Grimacing in disgust and wondering what other oddity the weather was going to produce, Joe grabbed up a section of newspaper. Then he struck at the screen one, two, three times. Finally, the creature let go and flew off into the dank, protective veil.
Joe decided he could do without any other nasty surprises. If he’d been any closer to the screen, those claws could have…
He heard Rachel come out of the bathroom and he went to the door to meet her, knowing she would get his mind off the incident. She looked lovely, fresh and vibrant, her hair wet and slicked back, her face glowing.
“Okay?” he asked, trying to gauge her mood. “That was awfully fast.”
“I figured you’d want in there, too. I left you one of my disposable vinyl gloves so you won’t have to worry about getting your bandage wet.”
Joe thanked her with the same politeness she’d exhibited toward him. Nuts, he thought as she retreated into her room, considering the hurdles they’d managed to champion thus far. It also struck him as a perfect setup, and he stood there for several seconds after she shut her door, thinking how this would be a perfect time for her to get away, make a phone call, search his room, any number of things—if she was of a mind to.
You’re a real sweetheart, Becket. Not only absolutely irresistible, but consistent as all hell.
He headed for the bathroom, hoping the sharp spray from the shower would clear his head.
It took an effort, but he forced himself not to rush. He had something to prove to both of them. Drawing the lingering scent of her into his lungs helped, as did taking his time soaping himself down and imagining it was her hands…her mouth.
Enough fantasizing, he decided, feeling himself growing hard. After rinsing off, he shut off the taps, but didn’t dry himself right away. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he brushed his teeth, and took more care in shaving than he had in weeks. Finally, deciding he’d killed enough time to prove a half-dozen points to Rachel, he pulled on his jeans again and headed back down the hall.
Rachel’s door was still closed. Although he indulged in a fleeting grimace, Joe told himself not to get bent out of shape about it—that is, until he stepped into his room and saw the breakfast tray missing. A feeling of dread weighed down his heart, and he hurried across the hall.
Knocking no longer a justifiable courtesy, he thrust open the door and felt that weight in his heart deepen to his belly. God almighty, he thought, now what had she done?
“Can I talk to you?”
“It’s a free country.”
Rachel accepted the clipped tone in Jewel’s voice as understandable, and determinedly continued across the kitchen. She set the tray on the counter by the sink. “The breakfast was wonderful, thank you.”
The older woman stopped slicing the finger-length okra on the cutting board and glanced from the nearly empty plate to Rachel. “If I was you, I wouldn’t have shared it with him.”
A touch of impishness had a smile tugging at Rachel’s lips. “Yes, you would…if you were me.”
Something ageless and womanly passed between them. Jewel’s eyes twinkled briefly, and then she snorted. “Don’t know why I have a soft spot for you, senseless as you are. You’ll end up bringing trouble to this entire house.” She tipped her head in the direction of the swinging door. “He know you’re down here?”
“No. He’s taking a shower, and I do need to get back upstairs before he worries.”
“That one don’t worry about much.”
They could go around and around on the subject of Joe and possibly end up agreeing, Rachel thought, not unwryly, but there wasn’t time. “I came down to ask you about something.”
Her expression must have exposed some of her deeper distress, because Jewel’s shrewd eyes narrowed with interest and caution. “What’s the matter? Can’t find the answers in your fancy medical books?”
“Let’s not argue,” Rachel entreated. “I’ll admit I’ve looked upon what you do with more than a little skepticism, but I think you might be the one to resolve this problem.”
Jewel sniffed. “You don’t overdo the sugar, do you?”
Recognizing she’d won her point, Rachel continued, “What would you say if someone’s response to a question I posed about the future was—” she paused to get the phrasing correct “—‘There’s only what is and what will be’?”
“I wouldn’t say nothing until I lit me a half-dozen white candles.” Jewel put down her knife and turned to Rachel, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’ve you got yourself into? Who told you that riddle?”
“I can’t tell you.” When Jewel’s dark eyebrows drew together in a threatening scowl, Rachel knew some careful footwork was in order. “Please, don’t ask me for names or specifics. Isn’t it enough that I was told—No, that’s not exactly right, either. It was insinuated that you would help.”
“Ahh…”
Jewel crossed herself before reaching up into a cabinet for an old cup and saucer and carrying it to the stove, where she poured a half cup of dark, grainy liquid that resembled old coffee or undrinkably stout tea. Rachel hoped whatever it was, it wasn’t for her.
“Sit,” Jewel directed. “Drink.”
Rachel sat, but was resolute about the rest. “Thanks, but I’m not really thirsty.”
“You want my help drink.”
She hoped the results would be worth it because the stuff was putrid. Rachel tried her best to get as much down as she could without gagging, all the while wondering what it could possibly have to do with her question. Finally, unable to bring herself to deal with the silt in the last inch or so, she pushed the cup away.
“Turn it upside down.”
“What? Why?”
“Do it. Upside down.”
About to refuse, Rachel glanced up at the pantry where the curtains shifted subtly. No, she thought, fighting the clammy hand of fear inching across her shoulder blades and around her throat. Lowering her eyes to the cup, she quickly turned it over onto the saucer. Then she glanced toward the pantry again.
The curtains were still.
Idiot, she thought. Her imagination was going haywire because of a draft.
Jewel sat down opposite her and drew the saucer across the table. Her wide, flat lips were compressed in the familiar, stern line as she picked up the cup. The expression changed the moment she looked inside, and a faint keening sound rose from deep within her.
“What?” Rachel asked, her heart thudding again.
“Life and death. Life and death.” The woman’s normally husky voice carried a sing-song quality and she rocked back and forth, her eyelids drooping.
Then, abruptly, she put the cup down as though she couldn’t bear to touch it and leaned toward Rachel. “Listen to me now. You’re the life-giver.” She pointed up toward the ceiling. “That one’s the harbinger of death. Y’all be on a collision course that wasn’t supposed to be. Mmm,” she moaned, “powerful bad. Powerful.”
“What do I do?” Rachel heard herself ask. In the sane recesses of her mind, she knew if anyone like Sammy heard her say that they would have her committed, but once the question was out she felt relieved and hoped that Jewel could tell her something that would end the confusion and fear that was beginning to take control of her life.
“No powders or charms for this. This is bigger than black magic.”
“Bigger?”
“Life lessons always are,” Jewel continued, her eyes wide now and hard in their stare. “Look for what’s before your eyes. Be true to what’s in your heart.”
“You’re not saying anything!” Rachel cried in frustration.
Before Jewel could answer, the swinging door crashed open, hitting the wall. Joe stood holding it there, his chest heaving.
“The soulless one,” Jewel whispered. Hastily crossing herself again, she collected the cup and saucer and dashed to the sink.
Joe ignored her, his eyes boring into Rachel. “Upstairs,” he ordered.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The hardest thing for Joe, as he followed Rachel up one flight of stairs and then the next, was dealing with the temptation to do violence. Because it had been born of panic. Because the reasons for that panic couldn’t be more ill-timed and potentially catastrophic.
Not until they reached the third floor did he trust his disciplined side enough to look at her. But seeing her watching him with those soulful, doe-eyes nearly undid him all over again.
He’d fallen in love with her. Maybe he had been in love all along and had only been psyching himself into believing it was simply lust. Whatever the case, he knew it would be easier to face the barrel of a gun than to have to cope with the conscious acceptance of his feelings.
No, he had no time for this, and he wanted to be angry with her for once again making him aware of that, furious with her for making him ache to his heels with wanting her. He wanted to hate her for making him think as a man and not a machine. Oliver was right for saying he didn’t need enemies because he was too good at being his own.
“Will you let me explain?” Rachel asked softly.
“Do yourself a favor and don’t say a word, not one word, or by heaven I’ll…do something for the sheer relief of getting it over with.”
She walked directly to his room. Grateful for not having to touch her to get her there, Joe saw his unmade bed with the imprint of their love-sated bodies still visible in the twisted sheets, and it mocked his relief. He slammed the door to purge at least a modicum of his frustration, and began pacing from one end of his self-created prison cell to the other.
“Why are you being like this? You knew I was coming back.”
Did he? Then why had he felt as if some clawed hand had ripped a hole in his chest and torn out his heart?
“If I hadn’t brought that tray down, Jewel would have come back upstairs for it.”
“Don’t use day-school logic on me,” he warned, his tone low and deadly. “You went down to talk and for no other reason, so can all that common-sense-with-a-dash-of-good-samaritan bull.”
“All right!” she cried, spreading her arms in acceptance or surrender. “What if I did? I was only trying to help! Again! Why do you have to react as though I’ve committed some impossible offense? What have I done that’s so bad?”
He laughed, he swore, he wheeled around, grabbed her and gave her one hard shake. “Wake up and look at me. I’m a walking corpse.”
Rachel’s face turned ashen. “Don’t say that!”
“Why not? It’s what you’ve been trying to convince me of, only from a different perspective. But my version is the scarier version, Doc, because mine doesn’t try to avoid reality. There’s no hocus-pocus solution. No black wax, voodoo doll or other stupid junk is going to change the facts.
“I’ve lost everything I’ve worked for, and there’s a good chance that all I have to look forward to is a bullet from Maddox or one of Garth’s other thugs. The last thing I need is to be burdened with the worry that they’ll take you out with me.”
He only realized what he’d admitted when he saw her expression go from bruised to beatified wonder. Dread and remorse shook him to his core.
“You don’t suspect me anymore,” Rachel whispered.
“I suspect everyone.” Especially himself, he thought bitterly. Especially his sanity.
“You care!”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“No,” she agreed. “You’re too noble to burden anyone with the words. But you can go ahead, growl and protest all you want. I’ve heard enough and I’ve stopped listening.”
Her eyes turned soft and dreamy. Her mouth… “Damn it, Rachel,” he groaned.
He could no more keep from dragging her against him or seeking her mouth, than he could stop breathing. Once her scent was inside him, he wanted more, and he reached deep seeking it—everything—the way a man who’d lost his world would reach for heaven.
His mouth still locked to hers, he gasped for air. Never would he have believed that even in the pain of his truths he could find such pleasure. As Rachel responded without hesitation and gave herself wholly to his next kiss, as she’d done with the first, it was all he could do not to drag her down to the hard floor. He wanted her, him, without clothes. Closer. Immediately. And all the while she met his unchanneled passion, his blind demand, with acceptance and encouragement. Words were unnecessary, yet he tried to give her what he could. “I want…Never like this, Rachel. Never.”
“I want you,” she whispered in return.
Her breathy response made him feel like his legs were stuffed with nothing more substantial than sawdust, and shot his control into some black hole of oblivion. Afraid, almost angry, that she might not understand, he dropped back against the closet wall he’d felt behind him and lifted her flush against his aching hardness to let her know it had been no idle comment.
She proved equally concise. Wrapping her arms more tightly around him, she slid a leg up along his to his waist.
He groaned. They were racing for trouble.
“I mean it,” he warned.
“Mean it.”
“Like this?”
“Please.”
He spun them around to push her against the wall. There was a thud from inside the closet, one that dragged a muffled oath from him, but when she demanded he ignore it, he did. For about three seconds he thought about carrying her to the bed; for as long as it took for her to wrap her legs completely around him. Then he abandoned the idea. The mussed bed was too civilized for the wildfire igniting between them, anyway. He would give her what she wanted…for as long as she wanted…until neither of them could move, let alone worry about what the next hour might bring.
But mutual agreement could be hell on intentions and style and grace. Joe discovered that when their hands suddenly tangled at the buttons of her blouse. His solution was to clutch the material and rend it in two, abandoning even that as soon as he had access to her. Discovering she wore nothing underneath had fueled his eagerness, and he quickly ducked his head and closed his mouth over her right breast.
Rachel gasped, a shudder of ecstasy leaving her momentarily limp in his arms. Then her fingers, short-nailed and small-boned, but defying the limitations of either, bit into his shoulders and tugged at his hair. When he suckled harder, she writhed and bucked against him, a strangled moan rising from deep within her.
He thought her sounds alone could drive him over the edge, but then she began to whisper his name, over and over. It roused some demon from the prison he’d sentenced it to.
“Joe…Joe…Joe…”
It wasn’t supposed to happen again. He’d championed his doubts, his jealousy over whether she was caught up in him or something she wanted to see. Or so he’d believed.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She did, and her eyes were bright with fever. It released his own and, impatient, he grappled with her jeans, dragging them, everything, down. Loosening his own things, he spun them around again, using the wall for balance as he lowered them to the floor.
They united in one fluid surge, their gasps of pleasure merging as did their breaths and their tastes. But it wasn’t enough.
“Look at me,” he demanded again, and when she did he entreated, “Don’t stop.”
“It can’t last.”
It didn’t have to, because nothing should feel this good, not when it also kept total happiness hostage. Fortunately, his body didn’t give a damn about philosophy and principle. Feeling the tide of spasms swell and claim her, it surged toward its own release.
She could barely breathe, and the heat was edging toward unbearable again, yet Rachel rested her head against Joe’s shoulder and nuzzled closer to lick at the beads of moisture along his freshly-shaven jaw. She knew he didn’t want to hear it, but she ached to tell him that she loved him.
As though he could read her mind, or at least sense something, he trembled. After a few moments he mumbled, “Do you suppose there was something in that omelet or the coffee?”
> Sensing that he needed a moment of lightness, Rachel teased, “You mean you’re not usually a relentless wildman at this disreputable hour of the day?”
“Doc—” he took a second to catch his breath “—this might come as a shock to you, but until you came along, sex was just that. Maybe an outlet for stress, I’ll give it that, too. But I sure as hell never found it as crucial as my next breath.”
Needing to see his expression, Rachel lifted her head and searched his face. He needed sleep. There were deepening lines of fatigue at the corners of his eyes and beside his mouth, but the glint of possession was clear and made her heart overflow with love, tempting her again.
Joe quickly shook his head. “Don’t do it. You don’t know that you mean it and I don’t want to hear it.”
“Why not? You told me what you were thinking.”
“No. I told you that I wanted you—a fact that isn’t going to have any effect on anything I have to do.”
As quickly as it had come, her happiness was snatched from her. Determined not to be defeated, Rachel used the hem of her ruined blouse to blot the sweat from his creased brow and above his upper lip. The movement bared her breasts again and drew his gaze in a way that made her clench inner muscles to torment him in return.
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Witch.”
“No. Just a woman who’s discovering what it means to feel completely desired for the first time in her life. No one’s ever made me want to abandon control before.”
“Rachel…”
She knew he wanted to resist touching her, but she took his hand and moved it to her breast. “Please. Just for a few minutes, can we act as though we have all the time in the world?”
“But we don’t.”
The words were brief, his tone clipped, and even though he kissed her hard, he also managed to get them both to their feet. Crisply excusing himself, he adjusted his clothes and walked out, heading for the bathroom.
What did you do with a man who resisted the force of the winds and the pull of the tides…everything to reach his own destination. His resolve became her pain. As she fumbled with her own clothes, finally tying her buttonless blouse at her midriff, she had to fight against the urge to feel sorry for herself and fear for them.
Night Mist Page 15
