Dust to Dust (16 page)

“Yes, that's right,” Blake agreed. “And you're right, they're not talking. No one is.”

They talked to Bo for a little while longer. Lucien asked him more about the whispers in his head, and had him redescribe the black mist that had seemed to enter his body.

When they left the prison and stepped out on the sidewalk, Blake asked,

“All right, you two. What the hell is going on here?”

Lucien looked at Sean, who looked at Lucien.

“Come on,” Blake said impatiently. “Tell me what's happening here.”

“I don't know,” Lucien admitted. “But I do know this is only the beginning. But if you need more help with this, call Sean.”

“Why? Where will you be?”

“I think I have to go to Rome,” Lucien said.

 

Sleep that night was welcome, Scott felt. There was cool air rushing over him, thanks to the hotel's very efficient air-conditioning, and the equally cool, clean feel of the sheets beneath him.

And then there was the dream.

She came like a sylph in the night, moving with the sensual precision of a cat, languid and lazy, and yet with smooth purpose. She was one with the shadows, beautifully shaped, full breasts, tiny waist, perfectly flared hips and wickedly long legs. As she walked across the room, his dream was heavy with anticipation, sweet with longing. He barely dared to breathe, and he could hear the thunder of his own heart as he waited.

She reached the bedside and stared down at him. Cascading waves of platinum-blond hair swirled around her shoulders as hypnotically as the waves in the ocean, her eyes were clear and yet haunting, heavy-lidded, and her lips were full and parted. He didn't dare reach out; he let her come to him. In seconds she was lying against him, a sinuous length of fire and sweet enticement, and, then, at last, he clasped his arms around her, drawing her more tightly to him, needing to feel the clamor of her heart, the rise and fall of her breath, even the rush of blood through her veins….

“Scott.”

He started awake, instantly bolting up into a sitting position, ready to leap into battle.

He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. From somewhere outside, beyond the courtyard at the back of the hotel, neon lights cast ribbons of color in the room, red, yellow, green, enough light to show him that Melanie really was in the room.

Really was standing by his bedside.

Not quite naked, not quite moving like a cat. She was in a Tinkerbell T-shirt. Odd, he'd never thought of Tinkerbell as sexual, but that T-shirt was more erotic than
the bare flesh of his dreams, because she was real beneath that shirt. He longed to reach out and touch her, but, just as he had in the dream, he held still.

“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “What is it?”

She touched him at last, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“I'm sorry if I scared you. Nothing is wrong.”

He eased back, puzzled. “Then…?”

Then…

It was better than the sweetest dream.

She sat at his side. She looked hesitant, lost…vulnerable.

He reached out for her, drawing her down beside him. She lay against him for a moment, and he would have been happy with that. Anything…so long as she stayed there with him. Fool. He was in…something. Couldn't be love. No one fell in love that fast. But it wasn't just lust, either, because he needed…more….

“Hey,” he said, and just touched her cheek, stroked her hair.

“Is it all right that I'm here?” she asked.

All right?

He didn't scream his answer, though he wanted to.

“You know how I feel.”

“I do?”

“I think I've been pretty damned open.”

She just smiled and propped herself up on an elbow, studying his face so seriously that he almost laughed. But he didn't. He just died a little in the gold and crystal-blue of her eyes, the color enhanced by the pale neon
ribbons of light that filtered through the curtains. He slipped his arm around her and found her mouth again. She kissed him in return with an urgency that was madly arousing. He drew his hand from the silk of her hair to the perfect sculpture of her breast, then down along her hip, praying for control and patience as he found the hem of the T-shirt. She helped him remove it, then returned to lie against him again, breasts and nipples crushed to his chest, head against his shoulder for a moment before she sought his mouth again. They kissed, wet kisses, heavy, deep, and then his mouth traveled to her throat, down to her breasts, back to her lips again. He felt her fingers digging into his biceps, his shoulders, felt the exotic brush of her nails down his spine.

Again he found her mouth, and he pressed her down into the wealth of pillows, where they lay locked together again, just kissing. When he finally moved away from the kiss it was only to slide along the length of her body, desperate to learn each curve and hollow of her. His muscles seemed to jump and twitch; his arousal was throbbing, burning, and still he made love to her, savoring his own rising fever. He found her belly and was fascinated by the tiny diamond navel ring she wore, then made his way lower to the curves of her hips. He felt her touch on his hair, his shoulders. He eased himself lower, running his hand down the shapely length of her legs, the muscles of her thighs, her calves. He kissed and teased, finding her center, making love with his touch, his lips and tongue. He felt the life in her, the surge, the rhythm of her movement, and he
thought he was about to lose his mind with longing. She cried out softly, then whispered his name in the play of erotic light and shadow.

She drew him to her, and in a moment he was inside her. The world seemed to tremble and shake beyond what any earthquake could achieve. She held him as she writhed, and she whispered, she moaned. He held her, lifted her, moved with her, and relished every beat of his own desperate torment until he felt her body shuddering, felt her fall against him, and only then did he allow himself to climax. The earth, he thought vaguely, could be no more volatile.

They fell back together onto the sea of pillows and sheets, damp, slick and still in one another's arms. He didn't release her, and she didn't attempt to escape. The neon lights continued to flicker across the room as he lay silently, stroking her hair.

Several times, words came to his lips.

He swallowed them back each time.

He didn't want to say anything that could possibly mar the moment in any way.

She let out a soft sigh, and he felt her relax against him. After a while he thought she even slept.

Who the hell is Rainier?
he wondered as he stared down at her.
And what the hell is he to you?
He wanted to wake her up and demand answers. But he didn't. Rainier was out there somewhere, but
he
was here.

He closed his eyes, almost afraid to sleep, but at last he drifted off. No images of dark mist and skeletons came to trouble his dreams.

A little while later he shifted and opened his eyes to
see her looking up at him. She smiled. Sleek, sinuous and graceful as a cat, she half rose above him. Her hair teased his flesh like a sweet breath of air. She seemed to pour herself over him, leaning low. Her lips teased his chest, his throat, found his mouth, and once again…slow, deep kisses became fevered. Her body molded itself to his like a glove, then moved sensuously, rubbing slowly down the length of him.

He was suddenly wide awake.

They made love until dawn.

Then, at last, she yawned and curled up against him, and he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, resting as calmly as the dead.

 

Melanie awoke feeling rested and wonderful.

Then reality crashed down upon her. She had no regrets; she had done exactly what she had wanted to do, and he had been everything she'd hoped, imagined…dreamed.

But even if the world didn't end…

She rose slowly, and was startled to see that Scott was already awake, sitting in a chair drawn up by the bed. He had been watching her with a very serious expression, and she flushed. “Have you been staring at me long?” she asked him.

“I ordered coffee,” he told her. “
Americana.
With cold milk on the side.”

“Thanks,” she said, accepting the cup he handed her.

“Who is Rainier, by the way?” he asked.

She almost choked on her first sip. “Pardon?”

“Lucien called last night.”

She frowned. “He called
you?
”

“He tried to reach you. Didn't you see your message? Apparently those thugs who attacked your friends the night of the quake weren't really thugs. Or not all of them, anyway. They didn't even know each other before it began. One guy said something about Bael making them do it.”

“That's ridiculous—they knew each other by name!”

“That's what I said. Anyway, Lucien and Sean will be working that angle. He wants us to tell Sister Maria Elizabeta about the reference to Bael. So…who is Rainier?”

“He's an old friend,” she said, wondering how he'd found out Rainier's name. He must have gotten it from Lucien. “But I don't want to see him now, all right? I don't want any outside involvement until we know what's going on.”

Scott lifted his hands, not angry, just perplexed. “Why didn't you just tell me that last night?”

“I guess it just surprised me to see him here. Now. That's all.”

Scott smiled slowly. “That was more than surprise. It was…dismay.”

She rose, trying to appear calm and uninterested, ignoring her nakedness and striding for the door. “Don't worry about it, please. And don't be jealous.”

“I'm not jealous. I'm just extremely curious.”

“Well, don't be. I'm going to shower, and then we need to get going.”

He had risen to watch her. His dark hair framed his face. He really was a cavalier, standing so straight, his
shoulders set. She felt a flush sweeping to her cheeks. He didn't understand. She longed to run to him, tell him to screw the world and hold her. But she couldn't.

“There are parts of my life you have to stay out of,” she whispered.

“Maybe I can, maybe I can't,” he told her. “Melanie, don't lie to me, or to yourself. There's something between us.”

“Last night was great.
You
were great,” she said, trying to be dismissive. “But…I have a different life. And you won't understand, believe me.”

She practically ran away then, so desperately did she need to end the conversation.

She stayed in the shower far too long, but she couldn't remember ever feeling such a state of confusion. She cared about him, and she wanted to be with him, but she couldn't be, not in any long-term meaningful way. She might have made an incredible mistake in going to him last night, because no matter how much she wanted to, she could never change who she was.

Or
what.

Staying in the shower wasn't going to help anything. She had listened to Lucien's message, which was just a repeat of what Scott had already told her, and they did have to get going, because Sister Maria Elizabeta seemed to think their third earth sign would arrive that day. With regret, she turned off the water, dressed in jeans and a tank top again, put on sneakers and tied a sweatshirt around her waist. Her passport was in the
hotel safe, so she stuffed some Euros and a credit card in her pocket and went out to meet Scott.

“Let's get going,” he said briskly. He set down the newspaper he had been reading while waiting for her and led her out. Once they left the hotel, she was startled to see him walking toward a yellow Subaru Outback.

“That's ours?” she asked.

He nodded. “This thing should handle those crazy stone roads all right. It's not easy getting taxis to go out to the middle of nowhere.” She realized she was staring at him blankly when he added, “Sorry, it seemed like a smart thing to do.”

“No, no, it's brilliant,” she assured him. “I should have thought of it.”

“Get in. I may need help with the map.”

They ended up having to park the car some distance from the church, and Scott made certain to lock it. “In case the world survives, I really don't want to have to buy the sucker,” he told her.

She smiled, and together, they headed for the church.

They didn't see the sister when they stepped inside.

They did see a man standing by the altar. Melanie's heart sank. When he turned, she realized she had run for nothing the night before.

“Hello, Melanie,” he said gravely, then nodded to Scott.

She felt Scott stiffen beside her, felt his hand resting protectively at the small of her back. He would venture into hell for her, she was certain. And she couldn't let him.