The Edge of Dawn (20 page)

“Anytime you want, angel.”

Narice's senses were towering higher and higher. His fingers slid into her gates and impaled her deliciously, he then took her bursting bud fully into his mouth, and she came screaming like a crazy woman.

Only then did he step back and sheathe himself with a condom. While she was still pulsing and echoing, he eased himself inside and she groaned with the glory of it all. “Oh, that's good,” she breathed.

Saint grinned and began his rhythm. “You're a hot little teacher. Do you know that?”

She growled in response because there were no words to describe the carnal rush in her blood. “Are all cheetahs this good?”

He stroked her with movements that teased and coaxed. “Why? You in the market for another one?”

“Oh no. You are more than enough.”

Stroking her lustfully, he let her feel just how much he liked hearing her words. Saint didn't want anyone touching her ripe brown body but him. In his world, only his hands would tease the dark buds of her breasts
until they sang; only he would kiss her lips until they were swollen and tender; only he would slide in and out of her like this until she begged him to return. Just the thought made him increase the pace.

Soon he was caught up in the whirlwind of desire and all thought was left behind. His rapid thrusts met her answering rhythms. Passion grabbed him, sending him higher and higher. Unable to hold back any longer Saint's orgasm exploded and he roared loud enough to be heard in the lobby. Narice came next and for the third time cried out her joy.

In the aftermath they lay tangled together, their breathing the only sound in the quiet room. Narice was sticky from the whipped cream, but didn't care. His loving had left her boneless, breathless, and oh-so satisfied. She could lie here with him like this until winter.

Saint looked into her eyes and kissed her mouth softly. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Her answer was a contented smile. “Oh yes. How about you?”

He kissed her again and grinned, “I want to do it again.”

She shook her head. “You are a mess.”

“And you are the hottest thing this side of the Mississippi.”

She slid over so that they were belly to belly and thigh to thigh, then lightly wrapped her arms around his neck. “You're not so bad yourself.”

He eased her down into the yielding bed and kissed her deeply. “How fast can you take a shower?”

“Depends on whether you're with me or not.”

Saint raised his head. “Could take a long time with me in there.”

“Then let's synchronize our watches.”

Filled with all the happiness and joy she made him feel with her sassy brown self, he gathered her in his arms and began rolling them around on the huge bed until she was screaming with laughter. “Let me go you, Mutant!”

“Never, little girl. Never,” he countered in a mock evil voice. He continued to roll them around for a few more silly minutes, then stopped and looked down into her face. For a moment he studied the flare of her lips, the brilliant intelligence in her dark eyes, the silken cut of her jaw, and the hoops in her perfectly formed ears. It was official, Anthony St. Martin was in love, really in love, but with a woman who'd made it clear she didn't want or need a man in her life.

The sudden solemness on his face made Narice go still and she felt something pass between them that lodged itself inside. She could already feel the hole he'd leave in her life when the time came for them to part and she realized it wasn't something she wanted. How could she go back to being a proper headmistress after being on the lam with him? Raising her hand, she very gently cupped his bearded face then leaned up so she could reach his lips. Her kiss said all the things her words could not, and as it deepened, he lowered himself and gathered her close.

Saint had never kissed a woman with all of his heart
and soul before, but he seemed unable to do anything else. Having Narice in his arms and in his life felt natural, good. As he kissed her cheek, her ear, her eyes, he reminded himself that in few days he'd have to let her go.

Narice broke the kiss slowly, and in an effort to bury the feelings for him that had bubbled to the surface, she purposefully changed the subject, by asking with a purr, “Still want that shower?”

Saint slid a hand down over her ripe behind, liking the way the flesh yielded to his touch. “Want the shower, want you, want to finish eating, too. Sometime tonight.”

“Then I'll race you!” And Narice took off for the shower.

Saint was stunned. “Hey!” he yelled laughing. “Cheating woman!” He rolled off the bed and took off after her.

The shower was equipped with six shower heads evenly spaced up and down the green marble wall. Narice had them all on and was basking in the powerful spray when he slipped in behind her. Honestly, Narice had never taken a shower with a man before, but when he began to slide the bar of scented soap over her wet skin and followed it with the loofah he retrieved from the basket of toiletries provided by the hotel, she knew it didn't matter; he knew what to do. He washed her with hands that were seductive and ohso scandalous, hands that had her arching and shimmering by the time she was clean.

Narice turned to him and redid the favor. She slid the loofah over him slowly, purposefully, and by the time he was clean, they were both on fire again.

They stepped out and he wrapped her in a large purple bath sheet, then made her stand in front of him while he dried her off. Narice thought she'd died and gone to heaven. The feel of the fluffy towel slowly drying the parts of herself he'd made love to so fiercely had the principal hot all over again. He took full advantage too, and with his lips and hands turned up the heat.

She countered by taking him in her hand and savored the feel of him rising warm and hard. Her eyes blazing into his, she squeezed him meaningfully. He growled and pulled her into his arms. The kiss was hard, possessive, but her hand continued its wanton teasing.

“You keep that up and you'll be riding me schoolmarm.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” she husked back, her hand still moving.

He grinned through the fog of desire and steam. “I may have to ask for your hand in marriage after all.”

“And I might have to say yes, but right now, I'm interested in that ride.”

“Greedy woman.”

“It's your own fault. I was an innocent schoolteacher until I met you.”

“And now look at you.”

“Yes. Look at me.”

He eyed her curves and valleys, then bent down and pressed his lips to hers. “Shameful.”

“Shameful,” she echoed.

He picked her up and walked her back into the bedroom.

 

Later as they both lay across the bed too sated to move, Narice looked up at the shadows cast on the ceiling by the dimmed chandelier, and smiled.

Saint raised himself on one elbow and began to trace a meandering finger over her belly, “What's so funny?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering if this is how the James Bond women feel?”

Her silliness made him shake his head. “Oh really?”

She chuckled a moment, but as she ran her hand over his golden chest, she became more serious. “You have a lot of scars, Cyclops.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Narice saw remnants of wounds on his arms, his chest, and thighs. Some looked like large healed-over cuts, while others appeared to be what she imagined bullets would look like.

“Goes with the territory.” He eased away and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her.

Narice sensed she'd stepped into uneasy territory and wished she'd kept her mouth shut. Then the faded stripes across the skin of his back caught her attention.
Had he been whipped?
She wanted to ask about them,
but didn't. Instead she confessed, “Didn't mean to send you away.”

He looked back over his shoulder and said into her eyes, “I'd never go far.”

The sincerity in his voice made her heart pound. At that moment, Narice knew she'd never forget this conversation no matter how long she lived. She knew because she was in love with him. Recognizing that fact made her happy, but it also scared her to death. “I'm going to take a quick shower.”

 

Saint watched her go and in spite of the slight tension between them, smiled at the way her bare behind moved provocatively as she walked. Truthfully, he wanted her to come back so he could make love to her again. Amazed by that fact, he put his head in his hands; he couldn't remember ever wanting one woman so much and so often. He already knew that Narice Jordan was one of a kind, but he hadn't expected her to weave herself into the fabric of his soul so completely. He thought about her silent exit. Had he hurt her feelings? Legally, the stories behind most of his old wounds were classified and he couldn't tell her about them even if he wanted to, but that was just a cop-out. The truth was he was so accustomed to being a loner and an outcast, he found it difficult to share the details of the darker parts of his life with someone else.

He got up and went out to the table and cut himself a piece of the chicken. What he really wanted to talk
about was the dilemma he found himself in. Delivering the Eye to The Majesty was what he'd been hired to do, and until that was accomplished everything else was supposed to be secondary. Him being distracted by Narice could get them both killed. However, asking himself not to focus on her was like asking his heart not to beat, so he was really in uncharted territory.

In the end, Saint knew that the best way to deal with this unexpected complication was to let things flow and to go with the bit. He and the curvy Ms. Jordan had no future; all they had was the here and now, so he planned to enjoy it. When it was over he'd have content himself with the memories. With that settled, he washed down the chicken with a small slug of champagne, then headed off to the shower connected to the suite's second bedroom.

Drying off behind the closed doors of the luxurious bath Narice contemplated her relationship with Saint. She told herself that first of all, she didn't need a man in her life; life as she knew it was pretty okay. Truthfully, she did get lonely for companionship sometimes, but hey, that's why God made girlfriends. Saint on the other hand was a woman's fantasy, he was dangerous, intelligent, and made love like nobody's business, but he'd said cheetahs make lousy pets and she didn't doubt him for a minute. Although she had developed feelings for him, they had no future as a couple, so there was no sense in her contemplating anything else. They were having a great time. Real life would return soon enough.

After slipping on the hotel's robe, Narice padded back into the suite's living area and found Saint seated on the fancy celadon-colored loveseat, studying the screen on his handheld computer. When their eyes met, his smile made her heart pound. Coming closer, she asked, “What's up?”

“Just checking out the Okefenokee.” Saint wanted to take her back into the bedroom and pleasure her all over again. The curvy Ms. Jordan was good for the soul but bad for business. “Says here, the swamp covers about a half-million acres.” He was glad the tension between them seemed to be a thing of the past.

“People don't actually live there, do they?”

“Not in the protected areas. It's a wildlife reserve.”

“Is Grey Swans on the map?”

“No.”

Narice was disappointed. “Wonderful. How are we going to find Aunt Camille?”

“Good question, but we'll come up with something.”

Narice didn't doubt that for a minute; after being with him these past few days, she knew he was a man who could literally pull a rabbit out of a hat.

Saint could smell the fresh scents of her body and it was playing havoc with his decision to concentrate on the job first and her second. “I need to make a call. You read up on the Okefenokee.” He tossed her the computer.

Narice caught it deftly. “Aye, aye, mon capitaine.”

He grinned and walked over to his coat lying across one of the upholstered chairs. While Narice read why the waters in the Okefenokee had a reddish color, and folklore tales about swamp yetis and UFO abductions, he began a search through his pockets. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she wondered what kind of magic lamp he was after now. It turned out to be a small plastic square that he plugged into the back of the phone. “Another prototype?” she asked.

“Nah, just something to keep the line secure. If anybody's trying to listen in, all they hear is a dial tone.”

“I see.”

“Have to check in with Portia.”

“I can go back into the bedroom if you want some privacy.”

“Thanks, but not necessary.”

Soon he was talking with Portia, and Narice went
back to scrolling through the info on the swamp. Located in southern Georgia and northern Florida, the land was originally inhabited by Native American tribes. The Cherokee named the area
Okefenokee,
which roughly translates to
The Land of the Trembling Earth.
Interestingly enough, the Seminoles, one of Narice's favorite historical groups, also inhabited the swamps before being forced west, and the great Seminole chief Osceola lived in the Okefenokee as a child. She linked into a few more websites and read on.

As she did, she kept one ear on Saint's talk with Portia. He gave her their location, spent a few more moments discussing their run-ins with Ridley and the helicopters then, after asking after Jesse and James, he clicked off.

“Portia says hello.”

“Next time you talk to her, tell her I say hello back. How are the dogs?”

“Jesse is still moping, but otherwise they're fine. I told her I'd check in every two hours, and if four hours pass with no word, she should come looking.”

They'd left the farm less than twenty-four hours ago yet to Narice it seemed like days. “Are we hitting the road, or spending the night here?”

“No, I want to get on the road, but let's take a look at that quilt one more time.”

She went into the bedroom and pulled the quilt and the book from her suitcase. Returning to the other room, she spread it out on the coffee table and silently studied the patterns and symbols. The Monkey Wrench
and the Flying Geese were now as familiar as the Bear Tracks and the Wagon Wheel. The only symbol that hadn't come into play was the box within a box, the Log Cabin, and she still wasn't sure if it stood for her father's birthplace or not. She really hoped they hadn't come all this way for nothing.

She looked up to find Saint studying her instead of the quilt. “I thought you wanted to look at the quilt?”

“I did, and my mind is supposed to be on the job, but having you around makes that hard.”

“Good,” she said with soft triumph. “Every woman wants to be memorable.”

“Well, you're that and more, believe me. But.”

“But.”

“Me being distracted by your curvy little body could get us killed.”

“Which means?”

The coolness of her tone made him search her eyes. “It means, I need to keep my stuff in my pants until we find the Eye.”

She smiled. “You do have a way with words.”

He grinned.

“Coming from any other brother, I'd say you were just making excuses to quit it now that you've hit it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“But I don't think that's what you're about. At least not with me.”

Pleased by her accurate assessment, Saint inclined his head.

“What you said makes sense, though, so I suppose I should keep my stuff in
my
pants, too.” Then she added, eyes shining temptingly, “If I can.”

Saint felt his manhood rise. “All right, now. What did I just say?”

She sidled close enough to smell the soap on his skin. “Something about keeping this…” and she slid her hand provocatively over the front of his jeans, “in your pants.”

Saint's eyes drifted closed.

Narice purred, “I'm just trying to make a point. With all that superhero discipline, you probably don't even notice my hand.” She squeezed the hard promise of him gently, “Am I right?”

He captured her wrist and guided her hand over him with more purpose, “Yeah, you're right.”

Narice's arousal flared between hot and scalding. “If I slipped off this robe, you probably wouldn't even notice.”

Fitting actions to words, she undid the belt at her waist, then let the robe crumple noiselessly to the floor. She was naked as a jaybird underneath.

At the sight of all that chocolate loveliness, Saint drew in a shuddering breath. Mission be damned, all he could think about was the taste of her nipples and bringing her to orgasm. With that in mind he pulled her close, kissed her possessively, then eased her down onto the expensive cushions of the loveseat. Soon they were playing one last round of
Make the Principal Hot
.

An hour and a half later they were ready to leave the suite. He had on his coat and shades. She had on a white sleeveless blouse and a snug-fitting pair of capris. With her purse over her shoulder and her suitcase in hand, she waited for him to finish one last walk through the suite to make sure they hadn't left anything behind.

A knock sounded on the door. “Room service,” a male voice called out. “I've come for the dishes.”

Narice started to the door, but Saint walked out, saying, “I'll get it.”

Ever cautious, he looked through the peephole first. To his surprise he saw The Majesty's prime minister, Farouk, standing on the other side of the door. He was wearing a hotel-staff uniform and pushing a cart filled with dirty dishes and table linens. The cart's bottom shelf and legs were hidden by the thick white cloth draped over it. Saint wondered what he was doing here, and more importantly how he knew he and Narice were in the hotel. He'd given his location to Portia, but that was only a little while ago. Farouk was looking up and down the hall nervously, as if afraid of something or someone. Had The Majesty sent him here with a message? Had something happened that he needed to know about?

Farouk solved the mystery by saying, “Please, Mr. St. Martin, I bring an urgent message from The Majesty.”

Saint hesitated before undoing the locks; something about this didn't smell right. “Hold on a minute,” he
called, then told Narice, “Go back in the bedroom and take this.” He tossed her a gun. She caught it as if it were a dead rat.

“Don't come out unless I call, and if anybody comes in that room beside me, shoot them. Period. Okay?”

She nodded reluctantly, then hurried back into the bedroom.

Only after he was sure she was safe did Saint draw his gun and open the door.

Farouk entered pushing the covered cart. When he saw the gun he smiled. “That isn't necessary, Mr. St. Martin. I'm a friend.”

“Then you won't mind me hanging on to it. How'd you find us?”

“The Majesty has her ways.” Farouk then looked around the suite. “Where's Ms. Jordan?”

“Out shopping.”

“At a time like this?”

Saint shrugged. “Who understands women?”

Farouk smiled. “I certainly don't, but I have a message for her from my queen.”

“Give it to me and I'll make sure she gets it when she gets back.” Saint didn't believe him for a minute.

The man appeared frustrated then.

Saint asked, “What's the matter? This not playing out like you thought it would?”

Farouk's eyes hardened. “No. I didn't expect you to have your gun drawn.”

“Oh, you just expected to waltz in here and do whatever it was you came to do?”

“Yes.”

“You must be new at this.”

Saint raised the gun higher. “If you have a weapon, I want you to place it on the table beside you, real slow now, this gun will splatter you all over that wall.”

Moving slowly and precisely, Farouk raised the top of one of the dishes and revealed the Luger hiding beneath.

Saint said, “Just leave it there. Back away.”

Farouk did so, then Saint called out, “Narice. Need your help out here, angel.”

Saint was so busy concentrating on Farouk he saw the movement of the cloth draping the cart a split second too late. Fulani was hiding beneath it, and the dart from the blowgun in her mouth was already on its way. The tiny arrow pierced his hand. He growled and tried to get off a shot but the world was already spinning.

Narice came out of the back pulling her suitcase just as Saint hit the floor. With wide eyes she saw Fulani and the now armed Farouk standing over him. They both looked over at her pleased.

Farouk said, “Drop the gun, Ms. Jordan.”

She didn't protest. Saint was the only thing on her mind.

Fulani came over, picked it up.

Farouk said, “Now, have a seat.”

Narice hurried to Saint's side instead. She placed her hand on his chest. Mercifully, his heart was beating. “What happened to him?”

Fulani showed her the small blowgun. “He'll be asleep for an hour or so, no longer.”

“But long enough for us to do what we came to do, which was to fetch you.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

He raised the gun. “Oh, but you are.”

Narice was worried about Saint. She hoped Fulani had been telling the truth about the drug. “I thought you loved your queen.”

Fulani scoffed. “No servant ever loves her master, no matter how privileged the service may be. Besides our country doesn't need an old woman running the government. When the rebels come home with the Eye, we will decide Nagal's future.”

Narice shook her head. She didn't care about the politics, just Saint's welfare and her own.

Farouk took out a phone and dialed. When he got his connection he said, “We have them.”

Narice wondered who he was talking to. A few minutes later a knock sounded on the door. While Farouk held the gun on her and the sleeping Saint, Fulani moved quickly to answer the summons. In walked Gus Green, his partner Jacobs, and Ridley. All three had bruises and welts on their faces. The silent Narice was pleased to see she'd done some damage, but the big gun in Ridley's hand brought her back to earth.

Ridley said to Farouk and Fulani, “Good work. Let's get them out of here.”

Narice was dragged to her feet by Ridley. “Jacobs,
Green, bring Mr. St. Martin along. Farouk get out of that uniform.”

He stripped it away and revealed the casual shirt and khaki pants beneath.

“Ms. Jordan, I assume you still have the keys to that SUV of yours.”

She did.

“I want them please. That vehicle will be far more comfortable than all of us piled together in Green's car.”

Narice didn't move.

Ridley saw the defiance in her face and said brittlely, “The keys, Ms. Jordan, or Mr. St. Martin's dead body will be found in an alley in the morning. You may not be expendable, but he certainly is.”

An angry Narice glanced over at Saint hanging between Green and Jacobs like a passed-out drunk and steeled her feelings of concern. She had to stay strong if she wanted to help him, so she dug into her purse for the keys and tossed them to Ridley. He caught them and winced. Narice wondered if he had a busted rib, too. She hoped so.

Farouk grabbed up her suitcase and Saint's gun, then they led her to the door. She shot the smiling Fulani a sinister glare, then walked with them down to the elevator.

The ride down was a silent one. Narice kept glancing Saint's way to make sure he was still breathing. He hung between Gus and Jacobs with his toes dragging the ground.

Ridley said to Narice, “When we get off this elevator, I wouldn't try and enlist anyone's help if I were you. Remember what I said about that alley where St. Martin will be found.”

Narice remembered, so when the doors opened, she kept her mouth shut.

Because it was two in the morning, the fancy lobby only had a skeleton crew of clerks behind the desk, and a couple of bell man outside the big gold framed, glass doors.

A brother in a red-and-gold uniform stepped up and opened the door for Narice's party. He shot a questioning look at the unconscious Saint, and Green offered an explanation, “Never could hold his liquor.”

The brother smiled knowingly. “Got a brother-in-law the same way. You folks have a good night.”

When the men replied in kind, Narice's jaw tightened angrily but she didn't say a word.

Under the lights of the parking lot, Ridley used the remote to spring the locks on Lily's doors. Narice saw him smile triumphantly in response, then look inside. He eyed the jumble of items cluttering the second row of seats and said to Green and his partner, “Clear this mess.”