Midnight Jewels (26 page)

He brushed his mouth across hers. "Why do you have to fight me every inch of the way, honey? Why can't you just accept the way I am and the way things are between us?"

"Mostly because I haven't been able to figure out how things actually are between us." Mercy pushed against his shoulders and Croft sat up slowly. She glanced back to see how many dainty daisies or delicate blue columbine she might have crushed. But Croft, with typical proficiency, had made certain she missed the flowers.

"I've told you from the beginning you're safe with me," Croft said. He reached out toward the petals of a starry little columbine growing between, some rocks. His touch was so delicate me purplish-blue petal barely quivered. "And I think you've trusted me from the beginning. So why do you keep arguing with me and provoking me?"

"It isn't a question of trust. Well, maybe it is in a way. It irks me to admit it, but I do trust you, Croft. I trust you to be true to yourself and your own brand of philosophy. But I'm not sure where that's going to leave me. I can't avoid the feeling of being used. The last time a man used me, it was easy to hate him, easy to be thoroughly repulsed by him and everything he had done. Easy to walk away from him. But I seem to be trapped with you."

"And you don't hate me."

Mercy heaved a forlorn sigh, thinking of the previous night. "I guess that's only too obvious, isn't it?"

His gaze turned remote and austere. "I'm aware that when this is all over, regardless of how it turns out, I'm going to owe you. I always pay my debts, Mercy, and I'll pay this one. I swear it."

"That's just ducky." She sprang to her feet, dusting off the seat of her jeans. "I'll have to think long and hard about exactly what to ask of you in the way of repayment, won't I? I'll want to be sure I get my money's worth."

She started through the meadow, aware that Croft was following with his usual silent tread. The sun was still warm and the flowers just as gemlike, but some of the brightness had gone out of the day. Mercy understood now that as far as Croft was concerned, he was going to come out of this tied to her with the bond of indebtedness.

He would owe her.

Mercy didn't see how a debt of honor, especially one based on Croft's rigid personal code, was going to translate very easily into a bond of love.

"Mercy, wait."

Croft reached out to catch her hand and drew her to a halt. She looked up at him. "What is it, Croft?"

"I was wrong," he said a little thickly as he framed her face with his strong hands. "We do have world enough. Hell, we've got this whole mountain meadow. It's a world unto itself."

"And the time?" she whispered.

"We'll make the time."

The brightness came back into the day as Croft lowered Mercy down onto the grass. She put her arms around his neck and thought about how badly he must want her if he was willing to change his mind about making love to her. She smiled.

Croft saw the smile and groaned as he stretched out beside her. "You really must be a witch." He trapped her legs beneath his thigh and his fingers went to the buttons of her camp shirt. "Just feel what you do to me." He took her palm and put it on the burgeoning hardness that was already pushing against the fabric of his pants. "I don't seem to have any control around you."

Mercy threaded her fingers through the thickness of his hair, her eyes misty with a loving invitation. "It works both ways, you know. Look what you do to me."

"I'd rather feel what I do to you. You always feel so good when I touch you." He pushed the shirt off her shoulders and started on her jeans. He worked quickly, his impatience evident in the swift, sure movements he used to undress her. A few minutes later Mercy was lying naked in a field of wild-flowers, her skin warmed by the sun and the touch of the man who held her as if she were a part of him.

"Your clothes," she murmured in husky protest as he didn't bother to undress himself. Her trembling fingers went to the buttons of his shirt.

"Forget my clothes," he muttered. "I'll take care of them." He unzipped his pants, sat up in a cross-legged position and caught hold of her hand again. "Now you can help me." He guided her fingers back to the opening in his pants.

"Croft?"

His expression was a little wicked and altogether sexy. His eyes gleamed. "How long are you going to keep me waiting?"

Goaded, she slipped her hand inside the open zipper, found the pocket of his briefs and then her fingers closed around his hard shaft. Warm, masculine flesh pulsed eagerly against her palm. Gently Mercy freed Croft's eager member from its confinement. She touched him delicately, wonderingly and Croft groaned. A drop of moisture formed at the blunt tip of his shaft, dampening Mercy's fingertip.

"Come here, honey. I can't wait any longer." He reached for her, pulling her down onto his lap in a sitting position.

Mercy gasped, filled with a sudden, wild abandon when Croft positioned her so that she was astride him. She clutched at his shoulders as she sat facing him, her thighs spread wide, the secret place between her legs fully exposed. Croft's unyielding manhood pressed against her inner leg, heavy and waiting.

"Croft, I'm not sure this is..." She couldn't think of a logical protest. She could not mink at all. Mercy just knew she felt outrageously wanton as she sat there straddling Croft's lap.

"Relax," he whispered. "Just remember that you're always safe with me." Then he touched her, exploring her with a deliberate possessiveness that made Mercy tremble. She cried out softly and closed her eyes. He moistened his finger in the dampness he elicited between her thighs and then coaxed her small bud of desire into a tingling fullness.

When he was satisfied with her reaction, he drew his finger lower. He used her womanly lubrication to ease his path. Mercy shuddered as he slipped his questing finger inside her and then went lower still to find the sensitive flesh just below her soft, wet channel. There he drew an exquisite little pattern that nearly drove Mercy over the edge.

"Croft!" She wriggled on his lap, trying to get more of the delicious sensation. "Oh, God,
Croft
."

"I know," he muttered, his voice dark and husky with passion. "I know what you want. I'm going to give it to you. Now." He stopped his sensual exploration and cupped her buttocks in both hands. With infinite, excruciating slowness, he guided her down onto his upthrust manhood.

Mercy was fiercely aware of every throbbing centimeter of him as he entered her. Her whole body tightened in anticipation as Croft filled her completely. She wanted to hurry now. The excitement was already starting to ripple through her and she could not control it. It .gripped her, claimed her and thrilled her. And the dark glitter in Croft's eyes told her he was with her every step of the way.

When he had buried himself in her softness, Croft began to guide the primitive rhythm. He used his hold on her thighs to establish the movements of the sensual dance.

It was an act of urgency and claiming and Mercy was as aroused by it as she was when he teased and tormented her with his caresses.

There was a different type of excitement in this sudden fierce need. It proved just as compelling as the other kind.

The onrushing climax that shook them both seemed as natural and magnificent as the vista of mountains and meadows that surrounded them.

Croft's shout of exultant satisfaction echoed across the meadow.

When it was over they collapsed in each other's arms until the brisk air and dazzling sunlight restored their energy.

Isobel Ascanius stood at the window and watched Croft and Mercy walk back into the compound. She saw Falconer halt for a moment and pause to brush some bits of grass and dried leaves from Mercy's hair. It didn't take much imagination to know that at some point during the morning walk Mercy had found herself lying on her back in a mountain meadow. Isobel found herself feeling strangely envious.

She couldn't remember the last time a man had made love to her in the grass under a sunny sky. Isobel maintained a carefully groomed appearance of exoticism. Hers was a beautiful, cool, sensually challenging facade
that never failed to attract and compel. She required her lovers to be skillful and sophisticated. Her image was clearly not that of a woman who would tolerate a simple tumble in the grass. Few men would dare to suggest it. She couldn't even begin to imagine Erasmus Gladstone suggesting such a thing, for example. Gladstone was an accomplished lover, but sometimes he repelled her. His passion was cold and mechanical, satisfying but never fulfilling.

Isobel told herself that Gladstone's emotionless lovemaking was sufficient. Sex was a low priority on her personal list of needs and desires. She took her real pleasure in knowing that Gladstone respected her skills as a professional security consultant and bodyguard and she planned to impress him with her abilities as a strategist. She would find ways to convince him he needed her.

She had started working for Gladstone because she sensed that he would one day be powerful enough to promote her into the level of power she craved. Someday she, too, would be the head of a lucrative network based on providing the titillating, illegal products demanded by a spoiled, egocentric, shortsighted clientele. She would be rich beyond her wildest dreams, a woman with the power of life and death over others. Her goals were clear and shining; and she would not abandon them.

But as she watched Mercy returning to the house, Isobel found herself wondering what it had been like out there in the meadow with Croft Falconer.

"Everything is under control for tonight?" Erasmus asked from behind her.

"Of course. You're certain it's necessary to get rid of Falconer?"

"Better to be safe than sorry," Gladstone murmured. "On the surface he is nothing more than a very ordinary, very uninteresting man. The perfect lover for our dull little Miss Pennington, I imagine. But something about him bothers me. He moves very well, have you noticed?"

Isobel glanced out the window again. "I've noticed."

"I don't like the fact that things went wrong that first night at the motel. Somehow Falconer got the book out of the safe before Dallas could get it. And I don't like the fact that you discovered Falconer and Mercy in the garden last night. Too close to the vault. But most of all, I don't like the fact that you haven't been able to trace Falconer."

"I know," Isobel agreed quietly. "I should have been able to find out more about him by now."

"Precisely. Given me facts and the suspicious lack of information, I think it's better to get rid of the man."

"And Miss Pennington?"

Gladstone made a dismissing gesture with his hand. "I insisted she make the trip here with the book so
that I would have an opportunity to evaluate her and decide just how much she knows. There was always the possibility
that she had learned of the real value of
Valley
and was setting a trap or planning to work a blackmail scheme. If such were me case I knew it would be far easier to get rid of her here than in her own territory. But it's clear she's nothing more than what she appears to be. A naive little twit. Still, if Falconer is more than he appears, it would probably be best if Miss Pennington eventually suffered a fatal accident, too. I want nothing and no one around who can follow the trail of
Valley
back to me."

Isobel inhaled deeply, wondering again what it was going to be like to kill for Gladstone. She told herself she was committed now. With cool logic she had made up her mind to pursue this path and she would not quit. All her training had been focused on making her into the perfect female mercenary, the perfect security consultant for a wealthy, powerful man. She would not balk at the first kill. This was the route to the power she wanted. Someday, if her plans were fulfilled, she would be the one hiring people to do her dirty work.

But the peculiar dread she was feeling alarmed her. There was no doubt that it would be easier on her if she could avoid the necessity of having to get rid of Falconer and the woman. Logically it would be safer, too. Deaths always brought questions, and questions always left one vulnerable.

"If Miss Pennington is that silly and naive, then you might be able to get her to tell you something about Falconer. We might be able to verify just how dangerous he is before we act. I've seen your skill with hypnosis."

Gladstone smiled. "That's a thought. It would be interesting to know more about him, even though we're going to get rid of him soon. Knowledge is always useful. It would be interesting to know, for example, if he was in the employ of someone else or working for himself." He paused, thinking it over. "You're right, my dear. I'd better have a little chat with Miss- Pennington and I'd better do it this afternoon. You'll have to provide a distraction for Falconer."

"I don't think that will be a problem," Isobel said smoothly. "Lance mentioned that Miss Pennington has a horror of small aircraft. Falconer, on the other hand, seems
like the kind of man who would find a helicopter flight around the vicinity interesting."

Gladstone's blue eyes were unreadable. "I shall rely on you, my dear, to set up an entertaining afternoon for both of us."

Isobel glanced out the window again. Perhaps if Gladstone satisfied himself that Falconer was harmless he could be talked out of arranging the "accidents" he had planned for Croft and Mercy.

But regardless of the outcome of Gladstone's chat with Mercy, Isobel told herself, she would do what she had to in order to insure her own future.

There was a first time for everything, including killing.

Shortly after lunch Mercy stood at the huge plate glass window in the living room and watched Isobel Ascanius lift the small helicopter off its pad and point it toward the south. Croft was sitting beside Isobel in the passenger seat. He didn't bother to look back and wave at Mercy.

Somehow it didn't come as any great surprise to discover that Isobel was Gladstone's pilot. The woman looked like she could handle anything.

Mercy still wasn't quite certain how she and Croft had gotten separated, but she suspected it was all Isobel's idea. As the other woman had climbed into the cockpit she had looked quite competent and dashing in her multi-pocketed khaki flight togs, leather boots and mirrored sunglasses.