Children of the Sea 02 - Sea Fever

down and around toward the harbor, he was conscious of her upright and fragile beside him, every shift of her body, every rasping intake of her breath.
     
    The Cherokee rumbled to a stop in front of the restaurant. The yellow crime scene tape was gone from the sidewalk. The lights of the dining room glowed through the wide plate glass windows.
     
    Caleb half turned in his seat; cleared his throat. “I’ve got to write up some kind of report that will satisfy the state guys. I’ll leave you two to .”
     
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    His eyes met Dylan’s. Talk.
     
    “Get settled,” he said.
     
    Dylan nodded.
     
    Regina fumbled with her door handle as if she couldn’t wait to escape them both. Uneasiness tightened Dylan’s stomach. How much explaining would he have to do? What did she remember?
     
    His own door was locked. Before he could get out to assist her, Caleb had opened her door and helped her to the curb.
     
    Dylan’s jaw set. He pulled his duffel from the back of the Jeep and joined them.
     
    Regina’s gaze fell on the packed bag and narrowed.
     
    Dylan felt a lick of panic disguised as irritation. Did she think she could send him away? He leaned very close, close enough to see the pale parting of her hair, to inhale the private fragrance of her skin. “I’m staying,” he said softly, for her ears alone. “Deal with it.”
     
    Her eyes flashed. But whatever reply she might have made was lost as Antonia bustled through the maze of tables to unlock the front door.
     
    She reached to grab her daughter and then crossed her arms instead.
    Regina stood stiffly under the restaurant lights, all angles and shadows like a black-and-white drawing.
     
    Antonia regarded her daughter and scowled. “The doctor said warm fluids. I made soup.” The smell followed her from the kitchen, rich with chicken, vegetables, and garlic. “Sit down, I’ll get you some.”
     
    Regina smiled wanly. “Thanks. Is Nick—”
     
    “Already in bed. You can see him after you eat.”
     
    Dylan saw the indecision flicker on Regina’s face. “We’ll go up now,” he said.
     
    Antonia looked at him. Looked at his bag. Her eyebrows rose. “Will you.” Her tone made it not quite a question. “Planning on staying?”
     
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    “Just for tonight,” Regina said in that rasping voice that sounded so incongruously, so ridiculously sexy coming from her thin, sharp face.
     
    His heart leaped. She wanted him. Or at least she was prepared to tolerate his presence. “Just for tonight.”
     
    Antonia snorted. “Well, you’re too old to need my permission for a sleepover, but I’d like to know what you’re going to say to Nick in the morning.”
     
    A red flush swept Regina’s face.
     
    “I’m helping take care of his mother,” Dylan said. “I’ll come down later for the soup.”
     
    “Hm. Well, go on,” Antonia said. “I’ve got to lock back up.”
     
    Dylan followed Regina through the disarranged tables. She still walked with difficulty, he noted with a frown. At the swinging door, she stopped, and the color that had come back to her cheeks faded away.
     
    He thought he knew why. The kitchen was her territory. Her little kingdom. And she had been brutally attacked in there less than twenty-four hours ago.
     
    His chest constricted. He eased the plastic bag from her grip with one hand, and reached around her with the other to nudge the door open.
    “I suppose you expect me to thank you because you didn’t let your mother throw me out.”
     
    Regina glanced at him, startled, her lashes dark smudges against her white face. And then her eyes lit with laughter. “Maybe I wanted the pleasure of doing it myself.”
     
    He grinned down at her.
     
    Her slim shoulders straightened, and she marched— hobbled, rather— under his outstretched arm. She went down the kitchen work aisle like a gauntlet and out the back door.
     
    She needed his assistance up the metal stairs. Or he told himself she did. Perhaps it was simply pleasant to touch her.
     
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    When she fumbled with the plastic bag digging for her apartment key, he took it from her and fished the key from her wet jeans pocket. He was in control of the situation and himself.
     
    Until he stepped over the threshold of her apartment and the walls closed around him like a trap.
     
    She lived in a . . . home. The kind of home he had not known in nearly twenty-five years. Comfortable. Messy. The litter of human life was everywhere: pillows on the floor, a