The Warrior (16 page)

“Almost. Less than an hour out.”

“Thank God,” she said, and stretched as best she could without dislodging something important. “Is there any water left?”

John handed her what was left in his bottle. “If you don't mind drinking after me.”

She twisted the cap off without answering and tilted the bottle to her lips, emptying it in three gulps. It was refreshing, despite the tepid temperature.

“Umm, good. Thanks,” she said, and put the cap back on before laying the bottle on the floor at her feet.

The moment John saw those supple, sensuous lips encircle the opening where his mouth had been, every muscle in his body tightened. Imagination quickly put her mouth on his body, and then things went from bad to worse. He looked away, caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the windows and frowned.

Hell in a handbasket. He was just horny.

“You're welcome,” he said, and just to focus his energy on something else, took the chopper down a thousand feet.

The dip in elevation did a number on Alicia's stomach, but not being able to see land below kept her from being sick.

“What was that all about?” she muttered as the chopper leveled off.

“Turbulence.” It wasn't a lie. His gut felt as if it had gone through a blender.

Alicia peered out and down, marveling at the lack of lights below.

“Is your place inside the Sedona city limits?”

“No. About thirty minutes out, as the crow flies.”

“So you're out in the desert.”

“Smack-dab,” he said.

Alicia nodded, and as she did, she felt herself suddenly go light-headed. She attributed it to a lack of food.

“Hope you have a can of soup or something around when we land. I think I need to eat.”

John gave her a quick glance. It wasn't like her to complain. “Are you okay? There are some peanut-butter crackers over there.”

“Don't want to mess up a good thing. I think I'd better wait, but thanks.”

And she was being nice? Now he knew something was wrong.

He looked up at the sky, judging how long they had left, and guessed it was no more than fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to his place.

“We'll be there before you know it.”

Alicia nodded, then pulled her knees up to her chin and put her head down.

Now John was getting worried, but the chopper was going as fast as a chopper could go. There was nothing to do but fly it and hope by the time they landed, she would be back on track.

Finally he saw Orion, the Hunter, as always guiding him to his destination. When he was a thousand feet off the ground, he could turn on every outside light on the
property by remote control, including the lights around his landing pad, and that was what he did.

“Here we go,” he said, and took the bird down, controlling the power and their lives with just a touch of his hand.

Alicia lifted her head and put her feet back on the floor. She tightened her seat belt and gripped her seat with both hands. The burst of light where there had been only darkness was startling.

“Ooh!” she gasped.

“Welcome home,” John said softly. Minutes later, they were down.

The rotors were still winding down as they exited the cabin. John had left the suitcases behind so both hands were free to get Alicia safely inside. As they came out of the chopper, her first step was a stagger.

“Woo. Don't have my land legs yet.”

“Hold on to me,” John said, and offered her his elbow.

Alicia clasped it—and him—as if he were her life raft and let him guide her. It wasn't lost upon her that, once again, she had put herself at this man's mercy. At first she'd felt betrayed that he was using her to get to her father. But she couldn't overlook the fact that he kept pulling her proverbial bacon out of the fire. He'd put Dieter on his ass twice and been shot twice for the trouble. He'd stopped a hit man from taking her out and was keeping her in style. If this house was anywhere near as spectacular as the one on the bluff in Georgia, it would be the perfect place to hide out.

She watched him unlock the door, then step inside and disarm the security system. She was beginning to realize that, in his own way, John Nightwalker was as much an enigma as her father. He seemed indecently
wealthy and lived without companionship behind massive amounts of security. Once again, she reminded herself to ask him exactly what it was he imported and exported, and—even more important—the details of what her father had done to his family. All she knew was that they were dead and John blamed her father. She had just assumed it must have happened during some kind of explosion relating to the manufacture of Ponte munitions. Well, her father understood revenge. That was something he and John had in common.

“How are you feeling?” John asked as he led her to a chair in the kitchen.

“Weird,” she said, and shrugged. “Maybe a glass of milk…some crackers…nothing big. I think it's just because I threw up the only thing I'd eaten today.”

Without thinking, John brushed the back of her head with his hand. It was a gentle stroke, meant as a gesture of comfort, but when she leaned into the touch, he felt her yield. Whether she knew it or not, it was a telling moment between them. A sign of trust that hadn't been there before.

He quickly moved to the refrigerator, and made a mental note to call the caretaker tomorrow and thank him personally for cleaning and stocking the house. Everything he could have wanted was there, in duplicate.

He poured her a small glass of milk, then sliced a couple of pieces of farmer's cheese from a brick, put them between buttery crackers and gave them to her on a plate.

“Eat this,” he said. “I'm going out for the bags.”

Alicia sighed, then reached for the milk. She was finishing her first cheese and cracker sandwich when John
came back inside. He reset the alarm, then gave her a quick glance before disappearing with the luggage. When he returned, the crackers were gone and she was finishing off the milk.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“I hope so. At least not so empty.”

“Good. Maybe all you need is some peace and quiet, and I can guarantee there's plenty of that out here.”

Alicia stood and started to carry her dishes to the sink when John stopped her.

“Leave it,” he said. “I'm going to take you to your room. Now that we're here, your only job is to leave the worrying to me.”

She looked over her shoulder to the back door. “We're safe here, right?”

John realized the panic was still there. He needed to relieve her mind, but wasn't sure what it would take. All he could do was his best. He looked at her then, a mishmash of the disguise that she'd left D.C. with, along with her own natural grace. A mixture of she-wolf and princess. Sometimes he couldn't tell them apart.

“Woman.”

Alicia turned abruptly, not only startled by what he'd called her but by the serious tone of his voice.

“What?”

“I promise you—with my life—that I will not let you be hurt. Even more, I will not use you to get to your father. My fight is not with you, and it was wrong of me to think that I could use you.”

Alicia's chin quivered. Her vision blurred. This was the last thing she'd expected. His capitulation threw her even more off center than she already was. If she was
no longer able to hate him, then how was she going to maintain emotional distance from him? Hating him was all she'd had to keep her attraction to him at bay. Now, like the damnable man that he was, he was promising to turn himself into some heroic hunk of masculinity.

John saw the tears. Damn it.

“Don't cry…don't you dare go and cry on me, woman.”

“I'm not crying,” she muttered. “It was probably the cheese. I think the cheese was too spicy.”

“Like hell,” John said. “The only thing blander than farmer's cheese is butter.” He yanked a paper towel from the roll on the counter and handed it to her. “Blow your nose and follow me.”

Alicia took it and blew as she followed him out of the kitchen. She was too weary and too light-headed to take note of the furnishings and decorations. All she wanted was a bathroom and a bed.

John stopped halfway down the hall, then opened a door and turned on the light.

“This is yours. It has an adjoining bathroom. The bed is turned back. Anything you might need in the way of toiletries is in the bathroom. If you need me, my room is directly across the hall. Just knock once. I'll hear you.”

She nodded without looking up and moved past him.

John sighed. “Are you sure you're feeling better?”

She turned then to face him, looking first at his eyes, seeing the gentleness in them that belied the tone of his voice. Then her gaze moved to that small silver feather dangling from his ear. It was as motionless as the man wearing it, giving her the impression of a wild animal poised to attack. Then finally to his lips—full, sensual, carved in perfect proportion to the rest of his face. She
wondered if they would yield as he'd just done, if they would be soft and warm, coaxing things from her that she was already willing to give. She wondered, but she knew that knowledge wouldn't come tonight, or tomorrow, or maybe ever.

Finally she looked away, then shrugged.

“Right now, John Nightwalker, I'm not sure of anything.”

F
or John, being in Sedona was always healing. Here, reality blurred and his anger dimmed. There was always a feeling of being a thought away from an unseen world. He kept more of his collection of Native American religious relics here than in Georgia and had built a sweat lodge a short distance away from the back of his house. Practicing the old ways always gave him a new sense of purpose, similar, he supposed, to those who gained inner peace and insight from meditation.

Even though he was travel-weary, he made certain all was secure in the house before retiring. He checked in on Alicia, heard her slow, steady breathing, and was satisfied that whatever had been upsetting her had passed. When he finally got to his room, he stripped in the dark, showered by the yellow glow of a night-light and crawled into bed. Naked and exhausted, he pulled up the covers and fell fast asleep.

John woke abruptly. Emotionally, he knew where he was. Alone and more than five hundred years lonely. Physically, his body ached for release, but it wasn't going to happen now. He glanced toward the windows. The sun was long since up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and strode into the bathroom. A cold shower later, he came out and moved to the closet, quickly dressed in running shorts and running shoes and left his room.

The door to Alicia's room was still closed, and the house was quiet. He started to leave, then remembered how pale she'd been last night. He wouldn't be satisfied to leave until he knew she was okay.

The knob turned noiselessly, and he pushed the door inward just enough that he could peer in. The moment
he did, he knew he'd made a mistake. She was flat on her back with one arm over her head, the other thrown out beside her. The top sheet was between her legs and draped over one shoulder. The rest of her was bare to the world and as naked as the day she'd been born.

He stared too long, then gritted his teeth as he backed out and closed the door. He stood with his head down, his hands curled into fists as he struggled to gain control of his emotions. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Now he was going to have to live with the reality of knowing how long her legs were, and how the curve of her hips and breasts accentuated her flat belly and narrow waist. And her skin. Alabaster. He hit his fists on the sides of his legs and then strode toward the kitchen.

Without wasted motion, he put a pot of coffee on to brew, left Alicia a message and disarmed the security system. He didn't know if he could do it, but he was going to try to outrun the lust with which he'd awakened, as well as the newfound hunger for the woman asleep so close by.

He stepped outside, quickly scanned the area for signs of intrusion and saw nothing but a lone buzzard circling high up in the sky. The chopper was the only thing that seemed out of place. He went back into the house, picked up a remote from inside a drawer, stepped back out on the terrace, aimed and triggered it. Within moments, a framework arose around the pad and chopper like a portable gazebo draped in a sand-colored fabric. He watched until it had unfolded completely, then punched another button that added a sand-colored roof to the structure. Now the chopper was no longer visible from the air. At that point, he replaced the remote
and pulled the door shut behind him, taking a moment to pause on the terrace.

The sun was as hot on his face as the blood that pulsed through his body. Running was going to make him hotter, but it might also save his sanity. He took a slow, deep breath, stretched a couple of times, then jogged off the terrace, aiming for a giant saguaro about a half mile away—the first marker for his run.

Each stride of foot to earth was a body-jolting collision with the unyielding land of the desert. But as time passed, he moved deeper and deeper into the runner's zone. At his passing, tiny sand lizards went scurrying into their burrows. A huge tarantula on the hunt felt the unfamiliar quake of John's footsteps and dropped its prey before scuttling away on thick, hairy legs. The buzzard that had been high overhead dipped lower, checking out the arrival of new meat on the hoof before opting out. It flew away, for the time being leaving the visible sky bare of life.

By the time John passed the giant saguaro and then the rusted-out chassis of a 1957 Ford that was a half mile farther on, his body was beaded in sweat. But his mind was clear. He was no longer running away from desire, he was running for the joy of it. By the time he reached his turning point, which was a pair of large, pillow-shaped rocks lying side by side that he thought of as the breasts of Mother Earth, he was ready to head home.

Even though he was almost two miles away, the land was so flat that he could still make out the roofline of his home. Beneath it, an innocent woman had given herself into his care. For now, he'd outrun the urge to
betray that trust. He began the run home with a lighter heart, enjoying the workout his body was getting.

When he was about a quarter of a mile away, he saw a flash of red on the terrace, remembered seeing a shirt of that color on the chair in Alicia's room and knew she was awake.

Even though they were together by necessity, it had been a long, long time since he'd had anybody to come home to. Instinctively, he lengthened his stride.

 

Alicia had gone to sleep without remembering ever getting into bed. Sometime during her sleep, she'd begun to dream.

In the dream she was running, screaming out Nightwalker's name. The air was filled with smoke, and even though she couldn't see it, she knew her home was burning and people were after her. The thunder of their footsteps was so close behind her that she could hear the sounds of their breathing, heavy from the exertion. The flesh on her face was stinging, as if she'd gotten too close to a flame, and her clothing felt wet. She knew it was blood—her blood—although she was too afraid to look.

Suddenly someone grabbed her by the hair. She threw up her arms and shrieked in desperation as she was yanked backward and thrown to the ground. Her attacker was on her now, riding her waist as he pinned her arms to the dirt. In her dream, she knew she was screaming and pleading for her life when suddenly a gust of wind blew away the smoke and she saw him. His features immediately blurred, but her gaze locked onto his eyes—green and bulging, with short, stubby lashes.

It was then that her subconscious could no longer
protect her from the identity of the man who'd been chasing her, who'd thrown her to the ground and who now held her pinned with his fingers around her neck.

It was her father.

The man who'd given her life was now about to take it. Richard Ponte was like a madman. He kept pushing at her, pummeling her with his fists and trying to throttle the life from her body. The next thing she knew, he was coming at her with a knife.

She screamed one last time—calling Nightwalker's name.

Then everything began moving in slow motion. Her focus shifted from her father's face to the thin stiletto blade coming toward her. Sound faded until there was nothing but the thunder of her own heartbeat and the whoosh of her blood as it pulsed through her body. The knife was at her throat now, burning her flesh as he sliced the blade across her neck. Her body arced, as if a jolt of lightning had gone through it, riding the pain and ebbing life force in desperate denial. She didn't want to die.

Suddenly a man with dark skin and black hair was pulling the stranger from her body, breaking him like a bundle of sticks and tossing him aside like dross on the crest of a tidal wave.

She knew him. Nightwalker. The man who'd promised to keep her safe.

Then he was on his knees beside her, his face taut with agony. He was pleading with her, begging her not to die. She kept hearing him say he was sorry, over and over and over, and then everything stopped.

One second she was with him, and then she was
watching the scene from afar. John Nightwalker was clutching her lifeless body to his chest as he rocked in mute despair, and she knew that she was dead.

She woke abruptly, her heart thundering in a panic she wouldn't soon forget. She crawled out of bed on her hands and knees, and then staggered until she was standing, clutching the bedpost at the foot of the bed to keep from falling. Her body was bathed in sweat, and she kept running her fingers all along her throat, unable to believe it had just been a dream. It had seemed so real. She could have sworn she'd felt the pain of the knife slicing through her flesh, smelled the coppery scent of her blood spilling out onto the ground and known with a certainty that she was dead.

“God in heaven,” Alicia whispered, and then swiped the hair from her face. She stared about the room, re-orienting herself, remembering where she was and how she'd gotten there, then sighed.

Sedona.

She and John had flown to Sedona last night.

She glanced toward the windows. Sunlight was pouring through the cracks around the shades. She moved toward them on shaky legs and then pulled a cord, letting in the light to chase away the remnants of the dream.

She didn't know what time it was and didn't care. For now, time had no meaning in her life other than that it had to pass. She thought of Corbin Woodliff and wondered if he was making good on his promise. She hoped so. If not, she'd put her life on the line for nothing.

Her belly growled, reminding her that she'd had little to nothing to eat yesterday. Suddenly nervous about facing John Nightwalker, she headed for the shower. A
short while later, she left her room in search of her host and some breakfast, wearing a red cotton shirt and a pair of white shorts. Her face was devoid of makeup, and her legs and feet were bare. Her freshly shampooed hair was dry and shiny and hanging loose against her neck. The heavy weight of it matched the weight in her heart.

Her life was in tatters, and the man who'd promised to help her was a jumble of contradictions. What more could go wrong?

She found his note in the kitchen, as well as the freshly brewed coffee, and gratefully poured herself a cup, adding sugar and cream before taking her first sip. The caffeine was a welcome jolt to her jangled nerves, and by the time she'd downed half a cup, she was feeling almost human.

She dug through the refrigerator, chose a small cup of yogurt to go with her coffee, then took her food outside to eat on the terrace. Seen in the bright light of day, this house was just as impressive as the one on the coast of Georgia had been. It was a hacienda of elegant proportions, sprawling across what would have been four or five city lots. The walls were adobe, the color of the desert in which it had been built. The roof was covered in Spanish tiles the color of ochre, while the brown shutters that could be closed over the windows were open and lying flat against the outer walls.

It took her a moment to realize the chopper was now engulfed in some kind of camouflage netting. She sat down in a chair beside a black wrought-iron table, put her coffee down, then propped her feet up on another chair and began to eat her yogurt. She was licking the
spoon and thinking about finishing her coffee when she saw movement in the distance and realized it was John.

It reminded her of the morning back at his home in Georgia—how she'd watched him come out of the surf stark naked, then how he'd walked past her without explanation or apology. She couldn't help but wonder if this morning would be a repeat.

When he was less than a hundred yards from the house, she stood, unable to sit and wait. She walked to the edge of the terrace, marveling at the long, easy stride with which he ran. Thinking to herself that his body, except for the multitude of scars, was about as perfect as any she'd ever seen. There wasn't an extra ounce of fat on him, yet he gave the appearance of great strength.

To her surprise, he lifted a hand in greeting.

She waved back, then put her hands on her hips and waited for his arrival. He didn't slow down until he reached the terrace, and even then, he didn't stop. He went from his running stride to a jog, and then to a walk, allowing his muscles to cool down before going inside.

“You're a glutton for punishment, aren't you?” she said, smiling as she pointing to the sweat running down his body.

“It feels good,” he countered. “Don't you like to feel good?”

She blinked, the smile suddenly frozen on her face. Was that a double entendre or an innocent question?

“Not unless I'm flat on my back when it happens,” she fired back.

John threw back his head and laughed—long and loud. “Point taken,” he said, still smiling as he paced the terrace. “Have you eaten?”

She pointed to the empty yogurt cup. “That and coffee, which I should thank you for. I'm not human until I've had a cup of coffee. How about you?”