UPON THE STORM

by Justine Davis

  He had breakfast ready when she woke and she thanked him rather solemnly; he knew it was for more than just the food and nodded in understanding.

  She never even mentioned going out again, for which Trace was thankful; he'd been ready to hog-tie her if she even suggested it. Instead she got out the gear she'd had with her the day before and began to try to clean it up. The rolls of film she'd taken seemed undamaged, and she tucked them away in the bag with the others without a word. Trace grimaced at the thought of what might be on those rolls.

  They avoided mentioning what they both knew, that Charlotte had struck with full intensity. No longer were they being whipped with her lesser winds, pelted with the fringes of rain, they were under siege from the full force of her might. Christy spread the gear out on the table silently.

  She began to strip down the camera and the lenses, to try to undo some of the damage. It was a job, she said, that would have to be done again by a professional, but anything she could do now would only make it easier.

  She even let him help, although he was reduced to brushing some pieces he couldn't even name with a fine camel's hair brush. He worked carefully, keeping up a continuous stream of questions about each piece she handed him, hoping to keep her mind occupied. When at last she had packed everything away again, she straightened up to look at him with a glint of amusement in her eyes.

  "You can stop now. I'm fine."

  "Er … stop?"

  "The questions. I appreciate it, but really, I'm all right now, you don't have to keep me talking." He shrugged sheepishly, and her voice went warm and soft. "I … it happened. It was horrible. I will never forget it. But I'm not going to let it haunt every day of my life."

  He looked at her in awe. "You have more guts than anybody I've ever known."

  "Me?" She laughed. "Not me. Guts is getting up in front of a television camera and … er—" she glanced at the blue briefs he wore " —baring all to the world, so to speak."

  He laughed. "I've bared more than this, on occasion."

  Oh, help, Christy thought. Bared more? Exactly what was left to be bared was etched in her mind as if with acid.

  "And quit changing the subject, anyway," he interrupted her thoughts, for which she silently thanked him. "Just take the compliment, will you?"

  "If you fix dinner," she shot back.

  "It's hopeless," he groaned in mock despair.

  They both fixed dinner, treating themselves to beef burgundy and even dessert, a foil package grandly labeled Apple Cobbler. Trace looked at it doubtfully, Christy with optimism, and the final result fell somewhere in between; it looked terrible, but tasted exactly like the name.

  "I'm not sure I want to know how they did that," Trace said as they cleaned up.

  "Ignorance is bliss sometimes," Christy agreed with blithe unconcern.

  She asked him to read again that night, wanting to hear his voice send the words flying again. It was a book of short stories this time, by a famous author of westerns, and she found herself smiling at the drawl that crept into his voice as he read. She wondered if it was real, if he'd had to work to lose it after he'd left Texas for the bright lights.

  It seemed only natural that she would slip into his arms again after they turned out the light. She had promised she would be all right in the dark now that the initial horror had faded, but he couldn't quite brace himself to turn his back to her. And he wasn't sure he wanted to, not even to save himself. Last night had been easier; she'd been shaken, frightened, and he'd used that to bludgeon his raging senses into submission. Tonight she was all too vitally well and alive, and he gritted his teeth as she snuggled down and rested her head on his shoulder.

  Christy knew she was treading on dangerous ground; she was enjoying this far too much. She was enjoying the feel of his shoulder beneath her cheek, the feel of hard muscle under sleek skin where her hand had—naturally, it seemed—come to rest on his chest. She wondered if he could feel the pounding of her heart; she was amazed that he couldn't hear it.

  Not that it matters, she told herself sternly. He's probably used to women going into a dither whenever he's around. You're a fool, Christy, my girl, and if you had an ounce of brains you'd get yourself back to your side of this stupid bunk and stay there. When this was over, they would go their separate ways, Hurricane Charlotte no more than an unusual memory. She scolded herself, gave herself orders and then at last gave up, deciding to enjoy the moment and handle the rest later.

  They awoke to a shrieking howl that seemed too loud, too uncanny, to be mere wind. They sat up abruptly, both looking warily at the door. It came again, even louder, then again, and they both swallowed heavily.

  Trace got up and lit the lantern, then scrambled back to the bunk; somehow things seemed less eerie in the golden light. But it didn't lessen the sound, that screaming, piercing sound. The door rattled in its track, and Christy could almost feel the wind through the walls. It rose to a shriek, and the flicker of the lantern's flame made her heart leap in fear.

  Just when they thought it could get no worse, a violent blast struck, howling at an ear-splitting pitch, shaking everything, and there was the sound of shattering glass as the tiny window gave way, sending shards flying. They stared in horror as water sprayed through the opening, neither of them voicing the ominous question, Was it rain, or the ocean?

  They slid down to huddle beneath the blankets. It was an ancient, primeval response, a heading for cover no matter how useless, how hopeless. It went on and on, until Christy wanted to scream. Only the knowledge that the sound would be sucked up by the raging wind stopped her; she wondered if even Trace would hear her.

  They were clinging to each other, knowing they had no options, no place to go. Hearts pounding, breath coming in quick pants, they waited. And listened to the world gone berserk, fully expecting each breath to be their last.

  "Oh, my God," Christy whispered. Trace could barely hear her, but her look froze him. He followed her gaze in time to see a crack appear in the concrete above them. It was small at first, but then grew, rapidly, jaggedly, until in a sudden burst of speed, it raced for the far wall above the door.

  Instinctively Trace moved, levering himself over her, protecting her body with his own, expecting at any moment to feel the collapsing ceiling crashing down on him. After a moment he risked a glance. Sand was slipping through, slowly but enough to drift into small piles on the floor. Yet still the roof held. It might hold long enough, it might…

  He turned back, meaning to reassure her. She was looking at him, her eyes wide with apprehension—and something else he couldn't name. It was that which made him abruptly aware of the feel of her beneath him, of the softness and warmth of her. He tried to resist, but drawn by a force as unstoppable as the storm raging outside, his mouth came down on hers.

  He'd thought about kissing her. Often. In his mind, it had always been a slow, lingering kiss, with all the time in the world to savor it. But now, when it happened, it was a match held to tinder, and the flames roared up instantly.

  Her lips were warm and sweet beneath his, and they parted for the urgent probing of his tongue. She met him, her tongue teasing, touching, tasting his, as fiercely as he did hers, and searing heat spiraled through him.

  His body surged to aching fullness so swiftly it made his head spin. He felt her hands tangle in his hair and press his head to her, crushing his mouth even harder on hers. He drove his tongue deeper into that honeyed warmth, demanding, and she answered him with a soft, low moan of pleasure that he somehow heard amid the tumult.

  They became creatures of the storm, desperate to drive back the impending doom. The roar faded next to the pounding of blood in their ears, and the world narrowed to the two of them and the sudden certainty that nothing mattered except how they could make each other feel. Together they could throw that grim dirge back in the face of the fierce storm, and no matter what the end, the victory would be theirs.

  Christy clutched at him as he nibbled down the delicate line
of her jaw, tiny sounds coming from low in her throat. She could feel him, rigid and pulsing against her belly, and she knew he was the answer to that hollow, unbearable ache that was building inside her. He could make it stop. He had to make it stop—she couldn't bear any more. She wanted him, hot and hard and completely; he would fill her, drive the need out of her with his own body.

  Trace had become a driven thing, a creature he didn't even recognize. He didn't know why she had the power to do this to him, didn't know how she had already made him feel a hundredfold more than he'd ever felt, even in the supposedly climactic moments with other women. He was beyond caring. He hadn't known he could be so hot, so hard, so desperate, could ache so badly, need so much, burn so fiercely.

  His hand slid down to cup her breast, a shudder rippling through him as her flesh swelled into his palm just as he'd known it would. His fingers reached for the crest and found it taut and ready, as if waiting eagerly for his touch. He groaned hoarsely. As if the demon of the storm had gotten into him, he was seized with an uncontrollable need to have her naked beneath him. He clawed at the shirt, then the panties.

  She helped him, wriggling feverishly, but before he could lower himself to her again, she was pulling at his briefs, and he knew she had the same need to feel him naked against her; his entire body clenched at the thought.

  He lowered his head to her, capturing a taut nipple and flicking it with his tongue. She moaned, and again somehow he heard it; it fired his already seething blood. He took the other nipple, tugging, teasing. She arched her back, thrusting herself upward to him, never guessing at the blazing need that convulsive movement caused in him. He suckled her flesh, first one peak, then the other, until she was gasping.

  He couldn't wait. Her every move was driving him mad with the heat of his own response. He moved to settle between her thighs. She opened for him, eagerly, and he knew if he didn't plunge into her waiting warmth he was going to burst, to fly apart in a hundred quivering, helpless pieces.

  Christy felt the first, probing touch of his swollen shaft and wanted to cry out, to beg him to hurry. Her breasts were still tingling from his caress, her nipples still wet and hard from his mouth, but they were nothing compared to the need that drove her now, the need to have that hot maleness inside her. Please, she begged silently, oh, please…

  Trace thrust into her fiercely, urgently. He felt her go rigid with shock and tried to wait for her body to adjust. He saw the look of surprise, of wonder, in her eyes, but he had no time to think about it now. He had to move. Her slick, wet heat was scalding him, searing him to the core.

  He drove forward once more, with more force than he'd intended, but before he could wonder if he'd hurt her, she was rising to meet him. Again she rose with him, their bodies moving together so powerfully that it took their breath away. They drove at each other, clawing, straining, each taking as much as being taken. Christy's head was thrashing on the pillow with every thrust, every muscle in her body seeming to ripple in time with the slamming collision of flesh against flesh.

  Trace was gasping, groaning, as she took him in deeper and deeper. God, she was so sweet, so small, so tight, she was killing him! Her hands slid down his back to grasp his hips, then moved to clutch at the flexing muscles of his buttocks, pulling him into her. He couldn't hold back when she touched him like that! He thrust again, harder, and she bucked wildly beneath him, driving him hard and deep, his name torn from her on a sharp cry as every muscle went rigid.

  And then he felt it, the rippling, stroking caress of her hot, coaxing flesh around the sheathed length of him, drawing him up so far inside her that he thought she would hold him forever. It set off a chain of explosions inside him that went on and on, sending signals of unbelievable pleasure along already singing nerves, flowing outward in a rushing wave, then returning to him as if from her, as if the signals had jumped the gap between their bodies as easily as they moved within them. He arched his back, forcing himself hard into her slick, hot depths. He wanted to climb inside her and never come out; she was sweet and safe and home.

  Through a golden haze of pleasure Christy saw him, saw him throw back his head, the cords of his neck standing out as he cried out her name in a shout of agonized pleasure. Then he collapsed atop her, panting, spent, and she couldn't tell if the involuntary, shuddering convulsions were his or hers.

  She held him close, little ripples of heat and pleasure still racing along nerves she couldn't believe weren't singed to ashes. She'd never known, wouldn't have believed, it was possible to feel so much, to soar so high. Her breath was coming in rapid gasps, in counterpoint to his harsh pants. She loved the feel of him, his weight pressing down on her, his arms wrapped around her shoulders as if he were afraid she would somehow slip away. She felt safe, protected, utterly content for the first time in her life.

  Trace tried to move, to relieve her of his weight, but he couldn't seem to find the strength. He was drained, floating on a warm, soothing sea, needing and wanting nothing more out of life than to stay in this wondrous place forever.

  The chaos outside continued as fiercely as before, but they were drifting in the warm, gentle aftermath, and nothing could touch them. The roar seemed muffled, distant, and had nothing to do with them.

  At last he slid off her, keeping his arms tightly around her so that she turned with him. He held her close, and she pressed herself to him, both of them clinging to the warmth, to the safety. It was new and precious and special, and they hugged the sweetness of it tightly, loath to surrender it. And somehow, amid the furor, the magic held for them, and, amazingly, they slept.

  * * *

  Seven

  « ^ »

  Christy choked off the sweet, stinging memories before they could batter her with the knowledge of how quickly things had changed after that. She hadn't realized she'd sat down, hadn't even realized the couch had been there, but she came out of her reverie to find herself sitting. Trembling.

  He hadn't moved. He was still standing by the window, and his eyes were wide and troubled and full of the mists of memory. Blue, she thought. Deeply, searingly blue, drawing on the color of the royal-blue shirt he wore. Under the jacket. That blessed leather jacket. He must have had it cleaned, treated somehow, to make it wearable again. And again she wondered inanely why he'd bothered.

  Hurricane Productions, she thought numbly. God, she should have guessed. Instead she had walked in like a lamb to the slaughter, no warning, no chance for escape. More than anything in her life she wanted to run—and she couldn't move.

  But he could. He left the window and took three long strides toward her. She cringed despite herself. He stopped.

  "You … hate me that much?" His voice was low and harsh.

  Her eyes shot upward. Hate him? How on earth could he think that? "I don't … hate you."

  "Then why?" It burst from him with all the force of three years of trying to bury it. He closed his eyes against the pain. "God, Christy, why?"

  Her heart was racing, fluttering like some wild, caged thing, frantic to escape. Did he know? She would have expected anger, perhaps worry that she would try to stake some kind of claim on him, but never would she have expected the agony in those incredible eyes. His jaw was rigid with tension, and his pain was reflected in every chiseled plane of his face. And, actor or not, she couldn't doubt the pain was real; she could feel it radiating from him as she had once felt the heat of his body. She flushed at the memory.

  "Why?" she managed, stalling. He didn't know, did he? "Why did you think … I hated you?"

  "What was I supposed to think? One minute you were there, then you were gone. I—" He paused to swallow heavily. "I tried to find you, when I finally got free of that … circus. No one knew where you'd gone."

  He raised a hand to touch the scar at his temple, a movement that had become automatic. Running a fingertip over the tiny pucker of flesh at his eyebrow was sometimes the only thing that convinced him he hadn't dreamed it all. He dropped down wearily in a chair a
cross from her, not daring to come any closer, sensing how close she was to running.

  "I went back to the Ranger Station," he said flatly, dully, as if the words were being dragged from him over what feeble resistance he had left. "I talked to the guy who'd been there the day you got there, the guy who picked us up. He said he didn't know where you'd gone, or even where you'd come from. He'd asked, he said. And for more than that."

  Christy lowered her eyes. She remembered the young ranger who worked at the Padre Island National Seashore. He'd been very nice, very helpful, and very concerned about what she intended to do. He'd also asked her to change her mind and let him take her out to dinner instead. She'd been flattered—he was a very nice-looking young man—but she had, as always, declined.

  Trace went on, in that dull, weary voice. "I made him dig out the waiver you signed, but it only had your agent's name and address. I called. He wouldn't tell me anything."

  "He … didn't know. Where I was, I mean. I … went away for a while."

  He gave a harsh chuckle. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I wish I could have. When I realized you … weren't going to come to me, I wanted to go away. Far away. I couldn't understand. The only thing that made sense was … that you hated me. For what happened that last night."

  "Oh, God." He'd given her the most beautiful night of her life, taught her more in those hot, swirling moments about life, about love, about herself, than she had ever thought to know. And he thought she hated him for it.

  "Then I thought maybe you just … didn't believe I'd really changed. That when we got back, and you found out who I'd been, what I'd been, that you didn't want anything to do with me. I thought…" He bit his lip, then took a deep breath. "I was afraid you thought I'd just used you, used the … the situation, to get you into bed with me." He studied his hands where they had locked together, knuckles white with strain. "It would have been … typical. For the old me. The one you must have found out about when we got back."