Ritual Sins

by Anne Stuart

  She couldn’t think of an answer, not when she was no longer sure. Her confrontation with Luke Bardell had moved past the point where she could handle herself. In the meditation center there was a certain amount of safety, a certain amount of control. Out here, in this steaming swamp, there was nothing she could use for self-defense. It was just the two of them, and she knew that she was far outclassed. He could destroy her.

  He smiled, that faint, infuriating smile. “I’ll tell you why, Rachel, even if you don’t want to admit it. You can’t let go. You can’t let go of anything. You can’t let go of the stupid dream you have of a loving mother, a fantasy of something that never existed in your life. You can’t let go of the pain, you can’t let go of the money you think you’re owed, and you can’t let go of me. Whether it’s hatred or fascination or a little of both, you’re just incapable of turning your back on me and getting on with your life.”

  “Watch me.”

  “It would be a pleasure. But you’re not going to do it.” A distant rumble of thunder matched the deepness of his voice, and in the gathering darkness his eyes were almost incandescent.

  The electricity in the air must be from the gathering storm, she thought, trying to breathe. Her skin felt hot, prickly, her blood thick and throbbing through her veins, pooling in strange places. He had his hands draped loosely on the steering wheel, even though he was making no effort to start the van, and she could see the wreath of thorns around each wrist with shocking clarity. He had elegant wrists. Beautiful hands. A strong, sinuous body. It was no wonder his followers were blinded by his undeniable beauty. It was only lucky that her hatred kept her immune.

  The storm was coming nearer, and the wind had begun to pick up, tossing the moss-laden branches back and forth like skeletal arms waving their tattered grave clothes. She reached for the door handle, fighting the panic, the inevitability that was crowding down around her, half expecting him to stop her.

  “I may bite, but I’m not lethal,” he murmured without moving.

  She didn’t release the door handle. “I’m not sure of that.”

  The rain started then, spitting at the windshield. It was getting dark in the front of the van, but he made no effort to turn on the motor. “We get hellacious storms down here,” he said in that infuriatingly gentle voice. “Flash floods that could carry you off before you knew it. Hailstones the size of golf balls. Leroy Peltner’s brother was killed by one of them. Then there’s the wind. It can whip through the place, uprooting trees and bringing them crashing down on houses and cars, flattening them.”

  “Then don’t you think we ought to get the hell out of here, considering we’re surrounded by trees?” She was aiming for asperity in her voice, instead she got an annoying quaver.

  “In a really bad storm there’s no place safe,” he said. “You’ve just got to trust your luck. And whether the devil’s on your side or not.”

  “What about God?”

  “You don’t believe in God, Rachel. You don’t believe in goodness or love or mercy, do you?”

  “I haven’t seen enough to form an opinion.”

  “But you believe in the devil?”

  “When I’m sitting in a car with him, yes,” she said.

  He laughed, a quiet, disturbing sound. “I think it’s time you sold me your soul, Rachel.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Everything’s for sale. Your soul in exchange for whatever I can pry out of the Grandfathers. I expect I can get at least half a million for a settlement.”

  “In return for my soul? That’s paltry.”

  “Maybe.” He had a dreamy expression on his face in the eerie light of the storm. “There’s a bed in the back … Why don’t you unfasten that seat belt that’s not doing you a lick of good and climb back there?”

  She was cold. Suddenly, desperately cold. “I thought you wanted my soul, not my body?”

  “With you they come as a package deal.”

  “Let me get this straight,” she said, her teeth chattering. “You’re offering me five hundred thousand dollars to sleep with you? That must make me the highest-priced whore in the world.”

  The smile on his face was faint as he leaned over and unfastened her seat belt. “You might make the Guinness Book of World Records. Get in the back.”

  She stared at him, so dangerously close. And she knew she was going to do it. She hated him more than any human being on this earth; she feared him and his inexplicable power over her. The more she fought, the more she ran, the deeper the fear went. The only way she could exorcise it was to call his bluff.

  “All right,” she said.

  She was hoping to shock him with her acquiescence. She should have known he wouldn’t give her that much—he was too adept at guarding his reactions. “All right,” he echoed, faintly mocking.

  She glanced into the back of the van. It was pitch black, and outside the storm howled around them. “I can’t see back there.”

  “You’ll find your way,” he said.

  He wasn’t going to make it any easier for her, a small consolation. If he’d swept her in his arms, murmured loving things, she would have run. Instead she climbed out of the black leather seat and made her way into the cocoonlike darkness. She almost tripped over the bed. It lay across the back of the van, big, the covers rumpled. He wasn’t following her, he was still lounging in the front seat, and she wondered if there was a side door. And she wondered if she felt like diving out into the storm and risking the fury of nature.

  He knew her too well. “Don’t make me chase you in the storm.” His dry voice floated from the front seat.

  “Why would you bother?”

  “I wouldn’t want to waste you on an alligator.”

  She sat down on the bed. There was room for her to sit up, but not stand. She pulled her T-shirt over her head and began to fold it with absurd precision. She kicked off her running shoes and skinnied out of her jeans, folding them with the same care. The darkness in itself was reassuring. She reached behind her to unfasten her bra, then stopped. “Do you need me to take all my clothes off, or just from the waist down?”

  “This isn’t a visit to the gynecologist, Rachel. Everything must go.” His voice was lightly mocking.

  She stripped off the rest of her clothes, silently, efficiently, and then lay down on the bed, her hands at her sides, waiting for him, her eyes shut in the thick darkness as she listened to the storm surrounding the metal box that enclosed them.

  She knew what would happen, she told herself. He would cover her with his naked body, he would force wet, slobbering kisses on her mouth. He would make her touch his … his thing, and then he would put it inside her. It would be too tight, it would hurt, and he would hunch and sweat and groan on top of her, he would pinch her breasts and buttocks, he would mutter obscenities before he collapsed on top of her in exhaustion. She’d survived that much and more in the past—she’d survive it this time.

  And when he finished she would look at him out of her cold eyes and know she was invulnerable after all. That nothing could touch her, not even the cleverest of con men. The man who tricked and seduced her mother wouldn’t be able to touch her.

  She heard the faint snick of a cigarette lighter, and the flare of light in the back of the camper blinded her. He was holding it above her, looking down at her, and she couldn’t see his face beyond the mesmerizing flame.

  “Very nice,” he murmured, and there was no missing the irony in his voice. “A virgin sacrifice, nicely staked out. Do you want me to tie your hands and wrists to the bed? It might help you get in the mood to be martyred.”

  He was goading her, but she was beyond reacting. All she had to do was keep herself in one piece. Let him touch her body all he wanted to—it didn’t really matter. As long as she could keep her mind, her emotions, inviolate.

  “The Foundation of Being doesn’t go in much for human sacrifice,” he said lazily, flicking the lighter closed, plunging the van into blackness once more. “Bu
t I’m beginning to think the practice has been underused.”

  She could hear the rustle of his clothing, the slither of his belt, the thump as he kicked off his boots. She scooted over on the mattress, unable to control that start of panic, then once again lying still as he stretched out beside her. It took her a moment to realize he was still wearing his jeans, though nothing else, and some of her panic subsided.

  She could feel his fingertips lightly brush her face, her short tangle of hair, her tightly closed mouth. She shut her eyes as well—she couldn’t see anything in the darkness, and it was one more defense she could close down around her. He let his fingertips dance lightly over her mouth, and she considered biting him, hard.

  “Tell me, Rachel,” he murmured, his voice seductive. “Is there anything you find particularly revolting, or is it the entire act?”

  She had to open her mouth to speak. “Why? So you can make sure my degradation is complete?”

  “No. Your surrender.”

  “I have. Surrendered, that is. Haven’t you noticed I’m not fighting you anymore? You can do your worst.”

  “Such an optimistic point of view. And you’re still fighting me, for all that you’re lying naked in my bed. I imagine you’ll fight me with your last dying breath.”

  She froze. “You’re going to kill me?”

  His laughter was both a relief and an annoyance. “No. I have better, more pleasurable ways to destroy you.” And to prove it, he let his hand trail down the side of her neck, a soft, sweet caress that burned like acid on her skin.

  Doubt hit her hard. “What if I just give up?” she said suddenly. “Declare you the victor? Will you let me go?”

  She opened her eyes, gradually growing accustomed to the dark. She could see him as he lifted his head to watch her, though there was no way she could read his expression. Except that she knew what he would look like. Determined. Triumphant. Dangerously erotic.

  “No,” he said. “Too late.”

  “Will you let me leave?”

  “No.”

  She tried to sit up, but his arm snaked around her waist, bare skin against bare skin, muscle against softness, pushing her back so that she lay against the mattress, staring up into darkness. Staring up into Luke Bardell’s twisted soul.

  “Please,” she said, begging for mercy as she’d swore she would never do.

  “No,” he said again. And he kissed her.

  15

  She was hating this, Luke thought, working at her mouth. She was despising this, and him, and if he had a speck of decency left, he’d let her pull on her clothes, get in the passenger seat, and he’d drive her back to her car. He could have the Grandfathers send her a check—hell, he could get money to her from his own private stash. It would shut her up, get her out of his life, and it would be a kind, generous thing to do.

  Of course, he didn’t have any decency in him, and hadn’t for years. The sight of her pale, slender body shouldn’t have been cause to send his libido into overload, but then, he’d never been particularly sensible where Rachel Connery was concerned. Which was a warning in itself.

  But he was tired of being sensible. Careful. If Calvin wasn’t able to cover up for him, if the Grandfathers discovered he wasn’t on some spiritual retreat, praying and fasting, he’d live with the consequences. He had a huge amount of money stashed away in various places, all instantly accessible. Unfortunately he had a pretty good idea how fast money could disappear, and he’d wanted to wait until he had at least twice that much before he decamped.

  But being a holy man was wearing on his nerves. He wanted to be bad again. He wanted to be selfish and sinful and shimmering with lust. As he was right now, and reveling in it.

  She had jaws of iron, and she kept them tightly shut against his mouth. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t in the mood to force her. Outside the storm raged, battering the ancient camper. Inside it was dark and warm. It smelled of rain and wet earth, it smelled of her and him and sex, and he had every intention of taking his time.

  He nibbled softly on her lower lip. “You’re too skinny, you know,” he murmured against her mouth.

  It was enough to get her to open it. “If you think criticizing my body is supposed to arouse me, then you’re way out of practice.”

  He touched her mouth with the sensitive tips of his fingers, gently, so as not to panic her. “Trust me, if you tell most women they’re too skinny they’ll be your slave for life.”

  “Is that what you want from me?” Her voice was caustic. She was still fighting. Good.

  “A slave for the night will do.” Her lips were surprisingly soft. She usually had them clamped together in a firm line, but in the darkness, naked, she was more vulnerable.

  He feathered a kiss against those lips, so briefly she didn’t have time to react. He kissed her eyelids, feeling them flutter beneath his mouth; he kissed the soft skin of her temple. He could feel the powerful tension rippling through her body, and inwardly he smiled. This was going to be a challenge and a pleasure. And very nice indeed.

  He moved his mouth down the side of her face, kissing her on the soft skin beneath her jaw. “I thought I was going to have to pry you out of your clothes,” he murmured against the scented sweetness of her skin. “How come you decided to make it easy for me?”

  “I want this over with as quickly as possible,” she said grimly.

  He wondered if she could feel his smile against her skin. “I’m a Southern boy at heart, sugar,” he murmured. “I take my time.”

  Another shiver rippled her skin, and he recognized her fear. He kissed the hollow of her throat, tasting her pulse. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll like it. Or is that what you’re afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “That’s a change. Five minutes ago you said you were.”

  “Are you going to fuck me or argue with me?”

  The word sat strangely on her tongue. He doubted she’d ever used it in its literal context before. But then, he doubted she’d fucked much before.

  He leaned over her, his body hovering above hers. “Oh, I’m going to fuck you,” he said with a breath of laughter. “Slowly, deliciously, and most royally. Now why don’t you open your mouth to do something more than fight with me?”

  She struggled for a moment when he kissed her, then stopped herself, sinking back on the rumpled bed, letting her mouth go slack. The virgin sacrifice again, he thought, sliding one hand beneath her short-cropped hair and tipping her face up to his.

  He’d kissed her before, when she was drugged and semicomatose, and she’d been more responsive. Now she lay there beneath his kiss, determined to show him he couldn’t move her.

  She didn’t realize she was sparring with the king of determination.

  He caught her lower lip between his and bit, gently. He wondered briefly whether she was turned on by pain. He hoped not—he wasn’t in the mood for that particular kink. If the only way he could get her turned on was to hurt her he might change his mind about the whole project.

  “Don’t,” she said, her voice a quiet, desperate plea.

  “Then kiss me back.”

  She did. Or at least she tried. She met his mouth with inexpert force, banging against him, and she ground her teeth against her lips in a furious effort.

  “Not that way,” he said. “This.” And he kissed her lightly, tantalizing, nibbling on her mouth until she began to mimic him, her lips reaching for his, clinging for a brief, tantalizing moment.

  He could tell the instant that it changed. That the slow, insidious warmth began to sneak beneath her defenses. He doubted she recognized it, she was too busy concentrating on kissing him back to recognize the telltale shimmer that danced across her skin, the odd, hesitant catch in her breathing.

  She was a fast learner. With him, at least. A sudden gust of wind hit the trailer, buffeting it, and she let out a frightened cry, her arms coming off the mattress, around his neck in unexpected panic. The feel of his hot, damp skin mu
st have been just as terrifying, for no sooner did she touch him than her arms fell away, back on the mattress again, and she turned her head from his mouth.

  He didn’t mind. He’d already coaxed the first response from her. He could wait for more.

  “You know,” he murmured, letting his hand trace delicate, random patterns up her arm, “maybe I should just get you drunk. Then you’d forget that you hate sex.”

  “It’s already been tried.” Her voice was flat and uncompromising in the darkness, and he might have thought he’d imagined that brief shimmer of response. Except he wasn’t a man to imagine such things.

  “Really?” His hand trailed up to her shoulder, then down again, a slow, gentle caress.

  “Believe it or not, there have been other times, other men, that I’ve actually wanted to sleep with.”

  “Nice euphemism.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That’s what I was talking about.” She was getting more and more pissed, but it was distracting her from her fear. When she was angry she forgot she was frigid.

  “Does that mean that you want to sleep with me?” he added, moving his legs closer. He wished to hell he’d taken off his jeans, but he’d figured that would send her into hysterics.

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, moving his mouth next to her ear. “You’ll be too busy to sleep.”

  She was wearing tiny gold studs. Expensive, he thought, biting lightly. She shifted uneasily, her hands flat on the mattress, clutching the rumpled sheet.

  “Can’t you hurry this up?” she demanded in a strained voice.

  “Why? You got a plane to catch or something?” She smelled good. More than good, she smelled delicious. Like soap and perfume and nervous womanhood. The scent of her mixed with the damp air, and he figured she was going to get her wish if he didn’t take a deep breath and slow down.

  “As soon as I can get to Mobile.”

  “Well, sugar,” he whispered against her throat, “we’re not going anywhere in this storm, so get used to it. Just lie back and think of England.”