Heaven and Earth (24 page)

“You already know the answer. But why don’t we ask Mac to give it? This is his field, as an academic, an observer, and someone who has done considerable research into such matters. Your objective opinion, Dr. Booke?”

“The island itself has power. In sort of a holding pattern until it’s stirred up or applied.”

“Then if I leave it, I take away my, what, conduit to it? Can I do that?”

“On some level, yes, but that would only decrease, potentially decrease, your personal focus of energy. It wouldn’t change a thing. I’m sorry. Where you go isn’t the point. What you do is.”

He could see she wasn’t satisfied, so he spread his hands and tried to explain his theory. “Okay. If, for the purposes of this discussion, we take legend as fact, you’ll have a choice to make. Something to do or not to do. You’re here.”

He used a napkin as the island, placed three olives on it. Then he plucked one olive up and set it on a tray. “You leave. All you do is change the location of the choice, the act, the restraint. Wherever you go, the four elements exist. You can’t defy basic natural law. What you are doesn’t change, and what you do carries back—by earth, air, fire, water.”

He jabbed a fingertip onto the napkin. “Right back to the source. Inevitably. Staying is your only logical choice.
You’re stronger here, and the three of you together make the difference.”

“He’s right.” Nell spoke and brought Ripley’s attention around. “We’ve already changed the pattern once. We’re three, when before there were only two left. Without you and Mia, without you,” she said to Zack, “there would only be two now. Their circle was broken by this point. Ours isn’t.”

“But it is rusty,” Mia said and chose another cube of cheese. “You’ll need to get back in shape, Deputy.”

Ripley snagged an olive, popped it into her mouth. “The hell I will.”

Fourteen

“H
ow about, for
tonight, you turn those things off?”

Ripley stood on the threshold of the yellow cottage. She wasn’t willing to go in and have a bunch of damn machines start scanning her, not after the evening she’d had.

“Sure.” Mac slipped by her, set down his equipment bag, then began shutting down.

He hadn’t expected her to come back with him. Though she didn’t look it, he imagined she was tired. Or at the least had had enough of people in general. Perhaps him in particular.

She’d bounced back, that was certain. Back to trading sharp little barbs with Mia, to behaving as if what had happened in the clearing had been nothing major.

It was an unbelievable shield that she hefted, he thought. Nearly as impressive as the one that had kept him out of the circle in the clearing. He wondered just how vulnerable she felt when her grip on that shield slipped.

“You want to sit?” he asked when she stepped inside and shut the door. “Or just go to bed?”

“Well, that’s cutting to the chase.”

His color rose. “I didn’t mean sex. I thought you might want some sleep.”

She saw now that was exactly what he’d meant. Yeah, he was a damn sweetie all right, she decided, and prowled what she could of the room. “It’s a little early to bunk down. I thought you had stuff you wanted to talk to me about.”

“I do. I didn’t figure you’d be up for it tonight.”

“I’m not tired. It doesn’t work that way.”

“How . . . Here, let me take your jacket.”

She stepped back before he could, and shrugged out of it herself. “If I know you’re thinking the question, you might as well ask it. How does it work? I feel like I’ve got a tanker load of caffeine in my system. Energized,” she continued, crossing to him to give him a quick, firm shove. “Edgy.” And another. “So yeah, I want to go to bed.” The last shove pushed him through the bedroom doorway. “And nobody’s going to sleep.”

“Okay, then. Why don’t we just—”

She shoved him again, then slapped on the lights. “I don’t want conversation, and I don’t want the dark.”

“Right.” For some reason he felt as if he’d just opened the door to a very hungry she-wolf. Her eyes were different. Greener, sharper. Predatory. His blood began to pump, quickly, helplessly. “I’ll just . . . close these curtains.”

“Leave them.”

“Ripley.” His laugh was a little strangled. “We’re pretty isolated, but nonetheless, with the lights on—”

“Leave them.” She yanked her sweater off in one quick move. “If you like that shirt, you’d better strip it off, and now. Otherwise, it’s toast.”

“You know”—he let out a breath, tried to work up an easy smile—“you’re scaring me.”

“Good. Be afraid.”

She leaped at him, knocking him back on the bed. Hunching over him like a sleek cat. She made some primitive sound in her throat as she bared her teeth. Then set them on his neck.

“Christ!” He went hard as rock.

“I want it fast,” she panted, tearing open his shirt. “And rough. And now.”

He reached for her, but she fisted her hands in his hair, yanked, then ravished his mouth. The sheer heat of her seared through him, scorching the nerves, stealing the breath, boiling the blood.

He spiraled down into the dark where pain and pleasure were twins, equally vital, equally irresistible. In response, the animal inside him lunged, straining at the end of its tether. Snapping it.

His body reared up beneath hers, and his hands were hard and bruising as they tore, and took. He yanked her hair, dragging her head back to expose her throat for his teeth.

It wasn’t desperation that filled him. But appetite.

They rolled over the bed, fighting for more flesh, more heat.

She was alive with need, and all of it feral. Energy pumped through her, and all of it savage. Her nails raked at him, her teeth nipped. And when his fingers drove into her, her cry was one of fierce and greedy triumph.

Higher, was all she could think. Faster. She wanted peak after violent peak. Lights danced in her mind, a blinding silver shower. And the storm that fueled them, fueled her.

She slithered over him like a snake, straddled him. And filled herself.

It was like being consumed. Devoured whole. She closed over him like a fist, trapping him in hot, wet heat,
holding him there by the power of her own climax. Staggered, he watched it rip through her, watched her body, pearled with sweat, bow back. And shudder, shudder.

And she began to move. Lightning fast. Her hair fell forward, a tangle of dense brown, as she leaned down, chewed restlessly on his bottom lip.

He pistoned himself into her, hard, fast strokes while his hands gripped her hips like a vise.

Then she leaned back, rode him ruthlessly to the barbed edge of peak.

“Not yet. Not yet,” she panted.

Even as his vision blurred, as his system strained toward that blessed release, she lifted her arms above her head, as she had done when she’d called her power. He felt the shock of it, like a red-tipped arrow through the haze of mad pleasure. Clean, sharp, and stunning as it pierced through her, and into him.

He lay like a dead man, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Dying for such an experience didn’t seem too high a price to pay right at the moment.

He felt as though he’d been hulled out. Every care, every worry, every spare thought carved away to be replaced by pure sensation.

He might not be able to walk or speak or think again, but those were minor inconveniences. He was going to pass out of this world a very happy man.

Ripley made a little purring sound. Aha, he thought vaguely. He could still hear. That was a nice bonus. Then her mouth closed over his. His body could still register sensation. Better and better.

“Mac?”

He opened his mouth. Some sound came out. It wasn’t words, but there were a great many forms of verbal communication. He’d make do.

“Mac?” she said again, and slid her hand down his body, closed her fingers over him.

Oh, yeah, he was definitely able to feel sensation.

“Uh-huh.” He cleared his throat, managed to open one eye. He wasn’t blind, after all. Another plus. “Yeah. I wasn’t asleep.” His voice was rusty, but there. And he realized his throat was desperate with thirst. “I was having a near-death experience. It wasn’t bad.”

“Now that you’re back from beyond . . .” She slithered up his body again, and rendered him speechless when he saw she still had that gleam in her eye. “Again.”

“Hey, well.” He had some trouble breathing when her lips trailed down his chest. “You’re going to have to give me a little time to recover, you know. Maybe a month.”

She laughed, and the wicked sound of it rippled over his skin. “In that case, you’re just going to have to lie there and take it.”

Her mouth kept going. He melted into the bed. “Well, if I have to, I have to.”

Ripley knew she
was in trouble. She’d never shared power with a man before. Never felt the need or desire to do so. With Mac, it had been a kind of compulsion, a deep, drowning need to extend that intimacy, link that part of her with him.

There was no longer any doubt that she was in love with him, or any hope that she could rationalize it away.

Traditionally, Todds waited a long time to fall in love,
and when they did it came hard and fast, and it was forever. It looked as if she was upholding the family name.

But she didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

Right at the moment, she couldn’t seem to care.

As for Mac, he felt slightly drunk and saw no reason to fight the sensation. The wind had started to rise. The sound of it shivering against the windows only made the cottage cozier. It was as if they were the only two people on the island. As far as he was concerned, it could stay that way.

“What was that stuff you wanted to tell me?”

“Hmm.” He continued to play with her hair and thought he could happily stay under those tangled sheets with her for the rest of his life. “It can wait.”

“Why? I’m here, you’re here. I’m thirsty.” She sat up, scooped her hair back. “Didn’t you say something about wine?”

“Probably. You sure you’re up for wine and conversation?”

She angled her head. “It’s that, or you’ll have to get up for something else.”

As lowering as it was to admit it, he was certain if she jumped him again, he would never live through it. “I’ll get the wine.”

She laughed as he rolled out of bed. “Here.” He pulled open a drawer, tossed her some sweats. “Might as well be comfortable.”

“Thanks. Got any food?”

“Depends on your definition.”

“Just some munchies. I’ve got a craving.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve got potato chips.”

“That’ll do.” She tugged on the sweatpants, adjusting the drawstring until she was reasonably sure they’d stay up.

“I’ll dig them out.”

When he was gone, she pulled on the sweatshirt and indulged herself by sniffing at the sleeves, exploring the sensation of wearing something that was his. It was foolish and female, she admitted, but nobody had to know about it but her.

When she walked into the kitchen, he already had the wine open, two glasses out, and a bag of chips on the counter. She snagged the chips, plopped down in a chair, and prepared to gorge.

“Let’s not, ah . . . do this in here,” Mac began. Nerves pricked at his bubble of contentment. He had no idea how she would react to what he had to tell her. That was just one of her fascinations for him—her unpredictability.

“Why?”

And there was another, he thought. She asked why nearly as often as he did himself. “Because we’ll be more comfortable in the other room.”

“The living room? We’ll sit on your equipment?”

“Ha-ha. No, there’s the couch, it’s still in there. And we can get a fire going. Are your feet cold? Want some socks?”

“No, I’m fine.” But he wasn’t, she noted. Something was making him jumpy. She pondered it as she followed him back into the living room. Since they had to squeeze their way through to get to the sofa, she doubted he’d used it for its intended purpose since he’d taken over the cottage.

He put the wine on the floor, then began to move stacks of books off the cushions and set them aside. She opened her mouth to protest the trouble, then shut it again with an almost audible snap.

Wine, conversation, a cozy fire. Romantic. Just the sort of romantic setup, she imagined, a man might want when he told a woman he loved her.

Her heart began to beat thickly.

“Is this an important conversation?” she asked him through lips that felt trembly and soft.

“I think so.” He hunkered down in front of the hearth. “I’m a little nervous about it. I didn’t expect to be. I’m not sure how to start.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Her legs wobbled a little, so she sat down.

He set logs, kindling, then glanced back at her. It took her a minute to clue in to his speculative look. What she thought of as his scientist look. “Yes, I could start it from here,” she told him. “But I won’t.”

“Just wondering. Ah, lore holds that making fire is the basic form of magic, usually the first learned and the last lost. Would that be accurate?”

“I guess if you’re talking about a tangible form, one that requires direction, focus, control.” Because she felt hot and itchy, she shifted. “Mia’s better than I am at explaining that sort of thing. I don’t—haven’t been—thinking about it for a long time. She never stops.”