Wickedly Wonderful (Baba Yaga, #2)(7)
He parked in a spot off Highway One, with the ocean on one side and a steep bluff on the other. There were no houses in sight, but this was where she’d instructed him to bring her. What the hell was the woman playing at now?
“I thought you said you lived near here,” he said, not trying to hide his scowl.
Beka nodded, sliding out of the Jeep and grabbing her board. She gestured to the bluff. “I live up there, at least for the moment.” She cast a wicked grin in his direction. “You can wait down here for me if you want.”
“Not a chance.” He looked at the nearly vertical path that cut into the sandy incline. “You carry your surfboard up and down that thing?”
“Just about every day,” she said, tucking it under one arm effortlessly and heading toward a path. Her wet suit hung around her hips, revealing a simple white one-piece suit and lots of toned, tanned girl. He tried not to watch her perfect butt as he followed her up the hill.
Marcus stopped at the top of the bluff to get the lay of the land. At first glance, there was nothing much there—a few windblown trees, a patch of ragged land more weeds than grass, and . . .
“Is that a school bus?” he asked. It had the right shape, but the entire thing was painted with a mural of an underwater seascape of blues shading into aqua and greens, complete with colorful fish, playful seals and dolphins, and a scantily clad mermaid wearing an enchanting smile. He walked around to look at the other side, bemused, and found a sinuous sea serpent with crimson, orange, and yellow scales curling in and around the windows. Whoever had done the painting was wasted on buses; the entire effect was so realistic, he felt like he could swim right into the world in front of him. A tiny shiver ran down his spine.
“That’s my home; at least, its current incarnation,” Beka said with another one of her sideways smiles. “A little flashy, I know, but it looked that way when I inherited it from my foster mother.” An eye roll accompanied the statement. “Some people got way too attached to the sixties.”
Marcus shook his head. Great. A flake from a long line of flakes. It figured. He was much more impressed by the improbably well-preserved Karmann Ghia with a surfboard rack on top, parked alongside a shiny black Vespa motorcycle. Nice toys for a crazy surfer girl. Maybe she has a rich father. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about taking her food money to pay for this morning’s mess.
“I’ll go get you the money,” Beka said, echoing his thought as she headed toward the door to the bus. Marcus followed her in, more out of curiosity than distrust.
His eyes widened as he hit the top of the stairs and looked down the length of the converted school bus. Unlike the fanciful outside, the inside was as tidy as any barracks, although considerably more attractive.
Pale wood paneled all the surfaces—floor, walls, and ceilings—giving it the feel of a shipboard cabin. The many windows along the side allowed in plenty of light, lending an airy ambiance to a space that might otherwise have felt claustrophobic. There was a tiny bathroom, an efficient galley, and a living area that included a rag rug and a futon that probably doubled as a bed.
Well-crafted maple bookshelves ran along the walls, interspersed with cabinets and cupboards that kept everything not in use neatly stowed away. A cast iron stove between the living area and the kitchen stood cold and unused at the moment, thrusting its chimney through the roof of the bus.
The few decorations he could see all continued the nautical theme: strands of shells hung like wind chimes, a decorative driftwood sculpture, blown glass globes, and the kinds of odds and ends you might find beachcombing. The futon cover was some soft woven material in shades of blue and green that reminded him of the ocean.
The only jarring note was a collection of knives and a few swords that ran along the top of the walls above the windows; some of them looked brand-new, and others as if they might have been salvaged from the wrecks of ancient ships, but all of them appeared to be sharp and ready for use. Maybe she was expecting to be boarded by pirates.
“Nice place,” he said, not commenting on the cutlery. “It’s not what I expected.”
Beka snorted, wrinkling her straight nose and revealing a couple of adorable freckles he hadn’t noticed before. “You were expecting a lot of tie-dyed throw pillows, billowing incense, and some pot plants, maybe?”
Actually, he had been. The reality was a lot more cheerful and appealing than he’d anticipated (sharp-edged weapons aside), and he couldn’t quite make it mesh with the mental image he’d formed of the girl so far. So which one of them was misleading?
“Was the interior like this when you inherited it too?” he asked. Maybe the foster mother she’d mentioned had been the tidy one. Although the outside of the bus screamed hippie, and he’d never met a tidy hippie. He loved California, but the state had more flakes than a bowl of Raisin Bran.
Beka shook her head. “No way. We’ve been changing things around ever since my foster mother moved out about two years ago. It used to be a lot more cluttered.” A dimple flashed as she grinned. “And there were, in fact, tie-dyed pillows.”
We. Oh. So she didn’t live alone. Marcus wasn’t sure why that fact hit him so hard, especially since he didn’t intend to ever see her again after today.
Of course someone that gorgeous had a boyfriend. Maybe even a husband, although a glance down at her slim left hand didn’t reveal a ring. The only jewelry she wore was a tiny gold dragon necklace and matching earrings; odd accessories for a surfer, but clearly sturdy, since they’d survived her tangle with his father’s nets.