Midnight Rainbow (8 page)

           
 
Terror clutched at her throat, choking her,
and she began to claw at the snake, trying to get it off. It was a calm
monster, working its body around her, slowly tightening the lethal muscles that
would crush her bones. It twined around her legs and she fell, rolling on the
ground. Dimly she could hear Grant cursing, and she could hear her own cries of
terror, but they sounded curiously distant. Everything was tumbling in a mad
kaleidoscope of brown earth and green trees, of Grant's taut, furious face. He
was shouting something at her, but she couldn't understand him; all she could
do was struggle against the living bonds that coiled around her. She had one
shoulder and arm free, but the boa was tightening itself around her rib cage,
and the big head was coming toward her face, its mouth open. Jane screamed,
trying to catch its head with her free hand, but the snake was crushing the
breath out of her and the scream was almost soundless. A big hand, not hers,
caught the snake's head, and she dimly saw a flash of silver. The snake's coils
loosened about her as it turned to meet this new prey, seeking to draw Grant
into its deadly embrace, too. She saw the flash of silver again, and something
wet splashed into her face. Vaguely she realized that it was his knife she'd
seen. He was swearing viciously as he wrestled with the snake, mostly astride
her as she writhed on the ground, struggling to free herself. "Damn it,
hold still!" he roared. "You'll make me cut you!"

           
 
It was impossible to be still; she was wrapped
in the snake, and it was writhing with her in its coils. She was too crazed by
fear to realize that the snake was in its death throes, not even when she saw
Grant throw something aside and begin forcibly removing the thick coils from
around her body. It wasn't until she actually felt herself coming free of the
constrictor's horrible grasp that she understood it was over, that Grant had
killed the snake. She stopped fighting and lay limply on the ground. Her face
was utterly white except for the few freckles across her nose and cheekbones;
her eyes were fixed on Grant's face.

           
 
"It's over," he said roughly,
running his hands over her arms and rib cage. "How do you feel?
Anything broken?"

           
 
Jane couldn't say anything; her throat was
frozen, her voice totally gone. All she could do was lie there and stare at him
with the remnants of terror in her dark eyes. Her lips trembled like a child's,
and there was something pleading in her gaze. He automatically started to
gather her into his arms, the way one would a frightened child, but before he
could do more than lift his hand, she dragged her gaze away from his with a
visible effort. He could see what it cost her in willpower, but somehow she
found the inner strength to still the trembling of her lips, and then her chin
lifted in that characteristic gesture.

           
 
"I'm all right," she managed to say.
Her voice was jerky, but she said the words, and in saying them, believed it.
She slowly sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. "I feel a little
bruised, but there's nothing bro—"

           
 
She stopped abruptly, staring at her bloody
hand and arm. "I'm all bloody," she said in a bewildered tone, and
her voice shook. She looked back at Grant, as if for confirmation. "I'm
all bloody," she said again, extending her wildly trembling hand for him
to see. "Grant
,
there's blood all over me!"

           
 
"It's the snake's blood," he said,
thinking to reassure her, but she stared at him with uncontrolled revulsion.

           
 
"Oh,
God!"
 
she
said in a thin, high voice, scrambling to her feet and staring down at herself.
Her black blouse was wet and sticky, and big reddish splotches stained her
khaki pants. Both her arms had blood smeared down them. Bile rose in her throat
as she remembered the wetness that had splashed her face. She raised exploring
fingers and found the horrible stickiness on her cheeks, as well as smeared in
her hair.

           
 
She began to shake even harder, and tears
dripped down her cheeks. "Get it off," she said, still in that high,
wavering voice of utter hysteria. "I have to get it off. There's blood all
over me, and it isn't mine. It's all over me; it's even in my hair… It's in my
hair!"
 
she
sobbed, plunging
for the stream. Cursing, Grant grabbed for her, but in her mad urgency to wash
the blood away she jerked free of him, stumbling over the body of the snake and
crashing to the ground. Before she could scramble away again, Grant pounced on
her, holding her in an almost painful grip while she fought and sobbed,
pleading and swearing at him all at once.

           
 
"Jane, stop it!" he said sharply.
"I'll get the blood off you. Just hold still and let me get our boots off,
okay?"

           
 
He had to hold her still with one arm and pull
her boots off with his free hand, but by the time he started to remove his own
boots she was crying so hard that she
lay
limply on
the ground. His face was grim as he looked at her. She'd stood up to so much
without turning a hair that he hadn't expected her to fall apart like this.
She'd been pulling herself together until she'd seen the blood on herself, and
that had evidently been more than she could bear. He jerked his boots off, then
turned to her and roughly undid her pants and pulled them off. Lifting her into
his arms as easily as he would have lifted a child, he climbed down the bank
and waded out into the stream, disregarding the fact that his own pants were
being soaked.

           
 
When the water reached the middle of his
calves, he stood her in the stream and bent to begin splashing water on her
legs, rubbing the blood stains from her flesh. Next, cupping water in his
palms, he washed her arms and hands clean, dripping the cooling water over her
and soaking her blouse. All the while he tended to her, she stood docile, with
silent tears still running down her face and making tracks in the blood smeared
across her cheeks.

           
 
"Everything's all right, honey," he
crooned soothingly to her, coaxing her to sit down in the stream so he could
wash the blood from her hair. She let him splash water on her head and face,
blinking her eyes to protect them from the stinging water, but otherwise
keeping her gaze fixed on his hard, intent features. He took a handkerchief
from his back pocket and wet it, then gently cleaned her face. She was calmer
now, no longer crying in that silent,
gutwrenching
way, and he helped her to her feet.

           
 
"There, you're all cleaned up," he
started to say,
then
noticed the pink rivulets of
water running down her legs. Her blouse was so bloody that he'd have to take it
off to get her clean. Without hesitation, he began to unbutton it. "Let's
get this off so we can wash it," he said, keeping his voice calm and
soothing. She didn't even glance down as he unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it
off her shoulders, then tossed it to the bank. She kept her eyes on his face,
as if he
were
her lifeline to sanity and to look away
meant a return to madness.

           
 
Grant looked down, and his mouth went dry as he
stared at her naked breasts. He'd wondered how she looked and now he knew, and
it was like being punched in the stomach. Her breasts were round and a little
heavier than he'd expected, tipped by small brown nipples, and he wanted to
bend down and put his mouth to them, taste them. She might as well have been
naked; all she had on was a pair of gossamer panties that had turned
transparent in the water. He could see the dark curls of hair beneath the wisp
of fabric, and be felt his loins tighten and swell. She was beautifully made,
long-legged and slim-hipped, with the sleek muscles of a dancer. Her shoulders
were straight, her arms slim but strong, her breasts rich; he wanted to spread
her legs and take her right there, driving deeply into her body until he went
out of his mind with pleasure. He couldn't remember ever wanting a woman so
badly. He'd wanted sex, but that had been simply a physical pleasure, and any
willing female body had been acceptable. Now he wanted Jane, the essence of
her; it was her legs he wanted wrapped around him, her breasts in his hands,
her mouth under his, her body sheathing him.

           
 
He jerked his gaze away from her, bending to
dip the handkerchief in the water again. That was even worse; his eyes were
level with the top of her thighs, and he straightened abruptly. He washed her
breasts with a gentle touch, but every moment of it was torture to him, feeling
her silky flesh under his fingers, watching her nipples tighten into reddened
little nubs as he touched them.

           
 
"You're clean," he said hoarsely,
tossing the handkerchief to the bank to join her blouse.

           
 
"Thank you," she whispered, then
fresh tears glittered in her eyes, and with a little whimper she flung herself
against him. Her arms went around him and clung to his back. She buried her
face against his chest, feeling reassured by the steady beat of his heart and
the warmth of his body. His very presence drove the fear away; with him, she
was safe. She wanted to rest in his arms and forget everything. His hands moved
slowly over her bare back, his calloused palms stroking her skin as if he
relished the texture of it. Her eyes slid shut, and she nestled closer to him,
inhaling the distinctly male scent of his strong body. She felt oddly drunk,
disoriented; she wanted to cling to him as the only steady presence in the
world. Her body was awash in strange sensations, from the rushing water
swirling about her feet to the faint breeze that fanned her wet, naked skin,
while he was so hard and warm. An unfamiliar heat swept along her flesh in the
path of his hands as they moved from her back to her shoulders. Then one hand
stroked up her throat to cup her jaw, his thumb under her chin and his fingers
in her hair, and he turned her face up to him.

           
 
Taking his time about it, he bent and fitted
his mouth to hers, slanting his head to make the contact deep and firm. His
tongue moved leisurely into her mouth, touching hers and demanding a response,
and Jane found herself helplessly giving him what he wanted. She'd never been
kissed like that before, with such complete confidence and expertise, as if she
were his for the taking, as if they had reverted to more primitive times when
the dominant male had his pick of the women. Vaguely alarmed, she made a small
effort to free herself from his grasp. He subdued her with gentle force and
kissed her again, holding her head still for the pressure of his mouth. Once
again Jane found herself opening her mouth for him, forgetting why she'd
struggled to begin with. Since her divorce a lot of men had kissed her and
tried to make her respond. They'd left her cold. Why should this rough…
mercenary, or whatever he was, make shivers of pleasure chase over her body,
when some of the most sophisticated men in the world had only bored her with
their passion? His lips were warm and hard, the taste of his mouth heady, his
tongue bold in its exploration, and his kisses caused an unfamiliar ache to
tighten within her body. A mindless little whimper of delight escaped her
throat, the soft female sound making his arms tighten around her.

           
 
Her hands slid up to his shoulders, then
locked around his neck, hanging on to him for support. She couldn't get close
enough to him, though he was crushing her against him. The buttons of his shirt
dug into her bare breasts, but she wasn't aware of any pain. His mouth was
wild, hungry with a basic need that had flared out of control, bruising her
lips with the force of his kisses, and she didn't care. Instead she gloried in
it, clinging to him. Her body was suddenly alive with sensations and needs that
she didn't recognize, never having felt them before. Her skin actually ached
for his touch, yet every stroke of his hard fingers made the ache intensify.

           
 
Boldly cupping her breast in his palm, he
rubbed the rough pad of his thumb across her tightly puckered nipple, and Jane
almost cried aloud at the surge of heat that washed through her. It had never
been like this for her before; the urgency of the pure, brazen sensuality of
her own body took her by surprise. She'd long ago decided that she simply
wasn't a very physical person, then forgotten about it. Sex hadn't been
something that interested her very much. The way Grant was making her feel
completely shattered her concept of herself. She was a female animal in his
arms, grinding against him, feeling and glorying in the swollen response of his
body, and hurting with the emptiness deep inside her. Time disappeared as they
stood in the water, the late afternoon sun dappling them with the shifting
patterns of light created by the sheltering trees. His hands freely roamed her
body. She never even thought of resisting him. It was as if he had every right
to her flesh, as if she were his to touch and taste. He bent her back over his
arm, making her breasts jut enticingly, and his lips traveled hotly down her
throat to the warm, quivering mounds. He took her nipple into his mouth and
sucked strongly, and she surged against him like a wild creature, on fire and
dying and wanting more. His hand swept downward, his fingers curving between
her legs to caress her through the silk of her panties. The boldness of his
touch shocked her out of her sensual frenzy; automatically she stiffened in his
grasp and brought her arms down from around his neck to wedge them between
their bodies and push against him. A low, guttural sound rattled in his throat,
and for a brief, terrified moment she thought there wouldn't be any stopping
him. Then, with a curse, he thrust her away from him. Jane staggered a little,
and his hand shot out to catch her, hauling her back to face him. "Damn
you,
is this how you get your kicks?" he asked,
infuriated. "Do you like seeing how far you can push a man?" Her chin
came up, and she swallowed. "No, that's not it at all. I'm sorry. I know I
shouldn't have thrown myself at you like that—"