Circle of Bones (44 page)

He rolled off the bed in one quick move, landing on his stockinged feet. She was barefoot, and the skin of her thighs showed beneath the dangling white shirttails. The outline of her hard nipples poked out beneath the thin cloth.

“You’re not the only one in the whole friggin’ world,” she continued, “who gives a damn about things like justice and liberty and honor. How dare you? If you think you’ve got the corner on that, I know a few Marines I’d like to introduce you to. You think you know how to keep
me
safe? You do realize that I am a highly trained United States Marine, and I
am
going back down to the islands in the morning, and there isn’t a goddamned thing you can do to stop me.”

“Okay,” Cole said as he rounded the bed, “but I guess there’s only one way to stop you from swearing like a sailor.” He scooped her up and engulfed her mouth in a long, firm kiss. Her words turned into a slow moan. The little struggle she gave at first, melted away as he tried to find his way back to the bed before his own legs buckled under him. 

He could tell from the smooth feel of her body beneath the cotton cloth, that she wore nothing under the shirt. His desire for her threatened to overwhelm his willpower. He wanted to see her, all of her, to rip off her shirt and take her, to plunge himself into her. Already his breath rasped in his throat when he broke off the deep kiss to look into her gray eyes. But there, to his surprise, he saw fear. 

He had to slow down. Resting one knee on the top of the bed, he set her down amidst the mountain of pillows. He stretched out next to her, his elbow resting on a pillow, his cheek against the palm of his hand so he could take her all in. After brushing a loose strand of hair across her cheek and behind her ear, he let his finger curl around her ear the way hers so often did. With a feathery touch, he explored the tiny shell-like opening. He saw the shiver run through her body as his finger traced down her neck toward the half visible swell of her breast, saw her nipples standing hard beneath the thin fabric.

“Riley,” he said, his voice already hoarse. “I’ve wanted you since that first time I saw you on your boat. But I need to know this is what you want, too.”

She rolled onto her side and propped up her head to mirror his. The ghost of a smile played across her mouth. “Does this answer your question?” With her free hand, she reached for the top button of his jeans and slipped her fingers inside, releasing the button that opened with a snap from the pressure within.

He bent his head back and groaned, then reached into the depths of that darkness to reassert control over his body. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand away.

“Not so fast, Magee,” he said, rolling her onto her back and pinning her hand to the pillows next to her head. He looked down into her sea-gray eyes. “Give me a chance to do this right.” 

Closing his mouth over hers, he explored the moist, soft flesh within, letting their tongues dance round one another, nipping at her lips, then brushing his mouth over her chin. He traced the curve of her jaw with his tongue. Her breath beat a hot rhythm on his face, and he heard it catch in her throat with little sighs of pleasure. He moved down the front of her neck, kissing, tasting, exploring and when he nuzzled aside her shirt and circled her nipple with his tongue, she dropped deeper into the pillows, arching her neck with a soft gasp. 

Cole raised himself up on one arm and began to unbutton the last two buttons. “I want to see you — all of you,” he said.

“No.” She grabbed a fistful of white cloth over her injured shoulder and held it tight against her neck. “I’ll keep the shirt on.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

He waited nearly a minute, but it seemed like an hour before he spoke again. “I said
all of you
, Riley.” He bent his head down and kissed the white knuckles of her fist. One by one, he unfolded the fingers.

She turned her face away from him as he undid the last button and brushed the shirt aside to reveal her naked torso. In the light of the moon, he saw the pearl-colored skin of her high firm breasts and the shell-like pink where red angry flesh crept up and over her right shoulder. He knew burn scars when he saw them and so much about her suddenly made sense to him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said and he heard the soft wail that escaped from her lips. He began at her neck again, kissing the soft white skin. As he approached the edge of the scar, he felt her body stiffen. But when he did not slow, when he continued on across the pink ridges, he heard her gasp and he surprised himself with the electric, erotic jolt he felt from it. “So beautiful,” he whispered and he kissed her shoulder again. He felt the shudder course through her. His own fingers trembled as they traced the contour of the injured skin. The thrill he felt at pleasuring her in this way surprised him. 

He trailed his tongue down and took her nipple between his teeth. She groaned and he released the firm bud. “And you taste like the sea,” he whispered. His fingers danced across her ribs, across the taut smooth skin of her belly and down to the soft shadows of her inner thighs. He traced feathery circles across her burning skin and waves of pleasure washed through him each time her breath ended with a little cry of delight. She shuddered and writhed as he explored every crevice and peak, and he reveled in bringing her right to the quivering edge, then retreating and exploring some as yet untouched part of her body.

Then her fingers wrapped around his wrist and she pulled his hand away and rolled him over, pinning his hand to the pillow next to his head. He saw the desire, the hunger in those gray eyes that were locked on his. When she released his wrist, she slid her hand up under his T-shirt circling his own nipples, sending shock waves to his groin. Then her fingers skimmed down across his belly until her hand cupped the bulging front of his jeans. He leaned his head back, mouth open and the noise that broke from deep in his throat sounded more like a growl. The pressure inside him, the enormity of his wanting was overpowering. Cole couldn’t wait any longer to press his bare skin to hers. 

Fumbling at the zipper to his jeans, he at last got the pants loose enough to slide down his legs. He kicked the jeans off the bed, then tore the T-shirt over his head. He took her in his arms, pressing his chest to her breasts and he rolled atop her. Her body was hot and wet and welcoming, and as she wrapped her legs round his waist, he dove into her and lost himself.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Fort Napoleon

March 29, 2008

4:15 p.m.

Spyder inched his foot forward to the edge of the cliff, his new cheap flip-flops providing little cushion over the rough volcanic rock. Though he hated spending any of their money on shoes in the little French grocery, leastwise this time he wasn’t wearing those fucking Crocs. He still had the blisters from that day. How many days ago was it when he had beat down that bitch? That was how he decided he would think of it – him beating her – and that was how he told the story to his brother. With each retelling over the last couple of days, he’d got it better, made himself sound like he had really busted her ass. He was even starting to believe it himself.

They were going fucking ape shit nuts sitting around waiting for something to happen. Two, three times a day he’d been hiking through the village and around the hill to check on their boats in that Marigot Bay, but nothing ever changed. He’d told Pinky all they needed to do was watch Thor’s little GPS gadget, but Pinky said Thor had told them to report on both boats, and if the skinny nigger on the trawler left, or the doc came back without the girl, the GPS wouldn’t show no change. So, late this afternoon, seeing as Pinky had never been up to the fort, he’d talked his brother into coming along with him to the top of this big-ass hill so’s they could check on the boats from up here. He needed to do something. All this waiting was driving him nuts.

When his foot neared the edge of the cliff, he paused and leaned forward, testing the ground. He had stepped over the chain barrier, and he wondered now if they kept people back because the cliff was crumbling.

The bay below was a brilliant aquamarine, the water so clear he could see the crazy quilt pattern of the grass growing on the sea floor. His mind flashed a picture of the cliff caving in and his body tumbling down the rock face leaving bloody bits of tissue and bone as he smashed against the black rock.

A hand grabbed his arm and he jumped back from the edge, nearly tripping on the low chain barrier. “Jesus, Pinky, what the fuck are you doing? You wanna get me killed?” He jerked his arm out of his brother’s grasp.

“Just wanted to know did you see something? They still there?”

“Gimme a minute.” Spyder pulled his tank top down over the several inches of boxer shorts that protruded above the belt line of his low-riding jeans. He inched back out to the edge and peered over.

The white sailboat was anchored so close to the base of the cliff he had to lean his body way out into space to see if it was still there. He spotted the mast and a bit of the white deck in the late afternoon shadows. The dark blue trawler was still out in the sunlight closer to the mouth of the bay.

“There she is. See, Bro,” he said. “I told you they was both still there. Come here and look.” 

“I ain’t goin’ out there. I’ll take your word for it,” Pinky said.

Spyder hopped back over the loop of chain that hung between the short fence posts. “You better, Bro. You know I wouldn’t lie to you.” He draped an arm over his brother’s shoulder and thought about how he lied to his brother all the time, but what Pinky didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

Spyder stepped back and looked at his brother. He was wearing a bright orange baseball cap he found somewhere on the boat. The words “Bacardi Cup” were stitched across the front. Probably belonged to the old man they stole the boat from. He sure as hell didn’t need it anymore. Like the black binoculars that dangled from his brother’s neck. Pinky’s white frizzy hair stuck out on either side like a pair of fuzzy mouse ears, and he wore dirty white tennis shoes, white pants and a long-sleeved white shirt. The freak wanted to bring along a fucking umbrella to keep the sun off him, but Jesus, Spyder thought, that would have guaranteed everyone who saw them would remember them. He was working on what that Thor dude had talked about. That covert crap. Maybe they’d like hire him at the CIA or something and give him some cool weapons and shit.

“Let’s go,” Syder said, tipping his head towards the fort entrance. 

Pinky pointed back over Spyder’s shoulder. “Look there.”

Spyder turned around. A big white megayacht had rounded the point and was easing her way into the bay.

“Fuckin’ rich people,” he said. “These islands are crawling with them.”

His brother raised the binoculars. The big white yacht began to turn a wide slow circle inside the bay. A small figure in a white crew member’s uniform appear out on the foredeck.

“They think cause they got money, their shit don’t stink,” Spyder continued. “Someday, when we get this gold, bro, boat like that won’t be nothing to us.”

When the bow of the boat pointed seaward, the yacht’s engines reversed and they began backing down.

Without lowering the binoculars, Pinky said, “The boat’s named
Savannah Jane.
I like that. Sounds classy. Better’n
Fish n’ Chicks
.”

By the entrance gate, a security guard pulled on a bell cord and the sound rang out. The fort closed at 5:00.

“Hell, Pinky. That ain’t nothing compared to the high class boat we gonna get.” Spyder grabbed his brother’s arm, forcing him to lower the glasses. “You wait and see. Come on. We gotta go. They’re closing.”

He steered Pinky back down the grassy hill toward the fort’s exit gate. The two of them had slipped through the gate with a large tour group so they didn’t have to pay the entrance fee, and he saw now that most of the groups were crowding out the narrow exit. He hoped they could slide along with the crowd right onto their bus so they wouldn’t have to hike all the way back down to the town. “Shit, I’m getting tired of all this waiting around,” he said as they edged into the crowd. “I wonder what the fuck is going on with the doc? He gonna come back and go after this submarine or not? We need to do something about our cash situation.”

“What cash situation?” Pinky asked.

“The
we-ain’t-got-none
situation,” Spyder said, motioning like one of the rappers he liked to wa

“Don’t go getting ideas, Spyder. That guy told us to wait here for him. Two days ain’t so long.”

“It’s too long to go with no cold beer and no pussy.” Spyder nudged his brother toward the crowd of tourists mobbed around the door to one of the buses. They were mostly older, chubby French tourists, but he spied a voluptuous, pouty teenaged girl trailing behind her parents. She wore a tight, low-cut tank top, and she was busting out of it. He worked his way through the crowd until he was right next to the girl, and then he turned sideways in front of her. 

“Hey man,” he said to the big man on the other side of him – as though blaming him for pushing him – and he fell against her tits.

“
Pardon
,” she said, stepping back and glaring at him.

Spyder pretended to stumble again and fell against her for a second go, this time raising his hands to cushion his fall. He gave her tits a good squeeze.

“Sorry,” he said. 

She was yelling some gibberish at him in French and her father started their way, so Spyder grabbed Pinky’s arm and yelled, “Come on!” They took off running down the steep road.

His damn brother sure as hell wasn’t any kind of athlete. He looked like an injured pelican as he waddled down the hill, his arms flapping like wings. Lucky for them, the parents were too busy drying the little cunt’s tears to take off after them. Probably decided against it since the day was too hot and they were too fat.

So, they didn’t get a ride down the hill, but it had been worth it. Once they rounded the first hair-pin switchback, he and his brother slowed to a walk and Spyder began to whistle “The Eddystone Light,” a tune he’d picked up one summer working on a shrimper.