Water From the Moon

by Terese Ramin

  If he went and found her again now he might get what he sought, might find more of her than she’d let him see in the forest. A million years ago they’d shared a hundred stolen midnights, talking, laughing, dreaming. The late hour had made it easier to reveal the truth, share their hopes.

  He twisted the towel around his waist and stepped to the door. It was time for some answers.

  * * *

  Heat blazed and took on unaccustomed proportions as it slid down her throat to her belly. The glass holding the liquid flame clunked to the counter, and Acasia shut her eyes, coughing fire with the first swallow of whiskey. The fresh T–shirt she’d pulled from her pack clung to her already, trapping moist air against her body.

  All she’d wanted was to be with Cameron a while, to relieve the ache of all the missed yesterdays and then move on. This morning she’d honestly thought a moment, a day, would be enough, but she’d been wrong. Bits and pieces of Cameron would never be enough. She wanted all of him.

  She combed her fingers through her hair in confusion. After years of carefully cultivated numbness, Cameron had made her feel things she didn’t want to feel. He’d made her remember what it was like to be close to someone, and what it was like to trust. And he’d made her remember what it was like to dream about tomorrow.

  Dangerous business, dreaming.

  Her hand clenched spasmodically around the glass of whiskey, and her thoughts blended into a dull roar. Damn memory, anyway!

  She let her head drop back loosely, rolling it from side to side to ease the tensions the alcohol had missed.

  Cameron was so much more in real life than memory had made him: stronger, infinitely more obstinate and—Acasia’s stomach tightened suddenly—sexier. She thought about her unbridled response to him in the forest.

  Dispassion, she told herself, draining her glass, then reaching for the bottle to splash in more. She couldn’t allow herself to care. It was a self–imposed rule of her profession. She’d been a security consultant and retrieval expert just under ten years. She was completely self–reliant, expertly trained and perfectly qualified. Her father and the army had unwittingly seen to that. Simon Jones, jewel thief turned writer, lecturer and recovery agent, had instilled in his only daughter a passion for speed and the same unequaled burglary skills his own father had passed on to him. The army had provided her with the discipline and knowledge to hone those skills for this purpose. Between them they’d made her formidable, hard when she had to be. A woman professional men took seriously. She had what every woman wanted, right? Independence, respect, a career she’d fought for—had designed for—herself. So why did she think of Cameron and find herself empty?

  Acasia turned the glass of whiskey violently in her hands and sent it spinning to the counter’s edge. It wobbled a moment and settled without falling. She felt as if she were right there with it, on the edge of an abyss. Only she was still teetering. She had a choice: hold out a hand to the future at great personal risk, or walk away from it. Either way lay danger. Either move might be wrong.

  In silence she settled her hips against the counter and contemplated darkness.

  * * *

  In the hall, Cameron stood and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Water dripped from his hair onto his neck, puddling in the hollows of his collarbone before spilling in a V down his chest. He took a step, and his hand went out, fingertips brushing the wall, using it to guide him to Acasia.

  * * *

  Acasia still lounged against the counter, the fingers of one hand drumming out a contemplative rhythm while the other swirled the minuscule amount of whiskey in her glass. Her head felt thick and fuzzy from the liquor, and she knew that, if she let herself, she would be able to relax. She would need to, if she was going to see Cam. Abruptly she lifted the glass to her lips, drained it and let it drop back on the counter. Now, while her courage was up and her inhibitions were down…

  Carefully she made her way across the kitchen, through the examining room to the doorway of the five–bed infirmary. Her hand clutched the frame, slid up and triggered a light switch.

  "Casie."

  He was in the doorway at the other end of the room, wet hair slicked back, broad chest bare and moist, water from his hair sliding down his torso, taking her eyes with it on its journey into the low–slung towel riding his hips. Her breath quickened, and she felt at once weak and strong, heavy and languorous, vitally alive.

  "Cam."

  Whiskey smoked her voice, accentuated the faint rasp Cameron had never forgotten. A white T–shirt clung to her, outlined her breasts and their budding crests, hugged the flat of her stomach. He brought his eyes to her face. Her lips parted slightly, curving into the same tentative, half–expectant smile she’d offered him before he’d kissed her that long ago afternoon when they’d first made love.

  He’d always loved her smile.

  Acasia watched him relax as though he were finally standing on familiar ground, and lean against the doorframe. His smile was full of memory and knowledge, and she half thought she heard the whispers of teenage ghosts.

  She moistened her lips, responding first as a woman no longer innocent, a woman who knew what awaited if she crossed the room to him, aware of and anticipating pleasure. Then she was seventeen again, aroused, shy, passionate, anxious—her emotions in turmoil because she wanted to please and experience, to be in love. Every instinct, every reflex she possessed, told her it would be all right to love, to throw away reality for romance, for a lingering moment of nostalgia that would be over before morning, before the light ever broke and he could see her clearly, as she was now, no longer the girl she had once been.

  They regarded one another, and more than desire swelled the air, spanning the distance between them. It seemed that if they stripped themselves physically they would also strip away time, returning themselves to a moment that should have happened—to London, where their lives might have joined and begun.

  Acasia moved, and Cameron pushed himself away from the door. A thud sounded on the veranda, followed by a shuffle, then the sounds of someone wrestling with the kitchen door. Acasia’s eyes jerked up to meet Cameron’s. She pressed down the light switch, surrounding them once more with blackness.

  "Acasia? You here, babe?" It was Fred. "They told me you were here."

  "Damn." They shared the word, the frustration.

  "Hey, Peaches! Where the devil are you? We’ve got to talk. Now." Fred’s voice held impatience, annoyance, an edge of fear.

  Acasia couldn’t see Cameron, but she strained to do so anyway. "I have to go."

  "Come to me, Casie, when you’re through," he whispered.

  "I…" She hesitated. The night’s spell was breaking.

  "Come to me, Casie." This time it was a demand, as well as a plea.

  "Casie? You asleep? You’ve got to get up and talk to me." Something heavy clattered onto the kitchen table, and the light blinked on. Fred’s steps drew closer.

  "Casie?" Cameron’s voice was urgent.

  I can’t. The part of her mind that hadn’t slept since Lisetta’s death told her what to say, but she ignored it. "Yes, I’ll come," she said fervently. "I want to come."

  She heard him smile, felt his relief all the way across the dark room. "Good," he whispered.

  Then he was gone.

  She turned to greet Fred, who came into the room behind her. He swooped down on her like the great ugly blond bear he resembled, and Acasia barely had time to clamp a lid on the furor Cameron had created before she was swept into her brother’s smothering embrace.

  "Thank God you made it!" Struggling for breath and balance, Acasia tried to lift her face out of his dank shirt, but he only mashed her in tighter. "You had me worried sick. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming down here after Cameron Smith? What happened to your rule about no personal involvement? You feeling suicidal?"

  Abruptly he dropped her to the floor, and Acasia reeled, clutching air. Her stomach sloshed queasily, her senses were rimmed wit
h fuzz. There was something wrong with the way Fred was behaving, though she couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

  "Do you know what it’s been like here today?" he roared.

  Ah, that was better. Now he was behaving like Fred. Acasia sagged into a convenient chair and rubbed suddenly bleary eyes. "No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me."

  Fred glared at her. "Julianna radioed. She hasn’t even made it into Maracaibo yet. She’s still stuck in Honduras, and she asked me to entertain you and your, ah, guest. I said, ‘Sure, any quest of Casie’s is a potential supporter of my research, right?’" He paused to stalk the room furiously, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "Hell." He stopped and hunkered down until he was level with Acasia, anxiety overriding his anger. "You all right? You listening to me, Casie?"

  Acasia rubbed a tired hand over her face, tried to focus on him. Instead, her gaze moved wearily past Fred and on to the palely lighted kitchen. Her shotgun lay on the table where she’d left it—still loaded. She swore softly under her breath. She’d never done that before, left it loaded and within anyone’s reach. If she hadn’t allowed herself to get so muddled, she would never have been so careless.

  She brought her attention warily back to Fred, hoping he hadn’t noticed her slip, but he was sniffing the air around her, outrage registering on his face.

  "Drinking? You’ve been drinking? Half of Zaragoza is looking for you and—damn it to hell, Acasia! Are you listening to me?"

  "Cut to the chase, Fred," she answered, beginning to sober up.

  He touched her knee and rose, suddenly quiet. "The ‘chase,’ little sister, is that Sanchez sent out a mercenary to get Smith back." He looked down at her and nodded at her dawning disquiet. "Yeah, you do know him. Dominic Mansour was here this afternoon looking for you."

  The name cleared her brain with nauseating suddenness. "He’s dead."

  Fred shook his head. "He’s got a few scars he didn’t have three years ago, but he’s alive. You got out before the ZNLF razed that church, and he must have, too, then left the country. With a little judicious footwork and the right contacts…" Fred shrugged.

  Acasia slumped forward in her chair. "Where’s he been?" She felt the urge to place the blame somewhere else, to absolve herself of this guilt without a name. This little sojourn was getting just a bit too tangled up with her past for comfort. "What did I miss? Where didn’t I check?" She lifted her face to Fred. "Why wasn’t I told?"

  "He hasn’t been back long. I’d have heard. You would have been told."

  "I’m looking for an answer, not an excuse." Abruptly she pushed herself erect and moved toward the kitchen.

  "There’s nothing you can do tonight but get some rest," Fred said quietly, barring her way.

  Acasia moved past him. "I can plan. I can strategize."

  "You can pace. You can dwell," Fred said, interpreting her words.

  Acasia picked up the shotgun. "Same difference," she said, and let the screen door slam behind her.

  She stood still for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. I shouldn’t have come, she thought. Why did I come? Cam would be safer with someone else. Anyone else.

  I didn’t want to trust him with anyone else, she acknowledged silently.

  Guiltily she eyed the end of the clinic that housed the room, the bed, where Cameron waited. Whatever he might feel, however frustrating she might find it, she couldn’t go to him. Already her emotional involvement with him had placed him in jeopardy. And not only him, but Fred, as well. She couldn’t afford to let it go farther. Emotions created too much confusion, scattered her focus, clouded her instincts. Emotions could kill.

  Her boots scraped lightly on the floor. Outside the village, the night was dense, the pale moon covered by clouds. In the forest, night creatures stalked unwary prey and caught it. Acasia tried not to listen too hard to the night.

  Uneasily she prowled the veranda, the gun slung loosely in the crook of her arm, carried as solid evidence of reality, a hedge against something that wouldn’t happen until well after first light. She knew she should rest. She would need all her energy when Dominic Mansour came back. And he would. When Sanchez purchased men, he purchased their principles, too. Dom would give him his money’s worth.

  Acasia stopped pacing and stared into the night. Cam was only in danger from Sanchez and Dominic Mansour as long as he remained in Zaragoza. Or, given that Dom no doubt had a score to settle with her, as long as she remained with him. I never should have come, she thought again, as though second–guessing herself might make a difference.

  Don’t be silly, she told herself. Dom’s not a fanatic, only a professional soldier in need of a war.

  Think again, sweetheart, a little voice whispered. He thinks you tried to kill him—or barring that, that you left him for dead.

  A vivid memory of an explosion blinded her thoughts momentarily. It had been nearly seven years since an odd job she’d picked up for the State Department had first introduced her to the former French intelligence agent named Dominic Mansour, four since he’d led Sanchez’s special squads routing the families of Zaragoza’s rebel leaders out of hiding, killing some and imprisoning others, establishing himself in the role of Sanchez’s trusted right hand. And it had been nearly three since she’d led him into the Zaragozan National Liberation Front trap she’d thought had killed him.

  Sweat streaked down her face, soaking her collar. Past sins had a habit of haunting one at the most inopportune times. Life meted out consequences in its own sweet time and left no room for mistakes en route. Acasia only wished she could figure out why all her mistakes had chosen to catch up with her at once.

  Why didn’t you stay dead, you bastard?

  A jaguar snarled in the night, and she jerked alert, snapped off the gun’s safety and raised it in one reflexive motion. Nothing, it was nothing, only nerves. Trembling, she snapped the safety back in place and dropped into a padded wicker chair by the door, the shotgun across her knees.

  Exhaustion moved in as her tension seeped away. The humid air stirred sleepily through her hair, and she leaned her head on the back of the chair, eyes drooping closed. For a minute she would rest; for a moment she would let herself relax….

  * * *

  Troubled dreams caught her on the edge of sleep, bringing distorted images of Cameron, Dominic, explosions and Zaragoza to disturb her rest. Incidents she’d chosen to forget waltzed around the perimeter of her mind, built to a climax and brought her awake with a loud clap of thunder, choking on a scream. Dreams clung to the fringes of her consciousness, the events they represented as real to her now as when they’d happened.

  Lightning sizzled in the sky, and Acasia shivered. She was cold, her skin crawling with sweat, the sinister, comforting length of wood and metal in her lap slippery with it. A past she had thought long over was getting too near.

  With trembling hands she wiped the perspiration from her eyes and looked around. It was dark, still nighttime in Fred’s jungle, and Cameron was safe. She went to make sure anyway, padding on silent feet through the inky darkness to his room. The lightning showed her that he was under the mosquito netting, breathing evenly, deeply. She sagged against the wall in relief. He was fine, he was safe. Still…

  She slid down until she was sitting on the floor beside him, between the mattress and the door, watching. His breathing lulled her, hypnotized her. Her head lolled forward, and she slept.

  Chapter 4

  THE LATE–EVENING SUN stretched long shadows across the pond and left a lacework of light dancing on Acasia’s bare breasts and belly. There was wonder on her face, joy and laughter, shyness and serenity. She touched him, just a fingertip, but it was possessive as it sketched a line down the center of his chest, then traced back up his side.

  "I love you," she said. "You make me feel whole—like I’ll always have someplace to come home to. I never knew how much I missed not having that."

  "I know," Cameron returned softly, touching her, absorbing t
he sensation of her skin beneath his fingers, the musky scent of sex and lavender in his nostrils, the taste of honey and salt. He memorized them, storing them away to be taken out whenever he needed them, so he could hold her close even though she was gone. "It’s the same for me, and I’ve lived in one spot all my life. You are home. Mine. Always. God, I love you."

  God, I love you. The echo of the words opened Cameron’s eyes, nudged him awake. Sun laced merciless fingers through the trees, the window and the mosquito netting. Heat dotted his skin with beads of sweat. He stretched, and his muscles assaulted him with pain: that left over from yesterday’s tramp and that left unsated in the night.

  She didn’t come.

  The back of his head hurt, and even the slightest movement pulled at his hair and tore open his wound. Again. She didn’t come again. He blinked at a flicker of wings in the sun and swallowed the irrational taste of disappointment. She had changed her mind; she had been sidetracked by Fred; she had simply elected to break her promise. He wouldn’t be surprised if that were it, given their past history.

  He turned onto his side and saw her through the white veil, his personal sentry, asleep beside his bed. She slumped almost upright against the wall, chin on her chest, knees tucked up, hands curled into loose fists, defensive even in repose. He rolled onto his back, shut his eyes and sighed. The small sound brought Acasia instantly awake and to her feet, casting around for the cause of the disturbance. When no threat became immediately apparent, she rubbed her face and neck groggily, raised the mosquito net and looked down at Cameron.

  "Get lost?" he queried politely.

  Daylight banished the night’s terrors and left embarrassment in their place. She’d meant to be gone before he woke. "You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you," she said lamely, dropping the net and backing away.