by Sophie Moss
“Understandably.”
Tara reached for his hand. “I take it back. What I said earlier. I am falling in love with you, Dominic. Whether I like it or not.”
Lifting her hand, he brushed his lips gently across the knuckles. “And I still love you, Tara.” He smiled. “Whether you like it or not.”
When she tilted her face up to his, he laid his lips on hers.
“Do you think Caitlin’s onto something?” Tara asked, pulling back. “That maybe we have both lost our minds?”
“Maybe,” Dominic admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But if this is what crazy feels like, I’ll take it over normal any day.”
“Dominic,” Tara murmured, when he dipped his mouth to that soft spot just below her ear and her body started to hum in response. “Can I ask you something?”
“Hmm,” he answered vaguely, his lips cruising down her neck.
“Do you think Liam has a thing for Caitlin?”
Dominic’s head shot up. “What?”
“Do you think he has a thing for her?”
“I hope not.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s my little brother. And she’s my best friend.”
“But… wouldn’t that be a good thing, if they both liked each other?”
“What are we, in high school?” Dominic’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “Wait. Why are you asking me about this? Did Caitlin say something?”
“No,” Tara said, quickly. “I was just curious. I thought he was… good with her tonight. I just thought maybe there was something going on between them.”
“There’s not.”
“Okay. I guess I was just imagining things.”
“I guess you were.”
Biting back a smile, Tara pressed her lips to his. “I think you’re being overprotective of both of them.”
“Is that so?” he asked, pulling back and watching her lips curve.
Tara nodded, a small quiver racing through her body when he dipped his hands under the hem of her shirt, feeling his way up and along the curve of her stomach.
“I think we’ve had enough talk about Liam and Caitlin for one night,” Dominic suggested.
“Why?” Tara asked, nipping at his bottom lip playfully. “Did you have something else you wanted to talk about?”
Sliding his hand up her back and teasing the clasp of her bra strap open, he smiled. “Sure. If you’re still up for more conversation.”
“I could talk,” Tara said, meeting his challenge by rising up on her knees, straddling him, and settling back down in his lap. “If you can.”
Dominic laughed as he helped her shirt over her head, watched the bra slide away from her breasts. “I’m going to take my time tonight, Tara” he murmured, his palms just brushing the soft swells of her flesh. “With you. With this.”
“I hope so,” she whispered. “I plan to stay awake for a very long time tonight.”
“Good,” he murmured, his fingers threading into her hair and dipping his mouth to hers for a longer, deeper taste.
She let the scent of him—soap, salt, male—pull her in. She fit her body to his, delighting in the feel of him—the hard planes of his chest, the long lean muscles of his thighs, the rough layer of stubble lining his jaw. She let her hands roam up, sliding over those broad shoulders until her fingers curled into that rich dark hair and the world fell away outside their walls.
She whispered his name, like a sigh when his lips traced the line of her jaw, trailing a teasing path down her neck, over her collarbone. She arched, lifting her aching breast to his mouth and he kissed her there slowly, his tongue sending shoots of liquid lust straight to that spot between her legs.
A warm wind danced in through the open window, filling the room with the drugging scent of her roses.
“Tara,” he breathed as his teeth closed over her.
Her breath caught. She fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, dragging it over his head, desperate for the feel of his skin on hers. And when he flipped her, pinning her on her back, she reached for him, curling her needy fingers into the waistline of his jeans.
He clucked his tongue softly against his cheek and moved his hips farther away from her. “Not so fast,” he whispered, catching both her hands in one of his and pinning them above her head.
Her pulse leapt, thrumming in her ears when his free hand roamed down to her waistline. She heard the soft hiss of her zipper, felt the cool air on her skin as the material skimmed down her hips.
“I said I was going to take my time with you tonight,” Dominic breathed, as her jeans pooled to the floor. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Tara’s hands curled into the sheets when he stroked a hand up the inside of her thigh, her breath quickening when his lips trailed up that same torturous path. Her whole body contracted, when she felt his breath wash over her like a soft, teasing caress. And then the punch of heat slammed into her as he took her into his mouth.
She gasped as every muscle in her body tensed, and then slowly released, unraveling with every shattered breath, every trembling shudder. She fought to hold on, to that shred of rope still tethering her to the surface, but his fingers edged her thighs farther apart, dipped into that sweet hot desire and sent her plunging helpless into the floodwaters as wave after wave of pleasure took her under.
“Dominic,” she breathed, groping blindly for his zipper. “Please.” She fumbled with his belt, pushing his pants down and over his hips, reaching for him when they slid to the floor.
He pushed her back onto the bed, climbing on top of her and dragging her mouth up to his as they rolled, a twisted tangle of legs and arms, until she was on top of him, straddling him. His hands gripped her slender hips, lifting her, fitting her over him. She heard her own sharp intake of breath as he filled her, slowly, torturously.
And when she started to move, his hand guiding her hips in a slow patient rhythm, she let her eyes close, let her head fall back in surrender. She heard him stifle a groan, felt his whole body clench in response as her heat closed around him. And when his hands drifted up, closing over her swollen breasts, she moved faster, desperate for friction, for speed. For the release that was already building.
When her name tumbled from his lips, and he dragged her mouth back down to his, she kept up the pace, kept her hips locked to his when he rolled them again, flipping her onto her back and taking them both under this time.
The wave crested, spilling over them. His mouth captured hers, swallowing her cry. And they tumbled together over the edge as the ocean, a far off echo, drifted into the room like a song.
***
A cool breeze blew in off the bay as Sam stepped out of Fitzgerald’s. It was close to midnight but the streets were still bustling in the tiny coastal village of Sheridan. The passenger ferry—which looked as much like the other fishing boats that bobbed in the dark waters beside it—was moored to a pier where a group of fishermen in their twenties and thirties lounged, passing around a fifth of Jameson’s.
Recognizing one of them as the man who sold him his ticket to the island earlier, Sam shifted direction and headed toward them. The shouts and cat calls carrying through the crowds spilling out of the pubs bounced over the surface of the water, fading to a dull echo as he reached the end of the pier.
The youngest in the group took a pull from the bottle and eyed Sam warily. “Can we help you with something?”
“I hope so,” Sam said, resting his shoulder against a piling. “I’m a reporter for a newspaper in the states and my editor sent me over here at the last minute to cover the festival on the island this weekend. I was just inside talking to the bartender at Fitzgerald’s.” He nodded toward the pub on the corner. “But he fed me some story about magic seals and witch women. I was hoping you might be able to set the record straight.”
“What makes you think that?”
Sam paused, glancing at the ruddy, wind-weathered faces of the four men. “Are these your boats?”
“Aye.”
“Do you make your living off the water?”
“Aye.”
“Then you don’t have anything to gain from spinning a tale for the tourists.”
The oldest man laughed, taking the bottle from the younger one. “Sorry to disappoint you, yank,” he said, taking a long swallow. “But this is Ireland. Our seas are full of strange and mysterious creatures that find a way into our stories with or without a tourist around.”
“So you believe in them?” Sam asked, pulling out a small notebook. “These… selkies?”
A scrawny man with a patchy beard reached for the bottle. “You don’t spend your life working these waters without seeing a thing or two out of the ordinary.”
“Then you’ve seen one?” Sam pressed. “You’ve seen a selkie shed its skin and transform into a woman?”
“Not with my own eyes. No.”
“But someone has?”
“I’d bet a month’s pay that Donal Riley’s seen one,” the youngest offered, lighting a cigarette. “He’s clearly lost his mind.”
The other men laughed and passed the bottle around again.
“Who’s Donal Riley?” Sam asked.
“He’s one of the fishermen who lives on the island. He comes here to sell his catch, has a pint with us in the pub most nights.”
“Are any of you from the island?”
They all shook their heads.
“But you’ve been there?”
The eldest nodded. “There’s good fishing on the north side of Seal Island.”
“What’s there to do there?”
“When the festival’s not going on?”
Sam nodded.
“Nothing.” The youngest lifted a shoulder. “I mean, there’s a pub.”
“That’s it?”
“Basically.”
“So there aren’t any jobs on the island? Say, for someone who wasn’t from there?”
“There’s a few shops in the village—”
“But wasn’t O’Sullivan looking for a waitress?” the scrawniest man in the group cut in, glancing at the eldest for confirmation. “Maybe a month or two ago?”
The eldest nodded. “That sounds about right.”
“Did he ever find anyone?” Sam asked.
“I think so.” The eldest glanced at the youngest. “Didn’t Donal mention something about a woman working in the pub now?”
“Aye,” the youngest nodded, taking a drag from his cigarette. “An American.”
“Have you seen her?” Sam asked, his pen going still on the paper. “This American?”
“Was it that same woman I sold a ticket to last month?” The ticket salesman reached for the bottle, swirling the liquor around as he thought back to the day. “The one with the pretty face and the green eyes? Remember I told you about her? I tried to talk her into staying in Sheridan for the night instead, but she was set on going to the island.”
“I do remember that,” the eldest said, nodding. “She never came back through town?”
“I don’t remember seeing her.”
“Thanks.” Sam pushed off the piling. “That was very helpful.” Sliding his notebook back into his pocket, he nodded to the men. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”
The eldest watched him turn. “That’s all you wanted to know?” he called out, watching Sam walk away.
Sam glanced over his shoulder, his hand already on his cell, already dialing the number. “Yes,” he answered, smiling. “That’s all I needed to know.”
Chapter 18
Dawn broke crimson over the island as Dominic slipped out of the pub and walked down to the docks. The first load of passengers wasn’t due on the island until ten o’clock. But the boat cutting a slow path through the choppy waters of the harbor wasn’t bringing tourists to the festival. Lifting a hand in a silent greeting to the Irish police, he walked to the end of the pier and caught the bow line, looping it around a piling.
“Bringing back the hundred thousand welcomes?” the police chief joked, climbing up to the pier and extending his hand in a warm greeting.
“Not exactly,” Dominic answered, taking the man’s hand without returning his smile.
Cory Walsh’s smile faded as he studied Dominic’s grim expression and, releasing his hand, he turned to the younger officers docking the boat. “Tie her up and we’ll meet up at the pub in ten minutes.” He motioned for Dominic to walk with him away from the boat. “What’s going on?”
“I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Will you have a man stationed here, at the docks, all weekend?”
“Yes.”
“Does he have good eyes?”
“Yes.” Cory would have laughed if it weren’t for the younger man’s somber expression.
“Does he have a cell phone? That will work on the island?”
“Yes,” Cory answered, pausing when they got to the road. “What’s this about?”
“I need to know the second this person arrives on the island,” Dominic explained, passing him a picture of Philip.
Cory glanced down at the shot. “Who is he?”
“His name is Philip Carter. He’s an American.”
“What’s he done?”
“I just need to know when he gets here.”
“What’s his business on the island?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Cory glanced up at Dominic. “And I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I’m not asking you for anything more than information. This is all completely above the board.”
“And what, exactly, are you planning to do with this information?”
“When and if it turns into police business, I’ll let you know.”
“Dominic.”
“You owe me, Cory.”
“Then let me buy you a pint.”
“I’ve got enough pints of my own, thanks.”
The police chief crossed his arms over his chest.
“Cory,” Dominic pressed. “I’ve never asked you for anything since that night.”
“And if you’d tell me what this is about—”
“I can’t.”
“Then I can’t help you.” Cory handed the picture back. “If something’s going down this weekend, you need to tell me so I can prepare.” He jerked a thumb back to the boat of officers. “So we can prepare. I have my men to think about too, you know.”
“No.” Dominic lowered his voice. “You’re thinking about your job and your reputation.”
“That’s—”
“You wouldn’t even be police chief if it weren’t for me.”
Cory opened his mouth, closed it.
“You’re police chief because you brought down one of the biggest dealers in Ireland. You could never have done that without me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“We both know that.” Dominic held the picture out again. “And now I need you to do something for me.”
Cory shook his head, but he took the picture back. “This is shady, Dom. I don’t like this.”
“I asked you to trust me last time, and you did.”
“That was different. I needed you on the inside.”
“I’m asking you to trust me again, Cory.”
Cory glanced back down at the picture, taking a deep breath. “If I decide to help you, and if one of my men sees the man in this picture step off the ferry this weekend, do you want us to follow him?”
“No.”
“You just want us to call you.”
“Yes.”
“And if something happens?”
“You knew nothing.”
***
Leaning against the rail at the stern, Sam watched the groups of excited tourists flock to the front of the ferry, digging out their cameras and snapping pictures of the sundrenched cliffs and sparkling harbor of Seal Island.
“Not a picture taker yourself?” the captain asked, eyeing the lone man in the sunglasse
s and baseball cap pulled low over his tawny eyes.
Sam shook his head. “I’d rather just enjoy the moment than capture it.”
The captain nodded. “I’ve been enjoying this view over thirty years now and I’ve never felt the need to capture it in a photograph.”
“Doubt it would do it justice anyway,” Sam added, taking in the sprinkling of whitewashed cottages and shops dotting the emerald hillside, the crumbling circle of ruins sinking into the sea on the south side of the harbor. “No wonder the selkies chose this place. If I were a seal I’d want to live here, too.”
The captain grinned and Sam lifted the book he’d picked up at the shop in Sheridan. “I’ve been reading up on your legend.”
“And how do you find it?”
“Intriguing,” Sam admitted. “Is it true?”
“Aye. It’s true enough.”
Sam watched a gull dive, splashing into the sea and resurfacing with a wiggling perch in its beak. “Has anyone ever seen her? This selkie spirit who lives on the island?”
“Aye. Some have seen her.”
“What does she look like?”
“Dark hair. Pale skin. Eyes the same color as the hills you see there.” The captain nodded toward the lush blanket of green.
Sam slipped a hand in his pocket, his fingers brushing over the printed image of Sydney Carter. “Have you ever seen her?”
“Can’t say that I have, no.”
“But you know someone who has?”
The captain nodded. “I might know of someone.”
“And this person…?” Sam asked slowly. “Is he or she living on the island?”
The captain’s blue eyes slid over to Sam’s face. “She. And yes.”
“And where would I find her. Say, if I wanted to ask her about it?”
The captain lifted his arm, pointing to a building in the village. “You see that pub there?”
Sam nodded.