Abandon The Night (10 page)

She half expected recriminations, but he just hugged her closer. “If you had, we wouldn’t be here now.”

She began to feel the deep, low-down stirring in her belly, the sweet warmth funneling through her as she became re-aware of him. The scent of him, more real than what lingered on the pillow, the solidness of his body, the very masculine curve of his arms and shoulders…the strong pulse in his throat.

Zoë kissed him, lightly, gently. Just brushed her lips over that tender curve above his collarbone. So soft. He shuddered and she felt his chest expand against hers, then settle. Closing her eyes, inhaling him and the gentle orange-cinnamon from her
naanaa
’s soap recipe, she parted her lips and brushed them over him again. A soft groan came from deep in his chest and this time, his arms tightened reflexively around her. Her tongue slipped out, gentle, yet probing down against his skin, teasing and tasting.

“Zoë,” he whispered. “What are you doing to me?”

She knew the answer to that. Smiling against him, suddenly flooded with something light and real, she kissed him just beneath his earlobe…then gently sucked it into her mouth, all the while feeling him lift and grow down against her. He shuddered and arched closer when she probed her tongue deep into his ear, his fingers curling into her back.

Then he pulled away, looked down at her with those blue-flecked eyes, and covered her mouth with his. She lifted against him, her arms around his neck, and they shifted together, sliding prone onto the bed, towels loose and falling away.

His hand moved, whipping away the terrycloth and then reaching for her. The next thing she knew, he was holding himself over her, kissing gently along the curve of her own collarbone, his mouth light and gentle…so different. Sweet along the sensitive skin of her neck, sending blasts of shivers down and over her, tightening her nipples so that they almost hurt, shooting down to her core, where she felt heat and damp and throbbing.

“Quent,” she murmured, reaching for him, closing her fingers around his cock, lifting her hips. “Please…”

She hardly knew where she was, what she was doing, just that this was Quent, and that he made her forget it all. He made her slide into something so hot and warm and familiar that she never wanted to leave.

“Zoë,” he said, and she felt the tremor in his mouth as he bent to brush hers, “stay with me.”

She closed her eyes against the temptation, kissing him fiercely, smothering whatever he was about to say, and guiding him into her.

They both sighed and groaned when he slid deep. She arched up against his belly, rough with hair…and then they moved together, knowing each other’s rhythm, skin sliding against skin, soft sighs and gasps and rasping breathing.

Zoë looked at him once, saw the deep pleasure, something compelling and desperate there, so intense that she felt that stab in her belly…and then she closed her eyes.

For she dared not let him read what was in hers.

Some time later, Quent felt Zoë shift away from him. The sheet tugged gently. He tensed, keeping his eyes closed. His heart began to beat harder when she eased away, slowly and stealthily.

Then the sheet collapsed next to him, and the mattress released.

Quent watched from between slitted lids as she walked toward the bathroom. The stripe of daylight that emerged from between the curtains had dulled to little more than a late-afternoon glow. How long had they been up here? Three, four hours.

Not nearly long enough.

She came back out, her hair falling in wild spears around her face, her naked body smooth and graceful, that orangey, spicy scent back in the air. She looked over at the bed. He felt her eyes settle on him, her hesitation and the hitch in her step.

But it was just that—a hitch. She kept on going, toward her clothes on the table next to the bed. He had a moment of temptation, to reach out and grab her arm, pull her back down next to him…but he’d done that before. And she’d still left.

The knowledge filled him with emptiness.

As he watched, she stuffed the clothes in her small pack and pulled out new ones. Silently, swiftly, she tugged on a dark red tank, as snug around her tight breasts as a bra. Then the rest of her clothes—panties of boring white cotton, and the same dark cargo pants loaded with pockets. All with no sound but the soft swish of fabric, and the faint click of a snap connecting.

Quent spied as she gripped the arrows to keep them from clunking together when she lifted the quiver and her bow, slung her pack over her back. Then she stopped and looked toward the bed.

He opened his eyes then, and, Zoë froze.

“I guess if I offered to go get us something to eat, it wouldn’t change your mind,” he said. “Pizza?” Once before, she’d mentioned a fondness for pizza, and he’d brought one up from the Pub.

She shook her head.

“Where do you go when you leave? What do you do?”

Zoë spread her hands, one of them awkward, laden with her weaponry. “I hunt.”

“
Gangas
. And Raul Marck.”

She nodded, reaching for the leverlike knob. “I have to go.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No.”
The word cracked like a whip.

He hadn’t expected anything different, but neither had he expected such a vehement response. Bruised a guy’s ego a bit, it did. More than a bit. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
Not going to beg or plead. Not becoming to a Fielding.

“Be safe,” he said instead. Though it cost him to keep the words steady.

Zoë’s stance eased, as if she’d been expecting more of an argument. “Quent,” she said, pushing down the lever, then hesitated. She drew in her breath and continued, “Thank you for listening to me—my story.”

Don’t leave.
“I’m glad you told me.”

“I never told anyone about it.”

“Ever?”

She shook her head. “Ever.” The door lever clunked as it opened.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t been here? When you came?” He sat up, feeling like a wank, desperation written all over him.

She shrugged and pulled on the door. “Been fucking disappointed.”

Then she walked through. The door closed heavily behind her, the metal latch clunking loud and final.

Quent snatched up the closest movable object—a pillow—and whipped it through the air. It spun, knocked into a lamp and sent it crashing to the ground.

Fuck.
Fuck.

A loud knock came at the door, setting his heart racing and his body shooting up from the bed. Then he mentally shook sense into himself. She wouldn’t knock. She’d fucking swagger right in.

“Quent?”

He recognized Elliott’s voice.
For chrissakes, can’t they just fucking leave me alone?

Knowing that it was futile to ignore his friend—nor would it be kind, because there was the very real chance that he could slip into that dark coma of memories at any given moment, if he touched the wrong thing—he stalked to the door and flung it open.

“Well,” Elliott said, eyebrows high as he swept his gaze over Quent—who had forgotten that he was stark naked. “I guess you’re okay.”

Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed his way into the room. Quent swore under his breath and shut the door with a dull metallic clunk and turned just as Elliott noticed the broken lamp.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah, doc, can’t you see? Everything’s fucking fine—I was just taking a nap.”

“I see.” Elliott spoke in that physician’s voice he had: calm, easygoing, without a hint of condescension…yet anyone with a brain could sense the underlying skepticism. And compassion.
Bugger him.

“So, uh…are you sure everything’s all right?”

“What, did Wyatt send you up here to psychoanalyze me?”

“You look upset.”

“Congratulations on your diagnosis, Dred. I am upset. Wouldn’t you be a little fucked up if your father had destroyed the goddamned world?”

Elliott sighed, but compassion still warmed his eyes. “I saw her, Quent.”

Quent shrugged noncommittally and bent to pick up the shattered lamp. His balls swayed back beneath his arse, reminding him that he really should put on some shorts.

“I was coming up to talk to you about a patient that showed up today, not to check on you,” Elliott said. But when Quent shot him a skeptical look, he smiled. “Well, and to see what you were up to. You sort of disappeared, and the last time you did that, Jade and I found you passed out in an overgrown alley.”

“Tell me about the patient.”

“She had a bad laceration, through tendons and muscle. If she was lucky enough not to bleed to death, the wound would probably have gotten infected and she wouldn’t have made it. Someone was smart enough to bring her here—she seemed to know about me.”

“Your reputation is rampant,” Quent said dryly, dumping the remnants of the lamp into a rusty garbage can. He dug in his drawer and pulled out a pair of briefs—tighty-whities, but one couldn’t be picky in a post-apocalyptic world. You took what you could find that was uneaten or unmildewed after fifty years. “Could you help her?”

“Don’t tell Jade,” Elliott said with a funny smile, “but I healed her.” He shrugged. “She doesn’t like it when I do too much of that, because…well, you know…it’s not just a simple matter of healing.”

The expression on Elliott’s face provoked another wave of bitterness. Quent recognized a bit of chagrin there, but laced with affection. And beneath it, comfort and assurance that, no matter what, someone would be there. Someone cared.

Someone wouldn’t go running off as soon as the afterglow ebbed.

Quent turned away as he grabbed a pair of cargo shorts. Then, before he could catch himself, the words tumbled out. “Her name is Zoë. She’s the archer with the special arrows—remember?”

Elliott nodded, but didn’t speak.

“She visits me…occasionally. A booty call sort of thing. It’s mutual,” he added, trying to make it sound casual and even a little base. “Her parents were killed by
gangas
, courtesy of Raul Marck.”

Because Raul Marck had abducted Jade and turned her over to the Strangers—the Elite—Elliott’s mouth tightened into a white line. But, again, he remained silent. Which left Quent with nothing but the compulsion to continue talking.

“She comes and goes. Sometimes she leaves while I’m sleeping. Most of the time.”

Elliott had settled himself against the door, arms folded over his middle. “I can see how that might bother you.”

Normally, that sort of generic shrink talk would set Quent’s hackles to rising, but not today. Not now. “That’s the pisser of it all. It bothers the hell out of me that she can’t be arsed to say good-bye. That she won’t stay for more than a few hours.”

“You want her to stay.”

“I’m usually the one who leaves. Or who makes light of it, keep it cazh, you know.”

“Or who arrives at a function with one woman, and sneaks off with another during the course of the evening. Then takes the first one home after.”

Quent chuckled uncomfortably. Put like that…“So you heard about that? With Marley Huvane?”

“I think that you…uh…mentioned it once.”

“Right.” Quent shook his head. Great. That was discreet. “I must have been pissed drunk.”

“That would be correct. You’ve had occasion to mention your other conquests…Bonia Telluscrede, Lissa Mackley, and the others. No details, though.”

Elliott didn’t need to say anything further; Quent was already starkly aware of the trail of women—celebrities, models, socialites—that littered his past. Not that he’d trampled on their hearts, led them on and left them hanging. No, he simply didn’t get close enough for that to happen. You had to be with a woman for more than a night or two for her to get ideas about permanency.

Fuck.

Here he was, panting after a woman he’d been with occasionally over a couple weeks? Yet his mouth didn’t want to stop. “There’s something about her.”

“It’s not because you’re not in control? That you’re not calling the shots?” Elliott asked. It was an obvious question and one that Quent had to turn over in his mind. “An ego thing?”

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “Could be. Doesn’t feel like it.” Then he refocused, shifted his thoughts. “This patient…what did you want to tell me about her?”

Elliott seemed to accept that it was time to change the subject. “I scanned her.”

Quent nodded. While he’d acquired a psychometric ability that seemed to turn around and bite him in the ass every time he used it, Elliott had come out of the Sedona cave with a more practical skill: not only the capability to heal, but also of scanning his hands over a body and being able to see inside. Like a human
MRI
, in 600 resolution color.

“Let me guess,” Quent said, “she’s wearing a crystal. She’s a Stranger?” That would be the first time they had a Stranger—or an Elite—in a situation where they might have the opportunity to learn more about them, or Remington Truth.

“No. Well, she’s got a crystal, but she’s not wearing it like the Strangers. It’s not embedded in her skin.”

Elliott’s face had a look of distaste on it, and Quent imagined it had to do with a recent event in which Ian Marck had forced Elliott to attend to a very sick Elite member, whose embedded crystal had become infected.

His friend continued. “It’s a different kind of crystal. This one is smaller. About the size of a dime, and it’s faceted. And it’s brilliant orange.”

“Does it glow? And how did you find it?”

“It doesn’t glow that I can tell, and it’s not set into her skin like the immortalizing crystals. She wears it like a belly button ring.” He shook his head. “It’s as big as her navel and from what I can tell, it’s in a setting so it dangles—it’s not set in her navel like a belly dancer. I didn’t get a really good look, though.”

“Right, then. You’re thinking it’s not just a piece of jewelry.”

Elliott shook his head. “I scanned her through her clothes; she wouldn’t take them off or let me do anything but roll up her pant leg. So she doesn’t know that I know, but that’s what I saw during the scan. I felt a real snap of energy when I got near the crystal, so I’m thinking it’s definitely more than just a gaudy piece of jewelry.”