(Moon 2) - Edge of the Moon

by Rebecca York

  "It looks like he paid for it. I wouldn't want to bet he survived the session in that room."

  She nodded tightly. "I should have called the police sooner. I mean, when Heather first disappeared."

  "Jesus! Don't blame yourself! You had every reason to think she was just off somewhere having a good time."

  She didn't want him to make excuses for her. "Maybe you would have found her."

  "Probably not in time. This guy has been hiding his activities for months—maybe years."

  Quickly, he stepped forward, reached for her, and she came back into his arms, relief flooding through her as he folded her close.

  In some corner of her mind, she warned herself that this wasn't real, that maybe nothing between them was real. But reality had never been more achingly immediate.

  His deep sigh matched hers as he pressed her to him. His hand swept down her back, encountered the edge of the tee shirt, and continued downward, stroking her bare bottom.

  The passion she'd struggled to contain, flared. Terrible things had happened today. Too much to take in. She didn't want to think about the real world. She only wanted to be with this man—to take comfort from him and give him comfort in return.

  "Jack?"

  For a long, charged moment their gazes locked, and she saw the smoldering heat in his dark eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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  HE LOWERED HIS head, brought his mouth down to hers, his lips moving urgently, potently in a passionate kiss that swamped her senses.

  She had wanted this from the moment she had set eyes on Jack Thornton. Now she wanted so much more. Everything.

  But she would take what she could get.

  His fingers stroked up and down her arms, then found the sides of her breasts. She couldn't hold back a small sob of gratification and surrender. She heard wind roaring in her ears and understood that it was her blood rushing in her veins.

  He raised his head, and her eyes snapped open.

  "I think we need to find somewhere more comfortable than a marble bench," he muttered.

  "Yes." Kathryn smiled at him. She had never been in this place before the first dream encounter. Hardly ventured beyond the boundaries of the painting. But she was confident as she took him by the hand and led him down the marble colonnade, stopping to grab a sprig of the fragrant vine that trailed from the horizontal beams above them.

  She twined the stem around her wrist and Jack's, binding them together.

  "Handcuffs?" he asked with a smile in his voice.

  "Uh-huh. I'm not going to let you get away this time."

  "Not a chance."

  For now, she thought. At least for now.

  Her heart squeezed, and her fingers tightened on his. He returned the pressure, and she wanted to pull him to a stop—make him promise that they could turn dreams into reality. But she kept moving—hurrying lest he come to what he considered his senses.

  Halfway along the walk, she turned between the columns, leading him through a field of pale white flowers swaying gently in the shimmering moonlight, then up a small hill toward a round marble pavilion. They were both in a hurry now, taking the flight of three steps at a run and ducking under gauzy hangings into a rich, private enclosure—a bedroom fit for one of the Greek gods. A bedroom dominated by an opulent round bed covered with plum-colored silk.

  "Clever of you to bring me here," he murmured.

  She nodded wordlessly, unable to explain how she'd known this place would be waiting for them.

  He turned her toward him. One of his strong hands tangled gently in her hair, playing with the strands as he angled her head so that he could ravage her mouth.

  "God, I love your sweet mouth and your red hair. It's so wild and sexy, and thick," he said, teasing her lips with his as he spoke the words.

  "And I love everything about you. Not just your body. All of you. The better I get to know you, the more I understand how extraordinary you are, Jack Thornton. You're a hero to me."

  He grimaced. "I'm no hero. I'm full of very human flaws."

  "Everyone has human flaws. You have fewer than most people."

  When he opened his mouth to protest, she went on quickly, "I don't think we came to this nice bedroom to argue, did we?" She had never thought of herself as a bold lover. Now she slid her hand slowly, seductively down his body, stopping when she found his erection. Cupping her palm over the hard shaft, she rocked her hand against him.

  "Ah, Kathryn, are you trying to drive me crazy?" he growled.

  "I'm trying to… get what I've wanted since I first set eyes on you."

  "Oh, yeah."

  His eyes locked with hers, and for wild heartbeats she thought she might drown in the scorching intensity of his gaze.

  Then he swept her into his arms and took her down to the horizontal surface of the bed, and she sighed out her triumph and her relief. This time… this time there would be no turning back.

  She felt her body tune itself to the wordless vibrations rumbling deep within him. Vibrations that touched every part of her—physical and spiritual. And she knew he felt her response as he rolled to his side, clasping her against his heat and hardness as he devoured her mouth with kisses.

  He tugged at the tee shirt, breaking the kiss only long enough to pull the garment over her head and toss it away, leaving her naked on the bed.

  "Lord, you are so beautiful," he said, his voice husky, his hand tracing the curve of her hip, then drifting upward as he reached to circle her hardened nipple with his forefinger.

  "Oh!"

  He smiled, leaning forward to repeat the caress with his tongue. The sensations were exquisite, and even more exquisite when he sucked the nipple into his mouth.

  She clasped his head in her hands, her breath coming broken and fast as he built her pleasure—with his hands, with his mouth.

  She had thrilled to his kisses. Now she thrilled to his knowing touch. She had thought that when they made love, it would be sharp and fast—out of control. But the pace slowed to a long, sweet exchange of pleasure.

  Together they took off his jeans and shirt, touching and kissing all the while. When she had him naked, she stroked her hands greedily over his body, loving the texture of his skin, the thatch of dark hair spread across his chest, his narrow hips, the jutting shaft of his penis.

  He was beautiful and hard. Aroused—for her. And she gloried in his reaction. Whatever happened later, she would have this moment in time to remember.

  His hand slid down her body, finding the moist, swollen flesh of her sex, and she arched into his caress, rocking against his fingers, increasing the wonderful sensations.

  Her blood had turned molten, but her physical response was only part of what she felt. She was with him—soul and body—as they drove each other higher and then higher, until the urgency was beyond bearing, and she knew that she would die if she didn't feel him inside her.

  "Jack, now. Please, now," she begged, reaching to clasp him, guiding him to her.

  He entered her, and her breath caught.

  For a long moment, he stared down at her, his eyes dark with passion. Then he began to move inside her, and she climaxed almost at once, calling out with the wonder of it.

  Waves of pleasure took her, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Just a taste of paradise. Eagerly, she surged against him, with him, asking for more.

  His hand moved between them, stroking and pressing as he kept up the rhythm—taking her up, up beyond the sun.

  The second climax tore through her, carrying her away on a wave of ecstasy so intense that she dug her nails into his shoulders.

  Her joy was complete when she heard his shout of release and felt him go rigid above her.

  She clung to him, tears gathering at the backs of her eyes. Making love had been wonderful. Beyond anything she had ever experienced. Beyond anything she could have imagined. Now she could only anchor herself to him, vibrating with the aftershocks of pleasure that still quivered through her.<
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  Clasping her to him, he rolled to his side. The physical storm had left her limp. The emotional storm was even more intense. There was so much that she wanted to say; but, for the moment, the words remained locked in her throat.

  He held her, stroking his hand over her damp shoulder.

  "That was incredible," she said, hearing the thickness in her voice.

  She felt him nod, and knew that he still couldn't acknowledge the glory of it. So she simply cuddled against him, floating in the aftermath of exquisite pleasure.

  She dozed. A dream within a dream. Peaceful at last after the past few days of tension.

  Sometime later, her eyes drifted open.

  Jack had drawn away from her and was lying with his hands behind his head, his gaze focused on the gauzy canopy above them.

  "Jack?"

  He turned his head toward her, and she saw that the barrier he'd let down a little while ago had snapped back into place.

  Her disappointment was like a physical blow. But she was determined not to let him know how much he'd hurt her by closing himself off again.

  Tangling her fingers in the sheet, she murmured, "Relax. It's only a dream. You don't have to feel guilty about making love with me."

  He stared at her, trying to read the expression that she was struggling so hard to keep unreadable. "It's a dream. But it's more. We both know that."

  She gave a small nod.

  "A reality dream," he muttered. "An altered reality—that we're able to share."

  "Okay. Yes."

  "But the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is—How did we get here?"

  She didn't want to say what she was thinking, but she had told herself that she was going to be honest with him—whatever the cost. "I guess someone brought us here."

  "Right. Like maybe Black Trousers. I mean the guy who was torturing Swinton."

  She winced, wishing he hadn't brought that up now.

  Jack got up, pulling on his jeans as he plowed on. "We have to find out who he is. He was… intoning… words I couldn't understand. It sounded like he was working a magic ceremony."

  "To have some effect on us?"

  "On me. To make me crash the damn car. Apparently it worked. I heard him, saw him; and I forgot where I was and what I was doing. Like now. We've both forgotten the real world, haven't we?"

  She didn't quite understand the analogy, and quickly dipped her head so he couldn't see the hurt in her eyes.

  "What are we supposed to do?" she whispered.

  "I don't know! I don't like being manipulated."

  She saw the frustration and anger bubbling inside him and said quickly, "We were brought here. But once we got here—we acted of our own free will."

  "Did we?"

  The two words were the crudest he'd ever spoken to her. Still unable to speak above a whisper, she managed to say, "I don't know how we got here. But I know how I felt when I saw you. I was so happy to be with you. And I won't let you take away the joy of our making love." She swallowed. "Only the two of us were in bed together. Giving each other pleasure—showing each other how much we cared. At least that's how it was for me. I didn't feel like I was with a man operating under some outside influence. I was with a man who was totally focused on me—on making love."

  She couldn't meet his gaze, didn't want to see the expression on his face.

  Feeling very vulnerable and very naked, she climbed out of bed, pulling the sheet with her. There were low chests of drawers at one side of the enclosure. In one, she found a pair of silky white slacks and a matching top, which she quickly donned.

  When she turned back to Jack, he was gripping one of the marble pillars.

  "Did you see my children? Did they come to the hospital?" he asked.

  His children. Of course he would want to know about Craig and Lily.

  "Mrs. Anderson brought them." She looked down at her hands.

  "What? Are they all right? What happened?"

  Ashamed that she'd let her own emotions intrude, she said quickly, "They're fine. I was thinking that Mrs. Anderson wasn't too pleased to see me."

  He nodded.

  She was still looking at him when she caught a subtle vibration in the air. A wrinkle in the texture of the dream.

  "You feel that?" he asked, his voice low and urgent.

  "Yes," she answered. Then her eyes went wide as a shape loomed beyond the gauzy curtains that formed the walls of the pavilion near her. They parted, and a figure stepped into the room.

  It was a man of medium build, medium height. The lower half of his body was clad in the black trousers Jack had described. His chest was bare, the pale skin covered by a network of scars. And his face was a horror mask, distorted by a stocking or something similar pulled over his head.

  His right arm was bent across his chest, and she saw he was holding a silver knife. He moved the weapon in front of himself, swinging his gaze from her to Jack and back again.

  "Get away from him," Jack shouted at her, but her feet were rooted to the spot.

  The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then lunged at her, the knife flashing.

  Finally released from her trance, she ducked away, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at the attacker's face as Jack charged forward. The man swung to the right, and Jack was too far away to stop the knife from slashing at her, slicing through the fabric of her gauzy shirt, cutting into her skin.

  She screamed, screamed again as the weapon flailed toward her a second time.

  Before the blade reached her, Jack caught the man by the shoulders and pulled him away from her.

  The two of them rolled across the floor. With her foot, Kathryn reached out and stamped down on the arm with the knife, sending the weapon clattering across the marble floor.

  Black Trousers cried out in pain. "You bitch."

  Jack grabbed his hands, pulled them above his head. "What do you want with us?" he shouted. "Did you bring us here?"

  Kathryn didn't expect an answer, but he gave a high-pitched laugh. "Me? Me? Don't you have a clue what's going on?"

  "No. Enlighten us."

  "Not a chance," he spat out.

  And then the dream began to dissolve around her.

  "No! Oh, God, no!" she screamed, unable to hear the sound of her own voice.

  "No!"

  One moment she and Jack were grappling with the invader. In the next, she was gone from the frantic scene—lying in bed, panting, crying out in terror and frustration.

  In bed.

  Not her own bed.

  Where was she? Some new dream? Alone.

  New panic seized her by the throat.

  God, where was Jack? Was he all right?

  She leaped from the bed, then remembered where she was. A motel room, where she'd gone after Black Trousers had tried to grab her.

  Black Trousers. Oh, Lord! He was the man with the knife. Somehow he had gotten into the dream with them.

  As the reality of his presence flooded through her, she felt pain slice across her midsection. Looking down, she saw a dark stain had soaked into the fabric of her tee shirt. She gasped, then rushed into the bathroom and turned on the light. Blinking in the brightness, she examined the stain.

  It was blood. And when she pulled up the shirt, she found what she expected to see—a slash across her mid-section.

  Jack had scratched himself with a rock. But she'd never seen the injury. Now she had her own proof of what would happen if she was injured in one of what he'd called their reality dreams. She turned on the water, grabbed a washcloth, and washed away the blood. The wound wasn't deep, thank the Lord, since she had no way at the moment of treating it beyond cleaning it with soap and water.

  She hurried through the first aid, then stared at her bloody tee shirt. It was the only thing she had to wear, but it looked like she'd been in a street fight.

  Her stomach clenched. She couldn't stay here. She had to get to the hospital and make sure Jack was all right.

  Quickly she reac
hed for the underwear she'd washed the night before. It was still damp and clammy, and the feel of it made her cringe. With a grimace, she tossed it onto the edge of the tub, then pulled on her jeans and shirt again.

  Was she going to keep this room? She didn't know. But she'd paid for it until eleven this morning. So she stuffed the key card in her purse as she headed for the door. Minutes later, she was driving up Rockville Pike toward the hospital.

  The lights of an all-night drugstore shone from one of the shopping centers. After a quick debate, she pulled into a parking space and entered the store—speeding down the aisle toward the clothing section, where she snatched a black tee shirt and a package of underpants off the rack. The clerk didn't even glance at her bloody shirt when she paid for her purchase. Back in the car, in the darkness of the parking lot, she scrunched down below the dashboard, dragged on underwear, and changed her shirt.

  Minutes later, she was pulling into the hospital parking lot. The doctor had told her where to find Jack. Acting like she had every right to be there, she marched through the emergency room, then took the elevator to the second floor.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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  AS THE ELEVATOR started upward, Kathryn was torn between wanting the car to go faster and dreading what she'd find when she arrived on the second floor.

  Nobody was at the nurse's station, so she went behind the counter and found Jack's chart—with his room number.

  In the movies, they put guards outside of a cop's room when he was in danger. But this wasn't the movies. And nobody besides the two of them knew what had really happened to him.

  Her heart was pounding as she stepped inside the private room and crossed rapidly to the bed. When she looked down at him, her chest tightened. She was shocked to see his bruised face and the sling strapping one arm to his chest. He was sleeping, an IV line attached to the other arm. Was he still in the dream? Was he in danger? Should she wake him? Or was that the wrong thing to do? Anxiously, she studied his face. He looked peaceful, but what did that prove?

  She'd been cut, and a dart of fear stabbed at her. Pulling back the sheet, she raised his gown, examining his chest and stomach—looking for slash marks.