White Mountain

by Dinah McCall

  It was the soft breath on the side of his face that brought Jack from a deep and dreamless sleep to an abrupt awakening. Dawn was imminent. Light was returning, changing the night into shades of gray.

  He looked down at Isabella, but he was unprepared for the emotions that hit him gut first.

  She was wrapped in his embrace—one arm thrown across his chest, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Layers of dark lashes rimmed her eyelids. Long and black, they lay against her cheeks like thick, tiny feathers. Her face in repose was stunningly beautiful, like the portrait of the woman that hung over the stairs. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, standing in the lobby in the dark, and imagined he was seeing a ghost.

  But the woman in his arms was no ghost. She was warm flesh and blood, and last night he’d come close to losing her before he’d had a chance to explore the passion that was between them. Unable to resist, he leaned down and brushed a kiss across her mouth. Thinking of all that had to be done this day, he tried to scoot his arm out from beneath her head without waking her up. But the moment he moved, she woke.

  She opened her eyes without speaking. Her hair was in tangles, her thoughts still in the half light between night and day.

  Breath caught in the back of Jack’s throat. The look in her eyes said it all. When she slid her arms around his neck, he didn’t hesitate to follow where she wanted him to go.

  Lying stretched out atop her with a hand on either side of her shoulders to keep from crushing her with his weight, his body began to come alive. Muscles hardened. Need pushed at him. He knew where he wanted to be, but it would be insane to let it all go.

  “John Jacob Dolan.”

  The way she said his name made him weak. Then she lowered her eyes, letting her gaze slide past his face to his bare chest. Splaying her fingers across the band of muscles beneath her palms, she traced the shape of his body.

  “Isabella…”

  Ignoring the warning, she ran her fingers around his lips, as if committing the feel and shape to her memory.

  “You’re playing with—“

  “I’m not playing. I’m serous. Make love to me, Jack. Now. Before I lose what’s left of my mind.”

  He smile wryly. “Don’t be shy, Tinkerbell. Tell me what you’re really thinking.”

  Her eyelids fluttered as she arched her body toward him.

  “Jack…”

  “My God,” he muttered, and threw back the covers.

  Her fingers curled around his arms, her voice low and anxious.

  “Don’t make me beg.”

  “Honey…it was the last thing on my mind,” he said.

  “Then what—“

  “We’ve got on too many clothes.”

  She lowered her eyes, watching hungrily as he stripped. His body was lean and hard, and his erection made the ache in her belly that much worse. But when she started to take off her nightgown, he stopped her.

  “No. Let me.”

  She lay back on the bed, giving herself up to whatever he needed, all the while knowing that she would get even more in return.

  The air in the room felt cool against her bare skin, but when she inhaled slowly and closed her eyes, the heat from his mouth warmed her inside and out.

  “This isn’t about sex,” she said softly.

  Jack circled her navel with his tongue as he scooted his hands beneath her backside.

  “The hell you say,” he groaned, as he shove his knee between her legs.

  There was moment when he looked down at her face—a fraction of a second when all she had to do was say stop. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached for him gently and guided him in.

  Warmth flooded—both through him and around him—rendering him momentarily mute. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was in the early morning sunlight, and how perfectly the size of her breasts fit the palms of his hands. He wanted her to know that he understood what she’d meant, but he couldn’t think past the gut-wrenching need to start moving.

  So he did what he needed and took her on a fast ride. When it ended, Isabella laughed through her tears, while he collapsed in her arms, certain he would never walk again.

  They lay within the quiet of the old house, feeling the ricocheting rhythm of each other’s heart and knowing that nothing between them could ever be the same.

  But even more worrisome was the knowledge that Isabella had been right.

  It hadn’t been about sex.

  This was love.

  14

  “I have to get up,” Isabella said.

  Jack buried his face in the curve of her neck, reluctant to let her go. Once they left his room, reality would set in. He would still be investigating her uncles, and she would still be in danger.

  “I don’t want to let you go.”

  Isabella shivered suddenly. Jack felt her tremble and raised himself up on one elbow to look down at her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. A premonition?”

  He frowned. “About what?”

  “Me. You. Us.”

  He kissed her then, gently grazing her mouth, then harder when she threaded her fingers at the back of his neck and kissed him back. When they stopped, they were both breathless.

  “I’m out of control, aren’t I?” she asked.

  Jack smiled. “love doesn’t have control buttons, sweetheart. Just on and off switches.”

  She sighed. “Then are we on?”

  “What do you think?”

  “My heart is racing.”

  One corner of his mouth tilted upward as he laid a hand on her breast.

  “Yeah, I can feel it.”

  What else can you feel?” she asked.

  “Your skin…it’s like smooth, white silk.”

  She arched an eyebrow.

  “Your heart is racing, too.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I Know.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  Of what just happened? Of me?” she asked.

  “Neither.”

  “Then what?”

  Jack sat up in bed and then took her in his arms, cradling her against him as he would a child.

  “Ever since the moment I walked into the lobby and saw that painting on the wall, somehow I knew my life would never be the same. I don’t know how. I just knew it. Then I saw you, and yes, I’ll admit it, I thought you were a ghost.”

  “I knew it,” she crowed. “I saw the shock in your eyes.”

  “Yes, but there was more than shock. There was guilt. I had a duty to perform, and I was fantasizing about a woman who was part of the investigation.”

  A slight frown creased her forehead as her mood shifted.

  “You never have told me why the United States government is interested in Uncle Frank’s death…other than the fact that he was killed by a Russian citizen. I’m not up on government protocol, but I know something more is going on.”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  She sighed. “Fine.”

  He cursed beneath his breath. “No, it’s not fine, but for now it’s the best I can do.”

  Jack felt her pulling away, both emotionally and physically. It hurt, but it was no more than he’d expected.

  She got out of be and began looking for her nightgown in the tangle of bedclothes. He put on a pair of sweats and then pushed back the blanket, dug out the nightgown and handed it to her without saying a word.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, and slipped it over her head.

  “Here’s your robe…and your slippers.”

  She let him dress her, then steadied herself by holding on to his shoulder as she stepped into her shoes.

  “If Uncle Thomas is still in the hospital, I’ll be going into Braden later to see him.”

  “You don’t go alone.”

  “Then I’ll take one of my uncles.”

  Jack braced himself for the moment when she would walk out the door, and yet when she reached for the knob, he felt physical pain.

/>   “You wanted to know what scares me,” he said.

  She hesitated, then turned around.

  “yes, I do.”

  “It’s this…the angry distance that’s between us now. Last nigh you slept in my arms. This morning we made love. I did not take that lightly. There is no off switch on what I feel for you, Isabella, and my biggest fear is that you will hate me when this is over.”

  She looked at him there, standing by the foot of the bed. His physical strength was a given, but in admitting that he cared for her without knowing how she felt, he’d just done something that took far more strength.

  “No, Jack. I can’t hate you…even if I tried. But I hate what’s happening. Losing my father left me without an anchor. Losing Uncle Frank has somehow left me jeopardy. If you had not come to White Mountain, there’s no telling what would have happened to me.”

  “Just give me time,” he begged. “I’ll tell you everything when I’m certain that it won’t cause more harm.”

  She sighed, then nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “I’m going down to breakfast as soon as I make a couple of calls.”

  “Want some company?”

  “Honey, I think we’ve gone past the company stage, and yes, I want you to eat breakfast with me.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can shower and change, but I’m going to have to wade through the mess the police made to do it.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “You don’t have—“

  Jack crossed the floor and cupped her face in his hands.

  “I said I’ll wait. For as long as it takes.”

  The tenderness in his voice was almost her undoing, as was what he had just said. He’d been referring to more than a simple date for breakfast.

  “And then what?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  An urgency gnawed in the pit of Jack’s belly. He couldn’t look at her without wanting to take her to bed. He wanted to give her the world, and except for this morning, when they’d made love, all he’d giver her was grief.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  She hesitated, embarrassed to admit what was in her heart, then thought of how swiftly life could end. She was already twenty-eight years old. Most of her school friends had been married for years, and some had children already in school. She knew what she wanted, but not whether she had the guts to admit it.

  “Isabella.”

  She looked up.

  “You. I want you.”

  “But, honey…you’ve already got me,” he said gently.

  “But for how long?” she asked, and then, afraid of his answer, she hurried away.

  Jack groaned beneath his breath and then closed the door. Before he got in the shower, he reached for the laptop, anxious to check his messages.

  As he hoped, there was another one from Dubloh7. He opened it. Within seconds of reading the first paragraph, his suspicions had been confirmed. The name Samuel Abbott belonged to a man who’d died in 1946. David Schultz had died in 1955, at the age of 20. Thomas Mowry had died in 1958, at the age of ten. John Michaels was a name belonging to a man who’d died in 1939. Rufus Toombs was the name of a man who’d died in prison in 1964, while the real Jasper Arnold had passed away in 1960.

  Now he knew, but what he was going to do with the information remained to be seen.

  David shoved the microscope aside and stood, stretching wearily as he stared at a small spot on the ceiling.

  “It didn’t divide, did it?” Rufus asked.

  David shook his head.

  “The sample was too old. We don’t heave enough viable DNA to make it work. It’s time to quit now, before it’s too late.”

  David shook his head. “Not just yet,” he muttered. “I wish Samuel were still alive. He’d know what to do.”

  John slapped a lab table with the flat of his hand.

  “Damn it all to hell…Samuel was no better than the rest of us. If he had been, we wouldn’t be looking at a one-hundred percent failure rate.”

  “ninety-nine point nine,” David corrected. “Everything didn’t fail, and you know it.”

  “I’ve said it before—that one doesn’t count,” John muttered.

  David spun, suddenly loud and angry.

  “Why the hell not? We implanted that mother the same way we’ve done every other woman who wanted a child. The mother conceived. She carried her baby the full nine months without a hitch. The child is the only healthy adult we have.”

  David snorted angrily. “And why you’ve chosen to rehash old history is beyond me. We’ve got the world coming at us from all sides. Let’s try and finish what we’ve started before we’re crushed. What do you say?”

  “Fine,” John said. “But there’s only enough DNA nucleus for one more try. After that, the writing is on the wall, my friends.”

  Shock spread across David’s face.

  “Only one?” he asked.

  “And considering what we had to work with, lucky to have that many,” Rufus muttered. “You try getting DNA out of three-hundred-year-old bones and see what you come up with.”

  David’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I know you’re right. And were it not for your breakthrough research last year, we wouldn’t be able to do even that.”

  Rufus was mollified enough by the praise to stop arguing.

  “Where are Samuel’s notes on his last tests? Maybe there’s something we’re missing.”

  “They’re right here,” David said. “I’m not missing anything but some luck.”

  “Then here’s to luck,” John said. “And a big hearty breakfast. I’m starving.”

  “There’s a woman upstairs who’s come a long way for a child. Let’s just remember the promise she made to God and make this work.”

  Rufus chuckled as he picked up the last piece of bone.

  “Irony…that’s what this is....Irony.”

  “How so?” John asked.

  Rufus held up the bone. “Saint Bartholomew here gave his life to God and died for his troubles.”

  David shook his head. “He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time in history. Europe in the seventeen hundreds was a hotbed of hypocrisy and mysticism. They branded him a heretic and hanged him. Then, ten years later, they were praying to his remains and expecting miracles. Go figure.”

  “But the miracles did happen. Remember that,” John said. “They’ve been happening for centuries. He did not die a saint. It was the Catholic church that gave him the title, and you know they don’t give it lightly.”

  Rufus smiled. “So we give a man of God to a woman who’s promised to give him back to God. There’s the irony.”

  David tuned out their abstract chatter as he chose a new egg and began to remove the nucleus. A short while later, he looked up.

  “I’m ready when you are,” he said.

  Rufus nodded. “This is it, my friend, and if this doesn’t work, then we move to plan B.”

  David snorted. “There is no plan B.”

  Rufus waddled over to David’s lab table, deftly moving his cumbersome bulk between the equipment.

  “Here…and be gentle. The fellow was supposed to be celibate, although back in those days, it was iffy.”

  It was the unexpected bawdiness of Rufus’s comment that settled their nerves. Laughter was brief as David began the process.

  “step one,” David said, then took the adult nucleus Rufus handed him and injected it into the dish beside the one he’d harvest from Maria Silvia.

  “Step two,” he said, and shot the adult nucleus with an electrical impulse, trying to shock it to life in lieu of human sperm.

  “Step three,” he said, checking settings as they crowded around the computer monitor.

  The image on screen was exactly what they would see under a microscope, only magnified for easier viewing—one empty egg from Maria and the adult DNA from a long-dead monk. Theoretically the electrical impulse would charge the adult nucleus to behave as human sperm—p
iercing the outer membrane and cytoplasm of Maria’s egg and becoming one with it. Cell division wouldn’t happen without that.

  They watched the monitor with their hearts in their throats, thinking of Samuel, who’d died before his dream had been realized, remembering Frank who’d been martyred because of it, and praying for Thomas, who had been beaten down by it. If they failed now, it was over.

  One long second followed another until Rufus slapped the arms of his chair in disgust. “That’s that, then,” he said. “It isn’t going to work.” He got up from his seat and began removing his lab coat.

  John nodded in agreement and had started to walk away when David suddenly shouted.

  “Wait!”

  They rushed back, their gazes riveted to the screen.

  “See! There!” David cried. “It’s working! By God…it’s working.”

  They stared in disbelief, watching as the adult nucleus began to move. Melding itself to Maria’s egg, it began to pierce the outer shell.

  Division had started.

  They stood in humble silence, enraptured by the creation of life. Maria Silvia didn’t know it yet, but her child was on the way.

  Isabella arrived at her door, only to realize that her keys were inside. If it was locked, she was going to have to go to the registration desk in her night clothes. Just as she reached for the doorknob, two of her household staff opened the door and came out. When they saw her, they both smiled, but it was Mavis who started talking.

  “Oh, Miss Abbott, thank goodness you’re all right. We heard all about what happened to you last night, so Shirley and I came in early to clean up. Everything is back in order except for the bullet hole in the wall and that little green lamp that sat by your father’s chair. I’m afraid it’s broken beyond repair.”

  “It doesn’t take long for news to travel, does it? As for the damages, considering what might have happened, they’re nothing. I was really dreading coming back to the mess the police had made, so thank you for coming in early. My gratitude will be reflected in your paychecks.”

  “It’s not necessary. Really,” Mavis said.

  “It is for me. Thanks again,” Isabella said, and opened the door as they left to begin their regular shift.