been that way about Con."
She smiled, acknowledging the truth of it without a qualm. "And about you," she added pointedly. "What are you doing up at this hour?"
He shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. Strange bed, I suppose."
"Give me a break, Commander Reese. You've slept in trees, in helicopters loud enough to wake the dead and probably underwater. What's wrong?"
"I think," he said slowly, "I'll go down to the boat for a couple of days."
Shy's brow creased. "You just got here."
"I know, but…" He shrugged.
She studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Is it that different, with Con here? He's your friend, I thought—"
"It's not that, Shy," he said quickly. "I love the guy like a brother. I'd have to, for what he's given you, even if I didn't already."
"And he loves you. So what's wrong?"
Linc let out a compressed breath. He had to lie so much in his work, he tried hard never to lie to his family. But this wasn't easy, no matter that it was his beloved little sister. Shy just looked at him, puzzlement and worry clear on her face. It wasn't fair, he thought, for him to intrude his miserable mood on what should be one of the happiest times of her life.
"I don't know," he said at last. "It's just that being here, seeing the two of you—" His voice trailed off.
"So it is us that's bothering you? Con and I?"
He couldn't stand the look on her face. "Not like that. It's just that … seeing you together … I mean, I'm happy for you, so very happy, you deserve every ounce of happiness you can squeeze out of this life. But, God, Shy, you love each other so much it … hurts just to watch."
Her eyes widened. "Hurts … you?"
Her distress at the thought of, however inadvertently, causing him pain was clear on her face. He got up swiftly, walked to her chair, and hauled her none too gently into a fierce hug.
"It's not you, honey, or Con. Believe that. It's me. I'm just … a little screwed up right now. And seeing how happy you are just hit me. Made me feel pretty damned alone. It's not your fault."
"But—"
"It's something I have to deal with." He leaned back and managed to grin at her. "And it's hard to do around you two lovebirds."
"But Con—"
"—will understand perfectly. Believe me."
It was true, he thought as he drove down to the marina, in the red Blazer he'd borrowed from his sister. Con would understand exactly what was wrong. Con had been alone for most of his life, much more alone than Linc had ever been, and he, perhaps better than anyone, would understand what Linc was going through.
He was so deep into this uncharacteristic self-contemplation that he didn't realize anything was wrong until he was halfway down the dock beside the Shiloh II. He stopped dead, staring. His first thought was a fruitless wish that he'd brought the .45 with him. The second was to wonder what he could find to use instead. He would need a weapon, he knew; if the splintered and gouged teak where the hasp of the lock on the main hatch had been hadn't told him, the faint sound of movement inside screamed the fact at him.
Moving with exquisite care, he leaned over the railing and reached into one of the open cubbyholes in the cockpit. He found the stainless steel winch handle, a heavy piece of metal just over a foot long. It wouldn't be much help if the burglar had a gun, but it was something.
He eased himself aboard, knowing he couldn't add his two hundred pounds to the deck without the boat dipping a little, but hoping that the person below was too busy-stripping my electronics gear, no doubt, he thought sourly—to notice. He glanced forward; the bow hatch was closed.
Even now, an image flitted through his mind of the person who had last escaped through that hatch. He closed his mind against the vision firmly.
Removing the upright, slide-in teak hatch door from its grooves would take too long, he decided quickly. Grabbing the handrail, he pulled himself quietly atop the cabin roof. He made sure of his balance, closed his eyes for a minute to prepare for the darker interior, then leaned forward and gripped the teak trim of the big, sliding roof hatch.
It slid back smoothly until it hit the stops with a sharp thump. He jumped instantly, spinning into the galley and dropping into a crouch, his back safely against the cupboards that lined the bulkhead.
He heard a tiny sound, almost a squeak, coming from the bow area. He stopped the instinctive urge to storm forward with the ease of long practice. With his ears trained on that area for any further sound, his eyes quickly searched the interior of the main cabin, and the bow's V-berth beyond. Then he glanced around the corner into the aft cabin. Nothing.
A rustling came then, from the same place. His gaze fastened on the closed door to the small head, the only place he couldn't see. Swiftly he opened a drawer in the galley, and dug out the knife he'd last used to fillet a big yellowtail he'd caught off Catalina Island. Jamming the heavy winch handle into the waistband at his back, he shifted the razor sharp blade to his right hand. He crept forward through the main cabin, until he could see that the bow hatch was closed and latched. Knowing that whoever was inside could come out either the door into the main cabin or the bow cabin, he centered himself between them, his back to the bulkhead, the knife balanced easily in his hand.
"You coming out, or shall I come in?" he said casually. "The cops are on the way. You might as well wait for them out here."
Another tiny sound, a quick intake of breath that sounded like an effort to suppress a scream. And suddenly, instinctively, he knew.
He reached around and grabbed the door handle. Still in a crouch, he swung forward, opening the door as he moved, knife still at the ready, just in case. But when he saw the tiny figure huddled in a corner, the glinting blade came down. It was the mermaid.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
She crouched, naked, on the teak shower seat in the combination shower/head, a bath towel clutched in front of her in trembling hands. Her eyes were wide and vivid blue as she stared at him. Once again Linc had the thought that all the vitality she possessed was centered there, as if it had been drained away from her pale skin and hair and poured undiluted into the blue depths.
When he didn't move, she reached out tentatively with one hand, toward the shirt that lay on the counter beside the stainless steel washbasin.
"Uh-uh," Linc said, leaning over and scooping up the shirt. "I like you better that way."
Her head snapped up at his words. She stared at him, and there was suddenly something old and very, very tired in her eyes. She began to straighten up, making little effort to hide her nudity any longer.
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That look in her eyes, and something about the way she was moving, made Linc realize what his words had sounded like. The head that he had found until now merely small, felt suddenly, painfully cramped. And hot.
"I mean," he said hastily, "that you're a lot less likely to go belting out the forward hatch in only a towel." His mouth twisted. "It seems I may occasionally make the same mistake twice, but I won't a third time."
She stopped moving, but Linc felt himself flushing anyway; as she'd stood up, he'd gotten more than a glimpse of the smooth curve of hip and thigh, and a peek at full, soft breasts. Oddly, she didn't even flinch, and he wondered what kind of woman blushed over not being able to subdue a man a foot taller and nearly twice her weight, yet not at being caught naked by that man.
So don't blush, woman, he muttered inwardly. I'm overheating enough for both of us. God, you'd swear it's been years since I've seen a naked woman, instead of … however long it's been, he ended ruefully, honestly unable to remember. But his body clearly thought it had been far too long, at least judging from its reaction to that flash of tempting, feminine flesh; it had tightened sharply, hotly.
But something about that look in her eyes cooled his response; it was a look he'd seen before, in the ugliest of the ugly places he'd been, and he didn't like seeing it again. He set the knife down on the closed lid of the head, knowing that he could easily get to it before she could. Then he just stood silently, waiting.
After a moment she began to move again, lifting the towel to wrap it around her beneath her arms. It draped her from arms to knees, and nearly wrapped around her twice before she tucked the edge in to make it stay. It was as she bent her head to that task that Linc realized why she looked so different.
"Your hair…" he began, barely aware of saying it aloud.
Her head came up. The damp strands swung back, barely reaching her jaw now. It emphasized her tiny chin and the wide blue eyes even more. Her gaze flicked sideways; Linc followed the look and saw the mass of blond locks lying on another towel on the counter, where it had been hidden by the shirt. He felt an odd pang; he'd never really seen the nearly waist-length hair clean and dry, and he wondered what it had looked like.
"Rather extreme solution to not having the right comb, wasn't it?"
She looked away, staring at the shorn hair as if she couldn't quite believe she'd done it. Beside the towel lay the small scissors from the first-aid kit. Linc's eyes went back to her, studying the neat part on the right side, the ends of hair neatly trimmed on the sides and rather ragged in the back, no doubt the best she could do by herself.
Without a word he reached out for the scissors; she edged away warily the moment he moved. She cringed when he grasped her shoulders, but let him turn her around.
He felt her start of surprise when he began to trim the uneven edges of her hair, but she obeyed his gruff "hold still." He was no barber, but he had an sailor's eye for lines, and soon had the blond mass relatively even. When he was done he set down the scissors. Slowly, very slowly, she turned to face him.
He had never seen such confusion as he saw now in her eyes. She simply stared at him in wonderment as if he were some new, unexpected species masquerading as one she thought she knew.
"We're going to talk now." His voice was gentle, but firmly unequivocal.
"Before the police come?"
The huskiness he'd noticed before was, apparently, natural to her voice. The tiny sound of the question tugged at him in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable.
"Yeah, well…"
Her eyes widened even further. "You … didn't call them at all, did you?"
It was barely a question, and his mouth twisted wryly. "What makes you so sure?"
She studied him for a long moment. "I don't think you're the kind of man who waits for others to solve his problems for him." He was startled by her perception, and more startled by her sudden, harsh laugh. "Believe me, I recognize a person like that. Because I'm so far the other way."
There was that bitterness again, sharp and biting. His brow furrowed; his mermaid, it seemed, didn't care much for herself.
"Well, you are a problem, mermaid." Mainly, he acknowledged grimly, because I haven't been able to get you out of my head.
She lowered her eyes. "I … I'm sorry about breaking in here. I … my friend wasn't home, and—"
"You're a lousy liar," he said mildly.
Color rose in her face. "Of course I am."
Damn, he didn't understand this. She'd seemed not to care that she was naked in front of a total stranger, yet she blushed because he called her a lousy liar? What's your story, mermaid? I'm going to find out, he promised himself. But carefully. He didn't want her to cut and run again. Picking up the knife, he ushered her out into the center cabin.
She went meekly enough, and sat on the U-shaped settee that wrapped around the main table. Linc walked past the table and into the galley.
"I didn't take time for breakfast," he said, his voice carefully conversational as he began to dig into the cubbys. That last slice of bread was gone, he noted, and the one orange that had been on the edge of spoiling anyway. That was all; his stowaway was reluctant to raid his food, it seemed. He kept his tone casual. "How do you feel about PB and J on English muffins?"
If he was going to stay here for a couple of days, he thought as he took out the half-full jar of peanut butter, he was going to have to stock up. He'd planned his stores carefully for the voyage, and although he always kept extra nonperishables aboard in case of emergency, he was out of things like eggs and milk.
When he realized she hadn't answered, he leaned back to look at her. She was staring at him, again as if he were some familiar creature who had done something totally unexpected.
"Don't like that idea, huh?" he said cheerfully, knowing that his offhand manner was throwing her. He'd intended it to; as long as she was off balance, she wouldn't run. "Well, I'm out of eggs, but there are some freeze-dried hash browns here, or some cheese … hey, a can of salmon, how about that? Salmon on the muffins, and we can melt the cheese over it."
She wasn't staring anymore, at least not at him. She was looking down at the table as if it had the history of the world etched into the wood.
"Mermaid, I'm running out of options here. What'll it be?"
He saw her take a deep breath, saw her hands, clasped together atop the table, tighten until her knuckles were white. Something twisted inside Linc, knotting up until he could barely breathe. He'd seen this land of fear before, but in faraway, war-torn places where he'd expected to see it, on the faces of people who knew each moment could easily be their last. Suddenly it was too much, and the soft words escaped him before he could stop them.
"Relax, mermaid. No questions right now."
Her head snapped up, and her eyes searched his face desperately, and Linc could almost see in the blue depths the need to believe him, to believe he meant her no harm.
"There's not much, but it's as easy to fix for two as one." He shrugged. "You might as well eat while the galley's open."
"I … something warm would be…"
He let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. He hastened to disguise his relief. "Coming up, then."
It took him a bit longer than it would have normally, because part of his attention was diverted, wondering if she would change her mind and try to run again. Not that he ever really looked at her, or gave any appearance of watching her. He didn't need to; all his senses were humming along nicely, including the expansive peripheral vision that had astounded the navy doctors for years. You should be a pilot, they'd told him, but he loved the sea itself too much to commit himself to a life of flying over it.
Also working was that sixth sense that seemed woven into his very skin, that finely tuned awareness that had saved his life on more than one occasion. Along with, he admitted ruefully, a newly discovered seventh sense, some kind of man-woman thing that would have told him if she had moved in a crowded room ten times the siz
e of the Shiloh II's main cabin. He'd never felt it before, and he wasn't at all sure he liked it.
He could see by the way she tackled the makeshift salmon melt that he'd been right about her hunger. She finished well before he did, and was embarrassed when she realized it. Linc watched her as he ate, watched her look at the table, the bulkheads, her empty plate, anywhere but at him. Only once did her gaze skate over his face, quick and wary, and he felt like he'd been brushed by the fragile wings of a butterfly who had blundered into a world far too harsh for its beauty. The silence stretched out, painfully.
"You were in the navy?" she said suddenly, unexpectedly, as if the pressure of the silence were too much for her.
Linc lifted a brow, then glanced at the top photograph on the bulkhead. Not too hard to figure that out, he thought as he looked at that captured moment in time, a moment as clearly etched in his own mind as in the photograph.
He wondered what she was thinking as she looked at the frozen images; a lean, solemn young man with an intense expression, clad in dress whites, flanked by a slim, fiery-haired little girl and a distinguished-looking man in his own dress whites, with a shock of silver hair and a bearing that, even in a photograph, made the wheelchair that held him seem inconsequential.
Linc had been crouched down, sitting on his heels so that his little sister and his father could reach to add the coveted shoulder boards, complete with gold braid and star, to his uniform. His father had done so with proud, steady hands; Shiloh had fastened hers with a solemnity that had seemed odd in so young a child. "Don't mind that she's not here," she had whispered to him. "She's a fool." And for once he hadn't reprimanded his little sister for speaking so of their mother; the look in her young face, a poignant combination of pride and wistfulness had made it impossible.
Shiloh had made up for anything he felt was missing that day, he thought, made up for it with her fierce pride and faith in him. There was, at least, one woman who had never wavered when the going got tough. Which brought him abruptly out of his reverie and back to the matter at hand; the woman in front of him, who seemed to waver at the merest look.
TO HOLD AN EAGLE Page 5
