Water From the Moon (6 page)

At seventeen, she’d given him the best ten months of his life. She’d been a piece of forbidden fruit made more tempting by the fact that his Boston Brahmin parents found the daughter of a former jewel thief and a self–proclaimed Welsh witch unsuitable company for their sheltered, shy,  genius son. Once apprised of the situation, Acasia, never a stranger to either trouble or rebellion, had thrown herself with joyful abandon into Cameron’s war for independence. He’d fallen in love with her because she was everything he wasn’t: unconstrained, sophisticated, ready for anything and entirely lacking in the inconvenient inhibitions that prevented Cameron from doing the things he’d most wanted to do.

He’d loved Acasia passionately and without reserve. On their last day together, she’d become his first lover and he’d become hers. Cameron remembered the moment in acute detail, with wonder and satisfaction, with a sudden hard sting of desire.

You never forget your first
. Wasn’t that what they said?

He lifted his face to the shower’s spray and the water beat down, awakening him, bringing his blood down from a boil to a simmer. It’s been too long, he thought, too many miles. It’s too late, but I want…

He turned, rubbing water violently through his hair, attempting to marshal his wayward thoughts. He deliberately reminded himself of her faults, especially the way she’d walked away from things—from him—without looking back. He thought he’d finally closed the book on her on New Year’s Day thirteen years ago with the aid of a navy commander who hadn’t taken kindly to his computer specialist going AWOL for a week and returning so drunk that four days in the brig had barely begun to sober him up. It had taken a week more of intensive staring at two–tone gray walls and the coverless john in the corner to convince Cameron that if Acasia had still loved and wanted him, she would have made their rendezvous in London.

In the last sixteen years she’d flitted in and out of his thoughts at odd intervals, always unexpectedly, just when he thought he was ready to make a lifelong commitment to another woman. She’d ruined four perfectly satisfying relationships for him, because he couldn’t help but wonder if loving her again would be as good as he remembered.

He picked up a cake of soap and began to work up a lather in his hands. Everything he’d felt today for Acasia Jones might be only some long–repressed remnant of the past startled out of him by the intensity of the day.

Or it might not.

He worked the soap across his chest, over his belly and down through the bristly, dark triangle between his thighs. She had touched him. He’d felt her. And there was still so much heat!

He rinsed, letting the water cool him a bit, then stood listening to it trickle down the drain. A single swipe of his hand wiped the moisture from his face and slicked the hair back on his head before he stepped from the stall. It had been a long and completely unexpected day, and he wanted sleep, love, rest, calm, love….

He stopped. Hell, he just wanted.

He picked up the fluffy yellow towel from the rack where he’d left it. It had no business being in this misbegotten Third World niche. Acasia, not Fred, would have supplied it, he was sure. She had never been opposed to roughing it, but she had liked her little luxuries. He found it oddly comforting that here, amid the tangle of past and present, something so small hadn’t changed.

Unhurriedly he blotted himself dry. The shower had revitalized him just enough so he’d be able to sleep—except that sleep seemed like such a waste of precious time. He’d made contact with the one person from his past who had done more to mold and shape him into who and what he was than everyone else combined. He wanted to explore her, to absorb her. She bewildered him. She’d been there today when he’d needed her, but then she’d backed away from him even when her eyes had told him that she wanted desperately to stay. He was intrigued; he felt compelled to know why. There were so many questions in need of answers. Hours of them, years of them.

If he went and found her again now he might get what he sought, might find more of her than she’d let him see in the forest. A million years ago they’d shared a hundred stolen midnights, talking, laughing, dreaming. The late hour had made it easier to reveal the truth, share their hopes.

He twisted the towel around his waist and stepped to the door. It was time for some answers.

* * *

Heat blazed and took on unaccustomed proportions as it slid down her throat to her belly. The glass holding the liquid flame clunked to the counter, and Acasia shut her eyes, coughing fire with the first swallow of whiskey. The fresh T–shirt she’d pulled from her pack clung to her already, trapping moist air against her body.

All she’d wanted was to be with Cameron a while, to relieve the ache of all the missed yesterdays and then move on. This morning she’d honestly thought a moment, a day, would be enough, but she’d been wrong. Bits and pieces of Cameron would never be enough. She wanted all of him.

She combed her fingers through her hair in confusion. After years of carefully cultivated numbness, Cameron had made her feel things she didn’t want to feel. He’d made her remember what it was like to be close to someone, and what it was like to trust. And he’d made her remember what it was like to dream about tomorrow.

Dangerous business, dreaming.

Her hand clenched spasmodically around the glass of whiskey, and her thoughts blended into a dull roar. Damn memory, anyway!

She let her head drop back loosely, rolling it from side to side to ease the tensions the alcohol had missed.

Cameron was so much more in real life than memory had made him: stronger, infinitely more obstinate and—Acasia’s stomach tightened suddenly—sexier. She thought about her unbridled response to him in the forest.

Dispassion, she told herself, draining her glass, then reaching for the bottle to splash in more. She couldn’t allow herself to care. It was a self–imposed rule of her profession. She’d been a security consultant and retrieval expert just under ten years. She was completely self–reliant, expertly trained and perfectly qualified. Her father and the army had unwittingly seen to that. Simon Jones, jewel thief turned writer, lecturer and recovery agent, had instilled in his only daughter a passion for speed and the same unequaled burglary skills his own father had passed on to him. The army had provided her with the discipline and knowledge to hone those skills for this purpose. Between them they’d made her formidable, hard when she had to be. A woman professional men took seriously. She had what every woman wanted, right? Independence, respect, a career she’d fought for—had designed for—herself. So why did she think of Cameron and find herself empty?

Acasia turned the glass of whiskey violently in her hands and sent it spinning to the counter’s edge. It wobbled a moment and settled without falling. She felt as if she were right there with it, on the edge of an abyss. Only she was still teetering. She had a choice: hold out a hand to the future at great personal risk, or walk away from it. Either way lay danger. Either move might be wrong.

In silence she settled her hips against the counter and contemplated darkness.

* * *

In the hall, Cameron stood and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Water dripped from his hair onto his neck, puddling in the hollows of his collarbone before spilling in a V down his chest. He took a step, and his hand went out, fingertips brushing the wall, using it to guide him to Acasia.

* * *

Acasia still lounged against the counter, the fingers of one hand drumming out a contemplative rhythm while the other swirled the minuscule amount of whiskey in her glass. Her head felt thick and fuzzy from the liquor, and she knew that, if she let herself, she would be able to relax. She would need to, if she was going to see Cam. Abruptly she lifted the glass to her lips, drained it and let it drop back on the counter. Now, while her courage was up and her inhibitions were down…

Carefully she made her way across the kitchen, through the examining room to the doorway of the five–bed infirmary. Her hand clutched the frame, slid up and triggered a light switch.

"Casie."

He was in the doorway at the other end of the room, wet hair slicked back, broad chest bare and moist, water from his hair sliding down his torso, taking her eyes with it on its journey into the low–slung towel riding his hips. Her breath quickened, and she felt at once weak and strong, heavy and languorous, vitally alive.

"Cam."

Whiskey smoked her voice, accentuated the faint rasp Cameron had never forgotten. A white T–shirt clung to her, outlined her breasts and their budding crests, hugged the flat of her stomach. He brought his eyes to her face. Her lips parted slightly, curving into the same tentative, half–expectant smile she’d offered him before he’d kissed her that long ago afternoon when they’d first made love.

He’d always loved her smile.

Acasia watched him relax as though he were finally standing on familiar ground, and lean against the doorframe. His smile was full of memory and knowledge, and she half thought she heard the whispers of teenage ghosts.

She moistened her lips, responding first as a woman no longer innocent, a woman who knew what awaited if she crossed the room to him, aware of and anticipating pleasure. Then she was seventeen again, aroused, shy, passionate, anxious—her emotions in turmoil because she wanted to please and experience, to be in love. Every instinct, every reflex she possessed, told her it would be all right to love, to throw away reality for romance, for a lingering moment of nostalgia that would be over before morning, before the light ever broke and he could see her clearly, as she was now, no longer the girl she had once been.

They regarded one another, and more than desire swelled the air, spanning the distance between them. It seemed that if they stripped themselves physically they would also strip away time, returning themselves to a moment that should have happened—to London, where their lives might have joined and begun.

Acasia moved, and Cameron pushed himself away from the door. A thud sounded on the veranda, followed by a shuffle, then the sounds of someone wrestling with the kitchen door. Acasia’s eyes jerked up to meet Cameron’s. She pressed down the light switch, surrounding them once more with blackness.

"Acasia? You here, babe?" It was Fred. "They told me you were here."

"Damn." They shared the word, the frustration.

"Hey, Peaches! Where the devil are you? We’ve got to talk. Now." Fred’s voice held impatience, annoyance, an edge of fear.

Acasia couldn’t see Cameron, but she strained to do so anyway. "I have to go."

"Come to me, Casie, when you’re through," he whispered.

"I…" She hesitated. The night’s spell was breaking.

"Come to me, Casie." This time it was a demand, as well as a plea.

"Casie? You asleep? You’ve got to get up and talk to me." Something heavy clattered onto the kitchen table, and the light blinked on. Fred’s steps drew closer.

"Casie?" Cameron’s voice was urgent.

I can’t. The part of her mind that hadn’t slept since Lisetta’s death told her what to say, but she ignored it. "Yes, I’ll come," she said fervently. "I want to come."

She heard him smile, felt his relief all the way across the dark room. "Good," he whispered.

Then he was gone.

She turned to greet Fred, who came into the room behind her. He swooped down on her like the great ugly blond bear he resembled, and Acasia barely had time to clamp a lid on the furor Cameron had created before she was swept into her brother’s smothering embrace.

"Thank God you made it!" Struggling for breath and balance, Acasia tried to lift her face out of his dank shirt, but he only mashed her in tighter. "You had me worried sick. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming down here after Cameron Smith? What happened to your rule about no personal involvement? You feeling suicidal?"

Abruptly he dropped her to the floor, and Acasia reeled, clutching air. Her stomach sloshed queasily, her senses were rimmed with fuzz. There was something wrong with the way Fred was behaving, though she couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

"Do you know what it’s been like here today?" he roared.

Ah, that was better. Now he was behaving like Fred. Acasia sagged into a convenient chair and rubbed suddenly bleary eyes. "No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me."

Fred glared at her. "Julianna radioed. She hasn’t even made it into Maracaibo yet. She’s still stuck in Honduras, and she asked me to entertain you and your, ah, guest. I said, ‘Sure, any quest of Casie’s is a potential supporter of my research, right?’" He paused to stalk the room furiously, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "Hell." He stopped and hunkered down until he was level with Acasia, anxiety overriding his anger. "You all right? You listening to me, Casie?"

Acasia rubbed a tired hand over her face, tried to focus on him. Instead, her gaze moved wearily past Fred and on to the palely lighted kitchen. Her shotgun lay on the table where she’d left it—still loaded. She swore softly under her breath. She’d never done that before, left it loaded and within anyone’s reach. If she hadn’t allowed herself to get so muddled, she would never have been so careless.

She brought her attention warily back to Fred, hoping he hadn’t noticed her slip, but he was sniffing the air around her, outrage registering on his face.

"Drinking? You’ve been drinking? Half of Zaragoza is looking for you and—damn it to hell, Acasia! Are you listening to me?"

"Cut to the chase, Fred," she answered, beginning to sober up.

He touched her knee and rose, suddenly quiet. "The ‘chase,’ little sister, is that Sanchez sent out a mercenary to get Smith back." He looked down at her and nodded at her dawning disquiet. "Yeah, you do know him. Dominic Mansour was here this afternoon looking for you."

The name cleared her brain with nauseating suddenness. "He’s dead."

Fred shook his head. "He’s got a few scars he didn’t have three years ago, but he’s alive. You got out before the ZNLF razed that church, and he must have, too, then left the country. With a little judicious footwork and the right contacts…" Fred shrugged.