Deadly Harvest (5 page)

“No thanks. We're both leaving tomorrow. I'm going to head back to my hotel and pack. I'm sure I'll see you up there. Thanks again for your help, though.”

She nodded. “Thank
you
again for the ride.”

She still just stood there. So did he. He found himself thinking of all the time they had shared, all the occasions when they had sat close together in the studio and he had breathed in her perfume. He thought of the amber lights in her eyes, eyes a man could get lost in. Suddenly, after all the times when he had felt the need to stay far away from her, he wanted to be close. Touch her flesh and see if it was as smooth as it looked, find out if the texture of her hair was really as silky as he dreamed. If the passionate fire of her speech translated into the way she made love.

“Yeah, sure, of course. My pleasure.”

“See you, then.” With that she turned and headed into the hotel.

 

It wasn't late, Rowenna thought. Over on Bourbon Street, the bands would still be playing for hours.

She thought about heading out for a drink and some music, then decided against it. She opted for a long shower, followed by a light beer from the minibar. She wanted to sleep—
needed
to sleep—and she was afraid to sleep.

Kendall had told her in all seriousness that ghosts came in dreams, and now she was afraid to go to sleep.

She tried to watch some television until she was too tired to stay awake, but even as she aimed the remote, there was a knock at her door. And she knew, even before she went to answer, that Jeremy Flynn would be standing on the other side. Her heart began to hammer. She felt a flush rising to her cheeks.

Speaking of dreams…

He was leaning against the door frame, and for a moment his expression was completely unguarded. She was wondering what he was doing there. Thinking that he was insane. That he should go straight back to his hotel.

“You're not supposed to open a door without asking who's there,” he said.

“I knew it was you,” she told him.

“Psychic?” he asked softly.

“I knew,” she repeated.

She hoped he didn't want to talk.

He didn't.

She drew him into the room. Other than the pale glow streaming from the bathroom, she had already turned off the lights. And she was glad of that, because she didn't want to talk, either. Nor did she want to study his expression or let him study hers. Most of all, she didn't want him asking permission.

She had donned a silk kimono after her shower, and now she let it slip to the floor, then cupped his face in her hands, rose slightly on her toes, found his lips and kissed him. His arms came around her, strong and tight, and his mouth opened to hers with equal passion, lips molding against hers, tongue thrusting deeply, evoking a rise of hunger within her that was both intoxicating and frightening.

She was afraid. What if she had forgotten how to make love? Was it really like just hopping back on a bicycle? Could she fail? Be too awkward…?

He caressed the length of her back while his mouth remained locked with hers, wet and hot, his fingers skimming along her flesh like the brush of wildfire. He stepped back, his deep auburn hair tousled by her roving hands, his breath coming hard, his gray eyes an enigmatic storm. She was afraid she had gone too far, been too eager, made a fool of herself, but he had moved away only to ease the sweater he wore over his head and cast it aside, and when their mouths merged once again, she felt a fever of electricity fill her and instinctively moved her hands to the waistband of his jeans, working the button free.

The next few minutes were a blur. She remembered his hand on her face, his fingers tracing the bones of her jawline and cheek. And she remembered his eyes on hers, remembered the color of them, the tempest within them, their touch as real as the stroke of his fingers. His shoes and jeans were discarded in quick succession, and then they were lying together on the bed, and she realized that her dreams had been nothing but teasing foreplay compared to the reality of the man. She was fascinated by every aspect of him, the sun-bronzed sheen of his flesh, the strength of his fingers and their calloused touch, the length of his legs, the hard muscles of his chest…She felt as if they'd been touching forever, as if his kisses fell everywhere. He moved with unbridled passion, and she met him with the same. They made love feverishly, desperate for the moment of climax, yet holding back, unwilling for this wordless communication to end. They were bold lovers, shy lovers, anguished and eager. In the end, she lay still long enough to feel the teasing progress of his lips and tongue down the length of her, and then the weight of his body atop hers, those storm-gray eyes locked with hers once again, and the delicious slide of his erection inside her, and that, like his first touch, was like a hot wind that seemed to sweep through her entire being.

They moved in a symphony outside of time, slow and deep, then faster, feverishly, more urgently. She clung to him, nipped his shoulder, bathed his neck with kisses, and felt the fullness of his possession with an intensity that threatened her sanity. She was lost in the rampant thunder of their hearts, the gasping of their breath and the eternal rhythm that had taken root in her being.

His fingers threaded through hers, clutching, and she closed her eyes against the climax that exploded through her like a storm in a desert. And she felt him above her, tension constricting his every muscle, then releasing, and heard him cry her name as his own climax seized him. He was with her when the ricocheting thunder of her heart began a slower beat, when she began to breathe again as if there were suddenly more air in the world, and when the room itself came back into focus.

Then, suddenly, she began to wonder what to say as the ticking of the clock became audible and she felt a chill along her naked flesh.

But words were apparently not so hard for him. He rolled to his side, but his arm remained around her, pulling close, and he whispered softly, “Do you know how long I've fought this?”

“I thought you didn't find me attractive,” she admitted.

She was grateful for the husky sound of his laughter, and the way he touched her again, his fingers moving over her cheek and jaw, as if marveling at the structure of them. And his eyes, gray mist now, slightly clouded, stared at her as if he couldn't believe how foolish she'd been. She wondered if she would ever really know him, know what lurked behind his strength and passion, his determination, his confidence. And then she was immediately afraid that she'd been out of the game for too long, and that she was reading too much into one night of sex, however wonderful, and if the secrets of his mind were something that weren't meant to matter to her.

But at least he wasn't rude; he didn't jump right up and start putting on his clothes, ready to leave.

She was stunned when he said, “You scare the hell out of me.”

“Me?”

“You.”

Because I'm…a fruitcake? she wondered.

“Why?” she whispered, looking away, suddenly afraid of what she might hear.

“Because you're…you,” he said. When she turned to him, he was smiling a little ruefully, and she decided to leave it at that. “And I'm glad,” he added, pulling her closer. “I felt like a fool coming here, you know.”

“It's all right. I panicked after I opened the door.”

“You panic really well,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He let out a deep sigh. “When's your flight?”

“Noon. When is yours?”

“Eleven-thirty. I go through Chicago. You?”

“Charlotte. When do you actually arrive?” she asked.

“Three-thirty. And you?”

“A quarter to four.”

“Want a ride?”

“You don't have to wait for me. I can get a cab from the airport.”

“I'm sure you can. But wouldn't you rather just ride with me?”

Sex? Yes, she thought. A ride?

“Sure. If you don't mind the wait. And you can…You don't have to take me all the way home. I have to stop and see a…a friend when I get there.”

What a lousy liar she was, she thought. Not that she was lying, exactly. She just wasn't telling the whole truth. She knew she had stumbled over her words, and that her face was reddening. Maybe he wouldn't notice in the dim light.

“To see your friend the detective, right?” he asked, and there was an edge to his tone.

She was about to say that she could introduce them, but he spoke before she could. “That's all right. I need to call Brad as soon as I get in, anyway.”

“I would appreciate the ride, though,” she said, and she knew she sounded ridiculously prim, especially considering her current position.

“Fine. I'll be glad of the company—and the directions.”

He started to rise. To her own surprise, Rowenna held him back. “You don't need to leave, you know,” she whispered.

He looked down at her and smiled slowly, then shrugged. “Okay, I won't.”

He lay back down and found her lips.

Making love was easy, she thought. So much easier than she had imagined.

Far easier than hopping back on a bike, she added with a silent giggle.

Later, with him still beside her, she drifted off to sleep. She was glad he was with her, and glad, though still just slightly embarrassed, that she had taken such direct steps to keep him there.

When she started to see the cornfields again in her mind's eye, she fought the vision.

No, no, please. Not now, not tonight…. Please, just let me have tonight, let me have
him
….

It was almost as if her prayer had been answered.

She wasn't alone in the cornfield.

Jeremy was with her.

“Show me,” he said.

“You don't want to see,” she told him, but she couldn't stop the motion of the dream. They were running together. Running through the rows and rows of corn.

She knew what was waiting ahead, could already see those malevolently empty eyes, and she tried to stop. But she couldn't, could only look pleadingly into his eyes, gray, now with a touch of something darker.

Gray, like the color of the sky, and with that hint of the darkness that would soon engulf the fields.

She heard the first crow scream, and knew that it, too, was soaring toward them like a cruel shadow, black against the roiling gray of the sky.

“Run,” he told her. “Run!”

And so they ran.

“Rowenna!”

She woke with a start. He was leaning above her, eyes dark with concern, hair disheveled, his weight on his elbow as he shook her gently.

She stared back at him, the dream fading. Damn Kendall, she thought. Listen to her dreams? Oh, yeah, that was just what she needed.

“I'm sorry,” she said aloud.

“Nightmare?” he asked.

He sounded solicitous, sympathetic.

He was probably thinking that his first impression of her had been right and he was sleeping with a basket case.

“I…guess,” she told him. “I'm sorry I woke you.”

“I have to get going anyway,” he told her.

An inexplicable chill washed over her, and she clung to him, then laughed, forcing herself to let go. “Sorry. It's morning, isn't it?”

“Morning enough. It's about six-thirty. And I have to finish packing.”

He rose easily, unselfconscious. But then, he probably didn't have any hang-ups about nights of wild sex based on impulse. She watched him as he dressed, relishing the breadth of his shoulders.

Light was seeping in around the edges of the drapes, and she felt a vast sense of relief. For some reason, she'd become far fonder of the day than of the night.

In his jeans, pulling his sweater back over his head, he came back and sat on the edge of the bed as he slipped into socks and shoes. “Can I help?” he asked.

“Help?”

“With your dream. Your nightmare.”

“Oh. No. I don't even remember it,” she lied.

“You're sure? You could tell me about it. Make it go away.”

She forced a laugh. “No, I'm fine, I promise.” Lying was becoming easier, and that was probably not a good thing, she thought.

For the moment, she was grateful for the ability, though.

He kissed her lips briefly, paused, and kissed her more deeply.

“I'll see you in Boston, then,” he told her. “Call my cell when you have your luggage. I'll just pick up the rental car and come around for you.”

“Sounds good, thanks,” she said, smiling.

He didn't linger or say anything more about her nightmare, and she was glad.

“Lock up behind me,” he said at the door, and he did hesitate then. “And though I'm exceedingly grateful that you opened the door for
me,
don't open it again—don't open
any
door—unless you know who's out there, okay?”