Tsunami Blue (3 page)

I closed my eyes, exhausted, and pictured his face, my fantasy angel, my savior for just one night, and I realized that this was sexual. It was pure want, pure need. Pure raw desire. And in all my twenty-four years, I’d never experienced this before. Had never experienced a man before. I wasn’t ashamed. My life had been all about waves and survival, and just getting from one day to the next alive. There was never any time for this. There was never anyone for this.  

I sighed and let the fantasy of a dark angel with golden skin and jet-black hair take me away to dream. I rested my head on his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart and thought, Why couldn’t I afford to dream for one night? After all, things would be too real in the morning. I’d be back to one day at a time, one wave at a time.

Just before my eyelids closed I saw the glint of silver on his wrist.

The handcuff.

If he survived the night, my guest wouldn’t be happy with me. I’d handcuffed him to the cast-iron leg on my stove. He still had one free arm—I couldn’t risk both arms exposed, too much heat loss—and yet I would sleep well knowing his fillet knife was somewhere lost on the beach while mine was safely tucked behind me less than an arm’s length away.

I couldn’t help it. I had to do it.

After all, I was the famed Tsunami Blue, and it seemed that if everyone left in this entire rotten, ruined world wanted a piece of me, then perhaps this strange and beautiful man did too.

To some I was a freak; to others, a fantasy. I was Satan or savior; a witch or a goddess. I was legend; I was lies. And tonight it really was just all too much.

My last thought before blessed sleep took over?

It would be such a shame if he turned out to be a Runner. I would have saved his life tonight, only to have to take it in the morning.

Chapter Three

The dull gray of oppressive morning light seeped into my tiny cabin like the hand of a ghost. I had been dreaming of sunshine and aqua blue water, and a sea breeze laced with Thai flowers that smelled sweet and fragrant. They were the same flowers that my mother had worn in her hair the day she died.

I woke with a jolt. For a split second, I was confused, disoriented. My entire body felt sore, stiff, felt—

I was being watched.

Dark eyes, the color of coal, met mine.

The events of the previous night flew into my brain, and every survival instinct I’d ever know slammed into me.

I sat up, pushed to my feet, and grabbed an old threadbare camping blanket I’d stashed beside me the night before. While holding the blanket to my chest, I reached down with one fluid movement and swept up the bowie knife I’d put under the blanket. I took two steps back, out of danger’s reach, pointing the blade at the man who had yet to take his intense gaze off me.

A neat stack of socks with my rocks inside was alongside the stove. Nice to see he hadn’t bashed my head in with one. Believe me, I’d thought of it. But I had gambled that dying of starvation while chained to a stove might be a deterrent. Looked like I’d gambled right. Maybe I had a talent for gambling; God only knew I did it often enough. Huh, I might have a new career. Too bad Vegas was underwater.

Sometime in the night he’d kicked the sleeping bag down. It now draped low over his hips, a bent leg exposing a muscular thigh. So, if he was this visible, I figured I must have been too, but for how long? Heat flared, and I didn’t need a mirror to tell me that I was blushing. Again. Great.

He held my stare, unblinking, intense, confident, and…what was that look? Amused? Arrogant bastard. I might be naked, but, hey, I held the knife.

I wrapped the blanket around me the best I could with one hand and glared. Where the hell was Max? As if we had some ESP connection, I heard Max whine on cue.

“Max?” I called, annoyed that my voice sounded breathy, girly, soft. What the hell was the matter with me? I did not have a breathy, girly, soft voice. I had a soft voice, true, but it was an all-business, kick-ass woman’s voice. “Max,” I called much more firmly. There, that was more like it, kind of.

The sleeping bag moved, and to my amazement Max wiggled up from the bottom, pawing his way to the top. He stuck his huge head out and licked my…my what? My bunk buddy? On the cheek, no less.

“Max,” I squeaked. I actually squeaked.
Oh God, Blue, get a grip.

What happened to the dog that could tear a man’s throat out in under a second? The dog that would intimidate, terrify, chomp, maim, chew, and—I swear I was on the verge of hysteria—what happened to Mad Max, the killer?

Max yawned, licked the man’s cheek again, and was rewarded with a lazy scratch to the head.

I was so surprised that I lost my concentration. The thin blanket slipped from my fingers and pooled on the floor.

“Shit.” I dived forward to grab the fabric, only to have it slip between my fingers again. Max, hearing the cuss word, tore out of the bag and danced around my legs, tangling the blanket in the process. “Max, move,” I yelled while still holding my knife. I tugged at the blanket that was now anchored by a hundred-something-pound dog. It wouldn’t give. Heat burned in my cheeks. My long, thick hair was out of my traditional ponytail, but it wasn’t long enough or thick enough to cover…well, to cover
everything
.

“Fuck, Max,” I said out of sheer exasperation, “move!” I realized my mistake the second it left my mouth.

That was all it took.

Max flew off the blanket and started to chase his tail. Any hope that he would turn into Max, killer dog of the north, disappeared with the dreaded F-bomb.

I snatched the blanket up, wrapped it around me, stomped over to the cupboard, grabbed a twenty, stuffed it in the pickle jar, threw Max a tiny—and I mean
tiny
—strip of salmon, stomped back, knelt, and held the knife under the man’s chin.

“Who are you?” I asked, and not politely.

He had propped himself up with his free arm using
my
pillow. He looked stern, as if trying to be scary. But his eyes gave it away. He was trying not to laugh.

“Good morning,” he said.

His voice, raspy from the previous night’s ordeal, surprised me. There was a quiet, silken quality to it. Gentle yet…what?
Dangerous
came to mind. I wondered,
Is this what the devil would sound like?

“There’s nothing good about it,” I snapped.

His gaze traveled down the length of my body and back again, lingering at my breasts for a brief moment before he met my eyes.

“I’d beg to differ.” His mouth quirked into a smile, sexy and inviting. “It’s been a very good morning.” He winked.

My heart rate increased, and my palms started to sweat. Being naked and holding a blanket while balancing a knife will do that to you. Plus, I didn’t think it was possible for this man to be any better-looking, but the smile… Oh Lord.

Even white teeth, twin dimples, dark eyes rimmed in long, inky lashes… Oh, man, I was in trouble here. I should just kill him now and put us both out of our misery. But I kinda had a rule against cold-blooded murder. And besides,
he
didn’t look anywhere near miserable.

He seemed as though he was enjoying himself.

Still, he looked predatory and dangerous and hot. Hot? Where had that come from? That was it. I was breaking my rule. I was just going to flat-out kill him.

I pointed the blade tip upward into his chin.

Let your guard down, Blue, give away your life.

My uncle’s words hung in the air between us. “Yeah, Seamus,” I whispered, “it’s time to get serious.”

He raised a brow. “Seamus?”

Well, now he thought I was crazy. Just as well, because this might hurt.

I pressed the blade, drawing a single drop of crimson blood. My uncle’s words had jolted me back into the stark reality of my life. A life filled with waves, survival, death. And after all, I had no idea who I was dealing with. He’d survived the night and, yeah, that was all well and good—what I had prayed for, actually. But if he were a Runner, it would be up to me to survive the day.

“Who are you?” I asked again.

Silence.

“If I have to ask a third time, it won’t be a charm.”

His demeanor changed; he clearly didn’t like the threat.

He lowered his chin into my blade tip, slowly, deliberately, until a fine line of blood trickled along the long blade, tracing down the hilt. The blood dripped over my fingers and along the back of my hand. The entire time his gaze never left mine.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink.

Blood didn’t bother me. I’d seen too much of it. This show of his wouldn’t work on me.

“You’re a tough guy,” I said, lowering my voice and the knife. “I get that.”

I stood, backing well out of his reach, and wiped the blood off my hand onto the blanket. Using the fabric, I cleaned the blade, taking my time. He kept his intense gaze on me as he wiped at the blood under his chin with the back of his hand. I hated that he stared at me with those black eyes, eyes I couldn’t read.

Fed up, I flipped the knife, throwing it hard into the cedar floor just beyond his reach. The blade sank deep into the wood in front of his face, and I hoped the message was clear. But just in case, I delivered it personally.

“But I’m a tougher girl, big guy, just in case you thought otherwise. And”—I walked over, yanked the blade up by the hilt, tossing it high in the air, only to catch it right in front of his nose—“I have the knife.” He said nothing, just raised that dark brow.

Okay, now I was pissed. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I did know one thing: I wasn’t going to do it naked.

I turned to collect my clothes, jeans, a tee, socks; where was my bra? I only owned two, one held together by a knot. Man, it was time to go shopping. I needed lots of things: coats, bras, ammo. But considering it was sixty nautical miles to Seattle, where most of the city was underwater and shopping at the mall entailed a wet suit, scuba gear, and a lookout, well, let’s just say two bras were good for a while longer. But I had to go soon. Salt water is hard on, well, everything.

“Looking for this?”

I sighed and my shoulders slumped. I knew what was coming. I’d thrown my clothes off last night and in my hurry I didn’t know or care where they might have landed. That is, until now. I turned around. Well, so much for the tough-girl image.

 He held out my bright pink bra with his long, tan fingers. Good grief, even the guy’s hands were sexy. I shook my head, walked over still gripping the blanket, and held out my hand. He tossed the bra my way and neither one of us smiled.

The weak morning light and the absence of warmth in the cabin made for a downright depressing atmosphere. We both knew only too well that this situation could—that is, most likely would—end badly for one of us. And I desperately didn’t want it to be me.

I called for Max, who had been sleeping soundly in the corner. Guess all those doggy kisses had worn him out. Traitor. I gathered my clothes and headed for the door.

“Gabriel.”

My hand paused at the doorknob. “Excuse me?” I turned slowly and met his dark gaze.

“Gabriel. My name.”

I paused, hearing but unbelieving.
Gabriel
. The dark angel, the fallen angel. My fantasy angel from the night before. But this man before me, stretched out naked in my old sleeping bag, handcuffed to an ancient stove, this man was no fantasy. He was flesh; he was blood; he was real. Hell, I’d seen him bleed.

“Gabriel?” I crossed my arms, still holding the knife, and bunched the clothes to my chest.

“Gabriel Black.”

Oh, come on. Gabriel and Black? Dark angel? What were the chances? Had I been talking in my sleep? Not possible. Was it? Then again, I could talk to the sea. I could predict the waves. Why not guess a name, or at the very least come close? But Gabriel? A name almost as beautiful as the man himself? I didn’t believe it.

“I don’t believe you.”

He shrugged.

“Fine,” I said, bitterness lacing through my voice. “What’s a name in today’s world anyway? Come on, Max.” I turned to go.

“Not much,” he said softly behind me, “unless, of course, it’s Tsunami Blue.”

My hand froze on the doorknob. So he knew who I was. I turned to face him. “You’re a genius, aren’t you, tough guy? What gave it away? The shortwave equipment?” I motioned to my radio in the corner and was amazed to see it covered with a blue tarp. I guess in my frenzy last night I had thought to try to conceal my identity. So how had he known? As if he’d read my mind, he pointed to the old cupboard, where, pinned on peeling paint, was a yellowed and frail newspaper clipping. The headline could still be clearly read:
Angel of the Beach Saves One Hundred Lives
.

“You’re her. You’re the angel.” He said it without emotion, as if asking,
Please pass the salt
. He shrugged at my glare. “The tat helped, of course.”

“I’m not,” I said, as I subconsciously rubbed my arm where the elaborate tattoo was exposed. But of course I was. I was that little girl—Kathryn “Blue” O’Malley—on that Thailand beach nineteen years ago who had screamed, “Tsunami!” over and over, alerting, warning, prompting people to run for their lives. On that fateful day, the sea had whispered the word
Tsunami
over and over and over to me.
Scream it, Blue
, the sea had said.
And run, run for high ground while you’re doing it.
Oh, yes, I had saved lives that day—many, I was told. But I wasn’t able to save the three most important to me—my mother, my father, and my older brother—if only by four minutes—Finn. Finnegan Patrick O’Malley had been my heart, my life, my twin.

Disgusted, I tossed so-called Gabriel his jeans, which he caught easily in midair. I lifted his shorts with my big toe and kicked them within his reach. If I decided to kill him, it’d be easier if he was dressed.

He reached for his shorts, and the sleeping bag slid dangerously low. I didn’t want to think about that magnificent body, the hard lines and muscled thighs. It might distract me from the kill shot.

Gabriel picked up the underwear and held them up. “What’s the matter, Blue?” He enunciated my name slowly, softly. “Afraid you might catch something? I think it’s a bit late for that, considering”—he raised a knee, and the sleeping bag slid lower still—“that we spent the night together nude.”

I narrowed my eyes as I felt the telltale tingle of embarrassment creep into my cheeks. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me blush. Again. I had to leave. My pale skin was easier to read than a neon sign. Not that I’d seen neon in more than a decade. 

“Just get dressed. I’ll be back.” I twirled the knife into a blur, which was a habit. I realized it probably looked hokey, but what the hell; I didn’t get many chances to show off my knife skills, and he was a captive audience. Literally. “Depending on what I hear,” I continued, “if I like your answers, I’ll decide if you live”—twirl—“or die.” Twirl. Man, I’d just impressed myself with this knife act, set a new speed record, even. I was such a badass. “Max, come.”

Max trotted toward the door, but not before stopping to give this Gabriel a lick on the hand. He was rewarded with a lazy scratch behind the ears by those long, slender fingers. Max clearly did not understand the difference between
friend
and
foe
. Or
loyal subject
and
traitor
. And Gabriel Black, if that was truly his name, didn’t seem the least bit worried that I was twirling a twelve-inch blade. You would have thought I held a baton, like those bandleaders I had seen once in a parade, and not a weapon that could disembowel him in less than five seconds.