Siren's Secret

by Debbie Herbert

  Focus.

  He turned from the closet and went to a huge dresser stuffed with lacey things, little slips of panties with matching bras. No knife. Melkie opened the silver flask on one of the perfume bottles, breathing deep its scent, both musky and floral, complex notes scrambling his brain with lust. He put the top back on it and stuffed it in his pants pocket, too. As he left the room, possibly her room, he saw an Oriental jewelry box by the nightstand. He crossed the room and greedily swiped gold rings lined up against black velvet, sparking like midnight rainbows. Sweet. These pickings would help supplement the state of Alabama’s measly unemployment check.

  This could be her room—but he’d seen nothing to know for sure.

  The last bedroom was pristine, and he’d almost passed it by. But a faint citrusy scent gave him pause. He entered, checking out the closet and dresser drawers. Perhaps an overnight guest of Jet and Lily Bosarge?

  Light bounced off a photo on a nightstand. Melkie picked it up, pocketing the black pearl necklace draped on its abalone-shell frame. The corners of his lips twitched as he stared at the photograph of the mermaid with her long, blond hair.

  Gotcha, he whispered in the stillness.

  He set it back on the table, reached in his back pocket and pulled out the mermaid figurine from the globe Tia Henrietta had given him. Breaking it into two pieces, he laid the broken mermaid under the pillow. That message should be clear enough. Melkie lay on her bed, pulling out the other present he’d bought for her—one of his mom’s old hooker panties. He’d intended to just leave them where she would find them, knowing someone had been in her room. But now—the scent of woman, the lingerie, the photograph of her smiling at him as he lay there—now he had another gift for this mermaid.

  He’d show her who was boss, would make her scream in agony as he ripped out those sea-witchy, freaky eyes. Melkie unzipped his jeans and began rubbing Mama’s panties on his crotch.

  * * *

  By the time they got out of the restaurant and drove to Murrell’s Point for a walk, Tillman’s phone had rung twice more. Shelly wanted to toss the device in the ocean. How could he stand being tied to it all the time?

  One disconcerting moment occurred when they had exited Tillman’s car and a half-dozen cats gathered around her. They bristled and hissed, their alien eyes flashing fluorescent in the moonbeams. Clearly they sensed she was the mother lode of a fish dinner. One had nipped at her legs experimentally until Tillman gallantly shooed them all away.

  The ocean was calm with only an occasional whitecap in the distance. Even though the moon was beginning to wane and not at its peak, Shelly still felt a strong urge to leap in and swim, to feel the undercurrents tugging at her weightless body as she played and swam among kindred creatures. She breathed in the briny air, rife with the scent of algae and seaweed and wet driftwood. She sighed in longing, doubting she’d ever feel safe out there again.

  Tillman regarded her curiously. “Smell something good?”

  “I love the smell of the ocean.” Shelly grinned, slipping off her sandals.

  “You mean that stinky odor produced by bacterial gas?”

  She lifted her hair from the back of her sticky neck and let the ocean breeze cool the clammy skin. “I see you’re quite the romantic.”

  Tillman took her hand and led her closer to the water.

  Her sudden pleasure at his touch disappeared. Being in a pool was fine, but if her feet contacted the ocean’s salt water her body would automatically transform. The bare skin of her feet, when mixed with the alchemy of the sea, caused webs to form between her toes. All it took was an unexpected splash around the knees and both legs would fuse into a single tail. Iridescent scales would burst forth, coating human skin, completing the metamorphosis from legs to fins.

  She hung back. “Let’s walk here where the sand is dry and warm.”

  “Guess this means my fantasy of a skinny-dip together is not going to happen?”

  Shelly laughed. If he got her in the sea, it would be beyond any fantasy he could ever imagine. Her laughter choked at the sudden hot ache as she pictured Tillman swimming naked. Her cousins were right—it had been too long since she’d had a man in her life. Probably explained why she was so drawn to Tillman.

  He must have caught the drift of her errant thoughts. Tillman pulled her to his side and she snuggled up against his hard body, her head against his chest. The fingers of his right hand traced the outline of a wicked scar on her shoulder. A nasty souvenir from an encounter two years ago when she’d swum too close to a charter fishing boat and a hook had sunk into her flesh. Those fishermen almost got the surprise of their lives.

  “Where did this scar come from?”

  “Childhood accident from swimming too close to a pier.” Only a half lie.

  “Ouch.”

  His hand explored further to a smaller scar by her collarbone. “And this?”

  “I don’t remember,” she lied. She could hardly tell him it was from struggling to get out of a tuna net last summer. Her torso bore several such scars, especially since returning to live in the Gulf. She hung her head, wondering what he would make of a close examination of her body.

  He tilted her chin up with a firm hand.

  “I’m too curious,” he said gruffly. “Another occupational hazard. Great for my job, not so much with people.”

  “It’s okay,” she whispered, fascinated with the darkening of his gray eyes. He wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him. Dangerous territory, her mind whispered. Remember what happened to your mother when she fell in love with a human. Shelly squeezed her eyes shut, determined to drown the demon voices of doom. Surely there was no harm in a little kiss. She had wanted to get close to him for so long, had fantasized about this moment for over a year.

  His lips were upon hers, hot, demanding and probing. She was drowning in sensation, her bones and blood liquefying in pools of desire. And when his tongue explored, she eagerly met it with her own. The sweet, fierce hotness made her toes curl into the warm sand. The pounding of the waves matched the pounding in her blood.

  Tillman pulled back first and cupped her face in his large hands. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he said in a voice husky with desire.

  “Thank God. I was beginning to think maybe this date was only your way of thanking me for my work with Eddie.”

  “Not a chance.”

  His fingers caressed her scalp, then traveled through the length of her hair. He paused, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “What is it?”

  “The length and color of your hair reminds me of something else.” He shook his head and dropped his arms. “Never mind.” He appeared to hesitate a moment before clasping her hand and continuing their walk on the shore. “If you’d like, we can go to a club in Mobile for a little dancing.”

  Shelly thought fast. From what he’d told her at dinner, Tillman must live at home with his family. Not exactly conducive to privacy. The thought of loud music and crowds of people was the last thing she wanted. “Let’s just return to my house for a drink. We can sit on the porch with a glass of wine. Or a beer, if you prefer.”

  “Beer sounds good.” He turned a curious sideways glance her way. “I was going to suggest we go back to my fishing cabin, but I’m sure your house is much nicer. From what I understand, not many around here have been invited inside the Bosarge home.”

  Shelly followed him nervously back to the car. What had she done? Her physical desire for Tillman made her reckless. If she had been a little more patient, he would have invited her to his cabin where they could have been alone.

  If she was lucky, Jet would be off for a swim, or in her bedroom immersed in her old undersea maps and shipwreck books. Her cousin could be tricky with humans—short-tempered, suspicious, condescending. No problem with Lily, she was all sweetness, unless someone bored her. Besides, Lily would be out on another flavor-of-the-month date.

  Shelly drew steadying breaths as they drew nearer. Every
thing would be fine. Sure, they had valuable treasure scattered throughout the place, but a casual observer wouldn’t realize their china was from the Ming Dynasty or that the pottery on display was from ancient civilizations or that the various knickknacks lying about were rare maritime relics.

  But when they walked in the den, Jet was sprawled on the sofa watching a Jacques Cousteau documentary.

  “What are you doing back so early? Thought you’d—” She broke off at the sight of Tillman.

  “Jet, this is Tillman Angier. He’s our sheriff, by the way.” Shelly waved a hand in the direction of the sofa. “Tillman, my cousin Jet.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.” He crossed the room in three long strides and shook Jet’s hand.

  Jet wasn’t the siren her sister was but was still a stunner with her tall, athletic frame and unusually dark irises that gave the impression her eyes were solid black pupils. Those eyes now flashed in irritation.

  Tillman either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Jet shook his hand with the briefest of human contact.

  “Surprised we haven’t met before.” He surveyed the room and let out a small whistle of appreciation. “Someone around here’s a collector.”

  He crossed to the dozens of swords, mostly Confederate, which hung over the mantel. “Where’d you get all these?”

  “Jet used to be an antiques dealer.” Shelly shot Jet a pointed look at the coffee table, its surface strewn with dozens of cartographic and monographic maps of known shipwrecks.

  “Here in Bayou La Siryna?” Tillman asked with his back still to them. He strolled over to a mahogany étagère storing their better pieces of seventeenth-century French, Italian and English pottery and ceramics they couldn’t bear to sell on either the open or black market. The pieces were shipwreck finds of several generations of Bosarge mermaids from all seven seas.

  “My business was wholesaling to other dealers,” Jet said, turning the treasure maps facedown on the table. “I didn’t have an actual store.” She stuffed her magnifying glass and cartographic measuring tools under the brown leather recliner.

  “I know a bit about antiques myself,” Tillman said. “Mom dragged all of us to estate auctions when I was younger.”

  Shelly inwardly groaned. Of all the rotten luck, Tillman actually knew something of the worth of these objects. She had brought a law enforcement officer right into their home and introduced him to her errant cousin.

  Jet’s business was strictly to black-market vendors on a cash-only basis. That way, she avoided the pesky problem of explaining how the finds were retrieved with no treasure excavation expenses, and no worries of state and federal agents questioning the finds. In other words, it was all extremely illegal.

  Jet shrugged and lifted both hands in a what-ya-gonna-do gesture.

  Tillman continued his inspection of the room. This time he picked up a restored brass pocket watch from an end table, a pre–Civil War artifact etched with the date 1842.

  “Where—?”

  “Family heirloom,” Jet said. “We’re the sentimental sort.”

  Shelly almost snickered. Jet and Lily didn’t have a sentimental bone or scale on their mermaid bodies. Unless you counted Jet’s unexplained preoccupation with Perry, her human lover and partner in shipwreck recovery crimes—who turned out to be a lying, self-serving scumbag, now serving time.

  And good riddance, Shelly and Lily told each other. Unfortunately, Jet was still hung up on the guy, even if she refused to admit it. She probably mistook him for a swashbuckling pirate, à la Johnny Depp.

  “Fascinating place you have here,” Tillman said, eyeing the large brass porthole above the fireplace. Shelly couldn’t help but feel a little surge of pride. That porthole had been a lucky discovery on her part when she was only sixteen years old and visiting the Bosarge family for the summer. She’d been swimming five miles from the house when her eyes picked up a reflective glint from a black sand bed. It had been a risky and difficult swim home with her prize, but she’d managed.

  “I found that porthole myself,” she admitted, ignoring Jet’s warning glare. “It...uh...washed up on shore one day after a storm.”

  “I’ve lived here all my life and never found anything more interesting than broken beer glasses and rusted tin cans,” Tillman said.

  Jet swept up the stack of treasure maps. “Then you’re not very observant.”

  Tillman turned and raised a questioning eyebrow at the sharp edge in Jet’s voice. “Or you’re very lucky,” he countered.

  “Treasure hunting is Jet’s passion,” Shelly said.

  “I’ll say.” Tillman went to the now-vacated coffee table and drew out a fistful of baubles from a handblown glass vase. Its size alone made it a rare find. Most intact glass artifacts were tiny perfume bottles or handheld mirrors. “What is this stuff in here?”

  “Brass buttons, some old coins and other trinkets that—” Shelly began.

  Jet grabbed the vase from Tillman. “Do you always walk in other people’s houses and rifle through their stuff?”

  Tillman held up both hands. “Just making conversation.”

  “C’mon, Jet,” Shelly said, face reddening. Why did she have to be so rude? Jet was ruining her date.

  Jet glared at Shelly before leaving the room, arms stuffed with papers and the vase.

  In the sudden silence, Shelly faced Tillman. “Sorry about that. Jet’s kind of funny about her things.”

  A door slammed shut from an upstairs bedroom.

  “No problem.” His eyes narrowed. “How long did you say you’ve lived here?”

  “About three or four years.”

  “And how long have your two cousins lived in this house?”

  “Close to twenty years. They inherited the house from their family. I used to visit them in the summer when I was a teenager.”

  She half expected Tillman to whip out a notepad and write down the information. For heaven’s sake, she had to remember she was talking to law enforcement. Which probably meant he had an overdose of curiosity and the resources to check out anything that came out of her mouth.

  A diversionary drink was in order.

  “I’m going to get a glass of wine. You said you wanted a beer?”

  “Correct.” His back was toward her again, checking out the shelves of colored bottles, several from prohibition rumrunner boats forced to dump their cargos before seizure from the vigilant arm of the law, and other rare pieces from— Well, she couldn’t remember all the details. That was Jet’s thing. Her cousin spent most of her days researching artifacts and poring over old captain’s logs.

  In the kitchen she poured the sparkling sangria into a crystal goblet and took a long swallow, for courage. Outside the octagonal window above the sink, the ocean’s eternal rhythm pushed and pulled against gravity, a scene Shelly found hypnotizing as her body responded to the sea’s cadence. She mentally shook herself.

  When she returned to the den, Tillman had his infernal phone back out, which he quickly shoved into his pocket.

  Much too quickly. “Got another call?” she asked, holding out a beer.

  “Yep,” he said, with no elaboration. He popped the lid and took a long swallow, looking past her at the oil paintings covering the stair landing. “Lots of beautiful women. Your ancestors?”

  “Yep.” If he wanted to play taciturn, so could she.

  “Where are all the men?”

  Shelly gave a puzzled frown. She’d honestly never noticed. Only mermaids presided over this house. Mom had explained that mermen were casual lovers who didn’t share in childrearing and she’d never once heard her cousins mention a father. She smiled brightly. “Good question.”

  Tillman put his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. “A most unusual house. Marlena would love this place.”

  “Marlena?”

  He quickly took another long swallow of beer. “Um, ex-girlfriend. She’s an interior designer in Atlanta.”

  Well, wasn’t that just hoity-toity wonderful. “
How long ago did you break up?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Years ago.” Tillman started to set his beer can on a coffee table but hesitated. “Got a coaster? Don’t want to ruin your furniture. I suspect everything in here is expensive or priceless.”

  Shelly slapped one of Jet’s old catalogs on the table. “There you go.”

  She watched his arm and hands as he slowly set down the can. His skin was deeply tanned and the dusting of hair on his forearm had been lightly bleached from the summer sun. Both his arms suddenly wrapped around her waist and she smiled at the sight of her pale skin alongside his. His arms tightened as she closed her eyes and lifted her chin.

  They were all over each other at once. Lips to lips, skin exploring skin. Shelly moved her hand up the back of his shirt, felt his muscles grow rigid beneath her palms. Tillman cupped her breasts, and then his hands moved down to her ass, pressing her against his erection. Heat exploded in her core and she moaned with need. Nothing mattered outside of this moment, this desperate desire to couple and become one.

  Tillman groaned and the internal heat became a consuming fire of lust.

  Suddenly he stepped back and she blinked at him, bewildered and weak-kneed.

  He groaned again and held up the phone before reading the screen. “Damn, I’ve got to cut this short.”

  “Your work again?” Shelly tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  “No.” He crammed the phone in his pocket. “It’s Eddie.”

  “What about him? Is he okay?”

  “It’s just...” Tillman hesitated. “Sometimes he’s too much for Mom to handle. The least little thing can set him off—a change in routine, loud noises, hell, sometimes there’s no telling what makes him flip.”

  Shelly nodded. “He gets overstimulated. It happens a lot in people with autism.”