He opened the door, hoping to find her sitting in the middle of the bed and clenched his jaw in disappointment. His gut tightened as he slipped on a pair of boxers before heading downstairs.
The house was unbelievably well laid out with an open floor plan that encompassed the natural lighting, the sky, and Atlantic; all visible on different levels within the home. Exceptional. Minus the fact that he didn’t see Marissa.
Still, no sounds issued forth from below in the other areas of the house. Only silence, save the rhythm of the surf. Coming around the curve of the banister, he walked quicker, unable to fathom where she could be, and not wanting to consider if she wasn’t there at all.
“Hey, Marissa? Darling, are you hungry? We can eat in or out. Breakfast is the one meal I make that’s edible.”
Still silence. He crossed the living room, past the dining room, and pushed open the swinging kitchen door.
Empty. His gut clamped down into an iron cannon ball. He returned to the living room, his gaze falling to their brandy sniffers. Wyatt tunneled his fingers through his hair glancing around the room. There wasn’t a note. He spotted her purse tucked into the corner the sofa.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he stared down at the cushion. He picked up her bag and inside he found her cellphone, wallet, and keys.
Wyatt set the bag down and eyed the swirling curtains. This was the beach, Christ, what did he expect? He walked out onto the terrace, but she wasn’t there; only the horizon lay before him. In between, the shoreline framed the dawn. Soon the sun would be a blazing ball heating up the beach. Dropping his gaze, he spied dainty footprints in the sand forming a trail, leading from the terrace towards the shore.
A no-brainer. She had taken a walk. He pushed aside a surge of exasperation at her leaving. She was so independent, part of her charm, not a pushover at all. He couldn’t help smiling at the hoops she’d had him jumping through since yesterday. Yep, his little vixen was an absolute dynamo.
He trotted upstairs, and pulled on a pair of shorts and sweatshirt. Outside in the morning air, his pulse rocketed, tracking her footprints across the beach. He inhaled the remnants of her scent on his skin.
Less than twenty-four hours—he was falling, nose down into the essence of Marissa. He’d heard of people meeting and knowing right from the start. In front of him, beached upon the shore, lay a row of dolphins, silent and hardly moving. What the hell? He ran forward, uncertain what to do. The dolphins lifted their heads as he neared. Marissa’s footprints were dots that ended, and he was certain intersected the sight before him.
Where was she? He squinted over the beach, up the shore one way and then the other. Standing less than a few feet from the line of animals, he held onto his chin, surveying the squirming dolphin. If she’d seen this sight, she’d be here, right now. She’d have commandeered a task force into helping these animals. Not walked way. A couple of the dolphins chattered, drawing his attention.
One, two … he finished counting. Six dolphins were beached and more of them were in the shallow water beyond the beach. The dolphin began to lift their tails more in agitation than from being injured. He looked around again. No one was out on the beach.
He walked closer toward the dolphins. A school of dolphins. No, that wasn’t right. A pod or was that the term for whales? He stopped short. Long strands of golden hair lay across the sand in front of him, not inches from the middle dolphin. His heart froze.
“Oh, God, please no.” He ran forward, stopping short of their heads.
The dolphins opened their mouths, baring sharp teeth unlike the smiling bottlenose dolphins featured in movies and television. He knelt down, pushing at their sides.
“Let me get to her.” He pushed, using his hands on the dolphin’s flank.
Somewhere, somehow, she was underneath or in the middle of these animals. He shoved forward, digging his feet into the sand, and wedged in between the dolphins, opening a wider space within the center.
“Jesus Christ,” he barked. His forearm was wrapped on either side by a fierce-looking Flipper. Sharp points lanced his skin, but not with the pressure he’d expect from a creature of this size.
Wyatt gazed into the dolphin’s eyes. Without hesitation, he spoke to it. “I’m here to help.”
He braced his legs and pushed harder against the bottlenose’s body. He clenched his jaw, breaking a sweat, and put everything he had into moving the dolphin. Not much distance. He sunk down on his knees to catch his breath. He glanced up at the dolphin who kept watching him. “I know you understand. You’ve got to move, buddy. You could be hurting her.”
He stared into the dolphin’s eyes without breaking contact. The creature who gazed back communicated a vast intelligence, making Wyatt believe it capable of judgment. Something stirred within him. Almost a shadowy echo pounded his chest from the inside out. Each dolphin rolled, bit by bit across the sand moving into a v-shape formation, and presented him with what they had tried to keep hidden. She lay on her side between two dolphins.
“Marissa,” he groaned. “Baby. What happened?”
He moved his body further between the dolphins, trying to get to her. He stared down at her closed eyes, the soft curve of her lips, her pale skin. The shimmering effect made it seem like she was merely in some fairytale sleep. He stroked her face, ill-equipped to understand what had happened, knowing only that he needed to get help. He pulled her head up onto his lap. The sand near her was stained red.
Then the breath evaporated from chest. Blood trickled from Marissa’s shoulder. He ran his hand along her smooth skin. Some parts of her body were almost blue and so cold. Her bare chest rose and fell.
Wyatt tried to lift her, but she was still caught by the dolphin. Frustrated, he pushed against their bodies. “For the love of God. You must move back. I’ve got to get her help.”
He wrapped his sweatshirt around her shoulders and cradled her in his arms. A red stain spread from her shoulder. He rocked her and murmured she was safe. The dolphin began rolling, easing backward. Slowly, their movements gave him room to visually access Marissa. He got up on his knees, and then froze. He was too shocked to do more than gaze at her body. The dolphins had hidden what she’d become. She was not the same Marissa. Not with a full-sized tail.
The dolphin clicked and screeched, rapidly snapping him from his mindless blustering. Whatever he had been thinking was washed away. In little time, if he didn’t find help, Marissa would succumb to her wounds by a loss of blood or shock.
No matter what he thought or felt or hoped, it was up to him to keep her alive and safe. Kneeling down beside her, Wyatt gathered Marissa up in his arms. He couldn’t help but plant a kiss on her lips, trying to breathe warmth back into her body. She was lighter than he remembered from last night.
He glanced over his shoulder, the group of dolphins and many other sea creatures were crowding near the shore. Marissa’s still body was cradled within his arms. He nodded and turned. His target was the villa, upstairs in the bedroom.
He made it back to villa and once inside, he mounted the stairs with her, murmuring to her everything would get better. Returning to their bedroom, he held her tightly against him. The room was unchanged. That wasn’t true. Everything had altered. Hours before he’d made love to the woman of his dreams. He glanced down at the woman now in his arms. His chest tightened, unwilling to let go of his dream.
He laid her down, ever so gently on the mattress. Unlike last night, her body was clammy to his touch. Wet and cold were never good when it came to the emergency care of shock. She needed heat and quickly. He could deal with warming her as he covered her body with the sheet and comforter. It was a sharp piece of metal protruding from her shoulder that knocked the wind from his lungs. He didn’t recognize the metal lancing her shoulder; perhaps some type of piercing mechanism used for offshore sport fishing.
“Crap,” he swore softly. Game fish such as shark or marlin. He lightly trailed his hand over her face.
His thoughts raced, c
ondensing into an immediate checklist. The end of the barb had to be cut off to free from her body. He had enough experience in dealing with construction materials including metal to snip off the end. He pressed his lips, wild thoughts running through his head. What if? Marissa had risked being hauled inside a fishing boat or worse, trolled around as bait for larger prey.
Not once in his life had Wyatt toyed with the idea of a future with a woman before. Now, as he looked down at Marissa, he wasn’t about to let their future disappear.
There were so many questions. A million places to start.
Only one obvious point: Mermaid.
He couldn’t take her to the emergency room at the hospital or call in a doctor. She required emergency medical help to remove the metal piercing her shoulder and staunch the bleeding. His heart jack-hammered against his chest. He had construction site medical experience. But shit, nothing like this. He traced his fingers along her jaw, unable to breathe. To remove this metal barb, he must locate tools and supplies.
He gently lifted her shoulder. The metal barb appeared to be something like a trident. Easing her back against the pillows, he rolled her to one side. The end pierced the other side of her shoulder. She was cold and shaking. Wyatt moved to the linen closet, filling his arms with more comforters and blankets. He covered Marissa’s body, trying to generate some warmth. He turned up the heat in the house and went downstairs to boil some water.
He had to get his head around what he’d need. A first-aid kit, gauze, a sharp knife—or a razor blade—needle, and thread. In the garage, he located a set of tools. He fished around inside the metal box removing a clamp, bolt cutters, and locking pliers.
And what about sanitizing everything? Wyatt opened cabinets and went into the powder room downstairs. He returned upstairs bringing a dose of over-the-counter painkillers he’d found in the bathroom cabinet. He hesitated giving her anything that might increase her bleeding. He’d have to wait until after the metal was removed.
He bolted out the bedroom door, but kept returning to check on Marissa while assembling all the necessary items. He returned and brought a chair to the bedside. He organized an assortment of supplies. Everything he’d found was there on the nightstand.
He pulled on latex gloves, going over in his head how he intended to remove the metal from her shoulder. He had provided plenty of medical care to injuries and over the years had seen many men impaled, torn, bleeding, but this was different. Marissa was the victim.
“Marissa?” He stroked her hair. The fragrance of flowers and sea water drifted up from her.
Her lips were parted, now cracked and dry. He ran his hand along her arm, her skin felt colder than before. “I’m going to turn you on your side,” he murmured.
Wyatt spoke to her, told her every step. He sponged the wound with antiseptic, not once but twice, and wiped off the razor, pouring a liberal amount of antiseptic over the edge.
Holding the thin razor, he hesitated before bringing the edge to her skin. He set the razor back down. Interlacing her fingers with his, he held her hand, silently meditating, wondering if it had been too long for a prayer of his to be heard. He contemplated the solace he had felt being next to Marissa. He was willing to do anything if only she’d recover. After squeezing her hand, he proceeded to do something he’d not done for years. He prayed for her well-being. For her health. For God to hear him now.
He picked up the razor, inhaled, and steadily made the first cut along Marissa’s skin. The end of the trident moved easier once the wound was open. He held the bolt cutters in his hand. A chilled sweat broke out across his face. He laid the metal blades of the cutter at her shoulder. Slipping the blades around the rod of the trident, he snipped the barb in two, and one end fell into his hand.
Wyatt set the metal on the nightstand and wiped his face against the back of his arm.
Marissa’s face had turned ashen. He pressed two fingers along the blood vessel at the side of her neck. Her pulse flittered, prompting him to continue. The set of pliers were rusty so he wrapped them in a latex glove. He gripped the handle, gave a rapid pump, and then gripped the metal prong. Slowly, he drew out the piece of metal from her entry wound. A rush of blood oozed, trickling over skin. He immediately pressed a towel to her wound, holding it against her shoulder, and waited to lift the edge. After a couple of minutes, he pulled the towel away finding that the blood flow had lessened.
He swallowed gratefully, and exhaled. “Thank goodness.”
Wyatt dabbed Marissa’s wound with a piece of gauze saturated with antiseptic. The wound was deep and gaping, about three inches long from where he’d removed the trident. He frowned in worry. Bright red blood continued to drip down her shoulder. She needed stitches to stop this type of bleeding.
Swearing softly, he picked up the needle he’d found. He threaded it, before taking hold of the ends of the string to tie a knot. Nothing rudimentary in stitching up the woman he desperately wanted to save. This wasn’t the first time he’d stitched someone up. Hell, it had better be the last time he had to do this for her. She’d never get in this predicament again if he had any say.
He pinched the sides of the wound together, pressing gauze before he turned her over. He started on the back of her shoulder and gently rotated her shoulder, guiding her body back to the mattress. He washed the site again with antiseptic, lightly tracing the tight stitches that were stark against Marissa’s skin.
Wyatt released an uneven breath. He completed treating her injury by dressing the wound on both sides of her shoulder, placing a layer of sterile gauze over the sutured areas, and finished by taping around the edges.
Within the hour, Marissa had begun to violently shiver under the comforter. He covered her with more blankets, trying to keep her warm. He stroked her face and hair; all the while her eyelids remained shut. He sat by her side, holding her hand, watching over her, unsure what to do next.
Later, he began removing the blankets after her skin warmed. Then she seemed too warm. Her skin became flushed, and he brought a bowl of cool water to the night table. He wet a cloth, and worried when she began to moan, thrashing under the covers. He wiped her face, leaning over her, touching his cheek to her forehead. She was burning up this time.
After wiping her skin with tepid water, he went downstairs, opening and closing the kitchen cabinets. He found an assortment of tea and a tin of beef bouillon. He set the tin down, staring at the animal on the label. This consommé wasn’t from the sea, her source of food. Now, her odd preference made perfect sense. He wondered about that for a second, and then shook his head, dissolving complicated thoughts.
He prepared a tray to keep Marissa hydrated, liberally lacing the tea with honey and, on second thought, added a stiff shot of brandy to help her rest. He returned upstairs and sat by the bed. After setting the tray on the nightstand, he leaned closer over the mattress, dripping the broth into her mouth. Being this near to her, he wasn’t about to lie to himself about the feelings she continued to provoke. The sight of her in bed unleashed his desire to keep her. Safe. Finding her injured, he grimaced, giving into his overarching need to protect her—no matter what.
“Darling, a little more,” he murmured and continually encouraged her to swallow. He followed with the tea mixture, dropping tiny spoonsful into her mouth. Her eyes fluttered once. She didn’t say anything or wake up. Wyatt ran his hand tenderly over her skin. She was cooler to touch, yet there was no mistaking a fever raged within her while pin-pricking fear moved across his chest.
Marissa, with her hand curled near her face, appeared fragile, if not breakable. He rubbed his chest. A heavy thud smacked him, over and over, where his heart should have been beating. He recommenced sponging off her face, neck, and arms while keeping her covered otherwise.
He kept up his vigil over her, calling Sinclair only to be told that the contract was signed, and in route via email. The real estate closing would go forward and the promissory notes and deed recorded in another day. He cared less and less a
bout projected land development as the hours ticked past. He placed a moist cloth across her forehead, spellbound by her unmoving form. For minutes he gazed at Marissa. He brought over his laptop to the chair, and sent an email that he was unavailable to his office.
Her color changed to a deep, pink flush and he was sorely tempted to find a doctor who did make house calls. He squeezed the back of his neck, acutely aware of the risk involved.
He paced, fixed more broth and tea, pressed cold cloths to Marissa’s face, and paced some more over the floor at the side of the bed. The sun had set and, throughout the night, the wind whipped at the terrace doors, rattling the glass and his nerves.
From the terrace doorway, he watched the moonrise and the reflections riding the waves within the water. He tracked the moon’s movement across the sky in between clouds, now and then visible. Pressing his forehead against the cold glass, he almost believed he could make out the darting movement of dolphins along the shoreline. Finally, he returned and sat by the bed, holding Marissa’s hand.
He talked to her while she slept, telling her stories about his childhood, even his experiences on construction sites, losing his parents, and burying his pain inside. He talked about hiding from life within countless hours of work. He held her fingers, marveling at each of her delicate nails, satin skin, and pressed a kiss to her palm, reliving the night they’d shared just one evening ago. He held her hand against his cheek, praying for her to get better, to come back to him regardless of the details of her life. By the time the gray edges of the night crept upward into the sky, giving way to wisps of fuchsia-tinted clouds, his stiff body accentuated his worry. Too many questions and concerns filled his mind, to remain seated by the bed if she needed real emergency medical care. He prayed for a sign. Anything.
The room grew lighter and the shadows receded as seagulls flew by the terrace. Glistening moisture stood out from Marissa’s cheeks and forehead. Her skin no longer housed a dry fire underneath but was cool to touch. He kissed her forehead, and didn’t feel ice cold skin under his lips, nor a blazing furnace. Her smooth skin lay cool beneath his mouth.
Ocean of Love Page 13