Renee Simons Special Edition (59 page)

"I've got to go," she whispered raggedly and backed away.

He saw his own fear reflected in her eyes and did nothing to stop her. He'd begun something he was in no position to finish, that he had no right to pursue until his freedom was certain.

Zan left through the narrow alley between two parked campers only to be blinded by the sudden glare of headlights. She threw up an arm to block the light. Below the grill and headlights of a Jeep, she made out the first two digits of the license plate.

"That's her," a voice shouted. "He's got to be close."

She turned and crashed into a body as hard and unyielding as the trunk of a cottonwood. Stormwalker had just emerged from between the campers. Although he seemed immovable, she leaned against him and shoved with every ounce of her strength.

Responding to her silent urgency, he fell back and pulled her into the shadows. The voices got louder and angrier. Flashlight beams crisscrossed the parking lot. Feet pounded the area in a frantic, disorganized search.

He pinned her against the van and whispered, "Stay here."

"Where are you going?"

"I want to see who those guys are."

"One of them is Billy Winter. What more do you need to know?" She took his arm. "Let's get out of here."

He shook his head. "Stay put. I want to see what's going on out there."

Stormwalker moved into the darkness. Zan waited for a few seconds, then followed him. She kept him in her sights but let some distance open up between them. Finally, he seemed to find the spot he wanted. He dropped to the ground and slithered beneath an old, converted bus.

To her right she saw a pickup with plenty of clearance and did the same. She glanced briefly in his direction to make sure he hadn't moved, then found herself staring at the shoes of two men leaning against the front of the bus.

They spoke softly; what they said got lost in the noises of the crowd. Even so, Zan was taken aback by the artificial quality of one of the voices.  It sounded computerized.

No, she thought. Computer-generated voices were smooth and easy to understand despite their stilted quality. This voice was less coherent. She strained to make out the words, but only when the crowd stampeded past and quiet returned, was she able to hear the conversation.

"Are they always together?" the strange voice asked.

"I don't know. Is that important?"

"Can we use her to get to him?"

"She must hate him because of O'Neill."

"Then the sexual angle won't work."

Zan worried at her bottom lip during a long silence.

Finally, the second voice said, "It didn't work in Vlad. It won't work here, especially because of her feelings toward him."

"Then maybe she'd be willing to betray him."

She wondered what Stormwalker thought about the conversation. A Jeep stopped in front of the men, its tires grating on the gravelly surface, its brakes squealing in protest.

"We've searched the grounds," Billy Winter said. "They're nowhere around."

The two men walked toward the vehicle. "Meet Sawyer and me in the hotel coffee shop at eight tomorrow morning."

The Jeep left and the men walked away. Zan listened to the remaining voices and stomping feet die away to nothing. Suddenly drained of energy, she closed her eyes and laid her cheek against the cold ground.

A soft knock sounded against the side of the truck.

"C'mon out, Red." he whispered. "Everyone's gone."

He stepped back, allowing her to slide out from under the truck. She handed over the sunglasses that had somehow remained unbroken and dusted herself off. They left the parking lot, staying on the far fringe of people who walked back to wherever they would sleep during this last night of the powwow. Inside the house they sat by the window in the dark. Zan leaned against the frame and closed her eyes.

Stormwalker watched her in the moonlight. Her body shook with a fine, almost imperceptible tremor, but whether from anger, fear or fatigue, he couldn't tell. Torn between the desire to hold her and the need to protect himself from the aching need her presence aroused, as well as the very real danger of betrayal, he went instead to a wooden cabinet. He removed a bottle and poured a small amount of brandy into a glass.

"Take a sip of this." He held the miniature snifter beneath her nose.

She watched him over the rim of her glass, seeing little of his features in the darkness, except for one cheek and his jaw line outlined by the light sifting through the window glass.

"What do you suppose would have happened if that mob had found you?"

"We wouldn't be here talking."

"The two men we heard sounded as if they knew you. Did you recognize their voices or anything they said?"

He shook his head. "I don't know anyone named Sawyer and I'm damned if I can figure out how Bill Winter is connected to them."

"Maybe they ordered the beating."

Her velvety voice caressed his ear, making concentration difficult. "Since you interrupted Bill and his bully boys, maybe they tried to get the mob to finish the job."

"How does it feel to be a clay pigeon?" she asked.

"That's the whole point of being here." He breathed deeply, welcoming the returning calm.

"I'd be nervous as hell."

"Kind of like being a beat cop."

Zan considered the comparison. "Worse. We were 'out there', but we were armed."

"Since I can't carry a gun, looks like you've been chosen."

"Why do you say that?"

"Mac would never send me out unprotected. At first, I thought Becker might be my guardian angel, but I'm convinced it's you. Otherwise, Mac wouldn't have sent you here."

"Those two think I might be capable of betraying you. Aren't you concerned they may be right?"

"I've considered the possibility, but I think you'll do what you have to because it's your job."

"Maybe you give me too much credit."

"I hope not," he said.

An awkward silence filled with unspoken doubts dragged on. Finally, Zan asked, "What do you make of that strange voice we heard?"

"It sounded like a voice box . . . you know, the kind a person uses who's had surgery to remove a diseased larynx."

"You're right, of course. The explanation is so simple I didn't think of it."

"I don't remember ever meeting anyone like that."

"Neither do I, but we've been away from the business for a long time. I'll do some digging."

Emma Redfeather came out of the darkness like an apparition and joined them at the window.

"I'm grateful you're both all right," she said.

Stormwalker went to her and put an arm around her shoulders. "You heard about the ruckus earlier, did you?"

"I was there. Why were those men chasing you?"

"We're not sure, but even if we knew, I wouldn't tell you. Your ignorance is your security."

His grandmother pulled back and looked at the clock over the mantel. "It's nearly two a.m. . . . you should not be out after what just happened, Granddaughter. Please stay the night."

"I'd appreciate it, if you have room for me."

"We have plenty of room." The woman turned to Stormwalker. "Please show your friend to your aunt's room."

Upstairs, Stormwalker opened a door and turned on a small lamp.

"Your aunt's room?" she asked with concern. "I don't want to put anyone out."

He smiled. "This was my Aunt Martha's when she was a kid, but she hasn't lived here since before I was born."

"That's okay, then." She returned the smile. "Oh, by the way, the next time you're tempted to call me Red, don't. Call me Zan."

He leaned against the door frame. "Does that make me family? I hope." His smile took years off a face that showed the strain of recent events as well as his bruises.

"Don't push it, Major."

"Wouldn't even think of it. I'm just counting my blessings, is all."

Chapter 7

The next morning, Stormwalker brought a cup of steaming coffee to the room where Zan slept. When his knock went unanswered, he opened the door and stepped inside, filling his eyes with her image as she lay uncovered in a graceful sprawl across the bed. During the night, she'd removed the plaid shirt and jeans and slept in a tank top and bikini bottom.

Her beauty hit him like a body blow. His gaze traveled the length of her, from long, shapely legs to the enticement of firm breasts thrust against the fabric of her shirt.

He leaned against the door and remembered the holy man, Old Elk, who had couched his teachings in the tribe's oral history.

"Remember," the old man had warned the boys after telling them a gruesome tale, "lust carries with it the seeds of destruction. A true man treats all women with respect."

He walked over and gently drew up the covers Zan had thrown off in her sleep. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and held the cup so the aroma would lure her awake.

His tactics worked. She smiled with her eyes closed. He wasn't sure she was fully awake when she murmured drowsily, "Mmm, lovely, but where's my good morning kiss?"

"I'd be happy to oblige you, Red, but open your eyes first and see where you are."

She complied, only partly at first, as if reluctant to surrender to reality. When she saw him sitting beside her, her eyes grew wide with recognition.

"Awake now, are you?" he asked.

She sat up and reached for the cup, sipping the hot liquid as she gazed at him.

"Years ago," he said, "I read that one measure of a woman's beauty is the way she looks when she first awakens in the morning. On a scale of one to ten, I'd say you rate a twelve."

Her eyes smiled at him over the rim of the cup, quickening his pulse. "Thank you for a very pretty compliment," she whispered in a husky voice, "and for being a gentleman."

"Being a gentleman had nothing to do with it. When I kiss you again I want you awake and aware that it's me and not some guy in a dream."

He touched her cheek, then rose and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the glass knob, then turned to look at her clear eyes, her warm yet tentative smile and the russet hair that fell in tousled waves about her face. "Come to think of it," he said in a voice heavy with wanting, "you're awake enough." He sat down again on the edge of the bed and took the cup, setting it on the nightstand.

His fingers trailed up her arms, caressing her shoulders and traveling up her neck to cup her face. He kissed her with strength and heat and a tender passion that urged her response. She parted her lips. He tasted her breath, dusky with sleep and a hint of the rich dark coffee she'd sampled only moments before. His tongue slipped inside her mouth, found hers and touched lightly, tantalizing, wooing with slow, languid movements she would have no choice but to join.

Their breaths came in short, quick gasps. He dragged his mouth from hers, covering her cheeks with kisses. His lips brushed across her spiky lashes and closed eyelids, down along the side of her face and across her throat, and lower still to the warm skin that showed above the rim of the tank top.

She moaned softly against his hair and clutched at his sleeve. His body ached with need, but when he looked at her he saw in her eyes a hint of fear that turned to resistance and reined in his raging desire to lose himself in her. He pulled away from her.

"There are fresh towels for you in the bathroom. I'll start breakfast while you clean up."

At the door, he turned to her one last time. "By the way," he said, "you were dreaming, weren't you?"

"Yes," she whispered. What she didn't say was that she'd been dreaming about him.

Beneath the shower of alternating currents of hot and cold water to jumpstart her sluggish system, she waged an internal battle. For a long time after Dar's death, her dreams had been filled with memories of their time together. Eventually, the dreams were replaced by nightmarish reenactments of the night she'd been shot and lately, nothing at all, as if the dream scape of her mind had become a blank slate.

Last night had been very different. Her dreams had returned, heated, filled with longing and punctuated with the image of Stormwalker's face, with his touch, their passionate embrace and her body's response. What did this change say about her attraction to him and what remained of her feelings for Dar? She still had no answer by the time she'd dried off and dressed in yesterday's clothes. 

Stormwalker was working at the stove when she entered the kitchen. She looked over his shoulder at the bacon sizzling in one pan and the eggs he scrambled in another. He turned and examined her face, then smiled.

"Quit looking like that," he said, "or I'll be forced to take you back upstairs, ready or not."

"Looking like what?"

"Too damned gorgeous for my peace of mind."

"Then don't look. I'm too hungry to think about anything but breakfast at the moment. How can I help speed it along?"