Wanting to distance herself from the Hardington men and the accompanying emotions, Angel decided to investigate the guesthouse Logan had opened earlier for her.
At the end of a brick path from the main house and overlooking the ocean, the three-room cottage was the perfect home-away-from-home for a displaced Mer. Whoever had decorated it had chosen the vivid col¬ors of the Caribbean. Pillows and fabric in all shades of the sea dotted the white wicker furniture, and the pinks, yellows, greens, and blues of life in the tropics were splashed throughout the cozy living room and galley kitchen.
A bay window stretched the length of the bathroom wall, beneath which sat a freestanding tub with embroi-dered seashell towels draping over its scalloped edges. A hemp basket filled with bath products hung from a hook nearby. Painted in sand and coral tones, with tumbled marble flooring, the room reminded her of Atlantis. Just as welcoming and beautiful.
Although not as far from Logan.
She hadn’t counted on a lot of this. Not the attach-ment to Michael, nor his to her, and certainly not her attraction to Logan.
Angel kicked off her shoes and walked into the bedroom. Another oversized bay window stretched the length of one wall, a long window seat before it. Shell- and sea creature–shaped throw pillows, again in the vibrant colors of the tropics, were scattered along the window seat’s length and on the four-poster bed opposite it.
She gripped one of the posts and stared out at the unending ebb and flow of the sea.
He’d been enchanted; she had to remember that. His actions were not his own.
Hers, on the other fin…
It wasn’t as if she’d never been attracted to anyone before, but they’d all been Mers. Hades, she’d tried to find one she could consider spending the rest of her life with, since her Immortality was directly dependent upon her getting married, but none of the men before Logan had affected her the way he did.
And she’d never been willing to compromise her desire for a love match with marrying for Immortality. The gods had made the crazy stipulation that women of the royal family had to marry before gaining eternal life, and she and her sisters had decided they weren’t going to marry just anyone to get it. Eternal life was a long freakin’ time to spend with someone, so they’d better love him.
Plus, their parents had a wonderful marriage, as did both of their brothers. The Tritone girls wanted their happily-forever-afters, too.
So she’d dated. And dated. And dated some more. She’d even lived with someone for a while, but knew now why she hadn’t married him: there’d been no spark. Not like the one with Logan.
Angel curled a leg under her and sat on the corner of the bed. What was she going to do? The Council would question her objectivity the minute she returned home.
Hades, with all the sea birds on Poseidon’s payroll, she was surprised she hadn’t heard from one of The Council’s winged spies already. Her brother had to know where she was and what she was doing.
What was she doing?
Angel took a deep breath. What she was doing was studying the Human race so she could become the Coalition’s director. That was her primary focus and what she needed to remember.
And she needed to remember why.
Angel closed her eyes, that little stab of pain in her heart no longer catching her by surprise.
She needed the job for more than just saving the planet. Oh, she could kid herself all she wanted, but in moments like these when she was being honest with herself, she could admit it.
She needed to be somebody.
Someone special. Different from the rest of her family. Fourth in birth order, Angel wasn’t the oldest, the youngest, or the first girl, and with the arrival of her nieces and nephews, she had less than a penguin’s chance
in Hades of ascending the throne. She was just Angel.
A low beam of moonlight bounced off the mirror on the wicker dresser, flashing into her eyes, and she looked away, pulling a starfish pillow against her stomach.
Just Angel. How many times in her twenty-nine seli-nos had she heard that?
Oh, it’s just Angel up to her strange studies.
It’s just Angel bringing back yet another piece of Human flotsam.
It’s just Angel wanting Reel to show her how his legs work…
She was sick of being just Angel. In a family of great achievers, she was low Mer on the pylon. Rod ruled their world. Reel guarded the vault that housed the economy’s supply of diamonds from curious Humans. Mariana was becoming a sought-after artist, and Pearl had set every academic record there was.
But her… She was just Angel.
Just Angel.
She wanted to be Angel, the renowned scientist. Angel, the authority. Angel, the director of the Mer-Human Coalition.
Shaking her head, Angel got up and walked to the window. This study—this directorship—was her chance to be someone. She had to do it.
Angel squared her shoulders. Her whole life had been geared toward the study of Humans, and she couldn’t let this chance slip through her fins.
Speaking of fins…
Angel looked at her legs, then glanced out the window. Not one shark fin broke the rolling plane of the water.
Here was something she could do and do right. Harry would expect her to be in those waves tomor¬row night, and he’d do his damnedest to make sure she couldn’t return—here or to Atlantis. So, if she
wanted a prayer of staying longer—and being known as something other than Angel the Land-Bound—she could go into the water tonight. Thwart the pain-in-the-tail shark at his own game. She’d deal with the situation with Logan later.
Situation—ha.
Ah, well, denial could be good in times of stress.
Angel slid off the lacy yellow undergarment she wore so it wouldn’t tear when her tail returned, but decided to keep the dress on until the last minute so she’d have something to wear for her return.
Denial or not, being naked around Logan definitely wasn’t a good idea anymore.
Logan shut Michael’s door softly and took a deep breath as his fingers lingered on the doorknob. He and Michael had lain in the bed for over an hour, first reading the three train-themed books Michael had brought with him—twice—then talking about what it’d be like to ride on one.
Logan had had visions of Michael saying he and Christine had lived in one like those boxcar children. He wouldn’t put it past Christine after the jail stunt.
But Michael hadn’t said anything, and Logan hadn’t asked. Frankly, he didn’t want to know. Not now, while he was still mad/sad/upset about her having left their child with a social worker instead of contacting him.
Opening the French doors in his bedroom, Logan stepped onto the deck he’d built over the inlet to the Intercoastal on the north side of his property. His own peninsula. It’d been the biggest draw when he’d been
looking for a home—protected waterway on one side, untamed ocean at the back, and a wraparound deck to enjoy both. Gripping the railing, he tried to do just that, letting the rise and fall of the waves calm him.
Even with all the craziness of his own unorthodox, itinerant childhood, his self-appointed parents had seen to the kids’ education, and not once had the possibility of foster care raised its head. Oh, the Harsányis had had the ulterior motive of free labor, but they’d managed, in their self-serving way, to equip the kids with the neces-sary tools for success in life.
And he’d made it. More importantly, he had the security money represented and the sense of accom-plishment in earning it on his own. He’d put enough away to never have to work again if that’s what he wanted. He’d actually considered giving up his career after Michael arrived.
A light flicking off in the guesthouse drew his atten-tion, and his gut tightened. If he had quit, there’d be no reason for Angel to watch Michael.
Warmth coursed through him as he thought of her there, on his property, in his home. Preparing for bed, maybe tucked in it, staring out at this very same view…
His thoughts went right back to their unbelievable kisses in the kitchen.
So much for tranquility.
Logan took a deep breath. He’d promised her it wouldn’t happen again, and, to keep that promise, he had to stop reliving it. He’d never get that moment out of his head if he didn’t.
He’d never get her out of his head.
But what was it about Angel that made all the other women before her fade into the background? And what the hell did that even mean?
Logan dragged his attention off the blue-shuttered window of the bungalow’s living room, knowing per-fectly well that, with the way the houses were arranged on the property, he had a view through the living room, down the hallway, and into her bedroom. And know¬ing perfectly well that he had no business remembering that—nor wondering about it. He tried to focus instead on the full moon rising in the night sky and what he was going to do about Michael.
A child needed a stable home. Emotional security. No one knew that better than he did.
Unlike Goran and Nadia, Logan was going to ensure his son had both.