Sea Witch (3 page)

somewhere. At least when Caleb was with her, he hadn’t remembered

Mosul. Hell, he’d barely remembered his name. And there had been an

instant, gazing into those fathomless eyes, when he’d actually felt . . .

more than desire.

Connection.

The well-lit windows and red awning of Antonia’s Ristorante

(PIZZA! BAKERY! SUBS! the sign proclaimed) spilled a welcome onto

the sidewalk. The bell jangled as Caleb pushed open the door.

Regina Barone was working behind the counter, wearing a wide,

white apron and a slight, distracted frown, her dark hair strained back

from her thin face.

At the sound of the bell, she looked up, the frown dissolving. “Hi,

Cal.”

He smiled. “Reggie.”

They’d known each other forever. He remembered her as a skinny,

abrasive, ambitious girl, desperate to get off the island and out from under

her mother’s thumb. He’d heard she’d landed the job of sous chef in some

fancy big-city restaurant, New York or Boston. She had a tattoo now, on

her wrist, and a small gold crucifix around her neck.

But here she was, back on World’s End, working in the family

restaurant. Here they both were.

Why didn’t he want sex with her?

Regina’s eight-year-old son, Nick, hunched in a red vinyl booth in

the corner, scribbling.

“How’s the homework going?” Caleb asked.

Nick shrugged. He was a cute kid, with his mother’s thin build and

expressive Italian eyes.

18

“Fractions,” Regina explained. “He hates them.”

Nick’s chin thrust out. “I don’t see why I have to learn them, that’s

all. Not if I’m going to help Nonna in the restaurant.”

Regina’s mouth tightened.

“Got to learn your fractions,” Caleb said. “How else can you make a

half-mushroom, half-pepperoni pizza?”

Regina threw him a grateful look. “That’s right,” she told Nick.

“You work in the kitchen, you need fractions. Half a cup. Three quarters

of a teaspoon.”

“I guess,” Nick said. He bent back over his homework.

Regina smiled at Caleb. “So, what can I do for you?”

Invitation lurked under her words, wary yet unmistakable. She was a

good woman, with a great kid and just enough baggage to balance his

load. He tried to summon something, a spark, a tug, and felt . . . numb.

“What have you got to go tonight?” he asked.

“Besides pizza?” Shrugging, Regina wiped her hands on her apron

and nodded toward the refrigerator case. “Lobster roll, clam chowder,

lemon garlic chicken, shrimp-and-tortellini salad.”

“Nice,” Caleb said. “Your mother know you’re catering to the yacht

set now?”

Regina’s eyes cooled. “We talked about it. What’ll you have?”

Something there, Caleb thought. But unless the Barones took after

each other with kitchen knives, it was none of his business. “How about

two of the lobster rolls and the, uh . . . a double of salad.”

“Coming up.”

“Almost done,” Nick announced.

Caleb glanced at the booth. “Good for you.”

19

“When I finish, can I see your gun?”

“Dominick Barone—”

“It’s okay, Reggie. I can’t show you my gun,” Caleb explained to

Nick. “A police officer can’t draw his weapon in public unless he’s

prepared to use it. But you can look at my handcuffs.”

Nick’s eyes widened. “Can I? Cool.”

Caleb demonstrated and then watched, amused, as the kid cuffed

himself to a table leg.

“Cool,” Regina echoed. She set the take-out bag on the table. “How

about drinks?”

“Drinks,” Caleb repeated cautiously.

Her mouth quirked. “To go with your dinner.”

He wasn’t a drinking man. No matter how much trouble he had

sleeping, no matter how much he had to forget, he would not repeat his

father’s mistakes. But this time the gesture outweighed the principle.

“You got a wine would go with that?” he asked.

“A midpriced pinot grigio?”

“That would be good. Thanks.”

Regina bagged the wine, adding two clear plastic cups to the top.

Caleb noticed Nick struggling to fit the key into the slot on the cuffs

and grinned. “Let me give you a hand there,” he said, unlocking them.

Nick rubbed his thin wrists. “Can I take them with me to school

tomorrow?”

“Better let me hold on to them. I might need them.”

“Hot date tonight?” Regina teased.

20

He cleared his throat. “Too soon to tell.”

“Uh-huh. You be careful, Chief. You’ve been gone long enough to

be interesting. Nick’s not the only one on the island anxious to check out

your equipment.”

He actually felt himself flush. He dug for his wallet. “Yeah, well,

whatever you heard, Edith hasn’t actually chased me around the desk

yet.”

Regina laughed and rang up his order. He thanked her, paid, and left.

The late afternoon sun set the boats in the harbor ablaze, red, yellow,

and white.

Had he fooled her? Or was he just kidding himself?

Picnic blanket
.
Cooler
.
Corkscrew
.
Condom
.

Like an eager Boy Scout, Caleb was prepared for anything. His gaze

swept the empty beach, the quiet, sparkling sea. The only thing missing

was the girl.

I walk on the beach in the evening
, she had said.

Maybe he was early. The sun wouldn’t set for another hour.

Maybe she wasn’t coming. Her purred invitation last night could

have been a joke at his expense.

Maybe he should go home.

I want to touch you
.

He glanced left, where the beach climbed toward Fisherman’s

Wharf, and right, where it broke into a tumble of rocks and mud. A little

exercise wouldn’t hurt him.

He hefted the cooler and turned right.

On the other side of the point, the rocks got bigger and the going got

tougher. Trees crowded the shore, forcing him along the water. The

21

cooler knocked against his legs, pushing him off balance. His steps were

uneven. His left knee ached.

Of all the lamebrained, dumb-ass ideas . . .

And then he saw her—Margred—her legs long and bare under a

fluttering sarong-style skirt, her round breasts pressing against the tiny

blue triangles of a bikini top, her wild, streaked mane lifting in the wind

like some goddess rising from the sea. She stunned his heart. She stopped

his breath. And the sight of her transformed him from a suspicious island

cop to a sweaty teenager gaping at his first
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit

model.

He waited for enough blood to return to his brain to form words.

“You’re here.”

Her full lips curved. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You must be freezing.” That outfit she had on—
full breasts
,
firm

thighs
,
pale
,
pale skin
,
God
—was more suited to a cruise deck in the

Bahamas than the coast of Maine. Shrugging out of his jacket, Caleb

draped it around her shoulders, trying not to grab. “Here.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I don’t get cold.”

He looked down at her cleavage and the pale swell of her belly and

the rush went to his head and he felt dizzy. He stepped away from her

before he forgot he was a mature officer of the law and fell on her like a

horny twenty-year-old soldier after a nine-month deployment.

“We could move into the trees,” he said. “It would cut the wind

some.” And be more private.

She glanced up the bank and then back at his face. “All right.”

He followed her under the cool, dark shadow of the trees. Weathered

picnic tables stood at angles on the uneven ground.

Caleb looked from the jacket hanging open around her shoulders to

the stone pit with its rusty iron grill and said, “I could build a fire.”

Yeah
,
because that would help him cool off
.

22

She perched on one of the tables, and the sarong thing she was

wearing fell away, exposing the long, lovely line of her thigh. Her eyes

glinted. “If that’s what you really want. What shall I do while you are

building your fire?”

A real Sharon Stone moment, he thought, his blood pumping and his

teeth on edge. The perfect fuck, and then you die.

He couldn’t put his life back together that way. He wanted more than

a one-night stand. Dinner, wine, conversation . . . all the trappings of a

normal date. A normal life.

Then
sex.

To please her, to tease her, to test himself, he flattened his hands on

the picnic table, trapping her between his arms. She was so close. Warm

and close. Hell, she was hot, and he was getting hotter by the second. He

leaned in, sucked in by her closeness and her warmth, by those huge,

dark, hungry eyes, and heard a rushing in his ears like the sound of the

sea.

He was drowning.

He drew away. “You could unpack the cooler.”

Margred pulled back sharply and met his eyes. “What?”

Caleb turned away to crouch by the open stone fireplace, ignoring

the twinge in his reconstructed leg. “I brought dinner. In the cooler. You

could unpack it while I start the fire.”

Margred stared at the long, strong line of his back, frustrated.

Amused. Affronted. Sex had never been this much trouble before.

Humans were always in rut. Any other male would have had her flat on

her back on the table and be pounding away between her thighs.

“I don’t need you to
feed
me,” she said.

Fire leaped in the grate. Straightening, he turned to face her, humor

curving his mouth. “You don’t get cold. You don’t get hungry either?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Not for food.”

23

He laughed. He had a nice laugh, deep and wry, but his eyes

remained steady and sad. “I thought women liked to be courted.”

She didn’t know anything about what women, human women, liked.

“It’s not necessary,” she repeated.

“Not for you, maybe. I thought we could spend some time getting to

know one another.”

He was serious.

“Why?” she asked.

His gaze held hers. His eyes were green, the color of the sea on a

cloudy day. “Because you’re a very attractive woman.”

His compliment caught her off guard, melting her irritation. Surely

she could give him something in return?

She blew out her breath. “What do you want to know?”

A corner of his mouth turned up. “We could start with an exchange

of basic information. Marital status. Health history. Country of origin. I

don’t even know your name.”

“I told you, it’s Margred. Margaret.”

“What do people call you? Meg? Maggie? Peggy?”

“Not Peggy.” She tilted her head to one side, considering. “I like

Maggie.”

“Maggie,” he repeated softly.

His deep voice shivered through her. She felt a tug under her

breastbone.

Oh, this would not do, she thought, dismayed. She had not come for

this.

“Are you married, Maggie?” he asked in that warm, mesmerizing

voice.

24

Mated, he meant. She shook her head to rid it of memories. “I was.

He died.”

“I’m sorry.”

His sympathy slid under her skin like a knife. “It was a long time

ago.” More than two score years. Long enough that she had given up

hope her murdered mate would ever be reborn to find her again.

Deliberately, she crossed her legs, flashed her most sultry smile. “What

happens now is more important to me.”

The man watched her with his sober green eyes. “And what happens

now?”

“This,” she said, and reached for him.

25

Three

HER EYES WERE HUGE AND DARK, DEEP ENOUGH to drown

him, wide enough to swallow him whole. She wrapped her arms around

Caleb’s neck, pulled him between her smooth, bare thighs, and kissed

him.

Her mouth was silky hot, wet, and hungry. She tasted like one of

those girly umbrella drinks, sweet with a raw kick underneath that

slammed you in the head.

He was instantly hot. Incredibly turned on.

Closing his eyes, Caleb drank her in, the smell of her hair, the salt

tang of her skin, the hot, wild sweetness of her mouth. Her breasts—she

had amazing breasts— squashed against him. Her hands slipped from

around his neck and slithered down his chest. She started unbuckling his

belt.

He sucked in his breath.
Un-fucking-believable
.

Like a letter to
Penthouse
. Like one of Private Ziggy Fell’s stories,

“How I Spent My Time in the Green Zone.” Like a frigging dream.

Except since Mosul, Caleb’s dreams hadn’t been this good.

Nothing had ever felt this good.