Caught By Surprise. Sandra Paul
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on the platform, the human half of his body lifted out of the water. His head lay on his arms, his face hidden in the crook of his elbow.
Beth’s heart skipped a beat. Was he asleep? Unconscious? she wondered, as she hurried down the rest of the stairs. Surely he wasn’t dead? Anxiety quickened her stride as she headed across the room toward the platform. He didn’t move as she climbed the wooden steps, but as soon as she stepped out onto the structure, he lifted his head.
Relief flowed through her. No, not dead, not even unconscious. But definitely hurting. For a split second—before he’d assumed his usual expressionless mask—she’d swear she’d glimpsed suffering in those dark-blue eyes.
“You poor thing,” she said involuntarily. She started toward him—then stopped in midstep as his lip curled, revealing excellent white teeth.
Beth remained frozen in place, uncertain what to do as he continued to watch her unblinkingly. She needed to get closer, to see to his shoulder. But she couldn’t get her feet to move. From across the room, he’d looked formidable. Up close he was totally intimidating.
For one thing he appeared much larger than he had in the water. Nor, in spite of the hints of pain on his face, did he appear at all weak and helpless. Lying with his arms and torso propped on the wood made his shoulders appear broader, his brown chest deeper than Johnny Weissmuller’s in the old Tarzan movies Anne so enjoyed.
But what really made Beth nervous was that unblinking gaze. Something in his unreadable, narrow-eyed stare made her pulse beat faster, kept her rooted in place like a person afraid of being bitten by a dangerous dog. Not that she’d ever had any contact with dogs—well, except for a puppy she’d played with once when The Searcher had anchored for a time near Catalina island. Nor was she exactly worried about being bitten—although the merman’s teeth did look extraordinarily white and strong. No, she was much more concerned about being dragged into the water as he’d done to Ralph.
She couldn’t forget how easily he’d held Ralph, or the strength it must have taken to throw the man—who had to weigh at least two hundred pounds—back up on the platform.
She took a deep breath trying to calm her racing pulse. The point to remember here was that he had thrown Ralph back, she reminded herself. He’d released him. If the merman was truly, knowingly vicious, then surely he wouldn’t have done that.
Taking comfort from the thought, she took a tentative step forward—then paused again as his eyes gleamed in his shadowy face. Well, at least he’d stopped snarling. That was a good sign…wasn’t it? Of course it was, she told herself. Maybe he just needed a few seconds to get used to her. To realize she wanted to help, not hurt him.
They continued to stare at each other as she tried to think of a way to get her goodwill message across. Maybe she should sing—that was said to soothe the wild beasts. It had worked with King Kong, hadn’t it? She cleared her throat, preparing to try, then abandoned the idea. She really had a lousy voice. For all she knew, it might rile him up. Or at the least, send him underwater. Then she’d never get close enough to tend to his wound.
She tried a compromise, speaking in a soothing tone. “Now don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you,” she said, slowly stepping toward him.
He didn’t move, just continued to watch her. Taking this as an encouraging sign, she crept closer. “All I want to do is help you with that shoulder. I know it hurts you—it has to. But I have stuff here to help it heal. To make it feel better.”
He still didn’t move. She slowly inched forward until she was able to see his expression clearly. She drew in a breath as he turned his head slightly, and the light fell fully across his face.
No doubt about it, he was suffering all right. His dark, wet hair was slicked back from his face, emphasizing the strong cast of his features. Dark shadows lay beneath his deep-set eyes. His skin looked tauter across his high, proud cheekbones, his face leaner than it had before. And even though his eyes were bright, his eyelids drooped heavily.
She drew closer still until she was within touching distance of his arm. Carefully, she crouched down and extended her hand. Slowly…slowly…until her fingers brushed his biceps.
He quivered…then went still.
Beth sucked in a breath, her eyes widening. Wonder and exhilaration flowed through her, and she wanted to laugh with the sheer joy of it. She was touching a merman—a mythical creature that wasn’t even supposed to exist! Yet, how real—how solid he felt beneath her hand.
Gently she stroked his skin, enthralled by the sensations coursing through her. Her father had tried to explain to her once about the excitement of touching a gray whale—those giants of the deep who, after centuries of enmity with man, had recently begun allowing humans to stroke them in a lagoon off Baja.
But nothing—nothing compared to this, Beth thought, delicately trailing her fingers back up over the sculpted curve of his biceps. How smooth, yet firm his skin was. How rock hard the muscles beneath it. The most amazing thing of all was that he hadn’t moved away.
She stroked his arm again, more lingeringly this time. A faint tremor ran along the taut muscle beneath her fingertips, and afraid he might swim away, she began talking again. “How handsome you are,” she praised him, in that crooning tone that had worked so well before. “You’re such a good-looking merman.”
Beneath her palm, she felt him stiffen. His eyelids flickered, and he shot her an almost startled glance, before he looked away again, his expression going blank.
But even this minute sign of response encouraged Beth. She tried more compliments, getting into the spirit of the thing, pouring lots of enthusiasm into her voice. “So big and strong. So manly. And so warm…”
Her voice trailed off. “Maybe too warm,” she added in a worried tone, a small frown creasing her brow.
She slowly lifted her hand toward his face. He sent her another sidelong glance and she said softly, “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just afraid you might have a fever.”
She gently brushed back his hair, combing her fingers through the damp, silky strands. She did it again, watching his thick dark lashes drift down with the movement, as if he were half-asleep. Then she placed her palm firmly against his forehead. He only allowed the contact for a few seconds before pulling away, but that was plenty long enough for Beth to make her diagnosis.
“You’re so hot!” she exclaimed, dismay filling her voice. She sat back on her heels to look into his face. Sure enough, examining him more closely, she could see a slight flush beneath the dark tan on his cheeks. “You do have a fever!”
She moved to the side, leaning over him to see his back. She sucked in a breath as she stared at his wound. “And no wonder,” she said huskily.
The jagged, lightning-bolt gash was dark red and swollen along the edges. But at least it wasn’t bleeding, Beth noted, grateful for small favors. The skin had even begun to seal, forming a thick, uneven ridge that made her wince.
“It looks bad,” she told him, unconsciously patting his arm comfortingly as she spoke. “But not as bad as it could be. The salt water must be good for it.”
Of course he didn’t respond; she knew he couldn’t understand her. He just continued to regard her with that inscrutable stare. Beth continued to talk to him anyway, as much to calm her own anxiety as his. “You’re going to have a terrible scar, but you already have a few anyway, don’t you?” she added, as her gaze roamed over his chest and back.
This close, she could see other marks on his bronzed skin. One thin, faded white line ran beneath his well-defined pecs and the glinting silver medallion he wore. Another small scar was centered on his muscular back. Almost hidden beneath his hair she noticed another mark, curving from beneath his ear toward the back of his neck. She looked at it more closely, and with a slight jolt, saw it wasn’t a scar at all, but a gill.
The realization shocked Beth—yet, it oddly reassured her, too. His rugged face, the hard