Outlaw Carson (14 page)

He covered her then, lowering himself onto
her, pressing her deeper into the bed, and slowly, ever so slowly,
sheathing himself in her white fire. Moment by moment he replaced
the vivid fantasy with the hard reality of his body, capturing the
soft sounds of her pleasure with his mouth. The game was over,
banished by the ache he strove to ease. Yet he wanted the easing to
last forever.

Kristine tunneled her hands through his
hair, releasing his plait and dragging her fingers down the length
of auburn silk. She kissed him. From the very bottom of her soul
she kissed him. His skin grew slick beneath her hands, dampened by
the exertion of his flexing muscles, his power, the strain of his
control. She welcomed the weight of him, the exquisite pressure of
each stroke, the friction, the scent of him, the strength.

Kit filled her endlessly, again and again,
physically losing himself inside of her and mentally waiting,
waiting for her search to bring her closer to the elusive
fountainhead of consummation. He thrust deeply and groaned at the
pleasure coursing up his spine. The waiting could not last much
longer. He sucked her tongue into his mouth and slid his hand
between their bodies, giving her what she sought.

Ah, woman, woman, what you do to me,
what you give
. . .
These things I have not known before.
Take of me, Kreestine. Take everything and still I will find more
to give, for you are the one . . . the only one . . .

She gasped, her breathing stopped, her body
stilled at the potent sensations ripping through her; and suddenly
he was the one taking, taking the shuddering power of her climax
and using it for his own. He surged into her for the last time and
released himself in concert with the rapt pleasure consuming
her.

In the gentle aftermath, they lay in each
other’s arms. Visually, Kristine traced the curves of muscle in his
chest and the taut plane of his abdomen, down to where her hand
rested, slender and pale against his darker skin and the soft
auburn hair disappearing beneath the sheet. She gently raked her
nails through the enticing pelt and felt the strong arm around her
waist tighten and draw her closer.

She glanced up and caught the hint of a
smile playing about his mouth. His eyes slowly opened, capturing
her. He raised his head off the pillow and teased his mouth over
the upper curve of her breast.

“I have not seen skin such as this,
Kreestine, like cream on my lips and sugar on my tongue. You are
very beautiful . . . very beautiful. And you are mine.” His other
hand came into play, sliding up her thigh, his bracelets chiming
together and making the music she heard in her heart. A long hank
of hair fell over his shoulder and down his arm.

Lord, what had she done? She wondered at the
serenity she felt in his arms, at the desire rising within her to
touch him, to spread her hand through his thick hair and bare the
column of his throat for her kiss. No monk he. Kautilya Carson had
been made for love, for loving a woman senseless. Every beautiful
line of him begged for her touch, and she longed to feel again his
hardness and strength. He’d taken her outside herself, and in the
taking had bound her to him.

Her fingers tightened on his wrist as he
cupped her breast, to hold him there, not to push him away. The
knowledge he’d given her made it impossible to push him away. He
offered too much pleasure. She lowered her head and pressed her
lips to his temple, wondering how she’d become so easily addicted
to the taste of him and the warmth of his response. Here was the
man she’d never dreamed of, the man she couldn’t have imagined, and
he was in her arms, teaching her once more of his ways.

She surrendered herself to him in the second
mating, knowing it was more than pleasure he gave, more than
pleasure he took. Awkwardness turned to grace under his caresses,
shyness to boldness, and through it all, an outlaw slowly turned
into her heart’s love.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him. She
didn’t want to take her eyes off him. Shepard and Stein had been
thankfully late, wandering for over two hours amidst the unmarked,
unpaved roads on the hill. Two hours burned into Kristine’s memory
with all the passion she and Kit had shared.

She watched, mesmerized, as he tapped his
pouch of tobacco into the paper bent between his fingers. She
remembered every touch of his hands. He lifted the paper to his
mouth and glided his tongue across one edge, his eyes meeting hers
across the distance of the coffee table. She blushed but held his
gaze, reliving for a moment the memories reflected in his eyes.

“Remarkable,” Thomas Stein murmured, looking
through a magnifying glass at one of the wooden printing blocks Kit
had laid out for their perusal. Thomas was the older of the two
curators, his salt-and-pepper hair ringing a bald spot he didn’t
attempt to conceal. His gray pinstriped suit was immaculately
tailored. “Absolutely remarkable,” he repeated.

Kit grinned, and Kristine’s blush increased,
but still she couldn’t tear her gaze away from him. He knew what
he’d done to her, and she couldn’t forget, not even with other
people in the room.

“Amazing,” Lois Shepard agreed. She stood
over by the carefully packed storage boxes Kit had carried from the
garage to the living room, tallying them. She was crisp and neat in
a navy gabardine suit and white blouse with matching spectator
heels, the epitome of cool professionalism.

From here on out the
K
ā
h-gyur
would be handled with the awe
and respect it deserved, and handled by Kristine. Kit had made his
wishes clear in that respect, letting both curators know that all
test results and specialist reports were to pass through her hands
before any others. They had balked at first, but Kit had insisted,
and they all knew who held the winning hand in this particular
game.

Kit rolled the cigarette between his thumb
and forefinger, then struck a match with his other hand, content
beyond measure with the day and what he’d found deep inside
Kristine. She had filled him with wonder, made all the choices of
his past the right ones, for following their path had brought him
to her.

He drew deeply on the cigarette and leaned
forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. Still smiling, he blew
a smoke ring across the room and watched in satisfaction as it
settled around her wineglass and wrist, drawing her amazed gaze
back to his eyes.

“Have you stabilized them?” Thomas asked,
still peering through his glass.

“We spent three days at Narthang having them
blessed and wrapped for the journey,” Kit said, as if that
explained the
Kāh-gyur
’s good condition.

“Nothing more?” Thomas asked, raising a
doubtful gaze.

Kit’s smile broadened. “And some temporary
first-aid. PVA on the front where necessary. PEG Four Thousand,
fungicide, and ethanol on the back. Your lab shouldn’t have any
trouble reversing the treatment.”

“They traveled remarkably well,” Thomas
said, choosing another printing block for inspection.

“Have you translated them?” Lois asked. “Do
you know what section of the
Tripitaka
we have?”

“One hundred and forty-two nonconsecutive
pages of the Discipline, the mystical antidote for the original sin
of lust,
Rāga
.” Kit answered Lois, but his gaze lingered
on Kristine.

If there were an underlying irony in his
tone, Kristine chose to ignore it. She hadn’t even known what lust
was until he’d taught her the craving. Her skin burned wherever his
gaze settled, melting her hard-won composure. She only prayed Lois
and Thomas couldn’t feel the heat filling the room. Sang Phala must
truly have had his hands full with his bartered-for renegade. A
good portion of the power she had felt from their first encounter,
she now realized, was pure sexual energy.

“Well, its amazing,” Lois said.

Yes
. The thought drifted from
Kristine’s mind, cast forth with an unconscious sigh.

Ah, yes, Kristine. You are sweetness
incarnate in my arms
. His smile faded and his eyes darkened,
and he slowly shook his head with the same wonderment she felt.

“No?” Lois’s voice broke into their silent
communication. “Then we’ve got a major problem. You should have
told me on the phone, Kit, and saved me a trip.”

“Told you what, Lo-eese?” He glanced up,
realizing he’d missed a part of the conversation. At least part of
the less important conversation swirling through the living
room.

Lois stepped back from the boxes. “I can’t
touch this stuff without some kind of authorization from somebody.
You knew that before you left.” She took another step. “You
promised—”

“And I never break a promise,” Kit
interrupted her, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a
sealed envelope. He rose from the couch and handed it to Lois.

Thomas stood up and walked over to his
associate, waiting while she broke the seal. Together they read the
document, and two pairs of eyebrows rose in unison.

“Did you really meet him?” Lois asked,
scanning the paper again.

“I accepted it from the god-king’s own
hand,” Kit answered. “The Dalai Lama has little recourse against
the imperialistic tendencies of his northern neighbor, but he is
still the spiritual leader of his people. The
Kāh-gyur
, we
both agreed, is a very spiritual asset.”

Lois nodded. “I’m satisfied.”

Thomas balked. “It’s still contraband.”

“Back out if you want to, Stein,” Lois said.
“L.A. will take full responsibility and all one hundred and
forty-two blocks. I’ve had an international law team on this from
the beginning. They’ve been looking for a loophole in the
antiquities law”—she glanced at Kit—“and I think our friend has
delivered the key.”

Thomas still wasn’t convinced. “It’s a long
shot.”

Lois looked at him over the rims of her
wire-framed glasses. “Then leave before we get down to
business.”

The older man held his ground, though none
too confidently. “Chicago has lawyers too.”

“I’ve heard a rumor to that effect,” Lois
drawled, baiting the man.

“I’m in, Shepard,” Thomas grumbled, taking a
white handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing at his brow. “I’m
in.”

“Good.” Lois turned her attention to Kit,
giving Kristine a nod on the way. “I think everybody in this room
knows that what we’re dealing with here is priceless, but those of
us who have dealt with Mr. Carson in the past also know he has
never failed to set a price for his services.” She tapped her
glasses farther down on her nose and narrowed her gaze at Kit.
“Usually an outrageous price.”

“I have lost much in this deal already,
Lo-eese.” Kit took a deep draw of smoke, then leaned forward to
crush the cigarette in an ashtray.

“Such as?” Lois asked in a wary tone.

“My homeland, my house, most of my
possessions, a yak and a mule, and a good portion of my
freedom.”

“You’re Buddhist, Kit,” Lois reminded him.
“You know freedom is a state of mind. Nepal is not for sale, so I
don’t see that entering into the bargain, but I have connections in
Kathmandu. I could arrange for the sale of your house and to have
your possessions shipped over here, and I’ll split the difference
on the livestock.”

“No.” He stood up, and with his familiar
musical grace, walked over to the large windows framing the
reservoir. Three pairs of eyes followed his every step, two pairs
with caution, and one pair, the hue of mountain violets, with utter
fascination at the beauty of his movement. Kristine knew whatever
spell he’d started with his first kiss had been sealed in the room
above them.

He rested his hand high on the window frame,
and a cascade of gold slid down his arm. They waited. Finally he
spoke, and when he did, all their gazes held the same
reaction—disbelief.

“I want to go home.” The lilt of his accent
was softened by the true need that infused his words.

“Unlikely,” Thomas said.

“It’s your head.” Lois said, then shrugged.
“I’ll do what I can.”

Kristine had no such comment to offer. Home?
Away from her? After he’d stolen her heart? And in record time. She
reached for her wineglass and found her trembling fingers couldn’t
hold the stem. She pulled her hand back into her lap.

“What’s your price on the
Kāh-gyur
?”
Lois asked.

“Four hundred thousand.”

“Four hundred thousand what? Rupees?” The
older woman didn’t even attempt to hide her shock.

“No, Lo-eese.” He turned to face the
curator. “The hard currency of American dollars.”

Thomas sank onto the couch, but Lois quickly
recovered. Kristine wasn’t even close to recovering.

“One hundred thousand, and I’ll buy the mule
and the yak,” Lois said.

“One of my muleteers was injured. I need to
compensate his family for his lost labor. Three hundred and fifty
thousand, and two hundred dollars apiece for the animals.”

“That’s a damned expensive yak, Kit. I’ll
give you fifty for the mule, and know I’ve been robbed, and one
hundred for the yak, not a penny more. One hundred and seventy-five
thousand.

“Three.”

“Two. Bottom line.”

“You’ll arrange for the trust?” he
asked.

She nodded. “What’s your commission?”

“Fifty percent.”

“Your neck is coming pretty high these days,
isn’t it?”

A rogue’s smile teased his mouth, and he
lifted one broad shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “Such are the
economics of risk.”

The economics of risk, Kristine repeated
silently, wrapping her hands tighter around each other. Now why in
the hell hadn’t she thought of that before she’d fallen in love
with him? The outlaw was going to break her heart.

“I’m catching the red-eye back to Los
Angeles,” Lois said, “and I’ve got a crew waiting in Denver to pack
this thing right. Unless, of course, you want to chant over it a
few more times and save me the trouble?”