Moving Target (29 page)

Breath hissed through Erik’s teeth. “Damn, I’ve never had a woman get me so hot so fast. I could lose it just listening to you.”

“No condoms in your jeans?”

He shook his head.

She sighed. “What a hell of a thing to have in common.” Then she smiled crookedly. “But I remember enough from my dating days so that we can be safe and you won’t have to take yourself in hand to get a good night’s sleep.”

He gave a crack of laughter. “If you were any other woman, I might settle for that.”

“But you’re not going to.”

He shook his head.

“Why? I wouldn’t mind.” She looked at him and smiled. “In fact, I’d enjoy playing with you.”

He let out another hissing breath. “You’re killing me here. I don’t trust myself not to seduce you the instant you put your hands in my pants. That’s a first.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t lose . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized that she
had
lost control, and after just a simple kiss. If he had kept going, she would have been with him every bit of the way, and damn the consequences. She let out a seething breath that was very like his had been. “Okay. You’re right. We can’t trust ourselves.” She gave him a puzzled look. “I want you to know this isn’t me.”

He smiled despite the jagged need digging into him, making him ache with every heartbeat, urging him to take what she offered, right here, right now, before she changed her mind. “Sure it’s you.”

“I don’t know how to break this to you without increasing your already ample supply of masculine arrogance, but no man has ever turned me on with a kiss. Interested me, maybe, really intrigued me once or twice, but no bells, whistles, and rockets.”

His smile became a very male grin. “Rockets, huh?”

“You’re going to be impossible about this, aren’t you?”

“Nope.” He grabbed the loose ends of her scarf, brushed his lips over them, and tugged her closer. “I’m going to be so damned easy you won’t know what hit you. C’mon.”

“Erik?”

“Condoms in my bedroom. We should just make it.”

They got as far as the bedroom door before their good intentions collided with the hunger that had blazed up in them so unexpectedly. She stumbled against him and then clung with a fierce kind of strength.

“Erik, can—?”

“Yes,” he cut in.

“But you don’t know what I’m going to ask.”

“I don’t care as long as you let me—”

He didn’t finish. He couldn’t. Her mouth was buried in his, her arms were around his neck, and her legs were wrapped around his waist. He laughed even as his kiss met and matched hers, hard and deep, the way they both wanted it to be. His hands went to her hips and he pulled her even closer while his fingers flexed, testing her resilient flesh. She made an incoherent sound and tried to get closer still, all the way close, inside his skin.

With a feeling of triumph unlike anything he had ever known, Erik carried Serena wrapped around him to the bed. He lowered her onto the coverlet parallel with the headboard, but still she didn’t let go of him. Barely able to stand, head spinning with the violent beat of his own blood, he fumbled with one hand in the nightstand drawer and with the other freed his penis. Her blind, eager hands hindered as much as they helped, but even through the condom her fingers felt too good for him to complain.

In a few quick motions he stripped off her jeans and underwear. He didn’t bother with his own—the two of them were too far gone to care about anything but completion. Standing by the side of the bed between her thighs, he had just enough control remaining to test her readiness with hungry, questing fingers. The pulsing heat of her response burned both of them. With a groan, he pulled her legs back around his hips. She lifted to him, both yielding to his need and demanding that he fill her.

Her eyelashes flickered as he took her with a long, powerful thrust of his hips. Heavy lidded, she watched the blaze of his narrowed eyes, the tautness of his face, and felt the clenched strength of his hips beneath her heels. She tried to smile, tried to say his name, tried just to breathe, but it was impossible. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. It belonged to something unknown, unbelievable, urgent.

Acting instinctively, she drew off her scarf, flipped it around his neck, and pulled him even closer. The kiss he gave her was like being poured into fire. Abruptly she convulsed with an ecstasy that was as overwhelming and unexpected as passion itself had been.

He felt the first contraction hit her and gave up trying for any kind of self-control. He simply hammered into her and came with a force that left him spent and shaking, braced on his hands above her. Breathing hard, he fought to keep from pushing into her all over again and then again, harder, deeper, sending her over the edge once more, falling after her into a world of pure fire.

Dimly he realized he was moving, had been moving even as he thought, moving slow and deep, hard and long, and she was answering in the same sensuous rhythms, lifting against him, tugging at him with the velvet clenching of her need, sweet and sleek and twisting, then shivering and wild, unraveling, clinging, pulsing. And so was he, after her, with her, flung headlong into red oblivion, as though it had been a thousand years rather than a handful of seconds since they had drunk from the well of their shared sensuality.

Finally, with a hoarse sound that was her name, he collapsed onto the bed and drew her over himself like a blanket. She settled fluidly against him, utterly spent, shivering with the aftershocks of the pleasure that still speared through her at unexpected moments. He grabbed the corner of the bedspread in one hand and rolled completely over, wrapping them in warmth.

They were still wrapped together when they awoke deep in moonlight, steeped in each other. He peeled off the last of their clothes, leaving only the scarf whose texture enhanced his pleasure and hers. With a murmured word he wrapped her close beneath him. Nuzzling his rough cheek, shivering with pleasure when the scarf teased her breasts, she savored the feel of him as she shifted to make room between her legs. He kissed her shoulder softly. They didn’t speak because there was nothing to say that could help them understand or even describe the peace, the ease, and the baffling rightness of being together.

Then she sought him even as he sought her. Aching, needing, they sank into each other, taking and being taken in turn. This time they were slow. This time they cherished.

This time the colored shadows overlapped, flowed together, and healed the hunger of a thousand years.

W
hen Erik’s mental alarm clock went off, Serena was sleeping as soundly as he wanted to be. With a silent groan, he sat up far enough to look at his laptop. Though the screen had dimmed, it hadn’t gone dark, which meant there was a message waiting for him from Rarities. It was an important message, but not a Priority One, or the computer would have hooted at him until he shut the damn thing up.

Without turning on a light to alert whoever had the overnight shift out on the street, Erik smoothed the end of the scarf that clung to his cheek, kissed the cloth gently, and tucked it against her neck. Quietly he closed the computer, unplugged it, and carried it to the third bedroom. There was a night-light glowing between the twin beds there. It was the cheerful legacy of the last visit from his nephew, who was going through one of childhood’s afraid-of-the-dark stages.

As soon as he woke up the computer, a hot link appeared on his screen. He activated it and found himself hooked up to the file Research had left for him. He scanned the provenance of his own sheets from the Book of the Learned, plus the sheets he had examined from various sources in the past. A click of the mouse presented the information schematically, according to the year most recently traded and working backward. Two of the sheets had been traced as far into the past as 1939. Most were edging back to the forties. Too damned many of them went back to fringe dealers who had gone bankrupt and sold their stock to other dealers by the storage container in the sixties.

Three of the sheets—the same ones that he had spent years trying to get permission to examine—were owned by a New Age spiritual-cum-financial adviser in Sedona, Arizona. Six years ago, when Erik had contacted the head monk, guru, soul adviser, channel, or whatever the flavor of the moment was, and asked about provenance for the pages, the man had maintained with a straight face that they had come to him direct from the Prime Nexus, so queries as to where and when he had purchased the sacred objects were pointless; they were a miracle, not something manufactured by man to be bought or sold.

Though Erik had tried every year, the head guru hadn’t swerved in his story.

Erik clicked on the
MORE
link, which gave him the leaves’ history in expanded form. A few moments later he discovered that he wouldn’t be talking to the Great Blowhard any time soon. He had killed himself almost a year ago by setting fire to the inner sanctuary while he was in it. After the fire was put out, the place was a mess; the sacred golden objects were puddles and the miraculous pages were ash. Without the guru and the founding miracle of the manuscript sheets—sheets that Erik was certain had come from the Book of the Learned rather than the Prime Nexus—the sect had scattered in search of the next shortcut to wisdom, serenity, and eternal life.

Something nagged at Erik’s stomach. Something cold. He told himself that people died all the time, too many of them died by fire, and a lot of them had once owned something valuable.

He kept telling himself, and he kept coming back to a conclusion that made ice congeal in his gut.

Frowning, he focused on the screen and scrolled down. Sheet number six, which was another one he had never been allowed to examine, had come full circle. A young enthusiast called Regina Jones had bought the palimpsest more than fifty years ago. Since then, it had been passed around, sold and resold, and sold again. Because the miniatures superimposed over the text were uninspired, it was the kind of item that was constantly “edited out” as someone’s collection grew in stature and discrimination. Often such sheets went back to the original auction house to be resold. At present, Ms. Jones owned the sheet again, probably out of sentiment.

“Hallelujah,” he breathed. “Now, Ms. Jones, do you still have your Medieval Mélange shop in Chicago, or have you moved to a warmer place?”

He clicked on the
MORE
link. Ms. Regina Jones had indeed moved to a warmer place sixteen years ago: Florida. Last year she had died there in her shop. Arson investigators said it was an insurance burning gone wrong. The commercial building where her store was located was losing money, someone torched the place for the insurance, and Ms. Jones had the extreme misfortune to be taking a late-night inventory in her shop at the time.

Erik realized his teeth were locked and his shoulders were knotted with tension. He didn’t have to wonder why. There was a very ugly pattern and he couldn’t ignore it any longer: owning leaves from the Book of the Learned had become bad luck, especially in the last year. Three people were dead by fire: Ellis Weaver, the Great Blowhard, and Ms. Jones.

It could be just a coincidence.

And snakes could read Shakespeare.

He clicked on the
OPTIONS
button and rearranged the data according to names most often mentioned. Not surprising, House of Warrick, Sotheby’s, and Christie’s were bunched at the top. What was surprising was that one D. J. Rubin was mentioned almost as often. Not until the last ten years did other dealers get mentioned frequently enough to merit another look. The Internet was really making inroads into traditional auction practices.

He made a list of three names and bounced it back to Rarities with a request to set up interviews. Then he clicked back on D. J. Rubin’s link and read quickly. D. J. Rubin was a bargain-basement dealer who bought out other dealers’ stock for cash. Not much cash, but the dealers who sold were bankrupt and welcomed the chance to unload what they could. D. J. Rubin hadn’t bought anybody out for a long, long time. He had died in 1938 of a heart attack. His stock had been scavenged by other dealers, including the House of Warrick, which in those days hadn’t been in a position to pick and choose its clients. In fact, the House of Warrick, like many family businesses, had nearly gone under in the Great Depression. But Norman Warrick had pulled the company through with his skill and his unerring eye for the genuine among all the garage-sale junk.

Erik smiled bleakly. That explained Warrick’s aversion to frauds; his entire reputation rested on his ability to find the genuine. That meant there was going to be a real professional pissing contest over the validity of Serena’s leaves from the Book of the Learned.

The more Erik saw of them, the more certain he was that they were genuine.

Maybe the old man was getting senile after all. If so, the House of Warrick might be in trouble. Garrison and Cleary would have to ease the old man out before he tarnished the Warricks’ business reputation with a series of stupid decisions.

But right now Warrick was the least of Erik’s problems. Working quickly yet overlooking nothing, he reviewed the data again, rearranged it again, and then again, using different criteria each time. Nothing he saw changed his mind.

Shane Tannahill had been right. Something ugly was oozing around pages from the Book of the Learned.

For a moment Erik sat very still, playing various scenarios in his mind with the speed of a Defense Department computer. No matter which way he approached the interlocking problem of himself, Serena, an unknown murderer or murderers, and the Book of the Learned, he came to the same conclusion.

He wasn’t letting Serena out of his sight.

Period.

He picked up his communications unit and called up Lapstrake’s roving number. It was answered on the first ring.

“What’s up, Erik?”

“Me, checking on the tail. Is it Bad Billy?”

“Yeah. They switched off about an hour ago. It’s hell only having two guys. Eight hours on, eight off, eight on and on and on until it’s over. Bet they get real tired of pissing into relief tubes.”