by Nora Roberts
mother figured her job was done and hit the road. You could say we don’t keep in touch.”
“I’m sorry.”
He jerked his shoulder against the sympathy, irritated with himself for telling her. He didn’t talk family. Ever. With anyone.
“You haven’t seen your family in all these years,” she continued, unable to prevent herself from probing just a bit. “You don’t know where they are—they don’t know where you are?”
“We weren’t what you’d call close, and we didn’t spend enough time together to be considered dysfunctional.”
“But still—”
“I always figured it was in the blood,” he said, cutting her off. “Some people just don’t stay put.”
All right, she thought, his family was out of the conversation. It was a tender spot, even if he didn’t realize it. “What about you, Jack? How long have you stayed put?”
“That’s part of the appeal of the job. You never know where it’s going to take you.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She searched his face. “But you knew that.”
“I never had any reason to stay.” Her hand rested on the table, an inch from his. He was tempted to take it, just hold it. That worried him. “I know people, a lot of people. But I don’t have friends—not the way you do with Bailey and Grace. A lot of us go through life without that, M.J.”
“I know. But do you want to?”
“I never gave it a hell of a lot of thought.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “God, I must be tired. Philosophizing over breakfast in the Twilight Diner at five in the morning.”
She glanced out the window at the lightening sky to the east, the all-but-empty road. “‘And down the long and silent street, the dawn—’”
“‘With silver-sandaled feet, crept like a frightened girl.’” Finishing the quote, he shrugged. She was goggling at him.
“How do you know that? Just what did you take in college?”
“Whatever appealed to me.”
Now she grinned, propped her elbows on the table. “Me too. I drove my counselors crazy. I can’t tell you how many times I was told I had no focus.”
“But you can quote Oscar Wilde at 5:00 a.m. You can shoot a .38, drop-kick your average man, you eat like a trucker, understand ancient Roman gods, and I bet you mix a hell of a boilermaker.”
“The best in town. So here we are, Jack, a couple of people most would say are overeducated for their career choices, drinking coffee at an ungodly hour of the morning, while a couple of guys in a van with one headlight hunt for us and the pretty rock you’ve got in your pocket. It’s the Fourth of July, we’ve known each other less than twenty-four hours under very possibly the worst of circumstances, and the person who brought us together is dead as Moses.”
She pushed her plate aside. “What do we do now?”
He took bills out of his pocket, tossed them on the table. “We go to bed.”
The motel room was still tacky, cramped and dim. The thin flowered spread was still mussed where they had stretched out on it hours before.
Only hours, she thought. It felt like days. A lifetime. More than a lifetime. It felt as if she’d known him forever, she realized as she watched him empty his pocket onto the dresser, that he’d been a vital part of her forever.
If that wasn’t enough, maybe the wanting was. Maybe wanting like this was the best thing to hold on to when your world had gone insane. There was nothing and no one left to trust but him.
Why should she say no? Why should she turn away from comfort, from passion? From life?
Why should she turn away from him, when every instinct told her he needed those things as much as she did?
He turned, and waited. He could have seduced her. He had no doubt of it. She was running on sheer nerves now, whether she knew it or not. So she was vulnerable, and needy, and he was there.
Sometimes that alone was enough.
He could have seduced her, would have, if it hadn’t been important. If she hadn’t been so inexplicably and vitally important. Sex would have been a relief, a release, a basic physical act between two free-willed adults.
And that should have been all he wanted.
But he wanted more.
He stayed where he was, beside the dresser, as she stood at the foot of the bed.
“I’ve got something to say,” he began.
“Okay.”
“I’m in this with you until it’s over because that’s the way I want it. I finish what I start. So I don’t want anything that comes from gratitude or obligation.”
If her heart hadn’t been jumping, she might have smiled. “I see. So if I suggested you sleep in the bathtub, that wouldn’t be a problem?”
He eased a hip onto the dresser. “It’d be your problem. If that’s what you want, you can sleep in the bathtub.”
“Well, you never claimed to be a gentleman.”
“No, but I’ll keep my hands off you.”
She angled her head, studied him. He looked dangerous, plenty dangerous, she decided as her pulse quickened. The dark stubble, the wild mane of hair, those hard gray eyes so intense in that tough, rawboned face.
He thought he was giving her a choice.
She wondered if either of them was fool enough to believe she had one.
So her smile was slow, arrogant. She kept her eyes on his as she reached down, tugged her T-shirt out of her jeans. She watched his gaze flick down to her hands, follow them up as she pulled the shirt over her head, tossed it aside.
“I’d like to see you try,” she murmured, and unsnapped her jeans. He straightened on legs gone watery when she began to lower the zipper.
“I want to do that.”
With heat already tingling in her fingertips, she let her hands fall to her sides. “Help yourself.”
Her shoulders were long, fascinating curves. Her breasts were pale and small and would cup easily in a man’s palm. But for now, he looked only at her face.
He took his time, tried to, crossing to her, catching the metal tab between his thumb and finger, drawing it slowly down. And his eyes were on hers when he slid his hand past the parted denim and cupped her.
Felt her, hot, naked. Felt her tremble, quick, deep.
“I had a feeling.”
She let out a careful breath, drew in another through lungs that had become stuffed with cotton. “I didn’t get to my laundry this week.”
“Good.” He eased the denim down another inch, slid his hands around her bottom. “You’re built for speed, M.J. That’s good, because this isn’t going to be slow. I don’t think I could manage slow right now.” He yanked her against him, arousal to arousal. “You’re just going to have to keep up.”
Her eyes glinted into his, her chin angled in a dare. “I haven’t had any trouble keeping up with you so far.”
“So far,” he agreed, and ripped a gasp from her when he lifted her off her feet and clamped his hungry mouth to her breast.
The shock was stunning, glorious, an electric sizzle that snapped through her blood and slapped her heartbeat into overdrive. She let her head fall back and wrapped her legs tight around his waist to let him feed. The scrape of his beard against her skin, the nip of teeth, the slide of his tongue—each a separate, staggering thrill.
And each separate, staggering thrill tore through her system and left her quivering for more.
The fall to the bed—a reckless dive from a cliff. The grip of his hands on hers—another link in the chain. His mouth, desperate on hers—a demand with only one answer.
She pulled at his shirt, rolled with him until he was free of it and they were both bare to the waist. And found the muscles and bones and scars of a warrior’s body. The heat of flesh on flesh raged through her like a firestorm.
Her hands and mouth were no less impatient than his. Her needs no less brutal.
With something between an oath and a prayer, he flipped her over, dragging at her jeans. His mouth busily scorched a path down her body a
s he worked the snug denim off. Desire was blinding him with hammer blows that stole the breath and battered the senses. No hunger had ever been so acute, so edgy and keen, as this for her. He only knew if he didn’t have her, all of her, he’d die from the wanting.
Those long naked limbs, the energy pulsing in every pore, those harsh, panting gasps of her breath, had the blood searing through his veins to burn his heart. Wild for her, he yanked her hips high and used his mouth on her.
The climax screamed through her, one long, hot wave with jagged edges that had her sobbing out in shock and delight. Her nails scraped heedlessly down his back, then up again until they were buried in his thick mane of gold-tipped hair. She let him destroy her, welcomed it. And, with her body still shuddering from the onslaught, wrestled him onto his back to tear at the rest of his clothes.
She felt his heart thud, could all but hear it. Their flesh, slick with sweat, slid smoothly as they grappled. His fingers found her, pierced her, drove her past desperation. If speech had been possible, she would have begged.
Rather than beg, she clamped her thighs around him, and took him inside, fast and deep.
His fingers dug hard into her hips when she closed over him. His breath was gone; his heart stopped. For an instant, with her raised above him, her head thrown back, his hands sliding sinuously up her body, he was helpless.
Hers.
Then she began to move, piston-quick, riding him ruthlessly in a wild race. Her breath was sobbing, her hands were clutched in her hair. In some part of his brain he realized that she, too, was helpless.
His.
He reared up, his mouth greedy on her breast, on her throat, wherever he could draw in the taste of her while they moved together in a merciless, driving rhythm.
Then he wrapped his arms around her, pressed his lips to her heart, groaning out her name as they shattered each other.
They stayed clutched, joined, shuddering. Time was lost to him. He felt her grip slacken, her hands slide weakly down his back, and brushed a kiss over her shoulder. He lay back, drawing her with him so that she was sprawled over his chest.
He stroked a hand over her hair and murmured, “It’s been an interesting day.”
She managed a weak chuckle. “All in all.” They were sticky, exhausted, and quite possibly insane, she thought. Certainly, it was insane to feel this happy, this perfect, when everything around you was wrecked.
She could have told him she’d never been intimate with a man so quickly. Or that she’d never felt so in tune, so close to anyone, as with him.
But there didn’t seem to be a point. What was happening to them was simply happening. Opening her eyes, she studied the stone resting atop the scarred dresser. Did it glow? she wondered. Or was it simply a trick of the light of the room?
What power did it have, really, beyond material wealth? It was just carbon, after all, with some elements mixed in to give it that rare, rich color. It grew in the earth, was of the earth, and had once been taken, by human hands, from it.
And had once been held in the hands of a god.
The second stone was knowledge, she thought, and closed her eyes. Perhaps some things were known only to the heart.
“You need to sleep,” Jack said quietly. The tone of his voice made her wonder where his mind had wandered.
“Maybe.” She rolled off him, stretched out on her stomach across the width of the bed. “My body’s tired, but I can’t shut off my head.” She chuckled again. “Or I can’t now that I’m able to think again. Making love with you is a regular brain drain.”
“That’s a hell of a compliment.” He sat up, running a hand over her shoulder, down her back, then stopping short at the subtle curve of her bottom. Intrigued, he narrowed his eyes, leaned closer. Then grinned. “Nice tattoo, sugar.”
She smiled into the hot, rumpled bedspread. “Thanks. I like it.” She winced when he switched on the bedside lamp. “Hey! Lights out.”
“Just want a clear look.” Amused, he rubbed his thumb over the colorful figure on her butt. “A griffin.”
“Good eye.”
“Symbol of strength—and vigilance.”
She turned her head, cocked it so that she could see his face. “You know the oddest things, Jack. But yeah, that’s why I chose it. Grace got this inspiration about the three of us getting tattoos to celebrate graduation. We took a weekend in New York and each got our little butt picture.”
Her smile slid away as thoughts of her friends weighed on her heart. “It was a hell of a weekend. We made Bailey go first, so she wouldn’t chicken out. She picked a unicorn. That’s so like her. Oh, God.”
“Come on, turn it off.” He was mortally afraid she might weep. “As far as we know, she’s fine. No use borrowing trouble,” he continued, kneading the muscles of her back. “We’ve got plenty of our own. In a couple hours, we’ll clean up, go out and cruise around, try to call Grace.”
“Okay.” She pulled in the emotion, tucked it into a corner. “Maybe—”
“Did you run track in college?”
“Huh?”
The sudden change of subject accomplished just what he’d wanted it to. It distracted her from worry. “Did you run track? You’ve got the build for it, and the speed.”
“Yeah, actually, I was a miler. I never liked relays. I’m not much of a team player.”
“A miler, huh?” He rolled her over and, smiling, traced a fingertip over the curve of her breast. “You gotta have endurance.”
Her brows lifted into her choppy bangs. “That’s true.”
“Stamina.” He straddled her.
“Absolutely.”
He lowered his head, toyed with her lips. “And you have to know how to pace yourself, so you’ve got wind for that final kick.”
“You bet.”
“That’s handy.” He bit her earlobe. “Because I’m planning on pacing myself this time. You know the saying, M.J.? The one about slow and steady winning the race?”
“I think I’ve heard of it.”
“Why don’t we test it out?” he suggested, and captured her mouth with his.
This time she slept, as he’d hoped she would. Facedown again, he mused, studying her, cross-ways over the bed. He stroked her hair. He couldn’t seem to touch her enough, and couldn’t remember ever having this need to touch before. Just a brush on the shoulder, the link of fingers.
He was afraid it was ridiculously sentimental, and was grateful she was asleep.
A man with a reputation for being tough and cynical didn’t care to be observed mooning like a puppy over a sleeping woman.
He wanted to make love with her again. That, at least, was understandable. To lose himself in sex—the hot, sweaty kind, or the slow and sweet kind.
She’d turn to him, he knew, if he asked. He could wake her now, arouse her before her mind cleared. She’d open for him, take him in, ride with him.
But she needed to sleep.
There were shadows under her eyes—those dark, witchy green eyes. And when the flush of passion faded from her skin, her cheeks had been pale with fatigue. Sharp-boned cheeks, defined by a curve of silky skin.
He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Listen to him, he thought. The next thing he knew, he’d be composing odes or something equally mortifying.
So he nudged her over, made himself comfortable. He’d sleep for an hour, he thought, setting his internal clock. Then they would step back into reality.
He closed his eyes, shut down.
M.J. woke to the sound of rain. It reminded her of lazy mornings, summer showers. Snuggling into the pillow, shifting from dream to dream.
She did so now, sliding back into sleep.
The horse leaped over the narrow stream, where shallow water flashed blue. Her heart leaped with it, and she clutched the man tighter. Smelled leather and sweat.
Around them, buttes rose like pale soldiers into a sky fired by a huge white sun. The heat was immense.
He was in black, but it wasn’t her knigh
t. The face was the same—Jack’s face—but it was shadowed under a wide-brimmed black hat. A gun belt rode low on his hips, instead of a silver sword.
The empty land stretched before them, wide as the sea, with waves of rocks, sharp-edged as honed knives. One misstep, and the ground would be stained with their blood.
But he rode fearlessly on, and she felt nothing but the power and excitement of the speed.
When he reined in, turned in the saddle, she poured herself into his arms, met those hard, demanding lips eagerly with her own.
She offered him the stone that beat with light and a fire as blue as the hottest flame.
“It belongs with the others. Love needs knowledge, and both need generosity.”
He took it from her, secured it in the pocket over his heart. “One finds the other. Both find the third.” His eyes lit. “And you belong to me.”
In the shadow of a rock, the snake uncoiled, hissed out its warning. Struck.
M.J. shot up in bed, a scream strangled in her throat. Both hands pressed to her racing heart. She swayed, still caught in the dream fall.
The snake, she thought with a shudder. A snake with the eyes of a man.
Lord. She concentrated on steadying her breathing, controlling the tremors, and wondered why her dreams were suddenly so clear, so real and so odd.
Rather than stretch out again, she found a T-shirt—Jack’s—and slipped it on. Her mind was still fuzzy, so it took her a moment to realize it wasn’t rain she was hearing, but the shower.
And that alone—knowing he was just on the other side of the door—chased away the last remnants of fear.
She might be a woman whose pride was based on being able to handle herself in any situation. But she’d never faced one quite like this. It helped to know there was someone who would stand with her.
And he would. She smiled and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. He wouldn’t back down, he wouldn’t turn away. He would stick. And he would face with her whatever beasts were in the brush, whatever snakes there were in the shadows.
She rose, raking both hands through her hair, just as the bathroom door opened.
He stepped out, a billow of steam following. A dingy white towel was hooked at his waist, and his body still gleamed with droplets of water. His hair was slick and wet to his shoulders, gold glinting through rich brown.
He had yet to shave.
She stood, heavy-eyed, tousled from sleep, wearing nothing but his wrinkled T-shirt, tattered at the hem that skimmed her thighs.
For a moment, neither of them could do more than stare.
It was there, as real and alive in the tatty little room as the two of them. And it gleamed as bright, as vital, as the stone that had brought them to this point.
Jack shook his head as if coming out of a dream—perhaps one as vivid and unnerving as the one M.J. had awakened from. His eyes went dark with annoyance.
“This is stupid.”
If she’d had pockets, her hands would have been in them. Instead, she folded her arms and frowned back at him. “Yeah, it is.”
“I wasn’t looking for this.”
“You think I was?”
He might have smiled at the insulted tone of her voice, but he was too busy scowling, and trying desperately to backpedal from what had just hit him square