by Trisha Telep
He laced fingers with hers, stretching her arms up over her head, leaving her body exposed to his whims. He broke contact from her mouth, blazing a trail down her chin and neck to her breasts. With his teeth, he grazed a nipple through her shirt. She moaned eagerly, but he stopped and shot up suddenly.
“What’s that smell?”
She was grateful for the chance to recover her senses. “That smell is you, from the ocean. We need to get you a bath.”
Once she had him in a tub full of fresh, steaming water, she explained to him where he was and what had happened. At least, as far as she knew. He took it all in with a shrug, remaining single-minded in his attempt to get her to join him in the tub.
“There’s plenty of room. It’s a little lonely. Plus, I might need some help scrubbing hard to reach places.” He smiled a lazy half-smile, which looked all the more lecherous thanks to his scarred eyelid.
“I’m sure you can manage just fine. Or do you have someone to bathe you at home?” She moved to stand behind him in the claw-footed tub and got to work on shampooing the sticky salt water out of his hair.
“I assume so, though perhaps I prefer to bathe alone at Mount Olympus. I don’t recall Zeus having any particularly tempting serving girls on hand.”
“Unlike the Underworld.” So he was back to the serving girls bit.
“And here.” He reached up and caught her forearms in his. Even wet, his strength was outstanding. She couldn’t move. “Come on, lass. I still smell the sea and I suspect the stench is no longer coming from me alone.”
She sniffed. He was right. She must have picked it up from helping him inside. She doubted she could trust leaving the poor man alone long enough to grab a shower of her own. What if he left the house? He wasn’t exactly in his right mind.
“Slip out of those clothes and get in.” He released her arms, but did not turn to face her. “What’s the harm? Is it a virgin’s reputation you protect?”
She snorted. “Hardly. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“We’re two consenting adults who share a mutual attraction.”
“I never said I was attracted—”
He laughed. “It would be a shame to waste all this steaming water on me alone.”
She was an environmentalist. At least, she preferred to be, when she remembered to think about it. His arguments all made sense. So what if she got in the tub? She’d already seen him naked. What if he had been sent just for her, a gift from the gods? Why, it would practically be a sin to turn him down.
She stripped off her clothes. “Slide back,” she said, presenting herself at the other side of the tub. “Make room. I’m coming in.”
A gleam of appreciation lit his blue eyes as he took her in from head to toe, and back up to the lush curve of her full breasts. Typical man. “Very nice.”
She could feel the heat of a blush warming her whole body even as she stood barefoot on the cold tile. He reached for her hand as she went to grip the edge of the tub to get in. She met his gaze, those blue eyes twinkling with mirth and mischief, and she knew she was a woman lost. One time with him, this man of her dreams, would never be enough. She wanted it all.
A future. A whole new world at his side. Who knows, maybe he could take her to Mount Olympus, or the Underworld. When his arm wrapped around her and pulled her to his solid length, she felt her inhibitions slip away and she was ready to follow anywhere he would lead.
And he was quite ready to assume full command. Whoever he was, there was no doubt that submissive was not a part of his nature. He dominated her in the bathtub, and later, after towelling each other off, picked her up, slung her over his shoulder, and headed back to the bed.
She squealed with laughter. It felt good to lose control. “You’re just like a conquering warrior.”
“A warrior I am,” he said. “And you’re about to be conquered.”
“Not in here. There’s sand in the bed.” She stopped him before he put her down. “Upstairs. To the—” she was about to say honeymoon suite, as Mae affectionately called the large corner room with the private bath and enormous king four-poster bed, but she didn’t want to scare him. “To the room on the left.”
Upstairs they went, with Eve still slung over the warrior’s shoulder as if she weighed about as much as a sack of feathers. At last, he slung her down to the fluffy white bed.
“Prepare to be conquered,” he said, his voice deep and unrelenting.
A thrill shot straight through her at his words. “My defences are already down. Do your worst.”
He wanted to do his best by her.
This woman. A mere mortal, as pretty as a goddess and twice as voluptuously curved. Why did he want to impress her? “How old are you?”
“A woman never tells.”
“Tell,” his voice gruff, commanding. She wouldn’t dare resist.
“Twenty-six.”
He laughed. “A mere babe.”
But legal, in her world. That much was important to him. He hated breaking mortal laws as much as he disliked bending the rules of Mount Olympus. But he had broken rules, hadn’t he? At the back of his mind lurked a vague recollection of injustice, retribution. What had he done? Who was after him? He knew more than he’d told her, but she wasn’t ready to hear. Mortals were rarely ready to accept that there were gods in their midst.
Or in her bed. He smiled again. Her skin was pink from the hot water. Practically glowing. His own little pearl from the ocean.
How he hated the ocean. Poseidon’s domain. Yes, there was something about Poseidon.
She stretched like a cat, making her rosy nipples jut out, beckoning him. Remembering could wait. He was going to make love to his woman.
Eve lost count of how many times, how many ways, they’d done it. But she ached all over, in the best possible way, and she couldn’t believe her good fortune. The perfect man, except for a few scars that only made him more perfect to Eve. In her bed. Making sweet, hot, animal love to her and now sleeping curled at her side, one arm draped protectively over her. His woman, he’d called her. She loved it.
But she had to extricate herself from his possessive hold and run to the powder room. A lady had needs. Plus, she wanted to check her hair, brush her teeth, and make sure she was completely presentable when he woke up. She felt his erection tickling at her backside. The man was insatiable! Would he want to do it again? She couldn’t believe her luck.
Finally, she managed to pry his heavy arm up and roll out from under his hold. She rose on tiptoe and headed for the bathroom when she realized the shades were up. Dawn’s soft violet rays filtered in through lace curtains. Once the sun came up, it would be too bright to sleep comfortably. After last night, they would both need their rest. She wasn’t wearing a stitch, but who would be out on the beach at this hour? The few dedicated shell-hunters scouring the rocks for bounty deserved to get a peep for their efforts. She opened the curtains, reached for the shade, and drew back in surprise.
“Holy birds, batman!”
There had to be hundreds of them, tiny black birds, all on the stretch of beach directly in front of Mae’s house. And she nearly jumped out of her skin when she turned her head to see two vultures poised like gargoyles on opposite corners of the balcony. Vultures? She’d only seen them in cartoons, or maybe at the zoo. But they were vultures all right. What was going on?
She looked at her sandman, sound asleep in her bed. The sudden appearance of the birds had to be connected to him somehow. She had no idea how. Maybe there was something to his talk of Zeus and Hades after all. She knew nothing about Greek mythology, but Mae had a computer downstairs. After freshening up, Eve grabbed her robe and headed down to do some research.
A look with search engines revealed some interesting information, but not enough to go on. She typed in gods and vultures, and Ares came up. After last night, she might have suspected god of love, but god of war? Hard to imagine. Though, he did say he was a warrior. A conquering warrior. The vulture was a sacred b
ird and frequent companion to Ares. And the little black birds?
She stood, went to the sliding doors, opened the shades, and gasped. The porch was full of them, so many little black birds that she couldn’t see the tiles beneath them. She rapped on the glass, thinking to startle them away, but they wouldn’t move. A few of them craned to look at her, but showed no signs of fleeing in fear. And their feathers? They looked like little daggers. She ran back to the computer and read the Wikipedia on Ares. Birds liked Ares. Not just vultures, but also owls and woodpeckers. And he was frequently surrounded by little black birds with dagger-like feathers they were known to shower down on Ares’s rivals. Stymphalian birds. Her breath caught in her throat. She leaned back in her desk chair.
The god of war was sleeping in her bed.
The ring of the doorbell interrupted Eve’s musings. She made a quick glance of Mae’s calendar. The bed and breakfast wasn’t due for any guests for at least three weeks. On her way by the window, she passed the porch door and did a double take. No birds. Where had they gone? And so suddenly?
No time to figure it out. She had to get the door before the caller gave up and went away. Not that it would be a problem if she missed a door-to-door salesman or meter reader. Or with her luck, another one of Jehovah’s Witnesses eager to convert her to the flock. No thanks. Not this week. She had enough trouble with gods on her hands.
Though, when she thought about it that way, the whole idea just sounded really silly. God of war? Yeah. And Aphrodite’s at the door.
She opened it. A gorgeous woman, svelte in what had to be a designer suit, stood outside, a black satchel in her hand. Yes, definitely designer. Eve recognized the black, body-conscious, fur-trimmed jacket and skirt ensemble from a Dennis Basso show, one of the last she’d attended as a thriving designer in her own right. The woman even had the matching pillbox hat, perched at a jaunty angle atop her Little Mermaid red curls. Eve didn’t expect to see original Basso designs in Maine. What next, Karl Lagerfeld would stop by for a drink?
“Pardon me, but I believe you have what I’m looking for.” She held out a gloved hand, as if meaning for Eve to take it, then pulled it back. “Amy Nethans.”
“Well, I’m sorry Ms Nethans. We’re closed for the season. We’ll be ready for new visitors in a few weeks. Thank you. Try the Atlantic Motor Lodge on the Wells side.” Eve started to close the door. Ms Nethans didn’t exactly give her the warm and fuzzies, and she was eager to get back to Ares, er, Adam, er . . . she had to figure out what to call him. They hadn’t even eaten together yet. He must be starving. She wondered if he liked eggs.
“You don’t seem to understand.” Ms Nethans pushed the door open and stepped in. “I think you found my husband last night.”
“Your hu—” Eve took a breath. Ms Nethans eyes were softer now, a dark blue. She gnawed her lip as if concerned. Maybe Eve had misread her fear for aggression. “Your husband?”
“Hmm. He’s really tall, built.” She made a bodybuilder pose that won Eve over. No one too full of herself could resort to physical clowning in front of a stranger. “Blond hair. Blue eyes.”
Eve just nodded along. One enormous . . .
“Mistake,” Eve said, out loud. Then wished she could take it back. “I’m sorry Ms Nethans. Your husband?” She couldn’t confess to the woman right then and there that she had spent the night, all beautiful night, with her husband. Suddenly, she felt underdressed, even though she was wrapped up tight in her plush apple-green Eden’s Temptation robe, one of her favourite designs.
“He went missing from our yacht yesterday. We were anchored off Kennebunkport. Fell right over the edge, we suspect. Our captain traced the tide patterns and figured he might wash up here. He’s a strong swimmer. We didn’t see any reason to worry until we found no trace of him and then—”
“Then?” How could they have found him? What did he have, a computer tracking chip like Malomar, her best friend’s maltipoo?
“Then one of your neighbours called the police and reported seeing a man with you yesterday. On the beach.”
Eve blushed and looked down to the floor. Amy Nethans wore platform peep-toe Christian Louboutins. Last year’s Louboutins. And there was a weird little feather stuck on one of them. A deliberate decoration? Or an accident? Either way, so much for style. But besting Amy Nethans didn’t matter. She’d slept with her husband, for goodness sake. And someone had seen them! Probably that nosy Mr Plimpton. He was always at the windows, watching. He probably saw her passed out after her own little Corona-fest, too. But did he come help her? Of course not.
“And the police led you here?”
“They gave us some addresses to check out. They wouldn’t get involved for another twenty-four hours, not enough time to care, they said. Like the love of your life suddenly disappearing from your yacht shouldn’t be any reason to worry?”
Amy Nethans had a yacht. And a husband. That particular husband.
Eve struggled to catch her breath. She felt light-headed. As if her life hadn’t crashed and burned spectacularly enough, now she was The Other Woman. Why hadn’t she resisted the urge to get into that tub?
“Ms Nethans,” Eve began, not knowing quite what to say.
“Amy. Please. Call me Amy.” Amy gripped her arm, as if she needed the steadying. Eve was the last one to lean on.
“Amy, um.”
“He’s here, then? He’s okay? I’ve brought his clothes.” She held up the satchel.
“His clothes?” Of course the man had clothes. Not that it should come as a surprise. It was just that Eve had gotten to know him so well without his clothes that she couldn’t begin to picture what he would wear. Beyond her silk Adam’s Rib boxer briefs, specially designed for the man who likes to hang loose in style.
“Yes. He, um,” Amy paused and nibbled her lush lower lip. “He sleeps in the nude. It was the middle of the night. He got up for a drink of water, and just – poof. He never came back. In the morning, we found his watch near the railing.”
“So he sleeps naked. Except for his watch?” Eve raised a brow. His skin was bronzed, but she didn’t remember seeing any tan lines where his watch would be. Someone as attached to a watch as to sleep in one, when he takes off everything else, would surely have a tan line. Maybe she just hadn’t looked close enough.
Amy nodded. “And he sometimes just gets up in the middle of the night and doesn’t come back to bed right away, so I wasn’t alarmed. At first. By the time the sun started to rise, well – can you take me to him? Please? We’ll get right out of your way in no time.”
Eve paused. Maybe she should deny it, say he wasn’t here? On the other hand, what reason did she have to suspect Amy Nethans of anything hinky? Why would some strange woman just show up at her door after some strange man just washed up on her beach unless there was an honest connection? His wife.
The word landed in the pit of Eve’s stomach like a big, barnacle-encrusted rock.
“He’s upstairs. Asleep. He seems to be in fine shape. Just a little, uh, worn-out.” Eve couldn’t meet Amy Nethans’ striking blue eyes. “And he’s suffering from a bit of amnesia.”
“Amnesia? So he doesn’t know who he is?”
Eve shook her head. “No idea.”
“And he doesn’t know who I am?”
Eve felt the blush stinging at her cheeks again. “Um, I don’t know.”
“Take me to him. Please.”
“Of course.” Eve gestured toward the staircase, around the corner from the entry hall. “Right this way.”
At the top of the stairs, Amy called his name. “Arthur.”
Arthur? It seemed weird and foreign to Eve, not the right name for him at all. She pictured some grizzle-bearded wizard from Harry Potter, though that was Albus and not Arthur. Still, Arthur? It simply didn’t fit.
“In here,” Eve said, pointing to the door of the honeymoon suite. “Why don’t you let me wake him for you?”
Amy’s eyes widened. “Wake him? You? But he’s not weari
ng a stitch!”
“Yeah. I noticed.” Over every inch of him. Over and over again. “But he’s all tucked in snug. He recognizes me now. I don’t want to startle him.”
“I’m his wife,” Amy said, with some fire in her voice. “Step aside.”
Eve sighed and moved out of the way.
Amy went in and shut the door. For a few minutes, Eve stood outside, trying to listen, wondering if Adam (Arthur?) would be shocked, would protest, would insist he belonged here, with Eve? But she didn’t hear a thing. After ten minutes, she felt defeated as well as out of place, and just plain nosy, and she decided to go get some clothes on and putter around the kitchen until the happily married couple would finally emerge.
Forty minutes later, Amy appeared in the door of the kitchen, holding Arthur’s hand and pulling him like a recalcitrant child along at her side. He wore a blue button-down shirt, tucked into khaki pants, with topsiders. Like a waiter at any of the seashore dives trying to pass themselves off as classy restaurants. Not what she pictured him in at all. The shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders. It barely fit.
“We would like to thank you for your hospitality.” Amy spoke for them both. “Say thank you, Arthur.”
His hair was parted in the middle, combed neatly to both sides and tucked behind his ears. Again, it didn’t fit. She wanted to run her fingers through to muss it up.
He cleared his throat, looked down. It was a bit of a surprise to see her big strong warrior, Mr Commanding, acting so sheepish and shy. It simply didn’t fit. One thing Eve, a bra designer, knew was the importance of fit.
“Adam,” Eve said loudly. She didn’t give a damn what Amy thought about the name. “Adam, look at me. Are you okay? Do you know where you are? Who you are?”
He met her gaze, the formerly brilliant eyes clouded over. “I’m Arthur. You brought me in from the beach. Thank you. I’m going home with my wife now.”
“Very well, Arthur,” Amy said. “We’ve taken enough of your time. I’ve left enough for a night’s stay on the bed upstairs. I wouldn’t want to be a bother. Now we’ll be on our way.”