Oceans Untamed (7 page)

She jerked the bike over and pushed off hard just as the car’s engine revved loudly. It lurched forward, missed her
narrowly, and a gust of hot air swarmed over her.

There was nowhere to run, so she pushed off and pedaled as hard as she could. All those hours in spinning class in the gym plus the adrenaline sent her sailing down the road.

She swerved left and heard the car screech after her. It was the most chilling sound she’d ever heard.

She yanked the handlebars to the right.

If she’d been on a better
bike, she might have been able to dodge the car, might have had a chance at eventually reaching the dunes Koenraad had told her about. But she wasn’t nimble enough. She and the bike separated with a violent jolt, and she was flying through the air.

The bushes broke her fall, giving her scratches and gouges instead of broken bones, but she was stunned, and she lay there for a precious few moments,
trying to collect herself. Maybe, she thought, if she stayed still, her tormenter would drive away.

But then the car door opened.
 

Monroe rolled over, heaved herself to her feet. She only caught a glimpse of a slight man—she probably outweighed him—but he was obviously a psycho. The dangerous look on his face said as much.

She ran for her life.

Chapter 6

It was well past sunset by the time Koenraad pulled himself out of the water. He’d been so focused on trying to find even the slightest trace of Brady that he’d skipped eating. He felt it now, the lack of nutrients in his blood, and it was making him sluggish.

Probably had been for hours.

He considered going back into the ocean to feed but decided against it. It had been difficult
enough to force himself to abandon his search for the time being.

While he’d been searching, all his attention had been on that task as well as avoiding the
sick
in the ocean. Now, though, other things were creeping into his awareness. Things far more important than food.

Like Monroe.
 

He’d lost his phone along with his clothes when he’d jumped off the boat. There wasn’t a land line installed
in his house, so he had no way of getting in contact with her. He doubted an extra few minutes would make much of a difference.

Selfishly, he hoped Monroe was more pissed than worried. He could find a way to make things right with her, but he’d never forgive himself if she’d been frantically trying his phone for the last… how long?

Eight hours? He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he’d said
he’d meet her for lunch and now it was dark out.

Damn.
 

Yeah, he hoped she was pissed, that she’d charged expensive champagne and jewelry and clothes to the hotel room. The thing was, if she was pissed already, she was going to explode when he gave her the bad news: he had to send her home.
 

It wasn’t that he wanted her gone, because he didn’t. Quite the opposite. But he had to find his son,
and entertaining the sexiest woman he’d ever met was off his list of priorities. He’d miss the sex at night, but he’d miss her by his side even more. Monroe calmed him. She was the only person who ever had, but it wasn’t fair to keep her around when he knew he wouldn’t have time for her.

And if he wasn’t with her, he wouldn’t be able to keep her safe. She’d be far better off in New York.

He
walked into his mansion. Victoria’s stench still hung in the air. It seemed wrong that he could despise the mother of his child so much, but then he hadn’t chosen to reproduce with her. He didn’t regret Brady—not even now—but he couldn’t help but wonder how differently things might have turned out if Brady’d had a better mother. Someone like Monroe, perhaps.
 

To air the place out a bit, he opened
windows as he made his way to the kitchen.

There wasn’t much food left. He’d needed to feed after the transfusion, and it had pretty much cleaned out all the food, but he found three bags of stale tortilla chips in the main kitchen. He’d probably bought them when he first moved in. He never used this kitchen. It was too big, everything too spread out. He didn’t cook often, but his idea of enjoyable
didn’t include walking half a mile between the stove and the refrigerator.
 

When nothing was left of the tortilla chips except a few grains of salt in the bottoms of the greasy bags, he spared a few minutes to verify that the empty pool was clean, then a few more minutes to shower and make himself presentable, then drove to the hotel.

He’d lost his room key in the inlet, during his first shark-shift,
so he stopped at the desk for a replacement key.

The clerk didn’t know him, but the manager did.
 

The hotel room was dark. It seemed forlorn without Monroe there, and the sudden ache in his chest was just a small hint of what his life would be like in a few hours, when she was truly gone.

She’d left a note saying she was reading on the beach. It was surely old; she wouldn’t be on the beach
at all in the dark. Tureygua was safe, especially near the resorts, but Monroe wasn’t the type to take risks.

He used the hotel phone to dial her cell but didn’t get an answer. “I’m back,” he said to her voicemail. “I’m so sorry about today. You have every right to hate me. Hell, I hate me.” He paused, trying to think of what to say next. Finally he hung up.

There weren’t any messages in his
voicemail.

Off the balcony, he could see plenty of ocean. The beach looked roped off, but he imagined the resort had shut it to prevent any more drownings.
 

He left Monroe a note telling her to stay put if she got back, that he’d lost his phone and was looking for her. Then he wandered down to the beach.

There had been too many people here, and while he thought he’d caught just the edges of
Monroe’s scent near one of the hammocks, he couldn’t be sure. She must have left the note early in the morning, he decided, for her scent to be so faint. He tried the restaurants, the gift shops.

Frowning, he tracked down the manager. “I’m looking for my friend,” he said. He described Monroe, then had the manager pull up his account. He hoped she hadn’t been so angry that she’d left.

“Got a
few room service charges,” the manager said. “The last one at 2:30. She also borrowed a bike, but the time isn’t noted. It was after the lunch charge, but I don’t know when exactly.”
 

“When did she bring it back?” Koenraad asked.

The manager frowned. “The times should have been noted, but my colleague—”

“Find out.”
 

The manager nodded obediently and disappeared into an office, shutting the
door behind him. Koenraad was pretty sure the guy was cursing him silently, but he didn’t care. She hadn’t left a note about where she was, so she was angry with him, but he’d find her.
 

It occurred to him that she’d biked out to the mansion. She knew how to get there. But he’d closed it up tight; there were some nasty surprises atop the gates and walls if anyone tried to get in that way. The
only way for someone other than him to get into the estate was via the ocean, which effectively locked out all humans and most sharks. Too bad he hadn’t locked things down the moment Victoria returned to town. If not for Monroe, he probably would have.

He’d been so stupid.
 

“I checked, and it seems her bicycle has not been returned yet,” the manager said. “I called the concierge at home, and
he says she took it around sunset.”

“Did she ask for directions anywhere?”

“No, and the concierge says she didn’t want a map.”

“I need a phone. A cell phone.”

The manager smiled uncertainly. “I…”

“Charge me whatever you want, but get me one.”
 

“Of course.” He scurried off.

While Koenraad waited, he tried not to imagine the worst—Monroe riding out there on her own, getting lost, getting
a flat tire, getting into an accident.
 

She’d probably run into one of her friends, had stopped to chat. That he could imagine.

“Here you go.” The manager handed him a generic smartphone. “It’s for hotel use. I’ll have to charge a deposit—”

“Call the hospital and make sure no one has been brought in. If she shows up here, have her call me. You call me, too. It’s urgent.” He walked away, already
dialing Monroe’s phone. He left her a message, then got into his car.

He drove slowly out to the mansion, his eyes peeled for a woman walking a bike with a flat tire.
 

There was no sign of her. As he neared his gate, the phone blasted out a cheesy pop song that had been playing nonstop on the radio and in the bars the last few months.

He shut off the engine. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Van Buren, this
is—”

“Is she at the hospital?”

“No cyclists or pedestrians were brought in. There was another drowning an hour ago, but unless she’s in her fifties—”

“Do me a favor and keep checking every thirty minutes until I ask you to stop. I’ll make it worth your while.” He hung up.

The night was cloudy; there was definitely a storm coming in.
 

As soon as he got out of the car, he caught her scent.
Very faint. She’d been here.
 

Hands on hips, he turned in a slow semicircle. Where had she gone next?
 

The gate was still locked down, so she hadn’t gotten into the mansion. A quick glance up confirmed that she hadn’t disemboweled herself trying to climb over the wall. Not that she’d have been able to reach the top of the wall, but if something bad had happened, it would have been his fault
for not warning her that he’d turned the mansion into a fortress.

He would have told her, too, if he’d been thinking straight. But if he’d been thinking straight, he would have been keeping her updated. She wouldn’t have had to come out here, looking for him.

“Where did you go?” he murmured. Perhaps she’d taken his advice and gone to the sand dunes. He’d warned her not to go off-road there.
The trails were enchantingly gorgeous but were covered with small but sharp stones. He should have been clearer. Or perhaps she’d gotten lost.
 

He was halfway back to the car when his phone rang again. Same number as before. Such a quick return call could only mean one thing. Relief coursed through his veins.

“Put her on,” he said.

“Sorry, sir, she’s not here. I was just thinking and it occurred
to me that you can get your calls forwarded to the new phone. I didn’t know if you were aware of that…”

“It hadn’t crossed my mind. Thank you.” He hung up, then dialed his voicemail.
 

This time, there was a new message. “Koenraad,” Darius said. “Victoria’s come to me with the most fantastical story. I’m sure she’s just having fun, but you and I need to discuss this. At your earliest convenience.”

In other words,
Get your ass down here, now
.

Koenraad wasn’t completely surprised. He’d pissed Victoria off. The shifter only had two tools in her arsenal against him: threats and harassment. It wasn’t the first time, so he knew she could keep him tied up for weeks while she aired her grievances. It was how she’d gotten primary custody of Brady even though Koenraad had been able to produce numerous
witnesses who supported his claim that Brady would be better off with him.
 

If Victoria weren’t Darius’s niece, she never would have gotten away with any of it.

He ignored Darius’s message.

After he set it up so that his calls and texts would be forwarded, he got in his car and began driving toward the dunes, his eyes sweeping both sides of the road.
 

He hadn’t even reached the edge of his
property when he smelled blood.
His
blood.

The car came to a screeching, jolting halt, and Koenraad threw open the door. He’d never injured himself in this area or even close to it, and he certainly hadn’t done so recently.
 

The scent was easily traced to the thorny hedges, and he saw the blood there. Not much, just a few drops. Dried.
 

He rubbed his finger over it and sniffed. It was definitely
his blood.

This had to be Victoria’s doing. She must have gotten into his pool, grabbed some of the blood and…

No. No, that didn’t make any sense.

He sniffed the blood again, and this time he smelled Monroe’s blood. That didn’t make any sense, either. Not this long after giving her the transfusion. At the very least, the blood should have smelled of a mix. This blood was separated. His blood
existing alongside hers, not mixed, not mingling. He’d never heard of such a thing.

Unfortunately, the scent was so strong that he couldn’t pick up on much else, but he did catch the scent of her skin and hair.

He was having a hard time focusing in on the smells, he realized.
 

Carefully, he stepped away, into the road, and scrutinized the gravel and bushes. She’d gone off her bike…

He backed
up, his gaze sweeping side to side. Someone had laid some serious rubber here; the black marks were unmistakable. He hadn’t noticed them before, but then, he hadn’t been looking at the ground.

A car had hit her?

But that wasn’t what the scene was telling him. He closed his eyes and inhaled, forcing himself to separate out the different smells, but he couldn’t get a read.

Maybe she’d been frightened,
lost her balance. The car had tried to avoid hitting her…

But who? He couldn’t smell anything.

The phone played that horrible pop song. He recognized Darius’s number.
Ignore.

He went back into the car and found a flashlight in the glovebox. It probably wouldn’t make a difference; the problem wasn’t his vision. He just couldn’t smell properly.

It was the
sick
. He’d been inhaling ocean water
for hours, and even though he’d stayed away from the worst of it, he’d gotten pretty close to the line several times. He was lucky he’d been able to smell anything at all.