Siren's Call.

Devyn Quinn.

For Termunkle, who sat on my shoulder and purred as I wrote this book.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

This book could not have been written without the input of the following people. It is with much grat.i.tude that I must mention the following: Roberta Brown is my absolutely brilliant agent. Not only does she always encourage me to aim higher and do better with my writing, but she's always there to hold my hand when I'm melting down with doubt. I could not function without her sane and sensible advice helping me navigate through the pitfalls of a writer's career.

Jhanteigh Kupihea is my amazing editor, whose insight and experience helped to shape the ma.n.u.script from a bare-bones synopsis of a few pages to a completed book. She was kind enough to call and speak to me in person whenever I hit the panic b.u.t.ton. Her insight and clearheaded thinking keeps me on track.

Bestselling author Kate Douglas generously took time out of her own crazy schedule of deadlines to cheer me along and read the opening drafts of this book. She also delivered a few well-deserved kicks to the rear whenever I began whining about my lack of talent to write a decent sentence. I also need to mention my beta readers, Lea Franczak and Tracey Anderson. Both ladies suffered through those first early drafts and encouraged me with words of praise and support. And I can't forget my circle of girlfriends on whom I rely for advice, support, and friendship: Jodi Lynn Copeland, Anya Howard, Sara Reinke, Sarah Parr, Marianne LaCroix, and Del "Buddy" Garrett.

Greg Eschenbauch, a talented artist in his own right, kindly loaned me the vision of a mermaid when I had none. Thanks for letting me borrow her. . . . You can't have her back.

Last, I would like to thank the musicians of Nox Arcana for creating the music that gave me back my inspiration. No, I don't know these fellows personally, but their CDs played constantly as I wrote. Listening to their compositions reminded me why I wanted to create something others might enjoy.

Prologue.

Kenneth Randall walked along the craggy beach. Hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, he watched ever-rising waves lap against the sh.o.r.eline. Gray, brooding clouds hung low in the sky. Lightning scratched like an angry animal at their fat bellies. Thunder rumbled in the distance, ominously warning of the deluge soon to arrive. A foghorn blast from the lighthouse standing about a mile off the bay warned stragglers off the water. When the storm finally made sh.o.r.e, it would hit with vicious force.

The bitter sea wind kicked up, driving the water harder against the land. An icy blast of air threaded through his hair, as intimate as the caress of a lover. It seemed the water spoke, although Kenneth knew-just knew-the voice couldn't be anything but the echo of the wind. Its mournful whisper traveled through the air, brushing against his ears.

Join me, came the ocean's song. I can take your pain away.

Brooding, he studied the restless sea. A vision of sinking beneath the waves immediately unfurled across his mind's eye, sending a forbidding chill through his veins. It would be easy to do. Wiser inhabitants of Point Rock Harbor had already made their way to shelter. No boats lingered on the water, nor people on the beach.

He was all alone.

Heart thudding dully against his ribs, Kenneth headed closer to the water's edge. He took one step, and then another, moving with the determination of a man who'd made up his mind. Stopping at the edge of the beach, he felt the water seep into his heavy boots. The unexpected sensation of wet and ooze sent a shiver down his spine.

Bending, he fumbled with the laces, working the heavy, wet things off his feet with clumsy fingers. The Arctic airstream driving the storm had given the water a brisk, eye-opening nip. It was chilly, but not yet unbearable. Self-preservation tugged at the back of his mind where logic still lingered. He really should turn around and head back, go to the hotel room he'd rented for the duration of his monthlong vacation.

His mouth drew into a downward arch. He'd kept the reservations only because there was no refund on the anniversary package he'd booked months ago. He'd been looking forward to the idea of being holed up in a quaint little seaside hotel, making pa.s.sionate love to his wife. Now he dreaded it.

Traveling alone was the hardest part.

Blinking to clear his blurry vision, Kenneth pulled off his soggy boots and set them aside. His socks followed. It didn't feel like half a year had pa.s.sed since he'd laid Jennifer to rest. The trip to Maine had been his idea, an attempt to get Jennifer away from the stress of work and family. It would be just the two of them, reconnecting, rediscovering the old spark of pa.s.sion.

Instead of celebrating their life together, he was left alone. Mourning Jennifer's loss.

And looking for a way out, he thought.

Today, the opportunity presented itself.

Thrusting logic back in its box and locking the mental lid, Kenneth gazed out over the open s.p.a.ce. Past Little Mer Island there was nothing but water and more water. The lighthouse located there stood alone, wrapped in its own cloak of isolation. Privately owned, the grounds, dwelling, and tower were off-limits to tourists.

"Might as well take advantage," he murmured. He doubted the owners would mind his swimming past. After all, he wasn't planning to stop by for a visit.

Swallowing down the lump forming in his throat, Kenneth took off his jacket and lifted it into the air. The wind quickly whipped it out of his hand, carrying it out of sight. His shirt followed. Goose pimples spread across exposed skin lashed by the bl.u.s.tering wind. The brackish scent of the incoming sea filled his nostrils, clearing away the apathy dulling his senses for so long.

For the first time in months he actually felt energetic, as though a great and terrible weight had lifted off his shoulders.

Clarity gave him a vision. The renewed burst of energy gave him the strength to carry it out.

Jaw tightening, he undid the b.u.t.tons of his jeans. With a gasp of mingled agony and relief, he slid them down his hips and legs. Stepping neatly out of the pile, his gaze lingered over the last of his clothing. As naked as the day he was born, it was also the way he wanted to leave this life behind. It seemed only fitting the gloomy, unwelcoming waters of the bay would be his grave-the exact opposite of the warm, nurturing womb that had given birth to him.

The storm rolled closer, bearing down on the land like a locomotive without brakes. Lightning flashed, illuminating the sh.o.r.eline with an eerie glow. Flung down with a vengeance, rain stung his bare skin.

Naked and exposed, Kenneth knew death by drowning wouldn't be easy. But it would be merciful. That was all that counted. It would probably be a few days before the hotel staff figured out he was missing. Didn't matter. It probably wasn't the first time some tourist had gotten himself drowned. His wallet with his driver's license was still in the pocket of his pants and his SUV was parked nearby. It wouldn't be hard to identify his remains.

The voices from the water were stronger now, louder. To ignore their call was impossible. Even if he'd wanted to, Kenneth doubted he could've found the strength to turn away. He was too weak, his psyche battered by grief, loss, and an agony no amount of time could ever dull.

Losing Jennifer and the child she carried hurt more than he had ever dreamed. As a human being living on planet Earth, one expected life to inflict its tragedies. But expecting and experiencing them were two different things. The subtle rips living inflicted on the heart became a jagged chasm when death reached out to claim someone a man cherished.

Somewhere, somehow, she's out there. Waiting for me.

Exhausted by the long reach of memory, his shoulders slumped. Suicide wasn't the answer and he knew it, but somehow he couldn't break the spell of the water. And, truth be told, he didn't really want to.

Steeling himself against the incoming wash of waves, Kenneth walked into the water. Each determined step took him farther out into the all-consuming sea . . .

The fool. The d.a.m.n fool.

Binoculars pressed to her eyes, Tessa Lonike frowned as she watched the man standing onsh.o.r.e strip off his clothing. What was it about these extreme athletes that made them think a swim in the bay during a severe thunderstorm would be a good idea? Given the temperature of the water, it would take only minutes for hypothermia to set in.

She sighed. Humans should know they weren't made for the water.

Leaning into the rail circling the deck of the thirty-foot-high lighthouse, Tessa adjusted the focus on her high-powered binoculars, zooming in for a closer view.

Even from a distance she could tell he was tall, at least six feet, thin, definitely a swimmer's physique. Though his features were indefinable, the long dark hair whipping around his face and shoulders gave him a s.e.xy, bad-boy appeal. If he thought he could take on the water and win, more power to him.

Her breath caught in her throat when he unb.u.t.toned his jeans and pushed them off his hips. She was expecting to see a pair of those lycra-jammer swim trunks so popular with the local male swimmers.

A gasp rolled past her lips when he revealed himself to be one hundred percent bare-a.s.s naked. Stepping out of his jeans, he stood proud and unashamed at the water's edge. He didn't flinch when a roll of thunder released a torrent of rain, the heavy drops slashing at his pale skin with brutal intent. The man was obviously an exhibitionist.

As the keeper of the Little Mer Island lighthouse and one of the area's search-and-rescue volunteers, it was her job to keep an eye on the bay. With a storm about to make landfall, most people knew to get the h.e.l.l off-or out of-the water. Summer had pa.s.sed without a single incident. Soon fall would settle in, and then the freezing snows of winter. She'd be locked on this frickin' island with little more to do than twiddle her thumbs until spring's thaw.

Wiping the water off her lenses, Tessa lifted her binoculars for another look. Surely now that the rain had arrived, he'd give up his insane idea and go home. Thunderstorms blowing in off the North Atlantic had a tendency to get dangerous. High winds and crashing waves were sure to drive boats and bodies alike against the rocky sh.o.r.eline. Not to mention the powerful undertows that could drag you under in the blink of an eye.

As if to second her concerns, thunder clapped around her, shaking the lighthouse. Lightning streaked to earth, striking the tower's aluminum rod that was designed to take its charge safely into the ground.

"Get out of the water, idiot," she murmured.

Instead of abandoning sh.o.r.e, the naked man entered the sea. Making slow progress against the waves, he began to swim, traveling through the water with strong, determined strokes. Within seconds it became clear he wasn't heading toward the lighthouse, the usual destination of endurance swimmers. Though the isle was privately owned by her family, it didn't stop stragglers from coming ash.o.r.e.

The man unexpectedly stopped, treading water. Then he dove. Disappeared.

A long minute stretched into two.

Nothing.

The water grew choppier. Waves crashed harder against the sh.o.r.es. Rain fell in sheets, obscuring her view. The wind howled, a banshee singing the doom of another soul taken under by the unforgiving bay.

"Aw, s.h.i.t," she cursed lightly under her breath. The d.a.m.n fool was a suicidal fool.

And my idiot lack of focus could cost the man his life.

Tearing off the deck, Tessa took the stairs two at a time heading to the first floor. There, the lighthouse was outfitted with the emergency radio system allowing her to communicate with the Harbor Department on the mainland. Moored at the docks, a twenty-seven-foot Boston Whaler waited for action. Her sister Addison would be one of the women piloting the rescue boat. She wouldn't be happy either. Addison hated being called to pull a dead body out of the water.

By the time she'd hit the last step, Tessa had already figured out it was too late to summon help. She'd have to handle this one herself. Cold shock could severely limit a swimmer's ability to rescue themselves. It could also cause them to ingest water into the lungs, especially if they gasped while under the surface or while submerged by a wave. Drowning was death from suffocation. Anyone who wanted to commit suicide in the water need only take a few gulping breaths. Asphyxia would soon occur.

Leaving the lighthouse behind, she ran the short distance toward the edge of the island. On the north side was a stony ledge that was good for diving.

Barely stopping to strip out of her clothing, Tessa launched her body over the rocks and into the water with a single smooth motion. Her aim was that of the expert swimmer, her slender figure slicing through the churning waves like a knife.

Disappearing beneath the surface, Tessa felt the tell-tale p.r.i.c.kle of iridescent scales rippling across her skin. She caught her breath, antic.i.p.ating her shift from an inhabitant of the land into a being of the sea.

From the waist down an instantaneous metamorphosis took place. Bone and muscle twined, fusing her two human legs into one before reshaping them into a long, slender, fishlike tail. Painless and swift, the sorcery of her modification from human to Mer occurred within the span of a second.

Born and raised in these waters, Tessa had always known she was different from the humans living onsh.o.r.e. Though human beings and mermaids were anatomically similar on land, all those similarities vanished once she hit the water. Far beneath the waves, where no human eyes could see her, Tessa became her true self-a strong, vital, confident woman of the seas.

Churned by the storm wailing above, the water was muddy and as dark as a tomb. The murk boiled around her, thick and almost impenetrable even to her super-sharp eyes.

Propelling herself at top speed, Tessa headed in the direction where she'd last seen the suicidal swimmer.

Precious seconds ticked away as she searched for the man she'd seen onsh.o.r.e. Beneath the surface, the water was bone-chillingly cold. As a Mer, Tessa was comfortable hot or cold. For a human, surviving would be difficult. In this temperature he'd have perhaps ten minutes before muscle impairment set in.

Struggling past the impulse to panic, Tessa forced herself to slow down. The water filtered in and out of her lungs as easily and naturally as she breathed air.

If he's dead . . .

She clamped her teeth against the acidic nausea of dread. No! She would find him. She would save him. It was her fault he'd gotten this far out into the water in the first place. If she'd been paying attention instead of worrying about her starved libido, she would have recognized the warning signs sooner.

Making several more pa.s.ses through the area, she sensed rather than visually recognized his presence. A shadow. A wisp. Hair loose and tangled.

Head whipping around, she zeroed in on the body gently bobbing beneath the water's surface. His arms were floating outward, as if he were reaching for her in appeal. But his unseeing gaze stared right through her. There was no light, no life, in his eyes.

Fear lanced through her. Was she too late to help him?

Gasping painfully, Tessa quickly swam over to the fading man.

If he still has any life, I can save him. The thought offered a glimmer of hope.

Reaching out, Tessa cupped the man's face between her palms. Beneath the water, a mermaid's kiss could save a man's life, granting him the ability to breathe. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the precious air he needed to survive.

Tilting her head, she pressed her mouth to his. Summoning the magic known only to the Mer, she exhaled, pa.s.sing the vital spark of life from her body to his . . .

Chapter 1.

Port Rock, Maine.

Ten months later.

The boat skimmed across water as clear and shiny as a newly polished mirror. Though the bay was calm and untroubled, Kenneth Randall felt his stomach make a slow backflip. Swallowing hard against the rise of nausea, he quietly fought the urge to vomit. Good grief. He'd had no idea a quick trip across the Pen.o.bscot would make him sick as a dog.

Tightening his grip on the edge of the flat-bottomed skiff, he glanced down into a depth unfathomable to the naked eye. A p.r.i.c.kling sensation ran up his spine. The bay looked unwelcoming, ominously unpredictable. Because the weather changed from day to day, its tides often presented intimidating challenges to navigation and piloting.

Kenneth shivered. His muscles bunched with tension. Though the water was tranquil, he couldn't help thinking back to the day he'd almost sacrificed his life to that all-consuming abyss in a moment of despair.

He frowned as images of walking into the choppy water flashed across his mind's eye. Through the hazy labyrinth of time and distance he still couldn't remember what had happened after he'd gone under. Every time he tried to put the pieces together, the indistinct pictures melted away, slipping back into the murky void lingering around the edges of his skull.

Despite the fact that it felt strange to admit it, he had a feeling he hadn't been under the water alone. Someone-something, some benevolent presence-had hovered nearby, keeping him alive when he should have perished. Whether it was the design of a higher power or the provenance of pure luck, somehow he'd survived. And while he wouldn't go so far as to label the underwater presence an angel, he couldn't shake the deeply rooted notion he'd been visited by a being of purity and beauty.

Digging deeper into the murk surrounding that day, Kenneth's stomach tightened at the fleeting, half-conscious impressions crowding into his brain. Female. Yes, he was absolutely sure the presence was a feminine one.

A flush p.r.i.c.kled his skin as his heart sped up, filling his veins with hot adrenaline. Since that time the same faceless siren had visited his dreams, ushering in a sensually erotic delight. He was absolutely convinced he'd experienced the feel of her hands caressing his skin with a sensitive, compa.s.sionate touch. The breath seeping from his lungs had been restored by her kiss . . .

Kenneth choked down a lump of frustration before taking a few quick breaths to calm his fluttering stomach. "I definitely need to get my head on straight," he muttered under his breath.

The idea his sea nymph was nothing more than the apparition of a mind gone awry had occurred to him on more than one occasion. The siren had to be the figment of a desperate imagination. He'd spent months in therapy working through that day. His therapist had even identified the notion to be part of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Survivor's guilt in the wake of two painful events had obviously put a lot of pressure on his subconscious mind. His body was relieving the stress in the only way it knew how, through sleep. Coming from the mouth of a professional, it all made perfect sense.

Forcing his gaze away from the water, Kenneth settled his attention on the island ahead. As the transport motored closer, he could see a traditional Cape Cod- style home-right down to the whitewashed exterior and gray-shingled roof-that stood several hundred feet behind a high concrete wall designed to break the worst of the waves.