“Maybe it was—and has nothing to do with us.”
“No.” Jules swallowed hard.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“You and Cade were there, too.”
“On Haven?”
Jules closed her eyes and spoke in a low whisper. “You and Cade were both covered in ash and blood.”
Shara’s mouth went dry. “Was Jamar there?”
Jules shook her head.
“What about you?”
Again Jules shook her head. Her face paled.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“I was watching the vision . . . from the ground. I wasn’t moving, wasn’t looking at you. My face was too white. I looked dead.”
“Oh, my God.” Shara took her friend into her arms. Jules released a sob and shook. Shara held her tight. “Maybe you had a false vision.”
“Don’t p-patronize me. I know what I saw.”
“Okay, okay. But how do we know what you saw is the result of me failing to stop Cade?”
“Huh?” Jules sniffled, reached for a paper towel and dabbed at her running mascara. “Damn. When George sees what I’ve done to his makeup artist’s work, he’s going to kill me.”
“Jules, maybe I’m supposed to help Cade.”
“I saw Cade toss a shiny ball of metal into the mine, and it set off asteroid-shaking explosions. I’m not sure, but I’m certain that you were horrified. Cade’s eyes were full of sorrow. Cade’s arms were bloody. Fire and Lamenium exploded around him and you. And I looked . . . dead.”
“Oh . . . God. I won’t be responsible for your death.”
“Thank you.” Jules took a deep breath. “I’m never sure how to interpret my visions. You know that. But this one was powerful. As clear as any I’ve ever seen. More clear than when I saw Bruce die.”
Jules’s reminder shook Shara all over again. If she’d listened to Jules, if she hadn’t tried to make that last film, Bruce would still be alive. Now here she was, doubting her friend all over again.
“Can you tell me anything else?”
“I saw a ring of fire. As if your asteroid sets off a chain reaction through every volcano in the Pacific Rim.”
Was that even possible? Shara winced at the doubts creeping in. She had to shove them down. If Jules was right, that meant even those who survived the volcanic eruptions would suffer from tidal waves, earthquakes, and flooding.
“We have to fix this,” Jules insisted.
“All right. Call my vidlink if you have another vision,” Shara instructed, knowing they would have to separate soon.
Jules gave her a hug. “And if you jump Cade’s bones, remember it’s only sex.”
“Jules!”
“You know you want to go there.” Jules wagged a finger in Shara’s face. “I saw that kiss. There’s no denying the heat between you.”
25
Shara had forgotten how much she’d hated the multitude of camera flashes and microphones thrust into her face. But she pasted on her best diva look and gave the press a regal nod. When a reporter planted himself between Cade and the hotel’s front door and snapped his photo, she had to give Cade credit for keeping his cool.
Another reporter in a red suit, black blouse, and running shoes jammed a microphone in Cade’s face. “Are you the reason Shara Weston has come out of retirement?”
“You’ll have to ask her.” Cade’s tone remained polite, but his jaw tensed.
“Have you popped the question?”
“What question?” Cade raised an intimidating eyebrow, and Shara realized that as good as his English was, there were idioms and expressions he didn’t understand.
“Shara, are you pregnant?”
“When’s the baby due?”
“Ms. Weston, are you playing Angel in the remake of 2020 A Martian Love Story?”
“Is Cade your next leading man?”
Cade chuckled at that one, but he looked the part in the designer dark suit they’d bought, tailored to show off his towering height and the breadth of his shoulders. At the last reporter’s comment, Shara shook her head and kept walking, glad that he could keep his sense of humor through the photoflash attack.
Tomorrow’s papers would have her married, pregnant, and fat with triplets, or anorexic and on her deathbed, broke or starting her comeback—whatever headline the editor thought would sell the most “news.” But however much she disliked the questions, a small part of her took pride that in a world where one was only as good as one’s last holovid, after five years, Shara Weston had not been forgotten.
When the hotel’s robo-bellman opened the door to the lobby, a reporter for one of the sleazy rags stepped into their path. Cade tried to sidestep him, but the reporter shifted and blocked their way.
Cade spoke softly, but any fool would have heard the edge in his tone. “Please move. Shara would like to check in.”
“So you’re on a first-name basis?” Apparently the reporter had less sense than the average fool. He winked and tried to look down Shara’s dress. “Will that be one room or two?”
Shara maintained her haughty-diva look and murmured to Cade, “Ignore him.”
Cade bristled. “He’s in our way.”
Sensing neither man was about to yield, she snapped open her vidlink. “This is harassment. I’m calling the police.”
The reporter didn’t budge. Her threat failed.
Cade released her elbow and placed his hands on the reporter’s waist. Then he lifted the man until his feet dangled above the sidewalk, before he set him to one side, gently lowering him back to his feet. At the tremendous display of strength, flashbulbs popped, and Shara laughed as if the incident were a joke, pretending the situation couldn’t possibly explode into a fistfight.
The reporter smirked. “That’s assault. I’ll sue you for this.”
“Go right ahead and sue,” Cade spoke clearly over his shoulder as they finally entered the hotel. “I don’t have any assets.”
At his bluff and the reporter’s glare, she figured it was a good thing the reporter didn’t know about the credit in Cade’s backpack or his hefty credit.
Shara’s headache pounded, and she welcomed the cool air from the lobby. Right now, she’d love a drink. Second best, she’d like to be back on Haven. As if knowing how tight her neck had clenched, Cade placed his hand on her shoulder and gently kneaded as they entered the lobby.
She leaned against his solid side, grateful that hotel robo-security prevented the paparazzi from following inside. Still, mindful that a guest could snap a holopic and sell it to the rags, she kept smiling.
The efficient staff checked them into the penthouse suite—five rooms with the latest model holovid and fresh flowers in every one, plus a soaking tub in the bathroom large enough for two. The plan was to order up dinner, change into their disguises, flee out the back exit, and vanish before the paparazzi camping out front discovered they’d left the premises.
The moment after the robo-bellman delivered Shara’s purchases from the spa and left them in privacy, Cade turned to her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you need salt?” he persisted.
“Salt?”
“You look . . . depleted.”
“Damn. My first public appearance in five years, and I look depleted? You sure know how to dish out a compliment.”
Concern darkened his eyes. “You look beautiful on the outside. But inside . . . you are in pain, yes?” He pulled out a plush chair for her. “Sit.”
She sank, grateful for the pampering, surprised he’d seen through the glamorous facade to her discomfort. Either her acting skills were slipping, or he possessed an extremely fine-tuned sense of observation. She’d received many compliments in her day, but none as casual as his off the cuff, “You look beautiful” remark that started a nice warm buzz, almost as good as a shot of whiskey.
“I’m fine, really. Flashbulbs give me a headache.”
He massaged her neck with m
agical fingers. “And salt won’t help?”
“No, but scotch would.” His fingers sent a heat wave through her. Her body felt molten, and her face felt as if she had an inner glow.
“Is that really what you want?” His husky tone resonated through her, shooting ripples of heat down her spine.
Her senses reeled. Her emotions churned. Her gaze automatically went to the stocked bar. She licked her bottom lip and resisted temptation once again with a sigh of frustration. On Haven she’d settled into a routine that didn’t cause so many cravings.
Cravings for booze. Cravings for a man . . .
She didn’t understand how his touch could soothe and excite at the same time, but somehow it did. She let out a soft groan as he worked out a kink in her neck, eased the tension in her shoulders. And she imagined him kissing her, his hands going lower, and her breasts swelled, her nipples tightened.
“Water and an aspirin will have to suffice.”
Cade left her to return with bottled water and a glass, then fetched an aspirin from her purse. Without asking permission, he stood behind her chair and again kneaded out the knots between her shoulder blades. “Why do you not drink the scotch when you obviously want it?”
If his hands hadn’t kept kneading her shoulders, she might have leaped out of her seat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right. Can we talk about my problem then?”
“Your need for salt?” She leaned into the pressure of his hands. Man oh man, he had great hands. And she couldn’t help thinking about what other needs he could ease. Between the aspirin and the magic of his clever fingers, her headache was receding.
A simmering need was advancing. It had been much too long since a man had touched her, caressed her, held her in protective arms. Her skin absorbed his touch like cracked leather soaked up baby oil. Happily. Luxuriously. Thirstily. Each stroke of his warm hands ricocheted through her system, jolting needs she’d thought long dead.
If Cade could excite her with such seductive strokes to just her shoulders, what could his marvelous hands make the rest of her feel?
“Your nearness is affecting my judgment,” he told her in a husky tone that sounded sexy as hell.
“Really?” A thrill of excitement made her aware that the two of them were alone for the first time since they’d left Haven. In a hotel room. With a plush king-size bed.
With him looking so deliciously hunky in his new suit, she sure wouldn’t mind another kiss. Or two. Or three.
“Right now, all I can think about is making love to you.” He admitted his desires in a melodic baritone that zinged through her system. “And we don’t have to leave for the spaceport for a few more hours.”
She looked into his mesmerizing eyes. “It’s just sex, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Cade caressed her neck, and a tingle raced straight to her toes. She dipped her head and nipped the side of his index finger, enjoying the slight tangy taste of salt as much as his clean male scent.
She wanted him so much she shook.
The strength of her desire scared her, exhilarated her, egged her on.
He kept his finger on the pulse of her neck; surely he must have felt it leap beneath his fingertip, and yet he seemed in no rush to move lower.
But his stroking had changed tempo and pressure. His teasing caresses made her blood roar, made thinking beyond his touch a distraction. It was so much easier not to talk. Not to think too much.
To feel the soft, sensual skin of his fingers. To drink in his very male scent. To float in the web of desire he’d spun.
“What are you thinking?” he murmured into the soft spot behind her ear.
“Nothing, beyond making love,” she admitted.
“But women from this planet think about the future, don’t they?”
“We aren’t all alike.” She tilted back her head and looked up at him, noting the cords in his neck, the serious curve of his mouth. A tiny shiver of excitement played over her flesh, as if an artist painted on her skin with brush strokes of crimson heat. “The future is the last thing I want to think about.”
From somewhere almost forgotten, she recalled how to flirt. “Are you worried you won’t meet my expectations?”
He caught her earlobes between his thumb and index fingers, and as he rubbed a zone she hadn’t even known was erotic, her last question seemed ridiculous. She doubted there was one sensation this man couldn’t create. Already she longed to fling off her clothes.
“On Rama, lovemaking is casual. We consider the experience to have no more significance than the sharing of pleasure.”
“Sharing pleasure sounds good to me.” She practically purred, her tone low and needy. Her nipples were so tight, she squirmed.
“On Rama, only Firsts are free to make real commitments. Underfirsts sometimes marry, but they shouldn’t. It causes too many problems.”
“But you’re no longer on Rama.” She would have stood, turned, and moved into his arms, but he placed his hands on her shoulders, keeping her in the chair. And all she wanted was for his hands to dip into her dress, cup her breasts where she ached for his touch. “On Earth, we can do whatever we want.”
He released her shoulders, clasped her arms and urged her to her feet, waited until she faced him before he spoke. “Right now, at this moment, I very much wish to make love to you. Is that also your wish?”
The formality of his question seemed to caress her entire body, wrapping her in a flame of need, compelling her to answer in a voice that didn’t sound like her own, but one of a woman much more sure of herself. “Yes, I want to make love. Now, please. Shut up and kiss me.”
She wanted to enjoy every delicious nuance. Tilting back her head, she flung her arms around his muscular neck, closed her eyes, and raised up on her toes, offering her mouth.
With a quiet chuckle, he lowered his head. Her anticipation swelled. Would this kiss be as good as his last? Or better?
Her lips tingled in anticipation, but he stopped without kissing her. She opened her eyes to find his mouth still a frustrating half inch from hers. Already on her toes, she stretched, leaned into him, her breasts tipped against his chest. Threading her fingers into his thick hair, she attempted to tug his mouth closer.
“Kiss me. Damn you. Kiss me.”
26
Cade’s mouth angled down over Shara’s with a ferocity that matched her cravings. She ached for him. Needed him.
Intense, overwhelming desire to be skin-to-skin flared through her. But she couldn’t bear to break his smoldering kiss that made her blood simmer and her bones go liquid—not even to tear off his clothing. Although her every nerve ending suddenly thirsted for his immediate attention, she couldn’t gather her reeling wits to do more than breathe in his tantalizing aroma of rain on a blustery spring day, taste his deep heady maleness, and feel the solid thud of his heart against her chest.
She could do desire.
She could do lust.
But this was insanity.
She might not have made love for five long years, but her reaction was much more than her deprived body making up for lost time. What the hell was wrong with her? Her hormones were raging out of control, as if Cade had dialed directly into every needy molecule in her body and had them all screaming at once.
Urgency she’d never known before drove her. Her emotions had shifted gears so fast she couldn’t catch her breath. Her thoughts revved, and her heart turned over, pumping her yearnings into overdrive.
Cade’s fiery hot kiss boldly raked her emotions raw. She should slam on the brakes. Figure out what the hell was going on here. But the need to have him touch her, hold her, take her, couldn’t be delayed.
She wanted him. Now. Right now.
But their searing kiss seemed to keep him fully occupied.
So rip off his jacket.
Tear off his shirt.
Unzip his pants.
Tell him what you want. What you need.
Her brain fired demands, but her bo
dy didn’t obey the commands. Somehow she’d lost all control. Oh, she could tighten her hold on his head to increase the pressure of his mouth on hers. She could rub her breasts against his chest.
It was as if his will had usurped hers.
Despite her desire to put her hands on his neck and shoulders, she couldn’t. Nor could she speak.
He wanted to continue kissing, and all she could do—was comply. Her lips moved under his. Her tongue danced and shimmied, but she’d lost control.
At the realization that something bizarre, something otherworldly was going on, alarm bells pealed. Adrenaline surged. Apparently, the mental and physical compulsion that allowed her to kiss him—but nothing more—was his doing.
If she’d wanted to stop, she couldn’t have done so any more than she could urge him to go faster. Talk about total control. Utter domination.
She had no free will.
Only scorching desire.
A need so hot she burned.
And when he finally broke their kiss, she gasped for air.
“You taste delicious. Salty.” He gave her that one breath, and before she’d gathered her wits to say a word, he swept her into his arms.
She kicked off her shoes, tossed her hair from her eyes and snuggled closer. Desperate to smooth her palms along his bare flesh, she regained enough control of her greedy fingers to slip off the jacket, unbutton his shirt. Rewarded with a wide expanse of bronze flesh over corded strength, she thrummed in satisfaction.
He carried her into the master suite. Set her on the bed. Now, they were getting somewhere.
She feasted on him with her eyes. His bronze skin looked totally delicious. So did all those rippling muscles. She didn’t know what she wanted to do first. Look her fill. Skim her hands over his chiseled flesh. Or use her mouth.
Like a master puppeteer, he gave back the use of her vocal cords.
“Come here,” she demanded. Positioned on the mattress, on the foot of the bed, on her knees, she waited for his next move while he stood, towering above her. With his height, she would have had to tip back her head to see his face. His chest and stomach were at her eye level, his slacks within easy reach.
Lunar Heat: 1 (The Heat Series) Page 12