Night of the Panther

by Suzanne Forster

  A raindrop splashed against her forearm, then several more hit her face. She kept moving, knowing if she stopped, she would collapse in a heap and never move again. She couldn’t even turn her head to see if Johnny was behind her. It took too much effort, and she knew his angry countenance would throw her to the ground. It would be the straw that broke her.

  Within seconds a steady, cleansing rain was falling. She took the veil from her head, letting the shower wash her face and arms. It wasn’t until some time later that she gradually became aware that the steady rainfall had become a downpour, and she was soaked through to the skin. She’d fallen into a trancelike state, into that strange, deep pit of concentration that took her beyond the limits of human endurance.

  Rain was pelting her as she glanced up. Wind whipped at her dress, and the clouds were thunderheads, black and roiling toward her with a paralyzing fury. She looked around, bewildered as the sky opened up with a blinding bolt of lightning. Fear struck at her heart, weakening her legs. She tried to keep moving, but nausea rose in her gorge, and a violent trembling took hold of her limbs.

  The thunder cracked above her with an explosion that knocked her to her knees. It shattered what was left of her strength. She couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t even see through the downpour. Swamped by sickness and exhaustion, she curled into a fetal crouch and moaned, defeated.

  “Honor?”

  It was Johnny’s voice. She roused, struggling to look up, but what she saw above her wasn’t Johnny. It was the peak of the mountain, looming not two hundred feet away. She scrubbed the moisture from her eyes, wondering if it was an illusion. Had she come that close to reaching the top?

  She felt Johnny’s hand on her arm, lifting her to her feet. “No,” she croaked. “No!” She couldn’t let him help her. Not when she was so close! She began to cry in racking sobs as she fought him off and sank into a huddled mass.

  “Honor, this is insane!”

  “I can do it!” she shrieked.

  Forcing herself to get up, she staggered up the rocky incline blindly, half crawling. Her foot came down on a sharp rock, and she screamed, dropping to all fours. She was dragging herself by the time she reached the top. Her hand outstretched, she touched the wooden post that marked the pinnacle and told its elevation, nearly twelve thousand feet. With a deep, shuddering sob of relief, she collapsed.

  Lightning cracked above her. Thunder burst like a bomb.

  Through a haze of rain and tears, she saw the cavelike formation of rocks beyond the post. If she could struggle a few more feet, she could make it to shelter. . . .

  Her next awareness was of a crackling fire, and a storm raging hellishly outside the wall of darkness that surrounded her. She was huddled into herself, still wet to the skin and curled up against a huge boulder. Beyond the fire’s healing heat, she saw Johnny sitting opposite her in the cave.

  “How did I get here?” she said.

  “You crawled.”

  “Did you help me?”

  “I tried, but you wouldn’t let me.”

  She bent her head and wept. She had done it then, without his help. She had conquered the mountain. Sobs shook her body until she couldn’t cry anymore. Slumped against the boulder, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the physical torment her mind had been denying. She sank willingly into the pit of exhaustion and pain. Her lungs ached, and her body burned in every fiber, every shrieking cell. Her muscles, joints, and bones felt damaged, battered beyond repair. But she had prevailed. . . .

  Eight

  JOHNNY WATCHED IN confusion as Honor huddled into herself like a wounded animal. From where he sat across the fire from her, he could see the involuntary jerking of her muscles and nerves. He could hear every plaintive moan. She wouldn’t let him near her, and yet she shuddered and cried out whenever a thunderbolt exploded above them.

  He didn’t know what to do with her. At some point while they’d been climbing the mountain, he’d come to understand that she had to do this thing on her own, but he’d never witnessed such seemingly insane determination. It made him think he didn’t know Honor Bartholomew at all.

  The wind howled outside, whistling through the cave.

  She moaned, quaking with cold, and he felt a stab of alarm. He didn’t understand what she was doing, what she was trying to prove. Was he the reason she’d put herself through such hell? When he’d told her she wouldn’t make it, he hadn’t meant it as a challenge. He’d believed the mountain was too tough. Even now he was certain it was more than his warning that had driven her to such extremes, but he didn’t like the other option. Had her punishing drive come out of some need to absolve herself? He knew she felt guilt about their past. He wanted her to feel guilt. But he would never have inflicted this kind of pain on her, not knowingly.

  On impulse, he went to her, kneeling beside her as another spasm shook her. She was blue with cold. He touched her arm, but she cried out and fought to get away from him, thrashing like a netted bird. Her moans cut through him like a knife, and he felt a sudden and terrible need to take her into his arms, to warm her quaking body.

  He moved again to touch her, and she crawled away from him, out of his reach. He backed away then, not knowing what else to do. Her terror of him paralyzed him almost as much as the powerful emotion breaking inside him. He’d never felt so helpless. All he could do was watch and wait.

  Honor woke up several times during the night, once to find Johnny offering her food, which she refused. Another time, near dawn, she realized he was next to her, holding her. She wanted desperately to get away from him. She was determined to survive without his help, and she detested being the object of his pity. He paid no attention to her protests, however, and she was shaking so uncontrollably from the cold, she didn’t have the energy to fight him off.

  And so she surrendered, allowing him to draw her into the warmth of his embrace, allowing him to nuzzle her neck with his face as he turned her toward him and pulled her curled legs into his lap. He held her gently but firmly, enveloping her in the cocoon of his arms, his chest, and his drawn-up legs. She hated that he was treating her like an injured child, but she desperately needed the warmth of his body heat and the human contact. Her frozen limbs were beginning to respond, to sting with life as the blood resumed flowing.

  She dozed off that way, enfolded in his arms and moaning with both pain and pleasure as he rubbed warmth back into her aching arms and legs. She didn’t want to moan, or even to fall asleep, but she couldn’t help herself. He felt good. Everything he did to her felt good, especially the way he’d coaxed her head into the curve of his neck and shoulder, then let his long black hair fall over her like a mantle.

  There were times during the night when she roused and thought she must be dreaming. It didn’t seem possible that it was Johnny holding her. She wouldn’t have believed him capable of such kindness. Sighing, she tried to curl into him deeper, as if the heat of his body could absorb her. He seemed to sense her stirring and began to stroke her hair. Please let this be real, she prayed, appealing to the mountain spirits. Don’t snatch it away from me too quickly. A tightness blocked her throat, and the empty place in her heart felt as though it was slowly being filled.

  Finally she did fall into a deep, healing sleep, and it was then that the dreams actually began. At first they were womblike and nurturing, promising blissful solace. But gradually they took on another quality, softened and romantic, even sensual. They were sprinkled with images straight out of her teenage fantasies, of Johnny holding her, murmuring love words. Of her melting against him helplessly as he stroked her throat and kissed her . . .

  She awoke in the morning, vaguely aware that she was stretched out facing the length of his body with one of her knees nudging his thighs and her face nuzzling into the curve of his neck. The sense of contentment she felt and the warmth of his skin were glorious. She didn’t really want to wake up, or even to move, but she had the oddest, fuzziest sense that something was amiss.

  Dro
wsily her mind began to track body parts—the top of one of his legs, the bottom of hers, the arm he’d tucked in the curve of her neck, the knee she’d pressed to his thighs. Hmmm . . . something was missing, she realized. One of her hands lay between them. The other one—

  Her eyes blinked open. Where was her other hand? Gingerly she drew back and felt his muscled thighs close tightly. On her hand! She must have slipped it between his legs for warmth while she was sleeping, and now she was trapped. As she imagined the awkwardness of trying to extract it, she realized her lips were pressed wantonly to the pulse point in his throat. And worse his hand was draped on her hip, his fingers drifting over the rise of her fanny.

  One thought, and one thought only, took possession of her mind. How was she going to get out of this situation without waking him?

  She needn’t have worried. Johnny’s eyes were closed, but he’d been awake for a good long time—wide awake and trying to cool the fire that was roaring in his blood. His thigh muscles were rigid, and his loins throbbed with the need to roll her onto her back and find release in her soft, yielding flesh. Oh, yes, he was awake. Especially the part of him that was hard and hungry.

  He could feel the nervous impulses in her trapped lingers, the involuntary tug when she’d realized her hand was caught. Every little twitch and flutter bombarded him with signals from the most erogenous of male zones. He told himself to release her, to shift his weight a little and free her hand, but his body had other ideas. It took almost as much concentrated effort to get his hormones under control as it had to climb the mountain yesterday.

  Pretending to be rousing from sleep, he shifted forward as though about to roll onto his back.

  Honor’s soft gasp filled the cave. But instead of pulling her hand back, she panicked and jerked it upward, jamming it against his crotch.

  Johnny’s eyes snapped open, and his thigh muscles locked like a steel trap. “Were you looking for something?” he asked.

  She stared at him, her eyes widening as she realized what she’d got a handful of. “I think I found it,” she said breathlessly. Realizing her double entendre, she flushed as crimson as an Apache headband. “My hand, I mean! If you could just open your legs!”

  “Oh, baby,” he said softly. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

  Warm air rushed through her parted lips, quavering with a delicious sound. She tugged at her hand but only succeeded in getting it turned around until she was cupping him as though she’d intended to fondle him.

  His thigh muscles squeezed involuntarily.

  “I think I’m caught, Johnny,” she said, with her marvelous knack for stating the obvious.

  “I know you’re caught.” He’d been doing his damndest to keep his hands off her, but she was making that noble effort impossible. He’d told himself that after the hell she’d been through coming up the mountain, the last thing she needed was him pawing her, rolling all over her like an animal. But maybe she wanted a little pawing—maybe she wanted a lot.

  “How about if you open your legs?” he suggested.

  “My legs? Why? I mean—how would that help?”

  “It would help me a lot.”

  Honor gazed up at him, bewildered. She could feel her whole body going weak and moist. His eyes were dark with desire, diamond-hard at the center. Still, he couldn’t mean what it sounded as if he meant, could he? He’d been aroused before, but he’d always seemed to be fighting demons, fighting her. Had he just lost the battle? “I’m not sure quite what you mean . . . .”

  “Sure you are,” he said softly, impatiently. He feathered her cheek with his fingers, drawing them down to her mouth.

  The sensation of weakness swept through her like a warm, humid wind. “Then, you are . . . talking about sex? About making love? To me?”

  “Don’t make it sound so complicated. Men and women have been doing it for ages.” His voice had the raw, sexy edge of a man pushed beyond his limits. “Don’t tell me you’ve never fantasized about us doing that?”

  Yes, she’d fantasized about it. Last night, and countless other nights since he’d disappeared from her life. She’d had dreams of him seducing her slowly, drugging her with desire as only he could. She had dreamed of him kissing her until she was insensate with passion, dreamed of him taking her with his dark animal hunger. She had dreamed so vividly, she knew it wasn’t safe to answer his question.

  When she didn’t, he captured her chin and drew her head up, stroking her throat with his thumb. “So tell me, Honor. Do you want me to do that to you? Say it, baby. Would you like to feel me inside you?”

  Honor’s stomach clutched with shock as much as excitement. His voice was rough around the edges. His eyes were black with passion, but there were flashes of another emotion electrifying their depths. The impulses registered on her every nerve ending. He was angry, she realized. Even if he wasn’t consciously aware of it, the darkness was there, triggered by the heat of his passion, feeding his desire. Damn him, she thought, her throat aching. She knew she ought to back away, but she couldn’t. The raw, sexy edge of his anger thrilled her.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice gravelly, “I want you inside me.”

  Johnny exhaled, heat pouring through his nostrils. He stared at her for one long, hot moment, on the brink of something reckless. His body throbbed; his mind shouted out an executive command that he act. God knew he wanted her. He’d always wanted her. She was the girl of his teenage dreams—and she was telling him yes, I want you inside me.

  His heart was beating as wildly as it had when he first met her. His stomach was as painfully knotted with aching desire. Pain, he thought. This wasn’t pleasure, it was pain. He was as crazy as that idiot kid had been, as racked with need and out of control. But that kid had wanted only one thing—to win her love, to worship at her feet. The grown man had other dangerous impulses. He wouldn’t stop at winning her love. He wanted revenge.

  He shifted his weight and felt her hand slip away from the heat between his thighs. She’d escaped him. His reaction was swift and angry. Burying his hand in her lush hair, he pulled her toward him and lifted her mouth to his.

  Her lips parted in trembling surrender. She whimpered, the sound rife with uncertainty and desire.

  That sound thrilled him.

  “Johnny,” she implored, “love me . . . don’t hurt me.”

  “Love you,” he breathed, his mouth on hers. His stomach muscles clenched. That was all he wanted, wasn’t it? In the deepest part of his soul? Just to love her? Still to love her?

  He let his mouth linger over hers interminably, prolonging the agony. He ached to kiss her, to ravish her mouth, to thrust his tongue deep into the tender channel of her throat. He ached to invade every part of her, every orifice. He wanted to take carnal possession, to mark her and make her his. But once he let go of that last thread of restraint, once the cage door was open . . .

  Gradually he became aware of the anguish in her breathing and opened his eyes. He saw pain in the set of her mouth, the sweet suffering in her gaze, and he drew back, confused. It took him only a moment to realize what had happened. He was hurting her. The hand he’d buried in her braid was clenched, gripping her hair tightly. His other hand had closed on her forearm, compressing the cuts and bruises.

  The sight of her brought as vivid a flash of understanding as if he’d had one of his grandfather’s dreams. “I can’t love you. Honor,” he said with a hard, despairing sigh. “Not without hurting you. It’s impossible.”

  He released her and rolled away, sitting up, his shoulders hunched forward, his legs drawn up. His loins were still pumping with heat and blood.

  “Johnny?” Her voice was soft, shaking. “I’m all right, really. I’m not hurt, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  But you will be. Count on it.

  She touched his shoulder, and he shook his head. “Don’t be a fool, Honor. You’ve been done a favor.”

  He rose to his feet and walked to the mouth of the cave. He’d ju
st had the perfect opportunity to take his revenge, but he hadn’t done it. The thought of hurting her had appalled him. The impulse inside him had been to save her, to protect her. He couldn’t seem to get near the woman without turning into a white knight.

  The thunderstorm had passed, he realized, looking around at the craggy peaks of the mountain range. The day was bright and sunny, rainwashed. He only wished the storm inside him could dissipate as quickly and leave such beauty behind.

  Narrowing his eyes against the sharpness of the sunlight, he walked out into the warm blue sky and let the light bathe him, soothe him. He wanted that connection with the elements now. In his childhood nature had been his only respite, the only thing that could heal him. It had offered him a serenity that nothing else could.

  A short time later he heard Honor move around behind him. He turned to find her brushing hair out of her eyes and blinking against the brightness. In the torn camp dress and with her blond tresses flying free of the braid that hung down her back, she looked like a wild mountain woman.

  It was a sight he’d never expected to see, and it had an odd effect on him. It liberated his mind for an instant. The girl called Honor was imperfect and real, he realized. She was flesh and blood, not the fantasized ideal he’d held in his mind for eighteen years. The insight made him want to lift her in his arms and swing her around, celebrating the morning, the sunlight.

  “I wish you could see yourself now,” he said, his voice growing husky as he remembered how he’d cradled her in his arms the night before. “I don’t know how to describe it. You’re earthy. You’re beautiful.”

  “Don’t do that!” She turned on him furiously. “I won’t allow you to shove me away and then turn around and tell me I’m beautiful . . . and earthy.”

  He shrugged an apology, genuinely surprised. Somehow he’d missed a note in his analysis of the new Honor. She was angry. Spitfire angry. She drove home that fact as she whirled around and started down the mountain. He could hardly blame her. He wanted her one minute, hated himself for wanting her the next. He was at war, and she was getting caught in the crossfire.