“Olivia.”
He drove his fingers into her hair, tipping her head back, and laid claim with his mouth, but her possession imprinted him. His kiss deepened as he slowly lowered her to the bed, whispering his love, his desperate need of her as he slid free and plunged again. The air in the room pulsed, flavored with her gasps, the snap of the hearth flames casting a glow over her skin. Dampness pearled on her throat. He gripped the headboard, his palm under her hips as he lifted her to him in a slow piston of smooth flesh and woman.
Her body pawed his, drew him back, and his pace quickened. He slammed his eyes shut, the tight fist of her gripping his erection like a glove. Heat climbed up his spine, and he swore it split him in half. Tanned muscle and strength hovered over her, pleasured her. Her softness touched more than his skin, but his soul. She reached up and smoothed her fingers over his jaw, let them caress down his body to feel him plunge into her. It heightened his awareness, and her hips curled with each stroke, letting him feel every inch of his erection sliding in her. She never broke eye contact, her body undulating like a scarf in the wind.
She gripped his arms, her tempo increasing, and he recognized the glaze in her eyes, her rapid panting, and he surged harder, longer, adoring her little screams. Then he felt it, the ripple of pleasure, her hot tight center wrench and claw his erection. Sebastian thrust savagely and she begged for more, daring him to lose control with her. He felt the sharp edge of the moment, met her gaze, and sank deeper. Waves of pure ecstasy tore over his limbs, a great beast roaring up his spine, then his world sharpened, crashed, his climax rocketing through him and into her. Olivia arched, her back bending so deeply he thought she’d snap. She gripped his hips, grinding him into her. She cried out his name and he held her, suspended, eyes locked till the last tremors flexed through them. She smiled slowly, breathless, and they sank into the mattress, Icelandic down wrapping them in a cloud.
Her fingers skipped over his back. “You have not lost your touch, baby, I don’t care what they say.”
He chuckled, his face in the pillows, and had to gather the strength to lift his head. He kissed her, and he rolled to his back, taking her with him. He pushed strands of hair from her face, watching his moves.
She folded her arms on his chest, rested her chin there. “Marry me.”
“Again,” he whined.
She jabbed him.
He was hoping to do that, but…“With a priest. You’re not getting quickie anything this time.”
She grinned, lurched to kiss him. “No fat Elvis JP with a cape? Damn.”
He tossed her on her back, hovered over her, then insinuated his knee between her thighs, pushing them apart. “But let’s make sure you can’t wear white.”
She laughed, welcoming him, reminding him she wore red in Vegas, and he’d married a virgin.
EIGHTEEN
Sebastian closed the phone. The jet was on the tarmac, refueling. He couldn’t stall any longer and crossed to the bedroom to wake Olivia. Inside the massive bed draped against the cold, she was sprawled across it, the downy covers pooled around her hips. Her hair masked her face, but her hip was bruised dark, and he thought, that’s got to hurt. Made it worse last night, probably, though she didn’t complain. He called to her as he crossed to the hearth, turning up the gas fireplace radiating warmth into the bedroom. She stirred on the bed and he got a strange satisfaction as she rolled over, moaned, and stretched.
She smiled up at him. “Hi.”
Something wrenched in his chest. “Hi. It’s seven A.M. Sore?”
“Incredibly. My butt is killing me.” She poked it in the air. “Wanna massage it?” He didn’t say anything, and she frowned. “I’ve lost my glow, haven’t I?”
“Not unless you were aiming for black and blue.”
She twisted, looking back at her hip. “Wow, it’s going to take a lot of makeup to cover that up.” Then she sniffed the air. “Is that food?”
“Nothing gets by you, huh?” She rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid there’s not much beyond dried or pickled fish here, let me tell you. But you need to dress.” He tapped his watch. “We have a plane to catch.” She glanced at the clock, then pushed up off the bed, moving a little slower. She came toward him in her all naked glory. She never was shy about her body, and he wanted nothing more right now than to take her right back to that bed and love her till the land of the midnight sun went dark. But McGill wouldn’t appreciate the delay. She leaned against him, every inch of her steaming through his clothes.
“As much as I wanna make up for lost time, my resistance is at an all-time low. Can you please behave?”
She scoffed. “You say that after…” She waved at the bed, the floor before the fireplace, “and especially that,” pointing to the scoop chair. She grabbed her clothes as she passed him on her way to the bathroom.
He heard a little shriek and stuck his head in. “What?”
She pointed to her reflection. “I look awful.”
She looked sexy as hell. Her hair was a wild cloud around her shoulders. He reached for her, laying his mouth over hers in way that told her it wasn’t her appearance that drew him to her.
“Thirty minutes,” he said. “McGill wants us at a secure location to transmit.” She frowned. “With all the ships in the water, there are too many spies listening in.” His gaze lowered over her body and he couldn’t help copping a feel of everything she displayed. “Now you’re down to twenty-eight minutes.”
“Then stop touching me!” She pushed him out the door. “Find my panties, will you?”
He pulled them from his pocket, swinging the lacy scrap on his finger. “I think I’ll keep the souvenir.”
“You have me.” She snatched them. “And going commando is not an option. Not in leather pants.”
Sebastian grinned like an idiot as she closed the door in his face. He walked into the living area, glancing at the laptop as he crossed to the coffee service. Before he’d taken his first sip, the screen blinked to life. Incoming from Deep Six. Must be important for Mac to risk it, he thought, and nearly dropped the cup when he saw an aerial video stream. The minisub was caught in a fishing net and hanging off the side of a commercial trawler. SEALs crawled over the ropes, and he held his breath as the teams cracked it open like a can of peas.
Two minutes later, he realized it was empty.
Ice Harvest
Noble sat inside a double cube used for conferences and adjusted the space heater, missing New Orleans and the fall temperatures that still warranted shorts. He glanced at the large laptop, the webcam blinking. He was anxious to find the pieces and laid out his paperwork in neat stacks, then started paging through jpegs of artifacts lifted from the dig. The general was sending out the materials to better repair the damage and get some of the analyzing equipment back here with the technicians. McGill wanted them operating now that the threat was elsewhere, and felt twenty-five scientists lurking in one area would compromise SSU. Noble agreed, especially with all the news reporters on Greenland covering the ships amassing in the Greenland Sea. Amazingly, their National Research Institute cover was still firmly in place.
He sat back and stared at the large flat-screen monitor, trying to understand how Gregor found the jade half somewhere west of Tangier by re-creating the notes Nevolin had shared on the Northern Lion. He had archive copies of the papers purchased by Gregor around the time they’d first discussed the legend online. Frowning, he opened the older e-mails and did a quick search of the date.
The Russian had mentioned visiting the Khattara—the ancient underground tunnel water system in Morocco. Portions were still bringing water inland, but the system was collapsing and the cavities stretched across the entire country. If the Viking hid it there, how on earth did Gregor locate it? According to the notes Nevolin shared, Gregor had been in Svalbard, Iceland, and the practically uninhabited Saint Josef Island. They were all once Viking strongholds.
He feared he may never know the entire path, and glanced at the maps posi
tioned on the wall of the cube. The twelfth-century reproduction was overlaid with a transparency of the most current cartography, and typical of intelligence, the intelligence outposts were marked with yellow dots. Over that was another transparency mapping only Norse trade routes all the way to Turkey and into China. Each reference was substantiated with documented artifacts, local legends, trade records, and ships’ pilot logs. Archaeologists were learning that the Vikings traveled great distances, the wide shallow draft of their ships allowing them to navigate rivers nearly effortlessly. They could travel where the galleon and clipper could not.
He poured more coffee, glancing at the time. He would never grow accustomed to the constant light and never knew for certain if it was morning or night.
He tried to imagine living with the long seasons, to think like a Viking, his task, and that the jade stone had, essentially, taken his daughter from him. He’d need to be rid of the jade pieces as quickly as possible. Buried and unmarked would have been his first choice. He considered that commerce was bursting because of the Crusades and the armies marching toward it. Scandinavians had fought in the holy wars, not for faith, but for plunder. The few coins collected by the Norseman showed he didn’t venture far this trip. From Ireland south to Morocco were trade routes to Portugal Spain. He’d bypass England, he thought, because the commodities sold and traded bore a commonality with Ireland’s goods. The Viking would be bringing necessary supplies back to his people. Analysis of the flora and fauna of the period and the small cask of honey implied he was in Morocco. Why honey, when the Viking Jal likely raised his own honeybees for mead? Perhaps a sampling to compare with his own, he thought, but couldn’t ignore the science that said it was harvested on the North African coast.
He tipped a nod to Gregor for collecting the Portuguese, Moroccan, and Spanish merchants’ papers, their financial records with several Scandinavian traders. Yet it was the personal mark of Jal, his signature, that lead Gregor to Benzù. A Rune spelling of his name. Sort of. Runes were more than representations of letters to Vikings, but tribal marks, signatures, and philosophy existed behind each one. Reading runes was as common a practice today as it was when Jal traveled the globe.
He enlarged a coin, wishing it had been cleaner when the photo was taken. Restoration was secondary to cataloging when the coming winter would make remaining on the ice a test of survival, not science. Dana was a few minutes from the dig, he thought eagerly, then paged back, enlarging a piece of sea glass. It looked like something found on any beach. The paragraph below it stated it was found with five other coins with the Viking, and he glanced as the photo of the small drawstring purse beside it. Traders rarely dealt in coins. Too many currencies and not all honored in all regions unless it was gold. The dinar was a currency match for Northern Morocco. The dated coin was exquisitely engraved. The piece of sea glass was meaningless, a token, and for giggles, he clicked on it, enlarging it a hundred times. He backed it up, his brows drawing tight.
What he thought were cracks in the glass were actually scratches. And intentionally made.
Four hours earlier
His air was spent when Dimitri saw the marker underwater and he let the propulsion torpedo drift away to grasp the red flag, then the rope line. Lizveta was right behind him with Stefan. He pulled to the surface, releasing his tanks and weight belt. They sank as the line hoisted them out of the water. He broke the surface, and saw the rope netting hanging from the ship. He released his hood and yanked off his face mask to grab on. He climbed, still surprised that the cold didn’t affect him. His strength increased by the hour and he flung himself over the rail. He stood, then turned to Veta. She moved like a monkey, rapidly, and when she reached the rail, he gripped her under her arms and lifted her to the ship.
She smiled, wildly laughing, and he couldn’t help returning it. It had been a long time since he’d seen her so carefree. Once Stefan was aboard, they shucked their dry suits, but his friend did not look well. Dimitri helped him out of it, but he was forced to wear the boots.
He looked at Veta and kissed her. She slipped a weapon from the holster at her leg. “I love you,” she said, then turned away and strode toward the wheelhouse. Crewmen backed out of her path. The captain stepped out, sucking on a honey stick. He looked as if he hadn’t bathed in a month.
“We go no farther.” He sanded his fingers together.
Veta slapped them away. “Yes, we do.” She pushed the gun in his face, against his eye. “Proceed to here. Quickly.” She handed him a slip of paper. He took it, but didn’t read it. “Now, Captain.”
He didn’t. “Money.” He dragged out the word. “Or you go back in the sea.”
Impossible, of course, Dimitri thought. The air tanks were empty, though according to Veta they should have run out long before now. The jade, he thought, and understood the relic was all she’d said it would be. Dimitri would not doubt her again. His gaze fell to the sack dangling from her belt. He felt incredibly drawn to it.
“You’ll be paid when we reach our destination.” She glanced around at the crew. “You could kill us and toss us overboard now, but Vlad wouldn’t be happy, dah?”
The captain snickered, looking her over before he stepped into the wheelhouse. Vlad was likely dead or prisoner, he thought, staring over the bow to the ship waiting for the next leg.
Miles away, American warships and Danish fighter jets were hunting for them and it was a matter of hours before they sifted through the intelligence and found the sub. Dimitri didn’t believe they had as much time as she calculated, but he could barely contain his energy. After months when he barely had the strength to dress, he relished life without the treatments and medications.
“Stefan, watch them.” The scarred man faced the crew and aimed his assault rifle. It was still frosted from the cold, and Dimitri withdrew a weapon, racking the slide before he took position beside the culling tray with a perfect view of the crew. He waved the gun, and Veta walked the length disarming them, tossing the weapons overboard. The filthy crew stared at her, and he glared them into submission, his finger flexing on the trigger.
“Dimitri?” He met her gaze. She pushed the weapon down, smiling through her confusion. She touched his face, his lips. “We are almost free. Moscow is suffering and we have our justice.”
He didn’t agree, yet remained silent. She was swimming in euphoria. Her triumph, he admitted, was stupendous, but they weren’t liberated from this mess yet. And may never be, he thought, glancing at the sack.
The sun was lower in the sky when they reached their rendezvous with a cannery ship. Like a dumping ground for fishermen, the ship was a floating factory, turning out a finished product before it docked. The fishing trawler sailed alongside and they had only a few moments to get aboard and continue. He wasn’t interested in anything except the helicopter on the pad at the top. It belonged to her now. Her dirty money, he thought of it, though it had saved their lives often enough. He’d no one to thank for that—not that he would—the benefactor kept on the edge, sex and name undetectable.
It’s best not to know these things, he’d learned. As the trawler’s rubber tire bumpers scraped along the cannery hull, Dimitri had to tip his head back to see the railing. A metal and rope ladder rolled down and Veta was at the bow. She caught the rope line guide, drawing the end of the flexible ladder to her. She didn’t wait for him and grabbed on, swinging for a moment before she climbed. He frowned at her agility and speed. Waves boiled around the ship and he waited till she was on deck before he started his climb. Stephan was slower to board and on the deck, he staggered, then fell to a keel of rope. Dimitri told him to rest, then grabbed the binoculars.
“Dimitri, come, quickly.”
He sighted on the horizon. He could see vague shapes on the water. The Americans were surrounding the missile ships. He hadn’t time to mourn his friends on the Lion, but they’d never intended to return after the video. It amused him that Veta got everything she wanted and her benefactor had, so far, nothing
. He lowered the field glasses, an unfamiliar feeling spinning through his skin. His breathing increased, and his hand tightened on the binoculars. And tightened. He heard the pop of breaking glass and looked down. The lens was powder at his feet.
He inspected the binoculars, the dent in the casing, strangely amused. He was about to throw it in the sea when Stefan called to him, then gestured. He looked to the small helo pad on the upper deck and quickly overtook the ladders and stairs to the top. Wind unsteadied his footing as he joined them. He handed her the broken glasses and shrugged. She frowned at them, then him, her gaze inspecting.
“I am better than fine, do not worry so.” He touched her cheek, a gentle move that melted the stiffness in her shoulders. He kissed her briefly, then climbed into the pilot’s seat and performed the preflight. He turned over the engine. The blades beat against the air in slow pops of noise that echoed over the sea. Veta pulled on a helmet, Stefan behind her, booting up the notebook. The satellite was in range and if Stefan could track, so could anyone else. The storm was dissipating, the skies lightening to the never-ending dusk as he lifted off and turned toward the island.
Dimitri searched the helicopter deck for the sack, the shape of the jade stone feeling familiar now. He needed it near. She didn’t have to tell him, he knew. Beside him, Veta tuned a radio, searching for chatter on the explosions, and her broadcast. He’d seen the confirmation when she loaded it to the Internet, but she wasn’t certain it had reached Europe. She shook her head, looking scared that her efforts had failed.
It mattered little. It was done, and avoiding the authorities was their only priority now. The volcanic rock of the island crested the horizon, the cliffs to the north topped with snow. A ring of mist surrounded it and he glanced at his gauges, his fuel, then circled west to land at Keflavik. The Americans had abandoned the bases several years ago. They’d been untouched ever since. As he brought the aircraft to the small field, he called to Veta. She looked up and smiled. A jet sat near a hanger door, and he hoped there was food inside. And clean phones.
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