Love Under Fire

by Frances Housden

  Luckily, for sanity’s sake, he’d eased back a few paces so when she stopped abruptly he didn’t bump into her. “What’s up?”

  Her voice was whisper thin. “There’s something in my hair.”

  When they’d started off, her hair had been knotted at the back of her head, and though the terrain wasn’t particularly rugged, a run-in earlier with a tree fern had pulled a few strands loose. Rowan moved closer. “Are you asking me to rescue you?”

  Her voice quivered between laughter and fear, “Please.”

  Two little feather-shaped fronds clung to her hair. “It’s only bits of tree fern. I’ll get it for you,” he said, capturing one of the delicate green culprits to hand to her.

  Taking the other miniature frond, Rowan drew it gently down her cheek, tickling her under the chin, before he realized what he was doing. These last few days had to be the longest he’d spent continuously in her company. Continually avoiding temptation.

  For a moment neither spoke. The air crackled like a storm was about to hit. Way back, in his subliminal mind, Rowan acknowledged it would be so easy to grasp the moment, take Jo in his arms and kiss her till she clung to him and begged for mercy.

  A great rush of heat blistered his skin from the inside out. Then the breeze picked up, shivering through the tops of the nikau palms and making the tall slender branches of the kanuka clack against each other, like warning drums.

  An answering beat thrummed in his temple. Do it…do it…do it. He’d had years of practice at not responding to that inner voice. Years of wanting Jo. What would another few hours or days matter? The voice in his head laughed.

  Both of them knew there was more going on than a surfeit of self-control, but neither of them was game enough to admit the truth. He handed her the other frond. “The rescue’s on the house. After all the excitement I could murder a drink. Want one?”

  He watched her swallow hard as his fingers ripped the Velcro fasteners apart the way he’d torn the tension building between them. Digging deep inside the pack, he grabbed the water bottle, his knuckles brushing the fruit he’d pushed in the pack as he left the boat. “Or would you rather have an apple?”

  Her face relaxed, her eyelashes fluttering on her cheek and the tension fled on a mutual release of breath. “Haven’t you got your genders mixed, McQuaid? It was Eve who offered the apple.” Her eyes widened and sunlight flickered in them. “Or maybe there really are snakes in the New Zealand bush.”

  He watched her teeth dig into the red skin. Heard the crisp snap as the white flesh broke away and the sweet juice dribble down the side of her palm. Stared like a man dying of thirst as she licked her hand.

  Playing the if-you-can’t-beat-’em-join-’em game, Rowan bit down hard on a second apple and sucked up the juice. It was probably the closest he would get to sharing the same sweet taste as Jo.

  Rowan let her get a few steps ahead before she heard him follow. She wasn’t sure what had happened back there. Suddenly, she no longer felt the urge to jump each time a twig or frond snapped back into place.

  Taking one last bite of the apple, she wrapped the remains in a tissue she had in her pocket and stuffed it into the small waterproof pouch on the side of her backpack.

  Paying more attention to her surroundings, she became aware of a profound truth. In the rain forest, life and death existed hand in hand. Fallen leaves and branches rotted on the ground feeding the trees, while high up in the canopy birds dined on their berries, letting their droppings fall to the moist humus below. And so the cycle continued. Everything had its own part to play in the rhythm of the bush.

  Lord, her thoughts were melancholy, yet she felt exactly the opposite. The day had taken an unexpected twist for the better and she’d begun enjoying herself.

  Maybe it was the company? For sure it was the company.

  For an exquisite moment in time earlier, she’d been completely aware of Rowan and nothing else. Not the bush, or the bugs, only the way his mouth opened around the apple and the relish he’d eaten it with. She’d wanted him to kiss her. Known she’d wanted him to. Prayed he’d take her in his arms.

  The setting of the park was magical. Its full name, Te Kohanga o Nga Atua translated into “the nest,” or “birthplace of the gods.”

  One night, Moira had told her of the legend, of a beautiful young Maori wahine seduced by one of the gods, perhaps Tane. The sad part of the story was the maiden died giving birth. As for her son, he leaped off the cliffs onto the wave caps to join his people. Even today, the birds skimming the waves called his name.

  She could hear those waves now, washing over the rocks. It had to be high tide. Looking back over her shoulder, she hesitated and Rowan almost fell over her. Reaching out to steady himself he gripped her shoulder.

  She’d been too deep in thought to realize he was virtually walking on her heels. The heavy green smell of the bush couldn’t compete with the mix of Rowan’s spicy scent and good honest sweat. She gulped. Instead of calming the tingling sensation in the pit of her stomach she tasted him. Rowan.

  It took all her willpower to ask, “Do you think we ought to call this track a nonevent and turn back?”

  “No. The path hasn’t narrowed any and that, to my mind, means there has to be something at the end of it.”

  She should step away, but couldn’t bring herself to move. Her position was awkward, looking up at him from over her shoulder, the cords in her neck taut from the tension whirling inside her.

  This close she could see the pores in his skin and the stark maleness of the new growth of beard shadowing his chin below the tantalizing challenge of that moustache. Would she enjoy the feel if he kissed her? Would it mark her skin, leaving a reminder of how good it had been? Somehow, she just knew it would be good….

  “Do you want me to take the lead now?”

  Duh! How was that for getting her wires crossed? While she’d been salivating at the thought of his kiss, Rowan had more fitting matters in mind. “Yeah, sure. You go on ahead.”

  If the measure of his stride was anything to go by she’d definitely been slowing him down. Not that she was complaining. From this vantage point, she had a good eyeful of the length of the legs taking those strides. Like her, he’d pulled on jeans that weren’t quite past their use-by date, but close enough to it that a snag or tear wouldn’t matter. The jeans fit him like a glove, the soft denim cupping his butt, clinging lovingly to his thighs.

  One second she’d been considering Rowan’s butt and the next he’d disappeared. An intense feeling of déjà vu brought her up short as she remembered the time she’d lost track of Max.

  She plunged after him and was on her second “Rowan!” when she hit something solid. Warm and solid. “Lord,” she breathed out shakily, less from anxiety than from feel of muscle rippling under her palms. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  Just when the temptation to wrap her arms round him and cling became overpowering, Rowan looked down at her and grinned. Taking a few steps forward, he let her through until they stood shoulder to shoulder and she saw what had stopped him in his tracks.

  About five of Rowan’s strides from where they stood was a tall, straight tree covered in flowers. Fascinated, Jo drew closer.

  On any normal tree the bracts would have grown high overhead, surrounded by leaves. These pale green beauties on long delicate stems sprang from the bark itself, flowing down the trunk and cascading from the branches overhead. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she murmured. Tilting her head back, she looked up into a shower of soft, green-tinged blossoms.

  Rowan joined her under the tree. “It’s a kohekohe. We used to have one in the garden at home when I was a boy.” He lifted one hand and caressed a stream of velvety blooms, letting them flow through his fingers. “We’re lucky to see this. Most of them have died out in the wild.”

  “They remind me of the decorations on a Japanese bride’s headdress,” she said, with a breathless sigh.

  “I never knew you were a romantic.”


  She slipped around the tree, refusing to answer till she’d sorted out her feelings. Romance led to things she no longer craved, or so she’d told herself. Things like wedding bells and commitment. Oh no, she was too wise to let her hopes turn in that direction. She’d been burned too many times by men with smart talk and even smarter lies.

  Yet, her heart began to pound as her gaze caught sight of another kohekohe and another. A whole ring of them, each separated by a tree where no flowers grew.

  They had come to the end of their search.

  The magic circle.

  Suddenly the trees lost some of their charm.

  “Looks as if Ginny was spot on,” said Rowan.

  While her glance had encircled the margins, his had been snagged by a ring of stones in the center filled with cold ashes. Not a blade of grass grew between the trees and the stones, not even a bird-sown sapling, yet life-giving sun shone through the hole in the canopy. Jo smartly covered the ground between the tree she’d been standing under and the one next to it. Ugly red fruit grew out of its trunk like weeping boils. A more fitting tree than the other for guarding the borders of a demonic haunt. “What type of tree is this? Do you know?”

  Rowan glanced over his shoulder as he paced the distance between the stones outside the ring round the fire. “That’s still the same tree. One in flower, the other in fruit. Harry’s father used to say the kohekohe had a longer gestation period than an elephant.”

  As Rowan turned his attention to measuring distances, she fumed inwardly over nefarious louts using loveliness for evil ends. “I don’t think I like this place.”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of lost its glamour for me, too.”

  As Rowan paced, Jo picked up a fallen twig by her feet and walked into the center, saying, “You’re doing it all wrong. Here, let me show you.”

  Poking the stick into the dirt she began to draw a line. “See, like this. There are five rocks, which means they’re probably the points of a pentagram with the fire in the middle. The line stretches from here to there and on round the boulders in a continuous line.”

  A longer twig might help, she thought, swiping at a strand of hair blocking her vision. She was at the fourth point when the blood started pounding in her head. It’s only from bending over, she told herself, yet her breathing grew more shallow until it barely reached her lungs. Perspiration bathed the back of her neck, her breasts grew heavy and the tops of her thighs ached. Still she kept on; she wanted to finish. Had to finish.

  Her eyes lifted to Rowan. He stood statue still, staring at her. Energy jangled the air around him. His stillness was that of a jungle cat studying its prey. A glow lurked deep in his eyes, penetrating, intense, escaping shadows of his brow.

  Stumbling slightly, she dropped the marker, overcome by a feeling of giddiness. A rushing filled her ears as she bent to retrieve it. She had to finish. Only a few feet to go.

  Rowan was there before her, grasping the stick, throwing it aside. “No more, Jo. No more,” he growled. His hands circled the tops of her arms, drawing her hard against his chest.

  Her gaze swam and Rowan’s features with it, but it couldn’t disguise the intense hunger shaping them. His heart pounded against her palms as they slid up his chest to twine around his neck. The heat inside her spiraled near flash point, and surges of desire repeatedly jolted her until her body shook.

  “What’s happening, Rowan?” she asked breathlessly. “I don’t understand. What is this place doing to me?”

  His answer roared through her head as if carried on a tempest. “Damned if I know, but it’s brought out the devil in me!” And with that, he covered her mouth with his in a knee-buckling kiss draining her life force, leaving her weak, wanting more.

  It felt as if all his life, all he had ever wanted was this.

  Jo.

  Her hands on him. His hands on her. And her taste? There had never been anything like it for him, never would be again.

  Her mouth tasted of flavors he’d only dreamed about, never expecting to indulge in. Sweet flavors. Honey, bloodred wine and spices that heightened the senses. One sip alone would live on in his memory, but would never fill him.

  The velvet touch of Jo’s tongue brushing his wasn’t enough.

  He wanted more.

  He wanted deeper.

  Rowan angled his mouth over hers.

  A flash of pain smote his head with the knowledge he would never get enough. Never be satisfied. Never fulfilled.

  The thought drove him crazy.

  Her hands gripped tight on the back of his shirt and ripped it out of his jeans. He felt her nails anchor in his skin, holding on to him like a lifeline. They both shook and he couldn’t tell where her shudders ended and his began.

  He cupped the nape of her neck with both hands and pressed his thumbs under her jaw until her head tilted back farther. He drove his tongue inside her mouth, mimicking the end they both sought, both fought for.

  The inside of her mouth was a potpourri of textures laid out for him to enjoy—velvet, satin, pearls. The rasp of her tongue. The softness inside her cheek. The hardness of her teeth. He savored them all. Her swollen lips throbbed from his caresses. He sucked the lower one into his mouth and caught it between his teeth.

  Jo moaned and the sound filled his insides with a fire that threatened to consume him. Consume them both.

  His hands raced down her back and dived under her T-shirt.

  There was more to come. More to experience.

  Jo’s hips thrust against his and the terrible ache in his groin flexed, seeking the curve of her belly even as the fullness of her breasts filled his hands, pebbling against the center of his palms.

  He squeezed tight. Tighter.

  Jo let out a desperate mewl from deep inside her throat. He swallowed it down. Swallowed her passion and thrust his thigh between hers when it looked like they might fall as her hands scrabbled to undo the buckle at his waist.

  An intrusive vision blasted Rowan’s mind. Jo naked, spread-eagled on the dirt and himself over her, the marks of her nails like bloodred scars on his back as they lay in the center of the pentagram she had drawn.

  A pounding grew in his head and paced him thrust for thrust. Pounding…pounding…flesh slapping against flesh in a feverish animalistic search for release.

  Lashed by lust and almost blind from the fires the picture lit in his mind, he gripped Jo by the shoulders and pushed her away. The anguish and frustration roaring inside his head poured out of his mouth in a curse. He could hardly tell real from imaginary.

  He only knew that if he didn’t get them away from this place, the vision would become fact and the ritualistic undertones made him sick to his gut.

  Only the superior length of his arms protected him from Jo’s protests, her eager hands reaching out to touch him. He dare not let her near, or all his good intentions would come undone.

  “What are you doing?” she yelled as he frustrated her attempts to draw him back into a carnal whirlpool of selfish needs that would suck them under; steal their humanity and spit them out, having taken the best of them.

  He gave her shoulders a short, sharp shake. “Stop it, Jo. Stop it now. Look at me. This place is evil. It’s put us under a spell. Bewitched us. We have to leave while we still can.”

  If he’d taken an old black-and-white photo and painted the lips scarlet that would have been Jo. Her eyes were huge, dark and dazed. Her face drawn and white. Yet, the red fullness of her lips had come from his teeth mauling them. At some stage he’d removed the pins from her hair and it hung in wild, tousled abandonment round her shoulders where his hands had done their damage.

  She was breathing hard. They both were.

  Their ragged breaths filled the silence between them as he kept her at arm’s length and watched her breasts tremble on a long drawn-out sigh, remembering the weight of them in his hands.

  They had to get out of here. Now!

  Loosing his grip on her, Rowan bent down and snagged both
their packs from the ground where he’d tossed them aside without even noticing. Standing up, wrapping his other arm round Jo, his hand tight on her shoulder, he walked her out of the circle.

  Beyond the ring of trees at last, he turned and let his gaze rest on her face, gratified to find an uncertain, half-embarrassed smile. After such an experience, fear might have been the result. Fear of him. He couldn’t bear the thought of her cringing away from his touch.

  His hands trembled, grazing the tops of her arms where he held her steady. “You were right about that place. We’re better off standing on the outside, looking in. What do you think, are you starting to feel somewhat normal?”

  Nodding, she called his name as he headed toward the ring of trees. “Wait here. I’ll only be a moment.” His hands fisted inside his jeans pockets, as if that was the only way he could keep them off her. He needed this time away from her to calm down. The whole situation was just plain weird.

  What the hell had gotten into him?

  “I’m going to use an old Native American trick I learned at the movies. Once I’ve brushed away that pentagram no one will know we’ve been here,” he called out.

  The most handy twig was a length of manuka covered in black, honeydew mold that stained his hand. However, he willingly conceded it was better than the darkness that had stained his soul when he held Jo in his arms inside the accursed circle. Even now, he could feel it prowling the air, waiting to pounce the moment he let down his guard.

  Never again.

  He wanted Jo. And doubted that would ever change. But if they ever got to know each other in the biblical sense, he didn’t want their first joining driven by some outside force. Driven by feral lust. How could he make a memory he didn’t dare remember or retain his integrity and Jo’s trust?

  Tossing away the twig, Rowan dusted his hands on his jeans, then tucked in his shirt and fastened his belt. His back stung where her nails had gripped him, but didn’t feel sticky with the blood he’d seen in his imagination.