Safe Passage

by Loreth Anne White

  But inside their silver cocoon they were dry. It was as though the three of them were bound together on some quest, being buffeted by wild, external elements. A tiny ship on stormy seas. And as they traveled further into the wilderness, they put more and more distance between themselves and the world they were leaving behind.

  But they were also traveling inward. Getting closer to each other’s secrets. It was a journey that held its own kind of danger.

  But there was no turning back now.

  “There.” She pointed at a gap in the trees, barely visible through the mist. “That’s the logging road.”

  Scott swerved from tar onto muddy dirt track. Rivers of rain chortled down through the ruts. Trees closed them in like a tunnel. Scott switched to four-wheel drive. The going became slow as they negotiated small boulders, branches cast off by the wind. Skye was thankful for the powerful vehicle. And she was grateful to have Scott and Honey at her side. Their company made her feel stronger. It would’ve been the pits doing this on a bike.

  Alone.

  She couldn’t move. She was dying.

  She just didn’t know why, didn’t understand what was happening. She’d been so happy. She’d left the restaurant in Chemainus to go to her sister’s house in Victoria, to give her the little gold beetle that beautiful blond woman insisted she have.

  Then the big dark green truck had forced her off the road. Two men had pulled her out of her car. They’d spoken a language she didn’t know. But then they’d asked for the gold beetle in English.

  She’d given it to them, told them they could have her money, anything, if they’d just let her go. Let her live.

  They’d started to hurt her when she couldn’t answer questions about the blond woman and the man she’d served at the restaurant.

  They’d hurt her bad. Rain dribbled into her eyes.

  She couldn’t move her broken limbs.

  Her breath wheezed out in bubbles. Mud from the ditch seeped into her mouth, down her throat. She had no energy to cough it out. She could see only the gray shapes of the men through her haze of pain. They loomed over her. So big. Fighting about something.

  Then they were quiet, a decision reached.

  A boot came down on her skull, forced her farther into the mud, under the ditch water. She squeezed her eyes shut, gagged.

  She couldn’t die now.

  Her family was waiting for her.

  With one last burst of effort, she struggled, flailed, against the boot. No use. Her lungs screamed for air. She gasped. One final, desperate, involuntary cry for oxygen. But she took in only mud, grit, water…and knew she’d never take another breath.

  Chapter 12

  Scott wasn’t sure the bridge was safe. It was too dark to see, headlights slicing only a narrow tunnel through the black fury of the storm. He brought the vehicle to a stop, left the lights on, flipped up his collar and stepped out into the driving sheet of rain.

  He leaned into the wind, squinted eyes as ice water pummeled his face. He made his way to the river’s edge.

  Water roared in white froth from a gorge up at his left, plunged down to the narrow wooden bridge. But a logjam had snagged under the structure, forcing water to back up, pressure to build.

  Like a bomb ready to blow.

  It could be seconds before the bridge gave way.

  He yanked his collar higher up around his neck, trudged through the mud back to the SUV, ducked his head in. “Any other way out if that thing blows?” he yelled above the thunder of the river, the roar of the wind in the trees.

  “Yeah,” she yelled back. “There’s another old logging road on the far side of the cabin. It heads further north into the forest but leads out eventually. It’d take a full day or so to get out that way.”

  Scott climbed into the driver’s seat, slammed the door against the weather, shook rain from his sleeves. “Right. At least there’s a way out if this baby goes. We’ll make a run for it. Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Scott shifted gears, drove smoothly through the drag of mud toward the wooden structure.

  Water now ran in a glistening black sheet over the surface of the bridge. Scott kept the momentum, felt tires hit slick wood, slip, then bite. He held the pace steady, fought the tug of the current. His wheels hit land on the other side. He accelerated slightly, pulled them up onto the safety of the track.

  They made it by seconds.

  Behind them a crack and snap of wood was followed by a boom that drowned the sound of the storm.

  Scott said nothing, just slowly exhaled. He stopped the car, turned to Skye. “Pass me that flashlight in the glove compartment.”

  He took it from her, stepped once again out into the driving rain, made his way back to the bridge.

  Where it had spanned the river seconds ago there was only a gaping maw with splintered teeth. He shone the flashlight into the boiling river. There was no way they were going to get back that way. He turned, made his way back to the car.

  “Well, guys,” he said as he slammed his door shut. “We can relax. No one’s going to follow us in here. We’re well and truly cut off.”

  He clenched his teeth. Bloody bitch hadn’t lost her edge. She’d found the device Nakiskas had placed around her neck, thrown them off her trail by giving it to a waitress.

  And this McIntyre…he didn’t exist beyond a Web site and some expertly scattered cyber crap. She was with a professional. And that gnawed at him.

  Her last e-mail to Jalil had said something about needing a break from things. Maybe Nakiskas would know where she might go “to think.”

  He turned to his assistant, his voice deathly calm, belying the madness that swam inside him.

  “Fetch Nakiskas,” he commanded.

  “He’s in the sick bay, sir. Doctor thinks he’s contracted some kind of pneumonia.”

  “I don’t give a damn how he feels. Get him. Now.”

  Skye dumped the sleeping bags on the one and only bed. It was big, made of raw pine, covered with a homemade quilt in happy yellows, greens and blues.

  The homeyness of it caught her by the throat. It seemed so out of context, so far removed from her plight.

  She shook the rain from her hair, wiped water from her face, glanced around the cabin. It seemed smaller than she remembered. Maybe that had something to do with the amount of space Scott McIntyre seemed to swallow with his powerful masculine presence.

  He was bent over, feeding logs into the blackened woodstove, coaxing flames to life. Through his rain-dampened shirt his muscles rippled like those of a honed wild animal.

  He sensed her scrutiny, turned his head, looked over his shoulder at her.

  She swallowed at the sudden dark intimacy in his eyes. And she felt trapped. In this tiny, rustic log structure in the middle of the wilderness, there was no way she could escape the power that thrummed from him, that crackled hot and furious from his green gaze.

  There was no way she could run from herself, even.

  No way she could deny the elemental desire boiling in her core.

  He pushed himself to his feet.

  Her heart stuttered.

  The room shrank even more around him. His mouth was pulled into a tight line. His eyes tunneled into hers. Her stomach tightened.

  He was angry.

  Or was he?

  She couldn’t interpret the emotion etched into the rough sun-weathered planes of his exquisite features.

  He inhaled deeply.

  She was insanely aware of how the movement made his pecs expand under wet fabric, of how the sculpted muscles of his stomach moved as he took a step toward her.

  Her breath hitched in her throat.

  She was fully clothed in jeans, T-shirt and rain-sodden jacket. Yet she felt totally naked under his scrutiny, stripped of any form of self-protecting barrier.

  She had nowhere to run. Didn’t even want to run.

  They stood like that, two strangers facing each other, in silence, energy palpable
between them. They were clothed yet suddenly bare, suspended from reality in a little haven in the dark woods, a cabin warm with crackling flames in a black woodstove, a homemade quilt on a rustic bed and a rain-dampened dog snoring on a rag rug in front of the fire.

  Intimate strangers, she thought.

  But suddenly it didn’t matter. She felt safe. Here. With him. With rain thrumming on the roof, wind and branches scratching at the windows, the world raging outside. But she was inside, in an oasis of glowing warmth. Hidden from her old world. From Malik and the men who ruled it. She felt as if here she could suspend it all, exist in another sphere.

  They’d crossed that bridge to get here and there was no going back.

  She stepped closer to him, reached up, felt the rough stubble on his cheek. His hand snapped to hers, grabbed it. Green fire sparked in his eyes.

  She sucked air in sharply. His raw power unnerved her slightly. But it also turned her on.

  He tightened his grip on her wrist, jerked her into him. His eyes lanced hers, as if searching for something.

  “Scott?” Her voice came out breathy.

  He placed a hand over her neck. She had no doubt he could crush the life from her with the latent strength in his fingers. She was at his mercy. The concept was oddly exhilarating. Her stomach flipped, spilling heat through her belly.

  He slid his hand up to her chin, lifted her jaw, forced her to look up into the darkening pools of his eyes. She could feel the heightened beat of his heart against her breasts.

  “You’re angry,” she said softly.

  “With you,” he confirmed. “For making me feel this way.” His grip tightened on her jaw. He still held her wrist in a cufflike grasp.

  Energy zinged through her blood. She wanted him. Like nothing she’d wanted before. She wanted to open herself to his hard power, to take it in. Draw on it. Feel it pump into her. Become one with it. It made her dizzy. Her breathing became light, irregular.

  Her blatant desire only fueled his. She could see it in the shifting shape of his mouth.

  “What way?” she asked softly. “What way do I make you feel?”

  He ran his hand roughly down her neck, slipped it under the collar of her jacket, slid the jacket down her shoulders. “Don’t tell me you can’t see it in my eyes, Doctor.” His voice was gravel under a turbulent stream. It rolled through her brain, gushed through her core.

  She swallowed, lifted her free hand, hesitantly touched his sculpted lips. His lids dipped low.

  “Yes, McIntyre. I can see.” She explored the firmness of his lips with her fingertips, increasing the pressure of her touch. “You want to make love to me.” Her voice caught on her breath. Her eyes slid up from his mouth, met his. “And I want you to. I want you to lay me down on that bed, open my thighs…”

  Her jacket dropped to the floor.

  She held his eyes, reached for the hem of her T-shirt, slipped it slowly up over her breasts, over her head, dropped it to the ground.

  His eyes moved indolently over her naked torso. His tongue moistened his lips.

  Skye fought the weakness in her knees, stood in her jeans, bare-breasted, defying him with her eyes to touch.

  She watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed deeply. She watched as arousal shaped his features into something hard and primal.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  She was acutely aware of her nipples tightening hard under his raw scrutiny.

  He moved suddenly, cupped her breast with a rough, calloused hand, found the nub of her nipple, rasped it with the pad of his thumb.

  Her world swayed. A shaft of heat snapped clear through from her breast to her groin, spurted liquid warmth through the base of her belly. She pulsed hot and swollen between her legs

  He coaxed her nipple to a painful peak. “And…what then, Skye?”

  She could barely find her voice. “And…and then, Scott, I want you to touch me, low down. I want you to feel my heat.” She leaned into his caress, pressed her breast into his hand.

  He moaned, low like the wind.

  “I want to feel the hard length of you. I want you inside…I…want…” She slid her hands down over her own naked belly as the words came breathily from her lips.

  He followed the movement with hungry eyes.

  She found the button of her jeans, undid it, slid the zipper down.

  His nostrils flared. He moistened his lips, swallowed hard, all vestiges of civility wiped from his features.

  She slipped her hand into her pants, held his eyes, taunted. “Is that what you want, Scott?” she whispered.

  His jaw hardened.

  He grabbed her shoulder, forced her back onto the bed. He brusquely lowered her jeans over her hips, paused at the sight of her delicate panties.

  He ran his hands gently over the white lace. She could feel the heat of his fingers through the sheer fabric.

  Then he yanked them off.

  She gasped at the swift ferocity of the movement.

  He had her now, sprawled out and utterly naked on the comforter. She stared up into the feral set of his features, made all the more primal by the flickering flame light. Her heart tripped in a shallow staccato beat, the fire of desire burning hot and wet between her legs as she watched him remove his clothes.

  She swallowed at the sight of him. He was born to be naked. Like an animal. His garments had only served to temper the raw primal power of this man.

  With a grunt he straddled her. Her vision swam.

  Like a silent beast he held her there, pinned down between massive thighs, brazenly studying her in the flickering gold light, the wind moaning outside, pulling at loose boards, drowning into the sound of the river raging over rocks below.

  He lowered himself onto her, his lips almost touching hers. Her body screamed with need at the heat, the male hardness, that brushed her thigh.

  “Skye.” His voice rolled low and dark through the base of her belly. Lightning cracked outside. Thunder rumbled through the black forest. A new wave of rain blasted against the windows, the roof. She shivered involuntarily.

  “I want you to know something, Skye.”

  She stared up into the fierce green of his smoldering eyes. And she was suddenly petrified of what he was going say. The cocktail of fear and need, heat and cold, shuddered through her.

  “I trust you. I need you to know that.” His hand slid down her belly, found her hot mound. “And I need you to trust me.” It was an order. “Do you understand?” His hand clamped firmly over the pulsing heat between her legs.

  Her brain reeled, her stomach swooped.

  “Yes,” she whispered, not recognizing her own voice. She’d give him anything now.

  He slid a finger into her.

  Her vision swam. Her stomach swooped. She bucked instinctively upward, giving him wider access. He pushed his finger deeper, moaned low at the slickness he found there.

  “I’ll be here for you,” he murmured, hot, into her ear. She shivered at the sensation. “But I need you to be here for me.” The meaning of his words roiled like an unseen current under the surface. Thunder rumbled through the black hills.

  But before she could open her mouth, he forced his lips down hard on hers. His tongue slid into her mouth. He moved his finger rhythmically up into her.

  She swelled hot and tight around it, her tongue tangling with his.

  Scott felt a low, throaty growl surge through his chest. She was so wet, so slick, so hot. He probed hungrily with his tongue, tasting her female softness, feeling her molten heat, the damp hair against the palm of his hand. She arched into him. His breath caught as he felt her take him in her hands, massage rhythmically with silk-skinned fingers. She opened her legs wider, guided him to her.

  His world spun in a vortex of sensation, snapping the last threads of control. He forced her thighs wide, plunged into her. She bucked, moaned, under him.

  It drove him wild, blinded him in scarlet pleasure. He sank deep into her welcoming heat. She lifted her pelv
is up to his, opening to him. He felt the skin of her belly against his. Smooth where his was rough with hair. And she tightened around him, milked him with sleek strokes of her muscles.

  He could no more halt the instinctive, rhythmic plunge into her core than he could stop breathing. And as he rocked into her, the heat grew, seared, peaked into an exquisite pain.

  She moved under him like a lean wild animal, sleek with muscle. Her breaths came short and sharp. Her small sounds grew as he felt himself peak.

  They moved harder, faster.

  She stilled, every muscle in her body taut. For an instant the night stood still. Then she shattered with a feral cry, wave upon powerful rippling wave sucking at him until he could hold back no more.

  He exploded in shuddering release. Both of them toppling in delirious unison into spiraling waves of crimson upon black.

  He collapsed, damp, into her arms, the sound of her cry still echoing through his head.

  His breathing became regular. Consciousness crept slowly in from the corners of his mind. The sounds of the storm filtered back into his brain. He registered the cabin, the flickering apricot light.

  And he blinked. The word she’d cried. It was foreign. Greek.

  It stabbed through him.

  He remembered why they were here.

  He propped himself up onto his elbow, stared at the exquisite woman who lay dusky, naked, sated, in front of him.

  She smiled lazily up at him, her cheeks flushed, her silver eyes liquid, haunting.

  Something tightened sharp and hard across his chest.

  His eyes trailed down her slick body, rested on the small tattoo on her olive-skinned hip.

  Her eyes followed his, saw what he was staring at.

  They darted back, met his gaze. She looked afraid.

  But she said nothing.

  A maelstrom of emotion swirled in him. He reached out, stroked the smoothness of her cheek, smiled softly back at her.

  Her eyes fluttered closed in what he could only read as relief.

  He pulled the comforter over them, lay down beside her, held her. She snuggled against him. Warm. Soft. She fit so perfectly. He felt so stupidly whole.