TO HOLD AN EAGLE

by Justine Davis

  "Yes," she said, her voice unexpectedly cool and flat.

  Linc was taken aback by the change. "Just like that?"

  "I've expressed my gratitude," she said formally. "I would offer to pay you for your time and effort, but I'm afraid I'm—" she glanced down at her slender body in the now dry swimsuit "—insolvent at the moment."

  "Pay me?" Linc frowned, wondering if she was serious. Who was this cool, formal woman who had taken the place of the broken, frightened creature he'd rescued? "You can pay me with some answers. Like who you are, how the hell you got into this mess, and why?"

  For an instant the mask faltered, and Linc knew that the terrified woman was still there, just obscured now behind a well-practiced facade. He'd seen fronts like this many times before, and wondered what she was so desperate to hide. And where—and why—she'd cultivated the deceptive disguise.

  "It's not your responsibility," she said, and he didn't miss the slight quaver in her voice. She was trying hard to hang on to the mask, but she was still too shaken to make a complete success of it.

  "Oh?" he said mildly. "Then how about my responsibility as a citizen to report anything suspicious to the authorities? And lady, finding you playing mermaid all alone out there was definitely suspicious."

  The facade crumbled. "Please," she whispered, "don't. You don't understand…"

  "So tell me."

  "I … can't."

  "Then I'll have to guess, won't I?"

  "You couldn't," she said, and he heard the same bitterness that had echoed in her voice before. "You couldn't begin to guess."

  "No? Let's see… You're miles offshore, but you're certainly no long-distance swimmer. Therefore, at some point, there had to be a boat. But they're not looking for you, are they."

  It wasn't a question, but he read the answer in her face. It was the answer to something he hadn't known for sure—until that moment.

  "So it wasn't just an accident that you were out alone. I wondered about that."

  She flushed, and he knew she realized what she'd given away. She lowered her eyes.

  "That leaves only two possibilities, doesn't it? That they didn't know you were gone … a possibility if you just fell overboard. But that's not it, is it? Because if it was, you'd want to go straight to the Harbor Department and tell them, in case they'd discovered you missing and were in a panic by now."

  "Please…"

  The quiet little plea sent a shiver down his spine, as did the only possibility that remained. "That leaves only a pretty ugly thought, mermaid. That they know you're gone. And didn't stop."

  She gave an audible sniff, but there was no trace of tears in her voice when she spoke. "You left one out. Maybe I just jumped. Maybe I'm suicidal."

  She said it oddly, as if he'd accused her. In fact, he'd considered and discarded that possibility soon after he'd brought her aboard.

  "If you'd wanted to drown yourself," he answered with a shrug, "you wouldn't have been still trying to swim, even when you were exhausted."

  She lifted her gaze to his face. "I didn't know what else to do," she whispered, and for an instant every bit of the terror she was feeling darkened the clear blue eyes. Linc felt something tighten inside him, some primeval response that puzzled him.

  It was her fear that did it, he thought. It had nothing to do with the fact that he could see now how beautiful she was, almost ethereal with that pale skin and hair. But there was nothing ethereal about that lusciously curved, petite body, little of it hidden by the sleek swimsuit that, although modestly cut, fit her like a second skin. Nor was there anything ethereal about his body's reaction to it; it was swift, hot, visceral, and utterly unexpected. And, he told himself, utterly inappropriate.

  She was so clearly terrified, literally shaking with fear. He'd seen many frightened people before, but none like this, except perhaps Shiloh when Con had come so close to getting himself killed. And as he had at that moment, he now felt a strong need to comfort, to ease the fear; he hadn't been able to then, because he couldn't promise his sister the man she loved would live, and he couldn't now, because he had no idea what monster was pursuing this fragile woman. The combination of that need to protect with this fierce, sudden physical response was unsettling, to say the least.

  He was wondering why on earth he was feeling anything at all for this woman, he didn't even know when the deck lifted beneath him and he realized the ocean swell had increased; they were nearing the breakwater, where the swells rebounded from the huge barrier of rock, and if he didn't get on deck, they just might become intimately acquainted with those rocks.

  "I've got to get topside before we go aground."

  He turned on his heel and headed for the main hatch. Reaching to grip the sides of the opening, he pulled himself up in one smooth motion, forgoing the steps in his haste. As he headed once more for the wheel, he saw thankfully that they were not as close as he had feared; as distracted as he'd been he wouldn't have been surprised to find them nearly aground already. The breakwater was close, but still at a safe distance, and he released the autopilot and took over the wheel.

  While he maneuvered the sloop to the right side of the channel entrance, he shook his head ruefully. Not only had he let a distinctly nonprofessional get the drop on him, he'd been so intent on her presence that he'd been totally unaware of the change in the boat's motion, the warning that they were getting close to the rocky barrier.

  Linc sensed her moving around below, heard her making her way somewhat gingerly aft. To the head, he supposed, and a few moments later he heard the water pump kick in and prove the accuracy of his guess. Great, he muttered to himself. His instincts were working just fine where she was concerned, overtime, in fact. They just let the rest of the whole damn world slip away.

  He'd never been distracted like this before, had never allowed it. If he had, he probably wouldn't be here to think about it now. In his line of work, distraction too often meant death.

  Death. As the sea had almost meant for her. Had he hit it right? Had she been abandoned to her fate by whatever boat she'd been on? Had that fate even, perhaps, been hurried along? Or had he just been living too long in the kind of world where such acts were commonplace?

  Maybe it was as simple as she'd said. Maybe she'd jumped herself, then changed her mind and was just too embarrassed to explain it all to the officials. Maybe it had been some big, dramatic gesture, to make a point, perhaps after an argument with … whom? Her boyfriend? Husband?

  He didn't like that idea, but didn't like the fact that he didn't like it even more. Most of all, he still didn't understand why he gave a damn at all. He was still pondering it as he slowed to the regulation five miles per hour speed limit and began guiding the boat down the harbor channel.

  Moments later, he heard her coming up the main hatchway ladder. She had found one of his shirts, the white one he'd gone overboard after her in, it looked like; he'd rinsed it and hung it near a ventilation hatch to dry, and it had come out sadly wrinkled. It swam on her. Even buttoned to within two buttons of the top it bared an unsettling amount of skin below her throat, the tails were flapping near her knees, and the rolled up sleeves hung down over her slender wrists, but—thankfully—it covered her. And that damned swimsuit that fit her like it had been painted on.

  She'd rinsed out her salt water-soaked hair. It clung wetly to her head, making her look somehow even smaller, and her features even more delicate. She had his comb in her hand, and held it up.

  "I … do you mind?"

  "No." He looked at the tangled mass of her hair. "I don't know if it'll help, though. It's meant more for short hair."

  He saw her gaze shift to his head. Although his hair had grown out enough on the top so that the wind could catch and tousle it, it still bore the signs of his military cut at the shorter sides. She studied it contemplatively.

  "It must be easy."

  He shrugged. "It is easier for a long sail. Not exactly stylish, these days, though."

  "But I l
ike it," she said, then looked quickly away, as if sorry she'd said it.

  "Thanks," he said, smiling crookedly at her reaction. There had to be another explanation, he thought. Who on earth would want to intentionally hurt a woman like this? Unless, of course, she was merely a consummate actress, and he was buying it, hook, line and halyard. But that deeply ingrained instinct that so rarely failed him anymore told him she was just what she appeared; a frightened woman who didn't quite trust him.

  A sign posted above a harbor bulkhead to starboard caught his eye. He reached for the throttle and slowed the boat; he had about a hundred feet to make a decision.

  "Don't," she said suddenly, her voice harsh and strained. "Please, don't."

  She had obviously spotted the County Sheriff/Harbor Department sign just seconds after he had, and had guessed the reason for his slowing of the boat. He turned his head to look at her. In the deepening afternoon shadows, nearly swallowed up in his shirt, she looked small, hollow-eyed and haggard … and incredibly fragile.

  "All right," he said suddenly, thinking that he was sure to regret this decision. But for the moment, the look of pure, grateful relief on her wan face was worth it.

  "But I want some answers," he added sternly as he edged the throttle forward once more. "As soon as we dock."

  She said nothing, merely lowered her head as if in submissive consent.

  It took a few minutes to go the length of the channel to the turning basin where the Pilgrim was anchored. A couple of other sailboats, one larger, one smaller than the Shiloh II, were anchored nearby, dwarfed by the much larger replica of the historical ship. Linc noticed that she stared at the big, black-hulled ship as if she'd never seen anything like it before.

  She's not from here, then, he surmised. Shiloh had told him the locals treated the ship like any other familiar, loved landmark; they mostly ignored it except when it left on one of its sails up and down the California coast, or when they went to point it out with pride to visitors.

  He made the right turn slowly, grateful that it was no later than it was, because the winter sunlight was fading quickly. Although once he found the slip, he thought, it shouldn't be too difficult to maneuver into it. Even though it was unfamiliar to him, since the Phoenix was nearly ten feet longer than the Shiloh II, and correspondingly wider, the slip should be roomy enough to forgive any mistakes he might make.

  He didn't, as it happened, make any. He felt a trace of satisfaction as he cut the power at the near-perfect moment, and the sloop glided into the slip and stopped neatly beside the dockside steps as if she'd come home. Linc glanced at the woman beside him.

  "How are you with mooring lines? If I throw you the line can you tie off the bow?"

  She nodded, giving up what had been a futile effort to tame her wet hair with his small comb. She set it down on the cockpit seat, then got to her feet. He unhooked the lifelines at the access gate, so she wouldn't have to climb over them. She stepped up to the rail, hesitated a moment atop the gunwale, and he wondered if it was too far for her. But then she gave a little jump and landed safely on the built-in steps on the dock.

  He went forward again, and tossed her the bow mooring line. He waited long enough to see her begin to tie it off with at least some amount of efficiency; she wasn't a total stranger to this, he thought as he headed back to do the stern himself.

  He picked up the line that he had, bowing to the habits instilled in him by first his father, then his two summer-long intensive training cruises at the naval academy, neatly recoiled on deck after pulling a blond mermaid from the sea. Jumping lightly to the dock, he tugged the stern closer in and swiftly tied it off.

  When he straightened up again and looked at her, she was staring down the long row of boat slips toward the building that housed the marina office. Then she turned suddenly, looking at him.

  "Were you really going to … call your sister?"

  He nodded.

  "Will she really be worried because she hasn't heard from you?"

  Linc grinned at the thought. "She doesn't waste time worrying. She might call out the coast guard and order them to search, or take off and hunt me down herself, but she won't be sitting around worrying."

  An oddly wistful look came over her face. "It must be nice … to be like that." Then she drew herself up straight. "I'm sorry. You should call her. Before she does call out the coast guard."

  She managed a faint smile. Linc's heart thudded in his chest at the faltering curve of lips whose soft fullness he hadn't truly noticed until now. She shifted as if she were uncomfortable, and he realized he was staring.

  "I'll call her now. Come back aboard, and you can … call your friend."

  He knew there was no friend, sensed she had no one to call. He wanted some answers, and he wanted them now. He saw her hesitate, looking at him as if she were gauging the distance between them to see if she could get away. He knew she couldn't, it would take him only a step to catch her. She seemed to reach the same conclusion; rather meekly she climbed back aboard the boat.

  She waited until he had turned on the radiophone again before gesturing toward the head and saying quietly, "I'll be in here for a minute. For a towel. I want to try to dry my hair."

  He nodded, then turned his attention back to the radio when the operator answered. He gave her the number, and then listened to the connection go through. A male voice answered; Jimmy, he guessed, the owner of the sail loft where Shy made those colorful sails, the spinnakers that he, despite his gruff teasing, had to admit were beautiful in flight. He asked for Shiloh, then waited, wondering if the woman was having trouble finding a dry towel; there were some odd thumping noises coming from forward.

  "Linc? This better be you!"

  His sister's bright, beloved voice made him smile. "It's me, little one. Call off the search." Another thump from the area of the head made him turn to look. The door was still closed.

  "Where are you? Did you have trouble?"

  "At the slip, and sort of."

  "What's wrong? You were supposed to call me from outside, so I could be there."

  "I know, but—" The boat lifted a fraction from a tiny swell. "I'll tell you later, Shy."

  "Uh-oh."

  He grinned. "What do you mean, uh-oh?"

  "Your 'I'll tell you laters' are like Con's 'I'll tell you laters,'" she said. "They mean trouble."

  "Now, Shy, don't—" He broke off as realization hit. There had been no swells before that tiny lift, nor any after, and no sound of a motor from a passing boat. "Damn," he swore.

  "What?"

  "Hang on a minute," he snapped, and dropped the microphone on the chart table. He raced forward, yanking on the door to the head. It was still fastened from the inside. He reached for the handle of the door to the forward cabin; it, too, was locked.

  He let out a string of curses he hadn't aired in some time as he raced back the length of the boat and hoisted himself through the hatch. He ran forward, although he could already see from here that what he'd feared was true; the front hatch was wide open. And while he had to work to get his shoulders through it, a five foot one mermaid could do it without even trying. He knelt beside the opening, peering inside even though he knew what he would see. And he did; the forward cabin was empty, and the secondary door that led to the cabin from the head was open.

  She was gone.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  "That's it?"

  Shiloh looked incredulous as she handed her brother a cup of steaming coffee. They were gathered in the comfortable, richly colored living room of her small house, which sat perched on a bluff that gave them a tiny view of the blue Pacific in the distance.

  Marriage obviously agrees with her, Linc thought. She looks more than just contented, she looks almost softer somehow, although there was no change in the taut fitness of her body. She looks, he realized, like a woman who is utterly and totally loved, and knows it. And as for Con, Linc didn't think he'd ever get over the c
hange his imp of a sister had wrought in the silent, withdrawn man who had been his friend, and was now the brother he'd never had. He was genuinely delighted for both of them.

  "That's it," Linc said wryly in answer to her exclamation.

  He watched from his chair as his impetuous, green-eyed sister walked back to the sofa and dropped down beside her husband, curling her legs up under her as she leaned against him. Con's arm went around her shoulders to cradle her, so naturally that only one who had known—as Linc had known—the silent, withdrawn man he'd once been would be aware of the small miracle he'd just witnessed. Shy's left hand brushed back a strand of the warm, auburn sweep of her hair, then came down to rest on Con's muscled thigh, the lovely gold-and-teardrop-emerald ring that graced her ring finger glinting in the light.

  "And you haven't called anyone about her," Con said quietly, making it an observation rather than a question, his eyes steady on his old friend and new brother-in-law.

  "No."

  "Are you going to?" Shy asked.

  "I don't think so. I…" He trailed off, not sure he could explain.

  "But it's going to drive you crazy, wondering, isn't it?"

  Linc didn't want to admit Shiloh was right, but the memory of a small, slender woman crouched in shivering terror refused to go away. "She was so scared…"

  "Then it's too bad she ran." Shiloh picked up her own cup of hot chocolate. "You could have helped her."

  Linc's mouth quirked. "You sound awfully sure of that."

  "Of course I am."

  Linc let out a low, rueful chuckle. "Thanks for the confidence, Mrs. McQuade. Maybe I should have said you're awfully sure I would help her."

  "Of course you'd help her. You may try to play it cool and indifferent, but underneath you're always my big brother, the white hat. Just like Con is, even though he'll never admit it."

  Linc felt heat rising up his cheeks, and saw a matching flush color Con's face. He was very afraid his perceptive little sister had him—and her husband, who was, beneath the formidable exterior, a marshmallow where his wife was concerned—pegged to a T. She had limitless faith in them both, and secretly Linc admitted to himself, as Con had once admitted aloud to him, he would die before he ever let her down.