Wickedly Wonderful(43)

“It must have been,” Beka said softly. “Chico told me he died. I’m sorry.”

Marcus grimaced. “It was a long time ago. But no, I don’t surf. I haven’t since Kyle was killed. After he drowned, the water just didn’t seem that friendly to me anymore. Hell, I went halfway across the world to work in the desert, just to get away from it.” He looked around at the ocean surrounding the dinghy, as if he couldn’t quite figure out how he’d gotten back there.

“Maybe it is time to make your peace with it,” Beka said, venturing a small smile. “Since you seem to be stuck here with all this water, for a while, at least.”

She tilted her head, thinking out loud. “I suspect Kyle would like it if you went back out on a surfboard, doing the thing he loved so much. I know you’ll probably think I’m just being a flaky New Age nut, but I’d bet that if you rode the waves with joy, the way you used to, you might even feel him out there, riding along by your side.”

Marcus was silent for a moment, and then he stunned Beka by leaning forward and kissing her with fervor. He wrapped one big hand around the curve of her shoulder and the other around the back of her head, pulling her in close as his lips pressed firmly against hers, both soft and rough at the same time. Heat blossomed between them, roaring up out of her core like a wildfire, fierce and magical and completely unexpected.

The kiss only lasted a minute or two, but it felt like an eternity of bliss. Beka felt strangely bereft without his arms around her.

“Wow,” she said, blinking rapidly.

Marcus gave her a wicked grin. “Sorry about that,” he said, clearly not sorry at all. “I just wanted to thank you for giving me a way to reconnect with my brother. I never would have thought of it like that.” He paused, and then added, his smile widening, “Not being a flaky New Age nut, and all.”

Beka rolled her eyes, pleased that her idea had gone over so well. And wondering what on earth she could suggest next to elicit the same reaction. Her heart still hadn’t stopped beating fast, and she thought her kneecaps might actually be trembling.

“Does that mean you’ll come surfing?” she asked.

“It means I’ll think about it,” Marcus said, back to his usual serious self.

And for a moment, it seemed as though he was going to lean forward and kiss her again, until a yell from off to their stern heralded the arrival of the Wily Serpent, with Chico waving wildly over the port side. Apparently they’d had a good day out on the water.

Beka rather felt that way herself.





TWELVE




“SO, YOU’RE GOING surfing with the fisherman,” Chewie said. Of course, his doggy snout was halfway into one of Beka’s specimen bags, so it sounded more like “Whrooworoomnn.” Still, Beka had no problem understanding him, more’s the pity.

“Maybe,” she answered, trying for a light tone. “He said he’d think about it. It’s no big deal. I just wanted to do something to thank him for helping me with the diving, and he hasn’t been out since his kid brother died.” She stuck her head into the small fridge to cool off her burning face and, while she was at it, look for something to eat. “I just told him to show up in the morning if he wanted to go with me.”

She was not going to think about that kiss again. Twice in five minutes was more than enough time to waste obsessing about something that was almost certainly never going to happen again. She definitely wasn’t going to tell Chewie about it. He’d never let her hear the end of it. But great Ziva, it had really been some kiss. She felt like steam was coming off of her, just thinking about it. Time to think about something else. Like the impossible task of figuring out what was poisoning the sea life in the trench where the Selkies and Merpeople lived.

“Get your nose out of there before you contaminate my samples,” she added. Chewie might be more dragon-in-disguise than actual Newfoundland, but he liked to add the occasional bit of drool to the act for verisimilitude.

“Touchy today, aren’t we?” Chewie said, sitting back on his haunches. “While you’re in there, see if you can find me a nice filet mignon, will you?”

Like much of the rest of the school bus, the refrigerator was more magical than mundane, and it could produce pretty much anything either she or Chewie felt like eating. Thankfully, it wasn’t nearly as temperamental as Barbara’s hut-turned-Airstream trailer, which had once produced nothing but cherry pies for a week. Beka’s residence was much more dependable; probably because it had been changed from a hut into a bus by her predecessor, and simply had never dared to argue.