Night Hunter (10 page)

“Once we’d grown up, I told him to demand to have his records opened so he’d at least have some roots, but he said that if his parents didn’t want him, he’d close that chapter to his life. The name he goes by—it isn’t the one he was born with.”

“It—isn’t?” Her heart bled for the homeless boy Laird had once been.

“Apparently, his last name was changed every time he went into a new foster home. Maybe those people wanted him to think he belonged. When he came to where I was and learned I’d taken those people’s surname, he asked to have his legally changed.” Clint shrugged. “His birth parents had no say in that. As for his first name—he had a teacher he admired called Laird.”

She heard approaching footsteps on the wooden walkway but didn’t turn to see who was coming. Instead, she stared at the gentle waves lapping against the sides of the fishing boats—boats Laird made his living by.

“Is it possible,” she asked. “That his mother and father were Indian? Seminole?”

Why didn’t you tell me any of this? Did you think I wouldn’t care? I do. My God, I do.

Mala had driven less than a mile before she admitted she was in no shape to be behind the wheel. The boulevard she was on had been constructed within sight of the bay, and she pulled over at a restaurant with an incredible view of water and sky. A few minutes later, she sat at a small outside table, sipping coffee and staring absently at seagulls and other birds as a few sailboats slid past.

Did Laird ever go sailing? She easily imagined him working the ropes so the sails caught the wind to best advantage, but the image became even stronger when she allowed her thoughts to return to the Everglades.

“Yes,” Clint had answered her. He and Laird had speculated that Laird’s dark coloring and midnight hair and eyes spoke of Indian heritage. Because he had no memory of living anywhere except Florida, Laird wondered if his parents were Seminole.

The Seminole now had him. Were changing him in ways she couldn’t comprehend but held her spellbound.

She shuddered and brought her coffee cup close to her face, trying to warm herself from the steam. She couldn’t be cold, not on a day that might reach a hundred degrees. But, considering everything she’d learned this morning, how could it be otherwise?

“You haven’t touched me today,”
she “told” him. “
Why not?”

Maybe, she thought, she’d been so intent on what she’d been doing since getting up that her body hadn’t been receptive to his particular mode of communication. She concentrated on her nerves and muscles, even the blood pulsing though her veins. She felt surprisingly alive for someone who was sleep deprived. But sexual energy, although part of the mix, wasn’t overwhelming.

“Where are you?”
she asked. “
It scares me when I don’t hear from you. Are…are you all right?”

Her vision blurred, but although she loved the setting, she didn’t try to bring it back into focus. Instead, she went deep inside herself and found remnants of Laird.

More than remnants.

He was awake. Sitting, not walking. Naked. Surrounded by somber-faced Seminole men of all ages. One of the young men had been wounded, and despite the bandages around his chest, she could tell the wound was infected. The three oldest faces were etched with deep lines so they looked haggard. In contrast, Laird appeared, not exactly peaceful, but accepting. He’d been staring at the long-bladed knife he held, but now he looked up.

An elderly man stepped out of the shadows and slowly, solemnly approached Laird. The newcomer was lean to the point of gauntness but carried himself with pride. He wore a bright blanket-like garment she assumed denoted some kind of ceremony. As he passed each of the men surrounding Laird, they held out their hands. He nodded and spoke quietly to them in turn. He held something so small she couldn’t tell what it was. He seemed gentler, less on edge than he’d been yesterday. She hoped he was more at peace with himself and his surroundings—surroundings that had wrapped an unfathomable hold on her.

As she’d known he would, the old man finally positioned himself in front of Laird and said something in Seminole. Laird replied and got to his feet. He towered over the older man, but deferred to him. The others began chanting. Although she didn’t understand a word of what they were saying, she found herself getting caught up in a rhythm that reminded her of the Everglades’ song. Even Laird swayed in time. The chanting seemed to go on for a long time, but she was in no hurry to have it end.

She remained vaguely aware of activity around her, the clink of silverware, laughter, someone calling out from one of the sailboats, her coffee growing cold, but it would take a lot more than that to distract her.

At length the singers fell silent, and all eyes turned to the elderly man in the bright costume. He reached up and placed a hand on Laird’s shoulder. After nodding at every member of the audience—she couldn’t think what else to call them—Laird dropped to his knees and held out his hands the way the others had earlier.

Despite the deep shadows, she could see the old man smile as he placed something over Laird’s head and positioned it at his throat. Laird briefly clasped his hand over the object and then stood again so everyone could see.

He now wore a small leather bag decorated with shells. A slender leather cord held the bag in place.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” she told Clint. “But I’ll call when I have something to tell you.”

“You’re going alone?” he asked. The phone connection was poor, but she still noted concern in his voice.

“Yes. It’s—it’s the way it needs to be.”

“I can’t say whether you’re right or not. Be careful.”

“Careful? I thought you didn’t believe your brother disappeared in the Everglades.”

He sighed. “I’m not sure what I believe. He isn’t at work. He hasn’t been home. And he hasn’t called me.”

It struck her as sad that only a foster brother cared what happened to Laird, but he’d probably deliberately kept things that way. If that was so, if he’d never developed close ties, why had things changed with her?

After hanging up, she went into her bedroom and changed into jeans shorts and a cotton shirt. She put on her most comfortable pair of tennis shoes and dug a seldom-used backpack out of her closet which she filled with a change of clothes for herself and a shirt and sweat pants Jeff had left behind after they’d broken up. The outfit would be snug on Laird, but as far as she knew, the only thing he now had to his name was that loincloth. He couldn’t return to civilization dressed like that.

Feeling as if she’d come home, Mala slipped into the Everglades. It was still morning, but hot enough that most of the mosquitoes had gone into hiding. Still, she was glad she’d remembered to bring along repellant since she had no idea how long she’d be here this time—or whether she’d return alone or with Laird.

“I’m back,” she said aloud. “I wasn’t sure I would be. Your arguments for keeping me near you are, shall we say, powerful. But that scares me.”

She fell silent as she searched for the now-familiar trail, then trudged on once she’d found it. The pack on her back made it sweat.

“I thought—after I left the last time I was sure you’d use your, ah, persuasive powers on me. But you haven’t. Why? Don’t you need me anymore?”

He didn’t respond or materialize and she couldn’t sense his presence.

“I find that hard to believe,” she said, shocked by the desperation in her voice. “I told your brother what happened, but I don’t know if he believes me. He cares about you. I want you to know that.”

Something about the air changed. Maybe a predator—

“Are you here? I—I’ve been thinking. Whatever the hold over you, it’s getting stronger. I saw—don’t ask me how—I saw a ceremony in which an old man placed a leather bag around your neck. It looked as if it was full. What’s the significance? Please, I’d like to know.”

“You do not belong here.”

Thank God!
Stopping, she looked around but saw nothing. “What—what do you mean?”

“What has happened does not concern you.”

“No! You’re wrong. Laird?” she called out when he didn’t respond. The backpack pressed into her shoulders, and she shrugged out of it and dropped it to the ground. “I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t important to me. You didn’t, you know, get to me sexually.”

“I did not try.”

“Because you had other things on your mind. I understand.” The word understand swirled around her, becoming more complex with every heartbeat. “If lust was the only thing holding us together, I wouldn’t be here. But I am. And you know why.”

The feeling that he’d come closer intensified.

“I talked to your brother,” she said. “The man you consider your brother. He told me about your upbringing.” She paused, gathering courage. “You’ve never felt you belonged anywhere. You’ve always been looking for—for something. Now you think you’ve found it.”

The Everglades surrendered its hold on him. She sensed the wilderness’s struggle and the strength it took for Laird to free himself. Once again he’d changed since the last time she’d seen him. He still hadn’t shaved and the elements had roughened his flesh even more. His muscles seemed to have grown, perhaps in preparation for what might be ahead of him. She didn’t know whether he wore the same loincloth. The shell-decorated leather bag rested against his chest, looking for all the world as if it belonged there.

Acknowledging the heat in her cunt, her hardened areolas, she indicated his necklace. “What does it mean?”

“My legacy.”

Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She tried to meet his gaze, but was suddenly afraid of what she’d find in his eyes.

“I belong here,” he said.

No!
“How can you say that?” she demanded, although she’d thought that herself when she’d
seen
him with the Seminoles. He hadn’t moved since he’d revealed himself, but that didn’t stop her from sensing him. Wanting him with a ferocity that rocked her. She could jump this man, ram him deep, deep inside her and ride him until they both passed out. “You’ve spent years building a life in Naples. I saw your business, your boats. You live in that houseboat, don’t you? You built it.”

“Yes.”

Her body began to hum. She felt more at peace than she had in a long, long time. Her pussy softened and swelled. She couldn’t stop the memories of what had happened the last time they were together.

“I’m in awe of your skill,” she said, although she could no longer remember why she’d thought it was so important to ground him in reality. In truth, she was losing touch with reality herself. “You—you enjoy sitting out on your deck, don’t you?”

“I speak Seminole.”

“I, ah…”

“The words are in me. They have always been.”

He was magnificent! There was no other way to describe it. And if she didn’t mate with him, now, she’d spend the rest of her life regretting it.

“They need me.”

“So do I,” she blurted. “Laird—Thunder—the things you’ve done to me—” Not giving herself time to think about what she was doing, she ran her hands over her breasts, flattening them and then grabbing the nipples as best she could. Her lips felt numb. In contrast, she was aware of every cell of her body from belly to crotch. Her nerve endings felt hot and almost as if they’d been scraped with sandpaper. Thrown off balance by her sudden, deep response, she fought to remember the world she’d left behind, but it no longer existed.

Only he did.

Only completing what they’d begun earlier mattered.

“Are you doing
it
again?” she managed. “You are, aren’t you?”

Chapter Nine

Mala didn’t know what to expect. She tried to recall what had happened between them before and draw on that, but it was nearly impossible to think about anything except this moment. His body.

It was as if he was challenging her to touch him. Did he think she lacked the courage?

Maybe, she admitted. He was no longer a motorcycle-riding, houseboat-living, self-employed fishing guide. He’d become part of a beleaguered people from the past—a past that had embraced him and now touched her.

Touch. Yes. That’s what this was about.

“What is it like with the Seminoles?” she asked to distract herself and maybe him from the fact that she was walking toward him. Someone had interrupted them before. Was that person watching, ready to interrupt once more? If so, he’d have a hell of a fight on his hands from her. “Did they offer you a beautiful virgin?”

“No.”

“A pity. A lot of men would die happy if they had that.”

“I am not a lot of men.” He turned his attention to her legs as if to let her know she hadn’t fooled him. He knew her intention. “I would not take a child.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She meant it. “But I’m not a virgin.”

Something that might become a smile twitched the corner of his mouth. He was right. She’d proven beyond a doubt she had experience in that department. She thought about letting him know what had brought her here—her determination to do everything possible to return him to the world he’d grown up in—but she didn’t want to show her hand and risk him walking away from her. The thought of having to endure another day of intense sexual frustration nearly took off the top of her head. No way, no how!

“You’ve gotten under my skin with your rather unique techniques,” she admitted. “Made it nearly impossible for me to think of anything else.” Just the idea of touching him made her fingers burn, but if she didn’t take this, whatever it was, slow and retain some self-control, she could lose herself in him. Hadn’t it already happened? Not that she was complaining. She just needed more. “I couldn’t just let it end.”

“I did not forget you.”

“Didn’t you? You didn’t try to reach me.”

He fingered his necklace. “There was no time.”

“But you came to me now.”

He nodded.

“For how long?” How much longer could she stand here talking to him? From the message in her newly heavy breasts and the hot dampness between her legs, not much. “When—when do you have to return?”