by Rebecca York
He reached out, stroking her collarbones, then slid lower, under the bodice of her gown, lifting one of her generous breasts in his palm, stroking her softness until he could see her nipple harden through the thin fabric.
Pleased with her response, he squeezed the tight bud, watching her heat up from his knowing touch—and from the lotion. He had it specially made for him now, in this form and as a scented soap. A little gave you a pleasant sexual buzz. A lot sent you into a sexual frenzy.
But he didn’t need to make Nadine frantic. He had learned what she liked, learned the best ways to please her. As he fondled her now, he closed his eyes, imagining that he was already with Anna, touching her, arousing her. As he let the fantasy grow, his breath quickened.
“Raoul?”
His eyes snapped open. “Right here, sweetheart.”
Taking her hand, he helped her off the bed, then pulled her gown over her head and tossed it onto the iron footrail. He leaned to suck one nipple into his mouth while he unbuttoned his own shirt and dropped it on the floor. Nadine could pick it up later.
When he was naked, he dragged his lover’s body against his, stroking his hands down the curve of her back and over her rounded bottom, loving the feel of her feminine skin as he rubbed his tattooed chest against her breasts, knowing that Ibena would like the contact.
He wanted Anna, but he kept his focus on Nadine, kissing her neck the way he knew she’d liked, then nibbling at her earlobes and making his tongue into a point so he could probe the sensitive canal above it.
She softened in his arms, leaning against him, and he stroked between her butt cheeks, and farther down, feeling her folds. She was juicy and ready for him, and he moved his hips, sliding his erection against her middle.
Then he broke away, turning to drape an arm around her waist as he led her down the hall to his private sanctuary.
The room was decorated much like the shrine behind his shop. The main colors were gold, coral, and red, with favorite objects of the goddess on display. Fans, peacock feathers. At one side was a fountain where a stream of water shot from a turtle’s mouth into a shell-shaped basin. The animal’s head looked a lot like a penis.
The altar opposite the door was draped with gold and coral cloth.
At the doorway, he stopped and kissed her deeply before lifting her into his arms and carrying her to the worship table.
He lay her onto the padded surface so that her head rested on a red silk pillow near the altar and her legs dangled off the other end. Standing between her legs, he could look up and worship Ibena or look down and see Nadine.
He stepped to the end of the table and opened her thighs, lifting her feet onto the wooden pedestals on either side, comfortably supporting her legs.
He loved to view a woman that way. It gave him a feeling of power over her. Standing between her thighs, he looked down at her hidden female parts spread out before him so trustingly.
“Look at my tattoo,” he said, his voice thick.
She did as he asked. “The faces look like they’re alive,” she whispered.
“They are. When I worship here, they are.”
Delicately, he caressed her knees and then slid down to her thighs, stroking his hands inward toward her pussy. He loved the deep coral color of her intimate flesh, the delicate dewy sheen that told him she was aroused.
He stroked his fingers to the sensitive line where her thighs met her body, then moved inward, playing with her labia, then dipping one finger inside her, slipping it in and out, before stroking up to her clit, watching what he was doing, smiling as he saw that she was hot and ready for anything he wanted to do next.
She moved restlessly on the table, lifting her hips toward him in supplication.
“Play with your breasts,” he said in a husky voice. “Twist your nipples, pull on them.” She did as he asked, moaning as he bent to stiffen his tongue and probe the sensitive bud of her clit, before stroking down between her lips, tasting her juices as he lapped his way back to her clit. As he focused there, he slipped two fingers inside her, finger fucking her as he pushed her to climax.
He felt her orgasm gathering, heard her cry out as her pleasure exploded from her clit to the rest of her body. He kept lapping at her, stroking her until she climbed over the peak and screamed in ecstasy. When she started down, he stood and thrust his cock inside her, pumping in and out as he pushed to reach his own climax, feeling the skin under his tattoo tingling.
His pleasure burst from him as he directed his gaze toward the altar, asking Ibena to bless him as he shot his juice into the vessel spread before him.
When he lowered his gaze, Nadine was smiling up at him.
“That was good.”
“Wonderful,” he answered, meaning it. “Your turn to do the work,” he said, reaching for her hand.
She nodded, letting him help her up, then standing beside the table while he reversed the pedestals and the pillow.
Then he lay down, smiling at Nadine as she looked down at him.
She leaned over, stroking her breasts against his face, allowing him to capture first one nipple and then the other in his mouth.
When she stepped away, he was hard again. And this time he let her suck him off.
Afterward, he slid his lips to her cheek, then stroked back her damp hair so he could nibble at her ear. He had gotten what he wanted, and in their bed, he let her choose the way they pleasured each other one more time before finally falling asleep.
ANNA tossed in her bed for a long time. Finally she fell into a relaxing sleep, until a dream captured her.
She was standing onstage, about to start her act. Nothing strange about that, until Zachary Robinson walked up beside her. Zachary Robinson, the man who had told her his name in the alley.
He looked at her expectantly, then started pulling things out of his pockets and plopping them onto the tray, so fast she couldn’t see each one until he was finished.
Her stomach muscles knotted as she stared down at the collection he’d given her. Her eyes were drawn to a gold coin that looked very old, an Indian arrowhead, a child’s alphabet block, a metal button, an old spoon, a worn piece of tooled leather that she was sure had come from a saddle, a red toothbrush, a crumpled cigarette pack, and a set of car keys.
And she knew that they all belonged to him. For long moments, she stared at the tray. She wanted to know about him, yet she had to steel herself to take the plunge.
Finally, she picked up the arrowhead and stroked her thumb over the chipped edge, then looked at him.
“You’re from the West—the mountains.”
She saw him swallow. “You can tell that from holding an arrowhead in your hand?”
“Yes.” Still clutching the chipped stone, she murmured, “You grew up on a ranch.”
“Uh-huh.”
Feeling a sense of power gathering inside her, she reached for the red toothbrush, seeing a little boy leaning over a sink, brushing his teeth. This was like her act. Sort of. On stage she touched one thing from each patron. Now she had a whole tray of objects—from one man. And she could learn so much more.
“Your mother was your father’s second wife. She was so happy to have a baby. But your older brother—”
“Didn’t agree,” he finished for her.
“That’s putting it mildly.” She scrambled for a name and came up with, “Craig. He hated you, right?”
He raised one shoulder, and she figured he didn’t want to talk about his brother. So she picked up the piece of leather and squeezed it in her fist, getting another image. “As soon as you were old enough, you’d saddle a horse and go off into the mountains.”
“Yeah.”
On a roll, she kept speaking. “You had a cave that you fixed up with a blanket and a metal box for food—to keep the bears away. You called it your fort.”
His expectant gaze stayed fixed on her, and she knew he was waiting for more, so she reached for the cigarette pack.
The image from it was stro
ng. “You took the cigarettes to your fort and tried to smoke them. But they made you sick.”
He grimaced, remembering. “As a dog.”
“So you crumpled them up and threw them away.”
“That was an expensive mistake for a kid who had to earn his allowance by doing chores.”
She picked up a metal button faced with mother-of-pearl and held it between her thumb and finger, seeing him clinging to a mean-looking horse that was trying to buck him off. “You were in a rodeo.”
“A few of them.”
She had left the keys for last. But finally she picked them up and weighed them in her hand, instantly overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness.
“You went away to college. And you never came back.”
He nodded.
“You hated to leave the mountains.”
His face turned defiant. “I did okay for myself.”
“Yes. But that’s not the point.”
“What is?”
They stared at each other across three feet of charged space.
“You’re the mind reader,” he challenged.
She lifted the tray. “I need more than this.”
“What?”
She felt herself start to tremble. Deep inside, she knew the answer. But she didn’t want to tell him. Or admit it to herself.
Shaking her head, she took a step back and then another, until her shoulders were against a wall. When he took a step toward her, she knew there was only one way to escape.
Clawing herself from sleep, she woke with her heart pounding, remembering the collection of things on the tray and the conversation. And the feeling of panic at the end.
That was real. But what about the rest of it? Had she tapped into Zachary Robinson’s life story? It felt like it. But she could have made it all up because she wanted to be close to him.
She lay in bed, holding on to a handful of the sheet as one more question circled round and round in her head.
Why did some of it—the early years of his life—seem strangely familiar?
CHAPTER
NINE
ZACH’S EYES BLINKED open, and he turned his head toward the window. It was very early, just after dawn. But a dream had awakened him.
First he’d been in the Sugar Cane Club watching Anna do her act. Then he’d been up on stage with her. He’d started reaching into his pockets and putting things on the tray. Things from his life. He hadn’t even known what they were going to be. And as each one hit the tray, a memory zinged into his brain.
Then Anna had begun picking them up. As she did, he felt her right along with him, watching his life unfold.
So what was the dream trying to tell him? That Anna could pull his memories out of his head?
Unable to deal with the direction his thoughts were taking, he showered and pulled on his clothes, then checked his e-mail for an answer to the message he’d sent to Terrance Sanford, explaining that he had found the wreck, but he couldn’t get back to it immediately.
There was no reply. Maybe Sanford was going to cut him loose and hire someone else. Damn.
He wanted to find out what exactly had happened on that yacht. It didn’t look like he’d get a chance until his crew arrived.
But that wasn’t the main frustration eating at him. He needed to contact Anna.
Needed? The urgency of the desire was startling. And alarming. Since his childhood, he hadn’t relied on anyone besides himself.
So what was different about Anna? The question sent him back to the theory that she had powers beyond the ones she had demonstrated the night before in her act. She was a witch—and she had gotten her hooks into him. She had made him think he’d known her for years, that they hadn’t just met last night.
Of course, there was a serious problem with that scenario. In the alley, the look on her face had said she was as confused as he.
Did that mean some outside force was working on both of them?
He laughed. Sure. Like maybe the Vadiana Blessed Ones? They were supposed to be powerful here, weren’t they? Maybe they wanted him and Anna together for some reason.
He snorted. What was he thinking now—that in the Caribbean the old religions held sway? And the gods were playing with him and Anna?
Angry with himself for letting his mind drift toward the supernatural, and too restless to stay around his hotel room, he walked to a nearby coffee shop for a latte and a cheese croissant. It was hard to sit still and sip the coffee; he wanted to start prowling through old town, looking for Anna’s hotel.
He should have followed her last night. And he would have if Bertrand hadn’t been there.
Jesus! What did that make him? A stalker?
No!
He just needed to think. And the best place for that was the water. Not on the Odysseus, which would be hard to handle on his own. Something smaller.
After taking a final sip of coffee, he strode down to the docks, rented a motor launch, and cast off.
As he steered the small boat into the wind, he felt the rush of pleasure he always got when he reached the open water. At the same time, his thoughts returned to the dream. To the details of his life that had come flooding back as Anna had picked up each possession.
He’d acquired a lot of nautical know-how in college. And after graduation he’d gotten a chance to sign on to a treasure hunting expedition off Hispaniola. That was when he discovered his knack for diving in the right place.
He was the one who had led the more experienced men to the wreck of the Santa Inez. They came up with a chest of Spanish doubloons and a boatload of museum-quality artifacts.
Zach had gotten to be friends with James Foster, the man who financed the expedition. They struck up a business deal where Foster set Zach up with a boat of his own in exchange for 25 percent of the profits. Zach worked under that arrangement for four years, until he had enough money to buy his own rig. By that time, he’d also acquired a reputation that led to a string of customers lined up to hire him for jobs.
He’d dived for ancient treasure and modern wrecks. And in between, he sometimes took tourists out on diving expeditions.
The salvage jobs had led him to Grand Fernandino. Maybe he and Anna had both arrived here about the same time. He didn’t even know her last name or where she was staying. And maybe that was good.
Last night he’d been under the spell of Magic Anna. Now that he was thinking more clearly, maybe he should go back to his hotel, get his gear, and leave the island. Before he got into serious trouble.
Or maybe he should stop focusing on Anna and start trying to figure out who had put that image of Pagor on the Blue Heron.
NADINE Linzer opened her eyes. Slowly she turned her head. When she saw that Raoul was gone, she breathed out a little sigh. She had the house to herself for the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of the night. Or he might not be back for a few days. Sometimes he’d drop in unannounced. Other times, he’d send a message. Like yesterday evening. So she’d washed her hair and made herself pretty for him.
She stretched, her muscles sore from the kinky sex of the night before.
After the man had rescued her from what amounted to slavery, she’d been grateful. Then as she’d gotten to know him better, she’d wondered if she’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire.
Raoul had set her up in this nice little house, and she’d thought all she had to do to earn her keep was make love with him. It was a couple of months before she found out what was in the locked room down the hall.
Her benefactor had strange tastes, starting with his tattoo. And progressing to fucking and sucking on a table in what looked like a religious shrine. She’d come to realize that he was serious about what they were doing in there. The sex was part of worshipping his goddess, Ibena.
At first that had creeped her out, but she’d learned how to deal with it. And they usually ended up in bed, where they could finish off with his doing something spectacular to her.
She got up, pulled on a silk dressing g
own, and padded down the hall to the kitchen. He’d made coffee and left a pot on the warming pad in the coffee machine. She sniffed the dark liquid. French roast. The good stuff.
She poured herself a cup and added cream and sugar, then thumbed through the stack of cash he’d left on the counter. A hundred dollars. Not as payment for the sex, but for the household expenses.
As she showered, she planned her day. She’d go to the market and buy some supplies. Fruit. Cheese. A chicken. Alive and flapping a minute before they wrung its neck.
Since she’d learned to shop the way the island women did, she’d put away at least thirty-five or forty dollars out of every hundred. Her little stash was adding up. And she had more money, too. Money Raoul thought he’d hidden under a floorboard behind the sofa.
She knew where it was, and she had no compunctions about using it. Raoul was using her. That was the ugly secret of their relationship.
He thought he was in control. But if she needed to get away from him, she had the money to do it. Not just travel expenses; enough to live on while she found a paying job.
Transportation was a problem, though. She’d have to find someone willing to take her away. Someone who wasn’t afraid of Ibena and Pagor and the other saints Raoul worshipped.
Meanwhile, she had a pretty good deal with Raoul. Except that the bastard wasn’t satisfied with a mistress; he wanted to add a wife to the mix, and she knew the kind of woman he wanted. Someone with psychic powers to juice up his mojo.
He strutted around, acting like he could do the Vulcan mind-meld or something. Although she wasn’t so sure his beetle-browed look had any effect on reality, she had learned to live with the religious mumbo jumbo.
Now there was that other woman to consider. One night Nadine had walked down to the art gallery and heard Raoul and his friend Etienne discussing business. He’d asked the club owner to hire the woman, and now she was here, working a “mind reading” act down at the Sugar Cane Club.
Maybe it was Nadine’s duty to save the woman from Raoul. Or maybe she’d better keep the hell out of it—if she didn’t want to end up like one of those chickens with its neck wrung.