The old woman chuckled. "Ah, well. Most of my family moved from Nassau to Mississippi two generations ago and brought with them the stories from others who claimed to have witnessed a time traveler for themselves. Stories were passed down from mother to daughter, stories of mysterious happenings in the Devil's Triangle."
Christophe shivered and glanced out the large window. He'd never believed in the superstitions surrounding that mysterious patch of the Atlantic. Whole vessels were never seen or heard of again, and judging by what had happened to The Calypso, he figured they were victims of pirates or perilous weather. A ship-killing storm didn't always make it to land, and often the debris from the wreck washed away the evidence or pirates raided it before confirmation could be made.
"As the legend goes," Mrs. Baker continued and he glanced over his shoulder. "Everyone has a soulmate—and every three hundred years, those souls have one chance to come together. Sometimes, the souls of the past lock on to the future versions, or vice versa." She held her palms up in front of her to demonstrate. "But they have to be passing over a vortex at the same place, on the same day." Then she clapped her hands together.
"The maelstrom." It came out a whisper. The vivid blue-green spiraling water had sucked his longboat into its depths. That he'd not died was a miracle in itself. Another shiver passed through him as he turned back to the window. The light from the room made the glass too dark to see well, but the familiar movement of ocean beyond was there all the same. He could have easily drowned rather than ended up here.
"The vortex appeared to you in the form of a whirlpool? I would imagine it was terribly frightening."
He coughed out a laugh. "It was...not pleasant."
Mrs. Baker smiled. "And have you, perchance, happened upon someone with whom you felt instant attraction to?" She snapped her fingers. "A compulsion to be with them, even though you should probably be figuring out how to survive in this new time instead?"
An image of the wench from earlier came to him and he sighed. Had she bewitched him through a maelstrom and then shut him out the moment he'd made his desire known? Sure, he'd insulted her, but she was skittish. He wanted to see her walls crumble around her as she gave into him. To see her trepidation give way to passion. For some unfathomable reason he longed to earn that trust from her, as though it were the greatest treasure in all the land and seas.
"Ah," Mrs. Baker palmed her cheeks. "You have." Then, as if the confirmation of whatever she'd seen in his expression had solved a problem she'd laid out for herself, she used her cane to rise to her feet once again. "Josiah will be back shortly, and we have no time to lose. We will have two days in Bermuda before we sail back to the mainland and your soulmate gets away from you. Let's clean you up, put some food in you, and figure out what to do about your documentation so you can charm her."
Documentation? If he had arrived in a new time, all traces of his identity were erased. Perhaps drowning would've been a better option.
If not for her. The dark-haired beauty.
As if on cue, a knock at the door signaled Josiah's arrival before he opened it to check that Christophe hadn't done anything vile to his mother.
"You've been given an opportunity not many of us ever get," Mrs. Baker said as though they hadn't been interrupted. "So don't let her slip away, Christophe Jones. As my son pointed out, the tales often speak of a reward for those who are good, honest people. It seems you were in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle at exactly the right time to receive it."
Christophe didn't think he'd done anything special in life. He'd killed people in the past year, but only in a fight or to save his own hide. He supposed he didn't have to feed that man to the shark earlier in the evening. Perhaps a blood sacrifice to some pagan deity had been the real reason he was rewarded with a trip through time. He may never know the answers. In fact, his appearance here may not even be permanent. Too many questions plagued him. "Are you a witch?"
"I'm no more a witch than you are dead. Though reading auras and telling fortunes, it runs in my blood. Somewhere in my family perhaps someone was. It's not important." She motioned for him and Josiah to exit the room before her. "Let's make you presentable so you can woo your woman, win her, find happiness and, above all, love."
Chapter Three
The time between sleep and waking messed with Serena's mind. As a child, she'd often had such realistic dreams before waking that she didn't know if they'd really occurred or not.
She'd dreamed of the pirate this morning.
Hugging her pillow close, Serena sighed. He'd taken her into his arms, tanned and strengthened by his time at sea. Then he released her long enough to shed the heavy jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. The rings on his fingers gleamed as he tilted her head back and then kissed her with wicked intent. The sea rolled under the ship, and she careened into his lap. Christophe laughed and positioned her beneath him, grinding against her, assuring her of what she made him feel.
She'd tumbled off the mattress and came to with a start. When she'd sat up, her gaze immediately shot to the bed to assure herself she was alone. Now back in bed, she brought her fingers to her lips. It seemed so real. Her body lingered on the edge of a release it shouldn't crave. Not from him. Not after he'd try to buy her like a prostitute.
Heaving a sigh, Serena climbed to her feet and distracted herself with her morning routine. She hopped in the shower, letting cool water calm her frazzled nerves as she freshened up for a day on the beaches of Bermuda. She couldn't wait until Becky Ann broke out of the ship's infirmary and occupied her with anything other than daydreams about blue-eyed pirates with blond hair and a voice that shot straight to her loins. All accented and deep and sexy—
She would not think about it at all. Instead, she would pretend she wasn't a nutcase and socialize with Becky Ann and other people. If she could muster up the courage to talk to any of them. That was the entire issue.
Large social scenes exhausted her. She preferred smaller gatherings of friends and the bliss of returning home to recharge in the solitude of her single lifestyle. Her last relationships failed because she couldn't figure out how to incorporate a healthy amount of alone time to remain sane, but at the same time she didn't find it necessary to talk at every waking moment. Her boyfriends had mistaken her lack of texting or calling at all hours as signs of disinterest. She'd tried to explain she wasn't the kind of girl who needed to be with a man twenty-four/seven. She wanted to be around them, just not...all the time.
Apparently, men could not handle any distance whatsoever without cheating on her. They always dumped her for some boyfriend-dependent floozy who'd known their new significant other had been dating her when they started sleeping together. They deserved each other, and she was better off alone. It stung though.
Maybe it was a blessing. Maybe she'd find someone she could be around that often without needing space, but as of yet, she doubted her life would change, especially for a relationship. If a man couldn't handle her secluding herself every so often for her well-being, he wasn't right for her. He could either respect that she was an introverted freak of nature or run the other way.
After brushing her teeth, flossing, and dressing in a modest tankini with a halter dress to cover up with, she slipped on a pair of glittery flip-flops and grabbed her pineapple print beach tote with everything she'd need for the day. The lock clicked and the door opened before she reached it.
"Why are you still in here?" Becky Ann groaned and rolled her luggage into the room. She'd had Serena bring it to her in the infirmary when she'd found out she was stuck there so she could change clothes without relying on assistance. "Bermuda awaits, yo!"
Shaking her head at her friend's antics, she followed Becky Ann toward the deck to take her first glimpse of the island. The blue water made her long to dive in, and happy tourists were already spilling off the boat to the dock like anxious ants inching toward a picnic. Despite the fact she was ready to go home, the sight of beautiful beaches always delighted he
r. She loved to swim. To lie out and read or listen to her iPod. To sip fancy alcoholic drinks that were so fruity it hid the taste of rum or tequila and had itty bitty umbrellas sticking out the top.
When they'd made it through the throng of tourists and past the first enthusiastic batch of locals trying to sell them anything from shirts to handmade jewelry to koozies, it didn't take long to find a nice, nearly secluded, sunny area of beach. Becky Ann's color was much improved since Serena saw her last and she said as much as they spread out their towels and ditched their cover-ups before sitting.
Becky Ann grinned, raising her arms up over her head and stretching like a contented feline. "They said I can go back to the room for the remainder of the trip if I keep taking the motion sickness meds." She rolled onto her side and tilted her bright red cat-eye shades down to the tip of her nose. "Unless you need me to stay in medical so you can surrender the booty to your pirate. Argh!"
Serena chucked her sunscreen at her, but it made Becky Ann laugh harder and add, "Sorry. I forgot you tend to go full vanilla. It would be more like this shirt I saw in one of the Nassau gift shops: 'Ye can have me chest, but leave me booty alone.'"
She couldn't help but bark out a laugh. Who thought of this crap? "That is not written on a shirt."
"It totally is." Becky Ann tossed the sunscreen back to her. "Pirate innuendo is the best thing to happen in gift stores, I swear."
"Becky..." Serena sat up, yanking off her shades and shielding her eyes with a hand. A blond man was making his way across the beach, straight toward them. "That Christophe guy is heading over here." How the hell had he found her that fast?
You went to the first beach you saw, moron. You can still see the ship in the distance. It's not like you made it difficult.
Her friend craned her head but shrugged. "I don't see a pirate. Are you sure you weren't tipsy and made him up to rub one out? Respectable if so. No judgment."
She loved her friend, but sometimes wished she could take things more seriously. "Um...I'm pretty sure I didn't get tipsy until after I got rid of him." Because I couldn't stop thinking about him. "He doesn't look like a pirate today because he's not dressed like one. Must be off duty." But clocked in to his moonlighting specialty: stalking.
Surely disappointment did not course through her at the observation. He'd made a really great pirate. Today he wore a pair of blue jeans, white boat shoes, and a dark gray polo shirt. His long hair had been brushed, pulled back in a low ponytail, and a lock had come loose over his left temple. The only accessories he'd retained from his pirate getup were his silver rings, and she was developing a perverted fascination with those ring-clad, long fingers and how they would feel—
She coughed, derailing that train of thought. Becky Ann would approve. When Christophe noticed her catch sight of him, he paused, set his jaw, and continued his trek. Serena glanced around frantically. There was no place to hide. Anywhere. She was exposed. In the open. A lamb away from the flock waiting to be picked off. "What do I do?"
Becky Ann sat up and stared at her, slack-jawed. "Girl, you look like you just caught sight of a swamp monster." She paused to peer over her shoulder at Christophe again. "If you run, I'm going to tackle you like an NFL linebacker. He's sexy as hell and obviously into you." She pouted and arched her back, tossing her hair in the process. Her friend looked like she was in the process of posing for Sports Illustrated. "See. No ogling all of this hotness right here. He's either into you or gay."
Please. He was still far enough away that if he shifted his gaze, it wouldn't be noticeable. "How do you know he's even looking at me and not someone else on the beach?"
Becky Ann made a facial expression she usually reserved for small, adorable puppies. "There's no one behind you, sweetie."
She was right, the beach behind her was empty but for the chairs and towels of people swimming farther down. Christophe was almost upon them now, and if she could melt through her beach chair she would. "What do I say?" Serena hadn't told her about the misunderstanding the night before and didn't want to. Becky Ann would find it hilarious even though it'd been insulting. Honestly, Christophe didn't deserve any more of her time.
Becky Ann shook her head and chuckled. "How you've managed to have boyfriends and sex before truly amazes me. You had game at some point, find it. Tell him you want one night, no strings. Men love the freedom, and you never have to see him again if he's bad in the sack."
She sputtered, searching for her cover-up and realizing it was in her bag, under the reclining beach chair and out of immediate reach without standing and bending over to snag it. She was not giving him that view of her. Becky Ann winked before she turned to the approaching time bomb.
Christophe finally came to a halt about five feet from her chair. He bowed low, keeping his eyes on hers the entire time. It must be difficult for him, what with my harlot skin exposed. Hmmph!
"Wow." Becky Ann fanned herself in earnest and flung her legs over the side of her chair as she stood, tossing her shades into the abandoned seat. "B.R.B, Serena. I need to dunk myself in the ocean before I combust." Then the traitor twirled away, leaving a deep indention in the pinkish white sand. Leaving her there.
To die of mortification.
Serena glared at her friend's retreating back, the multicolored strings from her sugar skull-designed bikini waved with each step. Not only had she revealed her name to the scoundrel frowning at her friend, but she'd also abandoned her to talk to him. Did anyone ever stop and think maybe she didn't want to talk to this guy?
I'm going to kill her while she sleeps tonight.
"What is B.R.B?" Christophe asked, finally saying something to break their tense silence.
Maybe he didn't use social media or text much. "Shorthand for 'be right back.' Shouldn't be used in actual conversation though; she thinks she's cute." She's not. "You look different."
Christophe smirked and crossed his arms. "My clothes are being laundered. Seems I smelled strongly of a sea battle." He dropped his gaze to her mouth, and she shuddered, recalling the gunpowder scent. "So the siren has a fitting name. Serena suits you well."
Resentful of the butterflies taking flight under his gentle tone and flattery, she had no choice but to sully the moment. Misunderstandings or further insults wouldn't be flung her way, and she'd scare him off to ensure it. "So I'm a siren now and not a wench or a whore?"
He cringed and then glanced away briefly. "I apologize. I—"
She held up a hand, pointing. "If you dare blame it on my clothing, I will call security and tell them you're harassing me. It's 2015. Get over it. Women dress this way. Every woman on the ship is dressed this way, and it's not an invitation into our pants."
Shifting uncomfortably, he rubbed the back of his neck and moistened his lips. She hated herself for staring and absolutely loathed the warmth coursing through her abdomen. How could she still be attracted to him? He'd insulted her, infuriated her, yet being the subject of his attention excited all while intimidating her. It had to be the pirate look from the night before. Merely a fantasy created by the romanticizing of an era through film and literature. It was easy to imagine letting a rogue ravish her until her toes curled, but in reality, the lack of respect ruined the moment. She wasn't that kind of girl, and Christophe wasn't really a pirate. He should know better.
"Right...2015." His voice was different and almost...tense. Like she'd said something weird, but Serena brushed it off when he lifted his shoulders high and dropped them again, slipping his hands into his pockets. "There's a perfectly good explanation as to what occurred last night, love."
She'd figured out the change in his voice. His accent had lost the island inflections from the night before, though a strong English accent remained. She liked it better. Made him seem more of this world and not from another. What an odd thought. "Oh?" Serena said pointedly. "And what would that be?" This one she had to hear. What constituted insinuating someone was a whore while attempting to sleep with them as okay?
He sh
ook his head sadly, but his smirk held the hint of amusement. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I'm not certain I believe it."
She rolled her eyes and replaced her sunglasses. "Whatever. I have tanning to do, and you're blocking my sun." She waved her hand dismissively, feeling emboldened by her own defensiveness. Flirting she had trouble with. Being dismissive she could do without fail.
His smirk grew into a dazzling grin as his gaze locked onto her hand. It was predatory. He was preparing to pounce. Her attitude wasn't deterring him at all, and her body's reaction wouldn't give up. Crap.
"Shall we begin anew?" Christophe changed the subject and kneeled beside her, taking her hand in both of his.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
She tried to pull it away, but he held tightly, caressing her knuckles with his thumb. His touch was warm, and those fingers she'd been so intrigued with caged her, trapping her at his mercy. She couldn't think straight with his hands on her. Serena gaped at him, anger seeping out of her, only to be replaced by sheer bafflement. What does it take to scare this guy off? It wasn't that she wasn't interested. Telling herself otherwise would be a lie. But she would not tolerate disrespect, and the night before had been pretty damning.
While her hormones continued to dance to the song of their "people" through her loins, Serena had lost sight of Becky Ann. But at that precise moment, flailing arm movement caught her eye. Behind Christophe, in the surf, Becky Ann gestured for her to grab Christophe and swiftly began undulating against the waves in a provocative manner. Yeah, like I'm going to do him right here on the beach. She narrowed her eyes. There wouldn't be any of that happening at all.
Christophe turned around to see what had diverted her attention from him—because he probably knew he was pretty difficult to ignore, the jerk. His jaw dropped, giving Serena a chance to yank her hand free, nearly sending her chair toppling in the process. Becky Ann froze mid-thrust, dropped into the water, and then proceeded to doggie paddle around, staring into the air, oblivious. If they were closer, Serena would bet she was even whistling.
Through the Maelstrom Page 4