Wilderness of Mirrors (34 page)

“Shhh. Not your fault. Will was stealing things from the house – selling them to pay for his drug habit. That’s the truth. And that’s all Kate ever needs to know.” He palmed the sides of her face and set his closed mouth against hers.

Somehow this was about him too. About what had happened to deaden him. She murmured, “It wasn’t your fault either. Whatever it was, you did what you could with what you had.”

He pulled away, just enough. The vibrations told her he was whispering now. “Not true. I’m in the pay of the devil, my darling Sam, always have been.”

Her hand slid down to cover his heart, to feel the ricocheting beat echo through her own blood vessels. “Nobody chooses to put his life on the line for his country, chooses to face guilt rather than dash it out in front of a bus. Not if they’ve made a bargain with the devil, they don’t. You’re not wicked, Nigel, just lost in a wilderness of mirrors.”

His hands were in her hair. He was shaking his head from side to side with barely suppressed grief and vehemence. “I killed her. Shot Irina, a woman who trusted me with her life. Her blood hit the wall on the opposite side of the fucking room.”

Samantha held his wrists and tried to press hope into them, tears hot against the knife-edge of her cheekbones. “And what would have happened if you didn’t? Was there ever even a choice?”
There wasn’t for me. I know that now.

Then his arms were around her shoulders and he was shaking with sorrow.

Irina.

William.

Marc.

One by one, they fell away, and slowly, imperceptibly, the room grew lighter.

P
eople are hugging goodbye and hello. Mouths engaged in as many languages as Farrow & Ball have paint colors. It’s chaos. A canvas of royal guards patrolling a sea of duty-free Harrods bags. But this time I’m not passing through, head down, like the paparazzi are on my heels.

The thought made her smile.

She felt him call her name, a little ribbon of golden, molten heat racing through the throngs and touching her.

It could have been Hong Kong a decade ago.

Except this time she knew about those eyes.
This time I already love you.

All blue with spilling joy. God he was tall today. Holding up the mammoth column upon which he leaned. A Russian newspaper was tucked under one arm. Traveling light, with the nothing but the weight of success on his elegant shoulders.

He’d had his hair cut. Somewhere in Moscow a woman had run her fingers through that flax and wondered where and how the sickle-scar had been born. And despite the Soviet chill, there was color to his complexion. Not Africa-deep, but enough to make the edge of his hairline stark by comparison.

His chest had healed. No plasters lurked beneath that khaki sweater and white tee. Jeans hid the limp-inducing injury that would never leave him. But she’d make him jog with her anyway.

Appreciation did the tango through his eyes.

Six-weeks on Saint-Barths overseeing the transformation of an outdated French Colonial plantation had left her the color of an almond-shell. There was salt in her hair and sandals on her feet. Her kaftan, Picasso slices of lime and citrine, was bold alongside the dourness of urban, European business-ware.

She could feel the pulse of her father’s present banging gently against the hollow of her throat. Later, they would talk about Demidov. She would ferret out little bits of news: what he took in his coffee, if he switched utensil hands after cutting, what he liked to read.

Now was for other things.

He stepped away from the column and Tam swam around his legs.

She grinned. “Your flight was early.”

One hand still on the dog, he slipped his old leather and canvas duffel from her shoulder. Their chests touched and he said, “Why you insisted on bringing this, I’ll never know.” His eyes knew exactly why. Prized it too.

She let the buoyancy of a deep breath bring them closer still. This man would keep her warm long into the 21
st
century. “I like the way it smells.”

He gathered up a hunk of her twisty, briny curls and let it flow back through the breaks in his fingers. “You certain your flight didn’t depart from Faiakes?”

“No.”
And if you don’t kiss me right now I might just start singing ‘It’s Been a Long, Long Time’. And believe me, Louis Armstrong and I have nothing –

Nigel touched the freckle – the new one just underneath her lower lip – with the tip of his tongue. He had a hand under that splendid mass of Botticelli curls, against the back of her long neck where the clasp of her ridiculously perfect necklace came together. When he wore a wedding band, he would feel the clicking of those two bits of metal. A pleasure to look forward to.

She tasted of the sea. He more than liked that on her skin. There wasn’t a hint of lipstick on her wide red mouth: not a flavor of it along the whole sweet length of it. Then, in the parting of her lips, he knew she’d been drinking something with lime in it. He busied himself trying to decide if it was a vodka or just tonic.

Her tongue played along.

She had a hand in his back pocket and one tucked beneath his tee shirt, fingers curved just inside the waistband of his jeans. His cock was doing its best to give non-verbal directions.

He felt her pull away, slowly. Those mocking lashes around her eyes came to view first. “Shall we?”

“Absolutely. I’ve got the tickets.”

“Any luggage?”

“Nothing. Job’s done.”

“Mine too.” She grinned once more. “Let’s go.”

They turned. Her hand stayed in his pocket, and he slung the bag across his midsection. There was a tightness – complex and utterly perfect – down the whole of their connected torsos, twist-tied with an enormous, black tail.

H
e tossed a final piece of timber onto the parched earth and stood upright. His back creaked, but the sweat bucketing from every pore shushed the irritation. He’d forgone sunglasses, was squinting hard, blessing the burn on his retinas and the tug of sunburned skin. He brushed a dirty forearm over his forehead, and then swung into the Defender’s driver’s seat.

“Ready to go?” Sam’s question was low as the brush of her elbow against the roof’s canvas.

He closed his eyes, his mouth tilted upward. “Take your time. When the sun goes down, they play.”

Her snort was soft and a few drifts of wheat-colored hair tickled the back of his neck. “They aren’t the only ones who play when it’s cool. All this talk of –”

He snatched her hand, yanking her down without a care about where the camera landed. “Quiet, woman.”

She grinned before submitting to his mouth. Cinnamon freckles on a café au lait face. Miles of lithe limbs wrapped in white cotton and khaki. That reckless mouth. All his.

Some long moments later, she eyed the gritty rear floor. They’d taken out the back seats to make room for supplies, and he’d already emptied those. “You first. I want a nice landing.”

He ripped the seatbelt from his hip and hauled his sorry ass into the cargo space. She started toward him, hands on either side of the front seats’ headrests. Too slow. He grabbed the glinting hand of her ring finger and towed her in. Their mouths met for a while, under the heat, between layers of seared air.

He spent time exploring. She had shucked him of his sweat-soaked shirt and he felt the brush of her nipples against him. He had his palms under her shoulder blades. When she arched into him, her head tilted back opening new territory.

His tongue ran unhurried and lazy along the sweetness of her neck. Even here, under the heat and primitive blue of the pale evening sky, she smelled of Paris. His hips kicked.

They rolled out of the remainder of their clothes. The heat of their touching skin blistered like noonday sun. Her hair washed over him like the rainy season.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t make a sound. Words were a waste of breath.

Their union was a raw, fierce act.

He traced her throat with his tongue and thumb, the throb of her frenetic pulse firing his movements. He rolled again, gripping the vehicle’s corrugated floor with his palms. Not holding her, not forcing her, just flattening her.

Her impulse was much the same. Ankles crossed behind his hips, thighs wrapped with ludicrous flexibility around his waist, pulling him in, pushing him back.

Her mouth, the caustic, erotic, mind-numbing force of nature toured his shoulders and neck, teeth nipping as they went, leaving his tendons raw with the experience. He thrust deep, giving her more of him. She raked his flanks, silken palms the yin to the yang of her scratches.

And he was gone. Her heat coiled around him, shot down his limbs, and fucked with his mind. He didn’t care if the world exploded or if he never had another thought or action allowed him. He was hers. Just that.

~

Later they lay facing one another under chips of stars studding the roof’s portal. He felt her touch the nerveless scar along his thigh and flinched.

“Sorry.” Her fingers meandered away. “I forgot it bothers you.”

He stilled her hand, irritated he hadn’t checked the reaction. “It’s not you. Just annoys me not feeling anything there.” He closed his eyes, listened to the night’s watchers and soaked up the penetrating blackness and cool dry air. “Touch me anywhere you like.”

She rolled onto him and traced her tongue along his cheek and the curve of his ear. “You’re all over salt.”

“Aye.” The expression reminded him of his Godson.

She read his mind, whispering, “Dylan will stay safe.”

His pupils adjusted to the dimness until they caught the subtle flicker of her eyes. “Says who?” He ran his hands up and down her arms where he could feel the cold creeping in.

“Me.” She rested her chin on his chest. “And I’m always right.”

“I must remember that.”

“You should have remembered a blanket.” She snuggled closer.

“Would you believe I thought we’d wait?” He snagged his dusty shirt and draped it over her shoulders. “Until we made the campsite, at the very least.”

“Mmmm. In front of the fire?” His hands found more to do, and she kissed him breathless while he did them.

He managed to murmur, “In front of the jackals, more like.” And another of his touches started a shiver that shook her torso.

“They’re after your other boot.”

We’re going to be here all night if I keep this up.
“I still can’t think what they did with the first one.” He commanded his hands to behave.

“Or how they could bear the stench.”

“Quite.” He ran a finger from the tip of her nose to the sharp edge of her cheek. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Don’t get in the habit.” She adjusted the edge of his shirt.

“Not likely. I’m too tired most of the time.”

“That’s because you’re old.”

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled so they were facing on their sides, “Precisely. I’ve brought you here to take care of me in my dotage.”

“That’s better.” He’d never get tired of her cold toes against him.

“I live but to please, madam.”

She was warming up now and smelled of desert heat. “Well, go on then. Share your thoughts.”

“It’s a bit anticlimactic with all your interruptions.”

She rolled her eyes. Her mouth found his. There was softness and fierceness aplenty. His heart thumped in joyous bursts. Eventually, she pulled back. “Am I to guess you’ve found it?”

Inwardly, he smiled. She knew him so well. “Maybe.” He took in the stars above. “What’s the other half of quasi?”

“I majored in design not English.”

“Fat lot of good it’s done you here.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The back of her earring nipped at his finger.

She draped a leg over his. “Oh, I don’t know. I think Tamar truly admires the way I’ve mixed rough hewn logs, canvas and dirt back at the lodge.”

“It’s a moment worthy of
Blue
.”

For just a moment, she looked close to tears. He rubbed the corner of her eye with his thumb. “You were right, Sam. I can’t think of any place I’d rather be nor anyone I’d rather share it with.”

The dimple in her cheek popped. “That’s not saying much. You had no home. A hotel doesn’t count.”

“I had no soul.”

She touched his ribs. “You had one – a quasi-one. We just had to clear away the crap everyone had dumped on it.”

“I love you, Samantha Demidova Forsythe.”

She feigned girly embarrassment, sitting up as she wrapped his shirt around her shoulders. “I love you back. Now let’s head home before Tam’s new friend chews apart our few bits of furniture.”

“I’m glad you’ve taken to calling it furniture.”

They climbed into the front. “It was your first attempt. Cruelty wouldn’t be useful.”

He started the engine and steered away from the washed-out bridge. “Look, they’re pretending to hunt.”

The fox pups pounced and rolled, teeth bared and tails fluffed. Then the truck’s lights swept away and Nigel drove on.

“What was your cheetah’s name?” Her words were gentle. “The one the poacher killed.”

He glanced over, surprised. It had been some time since he’d remembered that side of himself. “I don’t think he had one.”

She touched his hand. “How about Bite – as in the size of the piece that was missing? The other half of quasi.”

“Bite.” He thought of redemption and big paws. Of Irina’s happiness when she slept warm and full in his arms. Of William, free from whatever demons he’d been chasing. Of Sam’s Marc. He blinked hard. “And here I was thinking you were about to say Brad.”

“Lord no.” She flipped her feet onto the dusty dash. “That’s reserved for a cat.”

Nigel’s laugh still came as a shock of sorts, even to him. “And if she’s a tigress?”

“Kate.” She smirked. “With Brad as her middle name.”

“Poor thing.”