by Susan Napier;Kathryn Ross;Kelly Hunter;Sandra Marton;Katherine Garbera;Margaret Mayo
He did, but not with words. He showed her by kissing her deeply, his tongue moving against hers in long, hot strokes. He kissed her at the soft place just behind her ear. When she shivered, he smiled against her skin, then trailed his lips the length of her throat.
He drew back a little, stroked his hand lightly over her cotton shirt, shaping her breast, cupping it, and then he dipped his head and took the fabric-covered nipple gently between his teeth.
Brionny cried out and arched against him.
‘Slowly,’ he whispered, ‘slowly, love. There’s no rush.’
He drew her flesh into the damp warmth of his mouth, teasing her with soft kisses and softer bites until she was moving blindly against him, and then he sat her up and slipped the shirt over her head.
‘Beautiful,’ he said, cupping her breasts in his hands. His thumbs moved gently against her nipples. ‘I’ve never forgotten seeing you in that pool,’ he whispered, ‘the soft ivory and pink of your breasts. I wondered if they would taste as sweet and silken as they looked.’
She trembled as he traced the fullness of her flesh, first with his hands, then with his lips. He rubbed his cheek against the tender skin. It was days since he’d shaved; his beard was soft, feathery light, its touch so electrifying that she cried out. He touched his tongue to one rosy crest and she held her breath, waiting for the moment when he would take a deeper, hungrier taste. When he did, when his teeth closed lightly on the puckered bud, flame shot through Brionny’s body and pooled like liquid fire between her thighs.
‘Sweeter,’ he whispered, ‘sweeter than honey.’
He moved up over her, kissing her mouth while his hand slipped over her belly. He undid the button at her waistband and she whimpered as his fingers slid inside her shorts. His hand moved down and down, and finally his thumb stroked across her, sliding with agonizing slowness against her nylon-covered flesh, and she arched against his finger and cried out his name.
‘Do you want me to touch you?’ he whispered. ‘Tell me what you want.’
Were the words an echo of some darker time? It was too late to wonder or to think. Brionny whispered her answer in shameless abandon, lifting her hips so that Slade could ease away the rest of her clothing.
Then he drew back. She watched as his hands went to his jeans. Slowly, he slid them from his body.
He was perfect, as she had known he would be. The broad shoulders and muscled chest tapered to a narrow waist and hips. His legs were long and muscular—and his sex was proud and exciting, rising from the dark, lush hair that surrounded it.
‘You’re beautiful,’ she whispered, and he smiled. He ran his hands over her again, as if to memorize every soft curve. Gently, he parted her thighs. He kissed the softness of her skin, breathed in her scent, buried his face against her and kissed her intimately until she cried out. Then he lifted his head, looked at her face, watched her as he slid his fingers against her slick, wet flesh.
Brionny arched toward him in ecstasy. She reached for him, needing to touch him as he was touching her. Her fingers curled around him, as far as they could. He was hot, like flame, as hard as steel yet with the smoothness of silk, and she stroked him, her rhythm matching his until, with a startled cry, she exploded against his hand.
Slade growled his triumph. He bent and kissed her, taking her soft moans into his mouth, and then he drew back.
‘Bree,’ he whispered.
Her lashes fluttered open. She looked at him, at his dangerous smile, at the dark green fire of his eyes. Slowly he leaned forward, not to enter her but to brush the fullness of his sex against her swollen flesh. Sensation shot through her again, arrowing from her dewy center to every part of her body, and she knew that what had just happened was only the beginning.
‘I want to see your eyes as you take me inside you.’
‘Slade,’ she sobbed, ‘Slade, please—’
But he was relentless, moving himself back and forth against her until she was mindless with abandon. Then, at last, he entered her.
Brionny clasped his head, dragged his mouth down to hers. Slade was filling her beyond anything she had ever imagined, not just physically but in a million other ways.
She cried out as he began to move, pulling back slowly then rocking forward, his hands beneath her, cupping her buttocks, lifting her to him. He caught her mouth with his, his tongue duplicating the motions of his body. Suddenly she tensed, dazzled with pleasure yet terrified, knowing he wanted to take her to a place so high that she might reach it and tumble off into space.
‘Come with me,’ he whispered. ‘Come with me, love, come—’
There was no way to resist. Sobbing his name, Brionny gave herself up to him, riding his passion and making it hers. She shattered in his arms, bursting into a million pieces as bright as sunlight, soaring up and up into the sky. Then, slowly, she drifted to earth again, safe in Slade’s embrace.
He kissed her throat, nipped lightly at her skin, and began to roll away, but she held him close, loving the weight of his body on hers. She wanted to feel the slowing beat of his heart, the silken dampness of his skin.
‘You’re wonderful,’ he whispered.
She smiled as she stroked her fingers through his hair. ‘It wasn’t me,’ she said, ‘it was—’ It was because I love you, she’d almost said.
The thought stunned her. Did she love him? Was that why what she’d felt in his arms just now had been so incredible?
She was willing to admit she’d misjudged him. He might be an adventurer, a man who chased dreams, but he certainly wasn’t evil, he wasn’t—
‘It was what?’ he said.
Brionny sighed. ‘It was you,’ she murmured, unwilling to give voice just yet to that last, confusing thought.
Slade kissed her and rolled on to his side, still holding her close.
‘Shut your eyes, sweetheart, and sleep. We’ll need all the rest we can get before morning.’
Brionny’s smile dimmed. For just a little while, she’d forgotten their situation.
‘Slade? Do you really think we’ve lost the Mali-Mali?’
Maybe, he thought.
‘I hope so,’ he said.
‘What—what if we haven’t? What if they come after us again?’
It was a good question, and it needed a good answer.
‘Then I’ll do everything in my power to protect you,’ he said.
He kissed her, then drew her head into the crook of his shoulder. Brionny snuggled against him. She was almost asleep when Slade whispered her name.
‘Bree?’
‘Mmm?’
‘You never did tell me where you hid the Eye of God.’
She hesitated. She knew what he was asking. Do you trust me now? he was saying. Do you trust me with your secret, now that you’ve trusted me with your body?
She took a deep, deep breath. ‘It’s in the box of tampons. I didn’t think you’d look there.’
He smiled, and then he laughed softly. ‘No. It’s the one place I’d never have checked.’ His arms tightened around her. ‘Go to sleep now, sweetheart.’
It took a while. She felt strangely uneasy. But, eventually, she did.
She dreamed she was entering a great hall, one that looked like the museum’s but was a hundred times bigger. People were rising to their feet and applauding—the Mayor, the director, the members of the board—but she brushed past them, looking for just one face.
‘Señorita?’
She was mounting the steps to the podium now, where the Eye of God waited, glowing like emerald fire.
‘Señorita. Habla usted español?’
The audience was waiting for her to speak but she couldn’t, not until she found Slade.
But it wasn’t Slade she saw as she came abruptly awake. There was a stranger standing over her, a tall, cadaverous-looking man in a black suit. Heart racing, she clutched the tattered blanket to her throat and sat up.
‘Wh-who are you?’ she stammered. ‘What do you want?’
The man raised
his hands, as if in benediction. ‘Do not be afraid, señorita. I am Father Ramón, of the Mission of San Luis.’
‘The mission of…?’ She could see his clerical collar now, and the cross swinging from his neck. Brionny blew out her breath. ‘You scared the life out of me, Father.’
‘That was surely not my intention,’ he said solemnly.
‘But-where did you come from?’
‘Our mission is just upriver, señorita. Some of my flock were out hunting. They stopped here, as they have done before, and found something most unexpected.’ Father Ramón came closer, his eyes politely fixed on a point just beyond Brionny’s shoulder. ‘How have you come to be here, señorita?’
‘It’s a long story, Father, and we’ll be happy to tell it to you as soon as—’
‘We, señorita?’
‘Could you just turn your back for a minute, Father? I’d like to-to dress before—’
The missionary turned away. ‘Of course. Forgive me for intruding upon you, but when my people said there was a gringa here—’
‘Don’t apologize, please.’ Brionny dressed quickly, ran her hands through her hair, and cleared her throat. ‘You can turn around now.’
‘We thought you might be ill,’ he said as he swung toward her.
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ She peered past him, trying to see outside. ‘Didn’t Slade answer any of your questions?’
‘Who?’
‘The man—’ She felt her cheeks pinken. ‘The man I’m traveling with. We had no idea we were so close to civilization, and…Where is he, anyway? Oh, he must have been so pleased to see you!’
‘There is no one here but you, señorita.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Brionny brushed past Father Ramón and stepped into the sunlight. An handful of Indians dressed in Western clothes stared at her. ‘Slade?’ She frowned as she turned in a little circle. ‘Slade, where are you?’
‘Señorita,’ the missionary said firmly, ‘you are alone here.’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps you have been ill. There are some jungle fevers that cause hallucinations and—’
‘The Mali-Mali! They must have taken him!’
‘The headhunters?’ Her made the sign of the cross. ‘They have not raided for years, thanks be to God.’
Brionny turned toward him, her face flushed. ‘I’m telling you, they’ve taken Slade! Your men must go after them!’
‘Señorita, calm yourself. Had the savages been here, they would have left signs to inspire fear in others. It is their custom.’
‘To hell with their custom! If Slade’s gone, it’s because they took him!’
‘Blasphemy will not help, señorita.’
‘Neither will sanctimony! I saw them, I tell you.’
‘What did you see, señorita?’
‘Indians. Well, an Indian, but—’
‘Why would you not see an Indian?’ the priest asked with a little smile. ‘There are many of them who live here, in the Amazon.’
‘Father, please. While you stand around insisting nothing’s happened to Slade, the Mali-Mali could be—’
‘If there had been a man with you, and if the savages had taken him, do you think it likely they would have left you behind?’
Brionny’s mouth opened, then closed. There was logic in his argument. But if Slade hadn’t been taken away…
A coldness crept around her heart, squeezing it like an icy fist. She spun toward the door and flung it open.
Hours ago, a million years ago, Slade had undressed her and then himself. He’d flung his clothing into the corner.
Now that corner was empty. Slade’s shirt, his jeans, his shoes—everything was gone. All that remained was her gun and her backpack. It lay upended, the tampon box ripped open and the contents a spill of white across the dirt floor.
With a cry of despair, Brionny buried her face in hands,.
‘You see?’ she heard the missionary say gently. ‘It is as I suspected. You are ill, señorita. Let me help you.’
But no one could help her, Brionny thought as Father Ramón led her from the shack.
Slade was gone, and so was the Eye of God.
Chapter Eight
BRIONNY SAT sat in her stuffy basement office, her fingers resting lightly on her computer keyboard, her eyes scanning the pages of her report as it flashed across the monitor.
…set within a niche on what had been an altar in the Forbidden City…
…smaller than the size we’d imagined but larger than…
…deep green in color, with no imperfections or striations visible to the naked eye…
The words blurred together. She muttered under her breath, hit a key, and the screen went blank.
The report was no good. She had an appointment with the museum director in less than an hour and what would she hand him? Surely not this piece of fluff.
She’d been writing the thing for days, and it still sounded more like a travelog than a scientific rendering of how she and Professor Ingram had found the Eye of God.
No. No, that wasn’t really true. The report was perfectly fine—to a point. She’d had no trouble describing what had led up to their locating the emerald, nor had it been difficult to depict the stone.
The problem had started when she’d tried to explain what had happened to it after that.
‘How could you, of all people, have been such a fool?’ her father had said, when she’d told him what had happened—and she hadn’t told him anything but the essentials: that she’d thrown in her lot with a stranger, and that he’d ultimately made off with the treasure she and Professor Ingram had found.
Her mother had hushed him, pointing out that Brionny’s only choice had been to combine forces with the stranger, that she’d been left alone in the jungle and that there’d been headhunters pursuing her—
‘You mean,’ Henry Stuart had said, displeasure thinning his lips, ‘she thought there were headhunters pursuing her.’
‘That’s enough, Henry,’ Eve Stuart had said, her eyes snapping out a warning—but it really hadn’t mattered.
Her father was right. The story about the Mali-Mali had been an outright lie, nothing but the cheapest fiction—and she’d fallen for it. She’d let Slade McClintoch spin a web of deceit that a child could have seen through. He had turned her to clay in his treacherous hands and then he had stripped her of her dignity as a scientist—and as a woman.
If only she could forget that long, humiliating night she’d spent in his arms, the things she’d done, the things she’d let him do…
Brionny shoved back her chair and jumped to her feet.
‘Damn the heat in this place!’
She glared at the ancient air conditioner, chugging away uselessly in the wall, as if the machine were to blame for her mood. He couldn’t fix it, the janitor had said when she’d complained; there was no money for buying new units for the basement.
And the basement, Brionny suspected, was where she and her career were going to stay—unless she lucked into a miracle.
Maybe she could force the window open. It was hot outside, but hot air that was fresh would be better than the recirculated stuff that was pumping through her office.
The window wouldn’t budge. Layers of paint had mixed with years of soot to form an impenetrable bond. She gave the sash a last, angry thump with the heel of her hand.
‘Damn,’ she said. Her shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, hell,’ she muttered, and she gave a tired little laugh and plopped herself down on the wide sill.
Was this really what she’d been reduced to? Cursing windows and air conditioners and storming around her steamy cubicle of an office like a frustrated rat in a maze?
None of that would put her career back on track.
‘What happened was not your fault,’ her mother kept saying.
But it was.
She was already being talked of as the woman who’d let the Eye of God slip through her fingers.
Yesterday the girl in the next office—a graduate student in geology�
��had introduced Brionny to her boyfriend.
‘This is Brionny Stuart,’ she’d gushed, ‘the-girl-who-lost-that-fabulous-emerald-in-the-Amazon.’
It had been said just that way, all in one breath, as if the designation were part of her name, as if she had no other identity and never would have.
Even that had been an act of kindness, because saying she’d ‘lost’ the stone was a polite euphemism for the truth, which was that she’d been stupid enough to let an opportunistic stranger steal it—and nobody even knew exactly how he’d managed that.
Not yet, anyway.
Brionny shuddered. Would she ever live down the disgrace? Maybe not, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight. She’d take Slade with her, see to it that he was caught and tossed into prison for a long, long time.
‘It’s just too bad they don’t guillotine people for what you did, McClintoch,’ she muttered, her flushed face taking on a look of grim determination.
She’d tried taking the first step. She’d gone straight to the police after she’d finally reached Italpa in a dugout paddled by Father Ramón’s Indians. Unfortunately, the lone policeman on duty had seemed more interested in admiring her legs than in taking notes—but surely things would get moving now.
This morning she was meeting with Simon Esterhaus, the director of the museum. He’d been away when she’d returned from the Amazon, so there’d been no one to take her official report, but he was back now, and, as his secretary had made clear, this meeting with Brionny was at the top of his agenda.
Brionny glanced at her watch, then rose from the sill and dusted off her skirt. Ten minutes to zero hour, she thought, and tried to calm her suddenly racing pulse.
‘The director will expect you at ten-thirty,’ Esterhaus’s secretary had said crisply. ‘He wishes to talk with you privately before his eleven o’clock appointment arrives.’
‘Someone will be joining us, you mean?’
‘That is correct, Miss Stuart. Please be prompt.’
The woman had broken the connection before Brionny could ask any questions, but it hadn’t really been necessary. She could make a pretty good guess at who the third party at the meeting would be. Esterhaus had obviously contacted the authorities—the New York police, perhaps, or a firm of private investigators. They’d expect her to tell them everything.