Demon Lover (14 page)

He released her long enough to unbutton his jeans, then drew her hands from his neck and guided them to his hips. Julie slipped her hands inside the waistband and over the bones of his hips, lifting her face to nuzzle the warm hollow of his neck, licking the beard–roughened skin under his jaw, marveling at the unexpected silkiness of the skin beneath her hands. Very, very slowly she curved her hands over his hard, masculine buttocks, easing blue denim out of the way.

"The lantern…" she murmured against the pulse at the base of his throat.

"No!" His voice was rough. "I want to see you. No hiding in the dark. I want to see all of you, Julie Maguire. Every sweet, sexy inch of you. I’ve imagined you long enough. I want to watch your skin turn pink and moist with desire. I want to watch your face while I make love to you."

"Not love!".

"Don’t quibble!"

There was an urgency in his movements as he jerked her clothing, all of it, down and off and then stood back to let his gaze sweep her nakedness. His eyes glittered; they seared a trail across her small breasts and down, down over the quivering pattern of her abdominal muscles, the taut skin of her belly with its fine tracing of blue veins, to rest with undisguised hunger on curls of golden brown.

Julie sucked in her breath and stood very still, awed by the look in his eyes.
I am a hungry man.
It frightened her, but excited her, too. There was a throbbing pressure between her thighs and a vast ache in the depths of her belly. She began to tremble again. Her body was cold; she needed—

"
Chayne,"
she whispered, pleading.

"Come to me, Julie."

She gave a little sigh and walked into his arms. He scooped her up, held her for a moment while he grafted her to him with a look of scorching intensity, then laid her on the bed. He lowered himself slowly over her, keeping himself braced on his arms. The taut cords in his neck, the pulse that throbbed in a vein in his temple, the deep lines and rigid planes of his face betrayed strain, but he managed a stiff, rueful smile.

"Julie…you deserve to be pleasured all night long, but I— I am fresh out of self–control. I’m sorry. I hope you’re ready for me."

Julie looked up into the dark face poised above her and felt a pang of fear. Her eyes swept down past his hair–crested chest, and she couldn’t restrain a sharp gasp. But it wasn’t his overwhelming masculinity that caused that spasm of reflexive fear—it was the jagged weal that slashed across the wall of his belly.
That terrible scar.

Jerking her gaze back to his face, Julie saw his eyes had gone cold and hard, and his mouth had tightened in a grim line that etched the grooves of strain in his cheeks. A wave of inexplicable and unexpected compassion swept away her fear. She reached up to touch his face, letting her small hands rest along his jaws, her thumbs smoothing the lines around his mouth. She didn’t trust herself to speak, but she gave him a tremulous smile and opened to him, angling her body instinctively to meet his.

But the penetration wasn’t easy. The shock of it drove a sharp involuntary cry from her throat.

Chayne froze and jerked his eyes to her face. "I thought you said—"

"I’m not! It’s just— I’m not very…"

A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were shadowed, unreadable. "Not very experienced," he said gently. "You should have told me. I’ll try not to hurt you again."

"You didn’t. It was just…"

"I know."

"I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t—"

"Julie…hush."

Slowly, slowly he filled her, and then was still. Julie gave a deep sigh and felt the tension in her melt, her body turn to liquid, honeyed and sweet. She felt the warmth of him deep within her, completing her, and moved against him.

"Shh…be still." His body exerted a gentle pressure, holding her motionless. His moustache brushed her lips, and the tip of his tongue traced their outline. He licked her parted lips, leaving them shining with moisture, then drew back a little to survey his work. She closed her eyes and smiled, holding her breath in rapturous anticipation, not quite believing she could feel such delight.

She felt his mouth hovering above hers and tipped her chin up, barely touching her lips to his lower lip, then tracing it with her tongue. He laughed softly; she felt it deep inside her. His laughter whispered against her open mouth for an instant and then was extinguished in it as he thrust his tongue deep, sealing her mouth with his. Her tongue found his, shyly at first, then finally joining in the slow, evocative rhythm. Slowly he lowered his body, easing his weight onto her belly and chest, still taking part of his weight on his elbows. His hand stroked down the side of her ribs, her waist, her hip, sliding over her thigh and then tracing a path upward on the soft inside of it to the point where their bodies joined. He grasped her leg and pulled gently but firmly upward until she took her cue and wrapped both legs willingly, joyfully, around his body.

And now, at last, he began the primeval rhythm. He kept it slow at first, setting the tempo with his tongue until she had to tear her mouth from his and let her breath escape in harsh gasps. Then his mouth moved to her throat, found the pulse spot and exerted pressure that roared in her ears, taking her completely out of herself and into a realm of pure sensation.

He had lied when he’d said he had no more self–control. He controlled everything; he controlled her. She was the one who was out of control. She was molten lava, she was earthquake and flood, raging fire and thunderstorm. She was riding the crest of a tidal wave, carried faster and faster, higher and higher, while its roaring filled her ears and her body swelled and tightened, bracing for the inevitable disaster. When it came, and she felt herself falling, hurtling down into the maelstrom, she cried out in panic and hung on for dear life to the only solid reality in her universe.

Chayne.

His breathing was harsh in her ear; his body was heavy, and his heart knocked erratically against her ribs. He lifted himself a little and looked down into her face with a slow, caressing smile and whispered, "Strike three."

Julie squeezed her eyes shut and began to cry. She didn’t mean to; as hard as she tried to prevent them, tears oozed from beneath her lashes and trickled into her ears, and her body shook with suppressed sobs. Chayne stared down at her for a moment, his eyes smudged with spent passion. Then he framed her wet face with his hands and said with devastating gentleness, "Was that a first for you?"

Julie nodded violently and drew in a long, wretched sniff.

Chayne swore softly and wiped her face with his hands. He eased himself away from her, rolled sideways and pulled her over and into his arms, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on her hair. He didn’t say anything at all until she had quieted, and then he murmured, "Damned if you don’t keep surprising me, Julie Maguire."

* * *

The wind was making a lonesome, crying sound in the thatched roof. With that same rhythmic creaking that had wakened her that morning, it made the darkness seem crowded, alive with restless spirits and lost souls.

Julie stood alone in the middle of the adobe, shivering convulsively and hugging herself. She felt chilled, and yet she wasn’t really cold. Or perhaps the cold was inside her.

She wasn’t usually given to such fanciful thinking. She’d spent too many years dealing in harsh, ugly realities.
It’s this place, Baja: the deserts and mountains and seas, all of it… prehistoric, abandoned, forsaken, and populated by demons.

She looked almost fearfully toward the bed. He was only a slightly deeper shadow in the darkness, a rhythm of breathing sounds to mingle with all the other disturbing night noises. She was grateful for the darkness, glad she didn’t have to see his face.

Now and forever. My very own demon. Dear God, what have I done?

She drew in her breath and held it, then threw back her head and rubbed futilely at the ache in her throat.

Don’t be melodramatic, Agent Maguire. The plan worked like a charm, didn’t it? You had a job to do and you did it. Now, get the hell out of here before you blow the whole thing!

Why was she standing there grieving over spilled milk? Why did she feel like those wretched souls crying in the rafters? She felt as though she had lost something that meant a lot to her. A part of herself she had placed a very high value on was irretrievably, irrevocably gone. Whatever happened to her—whatever happened to any of them—she would never feel quite the same about herself again.

She took another deep breath, mentally shaking herself and squaring her shoulders. She’d gone into this knowing the risks. If the only casualties were her self–respect and personal integrity, it was probably a fair price for what was at stake.

She looked around one last time and left the hut, closing the door soundlessly behind her. But as she drew in her first breath of rain–tainted air, she knew she had failed to calculate one thing. She hadn’t expected to take along with her, in a flimsy boat on a windy sea and wherever she went for the rest of her life, a part of a smuggler named Chayne Younger.

And I never thought it would be so hard.

It wasn’t as dark outside as it had been in the hut. Although the sky directly overhead was a roiling mass of clouds, far to the east over the water there was a silver half–circle moon. Julie had spent a good many of her on–duty hours working in darkness without the luxury of a flashlight, so she had little difficulty picking her way across the uneven ground to the rocky ridge beyond the camper where she had left the small bundle she had managed to put together during the day. Nothing more than odds and ends: a stack of tortillas, two cans of cerveza, Chayne’s razor, her hairbrush and underwear, a tin cup, some matches, all rolled in Chayne’s nylon windbreaker. Nothing that would have much bearing on her survival, really. She was making this dash for freedom on faith alone.

A gust of wind bumped her back like an impatient elbow. For the first time she felt a creeping uneasiness. She stared intently out across the turbulent blackness, trying to make out the surface of the water. It had grown darker all of a sudden; a boiling cloud had rolled across the face of the moon. Julie shook off her worries, reminding herself that this morning it had been windy and the men had taken the boats out without difficulty. After all, this was only the Gulf of California, not the Pacific Ocean.

She started around the bay, using her night vision, following the slightly paler strip of dry sand. A little flurry of rain struck her cheek like a slap, startling her. It wasn’t supposed to rain in Baja, was it? She pushed on, turning her face away from the wind, trying to remember everything she knew about small boats. Colin had taken her out several times in the cabin cruiser he kept moored at Mission Bay, but those sun–dappled waters and elegant toys seemed unrelated to all this elemental sound and fury.

The boats loomed ahead, dark hulks like a herd of large land animals asleep on the beach. Julie chose the one closest to the shore, tossed her bundle over the gunwale and stood gauging the distance to the water’s edge. At that moment the clouds rolled away from the moon.

Julie felt her knees buckle, and she sagged against the boat, limp with shock and dismay. Where this morning she had looked out on sparkling blue water there was now only a gleaming mud flat, rippled and oily–looking in the moonlight. The tide was out. It was at least a hundred and fifty yards to the water. There was no way on earth she could launch a boat.

She lifted her hands in a gesture of futility and utter despair. Of all the low points she had hit in the last few days, this was the lowest. She thought she couldn’t possibly feel more desperate than she did at that moment.

A moment later she knew she was wrong. Tired of staring at that expanse of impassable land, Julie turned her back on it, as if not looking at it could make it go away. And as she did she saw a tall shape detach itself from the shadow of a boat farther up on the beach and move toward her with silent purpose.

She erupted in panic–stricken flight. She turned and bolted back down the beach, running headlong, her feet finding their way with blind instinct born of desperation, running as if her life depended on it, as she was certain it did. It was impossible to hear the pursuer above the fury of the storm and her own tortured breathing, but she knew he was behind her. Gaining on her!

The rocky promontory loomed ahead. Sharp volcanic rock gashed her knee and she scarcely even felt it. She heard her name called above the roar of the rain that had begun to hit her in stinging sheets, but it only galvanized her into a still more frenzied effort as she clawed her way up and over the rocks, bent only on achieving that pristine cove on the other side. Although where she was going, she didn’t know; she was beyond reason, running on sheer will and the instinct for self–preservation, knowing it was hopeless.

She felt her pursuer close behind her only an instant before she was hit in the back of the knees and dropped, sprawling, face first into the sand.

And still she fought, furiously, mindlessly, rolling and twisting out of her attacker’s grasp. But before she could regain her feet she was grabbed around the waist and thrown back to the ground. A hard, heavy body crushed the breath from her chest. Her raking fingernails searched for his face, eyes, any point of vulnerability, but her hands slithered uselessly off wet slippery flesh. A voice, harsh and guttural with rage and effort, shouted her name and broke into violent swearing. Hands like iron traps caught her wrists and bore them up and back, slamming them into the sand. Just inches from her ear that angry voice snarled, "
Enough!
Damn it, Julie—that’s enough!"

Julie opened her eyes and stared wildly up into Chayne Younger’s contorted face. She arched her back and wailed into that tumultuous sky, "No–oh! Not you!" She could hardly see him in the swirling maelstrom of blowing sand and driving rain, but the body that crushed hers, the hands that pinioned hers, the voice that shouted in her ear, all shook with a fury that made the storm seem like a summer squall.