Wild Blue Under

by Judi Fennell

  She was not going to think about that kiss.

  Of course, that made her look at his lips, and she remembered exactly what they’d felt like on hers, and that not-thinking-about-it thing wasn’t working so well.

  So she just wouldn’t look at him.

  Again, not working.

  Then he spoke, all velvety, rub-all-over-her-nerve-endings delicious, and her one supporting knee trembled. So she wrapped her arms around her midsection and tried to retain both her composure and her balance.

  Again, not working so well.

  “Valerie, I—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “It?”

  “Whatever it is you’re going to say.”

  “You know what I’m going to say?”

  “Yes. No. Well, not exactly. But I have a pretty good idea.” She rubbed her arms, and it certainly wasn’t because she was cold, though some might think differently if they saw the goose bumps. But she knew better. “That—” She nodded at the sofa. “Is not going to happen.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, it already did.”

  She hadn’t. She definitely hadn’t. “I mean, it’s not going to happen again.”

  “Oh?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because I don’t even know you.” And couldn’t think straight when he did that, as evidenced by the fact that it’d taken a seagull to get her attention.

  “That’s easily remedied.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him and tucked her hands into the back pockets of her shorts, wobbling once to steady herself. “Rod, what’s going on? Why are you here? Why is there a seagull in my kitchen?”

  Rod nodded. “Ah, yes.” He swept a hand toward the sofa. “Let’s sit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s comfortable?”

  Good point. She sat. “Okay, so now are you going to answer my questions?”

  “Yes. I’m here because I rented the apartment. I presume that’s the way one usually gets a key?”

  Great. Now she was homeless.

  Homeless, soon to be storeless, and an heiress—which would take care of the first two “-esses,” once she spent a few days with a guy who could kiss her so senseless she didn’t notice a seagull flying into the room.

  “You rented it? No one told me.”

  “Ah. A dilemma, to be sure. But I did tender my currency, so you’ll have to take that up with your agent. As to the seagull—”

  “Wait a minute. Why did you rent the apartment and not a room at a motel? Most people I know don’t usually rent an apartment for one night.” She was going to have to have a chat with her real estate agent. Great that he rented the place, but he could have told her, especially since she’d been planning to move in…

  “Ah. Well.” Rod cleared his throat and leaned back, draping an arm across the back of the sofa and an ankle over a knee, none of which should have had anything to do with the fact that he still didn’t have a shirt on, but… did. “Consider me unlike most people you know.”

  Another good point. She didn’t know anyone like him… except maybe her. He attracted seagulls as much as she did.

  Right. That.

  She sat up straighter and pressed her knees together, linking her hands around them to keep any body parts with wandering tendencies where she could monitor them. “What’s with the bird?”

  As if on cue, the thing flew into the room again, perching, thank God, on the back of the chair on the opposite side of the room.

  Val braced herself on the edge of the sofa, fingers ready to push off if need be. She wasn’t frightened exactly, but that whole adage about it being good luck if seagull poo landed on you… well, there’d been no poo yet, but she figured with the way things were going, that’d be next.

  Then it said, “Rod”—which was wrong for so many reasons.

  “It talks? And knows your name?”

  Oh yes, the proverbial poo had just met the proverbial fan.

  Oh Hades.

  Rod glanced at the gull and saw a crease above Livingston’s brows, his beak working in small movements that made Rod thankful the bird didn’t have lips.

  “Yes, he talks.” Rod pressed on his thighs to stand up, his brain working rapidly for a way to find out what Livingston wanted to tell him without letting Valerie know who and what the gull was. “And he can be, ah, persistent when he gets hungry, so let me feed him. Then we can finish our discussion. Why don’t you put that leg up, and I’ll be right back.”

  He strode from the room, not giving her the chance to answer because she’d just taken a big breath, and he knew from experience what that meant. Conversations following big intakes of air—or water—by any female were best avoided.

  Luckily, Livingston could take a hint.

  “Rod, we need to talk. Or we need to leave. Or, preferably, talk while we’re leaving,” the gull whispered from Rod’s shoulder the minute they were back in the kitchen.

  “I get that, Livingston.” Rod held out his palm for Livingston to alight on; he hated having a conversation with his shoulder.

  “No, you don’t. I mean now.”

  “Why, Livingston? The Prophecy isn’t going anywhere.” Valerie, neither, if he couldn’t get her to accept her father’s legacy, which, with her dislike of seagulls, was a good possibility if Livingston kept hanging around.

  “It’s not The Prophecy. My network says there’s going to be trouble.”

  “Your network? Here? I thought you only operated on the coasts.”

  “Then you think wrong. Don’t worry about it; I’m sure they were going to tell you once you took office. But, yes, we’ve got a bicoastal network, and my sources tell me something’s fishy about this operation. You need to get to the water ASAP.”

  “I know, Livingston, and I had her convinced until you showed up. In case you haven’t figured it out, she’s not all that keen on your species these days. And I can’t say I blame her.”

  “I don’t give a flying hoot if she likes me or not. She’ll thank me when we get her to the coast in one piece.” Livingston punctuated his words with a flapping of wings, which moved him to the countertop amid the food—not a surprise. “And that’s why I’m here. One of my operatives reported seeing an albatross in the area.”

  “An albatross? Albatrosses don’t travel this far inland.”

  “I know. You see the problem.”

  “You think it’s JR?”

  “In all probability. My network here wasn’t aware of him. There was no need to brief them on a seabird who’s never been known to venture this far inland. Obviously, times change, and since we don’t know what he’s up to but do know what he’s capable of,” —Livingston nudged one of the cans toward the edge of the counter—“my instinct says we need to get you and the Hybrid out of here now.”

  Rod picked up the can. Calamari. The bird had an excellent instinct for food. “My instinct says you’re here to do more than ensure I keep up my part of the plan, Livingston.” He pulled the tab, rolling the lid back but holding the can in his palm.

  Livingston shifted between his webbed feet, his head cocking to the side. “Come on, Rod, I’ve got my orders.”

  Just as he suspected. The Council wouldn’t send the Chief of ASA here on a babysitting mission. Livingston was too valuable. “You’ll soon be taking those orders from me, so talk.”

  Livingston eyed him, turning his head so both eyes could study Rod. Or maybe the seagull was trying to distract him with that red spot, but, again, Rod wasn’t going to be deterred.

  “There are rumors of a coup.”

  “A coup? You’re kidding.”

  Livingston puffed out his chest, that octopi-ink tattoo glaring against the white of his feathers. “I do not kid about possible takeover attempts.” He’d forgotten to lowe
r his voice.

  Rod shushed him, leaning back to peer around the corner. Damn, Valerie was hopping their way.

  “Right,” Livingston continued, his voice back to a whisper. “Listen. My department takes all threats seriously. And we consider ignition lines in a trench The Heir was to survey very serious.”

  “She’s coming. You’d better explain this and the ignition lines later.”

  “You’d better get rid of her so I can explain it later. Or better yet, get both of you out of town so no explanations are necessary.”

  “Rod?” Valerie hopped around the corner. “What’s going on? How long does it take to feed a seagull? And why does it talk?”

  “Hey, you should be off that ankle.” Rod set the tin on the counter then slung his arm around her waist and turned her back toward the living room. “I’ll get you something to put on that leg, then we’ll talk, okay?”

  “We can talk about everything tomorrow. Since you rented the apartment, I’ll get out of your hair so you can finish feeding… that.” She wobbled on the last word.

  “We have something to talk about right now, Valerie—namely, how dangerous it is for you to attempt the stairs with your injured leg.” He handed her a pillow for her ankle when she was back on the sofa. “Wait here. I’ll get him some food and you some ice.”

  Rod returned to the kitchen and opened the freezer for the ice, still marveling that what took thousands of selinos to create at the poles could be so readily available in one appliance. No wonder Humans weren’t doing enough about global warming.

  “Use the gods’ oil,” Livingston said with a ring of calamari around his beak. “We need her in perfect shape.”

  Oh, he could tell Livingston all about her perfect shape, but that was for his own edification. Still, it was a good suggestion.

  Rod put the ice in a paper towel then went to the bedroom for the bottle. He tilted one drop of the oil into his palm, replaced the stopper, and then returned to the living room.

  “Here.” He knelt before her, lifting her ankle into the palm with the oil.

  “I can do it.”

  “So can I. Relax. You’ll enjoy it.”

  She exhaled, but didn’t argue with him, thank the gods. He removed her shoe, tracing those small bones in her ankle again. She was so slight. He’d never noticed how fragile a female Human’s bones were, how little kept them upright. Legs were more complex than he’d realized.

  And hers were sexier than he’d ever imagined.

  He slid his fingers over her instep, around and up the back of her leg, her groan covering one he couldn’t suppress. She felt so good, so smooth. He kneaded the muscles, trying to focus on what he was supposed to be doing, but gods—he wanted to keep going. To trail his fingers up her leg. Circle behind her knee, graze the sleek line of her thigh, up… to the apex.

  Valerie’s voice was low and husky. “Mmmm, that feels good.”

  Didn’t he know it.

  Taking a ragged breath, Rod concentrated on bringing his hands back to her ankle. His first and foremost reason for touching her was to heal her.

  That little contented moan she gave when his fingers resumed the massage would be the second.

  And with a black-tipped wing waving from the kitchen, the third reason would be to keep her out here while he discovered what Livingston knew about a coup.

  He picked up the ice and put it over her sprain, which was now healed—not that he could explain that to her yet.

  She yelped when the cold registered. “What’d you do that for?”

  “Ice will help it heal.”

  She sat straight up and pushed her hair off her face, the soft relaxed look replaced with the shock to her system the cold had done. “You could’ve warned me.”

  “And have you tense up? No, this way the ankle got the full effect of the cold.” Now two wings waved at him from the kitchen. Rod stood, drawing the coffee table close enough to rest her foot on. “Are you hungry?”

  A flash of something crossed her face and Rod could bet it was the same flash that went through his mind.

  Hunger… Oh yeah.

  “No, thank you. I’m fine. I’m perfectly capable of fending for myself.”

  He nodded at her ankle. “I can see that.”

  The corners of her mouth tilted up with a hint of dimple high in her cheek. “Current situation excluded.”

  “Duly noted. Now, sit here and relax. You don’t want to let all my hard work go to waste, do you?”

  He handed her the remote control—a brilliant invention—and headed back into the kitchen to finish the conversation with Livingston—and not think about anything “hard” that had to do with Valerie.

  Chapter 7

  Besides the use of microwaves, Rod had learned how to prepare basic Human food from Erica, and he’d become quite enamored of tuna melts. Since the earlier meal had turned to rubber, he resumed the discussion with Livingston while toasting the muffins and draining the tuna. “So, about the rumors?”

  Livingston tossed another circle of calamari into the air, ringing it on his beak. “Two points,” he squawked from the sides of his beak before sliding it off and gulping it down. He wiped a dribble of liquid with his foot then reached for another piece.

  Rod slid the can out of reach. “Hey, LeBron? The coup?”

  “Been studying Human culture, have you?” Livingston sighed then shook his head. “It was only a rumor before we found your Trench Survey wired to blow. That’s why you got pulled off the study. Someone’s not happy your dad’s retiring. Or that you’re coming into power.”

  Wired to blow. Rod cursed. They’d told him the Survey had been put on hold for a special project, which he’d assumed had been Valerie. Not a bomb. “What happened?”

  “Initially, one of the guards reported seeing the ignition wires, but he never checked with the royal construction crew. He’d assumed they were for the preliminary blast for your soon-to-be-built Pacific palace. It was only after his supervisor read the report that The Council was alerted. I just got notification.”

  Livingston edged closer to the calamari. “Add in a recent shortage of diamonds in one of the older kimberlite pipes, and that compounds a coup scenario. Now that JR, who’d gone to ground a few months back, has been spotted, and with the large amount of unaccounted-for currency, well, it doesn’t take a marine biologist to figure out something’s fishy. You need to be settled on the throne—with Immortality—before everyone will be at ease. And word’s out about Valerie being found, so don’t take your eyes off her, either.”

  Rod glanced back at her, catching the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and he remembered how incredible those lips had felt beneath his.

  Don’t take his eyes off her? That wasn’t going to be a problem.

  “So now she’s in danger.”

  Livingston cocked his head, looking over his bill with both eyes. “Considering we don’t know who’s behind this, I’d say it’s better to be cautious than not. This trip couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

  This couldn’t be the gods’ doing. They might devise a test for him, but they wouldn’t include her. Especially if she was the answer to The Prophecy. No, something was going on that put not only him and Valerie in danger, but also the fate of the planet.

  He needed to get her to the water as soon as possible.

  Val flipped the channels, limited though they were since she’d turned off the dish service after the last tenant’s departure.

  She didn’t have to wonder what she’d have to turn off after Rod’s departure.

  Tricia had definitely called it. He was hot. But it was more than his looks. He was charming and funny and chivalrous and caring and compassionate and helpful and yeah, sexy. She had to include that because he just… was. He also came bearing gifts that any normal woman would probably swoon over.


  And even though she hadn’t swooned, she had to admit that, as messenger service went, he was perfect. Yes, his overnight accommodations might be off the beaten path, and he did have a talking seagull, but those problems could be overcome.

  Well, no. That seagull thing couldn’t. And since the feathered friend was presumably staying here, she’d better head over to Tricia’s family’s motel. Tomorrow she’d have a few words with that real estate agent.

  Oh, and have this place fumigated after the seagull left.

  Val removed the ice from her ankle, amazed that it felt so much better. There was something to be said for the healing power of massage—not to mention what else massage was good for.

  Okay then.

  She was halfway to standing when Rod came back with something heavenly smelling on the plates in his hands, two beers under his arm, and his shorts riding low on his hips.

  Her knees buckled. Good thing there was a sofa behind her.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing her a plate and setting the beers on the coffee table. “You really should keep that foot up.”

  So she did. It was either that or risk putting it in her mouth.

  Val opted for the tuna melt instead.

  And it did. Melt. In her mouth. As it was supposed to do, she guessed.

  Or maybe the melting had something to do with the incredible muscle contractions his abdomen did as he sat in the chair kitty-corner from her.

  No, actually, those dried her mouth out.

  She slugged back a good swallow of the beer and choked on the fizz.

  Rod leaned over to pat her on the back and set her plate down. “Are you okay?”

  Moisture pooled at the corners of her eyes, yet she managed to nod. He couldn’t be blamed for stealing her breath just because he was half-dressed.

  Well, okay, maybe he could. She should probably ask him to put on a shirt.

  Then he leaned back and the six-pack contracted and flexed and did all sorts of wonderful, nether-region-quivering things.