Light in Shadow (11 page)

She was aware that what was left of the rational part of her mind was trying to get a message through, but she ignored the warning. She knew that she had drifted into some uncharted danger zone, but she no longer cared.

She and Ethan had survived a brush with death at the hands of a cold-blooded killer. As far as she was concerned, the events of the day had created a bond that would exist between them for the rest of their lives even if they never saw each other again. Then again, maybe that was how you rationalized a one-night encounter, she thought.

Works for me.

She was vaguely aware of Ethan closing the door with one hand while he pinned her to him with the other. She was too busy kissing his throat, his ear, his mouth—too busy rejoicing in the elemental thrill of being crushed into his unyielding body.

It seemed to her that, in spite of his shower and fresh clothes, the aura of the day's violence still clung to him. She wanted to free him from it and replace it with the same euphoria that was coursing through her.

Ethan reluctantly pulled his mouth away from hers. He was breathing heavily. He shoved his fingers through her hair and clamped her head very gently between his palms.

“This is probably not a good idea,” he said thickly.

“Probably not.”

“But I can't seem to think of a better one.”

“Neither can I.”

The urgency welling up from some deep place spilled through her, leaving showers of sparks in its wake. She
could feel the same electricity crackling through Ethan. It was a wonder they didn't short out the apartment's wiring, she thought.

He lifted her into his arms, angled her out of the hallway, and carried her into the close shadows of the small front room. There he settled her down onto the nearest piece of furniture, a dainty, elegantly curved little sofa. For a moment, she feared the graceful little piece would crumple beneath their combined weight.

The sofa shuddered, but it stayed upright. It was not large enough to hold the two of them, however. When he came down on top of her, Ethan rolled with her in his arms onto the carpet.

He did not seem to notice the sudden change in elevation.

She could hardly catch her breath, but breathing was the last thing on her mind now. She clawed at the buttons of his shirt. The knowledge that he was as caught up in this moment as she was acted like a potent aphrodisiac.

She was aware of him fumbling with her blouse. He got it off and it disappeared. Cool air flowed over her hot skin. Her bra vanished. His palm rasped lightly over her nipple. She shivered and dug her nails into his back.

He put a hand under the lower edge of her skirt and slid one warm palm up the inside of her bare leg until he touched her already dampened panties. He pressed his hand against her briefly. When she arched in response, he whispered in her ear—raw, earthy, incredibly sexy things. No man had ever talked like that to her. She was shocked.

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, please.”

He tugged her panties off and pushed her skirt upward until it bunched at her thighs.

“Tell me if I'm going too fast here,” he said into her mouth. “I feel like I'm in free fall.”

“You are not going too fast.”

She curved one leg around his thigh and felt the heat of him through his trousers. When she moved her foot along his calf, he sucked in his breath and groaned.

Buttons popped, flew, and skittered across the little coffee table. She had done some damage to the shirt, she thought, but at least she had gotten it undone. That was the really important thing right now.

She flattened her hand on his bare chest and felt the smooth glide of muscle beneath skin.

Oh, yes, getting his shirt off had certainly been the right thing to do.

She went to work on his belt buckle.

“Hang on,” he said against her throat.

“I'm trying to.”

He started to smile and then he gave a husky groan and put a hand down between their bodies. He covered her fumbling fingers.

“I'll get it,” he said.

He wrenched himself away from her again and got to his feet. She watched him strip off his low-cut boots, trousers, briefs, and shirt. The curtains were closed on the windows overlooking the swimming pool and garden, but enough light seeped through to reveal the contours of his hard body. He looked larger than life here in the confines of her small living room.

She looked at his heavy arousal and caught her breath. A
lot
larger than life.

A moment later he came back down on top of her. Excitement flared. She turned her head and bit him lightly on the arm.
Bit him.
She never did things like that in bed. He laughed softly in the shadows.

His hand tightened around the curve of her hip. She felt his mouth on her breasts, her belly and lower. When he found the hidden, exquisitely sensitive little button, she nearly screamed.

She had not expected this. It was too much for her overwrought senses, especially given the fact that it had been so long since she had shared any kind of sexual intimacy. She sank her fingers into his hair. Her entire lower body was clenched as tight as a fist.

“Ethan.”
Her fingers tightened fiercely in his hair.

He moved up to cover her, sinking into her.
Larger than life.

The too-tight feeling was right at the knife edge that separated pleasure and pain. She could not stand it, she thought. She could not take this.

Without warning her climax rocked through her. This was not the sweet, pleasurable release she remembered from the past. This was a powerful, sweeping cascade of sensation that stole her breath. She could not even cry out with the astonishment and wonder of it all.

The furious release rode her, wringing her out and throwing her to the winds.

Ethan retreated an inch or two and then plunged back into her. She felt every muscle in his back go taut just before his own climax slammed through him.

At the last possible instant, he covered her mouth with his own. She swallowed most of his hoarse, triumphant shout of satisfaction.

 

A long time
later, Ethan managed to rouse himself from the seductive lethargy that had stolen over him in the aftermath of passion. He glanced at his watch. It was after one in the morning. Beside him Zoe was wedged into the angle of his body, spoon fashion. He could feel the soft, silken skin of her sweetly rounded rear tucked warmly against his thighs.

He could not recall the last time sex had been this good. True, it had been quite a while since the last time, and he was old enough to know that bouts of abstinence, spiked with adrenaline overload, tended to make the heart grow fonder. Still, it had been pretty damn memorable. At least it had been memorable for him.

He thought about how good it had felt to be inside her, how she had wrapped herself around him and shivered in his arms. His satiated body began to stir.

She opened smoky eyes and looked up at him.

“You're leaving,” she said calmly.

It was a casual, straightforward observation, not a question or a plea or even a protest. It shook him more than he would have believed. He tried to read her expression in the shadows and realized that she
expected
him to go, maybe even
wanted
him to leave.

He sure as hell did not consider himself to be the romantic or sentimental type, but it bothered him that she had no problem with the concept of showing him the door. Hadn't what had just happened between them meant anything to her? Maybe he was the only one here who was not accustomed to sex that good.

“Depends,” he said. He decided to force the issue out into the open. Better to know the truth than to leave wondering what it was he had done to screw up. Because he had a feeling that as soon as he walked out the door he would be trying to think of a way to get back inside. “Do you want me to go?”

For an instant he was certain that she was about to say yes, and he went a little cold inside. But she hesitated. In the shadows, her expression was very serious, as if she was attempting to make a profound decision, one that scared her.

“No,” she said on a soft sigh. “I don't want you to go.”

“Good.” His insides reheated. “I don't want to leave yet, either. But I would like to request a move into the bedroom.” He sat up cautiously. “I'm assuming that your bed is at least somewhat larger than that itty-bitty sofa over there.”

She blinked a couple of times. He got the impression that she was already having second thoughts about inviting him to stay. His stomach tightened.

Then she smiled. “I think my bed is big enough for both of us.”

. . . The white-jacketed orderly seized her arm and pulled her around the corner into the long hallway. Fear crested within her. She hated this passage more than any other place in the hospital. Desperately, she dug in her heels and tried to struggle free.

The attendant shook her angrily. “Get with the program, bitch. You've got an appointment with Dr. McAlistair this afternoon. I don't have time for this crap.”

His name was Ron but she had privately given him and the rest of the orderlies the generic label of
Hulk.
She hated them all, but she hated Ron and Ernie the most. The pair always pretended to treat the patients with concern on the rare occasions when there were family members or visitors present but when they were alone with a
resident
—the director's diplomatic term for an
inmate—they were rough, rude, and occasionally cruel.

She had managed to fake swallowing her morning meds as usual, but she suspected that McAlistair had ordered something new to be slipped into her hot cereal. There was something wrong with her again. Her head was spinning and her balance was off.

Another one of McAlistair's little experiments, no doubt.

Ron was in a hurry today. He jerked her swiftly along the hall. She saw the red metal emergency fire extinguisher box on the wall and knew that the entrance of the screaming room loomed ahead on the right.

Sometimes the door was closed, and that was better because then the screams were muffled. But today the door stood open. Dread seized her. Some of the sobs trapped in the wall were fresh. Something bad had happened in that room again last night.

Ron hauled her past the entrance to the terrible little chamber. She braced herself but nothing could soften the blow. The white walls of the room shrieked silently, just as they always did. Pain, rage, and fear mingled together, assaulting her senses. Lately she had begun to wonder if some of the meds McAlistair was using on her were making her more sensitive.

She did not want to look through the doorway, but she could not bring herself to look away. There was no one inside the room. It looked quite normal with its white cabinets, blood pressure gauge, sink, small desk, and chair.

The examination table stood in the center, a fresh sheet of pristine white sanitary paper
pulled neatly down the padded top. The cold metal stirrups were extended.

It was a common, ordinary medical examination room in every way except for the fact that the walls screamed. . . .

He came awake instantly when he felt Zoe's body stiffen. He had fallen asleep with her nestled against him. He had one hand resting comfortably on her bare thigh when he first became aware of the tension that had invaded her sleep. Her skin went cool beneath his palm. Tiny goose bumps roughened her flesh.

“No.” Her arm jerked but she did not awaken.
“No.”

She started to writhe as if in torment or terror.

“Zoe.” He jackknifed upright and hauled her up into his arms. “Zoe, take it easy, honey. You're dreaming.”

She shuddered, and then her eyes snapped open. She stared at him with a shocked, dazed expression. He could see that she was still trapped in the nightmare. She did not recognize him.

“Zoe, pay attention.” He did not speak gently this time. He made the words a command, and he delivered it the way he would have in any other type of emergency, coldly, firmly, demanding a response. “Wake up. Now.”

She shivered again, and then she seemed to come back to herself. He wondered where she had been.

Her muscles loosened and went limp. She gave her head a little shake.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I get bad dreams sometimes. Didn't mean to scare you.”

“Don't worry about it. Are you okay?”

“Yes, thanks.”

But she was not okay, he thought. The nightmare had taken a toll.

“Come on.” He rolled to the edge of the bed, got to his feet, and found his trousers. “Let's go into the kitchen. I'll fix you some warm milk.”

“Please, don't worry about it. I can cope with the dream.”

“You'll cope better after you've had some warm milk.” He reached down and pried her out of the rumpled bedding.

When she was on her feet, he took the dark blue satin robe down from the brass hook on the wall and draped it around her shoulders.

At that point she evidently decided to concede the field to him. Without another word of protest, she tied the sash of the robe and allowed herself to be steered to the kitchen.

He sat her down on one of the tall chairs at the high, round table near the window and went to work in the miniature kitchen. He found a half-full quart of nonfat milk in the refrigerator and a small saucepan in a cupboard. He could feel her eyes on him, pensive and uneasy, but she did not speak.

When the milk was ready, he set a mug full of it in front of her and sat down in the one other chair. He folded his elbows on the table.

“Drink,” he ordered.

“It was very kind of you to do this, but I really don't like warm milk.”

“Drink,” he said again. “It may not do anything for you, but it will make me feel better.”

“Okay, okay.” She raised the mug with both hands and took a tentative taste. She swallowed and made a face. “You're inclined to be rather dictatorial, but I suppose you already know that.”

“Others have mentioned the trait on occasion over the years, but I feel that I have been sadly misunderstood.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

She drank some more of the milk.

“Want to tell me about the dream?” he asked after a while.

“No,” she said quickly. “I'd rather not talk about it. Makes it too real, if you know what I mean.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Did I, uh, say anything?” she asked cautiously.

“While you were caught up in the nightmare?” He shook his head, wondering why that possibility concerned her. “Not much. Just the word
no
a couple of times.”

She looked relieved. “That's all?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I just wondered. It's a little embarrassing, to tell you the truth.”

“Do you remember saying something in the dream?”

“Not really.” She looked down at the milk. “It was one of those bad dreams in which you find yourself running away from some unseen threat. A common, garden-variety nightmare.”

She was lying, he thought. It made him curious, but he let it go. This was not the time to push her.

“Given the events of the day, it's not surprising that your dream would follow that script,” he said.

“I guess not.”

He watched the remnants of her tension dissipate as she drank the milk.

After a while, he rinsed out the empty mug and led her back to the bedroom.

They got into bed, and he cradled her close. She relaxed against him.

He had just decided that she was safely asleep when she spoke.

“Thanks for the milk,” she mumbled.

“Any time.”