Good Moon Rising (Siren Island #4) - Tricia O'Malley Page 0,1
that framed the glass balcony doors. Beyond the doors, the sea called to her – like it always did, a primal pulse that beat deep in her soul – and Jolie took a moment to look out at the water.
“Bad boys that you could drop to their knees. You wrap every man around your finger. After a while, even that has to grow boring.”
“I’ll let you know when it does, darling.”
“Shall we swim?” Mirra came to stand by her sister, and wrapped her arm around Jolie’s waist. She knew the water soothed as much as it excited, and was always a surefire cure for whatever ailed them.
“Yes – the room’s finished and everything else is touched up. I’ll work out my angst in the water and then we can greet our delightful guest… what’s his name again?”
“Dr. Theodore Macalister.”
“Oh, a doctor? Sounds perfect for you, Mirra.”
“You know the rules…” Mirra shot Jolie a look of censure over her shoulder.
“Right, right, don’t sleep with the guests. Got it.”
“Do you? Because Mom didn’t make that rule because of me.”
“Well, it was in place long before I shagged anyone here, so it’s not because I broke it.”
“No! You don’t think –” Mirra gasped, turning on the staircase to laugh up at Jolie.
“Mirra! Of course! You can’t think she’s been celibate since our father died, can you?”
“I’d prefer not to think of it at all, really,” Mirra said, a faint blush tinging her cheeks.
“Neither do I.”
“Well, she may have grieved our father’s death, but the woman is still living. And I’m sure she has her own needs, despite what you may think about those.”
“You’ve got a good heart, Mirra. Much better than my cold and black one.” Jolie laughed and bounced down the last couple of steps. “Let’s go to the water. The call is particularly strong today.”
“To the water then,” Mirra agreed – but the concern didn’t leave her voice.
Chapter 2
Theodore Macalister hiked the strap of his serviceable duffle bag over one shoulder and the strap of his camping pack over the other. With a tan canvas-brimmed hat to shade himself, a sweat-wicking shirt, and breathable shorts, he was as comfortable as could be in the open-air airport of Siren Island. His eyes skimmed over the tourists who fanned themselves madly, having planned poorly for their arrival in a humid climate, and he shook his head slightly. Didn’t people ever consider where their final destination would be? There was nothing worse than being unprepared, as far as he was concerned. He checked his trusty Swiss Army watch – no fancy Rolex for him, no matter how much his father tried to push him into purchasing a nicer watch – and saw that he was just a few minutes early for when Irma from the Laughing Mermaid was supposed to meet him.
When he’d stumbled upon the website for the lovely little inn, it had seemed serendipitous – but, charmed by the pictures and hooked by the name, he’d called to inquire about long-term rates. Irma had been very accommodating, due to their low-season, she’d said, and before he’d known it, he had set his summer plans to research the myths of the sirens of Siren Island. As a literature professor at Harvard University, he was particularly interested in mythology, and the sirens were at the top of his list to research. He’d earned the summer off, having taught for ten years – including summer programs – and rarely taking trips that weren’t for work.
Not like this trip wasn’t for work, too, but he’d built some time in for relaxation as well. He needed the vacation. His family worried for him; Theodore’s mother chided him that he was working himself to the bone – and for what? He already had all the money he’d ever need. An early-round investment in a dotcom company that had been bought out had set him up for life. When a life free from the worry of making money had presented itself, Theodore had turned to working for love instead. And his first love? Well, it had always been books.
Sure, he’d been the nerdy kid kicking around the playground with a book in front of his nose. He couldn’t even count the number of times he’d had his glasses broken, his book snatched from his hands, or been given a black eye or two. It was the way of things, he supposed. Some would say he was still dorky, but he no longer cared what anyone else thought – though