by Cherry Adair
“Cruel and unusual punishment,” she told him, her voice guttural. Her breasts ached, swollen and tender.
“Oh, we haven’t even gotten started on unusual,” he whispered wickedly, taking a little nip on her hip, then smoothing it with a delicious swipe of his tongue.
Blood surged through her veins and her heart was doing calisthenics and triple somersaults. Her body hadn’t subsided from the previous orgasms and Simon kept her hovering on the pinnacle of release, tense, expectant, craving him more and more as he nibbled and licked his way to her left breast. “Please…”
He closed his fingers around her right breast, kneading the resilient flesh, making her nipples ache and throb. He rolled the tip between two callused fingers, making her whimper and shift restlessly beneath him. “Suck my nipple, damn it!”
His chuckle vibrated on her skin. “Bossy woman. Patience is a virtue.”
“I’m fresh out of vir—” The hot wet cavern of his open mouth closed on the hard peak of her left nipple. Kess’s back arched against the leather seat as she gripped his shoulders. “Pleasepleaseplease.”
Teeth and tongue gently rolled the tip until Kess whimpered, moving restlessly against him. The careful foreplay, while enough to drive Kess out of her mind, wasn’t enough. “I want you inside me. Now!” she demanded as Simon took his torturously sweet time exploring every inch of her body. She was like a rubber band stretched white, a spring straightened, a sun about to go supernova. It was impossible to breathe, impossible to hear anything over the thunder of her blood racing at warp speed through her body.
This was torture. Bliss. A madness she couldn’t contain. “I. Need. You.”
“I’m here,” he whispered against her mouth. Then he kissed her, a carnal, rapacious kiss that tasted of her and stole the last of her breath. Wrapping her legs and arm around him, Kess drew him inside her eager body. He was hard as marble, big enough to stretch her. Close to pain, but beyond ecstasy. His hand tunneled under her body, lifting her hips, and she lifted her knees over his broad shoulders.
“Stay with me, sweetheart,” he said, pumping into her hard. “Stay with me.” They found a rhythm immediately, and this time it wasn’t tender or gentle. They wanted each other too much for that. The sound of damp skin slapping against damp skin resonated inside the close confines of the vehicle. Their breathing, rough and raw, somehow synchronized, a thread of controlled violence laced through their lovemaking. Harder. Faster. More intense. It couldn’t last.
It. Could. Not. Last.
Kess bracketed his jaw, bringing his face up to hers. She kissed him deeply. It seemed as if sparks flew and fire surrounded them as they came together, then collapsed, limp and satiated in the backseat of a driverless car.
Twelve
The latest village hard hit by the virus was a hundred and fifty miles northwest upriver. The small community, dirt-poor and already struggling to subsist, consisted of mud huts with moth-eaten thatched roofs. Like most villages, it was a mile or more from the river because of the Mallaruzis’ fear of the water gods drowning their children. Still, the sound of the fast-moving river carried on the hot breeze made Simon long for a cool, invigorating swim.
Making love to Kess again had been an earth-shattering experience. Odd, since he typically abhorred aggressive women. No, he thought shooting her a quick glance as they drove into the village. She hadn’t been aggressive. She was his equal in every way and wasn’t shy about telling him what she wanted.
A brisk swim in cold water and a couple of hours spent with his passenger on a wide, soft bed was the only thing he wanted right now. Another aberration, since once he was satiated, he wasn’t consumed with the idea of sex for a while. Usually.
Eyes shut, Kess was slumped against the passenger door. As the car came to a slow stop, Simon stole a few seconds to look at her. He should have been thinking about villagers and viruses but his full attention was on the small smile curving Kess’s kiss-swollen lips. “We’re here.” He brushed the back of his fingers across her warm cheek. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”
She blinked a couple of times. “I’m not asleep,” she said around a big yawn, then extended her arms to the car’s roof in a long, sensuous stretch.
“God, you’re sexy,” he said roughly as her T-shirt rode above the waist of her jeans, exposing a smile of pale skin and her incredibly sensitive belly button. He’d been extremely sorry to have to return her clothes. He liked her naked. He liked her naked a lot.
“Don’t even think about it,” Kess told him firmly. Knowing what she was digging in her pockets for—and sure not to find—Simon handed her a bright blue ruffly thing out of his own supply tucked in a back pocket. “Thanks.” She grinned and bundled her hair into a messy ponytail halfway up the back of her head. Tendrils, both straight and curly, hung down her nape and tickled her face. Her big gray eyes looked slumberous. Anyone taking one look at her pink cheeks and mussed hair would know what she’d been up to.
“The supplies made it.” She pointed to the six relief trucks parked nearby as she opened her door. “Oh, God—”
Thump. Thump.
Medical tents had been set up nearby, but it was evident that the villagers would be better served with a detail of grave diggers. The place was littered with black plastic body bags piled in parallel rows on the edge of the village, awaiting removal. Simon calculated there were more than a hundred victims of the mysterious illness. Abi was having the dead cremated in hastily dug pits downwind of the village. The supply trucks were playing double duty. Having unloaded the medicines and food, the drivers were now slinging the bags onto the trucks.
“God, that’s grotesque,” Kess said, swinging her feet to the ground. Simon, who’d come around to her side of the car, brushed his fingers across her disheveled hair. She got out, coming flush against his body, invading his space with an engaging, if distracted, smile.
He stepped out of her orbit. “If I suspect the protective spell is breaking down, and I tell you to hightail it out of here, you’ll go like a bat out of hell. Right?”
She put on her sunglasses, then gave him a two-fingered mock salute. “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like you being here at all.” He glanced around camp. “It’s dangerous and unnecessary.”
“You mentioned that already,” she said, bordering on flip. But Simon knew she wasn’t. Kess was aware of the danger. She just thought she was immune. He hoped to God she was right. “Let’s find Dr. Phillips, she’s in charge.”
They didn’t have to go far. A creamy-skinned brunette wearing jeans, boots, and a light blue cotton shirt came toward them. Trim and tall, she carried herself with confidence and a distracted air. “Miss Goodall? Mr. Blackthorne?” She put out a slender hand in greeting. Kess first. Then Simon. The doctor’s hand was cool and smooth.
“I’m Rachel Phillips. The president told me to expect you.” Her black-rimmed glasses and clipboard made her look very serious. Hell, it was a dire situation. Anyone in their right mind would be serious.
Simon looked around. The smell of death was everywhere. There was no sign of people, but he heard the soft susurrus of voices nearby. “We don’t want to take you away from your patients—There are survivors?”
“Only forty,” Dr. Phillips said grimly, indicating a large tent behind her. “Their deaths won’t be easy, and if this follows the progression pattern we’ve observed thus far, by this time tomorrow we’ll lose three-quarters of them.”
She walked fast. Simon kept up with her easily, but Kess had to practically run to catch up. “To put this new medical crisis into context,” the doctor said flatly, “consider the following: Central Africans can expect to live until only forty-one years of age; life expectancy has decreased in the last decade. The maternal mortality rate in Mallaruza is already shockingly high, as is the infant mortality rate. Between the staggering HIV/AIDS rate and this new disease, millions are dying every day. Every day,” she repeated bitterly.
“With these povert
y indicators, and more than five percent of the population displaced, one would normally expect a significant response from international aid organizations, yet the country has never received much attention. In recent years it has become fashionable to speak of ‘forgotten emergencies.’ But the act of forgetting implies prior knowledge. The crisis in here is not a forgotten emergency; it is virtually unknown and unrecognized.”
Kess caught up, matching their steps two to one. Dr. Phillips was angry and impatient, and clearly exhausted trying to stick a finger in a dike.
“I’ve sent articles and photographs of our hardships to newspapers and news agencies all over the world on Mr. Bongani’s behalf,” Kess told her. “Help will come.”
“We needed it five months ago,” Dr. Phillips snapped, walking even faster. “Come this way and we’ll find something relatively cold to drink, then I’ll show you around and answer any questions you have. I don’t have much time, so I’d appreciate it if you kept your questions brief.”
She had a trim figure and a pleasant, if distracted, smile. Simon smiled back, then noticed Kess watching the two of them as if at a tennis match. He lifted a brow, but Kess ignored him.
“I’ve been with the CDC since I got out of med school and I’ve never seen anything like this,” the doctor told them, escorting them to a tent set up as a lounge area for the doctors, out of the sun. The tent was empty. Simon presumed all the other doctors and medical staff were with patients.
“Any press you can generate on this will be appreciated,” Dr. Phillips told Kess. “We feel helpless and frankly abandoned here. Not everyone comes to us for help. People live in makeshift dwellings in the forest far away from their villages.” The doctor rubbed her hands as if in prayer.
“They flee abuse or attacks by bandits, rebels, and of course the damned government troops. Conditions are dire: People desperately need shelter, food, health care, clothing, blankets, soap, and potable water. The absence or limited availability of clean water and medical care aggravates diseases like malaria, typhoid, and meningitis, and now this new disease is killing even more people.”
“What’s your professional opinion of the source?” Simon asked, looking at the charts and pictures pinned to the side wall of the tent. Gruesome. Gut-wrenching. He was looking at graphic photographs of hell.
“We’re fairly sure this isn’t airborne. Educated guess at this point? Something in the water. Proximity to the river is the only common denominator we can definitely identify. But every test we’ve got is coming back negative.”
Simon shook his head when the doctor pointed to a row of gray coolers on a folding table. Kess opened one and withdrew a dripping bottle of water. The drips immediately plopped on her chest and her nipples peaked under the thin cotton T-shirt. Simon angled his body toward the doctor.
“Can you point out the virologists on the team? I’d like to get their take on things.”
Dr. Phillips’s face grew mottled. “The president hasn’t sent replacements.”
“You do understand why,” Kess offered gently. “After the massacre in the last medical camp, President Bongani has no choice but to put a minimum of doctors in the field.” She gulped down half the bottle of water. “The government is doing its best to provide the population outside of Quinisela with security—”
The doctor gave a sarcastic laugh. “Which is piss-poor. Security is a joke, don’t pretend it isn’t. So is access to potable water, electricity, or anything more than rudimentary health care. Forget proper education.” She waved a slender hand in an impatient, dismissive gesture that spoke volumes.
“We need more help. Médecins Sans Frontières and the Red Cross can’t do it all. And frankly we haven’t been getting the supplies they promised us, so we’re in desperate straits here.”
“The World Food Program is providing food. The ships are unloading in the harbor right now as we speak,” Kess assured her. “And the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees recently trained local humanitarian observers and they’re reporting back as well. The UN has mostly traveled with government armed escorts—”
“Which are susceptible to ambush by rebels and renders the UN incapable of accessing the most vulnerable people,” Dr. Phillips pointed out harshly. “It comes with the territory,” she added. “Outbreaks rarely occur in industrialized areas. We’re all used to remote locations and we all know the risks inherent in our work. The president has been generous in every other way, so I find his hard stance on the matter extremely disappointing. Especially since he’s been so quick to provide us with other resources. Don’t think me ungrateful; I, and my colleagues, appreciate everything the president is trying to do.
“He even went so far as to pay for duplicate blind testing on the blood and tissue samples. The man personally called Dr. Grable in the UK. Apparently they crossed paths at some UN function. Grable’s lab is state-of-the-art and he’s considered the expert diagnostician.”
“I remember the president mentioning the lab in England, Dr. Phillips. I spoke to him about adding more experts to the on-site team.” Kess rubbed the sweating bottle across her cheek. “At this point, as you can appreciate, he’s reluctant to put all the medical resources in the middle of the outbreak when we still don’t know what happened to the other doctors. But you need to know that you have his full support and he’s one hundred percent behind saving his people.” Kess leaned against the table and twisted the cap on the water bottle. “Trust me.” She took a sip of water. “The doctors back in both Switzerland and the USA are working around the clock, as is Dr. Grable.”
As Simon listened to the interchange, he felt the knot between his shoulder blades relax. Simon didn’t know Grable other than saying hey, but he knew of him. His reputation was stellar, but Simon seriously doubted Abi had met the man at a UN function. More like a Wizard Council meeting. Grable was a skilled wizard. His unique power of magnified vision allowed him to observe things even the most powerful microscope in existence couldn’t see.
It made sense that Abi would call on Grable. Grable was a slight, nerdy guy who often found himself on the receiving end of hazing, wizard-style. Until Abi stepped up and appointed himself the man’s friend and protector. Obviously the two had stayed in touch over the years. Knowing who was on Abi’s team alleviated most of Simon’s concerns. But why hadn’t Abi mentioned his friend’s involvement?
Kess assured him that Abi’s full attention was on the crisis. Seeing the camp and hearing Abi was doing everything possible made Simon feel a little guilty for doubting his friend’s commitment.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. “Excuse me. I need to take this.” Leaving the two women, he moved to the other side of the tent.
He stepped away long enough to check with his control. Still nothing on the missing doctors. At this point, the general consensus at T-FLAC HQ was that they were probably dead. There wasn’t any logical reason to kidnap two doctors. Neither had substantial assets, so ransom was unlikely. While they were competent, they weren’t Nobel Laureates, and even if they were, it was highly unlikely that the Hureni militia would be aware of that fact. No, it was far more likely that they’d been killed along with the others and either their bodies were taken as trophies or animals had dragged them off for later consumption.
Of equal interest to him was the childish game played to lure Kess away from Quinisela the other day. Obviously, the familiar car had been a decoy specifically for Simon; an “innocent” child and the promise of finding her friends had persuaded Kess. But Simon hadn’t been that taken in by it. He’d gone along simply to see how they were going to play it.
But who the fuck were “they”?
Was Noek Joubert involved with Abi? Simon ran his fingers through his hair. What the hell was Abi involved in? Who was he in bed with? And why? Politics did strange things to people. It was entirely possible that Joubert was infusing cash and God only knew what else into Abi’s reelection bid. From what he’d observed, Abi’s commitment to retaining his offi
ce was genuine and if his decisions were colored by his inner politician, he’d take any and all help offered.
“Mr. Blackthorne.” Dr. Phillips got his attention and then beckoned him over. “I was just about to explain to Kess in a bit more detail, and I know you wanted to be brought up-to-date. Do you mind if we do this now? I want to get back to my patients.”
“Simon. Please. I appreciate you taking a few minutes to talk to us.” Taking Kess’s bottle of water from her, he helped himself to a swig, then handed it back before turning his attention to the notes tacked up on a board.
“What are hemorrhagic characteristics?” Kess asked, pointing to one of the notations.
“This disease or virus presents much like Ebola. Quickly worsening flulike symptoms. Upper respiratory system difficulties. Then the really nasty stuff starts.”
Kess’s fair skin grew paler by the second. “Nastier than being unable to breathe?”
Phillips nodded. “As the organs shut down, they literally start to explode. Blood seeps from every orifice—eyes, nose, mouth. The lungs fill with blood faster than the patient can cough it up. Then the victims literally drown in their own blood. Tough way to die.”
Kess swallowed hard, the color draining from her face. “I’ve seen—” She closed her eyes. “God. It is a horrendous way to die.” She turned her head and Simon saw how deeply she was affected. “We have to find both the cause and the cure soon.”
“Yeah,” he said grimly. “We do.” One would think with the best minds in virology working on this for months, that something would have been found by now. “The president should be here soon, he was right behind us,” Simon said easily. “I’m going to look around until he gets here. Kess, want to take a look, or would you rather stay here?”
