Chains of Ice (23 page)

She stared at John, eyes wide.

John glanced over the edge. Shook his head. “He fell about two stories. Didn’t even knock him out. He’s on his way back up. Genny, darling, come here. We’ve only got a couple of minutes alone.” He held out his arms.

Like an idiot, she sighed in relief.

He had forgiven her, maybe even believed her.

She rushed to him, prepared for his embrace.

He took her by the shoulders, whirled her in a smooth dance step toward the side where the rock dropped straight down. Down, all the way to the ground.

“John, what are you doing?” She glanced over John’s shoulder, saw Brandon climbing onto the shelf, red eyed and furious, his gaze fixed on John’s back. “Look out!”

“I can take care of Brandon,” John assured her. “And don’t worry—I’m not going to kill you. But I’m not finished with you yet.”

Picking her up, he dropped her over the edge.

She had to be. She didn’t recall falling, but she certainly recalled John dropping her off the edge of the tallest Devil. She recalled the look on his face, angry and vengeful. She recalled the terror . . . but she couldn’t remember the sensation of falling.

She should have hit branches on her way down. She looked around. She was on the ground. Where was the forest? Where were the farmers with pitchforks and that one vengeful innkeeper rallying the villagers to murder?

The sky sparkled blue and iridescent. The trees were old and warped, with flowers growing in glorious profusion around their roots. Here all was peaceful . . . but it didn’t look like anyone’s version of heaven or hell.

My God. Where am I?

Close at hand, she heard water trickling. She turned her head to see a small, brilliantly clear brook burbling over smooth, crystalline rocks . . . rocks that looked like they had fallen off the Seven Devils.

The middle Devil. The doorway—to the
rasputye
.

Sitting up, she looked toward the horizons. To the east and west, the horizon looked as if it had been tucked into the earth. To the north and south, the sky went on forever.

The truth hit her.

She’d seen this place before, in the vision John had shared with her of his mother.

Genny was in the
rasputye
, in the crossroads.

John had thrown her off that rock.

Did he truly hate her?

Yes.

Yet fool that she was, she couldn’t believe he had let his wife burn to death.

She tried to, but she didn’t.

She had to believe in the John Powell he had shown her, a man so dedicated to the life of the forest that the rare Ural lynx allowed him to know the location of her den and gave him permission to hold her kittens. Genny had to believe the big cat instinctively knew what kind of man John was . . . and she had to believe in her own instincts, too.

She loved the man.

She covered her face with her hands.

Why had she fallen in love with a man whose life had been so stained with pain and betrayals?

She could have loved any number of civilized, driven businessmen, but for her, it had to be John. Right from the moment she had seen his photo, she’d been interested. Then the time they’d spent together, the conversations they had shared—that had been a seduction all of its own. And the sex!

She flopped back on the grass.

The sex had been pure fantasy.

What had come after, when he discovered that picture, was more nightmare.

So Genny loved the man.

But he had the right to his rage.

She sat up again.

She had to get out of here. She had to get away
now
, before he made the jump into the crossroads and came searching for her.

Because he would. John and Brandon were probably fighting right now, but Brandon didn’t stand a chance against John.

All too soon, John would appear in the
rasputye
. And he’d be after her.

Getting to her feet, she tested her shaky knees, then started running south.

John landed on his feet like a cat. A single glance proved what he already knew. The grass was soft, thick, and an impossibly bright spring green. The sky was sparkling blue, and shaped like an arch that reached the ground to the east and west, then went on forever to the north and south.

But now he knew the ancients were telling the truth. The doorway was off the edge of the middle Devil.

He was in the
rasputye
; and for at least a little while, it would provide a refuge from his wreck of a life.

He studied the faint footprints in the grass.

More important, Genny was in the
rasputye
. Genny, who had convinced him that she was all that was good and decent. That he was wrong to live alone in despair.

He should have known she was a liar.

Bending to study her footprints, he knew she had taken off in a panicked run.

Yes. Smart girl. She had been afraid of him.

Genny had gone south.

He followed.

He had revenge to exact.

The wind blew, the water ran, but there were no animals, no birds, no people. No sign of any living being.

Had she hit her head when she landed? Was she hallucinating? Again she wondered if she was dead.

Then as she climbed a hill for a look around, she heard a sound behind her. She turned to look.

One living being stalked across the landscape—John.

He was big. He was handsome. He was angry. His gaze was fixed on her.

Her heart leaped into her throat. Blood thundered in her veins.

Oh, she was very much alive, because irrepressible fear sent her into a sprint down the hill toward the gloriously clear pool and the wide, thundering waterfall that filled it. As she ran, she unlaced her leather boots, pulled them off, stashed them behind a pile of boulders. Her clothes had to go, too—the material was sturdy, heavy, made not to swim in but to protect her skin from bugs and thorns. She stripped off her shirt and pants, flung them into the oozing warm mud at the side of the pool, and stomped them in. They were hidden. Thank God, they were invisible. And if she could get in that water and behind that waterfall, she would also be hidden.

She glanced behind her.

John hadn’t yet appeared over the crest of the hill.

Dashing to the rocky lip beside the waterfall, she dove in.

The water enveloped her, balmy and clear. So very clear. She could see everything: the sandy bottom bubbling with warm springs that fed the pool; the plants waving among the rocks that rimmed the pool. She swam beneath the splash and boil of the falls, desperately seeking its concealment, and surfaced in the shallow rock grotto.

Pushing her sopping hair out of her eyes, she looked around. She stood on a gravelly shelf, waist deep in the warm water. Smooth black boulders protruded from the water. A pale blue light flickered on her and on the stones. Tiny springs dribbled off the rock, and when Genny tested them with her hand, they were comfortably, marvelously warm. The falls rumbled in front of her, providing a curtain that divided her from the world. From John.

He couldn’t see her here. She was safe.

Yet her racing heart didn’t believe it.

If he topped the hill at the right moment, he could have seen her swimming in that pristine water.

She inhaled in short, frightened breaths, and kept her gaze fixed on the falls, expecting at any second to see him part the water like Poseidon and tower over her—which was why, when his hands grabbed her ankles and pulled her under, she went without a fight.

He dragged her under the waterfall, out from beneath its roiling din, then let her go.

She fought her way to the surface. As she gasped a breath, she glanced around for him.

He swam on the bottom of the pool, circling beneath her; his expression feral, primal, furious.

She dove away with a silent scream of fear.

He followed, naked, strong, efficient in the water. He grabbed her hips.

She shoved against him, frantic to get away.

He easily let her go.
Too easily.

As she broke the surface, she realized why. He’d used her momentum to strip off her panties. She was naked, almost, except for her bra and whatever she could cover with her hands.

Looking down into the clear water, she saw him swim to the bottom of the pool . . . and drop her panties on one of the waving fronds.

Like an evil-tempered shark, he looked up at her, savagely satisfied with his actions—and his view.

She shouldn’t swim. She shouldn’t kick. She shouldn’t show him more of herself than he could already see, which from that angle was . . . everything.

She knew, logically, she had no chance of escape. She knew, by looking at him, at the way his body clenched, at the erection forming, that her flight would only trigger his need to pursue.

But when he started toward her, logic counted for nothing.

Panic drove her, and she dashed toward shore. He swam behind her—she knew he did. She was almost there . . . her feet touched the sand . . .

He grabbed her, dragged her under the surface, walked his hands up her calves, up her thighs, up her bottom, up her back.

She kicked back at him. She slammed one foot into his thigh, one into his shin, tried to kick higher, to do real damage.

He paid no attention, handling her as if she were a play toy. He unsnapped her bra. Twirled her in the water. Grabbed her sensible white C-cups, pulled them off her arms . . . slowly, willfully dropped the bra to the bottom of the pool to join her panties.

She hated him. She hated that deliberate demonstration of superior strength, hated the ice blue of his eyes, the heated sleekness of his body. She hated that he taunted her with her helplessness, hated that he wouldn’t believe her when she explained.

She hated that he made her want him so badly, she ached like she had the flu.

They came up face-to-face, body-to-body, treading water on the other side of the falls.

He was wet and seething and . . . hard.
Very hard
.

She was scared and outraged and . . . aroused. Mostly aroused.

He bared his teeth. “You shouldn’t have run.” “You shouldn’t have chased me.”

But he didn’t care what she said, what she thought. He only cared about one thing.

Catching her hips in one arm, he spread her legs around him and, using his other hand, thrust his fingers inside her.

She arched backward in shock, in injudicious passion. Then, when he pressed his thumb against her clit, she writhed in an orgasm that displayed every emotion, every desire. Wildfire burned her so fast and hot, she had no control. She screamed in pleasure and in a fury of her own.

How dare he . . . ?

Then he did it again, forcing her from one orgasmic peak to another, showing her how easily he ruled her body.

“Damn you!” She strained to escape, so mad with rapture she could barely speak.

“Too late. I was damned years ago.” He let her go.

Again she tried to swim for shore.

But he was there at every turn, and finally she realized—he was herding her, directing her under the waterfall and into the grotto. And so she went.

She was so angry, she wanted to slap him in the face. She was so aroused, she wanted to pull him inside her and make him sorry he had ever doubted her.

Getting her feet under her, she turned on him, not sure what she was going to do, what she was going to say—and he used her momentum to pick her up and place her on a smooth black granite boulder. The cool stone had been sliced by some great force, and slanted toward him. A hollow formed by long years beneath the waterfall cradled her back, and the spray acted as a lubricant that moved her down to him . . . whether she liked it or not.

She didn’t like it. He might already know he was going to win, but she wanted him to have to fight for this victory.

John caught her knees in his big palms. He stood in the water; it foamed up to his thighs. He pulled her onto him and, without a single sign of the gentle care he had shown before, thrust inside her.

He was large, strong, invasive.

Her traitorous body welcomed him, softening around him, easing him inside with a moisture that betrayed her.

He grinned, a triumphant Viking slash of a smile that mocked her and her irate reluctance. Still grinning, he leaned into her—and ruthlessly detonated a power pulse into her. Sexual arousal blasted her: every nerve, every organ, every inch of skin. This was no gentle release of power but a commanding stab, a movement to ruthlessly dominate her.

He succeeded.

She clutched him between her thighs, came so hard and fast it was as if she had waited for this all her life. The convulsion brought her spine off the rock. She clasped his shoulders and dug her nails into his skin. As revenge, perhaps. Or to hang on in a fantasy gone mad.

He groaned, thrust uncontrollably, then caught his breath. Sliding his hands to her wrists, he pulled free of her grip. Twining his fingers with hers, he pressed them to the stone and held them there. He locked gazes with her . . . and drove into her, over and over. The heat of his lust, his temper, his determination, his powers sent her hurtling from peak to peak, scorching her world.

She wanted. She needed.

He gave. And gave. Relentlessly, constantly, until she cried from a devastation of pleasure.

Did he hate her?

Yes, but he couldn’t resist her, either—for as her passion grew, so did his. The power he used on her reflected back at him, and he plunged harder, faster—his eyes glittering wildly as his climax seized him. He was out of control.

She exulted in that, in knowing she had undone his revered discipline.

The grotto glowed with a pale blue light. The waterfall roared. The rock was slick on her back.

They moved together into a final, glorious climax, coming and coming until the very ground beneath them trembled with pleasure.

They were one, once more.