Demon Lover (20 page)

She closed her eyes, rubbing miserably at her upper arms. Nerve endings tingled and shimmered at the memory of his touch. She ached with longing.

He’s a criminal! I can’t love him! I will not love him! He’s nothing but a filthy, rotten, stinking coyote!

A good many emotions were fighting within her; anger emerged victorious. Compared to the seething mess inside her soul, it felt hot and cleansing.

She jumped up, breathing raggedly, then reached for the huaraches and strapped them onto her feet with stiff, jerky movements. The door crashed against the wall of the hut as she left it, heading blindly, almost instinctively for the beach, for her own rocky cove.

Once beyond the sharp rocks Julie slipped off the clumsy sandals and, carrying them in her hand, began to run. She ran along the waterline where the sand was firm and wet, and the sea soon blurred and then erased her footprints. She ran hard at first, then settled into the long steady stride of the distance runner. How far could she run here? To infinity? In Baja, distances meant nothing at all.

She stopped, bending over with her hands on her waist, breathing hard with emotion rather than exertion. She couldn’t, after all, outrun her demons.

What a joke it all was. What a cruel joke. For one wild moment she imagined the guys at the station had set it up, and any minute now they would all jump out from behind the rocks yelling, "April fool!"

What had happened to Julie the cool, the calm, the complete professional? Julie, who never got involved, never lost her balance, her objectivity. Julie, who had never expected to fall in love, who had thought herself incapable of it. She’d even told her parents she would never marry. She could still see the wistful look on her dad’s face when he realized he would never have a grandchild.

And that, at least, was still true, Julie thought with a bark of half–hysterical laughter. Was it punishment—for arrogance, perhaps—that she should fall in love with a man with whom there could be absolutely no hope of a future?

She walked on, kicking wretchedly at the sand. No future, and no past, either. Who was Chayne Younger? Where had he grown up, spent his childhood? What kind of boy had he been? Did he have a mother, a father, people who loved him? Whom he loved? Was he married? It occurred to her with a sense of shock that she hadn’t asked him a single question about himself since…

Since he’d made love to her.

At that point, she remembered, she’d been so frightened by her physical response to him that she hadn’t wanted to know anything about him. And now, if her feelings for him were only physical, why did she suddenly want to know all there was to know about him?

She stopped again, rubbing her neck in bitter frustration. Her body felt stiff and tense, her chest tight and achy. She wanted a good workout. It seemed like forever since she’d been to a gym, though quick mental calculations told her it couldn’t have been more than a week. Working out could make her forget everything; concentrating on her body, on each and every individual muscle in her body, could make it impossible for her to think. And of course there was nothing in the world like flying through the air, her body supple and free…nothing else that could take her out of herself that way.

But
that
wasn’t true anymore, either. Two nights ago she had been taken out of herself and into a whole new dimension, and now she wasn’t the same person anymore.

Swallowing a whimper of anguish, Julie dropped her shoes onto the sand. She began slowly, trying some elementary stretching and limbering exercises, listening to the muscles, ligaments and tendons in her body, pushing them to their limits but always careful not to go beyond.

The first front walk–over felt clumsy; the second was better, and she held it, extending her legs in a slow–motion split, testing her balance and control. The loose–fitting shirt got in her way, so she removed it, working in only the little–girl white cotton briefs. Her body was slippery with perspiration, her hair a tangled mass of damp curls. She worked with total absorption, working through the pain of unused muscles, limiting herself to the graceful dance turns and leaps, knowing she wasn’t ready yet to risk the dangerous and demanding tumbles that would lift her beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond reason.

But the wet sand stretched away, smooth and glistening, beckoning; it felt cool and springy beneath her bare feet, as firm and resilient as a mat. Almost before she knew what she was doing she was running with power and purpose, gathering momentum for the hurdle, the spring. She launched her body into the air like a missile—flying, flying—only to dive headfirst toward the sand in a flawless forward roll. She came to her feet bursting with exhilaration and turned her whole body into a shout of joy, hurtling into a breathtaking series of cartwheels and handsprings that carried her across the sand like a wind–blown leaf. The sense of power and freedom was electrifying. She hardly felt the sand under her hands, her feet, the rushing air that dried the sweat on her body. Her heart sang:
I can fly, I can fly…

The sharp–edged volcanic rock lay half–submerged in the sand. She came down on it with the heel of her hand and the shock of pain tore through her wrist and shot up her arm, turning muscles and ligaments to jelly. Momentum carried her body up and over, but she had no reserves left for the push–off, which would return her to her feet. She landed flat on her back with a force that jarred every bone.

For a few seconds she lay there, stunned, staring up at a sky of flawless blue. As she lifted her head and gave it a shake to clear the cobwebs, she imagined she heard running footsteps. But when she listened, all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart and the harsh, agonized sounds of her own breathing.

Slowly raising herself to a sitting position, she gripped the wrist of the injured hand and pulled it between her knees, rocking back and forth, softly cursing her foolishness.

"Are you okay?" The question was casual, mildly concerned.

Julie froze for a moment, then resumed her rocking while effervescence surged through her like an injection of a powerful drug. Without turning, she said tightly, "I will be."

"That was quite an exhibition. You’re very good."

"Thank you."

"Quite a finish, too. What happened?"

Julie cast a black, bitter look over her shoulder. Chayne was standing a few yards from her, feet apart, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his jeans. His bare chest moved, because he was breathing hard, but his smile was cool, his voice dry and even.

"I hit a rock," she muttered. Her skin tingled and prickled, as if she were breaking out in a rash.

"Bad luck."

"Bad judgment," Julie corrected in disgust. "I’m so out of shape I should never have tried a tumbling run like that without a spotter."

"I wouldn’t say you’re out of shape," Chayne drawled softly. "I’m no expert, but those weren’t exactly beginner’s stunts. Very nice to look at, in fact. I especially like your costume." His smile deepened, and the bottom dropped out of Julie’s stomach. She cast one helpless glance down at her naked torso, swore softly and dropped her body forward to hide her hot face against her outstretched legs.

A finger traced lightly down her spine from the nape of her neck to the elastic of her panties and turned her bones to melted butter. "What’s this? Come on, Guerita, don’t curl up like a pill bug on my account. It’s a bit late for modesty."

He was squatting on his heels beside her, chuckling softly. Julie gripped her ankles and turned her head sideways to glare up at him. Was it her imagination again, or were his eyes really the same color as the sky? Could anyone’s eyes possibly be that color?

"Let me see your hand."

He peeled her fingers from her ankle and turned her palm up. Julie silently turned her face back into the shelter of her knees.

"Hmm. Stone bruise. It’ll be sore for a day or two; as your doctor, I advise you to stay off it." There was laughter in his voice as he carried her hand to his mouth, pressed a warm kiss into its palm and returned it to her ankle.

Julie tensed, trembled, anticipating his touch, but instead his voice dropped away as he shifted position, stretching out on the sand and propping himself on one elbow with his head near her feet. "Are you showing off," he asked pleasantly, "or meditating? That position makes me hurt just to look at it."

"I’m quite comfortable," Julie lied in a muffled voice. But the position constricted her chest, making it too small for her wildly pumping heart. She finally had to abandon it. She straightened, gave her head a defiant shake and dropped back onto her elbows.

"Ah, that’s better," Chayne said with satisfaction, and let his lashes drop, veiling the glitter that might have been amusement—or something more disturbing.

Julie stared back at him, wishing he wouldn’t look at her at all, conscious of the hot sun on her sensitive breasts and stomach.

"I thought you were building roofs or something," she muttered, hoping ill temper would mask her emotions. "What did you do, follow me? How long have you been there spying on me?"

"I’d just come in with a load of thatch when I saw you tear out of the hut." His voice was lazy, almost drowsy. "I thought you seemed upset, so I followed. I’ve sort of gotten into the habit of looking after you."

"You don’t have to. I can take care of myself."

"Right," Chayne said dryly, not bothering to make the obvious rebuttal.

"Well, you might have let me know you were watching."

"I didn’t want you to stop what you were doing. I liked looking at you." His soft words were like a physical touch, stirring nerve endings to preconditioned responses. Julie swallowed and didn’t answer.

"You’re very good, I would guess—not being an expert, you understand." He had changed his tone again to a lighter, more conversational one. "Were you ever in competition?"

"Oh sure, I used to go to meets when I was a kid." She shrugged and looked down at the sand. "Like every little aspiring gymnast, I dreamed of championships…gold medals… making it to the Olympics."

"What happened to the dream?"

"I grew up."

"Not as much as all that," Chayne drawled, sitting up. Julie, following the direction of his warmly amused gaze, blushed furiously and drew her knees up, hugging them to her chest.

"So I’m no centerfold model," she said tightly, tense with unexpected pain. "For a gymnast, I’m a giant."

Warm fingers closed on her wrist and drew her hand away from her legs. "Don’t hide yourself, Guerita," Chayne said softly. "I like the way you look."

Julie swallowed convulsively and looked away, overcome with confusing emotions and unable to tolerate the look in those expressive eyes. Chayne’s thumb rubbed back and forth over the tendons in her wrist, just barely touching the bruise on the heel of her hand. After a moment she shook her head and said rapidly, unsteadily, "That’s not what I meant anyway. I just meant other things became more important to me. To be a world–class gymnast you have to be totally dedicated. A fanatic. All you do is eat, sleep and train. And that was all I wanted to do until about ninth grade. High school was—well, I wanted to do all the exciting things you’re supposed to do in high school. Have dates, go to dances, football games… I discovered there was a lot more to life than gymnastics."

Julie glanced up at him suddenly, realizing she was telling him about herself and wondering why he was allowing her to do so. His face was impassive, his eyes intent; he had the knack of listening with stillness and concentration, so there was no doubt about his interest. Encouraged, Julie cleared her throat, shrugged and continued.

"My mom was on my side. She’d always worried that I’d regret missing out on childhood, and she didn’t want me to miss high school as well. But I think Dad was a little disappointed. He’d been so proud of me—he was the one who drove me to the meets, stayed with me when we had to go out of town."

"Are you an only child?"

She nodded and saw his mouth quirk sideways in a wry smile.

"Sounds to me like you were concerned more with pleasing Daddy than yourself."

"Oh, no." Julie jumped to her father’s defense, shaking her head emphatically. "It wasn’t like that at all. I loved it. I truly did. Of course I wanted to please my dad—I loved him. He loves sports. He was a pretty fair shortstop in college; I guess I got my coordination and agility from him. And he loves me, so it’s only natural, isn’t it, that he would teach me to love sports, too? And since I was hardly cut out to be a ballplayer…"

"Wrong sex," Chayne said quietly.

Julie stared at him. "What?"

"You weren’t a boy. I’d say you probably tried awfully hard to be one, though."

"No!" Julie winced at the stab of a half–forgotten pain. "I told you—he was very proud of me!"

"I’ll bet he was." A strange, cold note had crept into the soft drawl.

Julie jerked her hand from his grasp and fought back anger. "You don’t know him. You don’t know me. You have no right to make judgments."

Chayne gave her a long, considering look, and then a twisted smile. "Oh, Julie Maguire, I know you better than you think." He glanced away for a moment and then leveled a razor–sharp stare at her. "For instance, I’d lay odds you were a cheerleader."

Julie glared at him and balled her hands into fists, hating him.

"You were, weren’t you?"

Unwillingly she nodded. "Sure, what’s wrong with that? How do you know?"

He went on studying her, veiling his eyes in that way that gave them a smoky, almost sleepy look. His face and his voice were cold, remote. "It fits. I told you—I know your type well."

"What do you mean—my
type?"

He tipped his head to one side and smiled sardonically. "Good Lord, Julie, was there ever a more typical all–American–California–girl–cheerleader
type?
Only child, Daddy’s little girl… I’ll bet I even know what you looked like. You didn’t have short hair, did you? Long, bouncy hair—probably a ponytail." He hadn’t raised his voice, but it was suddenly tight with inexplicable anger. He drew a finger slowly along her leg from ankle to hip, raising chills. "You wore your cute little short skirt and did cartwheels and handsprings and flirted with the whole damn football team. Dated only the clean–cut all–American heroes, though, and made darn sure none of them ever laid a hand on this sexy little body. After all, you had your image to consider."