by Joss Ware
Something that should have happened long ago.
Now that Raul Marck was dead, perhaps that was her fate as well. Perhaps her life was finished, her purpose completed. Perhaps that was why she felt so…lost.
These thoughts, meant to be pragmatic, settled over her. But every time she tried to focus on what was right, Quent’s face slinked into her mind.
Zoë sighed, shifting, feeling prickly and nervous. She’d eaten. She should try to sleep, for whatever happened in the morning, she’d need a clear mind and strong body. Focusing on the comforting feel of the bow in her hand, she kept her eyes closed and steadied her breathing.
She must have slept because all at once, she was aware of something touching her face, drawing her from the depths of unconsciousness. She opened her eyes to find a shadowy figure bending over her, but before she could speak, he swooped down and captured her mouth with his. Smiling, she opened her mouth, tasted Quent, felt his warmth slide against her.
Her arms moved up around him as, half asleep, she slipped into a world of slick heat, of knowing hands smoothing over her shoulders. Mouths sliding together, tongues fighting and tangling, fierce and knowing…the warmth of skin burning against skin, rough with hair and solid with muscle. A long flush of heat rolled through her as she came fully awake, her body tingling and tightening, flushing with desire.
The bed shifted and his welcome weight sank fully against her, pressing her down into the pallet. She curled her legs around him, stretching languorously beneath the fierceness of his kiss. Their mouths molded together, slipping apart and then back again, tasting and nibbling, pulling away to drag in a breath, and then back for more of the other. Her sleep and fear were gone, evaporated beneath the rush of pleasure, the taste of him—still the same Quent, the same delicious softness that tugged deep in her belly.
His hands moved from her shoulders, peeling the dress down as he slid his knee along her legs. She arched into him, pushing up into his thigh where she throbbed and needed, tearing at the belt around his waist as he buried his face in her neck.
Quent shifted, bending to buss his soft lips along her throat. She felt the brush of his lashes against her skin and the moist trail he left behind, the little prickles on her sensitive skin. Impatient hands peeled the dress away, and his mouth, hot and sure closed over a nipple. The jolt of pleasure from the sudden slick warmth traveled down to her core, and she sighed, clutching his shoulders as he grinned against her.
Then, sucking and tugging, his wicked mouth teased and nibbled on that sensitive tip as one of his hands found its way beneath her dress. Zoë twisted toward him, needing to get closer, needing the comfort, wanting to have all of him. In the dim light, he looked up at her from where he licked at her breast, his brows dark slashes over eyes that were smoldering and knowing, so deep and sure.
Then his fingers eased into her, slick and smooth and sure, stroking and playing her as she ground her head into the pillow beneath, arching her neck and her back, letting herself feel.
Zoë couldn’t hold back a desperate little moan, shoving her hands into his hair, cradling his head as he sucked and swirled his mouth around her as if he had all the time in the world. Pleasure undulated in waves, surging through her and settling into her belly, plunging lower to where he fondled her, sliding in and out and all around—a little teasing, a little coaxing, then a withdrawal when she began to climb the peak. She shifted, opening her legs as he sighed into her skin, whispering her name.
“Quent,” she whispered toward the ceiling, tugging once again at the buttons of his trousers. An edge of desperation tinged her voice, and he pulled from her breast to slide down between her legs.
Zoë tried to pull him back, up to kiss him, to fit him where he belonged—between her legs, joining, but with a little laugh, he slipped away. Then he had her bare, there on the bed, gently easing her ankles apart, and bent down to taste her.
She gave a soft cry, a little lift and dug her fingers into the blankets beneath as that wicked tongue danced around, teasing at first…and then becoming very intent. She rolled her head against the pillow, wanting to thrash her hips, but he held her steady. Firm and still as he probed and sucked and tweaked until she tightened her legs around his neck and arched up into that hot, soft mouth.
Zoë lost her mind, shooting over the top and down a long, undulating ride, shuddering and trembling long after it was over, as his tongue coaxed her long…a little longer, a little longer, until she gasped, “Enough!” and her body collapsed into bonelessness.
Then Quent was up next to her, his mouth on hers, musky and fierce and hot, drawing her toward him, gathering her close. He kissed her long and crazily, and she met him with her own fervor. And then he dragged in a little shuddery breath and slowed, becoming slow and tender. Little kisses, little nibbles, long easy strokes, gentle tangling of their tongues. She reached down between them, slipping her hand toward the band of his pants, but he stopped her with a desperate little sound, pulling his mouth away.
“Mmm, Zoë,” he said, trailing kisses toward her ear. “Thank God you’re all right.”
“After that, I’m more than all right.” She smiled against his cheek, rough with stubble. But when she tried to shift her hand farther down, he firmly settled it on his chest, where she could feel his heart ramming beneath her palm. “Quent, I want to touch you,” she said, moving her hand through the hair over the slide of his muscles.
“Not now,” he murmured, belying his words by nibbling on her ear.
She shivered delicately, running her hand along the smooth swell of his bicep. “How did you find me?” she said, still soft and loose from the orgasm, but her brain was clicking back to life. “How did you get in? The door was locked.”
“I sensed you. Found my way by reading the memories on the things you touched,” he told her, pulling himself up on an elbow next to her. Darkness glinted in his eyes. “Who locked you in here?”
“Your father.” The reality of their situation settled over her, and she felt the last vestiges of pleasure ebb. She couldn’t blame him if he’d found forgiveness for Fielding. And she wondered where that left her.
As if he read her thoughts, Quent’s face tightened and he said, “I haven’t changed my mind about Fielding. He used to beat the rot out of me, Zoë. For pleasure. He’s an evil man who caused the destruction of the world. Did you really think that a bit of luxury and some good wine would change how I feel about him?”
Zoë swallowed as his eyes, disappointed and sharp, bored into her. “I didn’t know what to think. You seemed easy and comfortable with him,” she replied.
His smile was tight. “I’m a good actor. That’s the only reason he didn’t kill me long ago. I knew how to play the game…most of the time.”
“Quent,” she began, but he stopped her by holding up a hand.
“I have to ask you a question. It would probably be best if I waited, but I’m compelled to ask now. It won’t change the fact that I’m going to get you out of here safely.”
Zoë felt her eyes widen even as her body tensed. Her heart swelled, filling her throat. Somehow, she knew it wasn’t going to be something she wanted to hear. “Quit fucking around and ask.”
His mouth quivered briefly, then steadied. “Why did you really come here to kill Fielding?”
Well, hell. That was easy. Sort of. She relaxed a bit. “I told you. I didn’t want you to die in the process. Or to have to bear the burden.” It was a burden. If she’d known what she knew now, she might have approached Raul Marck differently. She might have listened to Quent.
“You didn’t think I could do it. I’m too weak.” The steel was back in his voice.
And at last she understood the underlying anger. A rush of what someone else might call compassion flooded her. “No, Quent. It wasn’t that at all.”
She curled her fingers around his arm to get him to look at her, and touched his cheek the way she had the first time they met, when he lay stunned on the ground after being
dropped by the ganga. Warm, solid. Familiar. Somehow he’d become so familiar. “Of course you’d succeed. I’ve never seen you fail at anything, including getting me to take you to my hideaway.” She gave him a wry smile. “Which I’ve never done for anyone. I just didn’t want you to…uh…” Her voice trailed off as she struggled for the words. And they came, and she wanted to beat them back.
A frisson of fear tingled her belly at the risk she was about to take, but she opened her mouth and it all came out anyway. One thing she wasn’t was a coward. “Maybe it’s a little bit fucked up, but it’s the only way I could think of to tell you…I…uh…love you. The only way I could think of to show you, by taking that burden. It’s not like you need anything else.”
“You wanted to show me you love me by killing my father? So that you can get your arse killed too?” He gripped her arms, his blue-brown eyes close and intense. “What the fuck good would that do? It’s a hell of a lot easier to just tell me you love me, for chrissake, Zoë!” Then he pulled her close, hard. Burying her face roughly in his shoulder. “Do you really? Love me?” His voice was low and grating.
She tried to yank free, then gave up and sagged against him. Looking away, she bit her lower lip. “Yeah. Okay?”
His hold on her loosened and she pulled away to look up at him, feeling more naked and vulnerable than she’d ever been. But when she saw the expression in his face, the fear fell away. “What is it?”
“Do you know,” he said, his voice unsteady, “that I don’t remember anyone ever saying that to me. In my whole life.”
“Never?” she whispered. “How can that be? Your mother? Your father? Grandparents? Lovers?”
He was shaking his head. “Never. Well,” he added, his voice a little more solid, “maybe once—there was this girl in prep school. I think she might have said it, but that was just so she could get in my pants.”
Zoë frowned. “Marley Huvane?”
“No, hell, no, not Marley. Trilby Bunker-Thyckett was her name. And she was hoping to get herself knocked up so she’d have a chance at my billions.”
“Billions of…oh, you mean money?”
He gave a little laugh, his expression easing. “Right, Zoë. You’re pretty damned much the first woman I’ve ever met who didn’t want anything from me.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she said, slipping her hand down between them once again, trying to ignore the fact that he hadn’t said I love you back.
“Zoë,” he said, once again stopping her. “There’s nothing more I’d like than that right now, but I think we’d best find our way out of here and do what we came to do. Together.”
She tugged him down for another delving kiss, and felt the surge of response down between them as her tongue slicked deep inside his mouth. “Quent,” she murmured against his lips. She pressed herself up against him, letting him burn into her. At least she had this. At least she could feel warm and comforted for a bit longer. “Please…let me—”
He pulled away and looked down at her. She could tell by the tightness around his mouth that it was difficult for him, and she sensed there was some other reason he was holding her off. Was there someone here from his old time? Had he slept with someone else?
But she didn’t ask.
She was, she guessed, too much of a coward after all.
Zoë eased off the bed, her gown sagging around her hips, the halter straps dangling forward almost to the floor. “I don’t have anything to wear but this. They took my clothes,” she said, pulling the straps up. “I know women run and fight in shit like this in the movies, but that’s a bunch of ass-crap bunk. I can’t even damn well breathe. Plus the thing’s too long and I’m not going to even try to run in those shoes.”
Quent’s lips twitched, but he came around behind her and took the straps from her hands, fastening it quickly and efficiently. Obviously, he knew his way around women’s complicated clothing. “We can cut it shorter,” he said. “But I don’t know what to do about the shoes.”
“Barefoot is better than those damn things,” she said, stepping away. Problem was, even that little touch at the back of her neck, that little kindness of helping her, settled over her with warmth. How had it happened that she let him get so close that even the brush of a finger felt right?
She looked down at his thick tawny hair, remembering her admonishments to him to wear the covering bandanna as he knelt in front of her to hack at the skirt. “You’ve got to make it shorter than that. How the hell am I going to run? At my knees.”
“You planning on running?” he asked, looking up.
“I have a feeling we aren’t going to be walking the hell out of here,” she said. “Maybe you could unzip the back a little too, so I can actually take a damn breath. So what’s the plan?”
“Right. The plan is,” he said, standing in front of her, a wide strip of shimmery white gown in his hand, “we’re going to steal the crystal of Atlantis. And then we’re going to kill my father.”
“Steal the crystal of Atlantis? Must be something very important.” Zoë raised her brows, anticipation sending her pulse faster. Sounded like a fun way to go out. “And kill one of the most powerful Elite? Hot damn. Lead the way, genius. I’m right behind you.”
* * *
19 July 2012
11:00 P.M.
I can barely write this. Forgive me for my long absence.
Devi has finally succumbed to the cancer that has spread through his abdomen these past months. He left me and David shortly after noon this day.
I have nothing left but David. But I am strong. I’ll go on.
—from the diary of Mangala Kapoor
* * *
CHAPTER 18
Quent had made certain no one followed him to Zoë’s room, and it had been well past midnight by the time he’d sneaked out of the chamber Fielding had given him. The sensation of lurking about his father’s mansion had been an echo of nights many decades ago, when he did the same in an effort to remain beneath Fielding’s notice…and away from the fists and riding crops.
He’d been able to retain his pack and clothing by hiding in his room anything that could be considered dangerous, and leaving the pack out so it could be searched. Which he was certain it had been during the interminable time he was at dinner. Now he’d dressed back in his comfortable clothing—nylon cargo pants and T-shirt, with a long-sleeved shirt over it. And his light boots, complete with hidden Taser. He’d also slipped the cane-weapon into the side-back belt loop of his pants where it would be out of the way but easily accessible.
The most difficult part of finding Zoë hadn’t been the bloody tracings of her throughout the building—she seemed to touch every damn wall possible, and he’d become much more adept at only reading the memories he wanted to read—but evading the brunette who’d become a stage-one clinger at dinner. The kind of clinger who’d laughed too long and loudly at each of his jokes, even when he wasn’t joking. She’d done everything but stick her hand down his pants under the table or bare her generous breasts.
But Quent was no slouch when it came to dislodging unwanted females, and he’d given her the slip, then made his way to the spacious chamber assigned to him. It was on the highest floor of the building, and he waited there until he felt certain everyone was sleeping. The windows overlooked the glittering sea, dark and infinite in every direction. The only illumination came from the partial moon gilding the floating walkway and frosting the roofs of Mecca below. He examined the terrain from the highest part of the island, planning for a variety of escape routes. And when he was certain the household was asleep, he found his way to Zoë.
Now, as they left her room, he peered down the corridor before allowing her to sneak out after him. Everything was deserted, all was silent but for the faint whisper of water, and he moved over so she could ease past. She sparkled and shone in that white gown, despite its ragged hem, looking like Athena with her bow and the quiver slung over her shoulder.
Quent was able to navigate back
to the center of the house without using his sensory powers. Before they left her room, he’d filled her in on the plan to use his psychometry to get to the hidden chamber, certain he’d be able to “read” the history of Fielding’s numeric codes and manipulations on the secret doors.
“I want that crystal. I want to learn its secrets and see what it can tell us about the Atlanteans,” he’d told her.
Zoë had been fascinated as well as enthusiastic. “It would piss Fielding the hell off, and maybe even show us a way to destroy the Elite.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Won’t Fielding be there? Kill two birds with one arrow?”
Quent shook his head. “I don’t think so. There’s nothing in the room but the crystal. No other furnishings, so it’s obvious he doesn’t sleep there. The room is down instead of up, with only one entrance.”
“So we get the crystal then go up to his private room?”
“First we get him. Then the crystal.”
Quent led the way to the room in which he and Fielding had originally met. Since he had to “read” the history, he needed to start here to find the way to his father’s private chambers.
Inside, moonlight spilled in, silvering the space. The sound of running water, which had faded into the background like the sounds of a busy street to a Londoner, now broke the silence noisily. Everything was as Quent remembered it, and, tugging Zoë with him, he started over toward the waterfall by the hidden panel. The best place to begin tracing his father’s route, he thought, certain that Fielding would go to his private chambers through the secret passage.
As he glanced about the room again, noticing the faint wash of light over the crystal glasses and whiskey decanter, he remembered Fielding’s assertion that he’d manipulated Quent’s trip to Sedona. And as he looked around that sparse room, the truth came to him suddenly, like a splash of cold water. A punch to the gut. The ugly truth.
