Into the Shadow

by Christina Dodd

  She was in shock. She remembered how he lived, in a tent with the spoils of a hundred raids . . . and he was worth thirty million? And counting? ‘‘Why are you telling me all this?’’

  ‘‘I want you to know that if you will do me the honor of marrying me, I will always take care of you.’’

  It was a good thing she was prone. Otherwise she would have collapsed on the spot.

  ‘‘My sins are beyond count. The memory of you was the only thing that kept me alive for the whole wretched year of my captivity.’’ He leaned over her and smoothed her hair away from her face. He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers and smiled into her stunned eyes. ‘‘We have a connection. More than one.’’ He grasped her wrists, brought them out from beneath the covers, and held the gold bracelets between them. ‘‘Look. You wear my badge of ownership.’’

  ‘‘I wear them to show I escaped you!’’

  ‘‘You wear them like a wedding ring.’’

  That struck home, and she winced.

  ‘‘You can visit my mind,’’ he said persuasively. ‘‘Marry me.’’

  She remained absolutely still, absorbing his words, knowing the truth, but too afraid to acknowledge it.

  ‘‘Search your brain,’’ Warlord said. ‘‘What do you see?’’

  Immediately she knew the answer. But in knee-jerk defiance she said, ‘‘Nothing.’’

  But he wouldn’t let her get away with lying to him.

  Leaning toward her, he put his forehead against hers. He looked into her eyes. And he placed his hand against her heart.

  It was dark. It was cold. And she wanted her mommy.

  But her mommy didn’t come.

  The servants whispered and looked at her. Her grandpa came in and stared at her, then scowled and shook his head. But mostly she was alone in the dark, cold house, scared and hearing whispers, wisps of words. . . .

  Poor child. No mother at all. Lover dead. Jumped off a cliff after him.

  Tears leaked out of Karen’s eyes.

  Mommy. Mommy.

  Poor child. Dan Nighthorse dead. Mother fell off the cliff, landed on the rocks, and can you imagine? She bled there for a day, her internal organs destroyed, and when they rescued her she screamed.

  Karen heard her father come home. She came out of her room and ran to the balcony, waiting for her daddy to visit her. And she saw her grandfather grab her daddy by the scruff of the neck and carry him into the office. She was with that Indian guide. She’s been with him for years. Do you know what this means . . . ? The door slammed behind them.

  What does it mean? Daddy. Daddy.

  Poor child. Five years old. Dan Nighthorse dead. Mother fell off the cliff, landed on the rocks, and can you imagine? She bled there for a day, freezing in the cold, her internal organs destroyed, and when they rescued her, she screamed in agony. Poor child. Her mother died. Poor child. She’s alone.

  Forever alone . . .

  Karen woke up crying.

  Warlord had tears in his eyes, too. ‘‘My poor little girl. My poor little girl. I can’t stand it. You’re not alone. Not anymore.’’

  She tried to push him away. ‘‘Stop it. I don’t want this. Stop it.’’

  ‘‘It’s too late to stop it. You swallowed my blood, and it gave you the strength to fight off the effects of the venom. It gave you a window into my mind. And what else, Karen?’’

  ‘‘Nothing,’’ she insisted.

  Gathering her into his arms, he pressed her ear to his chest, and as she listened to the thump of his heart she fell into another memory.

  The sun burned down on her. The horizon stretched forever. And she had one chance. One chance to make good, to make her father see her, really look at her, finally notice how hard she worked, how smart she was . . . one chance, and this was it.

  Karen approached the sullen framing crew, two dozen men lounging against a pile of lumber.

  They were mad, every one of them. They’d been working Jackson Sonnet’s Australian adventure hotel, they were less than halfway through construction, and their project manager had had a heart attack. They were getting the boss’s twenty-three-year -old daughter as a replacement, and without saying a word they managed to let Karen know what they thought.

  One chance, and they wanted to take it away from her.

  She smiled, because smiling always disarmed the guys, stuck her shaking hands into jeans pockets, and asked, ‘‘Who’s the crew boss?’’

  One man, tall, thin, brown faced, raised his hand. He didn’t stand.

  Okay. One chance, and if she handled this guy right, if she could get him to work for her . . . One chance. ‘‘Alden Taylor. Experienced in framing, plumbing, electrical, Sheetrock, finish carpentry. You’ve been with my father for how long?’’

  ‘‘Twenty-five years with the mean old son of a bitch.’’ Alden had a pronounced Australian accent, and he was trying to shock her by abusing her father to her face.

  Instead he’d played right into her hands. ‘‘Would you say the mean old son of a bitch is given to acts of kindness?’’

  Alden snorted.

  The other guys grinned and stirred.

  ‘‘Charity? Generosity? No?’’ Karen didn’t bother to wait for a reply. ‘‘There’s one thing and one thing only my father cares about—getting his hotels built and operational so he can make a profit. Right?’’

  This time Alden tried to answer.

  She brushed him aside. ‘‘That mean old son of a bitch has had me working on hotels every summer since I was fourteen. I can do everything you can do, plus finish concrete, plus design plans, plus I can talk to the hotshot investors and impress them with my construction management degree. I’m here as project manager because I’m the best Jackson Sonnet has got. He doesn’t care that I’m his daughter; he offered me the same deal he offers everyone else. If I get the hotel in on time and under budget, he’ll pay me well. If I screw up, I’m out of here.’’

  Alden’s lips twitched as if he wanted to grin. ‘‘He never changes.’’

  ‘‘I beg to differ. He does change. He gets meaner every year.’’ She was nervous, talking too fast, but she had everybody’s attention. ‘‘I’m shaky when it comes to electrical, and my finish carpentry stinks. That’s why I asked that you be my assistant project manager.’’ She walked over and offered Alden her hand.

  He looked at it, took it, and let her tug him to his feet. ‘‘You promoted me?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Congratulations, and welcome to twenty-hour days.’’ She looked up at him. ‘‘This morning, before I even stepped onto the job, Dad called to let me know we’re behind schedule, and he chewed my ass for it. So while I walk the project, you get these guys to work. Then come find me; we’ll talk about your pay raise and go over the plans to figure out where we can make up some time.’’ She started to walk into the half-framed hotel, then looked back at the stunned Alden. ‘‘I mean . . . if you want the job.’’

  Warlord’s voice startled her out of her trance. ‘‘Did he take it?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ Then she realized what she’d admitted. ‘‘Don’t.’’

  ‘‘So you got your one chance to make good. Did your father ever notice?’’

  ‘‘Please. Don’t.’’ She couldn’t have him know all her secrets.

  He tilted her head up and brushed his lips across hers, over and over, until her eyes closed. ‘‘My blood in you gave me a window into your mind.’’

  ‘‘No.’’ His touch, his kiss dulled the sharp edge of reality, but she knew the truth.

  Over the last few days she had seen his weaknesses. She had witnessed his pain.

  She had lived in his skin. She had sinned his sins. She had killed men. She had exulted in battle. She reveled in sex with a thousand women. . . .

  With his eyes she had seen her own face for the first time.

  She had gloried in her capture, in the hours and days and weeks of unrelenting pleasure. She had been determined to win the sensual battle betw
een them.

  She’d survived, barely, the battle that put him in the mines. There she had dwelled in hell with him, known his remorse as he watched his men die, felt the pain of his beatings, and suffered the slow dwindling of his spirit. And she had seen that no matter how oppressive the darkness and the heat and smells, no matter how deadly the work, Warlord had never given up. Not for his sake, but for his men’s, he had been determined to gain their freedom.

  Warlord had redeemed himself. Warlord had proved he had strength and a soul of honor.

  Karen had no such strength, no such honor. Her life was small, her fears exaggerated. She had never wanted him to witness her anguish at her mother’s death, the lonely days of her childhood, the futile attempts to please her father, the difficulty of her construction work . . . the anguish and joy of living as Warlord’s slave.

  Yet he had. At some point in the last few days he had been in her mind and witnessed it all.

  "Marry me," he said.

  She turned her head away. ‘‘Why would you want to marry me?’’

  ‘‘The sight of you, the scent of you, the heat of you go right through to my bones. You warm me, the hard, cold core of me, and when I saw you across the foyer at the spa, for the first time in two years I was alive and healed.’’ Swiftly he added, ‘‘I will never hold you against your will.’’

  She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes.

  ‘‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t try to convince you. I didn’t say I would ever give up. But I will not ever again hold you against your will. I have been held against my will. It was a hard lesson, but I learned it.’’ He bowed his head to her. ‘‘Please forgive me.’’

  They were trapped in a small tent, in a sleeping bag, in clothes they’d worn for five days. Yet he begged her like a courtier before Queen Elizabeth.

  She didn’t want to marry him. But she enjoyed the begging. She enjoyed it even more because she knew—she knew—that although he meant what he said, he’d had to fight his own possessive nature to make that promise.

  ‘‘Please?’’ he said again.

  She put her hand on his head, mostly because the pure black silk of his hair enticed her. ‘‘I forgive you.’’

  ‘‘Will you marry me?’’

  That was Warlord. Always swift to follow up an advantage. ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘I would be a good husband to you. Karen, I love you.’’

  ‘‘But I don’t know if I . . .’’

  ‘‘Love me?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know if I love you.’’ Her father had taught her she couldn’t depend on any man for the truth, and Warlord had confirmed that lesson. ‘‘I do know I don’t trust you.’’

  Yet she watched him with troubled eyes. Was she unfairly burdening him with the wrong baggage?

  ‘‘Shh.’’ He lifted her, stripped her T-shirt off. ‘‘You worry too much.’’

  She ought to stop him. Tell him that she could never forgive him for the time she spent as his captive. Tell him that she knew even the long year he’d passed in hell hadn’t vanquished the devil in him. She’d seen it at work in the last week, when he had hunted her down, lied to her about his identity, tried to seduce her.

  Warlord removed his clothes, then held her with a hand on either hip, pressed himself against her, and closed his eyes, as if the mere touch of her body on his skin moved him to ecstasy. His erection strained against her belly. His chest, beautifully decorated with the blazing thunderbolt, rose and fell with his breaths. She held his arms in her hands and coiled her legs around his . . . because the ecstasy enveloped her, too.

  He lifted himself. He wrapped his thumbs under the elastic of her panties and slid them down her legs. ‘‘Kick them off,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Please get rid of them.’’

  Like a fool, she responded to his pleading.

  In reward he slid deep into the bag to kiss her shoulders, the tender inside of her elbow, her palm, her fingertips.

  How she had missed the way he worshiped her body, every limb, every inch of skin, with his touch and his mouth!

  No matter what, she was now bound to Warlord, for while she was in his mind she had learned that he loved her. Loved her with all the passion of a man who had lived in hell and now saw a chance for heaven.

  That was why she allowed him to caress her belly and between her legs.

  That was why she stroked the deep scars across his shoulders.

  That was why she would let him make love to her, and would make love to him in return.

  He ran his palms down the sides of her body, learning her curves once more.

  Outside, the wind peeled the dry snow off the tent layer by layer, letting the daylight seep through the nylon structure. The tree boughs sang as they swayed, and the rich odor of pine mixed with the scents of their bodies.

  They had almost died of the venom. They had been through hell together.

  His warm, soft lips kissed her nipples, tasted them, made her realize how sweet this affirmation of life could be.

  Wrapping her fingers around his head, she held him, reveling in his breath on her skin, then pulled him up onto her. ‘‘Please,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I want.’’

  ‘‘What do you want?’’ He smiled and kissed her lightly, over and over. ‘‘Tell me.’’

  She showed him. She dragged her hands down his chest, down his belly, and enfolded his penis in her fingers.

  His breath hissed between his teeth. He arched his back. His eyes closed in agonized gratification.

  In mockery and delight, she said, ‘‘Before I am done with you, every time you think of pleasure, you’ll think of me.’’

  He opened his eyes, looked down at her, and said, ‘‘I do. My darling, I do.’’

  Then they moved together until the snow blew off the tent, and the bright sunshine leaked through the thin nylon, and the light illuminated his gorgeously sculpted and dearly beloved face.

  After three days of unending snow and wind and blizzard conditions, the weather cleared, and the Civil Air Patrol and the mountain rescue team went out to find the Cessna Citation X. It took them two days of hard searching to locate the wreckage, but when they did, Innokenti and a dozen of his handpicked men were with them as civilian rescue experts.

  Innokenti stood watching as the rescuers combed the wreckage for any sign of survivors, and shook their heads pityingly. They thought every person aboard had been killed.

  Innokenti withheld judgment. He was waiting for a report from his best spotter. When Pyotr was on the wing, nothing got past his sharp eyes.

  Some of the Americans murmured in amazement when a brown hawk circled Innokenti’s head, then flew into the trees. Innokenti followed.

  There was Pyotr, jumping up and down with excitement. ‘‘They’re here,’’ he said. ‘‘I saw the proof. A new broken branch on a cedar.’’

  ‘‘Maybe it was wind damage.’’

  ‘‘Something hooked on it. The bark is broken in the middle, and the needles are stripped off the end.’’

  ‘‘Good work.’’

  Innokenti’s other men gathered around.

  ‘‘We’re going after them.’’ He sternly viewed their anticipatory faces. ‘‘You can have the girl, but leave Wilder for me.’’

  ‘‘What about the Americans?’’ Lev jerked his head toward the rescuers.

  Innokenti started down the hill, changing as he went. ‘‘Kill them all.’’

  Chapter Thirty

  Warlord ducked out of the tent, dressed in layers and layers of dry clothes, and walked out into the snow.

  The day was perfect, high, wispy clouds against a bright blue sky, a brisk wind, and a temperature that hovered around ten degrees. Or perhaps the day wasn’t so much perfect as he felt perfect. Wonderful. Better than he had in two years. No—better than he had in his whole life. Karen wasn’t his yet, but he had gained ground.

  Of course, she’d had to view his complete castration first—and that didn’t make any sense at all. When he
had realized she was in his brain, living with him the dark days of his imprisonment, he had wanted to shout out his refusal.

  He had died every day in the mines, and every time Innokenti Varinski beat him he’d screamed in agony. Worse, the last time, when he heard Innokenti was coming, he had cried. Cried like the titty-baby the guard had called him.

  But Karen didn’t seem to care that he’d broken down, that he’d whined and whimpered. She almost liked him better for acting like a girl.

  He didn’t understand women. He never would. But he thanked God for putting them— especially Karen—on this earth.

  Karen stepped out of the tent and stretched, and didn’t look at him. Because she was shy about the passion she’d been unable to hide, or embarrassed that he’d been in her mind, or pissed that she’d surrendered.

  Not that she’d completely surrendered, but she would. She would. She couldn’t fight him and her own desires, and when she realized that, he would get his ring on her finger as swiftly as possible. Then he’d spend the next hundred years teaching her to love him, and showing her she could trust him.

  ‘‘You look beautiful.’’ He took her in his arms.

  ‘‘No, I don’t.’’ She managed to make him sound as if he were an idiot. ‘‘I haven’t had a bath in five days.’’

  ‘‘Absolutely beautiful,’’ he repeated, and kissed her, and kissed her again.

  She kissed him back, then pushed away as if she’d betrayed too much.

  He pretended not to notice. ‘‘I wish I had a cell phone so I could call Jasha and see if he’s at the rendezvous.’’

  ‘‘He didn’t sound too enthused,’’ she warned.

  ‘‘Jasha is the oldest. He may not be enthused, but he’s the most responsible human being you’ll ever—’’

  A thin, sharp sound sliced through the air.

  He shoved her back against a tree and, holding her there, scanned the sky.

  ‘‘What was that?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘We’re going now.’’ He reached in the tent and brought out his backpack and her bag. ‘‘I should never have let us linger here.’’