Dangerous Tides

by Christine Feehan

  He framed Libby's face with his hands, thumbs sliding over her face in a long caress. "I couldn't bear that. I spent a lot of time thinking about my life and what it's been like the last few weeks with you. I'm a wreck, I know that and I'm coming to you with so much baggage I can't imagine why you'd want to take me on, but I need you, Libby. I swear, I'm losing my mind. I need you, baby. I need you with me."

  He'd trained himself to believe he didn't need anybody, yet he couldn't function, couldn't think straight. His life was a mess. He had nothing to offer her, not even his mind anymore. It was as fucked up as the rest of him, but he needed her and if she turned her back on him like every other living person, he had no idea what he would do. He felt naked and vulnerable standing there, stripped of everything he was, everything he'd believed in, his very soul in tatters.

  Libby brushed the tears from his face with such tenderness it turned his heart inside out. "You'll always be my choice, Ty. I love you with everything I am and I have absolute faith in you. Whatever happens, we'll handle it together."

  "How could you have faith in me? I don't. I almost got you killed. Even there at the end, I went back for him and he would have murdered you right in front of my eyes." He would never be able to close his eyes at night without reliving that moment. "I couldn't lift my body out of the hole and get to you. I just hung there helpless, watching him pull that trigger."

  Libby caught his face in her hands and forced his eyes to meet hers. "I love you because you went back for him. Because that's who you are, Ty. That's the man I'm in love with and will always be in love with."

  "Are you sure, Libby? I don't know what the hell I'm offering you."

  "I know exactly what you're offering. Tyson, you're everything I've ever wanted. No one has ever made me feel complete before. In all honesty, I didn't think it was possible, that maybe there was something wrong with me. When I'm with you, everything in my life is better."

  Tyson swallowed hard, bent down to brush a kiss over her lips, his throat working as he fought back emotion.

  "I love you, Ty. Nothing is going to change that. What happened with Sam was a terrible tragedy, but it isn't your fault."

  She turned back in the direction of the path. It was high tide, the pull of the moon was strong, lending the sea a wild fury. They walked along the beach while the waves rushed at them, foaming and frothing, rolling over and over.

  "Maybe not, Libby, but there were signs. If I'd been a different person--more attentive to people rather than to my work, I could have gotten him help. I should have seen it. He was gambling like crazy, using the credit cards at first, then dipping into the cash we kept at the house and eventually even the bank. He began embezzling, probably out of desperation."

  Libby wrapped her arm around his waist, tucking herself beneath his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. She did the best she could, warming him, staying close, trying to keep from interfering with her own diagnosis of Sam. Tyson didn't need to hear it. He needed to talk--and she let him.

  "There were signs all along. As I became aware of his gambling problems, I decided it was unfair of me to put more temptation in his way by having him handle all the financial responsibilities for me. It was laziness on my part, letting him attend all the details, so I tried to pull it back over these last few months. I hired a full-time accountant to put us both on a budget. Sam didn't like it, but he went along with it."

  "He must have been growing more desperate, afraid you'd find out the extent of his misappropriation of your money."

  Tyson sighed heavily. "When I came back home this time, I told him I was planning to get married. As long as I was single, he had access to the money and no one else would inherit it. It was right after that the harness failed during the rescue."

  Tyson turned his face away from her, toward the roaring sea, his expression bleak. He bent and picked up a piece of driftwood, hurling it out to sea with pent-up fury, watching the turbulent waves toss it around. He lifted his face to the sky and roared out his grief and rage, the sound tearing through him, a stark, raw agony that clawed and twisted until he thought he might go mad.

  She couldn't bear his pain. Libby wrapped her arms around his neck a little desperately, turning her face up to his, willing him to kiss her. She couldn't heal a broken heart with the well of energy deep inside her, but love could do it. And she had more than enough love for him.

  Tyson bent his head to hers. He watched her looking at him. He needed to see her eyes, be able to read what she was feeling. There were tears swimming in her eyes, but the love shone through. It was there just for him. She looked only at him that way. It was the one thing he had left to count on. He kissed her gently, tenderly, trying to convey without words what was inside of him.

  His feelings for her were far more than just need. He knew that, but right now, when he was so empty, it was all he could focus on.

  "You're all I need," she whispered, almost as if she could read his mind. Her hands fluttered to his throat, his raw, burning, torn throat and almost at once the pain was gone with just her touch. She slid her hands under his shirt, over his chest to find his wildly beating heart. "I love you so much, Ty. If you can't hold on to anything else right now, hold on to that with both hands."

  "I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me, how much I love you, Libby."

  "I feel your love for me, Ty."

  Tyson kissed her again, his arms enfolding her closer, even while her body tried to shelter his. He realized she was attempting to protect him from the elements, her healing warmth already running through his body and her tenderness easing the pain in his heart. His hands found her hair, the hair he was so fond of and he inhaled the familiar scent. Midnight black, her hair was wild, the way he loved it, the strands soft and silky. He buried his face in it, tightening his arms, simply holding her while the wind blew around them. Holding her brought him a semblance of peace, easing the tight constriction in his chest.

  "Come on, baby, let's get you out of the cold," he said.

  "Abbey said the whales were coming. We can watch them from the cliffs if you'd like," she suggested, as they began walking again.

  "Why is the sea so soothing?" he asked, as a sense of serenity began to tame the wild anger and unrelenting grief. He knew it wasn't the sea. It was the woman walking beside him. He felt the heat of her body reaching into the cold of his and slowly warming him.

  "The sea reminds us we are only a small part of a much larger whole. The world doesn't revolve around us and we don't carry the responsibility of everything and everyone on our shoulders, which is a tremendous relief. We get so caught up in our lives that we began to think we're able to fix everything." She flashed him a small smile. "But then I also think the ocean is soothing because it's so incredibly beautiful."

  They slowly climbed the stairs toward the top. Halfway to the top she gestured toward the beach chairs set out facing the sea. "Abbey says a pod of whales will be swimming by. It's an awesome sight."

  She gestured toward the center of the row of chairs and Tyson sat down facing the water below. Already light was streaking through the gray of the sky. He tried to focus on the water below, but was mostly aware of Libby curling up beside him, close, almost in his chair, leaning her head on his shoulder. He slipped his arm around her, wanting to just hold her. Needing the closeness, still feeling lost and needing her as an anchor.

  He was startled when Joley came up behind them and wrapped a blanket around them. "It's still a little chilly out here." She sank into the chair beside him.

  Hannah handed him a steaming cup of tea while Elle gave one to Libby before both Drakes sat down.

  "I found an extra pair of binoculars, Ty," Sarah said, handing them to him.

  "I brought Libby's," Kate added.

  "The whales are coming." Abigail pointed out to sea.

  Tyson strained to identify the magnificent creatures, but he could only see the rush of the waves and the ever-moving surface of the water.

  J
oley began to play the guitar and the seven sisters began to sing softly, their voices drifting out over the ocean. Tyson felt the sudden surge of energy surrounding him, leaping from sister to sister. He felt power moving not only through them, but because of his connection with Libby, through him. More than that, he felt the strong bond of love, of camaraderie woven between the sisters.

  He didn't take his eyes from the sea as dark shadows below the surface began to take shape, rising toward the melody. His breath caught in his throat as the whales emerged, blow holes spouting water high into the air. Several breached, their enormous bodies hitting the surface hard and sending up fountains of water. The ocean ballet was mesmerizing and he found himself leaning forward, holding his breath as he watched.

  He had no idea how long he sat there before he began to realize he was surrounded by much more than the Drake sisters. He felt acceptance, the offer of family--of a circle of love so strong nothing could destroy it. Like Libby's healing touch, silent yet strong, the others were offering to let him join that unbreakable bond. The enormity of what they were giving him was overwhelming. This was what tied Jonas Harrington to them.

  The ocean blurred for a moment while he breathed away the overwhelming emotions. He pulled Libby into his arms, onto his lap and kissed her hard. "I love you, Libby Drake," he whispered against her ear. "And I'm going to love your family, aren't I?" He had the feeling that he would have the same reactions as Jonas to much of what they did.

  "Of course you are," Libby replied, her eyes shining at him. "This is where you belong, with me. With us. You always have."

  Keep reading for an excerpt from CONSPIRACY GAME by Christine Feehan Available now from Jove Books NIGHT fell fast in the jungle. Sitting in the middle of the enemy camp, surrounded by rebels, Jack Norton kept his head down, eyes closed, listening to the sounds coming out of the rainforest as he took stock of his situation. With his enhanced senses he could smell the enemy close to him, and even farther away, hidden in the dense, lush vegetation. He was fairly certain this was a satellite camp, one of many deep in the jungles of the Democratic Republic of Congo, somewhere west of Kinshasa.

  He opened his eyes to narrow slits to look around him, to plan out each step of his escape, but even that tiny movement sent pain shooting through his skull. The agony from the last beating was nearly shattering, but he didn't dare lose consciousness. They would kill him next time, and next time was coming much quicker than he had anticipated. If he didn't find a way out soon, all the physical and psychic enhancements in the world wouldn't save him.

  The rebels had every right to be angry with him. Jack's twin brother, Ken, and his paramilitary GhostWalker team had successfully extracted the rebel's first truly valuable American political prisoners. A United States senator had been captured while traveling with a scientist and his aides.

  The GhostWalkers had come in with deadly precision, rescued the senator, the scientist, his two aides, and the pilot, and left the camp in shambles. Ken had been captured and the rebels had had a field day torturing him. Jack had no choice but to go in after his brother.

  The rebels weren't any happier with Jack for depriving them of their prisoner than they had been with Ken. Jack had laid down the covering fire as the GhostWalkers were extracting Ken and had taken a hit. The wound wasn't critical--he'd been testing his leg and it wasn't broken--but the bullet had driven his leg out from under him on impact. He'd waved his team off and resigned himself to the same torture his brother had endured--one more thing they shared as they had in their younger days.

  The first beating hadn't been so bad--before Major Biyoya showed up. They'd kicked and punched him, stomping on his wounded leg a couple of times, but for the most part, they'd refrained from torturing him, waiting to find out what General Ekabela had in mind. The general had sent Biyoya.

  The majority of the rebels were military trained, and many had at one time been of high rank in the government or military until one of the many coups, and now they were growing marijuana and wreaking havoc, raiding smaller towns and killing everyone who dared to oppose them or had the farms or land the rebels wanted. No one dared cross into their territory without permission. They were skilled with weapons and in guerrilla warfare--and they liked to torture and kill. They had a taste for it now, and the power drove them to continue. Even the UN avoided the area; if they did try to bring medicine and supplies to the villages, the rebels robbed them.

  Jack opened his eyes enough to look down at his bare chest where Major Keon Biyoya had carved his name. Blood dripped and flies and other biting insects congregated for the feast. It wasn't the worst of the tortures by any means, nor the most humiliating. He had endured it stoically, removing himself from the pain as he had all of his life, but the fire of retribution burned in his belly.

  Rage ran cold and deep, like a turbulent river hidden beneaththe calm surface of his expressionless face. The dangerous emotion poured through his body and flooded his veins, building his adrenaline and strength. He deliberately fed it, recounting every detail of the last interrogation session with Biyoya. The cigarette burns, small circles marring his chest and shoulders. The whip marks that had peeled the skin from his back. Biyoya had taken his time carving his name deep, and when Jack made no sound, he'd hooked up battery cables to shock him. And that had only been the beginning of several hours at the hands of a twisted madman. The precise, almost surgical, two-inch cuts covering nearly every inch of his body were identical to those this man had given his brother. With each slice, Jack felt his brother's pain while he could push away his own.

  Jack tasted the rage in his mouth. With infinite slowness, he eased his hands to the seam of his camouflage pants, fingertip seeking the minute end of the thin wire sewn there. He began to draw it out with a smooth, practiced motion, all the while his brain working with icy precision, calculating distances to weapons, planning each step to get him into the foliage of the jungle. Once there, he was certain of his ability to elude his captors, but he had to first cover bare ground and get through a dozen trained soldiers. The one and only thing he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, was that Major Keon Biyoya was a walking dead man.

  Two soldiers tramped through the camp toward him. Jack felt the coil inside of him winding tighter and tighter. It was now or never. His hands were tied in front of him, but his captors had been careless, leaving his feet free after the last torture session, believing him incapacitated. Biyoya had smashed the butt of a rifle into the wound on his leg several times, angry that Jack had given no response. Jack had learned at a very young age never to make a sound, to go somewhere far away in his head and separate mind from body, but men like Biyoya couldn't conceive of that possibility. Some men didn't, couldn't break, even with drugs in their system and pain wracking their bodies.

  A hand bunched in Jack's hair and yanked hard to bring his head up. Ice-cold water splashed in his face, ran down his chest into the wounds. The second soldier rubbed a paste of salt and burning leaves into the wounds on his chest as both laughed.

  "Major wants his name to show up nice and pretty," one taunted in his native tongue. He leaned down to peer into Jack's eyes.

  He must have seen death there--the cold rage and icy determination. He gasped, but was a heartbeat too slow in trying to jerk away. Jack moved fast, his hands a speeding blur as he looped the thin wire around the rebel's neck, dragging him backward off balance, using him as a shield as the other soldier jerked up his gun and fired. The bullet slammed into the first rebel and drove Jack back.

  Chaos erupted in the camp, men scattering for cover and firing toward the jungle, confused as to where the shooting was coming from. Jack had only seconds to make his way to cover. Pulling a knife from the waistband of the rebel, he stabbed the dying soldier in the lung and turned the blade to the ropes binding him, still holding the soldier as a shield. Jack threw the knife with deadly accuracy, drilling the rebel with the gun through the throat. Dropping the dead body, Jack ran.

  He zigzagged
his way across the open ground, kicking logs out of the fire-pit, sending them scattering in all directions, deliberately running through the soldiers so that anyone firing at him would chance hitting one of their own. He ran at one soldier, slamming his fist into the man's throat with one hand, relieving him of his weapon with the other. He leapt over the body and kept running, ducking into a group of five men scrambling to their feet. Jack kicked one in the knee, dropping him hard, wrenching the machete from his hand and delivering a killing blow before whirling through the other four, slicing with an expertise born of long experience and sheer desperation.

  Shouts and bullets rang through the jungle so that birds rose from the treetops, screeching into the air. Screams of the wounded mingled with the desperate sounds of angry leaders shouting to establish order. A soldier rose up in front of Jack, sweeping the area with an assault rifle. Jack hit the ground and somersaulted, lashing out with his foot, taking the man to the ground, ripping the rifle out of his hands and, using his enhanced strength, delivered a killing blow with the butt of the gun. He slung the weapons around his neck to leave his hands free and snagged a long knife and another rifle as he raced toward the cover of the jungle. The soldier had inadvertently provided him with covering fire, shooting several of his fellow rebels.

  Jack dove for the thick foliage nearest him, somersaulting into the leafy ferns, and ran at a low crouch along the narrow trail made by some small animal. Bullets rained around him, one or two coming too close for comfort. He kept moving fast into deeper jungle where the light barely penetrated the thick canopy. He was a GhostWalker and the shadows welcomed him.

  The rainforest was made up of several layers. At the emergent level, trees grew as high as 270 feet. The canopy was about sixty to ninety feet above him, where most of the birds and wildlife resided. Mosses, lichen, and orchids covered the trunks and branches. Snakelike vines dropped like tentacles. Palms, philodendrons, and ferns reached out with large leaves to provide even more cover. The understory saw very little sunlight and was dark and humid--perfect for what he needed.