by Liz D. Marx
The scent of the lake was infused on her soft skin; water drops cascaded down her delicious legs, painting a trail of pure delight. Mason had to stop himself from leaning forward and licking those droplets all the way up to heaven.
Down boy, down. “I’m going to get us dinner,” Mason declared, then stood up and left. He had to get away from that woman.
After ensuring that he was far enough, Mason broke into a run. He needed to feel his toxins burning, get his muscles working—anything to get his head where it was supposed to be and focus on his mission. He needed the stone to unlock Mantaka’s powers and find a way out of this endless torture of a life. Period. No complications, no deviations.
A few miles later, he stopped to take a break. He was deep in the mountains. There was no one around, just him and nature. He closed his eyes and smelled the air. It was a good day for hunting. The storm had settled the dust down; the day was clear, but still damp.
He found a nice spot by a thick pine tree, knelt down and called forth his noo-hi. Eyes closed, chin raised to greet Dai-mo, mind cleared, he felt the power of his soul’s essence grow inside him, take over all his senses and enhancing his awareness. The aroma of fresh rain on autumn leaves invaded his nostrils. He heard a small toad splashing in the water twenty feet down by the lake’s shore, but the sound of slithering nearby caught his attention.
Time to hunt.
The familiar tingle in his gut grew to become a powerful vibration that engulfed his entire body. Mason opened his mouth wide and the beautiful black raven flew out into the sky.
His noo-hi had no trouble finding the source of the sound. It was a fairly sizable black rat snake. Would Chloe have ever had snake before?
Mason stood up and followed his raven, empowering it to its full potential. It went from semi-transparent to fully embodied. His bird’s striking black feathers could be clearly discerned against the orange sky.
The snake was a good sixty inches long and over two inches wide. Mason came closer, his raven circling above. The serpent coiled its body and vibrated its tail on the dead leaves. It was trying to simulate a rattle as a few of its species often did when faced with danger.
“Clever,” Mason thought, “but not smart enough.”
He knew he had to act fast before the reptile had its chance to strike. His noo-hi swooped low and caught the snake’s tail with its strong claws, successfully distracting it. Before the reptile could take a bite at his noo-hi—which would have hurt quite a bit—Mason lunged forward, caught the ophidian in a firm grip and broke its sectioned backbone in two spots, close to the head.
He knelt down by his dead prey and thanked Elo-hi, the goddess of all life on Earth, for allowing him to take the snake’s life to feed his. His noo-hi landed on his shoulders and shared the moment with the other parts of his soul.
Arriving back at their campsite, Mason noticed that Chloe had already lit a fire for them. It was far from being the best he had seen, but he was quite impressed. She had found a flat area about ten feet from the tent and had cleared it of leaves. She had also remembered to add tinder and small twigs to the neatly structured pile of dried kindling, leaving enough space between the sticks to let the air through.
She had changed into comfy black leggings and a warm olive jumper that emphasized the green in her eyes. Sitting on the ground watching the flames dance in front of her, she looked absolutely beautiful. Mason’s gut tightened in desire and this time around he didn’t even try to ignore it.
At the sound of his footsteps, she looked up.
“It’s just me,” Mason reassured her, then added, lifting the snake for her to see, “I brought dinner.”
He had to bite his lower lip to stop himself from laughing at her reaction. Her green gaze went from startled to relieved to utterly shocked in just seconds.
“So no rabbits around, huh?” she asked, trying to put on a tough face.
“Nope.”
Mason went to the river, skinned the reptile and cut its long length into four sections. Returning to the campfire, he took out a set of knives from his backpack, a small hand-crafted mat made of flax, and sat next to Chloe, who now looked like she was about to throw up.
“This is how my people eat fresh meat,” he said, ignoring her nauseated expression. “Black rat snakes are not very fleshy, but they are very tasty.” He then impaled one of the sections in a metal skewer. “See?”
She nodded slowly.
“Now, you try.” He offered her a spear-like knife and a piece of white meat.
Chloe didn’t move. Her wide gaze darted from his to the dead reptile and back. Mason knew she was out of her comfort zone but hadn’t meant to drive her too far. He wanted to show her his tribe’s ways, not freak her out, so with a ghost of disappointment clawing at his heart, he retracted his offering.
But small hands stopped him. Mason paused, pleasantly surprised to see Chloe’s determined eyes on his.
She swallowed hard then took the knife and the meat, and repeated exactly what he had showed her.
Tough cookie.
Mason’s lips curled up in a small smile and he nodded in approval. He lifted his skewer just above the fire, and Chloe followed suit.
They sat there, side by side, in silence. Mason was completely aware of her presence—her warmth, her smell, the way her shoulders were relaxed, and how her chest lifted and dropped at each breath she took.
“So, how does a librarian know how to make a campfire?” Mason asked, emphasizing the wrong job title.
“I’m not a librarian, I’m an historian, Mr. Little-Shop-of-Horrors,” she replied, throwing his joke right back at him.
He chuckled.
“I learned it on a silly reality TV show,” she answered lightly.
Watching Chloe take her first bite at the snake kebab made this whole journey worth it. First, she tentatively smelled it, and her brows lifted as if to say, “Hmm, not too bad”; then took a small bite and chewed a couple of times, the way people do when eating a piece of fish full of bones.
Once she was finished with her mouthful, her face lit up and she exclaimed, “You’re right, it’s quite nice.”
“Good. Next meal, we’ll try toads.”
Chloe choked and almost spit her food on the floor.
Mason couldn’t stop the loud laugh from echoing in the early evening. And when the coin dropped and Chloe realized he was just teasing her, she punched him on the arm, but giggled nonetheless.
Later on, after they said their good-nights and retired―Chloe to the tent, and he on the ground by the fire―Mason focused on planning his next move. As soon as she fell asleep, he would find a way of getting the Tula stone from her bag and take off. He would leave the truck behind for her, of course, so that she could go back to Hot Springs unharmed.
Mason’s chest felt suddenly tight.
It was too bad he would have to double-cross her. He hadn’t felt this good in a very long time.
Chapter Eleven
From the hotel bar, Foster watched Pamela cross the foyer. Her fiery, wavy hair was loose and perfectly done, complementing her jaw-dropping features. Apart from the light makeup that enhanced her blue eyes, she let her natural beauty shine for itself.
And what a glow.
Her hips swayed from side to side, causing the delightful curves of her body to turn into a hypnotic pendulum. Her generous breasts rocked in accordance. She knew every single man in the room was watching her and, judging by the lazy smile that crossed her face, she liked it.
Over the four hours they had spent together, Pamela had taken Foster to a number of art galleries in Hot Springs, as well as in the nearby towns of Piney and Rockwell. He’d played the part of Texan tycoon while she’d pretended to be Mason’s assistant. And she did it very well.
Throughout the whole day, Foster pried and tested her knowledge about his friend’s operations, and she passed every single one of the tests―which was quite disturbing. Her boss must have had his eyes on Mason long before
they realized it. From what Foster could pick up, Pamela knew Mason was more than just an antique gallery owner, but she didn’t know what he was exactly.
After their tour she had invited him to dinner, since he was new in town and Mason was still “tied up somewhere”.
Man, what a great liar she was.
She chose a small but high-profile French restaurant on the outskirts of town. In between tricky questions and cross-examining remarks―where Foster had to concentrate to not crash and burn by his own lies―they had a surprisingly delightful meal. Miss Swan was quite a charming woman.
Foster had used the extra time with her to pry a little deeper and double-check a few details in her story. Every time she mentioned “her boss”, one corner of her beautiful lips tightened and rose slightly.
In all his years of training in the police academy, Foster had learned to spot little details that the average Joe would miss. That tiny movement of her lips shouted out true contempt for her employer, which was good news since Mason wasn’t her real boss. He took a mental note on that―he might be able to play that card later if push came to shove.
When the waiter brought him the bill, Foster incidentally mentioned he had no idea where he would spend the night. Pamela’s eyes sparkled, and she volunteered to find him a nice place where he would have the best night of his life.
Was that a promise?
Part of him wanted to believe she was actually interested in him. Hell, why wouldn’t she? Foster had no trouble finding company, and in the course of his 36 years of age, he’d had a few long term girlfriends too―his 6 foot 2 inch height, broad shoulders, gym-fit body and the blue-eye/dark hair combo had always guaranteed he was never without a dance partner.
But Pamela was a notch above, even for him. So the damned question kept ringing on the back of his mind―why was she so interested in “one of Mason’s clients”? She didn’t know that Mr. Randolph Hussey was a fake, so why was she still around? Foster had been very careful to give only nondescript answers to her snooping questions. Maybe she was planning on kidnapping him and blackmailing Mason, or something similar.
“All set,” she declared, settling her gorgeous behind on the bar stool next to him. “You’re staying in suite 150 on the third floor. It has a very nice view. Here’s your key,” Pamela said holding out the credit-card-looking device.
Foster reached for the key, and their eyes locked. She didn’t let go; neither did he.
“Well, Miss Swan. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Yes, Randolph, it has,” she replied. After a heartbeat, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Maybe it doesn’t have to end so soon.”
Now the real game begins.
He brushed her soft cheek with the back of his hand. “No, it doesn’t.”
Pamela stepped off the stool and closed the gap between them, settling herself between his open legs. Her lips brushed his briefly, then trailed along his chin. He felt her chest press against his, her warm breath on his neck. Her perfume threatened to burn the remaining rational cells left in his brain.
She was clearly very good at this game, but so was he.
Foster cupped the back of her neck and, gently but surely, turned her face to his. Her lips were inches from his. He paused to relish the moment; like a poker player right before they decide to fold or raise a bet. And he’ll be damned if he wasn’t going to raise her.
His lips descended on hers with the confidence of someone who knew his hand was better than his opponent’s. She tasted sweet with a hint of red wine, his favorite flavor. His tongue danced in her mouth, slowly, sensually, and she returned his kiss with equal fervor.
“Why don’t we put this room key to use?” she whispered against his mouth.
Oh, what the hell? There’s no harm in playing with fire as long as you’re careful not to get burned, right?
The trip to his room was interesting. They walked side by side as if going to a meeting together, except for the occasional caress of hands or the locking of hot gazes.
In the meantime, Foster’s trained eye was everywhere. He was certain she was luring him into a trap, like a bee is drawn by the scent and pretty colors of a carnivorous flower. So he needed to play the part and be ready. He recalled every detail of the evening, trying to figure out his odds.
Discounting the time she went to the ladies room at the restaurant, he had ensured she was always in his sight. If she had managed to call for backup, they had to be watching them right now.
When they finally reached his room, he took the magnetic key out and slotted it in. In the corner of his eye, he saw Pamela taking a step back. The hairs on the back of his neck went up. That was it―whoever was aiding her was going to pounce out of the shadows and strike.
But not if Foster did it first.
In one fluid movement, Foster turned around, grabbed Pamela by the hips and crushed her lips on his. Wrapping one arm around her, he used her body to shield him from any possible attack, and with his right hand opened the door and quickly closed it behind them.
“Wow, baby, you are hot like your home town,” Pamela exclaimed, sounding a bit breathless. “Hold that thought, hon. I just need to powder my nose.” She snaked herself out of his embrace and went to the bathroom.
Oh, no, you don’t.
Foster grabbed her by the wrist and brought her back into his arms. “Your nose is perfectly powdered, my dear.”
He knew that if he let her out of his sight, she would call someone and the game would be over in no time, with his ass on the spit. So he had to keep her there with him. What a terrible task that would be.
He drew her closer, ensuring their bodies were in full contact, and kissed her again. Then he ran his fingers along her shoulders and forcibly let her purse, where she kept her cell phone, fall on the carpet.
He was expecting Pamela to pull away and give him a lame excuse to find a way out of there, but she didn’t. When his mouth left her luscious lips and trailed down her neck, she didn’t try to stop him.
Chapter Twelve
Chloe couldn’t sleep. The small tent was stuffy, the sleeping bag too constricting. Unzipping it, she pulled herself out of the synthetic covers and lay back down on top of the soft bundle.
“Much better,” she sighed in relief.
She flapped her arms a couple of times to fully enjoy the freedom and then settled on her back, staring at the tent’s structure. It was an old one, already rusting on a few spots, but it didn’t look like it would collapse on her. She counted twelve poles, twenty-four joints and—
“Damn it.” That was the fiftieth time she counted up the tent’s pieces. There was no way she would sleep tonight.
Images of her day with Mason kept flooding her mind. He could be so annoying at times, and the next minute he could make her insides melt with just a smile or a smarty-pants comment.
The two hours they’d spent parked at the roadside diner, deciphering her stone, had been a revelation. Chloe was very impressed with his knowledge of the pre-Colombian tribes.
“And what about his knowledge of the ancient languages?” she asked herself as if needing confirmation. “Incredible.”
Together they had managed to crack most of the symbols on the relic. It was definitely a poem, and Chloe’s gut was telling her it was no ordinary poem. Its whole structure screamed magic and ceremonies. But it was incomplete. The drawings told what sounded like the middle of a story―no beginning and no end.
“I bet it’s a spell of some kind,” she said as she pulled the object out of her bag and unwrapped it from the makeshift cover.
Her hands touched the stone and, just like the other times, a beautiful rainbow of colors lit up the artifact. Chloe remembered how careful Mason had been to not directly touch it.
His hands were calloused but firm. His long fingers had brushed the thin material as if it were the silky nightgown of a lover. Chloe felt a warm tickle in her stomach with the thought of having Mason caress her the same way.
&n
bsp; “Oh hell, yes, he is very handsome.” And so her type. She finally admitted to herself.
Since she was a young girl, she’d had a thing for exotic men. Blonds, Caucasians, Europeans did nothing for her. Maybe it was because of her dreams, or maybe it was simply her taste for men. But, damn, Mason ticked all the boxes for her.
His dark brown eyes were so penetrating she felt he could see through her. His black hair was cut short at the nape of the neck and was longer at the front, perfectly framing his square jaw and long nose. His beauty wasn’t the typical Hollywood-handsome, but exotic and charming. The way his white T-shirt under the black leather jacket showed just enough of his well-defined six pack and the way his dark blue jeans delineated his fine behind didn’t help her cause either.
When he had taken her to the lake to show her his tribe’s way of greeting the sun, her insides had melted and her knees turned to jelly. It had taken her a while to tame the butterflies that insisted on dancing in her tummy. His hands had remained respectfully on her shoulders but, boy, did she want him to explore her skin further.
Chloe sighed. Mason was obviously not into her.
When she went swimming, she was hoping he would join her―it was a warmish day after all―but instead he had stayed behind. Then as soon as she got out of the lake, hoping to get to know him a little better, he simply disappeared for over an hour with the excuse to find them food.
“Fair enough, he brought us dinner but he could have taken me with him.” Couldn’t he?
The tingle in her tummy shifted to her bladder. Damn it, now she needed to pee. But the thought of peeing in the middle of the forest—in the darkness—was not very pleasant.
“Just think about something else, Chloe, and you’ll be fine,” she told herself.
The whole eating-snake-for-dinner thing was surprisingly fun. At the end of the meal they were both laughing at her attempts to cook the snake properly. Mason hadn’t missed any opportunity to make fun of her clumsiness, but he had also taught her how to do things with care and patience. Her guide was a walking paradigm, but he made her feel... at ease.