Shadow Woman: A Novel

by Linda Howard

  His face.

  She had watched him before, coming toward her just like that, as sure of himself as if he controlled everything in his world.

  The quick flash of feet and fists, the thudding sound of flesh hitting flesh, the grunts as blows landed. His training partner scored a hit to the testicles and he went down, cussing through tight-clenched teeth, while she and her own training partner howled with laughter because he almost never lost a bout.

  He didn’t lose this one, either. He bowed his spine and flipped upright before his training partner could take advantage, and two quick pop-pops, one with his right elbow and the other with his left knee, sent his partner down. The man lay sprawled on his back on the mat, breathing hard and groaning. He tapped one hand on the mat in surrender.

  X grabbed a towel and came to where she and her partner watched, his prowling stride as fluid and easy as before, his dark eyes narrowed on her face. Sweat dripped down his face, darkened his olive-drab tee shirt. “Why do women always laugh when a man gets kicked in the balls?” he growled as he swiped the towel over his face.

  “Because they’re so precioussssss,” Lizzy said in her best Gollum accent, still laughing because he was a little pissed. She so seldom got anything on him, she enjoyed it to the fullest whenever she did.

  “Damn right they are,” he returned.

  He was closer, his gaze still locked on her.

  X … No, not X … but close. X …

  Xavier.

  His name was Xavier.

  The name exploded through her brain, and suddenly it was there, memories cascading through the wall that had been breached. The days. The nights. She gripped the hoe handle with all her strength, using it to support her weight as she fought to stay upright.

  Xavier!

  He crawled over her, his naked body rubbing all over her, his powerful legs pushing between hers and spreading them wide, so that he settled into the cradle of her hips and loins. She loved that moment when he paused to guide the thick tip of his penis to her, loved the flex of his hips that nudged him inside her that first little bit. He was thick and hard and there was always that instant when her body was startled by the size of him, then she’d feel herself soften and relax and take more of him. He’d wait for that moment, hold himself back until he felt her accept him, and then he’d push deep, and she could never hold back a gasp at the hot slide of his flesh into hers.

  Xavier. Oh my God, it was Xavier.

  He stopped just inside the shadow of the shed, his head cocked a little to the side as he intently watched her. He didn’t dismiss the knife or the hoe, not in her hands, though she had no doubt at all that he could take her. She hadn’t trained in … however long it had been since they’d trained together. She was weak, out of practice, hadn’t had enough sleep, plus she was exhausted from riding that damn bicycle for hours in the summer heat, while he’d been cruising on his Hog.

  Fury blasted through her. Damn his eyes! He did have a tracker on her, somewhere. He could have caught her at any time, but instead he’d hung back, played games with her, let her damn near kill herself before he made his move. That probably had been him on the motorcycle earlier, leapfrogging ahead of her, enjoying the game. She was so furious, she’d have kicked him in his precious balls if she’d been able to. The day wasn’t over yet, though.

  “Lizzy,” he said, his deep voice calm and dark, a little cautious, as if he didn’t want to spook her. She realized he didn’t know what, if anything, she’d remembered. “I won’t hurt you. Do you remember me?”

  Yes. There were still big gaps in her memory, but she remembered him.

  She had loved him. Whether or not he’d loved her had been up in the air, still was, because she didn’t know what had happened. But one thing definitely hadn’t changed: she still did love him, she realized, otherwise her heart wouldn’t be feeling as if it were about to burst. He was here. The long time apart felt as if she hadn’t been living at all, as if her world had been gray and empty. Pain and joy and all kinds of anger unfurled in her, and she briefly closed her eyes. This was too much; she couldn’t get a grip on any of her emotions, couldn’t organize any of her tumultuous thoughts into any kind of order.

  “Yes,” she finally managed, all but whispering the word. She drove the knife point into the post, left it sticking there. She looked back at him, her lips trembling. “Precioussssss.”

  No sooner had the word left her lips than he lunged, was on her, the impact of his body knocking the hoe to the ground. It would have knocked her to the ground as well except for the grip he had on her, both arms around her, and he lifted her off her feet and kissed her. His mouth was hot and firm and hungry; she didn’t think she’d ever been kissed like that before, as if he were starving for the taste of her. He slanted his head and his tongue took possession of her mouth, and the impact on her senses was like being body-slammed.

  Yes. Yes, she had been kissed like this before—by him. The rightness of it, the sense of belonging, sliced through her as sharply as any blade.

  Her arms wound around his neck and she kissed him back the way she used to, the way she’d done in the dreams that had been trying to tell her something, had all but been pointing at him and screaming Him! Him! She kissed him as violently as he kissed her, not caring if her teeth cut his lip, not caring about anything other than his taste, the feel of him, the hot smell of his skin, the fact that he was here.

  He held her with one arm and with the other pulled the helmet from her head, dropped it to the ground. The helmet dispensed with, he began taking off her clothes.

  He was so fast it was almost like being under assault. Her senses spun violently as she tried to orient herself. He wasn’t going to—was he?—yes, he most definitely was. She instantaneously went from disbelief to acceptance, to need. It had always been like this with him, their attraction so fierce she felt as if her skin could barely contain her.

  Within a minute she was naked from the waist down, and she didn’t care that they were in a shed, and that the shed was open to the road that ran along the hay field. In the shadows, at that distance, probably no one could see anything anyway. And even if they could—she didn’t care.

  She cared about him. She’d found him again, or he’d found her. It didn’t matter. They were together.

  There was nothing to sit on, nothing to lie on except the ground, but he was strong enough that they didn’t need either. He unbuckled his belt, unsnapped his jeans, and shoved them down just enough. Holding her braced against the support pole, holding her up with both hands gripping her ass, he surged against her. She locked her legs around him, lifted herself, opened herself, and he pushed in hard.

  Time spun away again. The world spun away. Memory and reality collided; it was the way it had been before, the heat and stretching and almost-pain. There was no foreplay, no trying to arouse her, but he’d always had her number and could make her come even when she was trying her damnedest not to, just to spite him. She came easy for him, in both senses of the word. He kissed her, and she was turned on. He touched her, and she was ready for him.

  She had been without him too long.

  She felt the tension inside her building fast, rushing toward her like floodwaters. He thrust deep and fast, moving her up and down on him. She moaned, the sound raw. It was coming, that complete upheaval that was too intense to be mere pleasure, drawing all her muscles tight until she felt as if her entire body was trying to clamp around him.

  Then she came, bucking in his arms, her fingers clenching on his back, her face buried against his throat as she tried to stifle the guttural sounds she was making. He drove her harder against the post, his hips pistoning; then his rhythm changed to something slower, rolling, deeper. He grunted—she remembered that grunt—a brief, hard sound before one long groan tore from deep in his chest, then she felt the tension seeping from his muscles as he slowly relaxed, resting his heavy weight against her.

  She closed her eyes, drove her fingers through his thi
ck dark hair, gripping the back of his skull. “Xavier.” How had she lived without him?

  He’d know what was going on. He could fill in all the awful blanks in her memory. The important thing was that she’d remembered him. She loved him more than she could hold in, and now that they were together again she didn’t plan on letting him go until she’d wrung him dry.

  And then she was going to kill his ass for what he’d put her through today.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Awkward wasn’t the word for it.

  Here she was half-naked—literally—with a man she’d just had sex with, but she wasn’t certain exactly what was going on. Shouldn’t she have gotten some of that settled before getting down and dirty with him?

  She grabbed up her pants, holding them in front of her as if that would do any good. “Um … I have some wet wipes in my backpack.” She waved her hand in the direction of the hay bale where she’d left everything in her panicked run to the shed.

  He didn’t seem to feel any of her discomfort. He slid a hard, muscled arm around her waist and pulled her to him for a minute; she automatically stiffened, but more in unease than rejection. Gradually she relaxed, her cheek resting on his shoulder and her hands pressed flat against his back, feeling the rippling muscles there, the heat that poured off him. Even if she didn’t remember much detail about their time together, everything about him was so familiar, so right, from his smell to his taste to how their bodies fit together. He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll get them. Don’t slide that knife into me while my back is turned, okay?”

  She had thought of pulling the knife from where she’d stuck it in the post, because she was uncertain and didn’t know whether or not she needed a weapon. When in doubt, she thought, get the weapon and worry later about looking silly. Did that mean he knew her well, or was that simply what his life was like, that he had to look at everything from the viewpoint of potential for attack?

  She was still scrambling for balance when he returned, but she’d left the knife where it was.

  “I don’t know what’s real—” she began.

  “We are,” he interrupted, giving her one of those darkly intense looks. “We’re real. Just go with that for now.”

  “There’s a lot I don’t remember. I didn’t remember you until you were coming toward me. X. I thought of you as Mr. X.”

  He considered that. “Close enough. You were going in the right direction.”

  “Your name is Xavier?” she asked, just to be certain.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  She stopped asking questions while she turned her back to clean herself; silly, perhaps, to feel embarrassed after what they’d just done together, but there’d been no time to become accustomed to him again. One second she’d thought he was about to kill her, and the next second her brain was firing erotic images at her. There was no bridge, no link between the past and the present.

  She looked at the wet wipe in her hand, and something else smacked her between the eyes: they’d just had sex without using a condom, and she wasn’t on birth control. Was this new? Had she been on birth control before? Simply not worrying about it had felt so normal, as if condoms had never been part of their love life, but she didn’t know for certain. Everything was probably okay this time—her menses were due to start in just a couple of days—but from here on out they’d need to take precautions until she could get back on the pill and it became effective.

  That was assuming they were still together, and both of them were still alive, that there was a “here on out.”

  Deep down, she didn’t doubt the “together” part. And now that Xavier was with her, for the first time since she’d taken ill she wasn’t frightened and lost. Okay, not as frightened, and still lost, but Xavier wasn’t. She didn’t know what was going on, but he would.

  He’d found her. He knew she was in trouble, and he’d found her.

  She pulled on her pants, thinking furiously. She could reach only one obvious conclusion, and she’d been smacked between the eyes so often in the past few minutes that she was beginning to feel like a punching bag. Turning, she snapped, “You jerk!”

  He lifted his eyebrows. There was a sleepy, self-satisfied look in his dark eyes. “Yeah? How so?”

  “How so?” she mimicked furiously. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t have caught up with me at any time. You let me half kill myself on that damn bicycle, instead of stopping me hours ago. That was you who passed me when I was hiding in the weeds, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t a good place.”

  She felt like smacking him. There wasn’t an ounce of apology in his tone, but then, there wouldn’t be. He’d analyzed the situation, decided on his tactics, and that was that; did he ever second-guess himself? She didn’t know, but she’d bet not.

  “I needed a place with no witnesses, in case you didn’t remember me.”

  “I didn’t,” she said, her stomach clenching a little as some of the backwash of terror hit her.

  “Yeah, wouldn’t that have worked out well, with me trying to wrestle you onto the motorcycle while you fought like a wildcat, screaming your head off,” he said dryly. He hooked his left hand around the back of her neck, drawing her in for a long kiss.

  That reassured her as nothing else would have done, but she still wasn’t ready to let go of her ire. As soon as her mouth was free she said, “There were plenty of places—”

  “I wanted you tired, to minimize any struggle. Are you tired?”

  “Exhausted,” she shot back. “You know what? That’s a case of sound tactics and poor judgment. Because I’m not only tired, I’m sore in every muscle, and I’m pissed.”

  His mouth quirked as he considered the ramifications. “Tired is good, pissed isn’t unusual. I’ll try to do something about the soreness.”

  “Such as?”

  “How does a hotel room with a whirlpool tub sound?”

  The bicycle she’d bought just that morning—and spent a wad of dough on—had served her well, but she’d never before in her life been so glad to see the last of anything. She pushed it to the side of the road and left it there, figuring someone would pick it up within half an hour at the most. Then, backpack strapped in place and helmet on, she waited until Xavier had straddled the Harley before she stepped on the bar and swung her leg over the seat, settling into place behind him. This wasn’t one of the big touring bikes, with the raised passenger seat and back rest; this was a machine built for muscle and speed, which meant he had to scoot forward as far as he could and she still barely had enough room to sit down. Another half inch, and she’d be on the back fender. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and laid her head against his back, because she would have to hold on for dear life.

  He started the engine, and a heavy throbbing sprang to life between her legs.

  “Good Lord,” she muttered. “If a woman had one of these babies, she wouldn’t need a man.”

  He laughed and squeezed her hands where they laced together on his stomach, then put the transmission in gear and eased onto the asphalt.

  Because her position was so precarious, she deeply appreciated the way he handled the machine, as smoothly as if he were carrying fine china. The motorcycle seat was more comfortable than the bicycle had been, or she never would have made it. What would have taken her hours more—because she probably would have ended up walking the rest of the way—was reduced to about half an hour.

  The hotel he chose was one of the big, historic five-star inns. He didn’t have reservations, of course, but what he did have was a platinum card, with a name on it that bore no relation to “Xavier” in any way, not as an initial, a first name, a last name—nothing. Somehow she wasn’t surprised that he had fake ID; they were obviously involved in something that made having false identities a very good idea.

  In nothing flat the Harley was in a secure parking area and they were in a luxurious suite with a balcony, a fireplace, a king-size bed, and marvelous antique pieces. The bath
room was easily twice the size of her bathroom at home—or what used to be her home. The odds were she wouldn’t be going back there, and even though she knew the life she’d been living was a false one, she still felt a pang at the idea of not seeing her home again. She didn’t want to think about that, so she examined the tub. It wasn’t a whirlpool, but she figured a long soak in hot water, plus a couple of aspirin, would be almost as good.

  “I’m getting in that tub,” she announced, bending down to turn on the water.

  “Be my guest,” he said from behind her, patting her butt.

  “Jerk,” she muttered.

  He chuckled as he moved away. “I’m going to check my messages. Maybe you’ll be in a better mood after you’ve soaked for a while.”

  There was a lot they needed to talk about, but neither of them seemed in any hurry to get into the heavy stuff, such as why people were trying to kill her, and what his involvement was—heck, what her involvement was. He seemed content to wait, and she was so tired, that suited her too.

  Lizzy ran the water as hot as she could stand it, then stripped down and stepped in. Gingerly she lowered her aching body into the tub, groaning as the heat seeped into her abused muscles. Closing her eyes, she lay all the way back, sinking down until her hair floated around her and her knees were sticking out of the water. She hurt from her toes to her neck. It was possible that the only part of her body that didn’t hurt was her right earlobe, because she’d caught the helmet strap on her left ear and pulled at the stud earring she wore.

  She wanted to just relax and soak, to let her mind float the way her hair was doing, but it wasn’t possible. No matter what, her thoughts keep worrying at her situation like a cat with a ball of yarn. She wasn’t safe; she might never be safe again. But at this moment she felt safer, better, than she had since she’d looked in the mirror and seen a stranger’s face staring back at her. Her heart beat at a steady rhythm; she wasn’t poised to leap from the tub and flee. Maybe tomorrow she’d be on the run again, but for tonight she could enjoy a simple hot bath, real food, and sleeping in a decent bed.