Debbie Herbert - Siren's Call

The moist heat from the shower was like his hot breath caressing her skin with endearments. You’re all I ever wanted, Opal. The others meant nothing to me. It was always you I secretly wanted. Always you.

Opal’s fury evaporated, the scent of soap morphed to Nash’s scent of sandalwood and musk. He was here, caressing her. Opal cupped her breasts and moaned. Yes. Yes! One hand sank lower and the wet heat between her thighs was as scalding as the hot water pounding her skin.

Nash wanted her as much as she wanted him. Her hands were his hands, touching the soft folds of her womanhood. A finger slipped inside and she clenched as it went in and out. Harder, faster. An orgasm violently racked her body and she slid down the shower stall, weak and sated. Only he could do this, make her crazy in dreams.

Dreams that would soon be reality. He spoke to her like this, and more frequently since she’d taken care of Rebecca and Connie. He hadn’t been with a woman in almost a year now.

Now it was her turn. Her time to show Nash that she was his one true love. He’d open his eyes. The veil would lift. Oh, Opal. How could I not see it? How you must have suffered. No more, my darling. From now on, you are mine. I’ll adore you forever.

Opal rose unsteadily and shut off the water. The signs all pointed to this island assignment as the right time to make her move. And when she did, Nash would remember every conversation, every murmur of endearment he’d been whispering in her brain for the past five years.

He’d never loved those other women, or so he claimed. But she didn’t believe Nash and couldn’t stand the thought of another woman in his arms. So she’d done them both a favor getting rid of Rebecca and Connie. No one could love him as much as she did. She alone knew his secret, had watched him meld into nature and mesmerize wild beasts with a whisper. Nash was extraordinary, otherworldly, and she wanted him to tame the wild storms of her internal landscape. No other man could understand the violent, explosive yearnings in her soul. No one else could save her from this crushing isolation. Only one other man had ever come close.

And he was dead.

Opal dried off, caught another glimpse of herself in the mirror and drew in a sharp breath. That slightly overweight woman—with muddy-red hair plastered like rotten seaweed around her head and neck and that hideous scar—wasn’t the real Opal. The real Opal, the one Nash would see, was impeccable. Like...that Lily woman.

She scowled in the mirror—making her image that much more repulsive. The ghost of an old nursery rhyme skittered through her brain.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?

Lily. The slut bitch.

She was the most beautiful woman Opal had ever seen. That hair, with its pastel strands and silver-blond shine; creamy skin unmarred by any scar; and lush body all combined into an irresistible package. Worse, something about Lily’s voice was almost...magical.

It wasn’t fair.

And the looks that had passed between her and Nash. You could feel a sensual alchemy brewing between them. Plus, they were old childhood friends—which meant they had a history together, an old bond to explore.

This was supposed to be her time. He should be here at the island cabin with her instead of spending so much time in the bayou with his grandfather. She’d taken care of Nash’s old girlfriends, had undergone all that plastic surgery, arranged and finagled assignments so they worked alone together on a beautiful, practically deserted island, and then this Lily had come along, upsetting her careful plans.

Opal tried to resist, but the compulsive need to again scrub the facial scar festered in her fingers. They twitched and tingled until she caved, soaping up yet another washcloth and scrubbing at the old wound. If only she could get rid of it, her problems would be solved. But no, the damn thing would haunt her forever. Opal flung the washcloth against the mirror and soapy water dripped down, distorting her scar into a mélange of distorted pixels.

Bet Lily had been brought up like a little adorable princess while she’d been shuffled around in foster care. Just when she’d gotten used to one place, she’d be uprooted. The only childhood constant was the fantasy Norman Rockwell world in her mind. A safe retreat.

At least she’d had a little luck today. What a coup to catch that woman keying the car with the “Lily” vanity tag. How convenient that Lily already had an enemy. If it became necessary to kill the blond whore, a suspect was ready for framing. Opal hoped it didn’t come to that, hoped that Nash would have no time or inclination for a dalliance. She’d gotten away with two eliminations; a third might be pushing it.

Still, sluts needed to be warned and punished. As the woman and her brat-in-arms tore it out of the parking lot, Opal had dashed over and carved “Die Slut” alongside the gash the other woman had made. In a burst of inspiration, she’d run into the nearby pet store, bought a rat and disemboweled it by Lily’s car.

A cache of stainless-steel razor blades were always stashed in her purse.

Cutting open the rat’s tender flesh had relieved some of the tension and anxiety from seeing Nash and Lily together. Just like cutting her arms and wrists eased pain in those moments when memories clamored and gnawed.

She’d have to find out more about this Lily. This time, unlike the others, there wouldn’t be weeks of warnings and warfare. Time was precious. This assignment was only for a month or so and Nash would be hers by the time it was through. Nobody would stand in her way.

Earlier, she’d driven by Nash’s grandfather’s home, saw the light from the curtain-less window, saw the cozy bunch at the table eating. Stabs of jealousy prickled her skin all over like leprosy. She was in the dark, on the outside looking in. Her childhood repeated. The ugly redheaded foster kid no one wanted.

* * *

Lily bit into the hot, buttered corn bread and forced the crumbly mixture down her throat. “Delicious,” she lied, chasing it down with a sip of sweet tea. More like wet sawdust. Determined not to offend her hosts, Lily swirled a mound of pinto beans around the plate and lifted a forkful to her mouth. This tangy rotten mush was worse than the tasteless corn bread. Human food—bleh. Soon as she got home she’d eat a real meal—a bowl of seaweed salad and a barely blanched lobster. Still, she enjoyed sitting in their cozy kitchen with its rustic pine cabinets and table. This place had been a second home for her growing up.

“Nash says you volunteer at the animal shelter,” she said, diverting attention from the uneaten, rearranged food on her plate.

Sam nodded. “Every Friday.”

“What do you do there?”

He chewed a piece of venison and put down his fork and knife. He always spoke carefully, as if mindful of the power of words. “Clean cages, bathe them, take them for walks.”

“That’s admirable.” She didn’t care for animals all that much. She loathed cats and the way they licked their chops around her, as if she were a delectable morsel they wanted to devour. “Jet has a dog that’s around a lot. Ugliest thing you ever saw.”

Neither man responded. Lily wanted to stamp her foot in frustration, but instead she surreptitiously studied the two.

They were similar: tall and large-boned with prominent cheekbones and the same aura of strength. Both had long black hair, although Sam’s was streaked with silver. Each had olive-colored skin, Sam’s a shade darker. Nash was a younger, more virile version of his grandfather. The only other striking difference between them was the green eyes Nash had inherited from his mother.