Water From the Moon

by Terese Ramin

  Something like an apology traced her features. "Cam, I—"

  "Finish your dinner, Casie."

  They lingered over a dessert neither remembered having later, shopped for breakfast groceries, strolled together back to the car and drove down the road to settle in for the night at one of the tiny efficiency cabins scattered behind a roadside motel. For the first time since their paths had crossed again, there was no sense of urgency, no sense of things lying in wait. They could look and touch and talk and savor. Quiet came easily, without demands. They were together, and that was enough.

  Behind the cabin, the sun fell. Nestled between Cameron’s legs on a wooden glider, Acasia watched the sunset paint the earth in deepening shades of gold. "Is it always like this?"

  Carefully Cameron rubbed his jaw in her hair. It smelled clean and warm, felt as soft as flax. She felt good, too, cuddled into him, and he snuggled her nearer, ignoring the twinge in his muscles, the sting along his chest and arms. He wanted her close, secure, happy—uncrowded by reality—for as long as possible. He needed it. "Is what always like this?"

  "The sunset."

  He brushed kisses down her jaw, urged her mouth to meet his. "Depends who you’re with."

  Their kiss ran long and deep.

  "Don’t hurt yourself," she whispered against his mouth.

  He trailed his right hand down her throat. All he wanted to do right now was to make love with her, to lose himself in her. "I’d rather be damned if I do than if I don’t." He slipped his fingers inside her collar, then ran them inside the line of her bra. Memories of the morning clung to the back of his mind, a tiger waiting to pounce if he turned his back on it. His fingers stumbled over themselves to release the front closure of her bra; his tongue penetrated her mouth. The sun was an explosion of flame in the corner of his eye, and his mouth grew rough on hers as he twisted her toward him, grinding one thigh between hers.

  His need frightened Acasia, but she understood it. She’d been here herself once. This was what she hadn’t wanted to bring to him in London: this absolute need to consume someone else in order to survive. He would hate himself if she let this go on.

  She pushed at him, exerting all her strength to pull herself away. His arms hardened around her. "Stay."

  "Come inside. Come to bed." She drew him out of the glider and up the single step to the cabin with her. She leaned hard on the door, shutting it tight.

  His back to her, Cameron waited in the center of the room, fists working. Acasia moved to him, pressing kisses into his shoulder, the nape of his neck. His muscles corded at her touch, but he didn’t turn.

  "I need you so bad tonight, lady," he said.

  She pulled his sweatshirt up, urged him out of it. "I’m here."

  "Don’t let me hurt you."

  Acasia unbuttoned her blouse, then slipped out of her skirt and stockings. "You won’t." She pushed at the waistband of his sweatpants, but he arrested the movement, gathering his breath.

  They stood together quietly, absorbing one another’s warmth and presence. When Cameron turned his head, Acasia was there, waiting. Their mouths brushed together, testing the waters, unhurried, then desperate, reckless to share life. They fell onto the bed, and time ended; bangs and burns were forgotten. Cameron turned onto his back, and Acasia rode him, moving like lightning, housing him deep inside her. They were light; they were form; they were liquid; they were fire. One moment it was as if they stood on the edge of an abyss about to fall in, then a sudden explosion split the sky, leaving them shattered, but joined, more whole than before.

  "You’re going to pay for this," Acasia whispered when Cameron stopped her from slipping off him. "You’re going to hurt in the morning."

  He kneaded the small of her back, holding onto her. "Don’t leave me, Casie. I need you tonight."

  Acasia stared down at him, swamped by needs she didn’t want to recognize. He could swallow her whole, and she didn’t want to let him. When his hand tangled in her hair to draw her to him, she dug her hands into the sheets on either side of his head, resisting for a moment. He rolled his hips into her, filling her with himself, and she moaned, half in pleasure, half in protest, and moved with him, loving him….

  * * *

  He dreamed that night of running, of being chased by, and chasing, something he couldn’t quite see. His skin burned, his muscles screamed, and he tossed without waking on sun–dried cotton sheets that scratched no matter how he lay.

  From a chair by the window Acasia watched him twist and turn, her expression hard. She’d known the nightmares would find him eventually. She’d hoped to get him to Rhiannon first, where familiar things, familiar work, might help displace the taunting dreams, make it easier to adjust, to face himself. But maybe being a survivor wouldn’t affect him as it had her. Maybe they’d been through the worst of his nightmares. Maybe the harshest things he faced in his sleep were rough sheets, sore muscles and a few burns. Maybe getting him away from the hospital before Paolo, the law and the press had had a chance to further question and probe and examine—and blame—would deflect the guilt, the waking nightmares, the claustrophobic sweats…

  The need.

  She rubbed her face and shut her eyes, and Lisetta confronted her, debilitatingly needy, emotionally helpless, clinging—frightening in the way she needed to make Acasia responsible for her life. Well, it wasn’t her fault, damn it! She wasn’t responsible to anyone for anybody’s choices but her own. Nor for anybody else’s needs.

  Especially when she couldn’t handle her own.

  * * *

  When Cameron woke, she was gone.

  Painfully he rolled over to look for her, but the one–room–with–bath was vacant. He felt battered for a moment, then empty, before he caught the glint of sun on blond hair through the crack between the curtains. She wasn’t gone. She’d merely escaped for the moment.

  He used one elbow to jack himself up, and what had begun as a dry chuckle ended in a grunt of discomfort. Acasia had warned him that he’d pay for loving her last night. Maybe knowing what shape he would be in this morning explained some of the reluctance he’d sensed in her. Some, but not all. He’d wanted to assure himself that he wasn’t alone in this, that Acasia was with him.

  She was comfortable with action. Emotions, as she’d once told him, weren’t her forte. She must have felt buried under his, but she’d stayed with him anyway. He’d never doubted that she loved him, and he’d always known that, despite what she thought of herself, she was made more of courage than of bravado.

  He heard the click of a car door opening. With an indrawn hiss of breath, he hauled himself upright and dropped his feet over the side of the bed in one quick movement, reaching to push aside the curtains with a silent oath. Whoever had said it hurt less if you got it over with fast had lied. He peered through the window at the overcast morning. She was checking under the axles and chassis. Cameron had observed the drill too often not to recognize it now. As fast as he was able, he found his pants and jerked them on.

  He reached her as she slid the key into the lock on the driver’s door, stilling her hand before she turned the key.

  "Uh–uh," he told her. "I’ll do it."

  Acasia didn’t waste energy in protesting, merely eyed him calmly, twisted her hand under his and unlocked the door. "You look like hell," she observed. "Didn’t you sleep well? The car’s pretty much packed, but I left that coffee cake we bought on the table for breakfast. While you get it, I’ll start the car."

  He wasn’t in the mood to play a game of distract and conquer this morning. He loved every inch of her stubborn, ornery hide right where it was, and in spite of the I can’t right now but maybe someday aspects of her character. To consider the reality that she could become another Byrd for him—or for anyone—left him cold. He had no intention of letting her start the car.

  "The keys, Casie."

  She could see that he was afraid for her. She’d hoped he hadn’t heard her go out. She hadn’t wanted to remind him of
Byrd. But checking the car before she started it was a habit yesterday demanded she not break.

  "I didn’t miss anything, Cam."

  "Just in case you did, I don’t think I could stand it."

  There it was again, that damned catch–22 and its parade of ifs. She held the keys, and therefore the choice, and it was either stand here arguing or make a decision she might not be able to live with. I’d rather be damned if I do…

  She handed the keys to Cameron. "You turn it on, but I’m staying here."

  It was a melodramatic, deadly, silly scene, a routine to be played out, a bluff to be called. Cameron knew she wouldn’t budge. A humorless grin lifted the corners of his mouth.

  "If you say ‘See you in hell,’" Acasia warned him, "I’ll punch your lights out."

  "Toughie," Cameron said, and slid into the car, stuck the key in the ignition and turned it.

  The Mercedes purred to life without a whimper.

  Acasia took a thankful breath and rubbed a hand over her mouth. "Gee, it must be hell to wake up with you every morning."

  "Likewise, I’m sure," Cameron returned politely.

  Acasia scuffed a line in the dirt, feeling suddenly old and tired. Why was it that morning always had to show up all the night’s illusions? They could neither of them afford the cost of what staying together might do to them.

  "If we start now, we can probably make Rhiannon sometime tonight," she said sadly.

  "If we push it," Cameron agreed. He eased himself out of the car, stiffer than ever, the picture of a future with Acasia all too clear. The moments he didn’t spend wondering what kind of danger her own doings placed her in he would spend wondering what kind of danger she faced being with him. She was not—would never be—a restful person. If anything happened to her…

  Acasia lifted a hand to brush the hair off his forehead, then let it drop without touching him. He looked the way she felt; they thought the same things. She could touch him, but she couldn’t have him.

  She would get him back to Rhiannon, make sure he was safe, make damn sure Dom would never touch him, and then leave. It was time to drain her glass of water from the moon.

  "Guess we should get started."

  Cameron nodded. "Guess we should."

  She would leave him, eventually, for his sake. He would let her go for hers.

  He wanted to reach for her, but he couldn’t.

  Chapter 13

  DEEP TWILIGHT.

  Stillness.

  Inside the quiet, the ghostly silhouette of a man and a dog patrolled Rhiannon’s perimeters. Farther along, toward the high wall hiding Rhiannon from the road, another canine team stalked, the dog keyed to its human partner’s state of alertness.

  Along the cobbled drive leading to the great oak doors of Rhiannon’s main house, gaslights glowed palely, making shadowed hulks out of the wrought–iron benches scattered across the lawn. In the fields beyond the main buildings, a young doe pricked cautious ears and stepped into a patch of moonlight, bolting when a huge owl flapped out of nowhere, a rabbit dangling from its talons. Alerted by motion sensors, slow–scan cameras took in the scene, documenting everything.

  Cameron studied the bank of security monitors detailing Rhiannon from every angle and felt the cold prickle of the paranoia he’d experienced with increasing frequency in the two days since he and Acasia had arrived at Rhiannon. It didn’t help to tell himself that it was only his imagination working overtime. He didn’t believe it. The ease with which Acasia had brought him through the layers of Rhiannon’s surveillance assured him that he couldn’t afford to believe it. Something, or someone, was out there.

  For a moment he wished for Acasia’s eyes. What he only sensed, she would see immediately.

  He’d seen very little of her since their arrival. She’d gone immediately to see about making a few changes in his security arrangements and had been playing chess with it ever since. By tacit agreement they’d slept separately since their night in the cabin, neither one of them certain enough about the future to make the unspoken commitment of sharing a bed. Instead they’d balanced somewhere between platonic friendship and business, exchanging hungry looks across Rhiannon’s blueprints. If Byrd hadn’t gotten himself killed…

  Guilt punched Cameron, a nauseating blow below the belt. No, it wasn’t Byrd’s fault he’d died. The fault lay where Cameron’s conscience assured him it must—with C. Smith himself. Because he was alive and Byrd was dead. The man had worked for him, and, whether directly or indirectly, Cameron was responsible. Nothing that he was doing to find the killers, nothing that his own brain said, or that the therapist Acasia had recommended would tell him—nothing that even Acasia herself said to him from the depths of personal experience—counted. He wasn’t doing enough to make up for a man’s lost life. He was responsible; he was guilty.

  "Damn."

  "Mr. Smith?" Pete Stone, Rhiannon’s security chief, kept his curiosity about Cameron’s late–night visit respectful, his 3:00 a.m. yawn smothered. "Is anything wrong?"

  Yes, damn it, everything. "No, nothing." Cameron pointed randomly at one of the TV screens. "Thought I saw someone out there. I must have been wrong."

  The security man nodded. "Happens all the time. You stare at these screens long enough, you see a lot of things." Something triggered a motion sensor behind one of Rhiannon’s two guest houses, and immediately the security chief shifted his attention to the separate alarm monitor. "Punch it up close, Andy." When the man on the desk complied, the chief scanned the screen and shook his head in disgust. "Reset it." He turned back to Cameron. "Dog," he said, dismissing it with a wave.

  Cameron nodded, concentrating on each monitor in turn, seeing what the cameras saw, wondering what they missed. "Something," he muttered to himself. "I know there’s something."

  Again the security chief eyed Cameron curiously. In the past forty–eight hours, the grounds personnel had been doubled, new surveillance cameras added and the old ones adjusted and the entire staff ordered to expect trouble. He personally had caught royal hell from a Futures and Securities surveillance division chief for allowing Smith and an F & S partner to gain entry to Rhiannon unchallenged. It had done no good to point out that the partner in question had come equipped with the institute’s blueprints, was a protégée of renowned jewel thief and cat burglar Simon Jones, and a pro at breaking and entering in her own right. The division chief hadn’t been interested in excuses. He’d been pulled out of bed for a 5:00 a.m. toe–to–toe with the company’s director–in–residence, Julianna Burrows, who minced even fewer words than Paolo Gianini when making a point.

  "If anyone’s out there, we’ll catch ’em, don’t worry," Pete said now, and meant it. This was a good position with an employer he respected—even more since he’d heard what Cameron had tried to do for the company driver, who’d been careless about his job. Employers with that kind of courage were a rare find. He wasn’t going to blow what he had here. He motioned to the man on the desk, who nodded and turned aside to speak into his microphone. "We’ll run a check of that area. If anything—anyone—besides the dog is out there, we’ll get him."

  Again Cameron nodded. "I hope so," he said, but he sounded doubtful, even to himself. Damn Acasia. He hadn’t gotten up at two–thirty to come play intimidate–the–staff with Security. He’d gotten up to find her. He could manage the days, but the nights without her were endless, damaging things that battered at his guilt, his conscience, his resolve. He needed to find her, needed to hold her. Just for a little while. Just until the pain went away. "I hope so," he repeated, rubbing the tension from his neck. The pressure stung his palm, and the stinging made it itch. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the pain from his healing burns or the fact that he couldn’t scratch where he itched. He pulled a bottle of mild painkillers from the pocket of his sweatpants, thought better of attempting to open it and returned it to his pocket. "What do you—" he began, but a new alarm interrupted him. As one, the man on the desk, the security chief and Cam
eron faced the monitor. On the screen a golden retriever sniffed its way up the front drive, stopping at every lamppost to lift a leg.

  "It’s that damn dog again."

  The security chief nodded. "We’ll have to get rid of it or be hopping up and down all night. Tell Adams and Reeves to run it off."

  Cameron stared at the screen, nerves tingling. The dog. Of course. How could he have missed it? Acasia had been testing the surveillance for the last two days, and this was exactly the kind of simple diversion she would use. She wasn’t in her room because she couldn’t sleep either and was out playing tiddlywinks with his cameras. He should have known he could count on her to provide a little underhanded distraction.

  "She’s out there," he muttered under his breath.

  The security men eyed him oddly, as if to say, "Sir?"

  Cameron grinned at them tightly. "Forget the dog." He’d be damned if he’d let her get away with something so obvious. "Get your people in there or we’ll lose her."

  "Who?"

  Cameron couldn’t keep the satisfaction from his voice. "Your boss."

  * * *

  Originally Rhiannon had been an estate similar to a British manor house, complete with spacious country charm, enough land to give one the illusion of being very far away from anywhere else, and air clean enough to breathe. Cameron had left the air and the land alone but, not being a man who believed in the preservation of antiquity for the sake of sentimentality, he’d mended what was broken and modernized what was necessary to serve comfort and practicality, which meant he’d replaced all the plumbing and wiring and had energy–efficient windows custom–made to match the style of the originals.

  The original buildings were built of dark brick and fieldstone, weathered by two centuries of use and decorated in spots by climbing ivy, morning glories and roses. Besides the main house, the estate included a barn, stables, a carriage house, two guest cottages, a gate house and servants’ quarters. To this configuration Cameron had added a large, modern three–structure complex to accommodate the medical and technical research facilities for which Rhiannon was recognized.