Remember Summer

by Elizabeth Lowell

  And he did, for he was caught in his own responsibilities, a steel net that was drawing tighter, harder, pulling him away from everything he had ever wanted.

  Raine.

  * * *

  Sighing, she sat back in the motor home’s small dinette. She sipped at the half glass of white Burgundy that was all she had permitted herself to have tonight. Using her fingers, she picked at the few remaining greens on her salad plate, ate a crunchy leaf, and neatly licked her fingertips.

  “That’s the best thing about this restaurant,” she said.

  “What is?” Cord asked.

  “I can eat with my fingers and no one cares.”

  He smiled and held his hand out to her across the table. “Let me do that.”

  “Do what?” she asked lazily.

  “Lick your fingers.”

  The fire that was never far beneath her surface when she was with him licked through her. “Why do I suddenly feel like dessert?”

  “Do you?” he asked, his voice velvet and dark. His finger traced the line of her neck and throat and the valley between her breasts. “You don’t look like a strawberry waiting to be dipped in chocolate. You’re too rich and smooth. More like a vanilla sundae. Only much better . . . much warmer. I wonder how you’d look with chocolate running all over your creamy skin.”

  Her breath rushed out as she tightened deep inside. Her nipples hardened against the soft navy T-shirt she wore.

  He saw, and fought a sharp struggle for selfcontrol. He wanted to slide out of the chair and kneel in front of her, to undress her and cherish every bit of her sweetness until she melted in his hands, bathing him in her fire.

  “We’ve checked Dev and eaten a meal to warm a nutritionist’s heart,” he said. “Do you have to follow any other rules for the night before the competition?”

  “Such as?”

  “Sleeping alone.”

  She smiled slowly. “Not a chance.”

  “Thank God.” Cord’s voice was gritty with restraint. “I don’t think I could keep my hands off you tonight. Especially knowing that you want me as much as I want you.”

  For a moment he simply looked at her, his eyes pale and intense. The thought of her hurtling over that brutal course tomorrow was riding him mercilessly. Two nightmare visions kept turning in his mind like sides of a slowly spinning coin. The first was Raine, lying crushed at the bottom of a jump that had proved to be one obstacle too many for even Dev’s great strength. The second was an assassin’s bullet taking out the secondary target because the primary target was unavailable . . . Raine lying motionless, a casualty in an undeclared war, blood and silence and death.

  Cord’s grim expression sent a cool trickle down Raine’s spine. “I’m not the only nervous one,” she whispered. “Is it getting very blue outside, Delta Blue?”

  His smile was so brief she almost missed it. “Don’t worry about it. You have enough on your mind.”

  “Why don’t I just tell Dad not to come to the course?”

  “It’s too late. It’s been too late since Blue decided he was going to see his Baby Blue ride. Not that I blame him. If you were mine, I’d see you ride tomorrow if I had to take on hell with a garden hose.”

  She whispered Cord’s name as her hands came up to frame his hard face. His eyes were like ice, but his mouth was warm, gentle, and very seductive against hers, nibbling, licking, touching, tasting, promising wild, sweet oblivion. When he reluctantly lifted his lips from hers, she sighed his name again.

  “Shower first,” he said firmly, picking a piece of straw out of her hair. “I have a call to make.”

  “You’ll pay for that,” she said in a husky voice.

  “What?” he asked innocently.

  “Teasing me and then telling me to take a cold shower.”

  “Try the handle on the left. The one marked H.”

  She muttered something succinct and unladylike. Then she walked toward the shower, shedding clothes with each step.

  Cord watched until the bare curve of her shoulder emerged from her blouse as she shrugged aside the cloth. The elegant, deeply feminine movement went into him like a knife, making a floodtide of fierce, aching heat rise in him. With a curse, he turned away to make his call.

  Still muttering, Raine tucked her hair into a green terrycloth shower turban. She went into the shower stall, turned on the water, and grabbed the soap. Before she had worked up a decent lather, the shower door opened and Cord stepped in, filling the small enclosure with his male presence.

  He was fully naked, fully aroused.

  She stood with soap forgotten in one hand, warm water running over her skin, desire spiking hotly through her. His eyes were silver-blue, smoky. The tension of passion showed in every muscular line of his body.

  “What about your call?” Her voice was throaty, aching with need for him.

  “He was out fishing.”

  Chapter 19

  Smiling, Cord slid his hands slickly over Raine’s neck and shoulders, down her back, around her waist. He lingered over her hips, leaving heat and lather wherever he touched. When his fingers slid up and circled her breasts, she groaned softly. He watched her change at his touch, felt the silky resilience of her breasts and the tempting hardness of her nipples pouting against his palms.

  “I’ve been wanting to do this since I washed your hair,” he said in a low voice. “Why the hell did I wait so long?”

  Need blossomed inside her, a long, pulsing rush of liquid heat. “I’ll play your silly game. Why did you wait so long?”

  “Stupidity.” He turned her toward the pouring water and watched iridescent lather slide down every feminine curve of her body. “Sheer criminal stupidity.”

  She laughed, then made a throaty sound of surprise and desire when he bent and licked the smooth warmth of her neck. His lips and teeth and tongue caressed her, gently cherishing her while he fought to banish the fey nightmare . . . Raine hurt, dying, and he was too far away to help her.

  With a groan, he spread his hands wide and held her against his hungry body, trying to touch all of her at once, know all of her, hold all of her now, because tomorrow would come too soon, bringing with it blood and silence and death.

  His mouth moved to her breasts, licking and love biting, ravishing her tenderly while warm water poured over him, over her. Slowly he slid down her body until he was kneeling in front of her. His tongue traced her navel while his hands cupped her hips, tilting her toward his caresses. His teeth closed lightly on the inner curve of one thigh.

  Her breath came in sharply. When she looked down, she saw his hair black against her pale skin, his teeth white and gleaming, the hard tip of his tongue teasing her inner thigh. And then his head turned, seeking her greatest heat, finding it, cherishing it with an intimate caress that made the breath stop in her throat.

  “Cord—” Surprise and savage desire jolted through her, loosening her knees.

  “It’s all right, sweet rider.” He turned his head away from the sleek flesh that called to him and laid his beard-roughened cheek against her thigh. “Everything is all right.”

  He came to his feet in a single coordinated rush. As though he had never touched her, he shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and reappeared carrying a soft towel. He rubbed the cloth slowly over her skin, drying her with gentle movements of his hands.

  She watched him with hungry eyes, wishing that she was more sophisticated, that she could tell him that he had surprised her, not horrified her.

  “Cord . . .” Her voice was husky, shattered. He quieted her with a brush of his thumb over her lips.

  When he pulled off her turban, she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his chest. Her fingertips tangled in the black mat of hair that was both coarse and oddly silky to her touch. Her nails scraped lightly over his nipples.

  For an instant he went completely still. Then he shuddered and resumed drying her. When he was finished, he carried her to the bed and set her down, pushing her shoulder
s lightly until she was stretched out on the covers.

  “Roll over,” he said. “I’ll rub the tightness out of your shoulders.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .” she said in a soft voice. “You just surprised me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He bent over her, wanting her until he ached and afraid that he would shock her again.

  Raine looked up at him. Water glistened all over his skin. He hadn’t bothered to dry himself, only her. Restlessly she combed her fingers through his wet hair, seeking the warmth of his scalp, trying to pull his head down to her. With gentle motions he disentangled her fingers and rolled her onto her stomach.

  A clean fragrance filled the air as he poured lotion into his palm. For long, silent minutes, hands that were both gentle and very strong kneaded her back from her waist to her shoulders. When her body was utterly relaxed, his hands changed, caressing where they had been almost impersonal. He spoke softly, his shaman’s voice another kind of caress.

  “You don’t know how beautiful you are to me,” he said simply.

  His thumbs smoothed down the muscles on either side of her spine. His hands shaped her buttocks, savoring the resilience and warmth of her flesh. Slowly his fingers moved on, learning each womanly curve of thigh and calf before sliding inevitably back up her legs toward the aching warmth of her.

  “Poets always talk about flower petals and cream and peaches,” Cord said, his voice dark magic. “Nice enough things, I suppose . . . but it makes me wonder if a poet ever touched a woman like you, felt the strength and silk and fire. Soft?” His long fingers traced the shadow cleft of her buttocks until he found the warmth of her. “God, yes, you’re soft,” he murmured, sliding deeply into her, “but it’s a living softness with strength beneath, the strength to hold a man forever.”

  Raine’s breath came out in a ragged sound of desire. She would have rolled over, but Cord allowed her to turn only as far as her side. He fitted her back against his chest, her hips against his, his leg between hers, his hand caressing her with slow movements that melted her.

  “You’re no fragile petal to be bruised at a touch.” His voice was deep, mesmerizing. “You’re no peach to be picked once, eaten, and forgotten.”

  His breath was hot as he lovingly bit her neck, her shoulder, her arm. Even as his tongue smoothed out the faint marks of his teeth, he felt the fire sweep through her again, felt her body clinging to his touch, wanting him. He moved his hips against her slowly, letting her know his own hunger, savoring the intensity of her response.

  When she turned toward him again, he shifted until he was over her. He spoke softly, voice and hands and mouth caressing her, drinking her moans and tiny meltings. He found her breasts and ravished them tenderly with his mouth until she cried out in passion, knowing nothing but the fire and the man who called it from her.

  “You’re no bowl of milk, white and bland and still.” His tongue found her navel. “You’re hot and sweet and seething. I love the taste of you, Raine. I . . . need it.” The shaman’s voice curled around her as his mouth slid down her body. “Don’t refuse me.”

  At that moment, she couldn’t have refused him anything, least of all herself. When his mouth nuzzled her, easing her legs apart, she didn’t stiffen or withdraw. Then she felt again the hot, secret lap of his tongue. Her breath rushed out, his name torn from her by the force of her response.

  His answer was a murmur of encouragement, love words that both soothed and incited her. Putting his hands beneath her hips, he held her while he learned every bit of her.

  Breathing brokenly, as though in agony, she twisted against his mouth, lost in the sensual instant. Heat surged up, a savage, beautiful fire consuming her even as he did. She shuddered and arched against him, calling his name. He answered with a hungry, searching intimacy that undid her.

  She gave herself to him blindly, wholly, accepting everything, holding back nothing of herself. Waves of ecstasy swept through her, shaking her until she cried out with each broken breath she took.

  He held her tightly, tasted lightly, and savored every bit of the fire he had called from her. When her shudders finally, slowly passed, his hands moved hungrily over her smooth skin.

  Her eyes opened. They were dark and still half-wild. With a last, loving caress that made her shudder all over again, he slid up her body. He buried the fierce ache of his hunger in her, needing her as he had never needed anything in his life.

  With a husky sound of pleasure, she took him into her arms, into her body, and held him with all her rider’s strength. He moved once, slowly, measuring the depth of their joining.

  And then he moved more quickly, pushing harder, lifting her hips to go deeper still. She melted over him, sharing her heat and ecstasy. He heard her cries as she burned again in his arms, and he felt fire swelling and building in him until it burst. He shuddered with a pleasure so intense that control wasn’t possible. He could only hold onto her, giving himself to her until he was utterly spent. And even then, echoes of ecstasy shuddered through him with each breath.

  Raine slowly came back to herself, to the room, and to the weight of the man lying in her arms. As she smoothed her hands sleepily over Cord’s back, an idea condensed out of the silence and intimacy, an idea that had been growing as inevitably in her as love itself. She would make a home for him by the fire he had guarded so long and so well. She would give him the very warmth that he had spent a lifetime protecting without ever having for his own.

  “Cord . . .”

  He rolled onto his side, pulling her with him. “Go to sleep, sweet rider,” he murmured. He kissed her slowly, gently. “Tomorrow will be a hard day for you.”

  She started to tell him about his place by her fire, but all that came out of her mouth was a yawn that sounded like his name. He was right; she needed to sleep. Tomorrow, after she rode, she would tell him.

  “Tomorrow,” she agreed.

  She curled against him and fell asleep even as he tucked her head against his shoulder and cradled her against his body.

  Tomorrow.

  He lay awake, listening to her deep, even breathing. He didn’t want to sleep, to lose even a moment of time with her. He didn’t want to close his eyes and see the nightmare of death and destruction, Raine hurt, dying, and all his skill wasn’t enough to make a difference.

  For a time he wished that she had pursued figure skating or target shooting or swimming or pure dressage riding—anything but the dangerous, demanding sport she had chosen. Yet he admired her courage and skill, her grace and dedication. He wouldn’t have changed her if he could.

  Nor had she asked him to change, though he knew his work lay between them like a winter night, long and black and cold. It haunted her eyes. It haunted the silence that came when his beeper went off.

  It haunted him.

  He wanted to tell her that it was all right, that he had decided to get out, all the way out. But first . . . first there was the matter of Barracuda. Cord didn’t know how long it would take to fish the terrorist out of troubled international waters. He only knew that it must be done.

  He also knew that there was nothing he could do to change any of it now, this instant, this night. Her choices were made. So were his.

  So Cord did the only thing he could. He held Raine, kissed her very gently, and prayed that once, just this once, tomorrow would never come.

  It did, of course. Tomorrow always comes.

  The day was hot enough to raise a sweat and dry enough to take the moisture from Raine’s skin before she even felt sweat condense. Dev moved restlessly as she stood beside him. Cord held the reins while the stallion tugged and snorted and chewed on the bit.

  Dev sensed that he was finally going to be allowed to run.

  “You’re next.” Captain Jon’s voice was clipped, yet calm.

  She turned toward Cord, suddenly wanting to feel his arms around her once more. He pulled her close, kissed her with fierce tenderness, and pressed a gold coin into her hand. Sh
e looked at the alien writing and the graceful, equally alien woman on the face of the coin.

  “Lady Luck.” He folded Raine’s fingers firmly over the gold. “She’s brought me out of a few tight places. Let her ride with you.”

  “Mount up,” Captain Jon said.

  Raine shoved the coin deep into her pocket. Cord helped her mount and then held the dancing stallion. She gathered the reins, checked the watch taped to her wrist outside her riding glove, and waited for the official to call her. Each rider rode the course alone, running against the clock rather than other horses.

  “Ready,” she said.

  Concealing her nervousness behind a calm expression, she waited for her turn. She didn’t see the crowd seething around the starting point or the masses of people clustered at various places along the course. She simply concentrated on gathering herself for the coming trial.

  Cord stood very still, looking at Raine as though memorizing her. Suddenly she turned and looked the same way at him. He touched her hand and stepped back.

  “Gate,” Captain Jon said tersely.

  She went to the starting posts, held the fidgeting stallion, and waited for the endurance event to begin. The instant the Olympic timekeeper signaled her, she punched in her own stopwatch and let Dev out into a canter.

  As always, her nerves evaporated once the contest began. The stallion’s didn’t. For the first few miles, Dev fought against the bit, demanding a faster pace with every hard muscle in his body. She held Dev to a canter, pacing him through the twists and turns and inviting open spaces of roads and trails, part A.

  “Easy, Dev,” she murmured, talking to him constantly. She checked her watch to see that she was within the time allowed. “Don’t fight me, boy. You’ll wear both of us out before the work really begins.”

  After the first four miles, Dev accepted the easy cantering pace with more civility. Hill and shadow, twist and turn, dirt road and narrow trail—Dev took them all with equal ease despite the lead weights he carried to bring his load up to the required 165 pounds for tack and rider.

  Dev flashed through the timing gate at the end of section A. Thirty seconds under the mark. Score 0, no faults.