by Andrea Kane
“No.” Sloane’s voice sounded raspy, probably from all that time spent in the pouring rain. “That hasn’t changed.”
“Good. Then we’re all set to eat.” He frowned, seeing how green around the gills she looked. “Is the Whopper too heavy? Because I also got a salad and a roll if you want something lighter.”
“No way. I never turn down a Whopper. I’m starving. My nausea’s from the Vicodin. It’ll disappear as soon as I eat.”
“It says on the bottle that it should be taken with food. But you fell asleep before I could get anything substantial into you.”
“Not a problem. I know the drill. Vicodin and I are old friends. I keep our reunions short, because it’s a narcotic and because it knocks me out. But it’s also a hell of a painkiller.”
“The nurse practitioner said she got you to eat some crackers when you took it.”
A mental flash, and Sloane nodded. “She did. I ate four saltines.”
“You need a solid meal. Here.”
“Wait.” Sloane reached out to stop him, frowning as she felt the nerves in her palm tingle. If she’d undone any of Dr. Houghton or Connie’s hard work, she didn’t think she could bear it. Not again.
“I’ve got to get home,” she announced, shoving back the bedspread. “I’m fuzzy about what the nurse practitioner said, and what she did. I need to see my hand therapist. And the hounds…I’ve got to pick them up.”
“The hounds are fine.” Derek halted Sloane’s motion, easing her back onto the bed. “Mrs. Wagner’s keeping them overnight. I found her number on your speed dial,” he added, preempting Sloane’s next question with an answer. “And you’re not going anywhere. Not till tomorrow morning. The nurse practitioner emphasized that about twenty times when she prescribed the Vicodin.”
“But I have some nerve tingling in my hand.” Sloane was trying to stay calm. “That could mean I redamaged something.”
“The nerves are inflamed. That’s it. Other than the fact that you tore up the tissue around your scars pretty badly with that wrench. The ice pack took down the swelling. Anyway, they did some tests. You passed with flying colors. And you spoke to your hand therapist, as did the nurse practitioner. Constance—I think that was her name—was satisfied with all the procedures that were done, and with the results.”
“Right.” Memory filtered back in fragments. “I did talk to Connie. She said I should follow the instructions health services gave me, take the Vicodin, and see her at her New Jersey office tomorrow at three.”
“Exactly.”
Relief surged through Sloane with the force of a tidal wave. Her hand would be okay. And the hounds were safe and cared for. “What about my car?” she asked.
“It’s at the local gas station. The mechanic is patching your tire. It’ll be good as new tomorrow, just like you.” Derek unwrapped Sloane’s Whopper with cheese and handed it to her. “Now eat. But use your left hand.”
“I intend to.” Sloane took the burger, her brows still drawn together in question. “How did my car get to the gas station?”
“I drove it there after I changed the flat. Tom picked me up and brought me back to my car. Then he took off and I swung by health services and got you.”
“I remember the drive.” Sloane was still sifting through filaments of memory. “I also remember us pulling into the hotel parking lot, and going inside the room. Oh, and I remember your giving me this to change into.” She plucked at the sweatshirt, which fit her like an oversize dress. “I don’t remember much else. I guess I was pretty out of it.”
“Those painkillers are strong. Still, you were pretty coherent until we got into the hotel room.” A corner of Derek’s mouth lifted. “Coherent enough to slam the bathroom door in my face when I tried to come in and help you change out of your wet clothes. But after you got into bed, you conked out. You’ve been asleep since.”
“Wow. That must be three and a half hours.”
“Close. Now eat your Whopper. You’re dripping sauce on my bed.”
Sloane glanced down quickly, smiling as she saw the predictable napkins and outer wrapper Derek had placed on her lap. “Somehow I knew that was a lie. Did you think I’d forgotten, Mr. Clean?”
“Nope.” Derek took a bite of his own Double Whopper. “Just checking to see how lucid you are.”
“More lucid by the minute. And this meal should help.” Sloane chowed down, devouring her Whopper and eating her french fries with gusto. In between bites, she gulped down her drink.
“I never did understand the whole Diet Coke thing.” Derek took a swallow of his root beer. “If you decide to pig out and stuff your face with fat and calories, why not go the whole nine yards? I think I’ve seen you eat junk food maybe five times since I met you. So why dilute a great experience with a drink that tastes like watered-down Coke syrup with a vile aftertaste?”
“It’s actually pretty good.” Sloane grinned at his description. “Especially with the lemon. Besides, if I’m going to gorge myself, why waste calories on soda? I’d rather use them on some extra fries.”
“I say, go for both.”
“Be the ultimate hedonist.”
“Exactly. Pleasure’s not something to enjoy half measure. Throw yourself into it, full force.”
“Like you do everything.”
“So do you.”
Sloane’s chewing slowed down. “I guess I can’t deny that one. I’m pretty much an all-or-nothing girl.”
“Which leads to our talk.”
“Or not.” Sloane gave him a hopeful look. “Can’t I plead weakness from my injury? Being spaced out from my meds? Or appeal to your logic by saying we’ve been getting along so well, why ruin it now by getting into things that are going to start a war?”
“You could try them all. But none of them would work. This conversation is thirteen months overdue. And we’re having it.”
Sloane moved her take-out wrappers aside, then pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “If you review things rationally, we already had this conversation, right in the Stockton parking lot this afternoon.”
“We got out some of our anger and emotion. But we didn’t really get into the fundamentals. There’s a reason we couldn’t see each other’s point of view a year ago, a reason why you walked away, and a reason why we never reconnected.”
“Yes, there is. We’re very different people. We have different coping mechanisms, different ways of thinking, different priorities. To make things worse, we have several things in common, none of which bode well for a lasting relationship. We’re both stubborn. We’re both proud. We’re both strong-willed. And we’re both intense about whatever it is we’re into.”
“Including each other,” Derek noted drily.
“Fair enough. We’re not just intense, we’re passionate—and, yes, that includes about each other and what we had. But that’s moot. Because the bigger issues aren’t going away. We’ll never agree about who let whom down after I got stabbed. Neither of us will ever back down. And we’ll never forgive or trust each other. So we’re at a stalemate. Effectively, nothing’s changed. Given that, what’s there to talk about?”
“You’re right.”
Sloane was totally unprepared for what happened next.
In one swift motion, Derek shoved aside his Burger King wrappers and slid over onto the bed. He caught Sloane’s shoulders and pulled her toward him, until she could feel the warmth of his body through their sweatshirts.
“There is nothing to talk about,” he said in a husky voice. “Not now. Maybe never.” He tilted back her head so their gazes locked. His eyes were blazing with midnight fire. Hers were startled, growing smoky with awareness. His thumbs trailed up the sides of her neck, felt her pulse beating faster. Then they shifted up to trace her lips, her cheekbones.
And suddenly the past was the present.
“I don’t know if we’ll ever fix things,” Derek muttered, his breath grazing her mouth. “But you’re right about nothing having changed
, at least where it comes to how much I want you. Since you left, I’ve woken up more nights in a cold sweat than I can count. And from the moment I walked into that surprise meeting you arranged two weeks ago, from the second I saw you again, all I’ve been able to think about is getting inside you. My gut tells me you feel the same way. Am I right?”
Sloane didn’t—couldn’t—answer. The wall of Derek’s chest pressing against her breasts, the woodsy, ambery scent of his Burberry cologne, the heated look in his eyes—it was all too wildly erotic and familiar.
She was stunned, not by her reaction, but by its magnitude. Hers and Derek’s sexual attraction had always been off the charts. Their lovemaking had surpassed even that. She knew that passion as overpowering as theirs didn’t vanish just because the relationship didn’t work out. But this? It was like a dam had burst open, and they were being sucked up by the rushing waters.
“Sloane,” Derek repeated, his voice rough with restraint. “Answer me. Am I right?”
“Yes.” She exhaled the word in a rush.
Derek’s eyes darkened to near black. “Then screw our differences. Screw our similarities. Screw everything except this.” His hands worked their way under her sweatshirt, cupping her breasts, rubbing her nipples until they hardened.
Sloane’s entire body began thrumming, alive in a way it hadn’t been since Cleveland. Breathing became difficult, thinking impossible.
Her hands, of their own volition, slid under Derek’s shirt and up the hair-roughened planes of his chest. Even the bandages couldn’t dull the sensation of touching him again, nor did they stifle the rough sound he made in his throat.
“This is a big mistake,” Sloane announced, leaning up to brush her lips across his—first in one direction, then the other. “A really big mistake.”
Derek shoved his hands into her hair, anchored her head so he could deepen the kiss. “I don’t give a damn.” He devoured her mouth, his tongue probing deep, rubbing against hers in a hungry, rhythmic motion. “Do you?”
“No.” Sloane was right there with him. The taste of him, the sensation of his tongue taking hers in a blatant imitation of what was to come, was enough to drive away all coherent thought. She shifted onto her knees, wrapped her arms around his neck, and threw herself into the kiss.
“Your hand,” he muttered, hesitating long enough to cover her right hand with his. “We have to be careful.”
She tugged it free. “We will be. But only of that. Everything else is fair game.”
“You’re on.”
There were no more words spoken.
Derek pulled the sweatshirt over Sloane’s head, taking care to ease the right sleeve past her hand, and tossed the shirt to the floor. He then turned his efforts to getting rid of his own clothes, unzipping his jeans and tugging them down, while Sloane peeled off his shirt. Derek vaulted to his feet, shedding everything, his gaze locked on Sloane as she lay back on the bed, waiting.
She didn’t have long to wait.
He lowered himself on top of her, pressing her into the mattress. They both shuddered at the contact. The idea of prolonging the moment, savoring the preliminaries—it definitely wasn’t in the cards this time. Derek’s knees wedged Sloane’s apart, and she spread her legs wider, lifting them until she could hug his flanks. He propped himself on his elbows so he could watch her expression as his erection probed her, and pushed—deep—until he was all the way inside her.
Sloane’s back arched and she cried out, her arms going around his back, her legs tightening, lifting higher around his hips. Derek made a low, guttural sound, sweat breaking out on his forehead as her body closed around him. He began moving, penetrating her in fast, uncompromising strokes. Their gazes held until neither of them could take it anymore. Giving in to their bodies’ demands, he lowered himself fully onto her, his hands gripping her bottom so he could lift her into each forceful thrust.
The unraveling was fast, furious, and simultaneous.
Sloane’s climax boiled up inside her and erupted. Hot, gripping spasms racked her body, radiating from her core, milking Derek even as his own orgasm slammed through him. He came in a rush, spurting into her and grinding their bodies together. He rasped out her name, and Sloane gave a wild little cry—the only sound she could muster—her nails scoring Derek’s back.
When it was over, he collapsed on top of her. Their harsh breaths were the only sound in the silent hotel room, and even those began to lessen, growing slow and steady as their bodies returned to normal.
“It’s true,” Derek managed finally, his lips near her ear. “Nothing’s changed. The world could blow up when I’m inside you, and I’d never even notice.”
Sloane’s soft wisp of breath grazed his shoulder. “The world does blow up when you’re inside me. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t call it a problem. I call it a reprieve.”
There was a heartbeat of silence.
“Maybe you’re right,” Sloane acknowledged at last. “Maybe it is a reprieve. It’s honest. It’s uncomplicated.”
“And it feels so damned good.”
“That, too.”
“Oh, you forgot to mention that it’s also a great stress reliever,” Derek teased. “With the way we combust, think about the record number of endorphins we must release.”
“Good point.”
Derek kissed the hollow at the base of her throat. “Angel,” he murmured, inhaling deeply.
“Hmmm?”
“Your perfume. You still wear it. And it still drives me crazy.”
Sloane’s insides clenched. Yes, she remembered how crazy it drove him. She also remembered some of the spots on her body she’d dab the perfume to do just that.
“I have a small bottle in my purse.” Her fingertips traced his spine. “I can go get it.”
“Later.” His voice was muffled against her skin. “Right now I want you to stay right where you are.”
She could feel him hardening inside her. “I can tell.”
“Busted.” He kissed her, a slow, thorough exploration of her mouth. “Objections?”
“None.” She was already breathless.
“Is your hand okay?”
“What hand?”
Derek gave a low chuckle. “Am I as good as Vicodin?”
“Better. But just as addictive. Maybe more—at least in bed.”
“Bed is all we’re talking about. Nothing more. Deal?”
“Deal.” Sloane’s hands and lips were doing their own exploration, relearning his body by touch and taste.
A hard shudder racked his body, and Derek pulled her more fully under him, thrusting all the way in. “I hope you didn’t plan on getting much sleep tonight.”
“Much? How about none?”
“None works.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
DATE: 2 April
TIME: 0530 hours
OBJECTIVE: Tyche
Spring. The season of birth and new beginnings.
The world turning green. The trees starting to bud. And the college campus bathed in a golden glow as the sun rises. Lake Ceva is brilliant. Equally brilliant is the next goddess-to-be as she enjoys her morning jog.
Tyche.
Like the waters of Lake Ceva, she glistens as the sun sheds its first light on her. She’s young, and her gait is smooth and even as she circles the path around the lake.
She has no idea of the glorious fate that awaits her. How could she? Right now she’s still just a mere mortal. Soon she’ll be a goddess.
Church bells. A reminder of the hour. I’d better go. I have a long drive ahead. I’m worried about Gaia. She can’t be left alone. And I must prepare for Tyche’s arrival. Disposing of the cell phones will have to wait. For now, they’ll remain in my pocket. After I have Tyche, I’ll dump them near a crack house in Irvington on my way back to New Olympus.
Even as I force myself to retreat, I can’t help pausing for one last look.
Yes. Perfect. The choice. The timing. Th
e spot.
Soon I’ll have her—her and all the others.
After that, it will finally be time for my ultimate prize. My other half, the part of me that I’ve known was missing since I first read the inscription in my book: To my little Apollo.
Back then, I was too young to understand what that meant. But I understand now. Just as I understand what the gods have in store.
How long I’ve waited to bring her home. To show her the room I’ve built in her honor. To save her virtue by taking her with me.
To leave this mortal world and join the deities on Mount Olympus.
Gaia would determine when.
Eickhoff Hall, The College of New Jersey
Trenton, New Jersey
7:10 A.M.
Tina Carroll felt edgy.
She tossed onto her other side, dragged a pillow under her head, and made another attempt to fall sleep.
It didn’t work.
She sat up in bed, raked her fingers through her hair, irked that her sleep time was ticking away.
She’d followed this same routine every morning since last year when she’d moved into upperclass housing. Along with that came the luxury of a single dorm room. Her rules. Her way. No roommate to compromise with or work around. That meant she could become the night owl that her bio clock naturally urged her to be. She could hang out with her friends—either partying or playing cards—do her schoolwork until dawn, then go out for her jog at sunrise.
Unlike other people, Tina found that exercising relaxed her and helped her sleep. When she got back to her dorm room, she’d take a quick shower, climb between the sheets, and zone out for a solid five hours. She’d scheduled all her classes for afternoons, and none on Fridays—benefits of being a senior. All of which dovetailed perfectly with her Friday all-night poker game. So the pieces of her schedule all fell nicely into place, and her life was just the way she wanted it to be.
Until now.
This past week she’d felt creeped out wherever she went, like she was being watched. She felt it when she came or left the academy, when she walked around campus, even during her morning jog. She never spotted anyone, nor had she seen even the slightest rustle from the trees. But her guard was up at all times. Just to be on the safe side, she also locked her dorm-room door when she was inside, and she kept her blinds shut when she showered or changed clothes. Plus, she slept in a T-shirt now, rather than in the nude.
