Storm Warning

by Toni Anderson

  They both turned and looked at Sorcha expectantly.

  Torn between not wanting anything from the moody Yank and not wanting to cause a scene, Sorcha hesitated. People were watching. She could sense them cataloguing her words, and scrutinizing her actions.

  Reluctance to make a scene won out, and she slowly unwound the scarf from around her neck. “I’ll have a pint of 80 shilling. Please.”

  Ben Something raised an eyebrow, his teeth flashing as he gave a nod of approval. “Make that two pints of 80 shilling.”

  No doubt about it, there was something intriguing about the man. That dangerous quality counteracted by a sexy smile she didn’t trust.

  She walked away.

  It was rude, but after the day she’d had, she didn’t care. What was with the guy anyway? Glaring at her one minute, buying her a drink the next? No way was she going down that hot-and-cold emotional road again. Been there, done that. And had no intention of repeating her mistakes.

  Grabbing the table furthest from the bar, she squeezed into the corner with her back to the wall. The walls were painted a dull blue, yellowed to green from decades of tobacco smoke. She glanced across the bar and there was her father. For once she held herself still rather than chase him out the door.

  Too tired to sit up straight, she lay her head in her hands. The table was cool and soothing against her cheek. Maybe it was exhaustion making her see things. Exhaustion mixed with vague memories.

  The headache lanced her skull. She’d been up at six. Work by seven. Reviewing protocols, demonstrating practical classes, listening to a lunchtime seminar on neurophysiology. Followed by a tedious afternoon finding references in order to write a literature review that combined puffin behavioral ecology with the use of seabirds as bio-indicators of pollution. This evening she felt as if she’d read papers until her eyes bled.

  Now it was 10:00 p.m. and she was knackered, and tomorrow morning she had to demonstrate the same practical class over again.

  She also needed to deal with her other headache. The camera she’d set up on the Isle of May ready to transmit live images of puffins had malfunctioned, and she needed to check it out.

  She cracked an eyelid when a glass of beer clunked down in front of her. Carolyn dumped her coat on the bench, clearly expecting an introduction to their new acquaintance. Sorcha reached out, wrapped her fingers around the pint glass and shivered as condensation pooled against her skin.

  Reluctantly, she met his gaze and realized how handsome he was. Plus he was wearing a leather jacket she’d love to steal, a midnight sweater and soft-looking worn-out jeans. The outer package was perfect. And that was a distraction she didn’t want or need.

  Damn.

  “Carolyn, this is Ben Foley. Ben, meet Carolyn Jamieson. Ben’s the guy who helped me with the dead man on the beach yesterday.”

  There. She’d done it. Been polite and encouraging. Ben shook Carolyn’s hand and her friend smiled so hard all five of her dimples flashed.

  God, the woman was fickle. One minute going gaga about Kevin as though he was the greatest man on Earth, the next mooning over this guy. Or maybe she just wanted to be loved.

  The thought crept into Sorcha’s consciousness and her fingers gripped the glass tighter.

  They sat around the small circular table, Ben’s knees brushing hers in the cramped space. He looked straight into her eyes and shifted the point of contact. O-kay. So Carolyn wasn’t the only one feeling the draw. However Sorcha was immune. Thanks to one Australian surfer boy.

  “What’re two beautiful girls like you doing in a dive like this?”

  What a line. She rolled her eyes as Carolyn laughed on cue.

  “Having a drink after a long hard day.” The other girl’s eyes twinkled.

  “I thought you guys were students?” Ben made a joke of it, but anger rose and Sorcha narrowed her eyes.

  “That’s right. We sleep all morning, have sex all afternoon and drink all night.” She raised her pint and took a big swallow. She held his gaze as she put the glass back down on the scarred wood, wiping her lips on the back of her hand. He shifted and his elbow brushed her arm.

  She jumped. She shouldn’t have mentioned sex. Feeling irritable, she looked away. Most days she wasn’t this cantankerous, but this guy aggravated her and she didn’t know why.

  Carolyn put a hand over Sorcha’s and squeezed. “Ignore her, she’s had a long boring day and she doesn’t get out much.” Sorcha’s discomfort intensified and she tried to twist her hand away, but the other girl held tight. “Plus, she’s an Aquarian. Unpredictable and stubborn.” Carolyn nodded sagely and Ben laughed.

  “That stuff is—”

  “—horse shit,” Sorcha finished for him.

  He grinned and once again his thigh brushed hers. Tingles shimmered across her skin and her breath cramped in her lungs, but she didn’t retreat. There was nowhere to go anyway.

  Carolyn was enjoying her game. “You’re a what? Hmm, a fire sign. Let me guess. Leo? No? Aries?” At his nod, Carolyn thumped her hand in the air as if she’d won the lottery.

  “Very good.” He smiled as if impressed.

  “She’s a two-faced Gemini. Don’t encourage her.” Sorcha kept her tone dry and let go of some of her animosity. Carolyn was so cheerful she felt reluctant to bring her down.

  Ben angled his body toward Sorcha, his eyes intent on her face. Unsettled, she rested her head against the ugly green walls and closed her eyes. Shutting him out.

  “Headache?” The question was intimate in the noise of the pub.

  Her pulse skipped. She didn’t want intimate, didn’t want comfort, didn’t want anything from a man whose eyes melted one moment and pierced the next. She nodded as if she weren’t blowing him off, finished her drink and pulled on her coat. The skin around his mouth tightened.

  “Sorry, I have to go.”

  Carolyn was trying to drink up. Sorcha put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Don’t rush, Caro, I’m sure Ben will keep you company?”

  He nodded and leaned back, all sprawled bones and fluid muscle. They exchanged a look, his eyes narrowing at her brush-off.

  “I’d love to.” The smile he aimed at Carolyn contained enough heat to melt sand, and Sorcha hated the lash of hurt that whipped through her. Men weren’t fussy about which girls they chatted up. Being there seemed to be the main criteria.

  “Right.” Buttoning her coat, she squared her shoulders and squeezed past Ben, who stood to let her by. He didn’t give her much room though, and she tried to ignore the sensations that flooded each point of contact with heightened sexual awareness.

  A moment later Duncan Mackenzie barged through the door with two of his mates. She stood stunned as if ten thousand volts of electricity arc-flashed through the air and welded her feet to the ground. She’d seen him from a distance a couple of times but this was the first time she hadn’t had an escape route. Her personal demon hadn’t changed much in the last fifteen years. Mackenzie just looked bigger and meaner.

  If he hadn’t spotted her, Sorcha might’ve slunk back down and hidden behind Ben, but Duncan’s initial sweep of the bar hooked her. His lips curved upward like a scimitar, his eyes hot and nasty, just the way she remembered. Her fingernails bit into the palms of her hand.

  “Problem?” Ben asked.

  Nothing he needed to know about. She took a step forward. Even after all these years, the thought of confronting Duncan Mackenzie turned her blood to water.

  Leaning against the bar, Duncan’s eyes swept over her body. Her heart hammered in her ears and she hoped no one could see her distress. Still, she wasn’t ten anymore. And she wasn’t running away.

  Dark-haired and handsome in his own blunt way, Duncan blocked her path. For some reason he’d always harbored a dislike of her. Time hadn’t changed anything.

  “Hello, Duncan, long time no see.” Sorcha gave him a smile, but he scowled.

  “Not long enough.”

  The whole bar went quiet and watchful. Th
e barman picked up the telephone and started dialing.

  “What are you doing back, witch?” Duncan spat.

  She flinched from the hatred that glittered in his eyes and the shared memories of a day that had shaped her whole life.

  Mouth dry, her voice cracked. “I came home—”

  “You don’t belong here!” He leaned closer until his nose almost touched hers. The American stared—she could feel his gaze drilling into her back. Carolyn’s concern trickled through her as Duncan’s breath brushed her face with loathing.

  He’d been drinking. The stench alone made her stumble back a half step. He straightened with a leer, as if satisfied his bullying techniques were once again working.

  She fingered a clean cotton handkerchief in her pocket. An image of her grandmother flared through her mind. A memory she hadn’t known she possessed. Her fingers tightened on the handkerchief. With great showmanship she drew it out and tied a knot in one of its four corners.

  “That’s for you, Duncan Mackenzie.” She reached out and placed it in his shirt pocket, patted his shoulder

  And the blood drained from his ruddy cheeks. He didn’t move. It was as if he’d been turned to stone. Or cursed.

  Sorcha pushed past him and walked out of the smoke-filled pub. The drumming waves reverberated thunderously off ancient stone, emphasizing her inner turmoil. She wasn’t a witch, but her grandmother had known things. Duncan was no more cursed than she was, but the ploy had stopped him for now.

  Old hurts clung to her with the residue of odium, a stale perfume of childhood memories. Taking a steadying breath of fresh air, she looked up, wishing answers were written in the stars. But the stars were hidden and all she could see was the gloom of mist-laden skies, and all she could feel was the cold press of moisture, sharp against her skin.

  An ephemeral whisper brushed past her and suddenly there was her father walking along the road. She fisted her hands, wanted to let him walk away and fade into the ether. Instead, she started running through the abandoned streets, desperate for answers from a dead man’s ghost.

  Chapter Four

  Adrenaline spiking through his system, Ben moved swiftly through the streets toward the harbor.

  Sorcha hadn’t gone home.

  Blood rushed through his body, anticipation sharpening his senses. She’d had her little encounter with the local bully boy and disappeared. He frowned. That scene bothered him. Men intimidating women always bothered him, but he’d needed to see it play out in case any secrets were revealed.

  She’d impressed him the way she handled it, though the stunt with the handkerchief confused the crap out of him. What the hell was that all about?

  Where had she gone? A pre-arranged rendezvous? A midnight meet? He didn’t know, though he intended to find out.

  Waves crashed on the beach, the sound amplified by the sea mist that hung in the air. Despite his stomach-twisting fear of water, he forced himself to walk to the harbor, toward the Kilmore, Sorcha Logan’s fishing trawler. He skirted a group of kids who wouldn’t have looked out of place on Chicago’s South Side. Passed the unlit lifeboat station, tucking his face into his collar out of the wind.

  Halyards clinked and moorings creaked. He snuck past boarded-up amusement rides and dry-docked sailboats in the inner harbor. The wind snapped at the canvases and he jumped, his hand itching for his Glock 23. Even after what happened in Magangue, he wasn’t authorized to carry a firearm while working undercover on foreign soil. But, dammit, he wanted to.

  The end of the pier loomed in the darkness, and panic raced over his skin. Taking small shallow breaths, Ben forced himself to stand at the edge of the wharf and look into the depths below. This was the least he could do for his dead partner. The grief was still raw and aching. No way was he going to screw up this investigation, not even for a phobia that had dogged his whole life. But his fear of water, combined with this darkly suspicious town, made him edgy. He was a damn good undercover operative, but the potential to panic, the magnitude of his reaction to the sea, undermined his expertise.

  He’d already screwed up one investigation. He wasn’t going to fuck up another.

  The sea clamored on the far side of the outer quay and it took all his concentration not to throw up, especially with the smell of rotten kelp pungent in the air. To get through DEA training, he’d had to jump into a pool wearing a flotation vest. If he could do that, he could stand here and look.

  Hands shoved him in the back.

  Suddenly he was falling, his arms and legs cycling as if to reverse the force that rocketed him over the edge.

  “Oh, shiiiiiit!” Water closed over his head and he sank into the oily abyss, tasted salt, fish and dirt in that first mouthful. Clamped his lips shut. Held his breath.

  The current sucked him down. Jesus!

  His pulse hammered through his veins in the otherwise silent void. Palpitations shook his ribcage. Heart racing, lungs bursting, he thrashed his arms and got nowhere.

  Mud and silt grabbed his feet. Frantically he kicked against the softness that held him, like the hands that had held him all those years ago.

  He was going to die. The drug runners were going to win and no one would give a damn about avenging Jacob’s death.

  His hands clawed through the water, the pressure in his chest tightening to crushing force. The burning in his lungs, the desperate pounding of his heart, sent emergency flares to his brain that told him to open his mouth and breathe!

  He didn’t want to die.

  The vague outline of a woman appeared, blond hair streaming around pale shoulders. She grabbed his arms and propelled him upward, and he followed the rush of bubbles breaking through the surface with a huge gasp.

  “Damn.” He coughed. Spluttered. Grabbed his savior with desperate fingers.

  “I’ve got you.” Her voice was calm and soothing. Sorcha Logan. Prime suspect. She pushed away from him, treading water to keep them both afloat.

  He took in another ragged breath. Forced himself to relax. It was trust her or die, and he’d have roasted small children over a fire pit if it meant getting out of the water. The strength was gone from his limbs, but he kicked, trying to help drag his sorry ass to the nearest ladder.

  Once he reached the rusted metal, his grip was unbreakable. He leaned his forehead against the back of his hands. Thank God. He raised his head. Sorcha Logan was floating beside him. She pushed dirt-streaked hair back off her face to reveal a cheeky grin.

  “You think this is funny?” He lowered his brows, fixing her with a hard stare. “I nearly drowned!”

  “What? No.” Her eyes lost their sparkle. She raised her hand out of the oily blackness and reached into his hair. “You have this—” bobbing in the water, she dangled a piece of twisted kelp from her fingers before letting it glide away, “—in your hair.”

  He swallowed, his mouth rancid, his throat raw, yet the hint of hurt in her eyes penetrated his guard. What the hell was he thinking? Drug trafficker or not, he should be down on his knees thanking her. Unclenching one hand from the rung, he reached out and touched her cheek.

  “Sorry. I…thanks.” How did you deal with a prime suspect who saved your life?

  Innocent until proven guilty. The doctrine of judges and lawyers, but not law enforcement. Cops went after the bad guys with everything they had and tried not to get killed in the process.

  Jacob’s image flashed through his mind.

  “No problem.” She smiled, appearing more relaxed in this hellish environment than he’d ever seen her.

  It made no sense.

  “I used to be a Surf Life Saver,” she told him, as if she could read minds. “In Australia.”

  A current dragged her away and he grabbed her with his free hand, gripping the ladder with the other, terrified she’d disappear into the depths. He absorbed the sensation of bare flesh and a naked arm.

  Frowning, he changed his focus. He’d told her he couldn’t swim the first day they’d met. Had she pushed him in? So
he’d be grateful to her for saving his life?

  You think I’m stupid? His fingers tightened around her arm, and her eyes widened in alarm. She tried to break his grip, only he wasn’t letting go.

  “Where are your clothes?” Each word was hissed through gritted teeth.

  “I wasn’t going to ruin my best cardy because some crazy Yank jumped in the harbor.” The first vestige of anxiety made her eyes go black and she started splashing water as she struggled.

  He swore, loosening his grip because he didn’t want to drown them. “I didn’t jump in. I was pushed.” The foul water made his voice rough and his throat ache.

  “And you think I did it?” She finally pried away his thumb and, shoving his hand from her, climbed the ladder to the top of the harbor wall.

  He scrambled to follow, relief shooting through his system as he pulled clear of the water.

  “You ungrateful…” She clamped down on a curse. “I freeze my ass off in the harbor saving your life because you’re too dumb to learn how to swim, and you think I pushed you in? Ha!”

  She hauled herself over the side. Ben crawled up behind her, clinging to hold onto something. Anything. His stomach went into spasm, getting rid of all the crap he’d swallowed. Staring at the tarmac, he knew he’d rather face guns, killers and natural disasters than go back in the water.

  Sorcha was still pissed. “Why, for God’s sake? To get your attention? In your dreams, pal.” She stomped away, water pouring off her near-naked body, butt cheeks bouncing with every step she took.

  He wiped his mouth. Even when he was freezing and puking up his guts, she still had the power to turn him on. Great. Freakin’ great.

  He rolled onto his back, trying to regain control of his body. The only thing that could make this worse was contracting diphtheria or having his cover blown wide open—if it wasn’t already. He glanced across the small chasm toward the inner harbor. Saw nothing except shadows.

  Realizing he was stretched out on the blacktop like a crime victim, he staggered to his feet and followed Sorcha. She didn’t go far, a few yards down the pier and then she clambered down another rickety ladder onto a little red yacht.