Her gaze flew involuntarily to the scummy, root-clogged swamp. "In that sewer? Isn't there another way?"
He raised his eyebrows as if waiting for a suggestion.
Liz flopped her arms helplessly to her side. "What can I do to help?"
"Push off with a pirogue pole." He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up, heading down the starboard row of benches. "Check the bins, would you? Look for rope, rubber boots, and a knife—a good, sturdy gutting knife will do. I'm going to see if the water's shallow enough for my plan to work."
Liz hopped up, nearly tripping in her haste. She didn't know why she'd chosen that moment to criticize Zach for drinking so much. Tension, she supposed, and a need to blame someone, anyone, for this mess. Ultimately the blame rested on her shoulders. Not only had she failed to warn Zach of the danger, he wouldn't have encountered it if not for her.
"Bingo," she heard him say. "We're in business."
She looked up to see him holding a pole. He wore a confident smile that reassured her. He'd get them out soon, before the storm exploded, before the sun set, before— She was frightening herself again, so she hastily went back to her search.
"Boots," she said soon after, tossing a large-size pair to Zach.
He picked them up and continued looking through the other bins. He found rope, and Liz discovered tackle boxes in the last bin, which held several gutting knives.
"What's the knife for, Zach?"
"From the way the engine lugged, I'd guess there are roots clogging the propeller."
Zach unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. A line of perspiration had formed between his pectoral muscles and drifted lazily down his chest, weaving through the sprinkling of golden hair toward the waistline of his jeans. Liz watched the trickle with fascination. Heat ignited in her belly, rising up her body as slowly as the moisture spiraled down Zach's. The sensation was so strong it took away her jitters.
Flustered, she stepped forward and relieved Zach of his shirt.
"Here," she said huskily, dabbing his chest with the sleeve. As her ministrations reached his buckle he took her hand.
"Not now, cher," he said with a lazy grin. "Later maybe."
She jerked away and stiffly hung the shirt on the back of his seat. "I was just helping."
"I thought proper Midwestern ladies turned their backs when men undressed," he drawled, unbuckling his belt. "But if you insist on helping, why you can . . . untie my shoes." His hands went to the button of his jeans. "It'll make it easier to get these off."
"I'm made of stronger stuff," she teased back, trying not to let him know he was hitting way too close to home. She bent to pull loose the laces of his shoes . . . one by one, much slower than needed. What on earth was she doing? She really should turn her back. But he was already slipping down the jeans, and hooking his thumbs under the elastic of his briefs.
Abruptly, she straightened and turned away. "That's enough, Zach."
"A man has to amuse himself in a tight situation," he replied easily. "Tension is the enemy."
A scraping sound told her he'd kicked off his shoes. A rustle signaled the final peeling of jeans and briefs. "Couldn't you at least leave on your shorts?"
"You want me to endure jock itch so you can protect your modesty? What a selfish woman."
Soon the chair squeaked, and the muted chug of stretching rubber told her he was putting on the boots. Knowing that the pilot's seat would shield him from full view, she risked a look. She was behaving foolishly. It wasn't as if she was a blushing virgin, and Zach hadn't exactly displayed intentions of ravaging her. But the glimpse of his unclad body sparked memories. And she knew this time would not be filled with excited, inept fumbles. They were adults now, both undoubtedly skilled enough to create exquisite pleasure.
A pleasure that would ultimately bond them, shattering the life she'd built if she didn't put a stop to it right now. Resolutely, she squared her shoulders.
"Okay," she said briskly, "what do you need me to do?"
"Other than—" Zach felt an unexpected pang of loss. One look at Liz's face told him she'd quenched the heat he'd seen there just seconds before. He swallowed his disappointment and matched her tone. "I'll tie the rope to the back. Each time I pull, you push off with the pole."
He picked up the knife and coil of rope, then stood, feeling extremely self-conscious. He probably looked ridiculous standing stark naked in the knee-high wading boots and revealing the thickening torso he worked so hard to keep in check.
Her eyes widened, but she didn't appear startled, although her quick scan of his nude body was clearly involuntarily. She blinked several times in rapid succession, then met his gaze. Her tongue emerged from her mouth and skimmed her upper lip. Zach stiffened and lifted, with nothing to conceal his state from Liz. A part of him wanted to hide behind the chair, but another part wanted her to know how much he desired her.
Not that they could take an interlude in this tight situation, and even if they did . . . well, after that, he'd want her forever, and Liz wasn't a forever girl. At least not for him. She'd made it painfully obvious the night before how badly she wanted to avoid her past . . . and anyone connected to it. Still, the fascinated expression on her face remained irresistible.
Liz felt a catch in her breath. He was heartbreakingly, magnificently male. His hair framed a face of rugged angles and strong shadows. His golden skin covered hard, sculpted muscles that flexed ever so slightly as he shifted his body to accommodate the subtle sway of the boat. A narrow streak of white broke his tan at the hips like a loincloth, and the black boots covered his legs to his knees. He looked like a Celtic warrior, with the rope hanging from his wrist, the knife in his hand, and the wide scar marking the inside of his left biceps. His swiftly growing erection only added to the image of unrelenting masculinity.
Liz couldn't tear her eyes away.
"Kiss me, cher," he said thickly. "For luck."
She knew it was another joke, meant to ease the tension, but she floated forward, almost as if under another's volition. A shocked expression crossed his face as she slipped her arms around his neck, but she ignored it and claimed his lips. They parted for her, and he breathed a low, hungry moan. In keeping with the image she'd just had, he covered her mouth with a hard kiss. A warrior's kiss, the kiss of a man who fears he'll lose what he loves.
Her heart swelled, filling her with longing she couldn't deny, rekindling the love she'd once felt for him. Without meaning to, she sagged against him, bringing him flush against her belly. She felt him flex, fully hard now, asking for her, begging for her, and she synchronized her dancing tongue with the throb of his erection.
The boat rocked beneath their feet, the trees swayed above their heads, and the swamp creatures scurried and cried, creating a wild backdrop to the storm within her.
Let this take us where it will, she thought. Let me have him. I'll face what that might bring. She trembled, aching for him to fill her, aching to have him, needing to have him, wanting him so much she could cry.
Then his hands were on her arms, rough hemp brushing her cheek, a hard object she guessed to be the hilt of the knife pressing against her skin.
"Whoa, cher." His voice was ragged. "I need to conserve my strength for the adventure ahead."
Liz opened her eyes. Weak-legged, she sank onto the nearest bench and moaned. She wanted to ignore Zach's warning, rip the rope and knife away, pull him down and spread open for him. But she saw his engorgement, and knew his act had cost him, too. It shamed her that he'd remained responsible even when she was about to throw caution away.
"Then use that sexual energy to get us out of here, because when you're done, there's no escaping me." She managed to produce a half-smile. "By the looks of you, Superman couldn't do a better job."
He threw back his head and laughed. "That will keep me going." Then he started for the back of the boat and tied the rope to the stern rail. "Get that pole, Liz. I'm about to become the man of steel."
Without further hesitation, h
e jumped into the filthy water to attack the roots clogging the motor.
"Okay," he hollered, when the propeller was finally cleared. "When I say pull, you push off the cypress knees with the pole. Got it?"
"Yes." Liz's face was tense, but she climbed on the bow and propped the pole on one side of the roots. Looking over her shoulder, she waited for Zach's instructions.
He waded through the water, brushing back heavy sheets of moss until he was far enough away to provide the needed lift and also to prevent the rope from pulling him under if and when the boat broke free. Fearing that revulsion would send his gut heaving, he did his best to avoid gazing on the rotting vegetation floating around him. The cool water gave blessed relief to his aching balls.
How could he have let their kiss get so out of hand? He'd come close to forgetting they were caught in an extremely remote area of the swamp, where they could end up skeletons before help stumbled on them. A gruesome image of Jed's mutilated body came up with that thought.
Jed and Izzy. Their names seemed to arise together. Losing her had been the single tragedy of his young life, one he'd barely overcome even into adulthood. Jed's death had pushed him to the edge. When he'd walked onto the Cormier galerie to find the girl he'd mourned for most of his life very much alive, the shock had almost sent him tumbling over the precipice.
He was still seeking balance. What else explained his heebie-jeebies? His rational mind rejected the concept, but he'd swear those cypress knees had jumped from the water. He'd wager his flask they hadn't been there the moment before.
Wading through chest-high water filled with God knew what required more courage than he'd needed the day the bullet creased his arm and he'd forced himself to pursue the shooter anyway. He'd always hated the unknown, the unseen, and this was it.
Le fantome noir.
As he'd told Liz, stories of Ankouer weren't told in his home. His parents denied the old legends, but still did superstitious acts. Silly things—salt over the shoulder, knocking on wood, not walking under ladders. From these acts, and many more, he'd recognized their subtle fear that the lore of their childhoods might be true. At this moment, he wasn't so sure he didn't share their fear.
He'd testify under oath he'd been approaching a log before that bull alligator charged, and he'd never seen raccoons behave so crazy. Then the cypress roots. Now here he was, subliminally praying he didn't fall into a league-deep sinkhole that couldn't possibly exist in a swamp. Liz was probably right in refusing to explore the origins of these odd occurrences.
He shuddered at the unexpected brush from a passing fish, which convinced him all the more.
Finally well in front of the boat, booted feet still on the solid if squishy ground, he turned, pulling the rope over his shoulder. Belatedly, he realized he'd forgotten about rope burns. He'd take his chances, but if dislodging the boat required too many pulls, the bums could stop him from continuing. He trudged back to the boat. "See if you can find a pad or something to protect my skin from the rope."
Liz flipped open the bins, and leaned over the rail a minute or so later with a large hot pad in her hand. "Think this'll work?"
"Absolutely." He took the pad, reassured by touching her hand.
When he was again in position to pull, he shouted, then tugged for all he was worth. Nothing happened.
"Pull!" he yelled again.
This time he felt a shift.
"Are we loose?" he asked.
"Not quite."
He took a moment to catch his breath.
"Pull!"
No results.
He went through the process more than a dozen times, producing occasional small movements that still failed to free the boat. His legs and shoulders ached. His lungs burned. Moss, scum, and scraps of lily pads clung to every conceivable inch of his skin.
"Pull!" he shouted again, crouching to jump and provide added thrust.
He heard something scrape. The tension on his rope eased. "Are we free?"
"Almost."
"Okay, let's try again."
He prayed this would do it. Despite the tightened straps around his calves, water seeped into his boots. Soon the weight would keep him from jumping, and he didn't relish standing barefoot in the swamp. With his fingers mentally crossed, he leaped again, putting all his weight behind the pull.
"You did it!" Liz cried. "It's free!"
She ran to the end of the boat, holding a blanket, and leaned over, a glowing smile on her face.
"Come on in, Zach Fortier, you man of steel. I've got something soft and warm for you."
Amen. Did she ever.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time he pulled himself over the edge of the boat, Zach was done in. He sat on the deck, head and shoulders slumped over his knees, his muscles quivering, his breath coming in gulps.
Liz draped the blanket over his shoulders, pulled the boots off his feet. After dumping the water inside them overboard, she began brushing away debris with a towel.
"You did it," she said again and again. "You did it. I was so afraid we'd never get loose."
"We still have to get through the channel," he replied hoarsely.
"I know." She got up and went to the bins, coming back with a gallon of water. "Are you up to standing?"
When he nodded, she pointed at the jug in her hand. "Thought you might like a shower."
"Best idea I've heard all day." He pushed against the bench, and found himself a bit shaky in the legs, so he moved to support himself with the outer rail and waited while Liz climbed onto his vacated spot. She handed him a cloth and a minute later water fell slowly on his head.
The jug had been warmed by the sun and the water felt like heaven as it ran down his neck, chest, hips, and legs. It trickled between his toes, then slowly ran toward the side channel that drained the deck. As she poured, he scrubbed the filth from his skin, discovering he couldn't remove it fast enough. Finally, he began to feel clean again, and Liz returned to his awareness. He couldn't recall how long it'd been since someone had done such a simple service for him. His mother, he supposed, when he was a tyke in the tub. But not from the hands of any other woman.
He looked up to see her gaze fixed firmly on the "V" of his legs. No concealing what his body wanted. She raised her head and wordlessly stepped down from the bench. Another towel had somehow materialized in her hands, and she gently rubbed his hair dry, then smoothed it down. Next she moved onto his body, at times rubbing briskly, at other times brushing him with tantalizing lightness.
He throbbed from waist to knees, all because of one hungry spot that begged to bury itself in her. Glorious electric shivers tortured each nerve in his body, but he waited to see what she'd do next.
When she knelt to dry his feet, he groaned. She seemed not to notice and carefully dabbed at each toe before lifting her head. Again she caught his eyes, and hers looked exactly like the cats-eye stone they'd always reminded him of. He groaned again, and tightened his hold on the rail. She nodded as though he'd asked a question, then dipped her head. Her hot tongue caressed his inflamed tip.
"God, Liz," he groaned.
Then his legs buckled.
Liz shot to her feet.
"Oh, cher, no."
But she remained silent. Draping him in the blanket again, she pushed him onto the bench and slipped between his legs. As she took him in her mouth again, he couldn't hold back sounds of anguished ecstasy. He'd dreamed of kissing her, holding her, pleasuring her until cries like the ones he now uttered left her throat, but his wildest dreams had never contained the pleasure she was giving him. This was crazy. The sun was falling fast, night would arrive, but he didn't care . . . didn't care . . . not right now while Liz's mouth and tongue were . . .
Liz had no idea why she was doing this. Danger surrounded them, the cloudy sky grew thicker, but as she grazed her teeth along the length of Zach, shivering with delight when a moan erupted from his throat, she was only certain she'd waited for this moment all her life.
This man belonged to her, with all his strength and weaknesses. He was hers to pleasure and be pleasured by, and she never wanted to stop. There was no stopping now. This time had been coming from the instant they had met on the Cormier veranda, and she'd see it to its fulfilling end.
His fingers were in her hair, flexing and relaxing, as excited trembles shook his legs to rumble through her body. Then he slipped his hands beneath her arms and lifted her.
"Please, Liz," he moaned, "let me hold you . . . please."
His eyes had turned to lapis blue, tortured and full of hunger. She loved seeing him like this, wanting her so badly he ached. An ache she shared. She was hot and wet with needing him, and needed no encouragement. Her hand moved to the metal buttons of her overalls as she prepared to rip them open. But then she paused. Under the stare of his ravenous eyes, she felt cruelly wanton. She unlatched one button with teasing hesitancy and let the strap fall forward.
Licking her lips, she attended to the other, letting the garment slide slowly over her hips to pool on the deck, then bent to untie her shoes.
"If you don't get over here, cher," he rasped, "I'm coming for you."
A husky laugh left her lips, and she licked them once more before starting on her panties. His eyes pleaded, pleaded with her to hurry. Suddenly, her game had gone on too long. Trembling from head to toe, she jerked off her underwear and almost flew to straddle him. When she spread across him, opening for him, welcoming him, he entered her with one sharp upward thrust. Their cries of bliss simultaneously exploded in the air. Their lips met in a kiss so powerful it shook Liz's soul.
Zach shuddered as he claimed Liz's mouth. God, she was so hot and sweet and hungry for him. Beyond anything he'd hoped for. And he knew then why his wives had left him. He'd cheated them. They'd only been poor imitations of the woman in his arms and somehow they'd known that. He'd never loved them, never loved anyone but little Izzy Deveraux, who'd grown into a passionate woman who fired him up in a way the child-woman never had.
Though he was on the verge of explosion, he wanted this to last, but Liz moved into swift little frantic strokes that forecasted a prompt ending. He broke their kiss and brushed his lips against her ear.
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