by Nancy Gideon
How could he find room in his conscience for one more life lost because he hadn't been ready?
His heart pounded. He labored to get a decent fill of air in the thinning higher altitude. Fear and culpability fueled his rush up the nearly impassable slope.
And then he reached the top, and seeing Sheba there made his heart beat hard and fast for an entirely different reason.
The stone slabs were old, some toppled and broken, all worn down by the weather. Sheba sat atop one of them, leaning back on her palms, her knees updrawn and head dropped back as if soaking up the silver rays of the rising moon. Or as if offering herself to its embrace. She wore baggy hiking shorts and heavy boots with a skinny little white tank top that hugged her lean curves in loving relief. The silver of the cross he'd given her glittered at the hollow of her throat, and the key to her people's past lay exposed between her breasts.
It was suddenly clear to Frank Cobb.
He was in love—wildly, irrationally and perhaps for the first time.
And surprisingly, it didn't scare the hell out of him.
"Moon bathing?"
She turned her head toward him at the sound of his voice and smiled. It was as if the sun rose in a blaze of warmth and brilliant glory.
"You shouldn't be out here alone."
She grinned at his scolding. “I'm not. I'm perfectly safe. You're here.” Serenely, she turned her face back up toward the heavens.
A massive weight of emotion flip-flopped in his chest.
He was in big trouble.
He waited, but all the warning bells and whistles that had saved him from taking any kind of committed step in the past remained silent. There was just Sheba and the moon and the crazy tightness around his heart that just kept building. She was a heart attack and he ignored all the cautioning signs as he approached her in the soft glow of evening.
"Ruperto has arranged for some kind of transportation to take us out of here in the morning."
"Fine. I've been worried about Paulo."
Cobb scowled slightly. He hadn't been thinking about Lemos at all.
"And hopefully by then, I'll know everything I've come here to learn."
Apprehension soured his appreciation of the taut curve of her tanned calves and thighs. “Sheba, maybe you should just let it go.” Ruperto's suggestion rang in the back of his brain, reminding him of those same words directed toward his ceaseless quest.
"Let it go?” She stared at him, the look accusing and slightly wounded. “I can't, Frank. I've come too far and waited too long. It's a risk I'm willing to take to put the past to rest."
But he wasn't willing.
He wanted to shout that at her, to shake her and forbid her to take ridiculous and dangerous liberties with her life. But he had no right to impose his unspoken feelings upon her. He could only attempt to make her see reason.
"You're talking about taking a potentially lethal drug, that's illegal as well as unstable. It's not like having your palm read or looking at Tarot cards. You're going to be putting a mind-altering narcotic into your body without knowing the results."
"Ruperto knows what he's doing."
"Ruperto's not the one taking the risk."
"Yes, he is. He's risking everything he holds sacred by telling me what he's told me tonight. He's counting on me being honorable and brave, and I won't disappoint him."
"Think of what you might be sacrificing, Sheba."
She ignored his challenge by purposefully changing the subject. “They used to sacrifice to the gods in this place to receive bountiful crops and beneficent weather. Some gods were satisfied with grains and small domestic animals, some with gold and precious stones, but others who were more powerful and therefore less content with trivial gifts, demanded offerings in blood and human life. When they excavated the tomb of the Lord of Sipan, they found not only treasures but the bodies of young women buried with their lord, sacrificed to provide him with service in the afterlife."
"Sounds like quite the deal for the lord but not so good for the ladies."
"More than likely they were honored to surrender themselves to the cause of his peaceful rest, but I, for one, could not go so docilely and with so little reward."
He'd come to stand at the end of the stone upon which she was half-reclined before him. “And what kind of reward would you require, princess?"
"This sacrificial virgin thing sucks big time. I wouldn't be content to go with my innocence intact. That would be grossly unfair."
"To you or to those who would line up for miles for the chance to deflower you?"
"Miles? Really? You think so?"
"From here to Chile and back,” he assured her. His tone had grown husky, the playful banter shifting by increments into more serious and sultry territory. He was thinking of that Moche goblet and the engraved image of Sheba arched in ecstacy upon it. “And I'd be first in line."
She went still for a long moment, just looking at him through studious eyes as the silver of the moon cast mysterious lights within that intense stare. “Would you, Frank? If this was my altar, would you pay homage to me upon it? Upon me?"
Now it was his turn to go still in reflection. When once she might have chosen that time to withdraw behind shyness and insecurity, she advanced boldly. The toe of her boot nudged at his hip then rubbed over the strained material at his groin, the pressure only adding to the tension already nearing meltdown inside him.
"Sheba,” he warned halfheartedly, catching her ankle to plant her boot firmly on the stone. But his hand wouldn't remain still. His palm slid upward to the taut length of her calf, sampling the heat and firm texture of her with a slow, plying motion. Her eyes grew heavy-lidded as she moistened her lips.
"If you're still waiting for an invitation, Mr. Cobb, this is it."
Her legs were slightly spraddled. When he moved his hands from ankles to knees, from strong revolutions there into a leisurely descent along beautifully toned thighs, her knees dropped open as she lay back upon the stone, offering an invitation impossible to refuse.
Her breath escaped in a shuddering sigh as he stroked down her inner thighs to their apex. His hands stole inside the loose fabric of her shorts to caress over the increasingly damp cotton of her panties. She made a sound halfway between a moan and a wordless demand and closed her eyes. His thumbs worked their way under the elastic of either leg opening, touching for the first time upon unexplored terrain, parting, probing gently until her hips rose up in welcome, reaching for him in tiny, instinctive thrusts. She was hot with anticipation, and the shorts had become an intolerable restraint. With trembling hands, she undid them, lifting so he could slide them and the unnecessary shield of her underwear down her long legs and out of the way.
It was dark, her natural hair color, a soft curling mat of it centered between bronzed legs and belly upon a delicately pale bikini triangle of protected skin that opened to ripe secrets in hues of glistening coral. He bent, tracing his tongue along one firm inner thigh as he coaxed her knees to grip either side of his shoulders for stability. Her breathing fell into a broken rhythm of anxious expectation until he finally reached his destination. Then it stopped altogether as he tasted her for the first time, lightly so that her nerve endings shivered with want, then aggressively so that she would want for nothing.
She exhaled explosively and began gulping for air.
And when he inserted his forefinger to test for her readiness, her body exploded into seismic shudders that eased into tremors of aftershock as he lifted away. She lay spread and gloriously flushed before him, having reached the first plateau toward fulfillment, and panting for more.
A spear of misgiving shot through him. Her first time shouldn't be on a rough slab of stone, out in the open like some pagan rite of passage. She deserved better. She deserved fresh sheets and champagne and the purr of air conditioning.
"Sheba, maybe we should—"
Her knees clenched tight to hold him between them as she sat up to wrap her arms about his
head.
"Shut up, Frank,” she told him in a voice so low and gruff it was almost a growl. “Don't talk. Don't think. You do too much of both."
And she pounced upon his mouth like a hungry predator, feeding voraciously, devouring him with provocative nibbles on his lower lip and dueling with his tongue like a master swordsman until the power of speech and thought abandoned him and there was only Sheba. Tasting herself on him.
Without breaking from their kiss, she freed one hand to fumble with the zipper of his cargo pants. When her urgency threatened him with bodily harm, he finished the task for her, wriggling his trousers off his hips so her long legs could circle him, drawing her eager sex up against his aching counterpart.
There was no stopping, no slowing, no time for romantic platitudes or tender considerations. Scooping his palms under her taut bottom, he lifted her slightly and settled her over him. In one smooth move, they were joined as deeply and fully as a man and woman could be.
Sheba gasped into his kisses, her slender body quivering in a moment of shocked invasion and surprise. Then gradually, her breathing deepened and her mouth became demanding once more. And he began to move her in tiny lifts so she could get used to the sensation of him inside her, while he was almost undone by the tight gloving of heat that tempted him toward completion with each increasingly powerful stroke.
Once she caught on to the motion with an unholy zeal, she rode him with a startlingly athletic prowess. She was strong and toned and his equal in every way, able to match his movements and his desires so perfectly, the sense of scalding bliss was more euphoric than any drug. Rising and falling until he was gritting his teeth against the urge to blow like a booster rocket hurtling the Space Shuttle to the moon and beyond. Sheba fisted around him with a savage suddenness. As he gave one last hard thrust to launch her skyward, her breath sucked in then released along with bone-rattling spasms that shook her all the way to the toes.
Then there was no delaying the earth-shattering send-off, convulsing through him until his knees went to jelly.
They leaned against one another for basic support, breathing in hurried snatches, dazed beyond comprehension.
Then Sheba's lips moved against his, slowly, softly, seeking a response he almost didn't have the energy to give. With her hands still locked behind his head, she leaned back to regard him through slumberous, self-satisfied eyes.
"That was fantastic, and you are phenomenal but I'm getting rock burn on my butt."
His grin split wide. After a long, hard kiss, he yanked up his pants and retrieved her bottoms. Once she was clothed, he wasn't sure what to expect. Shyness, remorse, possibly anger. But it was humor she rallied behind.
"There's something to be said for virgin sacrifice. I regret I have only one cherry to give in the pursuit of happiness."
He continued to grin, wolfishly.
"Who said I was planning to let you settle for just once?"
Chapter Twenty
As they lay side by side on the sleeping bags they'd zipped together inside the privacy of their tent, Cobb made suitably sympathetic noises over the aggrieved state of her scraped backside then looked arrogantly pleased when she vowed it wouldn't sideline her from further activities. Then he pushed her to prove it by stripping her down to the skin and putting her through an exhaustive battery of sensual tests of ingenuity as well as skill.
She excelled in all of them beyond his wildest fantasies, all without him taking off more than his shirt.
When she finally cried uncle, it was more to slow down the moment than to postpone it. Though Cobb promised to let her get some rest, he continued to shape her small breasts within his palms, teasing her nipples into perennial points between thumb and forefinger to let her know it was only a time out, not game over. Then, he paused in his caresses when he came to a two-inch ridge of raised scarring along her ribs just below her left breast.
"What's this from? Knife fight?"
His tone was teasing, but her candid reply scared the hell out of him.
"Pitchfork, actually."
"You're joking."
"I am not. I don't joke about my work. I was collecting some data in a small Slavic village when one of the farmers decided because of my extensive knowledge in matters of the occult that I must be a witch. I must have set a new record in the 800 meter dash that night.” When he was silent, she taunted, “What did you think I did for a living? Sat in a hotel room dictating into a tape player about rumors I heard in the lobby bar?"
He got the feeling he was just beginning to understand.
"That's nothing. Check this out.” She moved his hand to the back of one trim thigh, where he felt an odd pattern of marks. “Crocodile,” she informed him rather proudly, “from the Outback where I was categorizing folklore and decided to take a swim. Lucky for me he was just a little nipper."
"Pretty tough chick, aren't you?” He sounded impressed in spite of himself.
"I am when I have to be. And what about you, tough guy. Show me your scars. From the line of work you're in, you must have a road map of them."
He rolled up on his side to regard her with an indulgent smile. “And what do you know about my line of work?"
Her expression sobered as she reached up to trace the jagged line marring his cheek. He didn't flinch, but she could feel his tension beneath her fingertips. “I know it's dangerous work. I know you put your life on the line over and again for people who don't give a damn about you. But then, you don't give a damn about them either. Why do you do it, Frank? It's got to be more than the money."
"Why does it have to be?"
She could sense him trying to wriggle that impersonal distance back between them. Oh no you don't, bub. He wasn't going to escape through either cocky attitude or sly avoidance. Not this time. Not when it was so important for her to understand what made him tick.
"Because I can see past that bad ass act to the decent guy you try to hide."
He put a hand over his heart in a dramatic gesture. “You've found me out. I'm just a pussycat wearing tiger stripes."
She touched his forearm where a thin white line started and ran across his elbow. “Where did you get this? Playing tennis at Club Med? Or Club Fed?"
"I got tossed off the hood of a car cornering at about forty-five miles an hour. The surgeon took out enough gravel to fill a five-gallon aquarium bottom.” And he sounded rather smug about that, too.
"And what about this?” She pointed out a small scar below his left shoulder where it was nearly hidden by tufts of chest hair. “Someone try to break your heart? Don't tell me. Knife fight."
"It wasn't much of a fight."
His voice was so soft and empty of emotion, the hairs prickled instinctively at her nape. She flattened her palm over that long-ago wound and felt his heart beat hard and fast beneath it.
"Frank, talk to me."
He had the eerie ability to look right at a person and yet through them, the way he did now as he answered her request, starting at a place she hadn't expected. With family.
"My dad was a private pilot. He had learned to fly in Korea and loved it. He had a corporate job that required him to shuttle industry bigwigs to their meetings along the East Coast. My mom hated it when he was gone. She'd be up all night prowling the house and there at the airport waiting every time he got back. And I'd go with her when I wasn't in school. Only one late night, he was landing in this nasty mix of sleet and snow and something went wrong. He landed short of the runway. They were all killed on impact."
Sheba's eyes teared up instantly. Her voice was choked but gentle. “How old were you?"
"Eight."
"And you were there?"
He didn't have to nod an affirmative. She could picture the explosive impact in the brief glittering shadow that crossed his gaze. But he blinked, and it was gone.
"My mom fell apart. She started with prescription drugs to get through the funeral and then started washing them down with whatever was in the liquor cabinet. She just c
ouldn't seem to get her life on track again. I guess I wasn't enough of a reason for her to hold on.” Emotional volumes were spoken in that one flat admission.
"Within the year, we'd lost our house and the cars, and our old friends stopped coming around. Mom's new friends came and went. I stopped going to school to do odd jobs so we'd have money to eat, but there was never enough for rent, even for the crummy dump we lived in. There was rarely any heat and a bathroom shared by the entire floor where you'd have to step over winos and guys shooting up heroin. The filth and noise were everywhere. I couldn't be scared because I had to take care of my mom. She'd stopped caring about anything but her bottle of booze and pills. Then it went from pills to some real bad stuff."
His jaw clenched down on the rest. That's all he could say about the truly dark times when she wouldn't know him or would plead with him to go out in the night to steal enough to pay for her next fix.
"I never blamed her, though. It wasn't her fault that she wasn't stronger. And it wasn't my fault that I wasn't old enough to take her out of that cesspool. Maybe I could have if I'd had enough time, but time ran out when I was fourteen.
"She had a new guy coming around, bad news all the way. I'd gone out to hustle some money shooting pool, and that's when he decided that she'd been siphoning off his drug supply. He was in the process of teaching her a lesson with the butt of his pistol when I walked in. I guess I surprised him. I never even knew he'd shot me until my mom started screaming for help. Then he shot her, too. She died before I could get to the phone at the pawn shop next door. Nobody would help. And of course, nobody heard a thing."
No wonder he'd understood her pain so well. He'd lived it himself.
"What happened to you?"
"I survived. I told the cops everything I knew about the guy, but they just didn't seem all that interested in expending the manpower to track down some drug addict's killer. And were less interested in how I was going to get by. Until the sonuvabitch turned up in an alley with a knife in his throat. Then everybody wanted to talk to me again."
Quietly, she asked, “Was it self-defense?"