Immortal Sea

by Virginia Kantra

  “Can I take Tigger?”

  “Tigger will be fine down here with me. Now scoot. The faster you get the towels, the sooner we can get started on his house.”

  Her daughter bolted up the stairs.

  She faced Morgan, trying to ignore her stuttering heart. “What are you doing?”

  That beautiful mouth curved. “I believe I am turning a carton into some kind of cat accommodations.”

  “You didn’t come over tonight to build a kitty condo.”

  “My plans will wait.”

  “But you had plans.” For God’s sake, why was she pushing this?

  “I have . . . hopes.”

  The look in his eyes made her stomach jump. It was uncomfortable and intoxicating to flirt like this, to want like this, with her daughter only a flight of stairs away.

  “I can’t . . .” She inhaled and tried again. “This isn’t appropriate.”

  “I have slightly more finesse than the cat, Elizabeth.” There was an edge to his voice now, sharp and dangerous. “I will not pounce in front of your children.”

  The focus in his eyes made her blood tingle. “And what happens later?”

  “What is later? A year, a month, a week from now?” He shrugged. “I am here now with you. It is enough for me.”

  She’d told him she needed trust, tenderness, companionship, commitment. Could the first three be enough? Could passion be enough?

  Her heart pounded. She felt dizzy, as if she stood on a cliff above a raging sea. Step back from the edge? she wondered. Or take the plunge?

  Swallowing hard, she took one step closer to the fall. “I meant later tonight.”

  His hot gaze locked with hers. “That is up to you.”

  He could eat her up in a few hasty bites.

  But he had promised her finesse, and he was experienced enough to know greed could be his undoing. So he controlled his hunger with a hunter’s patience, making himself useful, biding his time. He hauled a moving carton upstairs. While Elizabeth unearthed bowls and her daughter shredded newspaper, he cut down the sides of the box so the kitten could not climb out and the girl could not fall in.

  He made Emily giggle, lying on her floor to inspect her room from a cat’s eye perspective. Retrieving an elastic hair band from under her dresser, he presented it to her with a bow. She rewarded him with a smile and a smacking kiss on the cheek before bouncing into bed.

  Morgan’s empty hands curled into fists at his sides. The little girl’s kiss left him gasping, struggling like a fish out of water.

  With the fatalism of his kind, he accepted that he would eventually lose his battle for survival, that he would one day surrender to the lure of the sea, lost finally and forever beneath the wave, without will or ability to take human form.

  But he never imagined he could become stranded on land, snared by something as foolish as a child’s affection, as transitory as a woman’s desire.

  In its box, the kitten mewed and fretted, trapped by Emily’s love and Elizabeth’s care.

  The children of the sea were solitary by nature and by choice. Perhaps with Morwenna . . . But his twin had turned her back on him, and Morgan had never forgiven her defection. Even swimming with the whaleyn, the great, mild giants of the sea, he had resisted the seductive security of the pod. He could survive longer as a shark: focused, ruthless, predatory.

  Nothing lasted forever but the sea, not love or faith or hope or strength. The child’s affection, like her memories, would fade. His attachment to her and to her mother could only be temporary.

  And yet . . .

  He watched Elizabeth tuck her into bed, smoothing her hair and the covers with a tender hand, the murmur of their voices like the rising and falling of the sea, and felt pieces of his heart slipping away, eroded by longing.

  Elizabeth leaned over her daughter’s pillow, the bend of her body graceful in the spill of light from the hall.

  “Good night, Mommy.” Emily’s gaze sought Morgan, waiting in the doorway. “ ’ Night, Morgan.”

  He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Good night.”

  “Sleep tight.” Elizabeth eased the door shut on the kitten’s piercing cries. She smiled ruefully at Morgan. “Assuming they can sleep at all.”

  Before he could respond, she slipped by him, disappearing through a shadowed doorway at the other end of the house. Her room? He wanted to follow, to ravage, to possess. But he did not think she would invite him into her bed, take him into her body, with her wakeful child down the hall. He heard water running and the slide of a drawer before she reappeared, her cheeks faintly flushed.

  Avoiding his gaze, she preceded him down the stairs. The kitten’s mews pursued them, stopping abruptly as they reached the front hall.

  Elizabeth cocked her head. “She has that cat in bed with her.”

  “Almost certainly,” Morgan agreed, amused.

  Indecision warred in her face. “I could go up.”

  “You could.” Resting his hand on the small of her back, he steered her gently into the living room. “But you won’t.”

  She turned to face him. He liked looking at her, those clear, dark eyes, that long, mobile mouth, the slightly squared jaw. “Why won’t I?”

  He brushed a strand of hair back from her face, pleased at the sudden intake of her breath. “Because you know they will both be happier this way.”

  “Em has camp in the morning.”

  He tucked her hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger, letting her grow accustomed to his touch. “You said yourself she would not sleep with the kitten crying across the room.”

  He could feel her weakening, but she still argued. The woman would argue with the angels. “She could still have allergies. Asthma.”

  “Worrier.”

  “Worrying goes with the job description, I’m afraid.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Doctor?”

  “Mother.”

  “You should not worry over what you cannot control.” He stroked his thumb down the side of her throat, pressed against her rapidly beating pulse. “Let go, Elizabeth.”

  Her breath sighed across his lips. “I suppose you’re right. I just don’t want this sleeping together thing to become a habit.”

  He kept his face straight with an effort. Did she still think they spoke of her daughter and the cat? “One night,” he murmured. “One night won’t change anything.”

  He covered her mouth with his, keeping his eyes open to gauge her response. Her lashes drifted shut. Her lips warmed and yielded. The surrender in her kiss, the faint resistance in her muscles, combined to drive him wild. But when he deepened the kiss, she turned her face away.

  “Maybe you’re right.” She retreated toward the kitchen.

  He let her go. Elizabeth might let him take her, but only after the required preliminaries. Trust. Tenderness.

  Conversation.

  “You were good with her. Emily,” she said. “Good with both of them, really.”

  He understood the change of subject was another step back, another way of regaining distance and control.

  He leaned his hips against the counter, admiring the stretch of her back as she opened a cabinet. “It is because I am a stranger. I see them differently.”

  “I thought it was because you were . . .”

  “Zachary’s father?”

  She bit her lip. Shot him a glance over her shoulder. “Male.”

  “I am gratified you noticed.”

  “Wine?” she offered.

  Another preliminary.

  “Whatever you want,” he said.

  She stood on tiptoe to reach for glasses. “White or red?”

  “Either.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Or we could have sex.”

  She went still for one tiny, betraying moment before she turned. “Wine first.”

  The spark of reaction caught him by surprise. Wine first. His patience was to be rewarded, then. His body stirred and thickened in anticipation.

  “
The counselor said the children need a male role model,” Elizabeth continued. Her small, neat doctor’s hands dealt competently with bottle and corkscrew. “Before we moved here, I tried reestablishing contact with my parents in Philadelphia, but things didn’t work out.”

  He pulled his mind back to the conversation. She was estranged from her parents, he remembered. “Because of Zachary.”

  She poured the wine—red—into two glasses and handed him a glass. “Because of Zachary. And Ben.” Grabbing the bottle and the second glass, she nodded toward the back door. “Would you get that?”

  He complied. The cool night air flowed through the door, easing his tension. He felt more himself outside, in the open, in the dark.

  Not completely open, he noted. The screened back porch was latticed for privacy, with rolling blinds to keep out the rain and a double skylight to let in the moon. Bright cushions covered two chairs and a hammock, bleached by the silver light. The breeze carried the scent of pine and stirred the wind chimes dangling in one corner.

  Elizabeth set the bottle on the floor and sat sideways in the hammock like a mermaid caught in a net. The sag in the webbing forced her to lay back, legs parted, toes barely touching the floor. Deprived of support, she looked softer, looser, off balance. His predatory instincts sharpened, edged by an odd tenderness.

  He sipped his wine, watching her over the rim. “Your parents disapproved of your husband?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “But he is dead.”

  “Emily is his daughter.”

  He did not understand. “She has your eyes.”

  “She has her father’s name. His skin color.” She took a gulp of wine. “To my father, Zack looks like a freak and Emily looks like the gardener’s daughter.”

  Comprehension gave way swiftly to rage. “Your father is an ass.”

  “Yes, he is.” There was no bitterness in her voice, only a weary acceptance. “But he is their grandfather.”

  “Your husband must have family.”

  “In Puerto Rico. I take the children to San Juan to visit once a year, but it’s not enough.” She stared into her wineglass. “Zack seemed to be doing all right for a while, but the last year or two he’s been so angry. Withdrawn. He can’t focus. His grades have dropped. His sleep patterns have changed. I have to nag him to shower.” She looked up, and the distress in her eyes made him want to kill something for her. “I’m worried he’s doing drugs.”

  “Not drugs,” Morgan said.

  “What else could it be?”

  The Change, he thought. The timing was right. Like puberty itself, the Change would affect every aspect of the boy’s development and feel completely beyond his control. On Sanctuary, adolescents were guided through the Change by an experienced warden. Ignorant and alone, Zachary would be helpless to understand or mitigate the compulsion that seized his body.

  Poor little bastard. No wonder he hid in his room and avoided the touch of water.

  “His therapist didn’t think it was drugs either.” Elizabeth struggled to sit up, cradling her glass in her hands. “But therapy wasn’t helping. I thought the move up here—new friends, new environment, a fresh start—might do him some good. Emily, too. She’s more resilient than Zack, more open, more eager to please. But she hasn’t been truly happy in, oh, way too long. They both need something so much.” She pressed the fingers of one hand to her temples. “And whatever it is, I can’t give it to them.”

  She was wrong, Morgan thought. Even without understanding her son’s true nature, Elizabeth had given him the tools to survive.

  She was strong enough not to need his comfort. Not to need him. But it annoyed him she gave herself so little credit.

  “You underestimate yourself,” he said. “And your children. You have been giving to them since they were born. They can be who they are, they can be angry or scared or miserable in your presence, because they know you will be there for them. Will always be there for them.”

  As no one else had been, he realized. Certainly not him.

  “Even when they leave you, they will take your example with them,” he said. “Your strength. Your compassion. Your determination to do what is right. They could not ask for a better teacher, Elizabeth. Or a better mother.”

  “Oh.” Sudden moisture swam in her eyes. “Thank you.”

  Something sharp lodged in his chest. He had not intended to make her cry. “Do not thank me.”

  She blotted her eyes with her fingertips. “Sorry. I’m not usually this emotional.”

  “Neither am I.” The admission made him uneasy. He set down his wineglass, ill-prepared to deal with her tears or his own reaction to them. “Elizabeth . . .”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to dump my problems on you.”

  “Do not apologize.” He sat beside her in the hammock and felt her weight roll warm against his thigh. His blood surged at the contact. “You should talk to me. I am Zachary’s father,” he said, and the words this time had new meaning.

  “That doesn’t solve anything. In fact, it makes things more complicated.”

  “More than you know.”

  Her chin lifted. “I’m used to dealing with things by myself.”

  Good. Her strength would make it easier when he had to leave her.

  But not yet, he thought.

  “Not tonight,” he said.

  The prospect pleased him more than he would have thought possible a week, a day, an hour ago.

  Taking her wineglass from her, he set it beside the hammock. He brushed his mouth across her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her eye. The salt of her tears was nectar to him. Her body was soft and warm and trembling, undeniably human, irresistibly female.

  She pulled back, eyes wide in the darkness. “I’m not having sex with you because you feel sorry for me.”

  He froze, affronted. Disappointed. She did not want his comfort, it seemed.

  He could, of course, seduce her into compliance. Even without magic, he had the skill to overcome her scruples. Yet he was oddly reluctant to lay siege when her walls were already down. He had seen her angry and composed, passionate and determined. Now she was vulnerable and alone. She deserved better than to have her power of choice stripped from her.

  “Your choice,” he said coolly. “Your loss.”

  And mine. The realization set his teeth on edge.

  For the humiliating truth was he wanted her still, beyond breath, beyond lust, beyond reason.

  She struggled to sit upright in the rocking hammock. “I didn’t say we weren’t having sex.” With her eyes on his, she reached for the buttons of her blouse. “Only that it wouldn’t be out of pity.”

  11

  IF HE LIVED ANOTHER THOUSAND YEARS, MORGAN would never understand humans. Until Elizabeth, until this moment, he had not cared enough to try.

  Her fingers trembled on the buttons, and his heart stopped. He covered her hand with his. “Let me.”

  Let me touch you. Let me help you. Let me please you.

  Her breasts rose with her breath. Her hand fell away.

  Lovely, practical Elizabeth, prepared to do everything herself. In this one area, at least, he could lavish her with care. Not from pity—she was right about that—but as a kind of tribute to her beauty and her strength. She deserved no less.

  The thought slid into his mind that she might in fact deserve much more, but the surge in his blood swept thought away. He was drowning in her, her eyes, her throat, her breasts.

  He undid one button. Two. A third, his knuckles grazing the smooth skin above her waistband. She sucked in her stomach, her hands closing over his. To stop him? Or aid him?

  “Let me,” he said again.

  She lay half under him, unresisting, as he pulled her blouse free.

  Her breasts gleamed in the shadows, full and pleasing, cupped by underwear that bound her narrow ribcage. He lowered his head, inhaling her scent, soap and Elizabeth. Lovely. He licked her, running his tongue over the top slope of
her breasts. Her breath hitched. Nuzzling one cup aside, he found her pebbled nipple with his mouth and suckled her hard, arousing them both, pleased when she moaned.

  He felt her fingers in his hair, scratching delicately against his scalp, and shivered under her touch like a dog. But this wasn’t about him, not only about him, not yet. He obeyed her silent tug on his hair, raising his head, covering her mouth with his. He kissed her above, deep, penetrating kisses, thrusting his tongue into her mouth while his hand played her below. He craved her taste, seasoned by wine and desire. He stroked down to her knees and up again, down and up, until her thighs loosened and she made a sound, pleading or approval, in the back of her throat. He cupped her, feeling her moist heat through the fabric, and caught her gasp in his mouth.

  He dragged her pants open, worked his hand inside. She was hot, slick, wet.

  Ready for him.

  Fondling her with one hand, he raised his head. Even in the dusk, he could see her cheeks were flushed, her lips glazed and parted. She lay back against the webbing, watching him, her eyes dark and aware.

  Not the gaze of a woman mindless with passion.

  He frowned. Not that he wanted her mindless, exactly.

  “It’s all right.” She raised her hand to the back of his head, toying with his hair. “Em’s asleep. No one can see us back here.”

  He had not considered the possibility of an audience. But she had.

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. Despite the bloom on her skin, the lush wetness between her thighs, she was still thinking like a mother, like a doctor. Still conscious, still careful, still in control.

  Bugger that.

  She thought too much. Worried too much. He wanted to plunge her into passion, drag her into the moment, away from the everyday concerns that swarmed like gnats around her head.

  He pushed to his feet, making the hammock bounce like a boat in the waves. “Good. Then we won’t be interrupted.”

  He yanked his sweater over his head, baring himself to the waist. His medallion swung against his chest. Elizabeth rolled to one elbow, reaching for him. Capturing her hands, he pressed them to the hammock. “Hold on.”