Extraordinarily Yours: Collection 1 (An Extraordinarily Yours Romance Book 8)

by J. Kenner

  Despite his mood, Jason stifled a laugh. They’re never going to believe you’re friendly, he said. It’s the teeth.

  Lester’s black eyes turned sad, and Jason felt a twinge of sorrow at having to remind his friend of the inescapable truth: no one was going to believe that a sleek gray eating machine just wanted someone to play with.

  Have you seen anything? Jason asked, trying to get his mind back on his mission.

  Lester rocked from side to side. Nothing.

  Jason nodded. He’d expected that. In fact, he was beginning to think this whole assignment was a big waste of time.

  So far, the only nefarious deed he’d seen was a tough-looking nine-year-old giving a wedgie to a pasty-faced little boy. Jason had put a stop to it right away, levitating the bully’s shoes so he tripped over his own feet and then landed facedown in a tide pool. It might not be saving the world, but it was something.

  You really think he’s going to strike here?

  Jason shrugged. That’s what the Council says. Intelligence had warned that Hieronymous intended to attack this Southern California park. Apparently, the evil mastermind was after some sort of talisman and believed it could be found here.

  Jason shook his head. Zephron had sworn that his assignment to the case was purely the luck of the draw, but Jason wasn’t so sure. It might be coincidence . . . but Jason had a sneaking suspicion that the Inner Circle was testing him.

  Hieronymous, Lester said, his teeth and powerful jaws making him look like something out of a horror movie. The shark turned away, nestling down behind a nearby rock. Scary.

  Sissy, Jason teased.

  Not at all, Lester argued. I’m a pragmatist. Why do you think I’m here? I get all my meals prepared, humans in wetsuits to play with, and no one running and screaming if I swim up near a beach to try to make a friend. His tail twitched. But if Hieronymous really does want something here, I’m probably better off in the ocean.

  Jason nodded. The shark was right. I’m going to keep making the rounds, he said, turning to leave. Keep your eyes open.

  Outside, Jason made a quick pass by the manatee habitat, wishing he could ask the creatures if they’d seen anything suspicious. Manatees had excellent reputations as responsible observers, but Jason’s powers were limited to communicating with fish and cetaceans. Manatees were just too far removed.

  The dolphins weren’t much better. While they were eager to help—he’d expected their cooperation, since much of his spare time at Sea World was spent hanging out with the sleek mammals—they didn’t have much to say. And their habitat was open, so the crowd of kids tossing them dinner tended to distract them from Jason’s purpose. When he finally did manage to communicate his question, all Jason learned was that the dolphins had seen nothing but had thoroughly enjoyed their somewhat slimy snack.

  Not exactly useful information.

  Jason checked his watch. Almost two o’clock. In a few minutes, Shamu’s show would begin, but until then, Jason could get a decent view of the park from the roof of the staff building. He walked toward it and the orca’s pool.

  The whale might be helpful, too. At over thirty-five years old, the beast was the oldest orca in the park. Originally named Corky, he’d readily adopted the Shamu stage name, loving to entertain the children who came to see him. If Jason was lucky, the observant cetacean might have seen or heard something out of the ordinary. Shamu was as clever as they came; if there was trouble brewing at Sea World, he would likely know.

  As he arrived at the whale’s theater, kids were already grabbing seats in the stands. It wouldn’t do for them to see him, so Jason reached into his Council-issued utility pack—craftily designed to look like nothing more than an ordinary day pack—and pulled out his Propulsion and Invisibility cloak. The cloak was a new model, not yet standard issue for Protectors, but one of the advantages of being stuck on Olympus for months had been being able to schmooze his way into access to some of the upgraded gizmos and gadgets the Council scientists were developing.

  Jason looked at the staff building. As soon as he’d closed his cloak around himself, rendering himself invisible, he pressed off with his heels, letting the garment’s propulsion carry him to the roof. Once there, he crouched on its edge, his muscles taut as he pulled out a pair of binocs and surveyed the park.

  Still no sign of Hieronymous or any of his mischief-making Outcasts.

  Absently, Jason tapped his holo-pager. He knew he shouldn’t call the High Elder, but this was turning out to be a complete waste of time. In theory, he could handle such frustration. After all, a large part of the superhero gig involved watching and waiting. But today, the waiting was grating on his nerves. His personal life was in a shambles, and the last thing he needed was stress on the job. Save the world? Sure. Waste precious hours on a false lead? No, thank you.

  Frustrated, he plucked the pager off his belt and started idly fiddling with the dial. He didn’t transmit—not yet. He couldn’t quite work up the nerve. He’d dedicated his life to being the good guy: watching over mortals, rescuing them from danger, and, whenever possible preventing the danger from striking in the first place. He hadn’t abandoned that philosophy, not at all. If anything, his long internment and subsequent escape had solidified just how worthwhile his efforts to foil his father’s band of Outcasts were. Hieronymous was a boil on the butt of humanity, dangerous to both Protectors and mortals, and Jason intended to stop him. Not only was that one of a Protector’s sworn duties; for Jason, it was personal. Even more personal now than it had been before his capture.

  He might have screwed up seven years ago, but this time he wouldn’t fail. He’d best his father and, in doing so, prove himself to the Inner Circle. Then, finally, he’d get his promotion to Protector First Class.

  Even more than that, though, he’d get revenge for the family Hieronymous had stolen from him. Revenge for the fact that he hadn’t been able to be a father to his son.

  Six years. Hieronymous had stolen more than six years, and Jason could never, ever, get them back. But where he couldn’t have restitution, he damn well intended to extract payment. When Jason was through, Hieronymous would regret imprisoning him. Hell, when Jason was through, Hieronymous would regret siring him.

  He took a deep breath, tamping down on the familiar anger that had dwelled so long in his breast, a strong current pulling him to action. He was free now. He’d done his time debriefing on Olympus, and now he was ready to meet his family.

  Of course, when he’d finally gotten permission to leave Olympus a month ago, Jason had realized he didn’t know the first thing about being a dad. Better to be prepared: he’d learned that well enough seven years ago. Which was why he’d postponed his arrival on Lane’s doorstep and instead gone out and purchased every book on the subject—from What to Expect the First Year (Davy was a little past that, true, but Jason thought he needed the background information) to the latest Terry Brazelton. He’d memorized Goodnight Moon, knew all the words to every song the Wiggles had ever belted out, and felt like he was close, personal friends with Bob the Builder. He hadn’t watched an adult-oriented television show or read an adult-oriented book in four weeks, but, by Zeus, he’d made himself ready to have a conversation with his son. Loving, yet firm. Nurturing, yet with boundaries. Oh yeah. He’d nailed this parenting thing.

  Then the Council’s letter had arrived and shot his plan all to hell. Forget smooth introductions. Forget lazy picnics in the park. Forget three times around the block with training wheels. Now he would be forced to just swoop in, drop the bomb, and haul Davy off to boarding school. But first he had to finish staking out Sea World. Duty over family and all that jazz.

  With a sigh, Jason clipped his pager back onto his utility belt. He’d do his job, wait this out; then when the park closed, he’d report in that the day had been a bust. After that, he’d head over to Lane’s house and deliver his news—then he’d really see some action.

  Once again, he raised the binoculars to his eyes and survey
ed the park. A guy in a wetsuit far below was climbing into Shamu’s retaining pool, getting the whale ready for the upcoming show. Across the way, a dozen or so kids were playing in the tide pools. A shrill scream ripped the air behind him, and Jason started to leap—then he realized it was just the kids on the roller coaster.

  All in all, a typical day at the park.

  The gate opened below, and Shamu eased into his pool. The whale made a quick lap around the perimeter then leapt out of the water, dousing his audience with a huge splash as he landed.

  Show off, Jason called down.

  The whale rolled onto his side, one flipper in the air as he waved to the giggling, clapping crowd. Just giving the people what they want, he replied, unperturbed by the voice coming out of nowhere. Good to see you again, Jason. Too bad about the circumstances.

  Yup. What’s the word around the pool?

  Just that you’re hot on the lookout for Hieronymous. The whale went silent as he leapt from the water in a spray of foam.

  Jason knew Shamu’s routine by heart. One of the downsides of his particular superpower was that he had to spend every full moon as a dolphin. As a child, his mother had begun taking him to this park for each transformation. During his debriefing on Olympus, that tradition had been reinstated. Apparently the Council assumed he couldn’t get into much trouble here.

  Shamu circled the pool twice, then launched himself out and onto the shallow concrete “beach” for his prize of raw fish and a pat on the head by a cute brunette with braids. It’s not Broadway, the whale called, but it’s a living.

  The kids screamed and applauded, clearly having a great time. Shamu’s words didn’t fool Jason. He knew the huge creature loved his life.

  Let me know if you notice anything out of the ordinary, he yelled over the crowd’s shouting.

  The whale splashed his tail in assent, then dove back into the water, ready to start his next round of tricks.

  Jason took off from the platform, leaving Shamu’s theater and zipping over the crowd to perch on the top of the Sky Tower to continue his surveillance of the park. A shock of coppery-red hair caught his attention, and he leaned forward, adjusting the binoculars to zoom in. There was something familiar about the woman standing there. Something—

  Zoe Smith.

  He blinked, yanking the binoculars away, and sat back frowning. Zoe Smith—now Zoe Taylor—was the most famous recent addition to the Council. She was also, as Hieronymous’s niece, his cousin. But she didn’t know that. She was famous in the Council because not only had she foiled her uncle, she was happily married to a mortal. Jason had seen her quite a bit recently, too. Zoe’s husband was Lane’s brother, and both of the times Jason had sneaked a peek at Lane and Davy, Zoe and Taylor had been there as well.

  But what was Zoe doing at Sea World? Had Zephron sent her in as back-up? Or worse, had Zephron sent her in because he didn’t think Jason could get the job done?

  Until now, Jason had thought Zephron was in his corner. Maybe he’d misjudged the High Elder. Maybe Zephron, like the other elders in the Inner Circle, expected Jason to leap into the abyss. The possibility irritated Jason, and he lifted the binocs again, intent on figuring out what Zoe was up to.

  He focused straight in on her face, expecting to see her scanning the park, looking for danger. Instead, she was licking a Fudgsicle with an intense expression, as if she wasn’t quite sure if the chocolate was a good or a bad thing.

  With one hand rubbing his temples, Jason watched a bit longer, sure there was some official purpose to Zoe’s presence. But no, after watching her consult a park map, toss out her half-eaten frozen treat, and call to someone beyond his field of vision, Jason was certain he knew the score: Zoe Smith was here as a civilian.

  Odd, but possibly helpful. If Hieronymous did strike, Jason could use all the assistance he could get. In fact, he ought to head down and tell Zoe the situation right away.

  He was just about to do so when a familiar figure stepped into view. Towheaded and energetic, the figure turned, looking up into the sky as if he could feel Jason watching him.

  Davy. His son.

  Then, before Jason could even process the development, Hieronymous struck—and all hell broke loose.

  The little cafe in Westwood was hopping, unusually busy even for a Saturday afternoon. Writer types were hunched over scripts; actor types were busy emoting; banker types were catching up on past issues of Kiplinger’s and The Wall Street Journal, and law school types were sitting, eyes glazed, staring at pages and pages of text, rambling on about Erie, Pennoyer and Marbury v. Madison.

  Lane Kent sighed, fighting off a teeny-tiny wave of guilt. As a first-year law student and a mom, she should be either studying or spending time with her kid. She wasn’t doing either. Instead, she was on a lunch date, and Davy was at Sea World with his aunt.

  Out of habit, Lane dipped her hand into her cavernous purse to get her cell phone. Zoe’s number was programmed in the #3 slot. The #2 slot was assigned to Lane’s foster brother, George Bailey Taylor. The #1 slot was currently empty, having been assigned at various times to a series of men who—truth be told—hadn’t been worth the trouble of battling the phone’s convoluted programming system.

  Finally, though, Lane had wised up. No longer did she program in her boyfriend du jour. No, she and the #1 slot were staying open, waiting it out until Mr. Right arrived, proving he was slot-worthy by sweeping her off her feet.

  She frowned, mentally correcting herself. She wasn’t looking to be swept away. Not anymore. She’d been swept away once, and it had backfired utterly. She’d been hopelessly, painfully in love then. She’d been young, practically a kid, but she’d known deep in her heart that Jason was the man—her friend, her lover, her soul mate. Everything had been wine and roses.

  She hadn’t intended to get pregnant, but when the little pink line had appeared on the stick she’d celebrated, her joy ultimately overcoming her natural fear and insecurity. She was young, she was single, but she had a man who loved her and would take care of her and her son. A good man.

  Or so she’d thought.

  Apparently her instincts had needed some serious fine-tuning. Instead of embracing her as she’d hoped, Jason had seemed decidedly uncomfortable with her news. He’d said he was excited, but his eyes told a different story. They had seemed almost angry—which had really ticked her off, since she hadn’t exactly been alone in making a baby.

  The evening had disintegrated from there. And when she’d tried to smooth out the weird vibes by telling him how lucky she felt to have fallen in love with a man as good as him and what a wonderful father he’d make, he’d said a hasty good-bye, flat-out lying to her and telling her he had to go take care of something, but he’d be back in the morning.

  Yeah, right.

  They’d parted ways that night, and he hadn’t come back.

  And when she went to the marina to confront him on his houseboat two days later, the slip was empty and the office said he’d left no forwarding address.

  Bastard.

  She’d smartened up. Now, seven years later, instead of a good romance she just wanted a good man. She didn’t have to be madly in love with him; but he had to be madly in love with her son. Most important, he had to be a man she was certain would never, ever, leave.

  Lane’s own childhood had been fraught with upheaval. She’d been bounced from foster home to foster home, never staying in one place long enough to put down roots, never really forming a bond with any of the foster families she stayed with. She didn’t want that for Davy. No, she wanted him to have everything, the whole Norman Rockwell package. And that meant Lane needed a man who’d put Davy first, her second, and everything else third. A stable man. One who’d always be there. Davy’d been without a daddy long enough. And when she found the right candidate for the job, Lane intended to recruit him heavily, sign him up, then have the guy start making up for lost time.

  Automatically, her eyes drifted across the restaurant to where Aa
ron stood chatting with the owner. His constant schmoozing was one of the downsides of dating an attorney who was working his way up the ladder. But if Aaron was a shark, Lane had to admit that he was a nice one. In the short time they’d been dating, they’d gone out alone only a few times. On most outings, Aaron had insisted Lane bring Davy along—an insistence she appreciated, since her recent return to school left her with precious little time to spend with her son.

  And Aaron was great with the boy. They’d done the Disney thing, of course, watching all the movies ad nauseum and making the trek to Disneyland twice, but Aaron didn’t have to rely on cartoon characters to entertain the almost seven-year-old. No, he was more than happy to get down on the floor and play with Davy’s trucks. Plus, he naturally oohed and ahhed over all of Davy’s “inventions.” Lane couldn’t help but approve. The man had definite daddy potential.

  She was pretty sure he had other potential as well—which, while not a requirement in her new set of priorities, was definitely a plus. So far, he hadn’t done more than plant a sweet good-night kiss on her cheek, but she could sense interest on his part, and from what she could tell, all systems were go. They might not have started the countdown, but they were definitely inching toward the launch pad. So maybe—just maybe—Aaron would end up in the coveted #1 slot of her cell phone.

  Inside her purse, her fingers slid over the phone’s plastic casing, her finger itching to push its buttons. Restraint battled with maternal concern. It would be so easy. Just one tap of her finger and she could check up on her sister-in-law and on her son.

  Of course, if she called, Zoe would think Lane didn’t trust her to keep watch over Davy. Which wasn’t true. Not at all.

  Really.

  “Something on your mind?” Aaron slid into the chair next to her, a knowing grin on his face. “Or someone?”

  She stifled a grimace. Already, the man knew her too well. “I’m not overprotective. I’m just . . . curious.” She nodded, emphasizing the point. “I’m an involved mother. I like to know what my kid is up to all the time.”