Shadows on the Aegean

by Suzanne Frank

  He didn’t move. He didn’t look at her. He just sat. Chloe tugged and he jerked away, continuing his conversation with the other man. Three women came up to the other guy and towed him along, rubbing their hands on his body, making the invitation quite clear.

  Still Cheftu sat. He was ignoring her? Boldly Chloe brought his hand to her breast. He looked up, his fingers already caressing her, and stared. Guiltily, Chloe thought. He blinked a few times, and Chloe grabbed his other hand and dragged him into the line.

  It was not an easy dance, but Cheftu matched her steps. She felt the heat of his body, smelled the blend of his skin and unguents and wine. After a while the line turned directions, each person holding tight to the partners before them, while those behind them moved very closely. The music took on a primal, seductive beat. Chloe was flushed—the feel of Cheftu against her, hot and aroused, was sexier than imagination. The circle grew smaller as couples broke away. She was just deciding to pull Cheftu into a darker corner when she was lifted and kissed.

  He tasted like wine and hunger and Cheftu, and Chloe could barely breathe for wanting him. She heard voices, felt a very cold wind, but his body, scorching, was against hers. His hands moved beneath her skirt, his mouth laved her exposed breasts. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes as he whispered to her. She was with Cheftu, finally! He knew her! He loved her!

  The contrast of his black hair against her paler skin was visible even in the darkness. He kissed her stomach, the insides of her thighs, and Chloe fell back with a low moan. She became nothing but sense and felt as though she were laid bare to the bone with electricity jagging through her body. He pressed his fingers into her mouth and she sucked on them, imitating the actions that were shattering her. Chloe was whimpering, alternating hot and cold until her body was reduced to shudders and tears.

  He pulled her onto his thighs, entering in one slow movement. Chloe draped her arms around his neck and absorbed his thrusts, still reeling from the magic he’d worked on her. His lips were pressed against her neck, her skin muffling his panting and final stillness.

  They fell back as one body. Her love was back, here in her arms. Chloe was so happy, she wanted to cry. “Eee, Cheftu,” she whispered, her hands in his hair.

  His lips were against her ear, his voice husky and wine scented. “So you craved me again, Sibylla?”

  Again?

  Chloe’s eyes popped open.

  “I apologize for leaving the way I did,” he said. “I did not know you were a chieftain.” He kissed her ear. “It was not intended to be disrespectful.”

  What the hell was he talking about? Chloe banged on Sibylla’s mental door, demanding a response.

  He kissed her, Sibylla’s, shoulder. “You are magnificent, my mistress.”

  Chloe couldn’t think. Her body was still trembling from him, yet he didn’t know who she was? He didn’t recognize her? How had he known Sibylla? He made love this passionately, this graphically, to a woman he’d known only … only … she didn’t know how long.

  Chloe wondered if she could kick in Sibylla’s mental door. Cheftu slept with another woman? Well, with me inside another woman? But I wasn’t there! With a last defiant battering of the door—unanswered—Chloe searched Sibylla’s memory.

  Knossos. Rituals. Yeah, right!

  She couldn’t decide if she felt more pain or anger. She knew she wanted to kill him. She also wanted to run. Far, far away. He didn’t know her? The man who’d promised to find her in any century, in any body, and he didn’t recognize her when they were making love? Twice?

  He pulled away from her, lying on his back, apparently dozing. Her Cheftu had always been a chatterbox after lovemaking. How could he not know her? Chloe sat up, pulling down her skirt and tucking it around her cold feet, straightening her jacket. This was the last, the very last, time Cheftu would touch her until he knew whom he was touching!

  “This cannot happen again,” he said, his words slurred. “After tonight, although I crave you, I cannot …”

  “Trust me, abstinence will not be an issue,” she said coldly.

  He opened his eyes at her response and raised up on an elbow. His hair was just as mussed as hers, and he hadn’t yet bothered to straighten his kilt. “Do I detect anger? Have I left you less than satisfied?”

  Much less, she thought. “Your skills are worthy of a Coil Dancer.”

  Eyes narrowing, Cheftu sat up. “Your manners are not.”

  Chloe stood up, furious and blinking back tears. Was their love affair just for Egypt? Was he not attracted when she wasn’t Egyptian? Were their souls really not connected? Had she been lying to herself?

  Cheftu stood up, grabbing her wrists with one hand, adjusting his kilt with the other. “I do not appreciate lovers who leave without even a word of kindness.’

  Like you left Sibylla, me, in Knossos, she thought. “Perhaps you are reaping as you sow?”

  He dropped his hand. “I see you do not easily forgive.”

  “You more than easily forget, though!” Chloe said, fighting back tears. He frowned at her and rubbed his face, gestures that were so Cheftu they hurt. What had happened? He touched her face, frowning when she pulled away.

  “I want you again, Sibylla. Gods help me, I do.”

  She watched the face she’d memorized, detail by detail, from eyebrows to the fine lines around his mouth and eyes, draw nearer. His pupils were dilated, and she knew his expression of desire so well.

  For another.

  “Go to hell,” she said in English. Lifting her skirt, she ran away, weeping.

  CHAPTER 11

  IT TOOK A MOMENT FOR CHEFTU TO REALIZE she’d spoken to him in English.

  English!

  Green eyes, black hair, skin that received him eagerly, a spirit that left him buoyant to behold. Cheftu pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart. He couldn’t catch his breath, he didn’t dare even think it. He’d seen her body, her dead body! The Egyptians had told him she was gone.

  Gone into another body!

  It explained so much! Why hadn’t she told him in Knossos, though? Why let him believe she was dead and that he would spend his life mourning her? Why flee him now? His heart slowed, and Cheftu wondered if she was happy he was here. She’d bedded him willingly enough, but …

  He ran after her, stumbling, drunk on sex and wine, almost sick with apprehension. “Chloe!” he cried out. “Chloe! Sibylla!” The moon gave some light, but he didn’t know the gardens, and like everything else on Aztlan, they were labyrinthine. He had to find her! Mon Dieu, he’d committed adultery with his own wife. Was that even possible? The thought made him stumble, and he cursed, then swore again as clouds skittered across the moon. “Chloe,” he called out in French. “Chloe, my love, I am such a blind man. Please, Chloe!”

  Silence answered him, and he stopped, gulping for breath, fighting against the alcohol in his veins to stay upright. She wasn’t dead, she was alive! She was here! Even if she hated him now, he had a chance, he could win her back. He could see her, touch her. The tears he had stifled for so many lost, aching weeks began to flow down his face. His love was alive, she was here. Cheftu sank to his knees, weeping. Thank God! Grâce à Dieu!

  Her hand touched his shoulder, and Cheftu brought it to his mouth, kissing and crying on her long, clever fingers. So blind! She stood, resisting him, but Cheftu didn’t care. She was here! She lived. He buried his face against her skirt, the scent of them commingled on the brightly patterned wool. His body had known her, recognized her, even though his mind had not.

  He cried with relief, then froze when she touched his hair, cautiously running her fingers along his scalp and hairline. “How did it get so long?” Her voice was soft, and Cheftu smiled through his tears. The questions, the hows and whys, what light she brought to him!

  “It is braided into mine,” he said, his voice muffled against her skirt, his arms aching with his grip around her. “Eee, Chloe, my love, my heart. Forgive me.” She stiffe
ned. “I—I did not dare to hope.”

  “Oh, Cheftu,” she said, then slipped bonelessly through his grasp, so that her mouth was on his, and Cheftu tasted her, his Chloe, through his tears. The desire was so strong, so elemental, they simply lifted their clothing, joining, staring at each other as completion came quickly.

  Gently he held her body against him, marveling that it was Chloe he held.

  “Grâce à Dieu,” he whispered against her neck.

  “Amen,” Chloe said.

  PREDAWN CHILL WOKE HER and Chloe opened her eyes, staring at the tinted clouds, holding her breath for fear she was wrong. Cheftu turned in his sleep, shivering, trying to get closer. “It’s cold,” she said. Her hands and feet were numb. It obviously wasn’t summertime yet. His arms tightened around her, and Chloe submitted to being cold on one side and melting from contact with his hot skin on the other.

  She sighed, contented.

  How was it that he was always so warm? He was a space heater on legs! She cuddled tighter to him, fitting her body against the solid strength of his. One arm pillowed her head, his fingers resting lightly on her side. The other crossed over her hips, holding them together snugly.

  What an amazing thing to sleep with a man, Chloe thought. She was certain the little refrain of happiness that she heard was her blood singing. How had this happened, how had they gotten together? It was a miracle! Nothing short!

  She looked above them. The gold and orange of the clouds had turned to pink and lavender with the rising sun’s reflection. It was a perfect morning, they had a perfect day—Chloe froze. Dawn. Cheftu was going to be tested at dawn. Was that today? No, they had made allowances for hangovers, Chloe recalled.

  The pyramid tests, what were they?

  “You are thinking so loudly, I cannot sleep,” Cheftu rumbled in her ear. The tiny hairs on her neck and ear rose on end as she shivered. “You like?” he said softly, then began to follow the curve of her ear with his tongue. Chloe felt her body heat and turned to him, arching to receive him, holding him close, not moving, just savoring.

  Then, with a groan, Cheftu began to move slowly. He drew so far away, the cool air rushing against her hot skin, the contact almost breaking, then straight, deep, inch by inch, as though he were drawn magnetically, until they were hipbone to hipbone. Chloe watched as her body swallowed his wholly, as they became one.

  High golden light fell across the tops of the garden trees, and Chloe rolled beneath him, her hips rising to keep the contact, their fingers laced, white knuckled, riding the rising waves. Cheftu began to pound into her, his jaw set, his eyes dark. “I almost lost you,” he said hoarsely. “You are mine!”

  Chloe’s legs began to ache, rubbed raw, and she winced, then begged for more as he raised her hips, going deeper, harder, faster. Her breath was loud in the birdsong morning, and she ran her hands over his back, feeling the power, the need, the benign threat of his body.

  It didn’t begin or end, just flowed like waves on the shore, cresting higher and higher, her cries muffled by his mouth, his teeth stroking her tongue, sucking on it, his sweat slippery against her skin. Cheftu bit the nape of her neck with his final thrust, holding her close and tight, grinding against her, and Chloe felt herself burst on an almost molecular level, bucking off the ground, trying to get closer, get more …

  “I cannot move,” he said after a while.

  “Why not?” Chloe murmured, half-asleep.

  “I think my seed was a fast-growing vine that holds me within you now.”

  Chloe smiled against his shoulder. “That sounds nice. Like a watermelon.”

  He was silent a moment. “A what?” Cheftu was sounding a little more awake.

  “When I was a little kid my Mimi would say that if we ate watermelon seeds, we would grow watermelons in our tummies. I used to think that pregnant women had swallowed watermelon seeds.” She licked at his skin and felt him shudder instantly. “It scared me to death.”

  Chloe recalled with horror that they’d made love with no protection. If she reminded Cheftu of that, he was likely to pull away. His feelings about parenting were set in concrete and didn’t include trysts beneath trees. Please, don’t let me be pregnant, she prayed quickly.

  Cheftu pushed himself up on his forearms, staring at her. He looked as if it had been a rough night, Chloe thought. Leaves and twigs and all manner of outdoorsy stuff decorated his hair where once it was neatly plaited and curled. His eyes were red and bleary, razor stubble dotted his somewhat blotched skin. However, the love pouring from his bloodshot eyes, his expression telling her she was the most beautiful sight to him, this made him gorgeous. Especially when he looked well used. Especially when she’d been the user. Chloe arched against him, and Cheftu groaned.

  They froze at the sound of voices. The sun was higher now, coming through the trees that had sheltered them all night. Cheftu ran a hand through her hair, touching her cheekbones and nose, the flat of his thumb running over the arch of her brow, the tips of her lashes.

  He gazed at her mouth, and Chloe felt her lips part. Cheftu followed the bow of her upper lip, the fullness of her lower lip with the tip of his pinky. “I dreamed of you,” he whispered. “Every morning I woke up, remembered you were dead, and it was like hearing it for the first time.” She saw the muscle in his jaw flex. “There was no color without you. Food was tasteless because all I could think was Baskin-Robbins—”

  Chloe laughed. In Egypt they had likened lovemaking to ice cream. All the many different “flavors” they could explore together. We came pretty close to a menu of thirty-one, she thought.

  His eyes were smiling. “So what flavor, eee, Chieftain?” He raised his brow, and Chloe thought of pirates and bikers and masquerading Frenchmen. His eyes darkened as she clenched him deeply. “This,” she said, turning her face into his palm and kissing it, “was as far beyond ice cream as water from coffee.”

  Cheftu’s face, lean and hard, was turning gaunt with desire before her eyes. “So then?” he asked, his voice low and filling every syllable with seduction.

  I am insane, Chloe thought, to classify “So then?” as seduction. But with Cheftu, it was.

  “Crème brûleé,” she said. He cocked his head, asking wordlessly for an explanation. “It’s hard”—Cheftu inhaled sharply at her softly undulating body—“and crunchy and sweet on top.”

  Her husband half laughed and half groaned. “You think so, ma chérie?”

  “Eee, I know so,” she answered with a smile. “And beneath is—”

  “Soft and creamy and melts on my tongue,” he whispered, and Chloe heard no more, her blood pounded too loudly.

  “Take me,” she whimpered.

  “Toi aussi.”

  Finally someone answered the pounding at the door. About time! Chloe thought, hiding her head beneath the pillow. She’d slipped into bed about the time the palace was stirring. These crazed Aztlantu, didn’t they realize when you party all night you sleep until noon?

  Apparently not.

  Of course, she reasoned, not all of them were in the garden making it like mink all night. She smiled against the bedclothes. By Kela, she ached and was bruised and would probably walk funny for a while, but to be with Cheftu—They’d hated to part but, uncertain of Aztlantu etiquette, had deemed it best.

  Cheftu had left her at her door and run back to kiss her no less than five times, each kiss longer and more involved, though he swore he was exhausted beyond mortal range. Good, Chloe thought.

  Heaven knew she was!

  Dozing had just turned to REM sleep when she was jolted awake by a hand on her shoulder. Chloe jerked upright, heart pounding, confused. She blinked at the owner of the hand, trying to place her.

  “I called you thrice,” the woman said. She was tall and plain. Except for her eyes, which were large, thickly lashed, and a shade of gray that looked almost silver, she was just … there. Her bright clothing hung like sackcloth. Her long hair, streaked with gray, was wrapped around her head, styled like
that of a traditional German waitress. “Sibylla?” she asked again.

  Right! Cover her with mud and tears and blood, and it was the woman who’d loaned her people to operate on Naxos.

  “My apology, Atenis,” Chloe said. “I was sleeping too hard, I fear.”

  Atenis sat on the edge of the bed. “You got to your couch late?”

  “Aye. Very late.”

  The woman smiled. Goodwill and kindness transformed her features so that she glowed, light seeming to pour from her like a prism. “Very early this morning, more like. I came by at dawn, but you were not here and your serf said you hadn’t come back yet.”

  Chloe felt herself blushing.

  “Should I check to see who else was late in returning?” Chloe got even rosier, and Atenis laughed. “Just a jest this morning, my sister. I have not felt like laughing much since Arachne—” She broke off and looked away, her hand touching the clan seal at her throat. “I came to offer my services, in truth.”

  Oh, Kela, I want some coffee! “Your services?”

  “I will not be running against Ileana, but I do know how to run and how to win. I can train you.”

  “Why me?”

  Frowning a little with confusion, Atenis shrugged. “Vena is … unbearable to me. Her frivolity reminds me of a saline bath on abraded skin.” That would be grim, Chloe conceded. “Selena is a good friend, but her mother is a grasping, dishonest creature.” She smiled again. “You and Phoebus would make a beautiful baby.”

  Baby.

  Was she even now carrying Cheftu’s baby? She hadn’t taken any birth control seeds this morning. Did these people, these quasi Minoans, even have birth control? Chloe blushed again.

  “I’ve heard you won the first four races you were in. I know a few of those runners, by reputation at least, and am quite impressed. You have never shown an aptitude for physical activity before.”