Water From the Moon (11 page)

"Yes, maybe we do." Lightly Acasia traced his cheek as she savored the feel of him against her. "There are questions I’d like answers to, too."

Cameron’s lips brushed the knuckles she rubbed along his cheek. "Is there somewhere we can go?"

"There’s the cave behind the falls, where we were this morning." Her restless fingers wove through his hair, her long legs deliberately pressed against his. "We can take a lunch. It’s mossy and cool…."

His eyes met hers as his hard–muscled thigh shifted and met soft femininity, answering her veiled invitation with a more explicit one.

"Yes," Acasia purred, and found Cameron’s mouth, putting her tongue to more inventive and less verbal use. He responded, curving her into him, supplying some moves of his own that left her moaning. Fred’s steps sounded in the hallway, and, reluctantly, the lovers separated.

Fred came in, paused, and busily ignored the charged air. "I’ve got to go upriver to borrow enough meds from the logging camp to tide me over until you and Jules can bring me replacements. Interested, Casie?"

"I don’t think so. This hair of mine makes me a little too, ah… noticeable, shall we say?"

Fred eyed her dubiously. The color of her hair had never bothered her before—even when it should have. He looked at Cameron. "Let’s go," he said.

"What?" Acasia asked.

"His hair’s not yellow, he can come with me."

"Like hell. He’s my responsibility, he stays with me."

"Uh, uh." Fred shook his head. "Chain of command, Peaches. You take care of him, I take care of you. I’m bigger and older, he goes with me. Besides, I can use the help."

"You—" Words failed Acasia. "I am not sixteen anymore, you big ox. I can take care of myself."

"No, you can’t. If you could, you wouldn’t have come down here for him."

"You arrogant, pigheaded—"

"Hey,
hey
, kids!" Cameron stepped between them, spreading his hands placatingly. "It’s okay, Casie. It’s all right. He’s buying a delay, that’s all, right? Let him have it. You and I will catch up later." He cocked his head and the glance he sent Acasia made her redden beneath her tan. He could still do it to her with no more than a look, could make her tremble wanting him.

Fred eyed them grimly, saying nothing for a moment. Then, "Let me get my bag," he said, and stepped into the examining room, calling over his shoulder, "There’s going to be a tribal celebration here tonight. Some of the neighboring villages will be attending. It might interest you, Smith, as long as you’re here."

"Sounds great," Cameron returned absently, occupied with pulling Acasia into his arms again. "You busy tonight?" he murmured.

She raised a hand to his face. "Definitely," she murmured back, and he smiled.

"Did I ever tell you that you’ve got gorgeous eyes?"

He kissed both of them, and Acasia lifted her face to him, smiling. She felt soft, eager, like a child.

"I like your nose. How come nobody ever broke it?"

"Wouldn’t let ’em. Saved it for you."

"I see." God, please let today be enough, she prayed.

"I thought you would." His lips brushed hers, clinging briefly. "I’ll be back."

"I’ll be here."

For how long? "You’d better be, or Fred’s going to have to scrape me off the ceiling."

Acasia choked on strangled laughter. "How romantic."

Cameron raised an eyebrow and released her. "Ain’t I just?"

Fred reappeared and headed for the door, his expression carefully blank.

Cameron winked at Acasia. "Later," he mouthed, and disappeared.

* * *

She went to shower, burying a sense of foreboding beneath a joy she hadn’t experienced once in the past sixteen years. She hugged the feeling to herself, reveling in it as the cool water sluiced over her bare skin, cleansing away more than just the outer layers of dirt. Cameron had come to her, held her like his friend, his lover, in a way she’d thought would never happen again. She laughed for sheer pleasure and sang as she scrubbed, staving off images of Dominic, clinging to exultation for all she was worth.

For the first time in years Acasia opened her eyes to fantasy and found that it paled against reality. She didn’t have to dream about Cameron today; he was here in the same little part of the world where she was. She’d been with him mere moments ago, would be with him again in just a little while. He wasn’t pre–Lisetta, pre–Dominic, pre–Zaragoza, he was now. She took a breath and felt her heart swell. It had been a long time since she’d allowed herself to wallow in anticipation.

She took advantage of the moment, pampering her secret desire to concern herself, just once, with nothing more serious than how she wanted to look for her lover and what she would wear. The possibilities of finding some knock–’em–dead outfit lying around the clinic were distinctly dim, but she wrapped a towel around herself and went to peruse the contents of the cedar chest in Cameron’s room anyway. It was, if she remembered correctly, the place where Fred kept every remotely salvageable item of clothing he’d inherited in his years as Acasia’s in–jungle bed–and–breakfast proprietor.

One by one she picked the items out of the chest and piled them on the floor, finding a paisley tie, mismatched argyle socks, khaki outback pants with holes in the knees, a vest of Italian linen and other things she couldn’t even identify. Finally, at the bottom of the barrel, she found what she sought: a pair of her old tan fatigue pants, some unused socks too small for Fred and a faded periwinkle cotton–knit camisole that had gloved the ultraslender Julianna and was decidedly provocative on her bustier friend. Acasia hesitated, self–conscious for a moment about wearing the camisole. Then she dressed quickly, hoping what she wore would show Cameron what she could not say.

Dressed, she let the lid of the cedar chest thud emphatically down and went along the hall to the kitchen carrying her pack. In a locked cupboard she found and appropriated a bottle of brandy and two mismatched snifters. From her brother’s tiny refrigerator she pilfered a precious bit of cheese, some bread and some fruit. She was about to explore the possibility of finding Fred’s private cache of chocolate bars when a young Indian burst through the door, fear apparent in his every movement.

"Doctor," he begged, rushing to her. "Doctor must come now."

"He’s not here. What’s wrong? Can I help?"

"Doctor," the youth repeated. "Baby come wrong. Doctor. Help!"

Further English failed him, and he resorted to exaggerated gestures, which made his predicament only too clear when he explained in his own tongue. His wife was in labor with their first baby. It was taking too long, and they were afraid it was placed wrong and—

And they were just afraid.

Acasia stepped into the examining room, dragged a smock over her clothes and checked the contents of Fred’s spare medical bag as she slung her pack across her shoulders. Then, with a sigh of regret, she left a terse note on Fred’s message board and followed the man out of the clinic.

* * *

"Why isn’t she back yet?" Cameron demanded, not for the first time. He strode from one end of the veranda to the other, peering anxiously into the unquiet darkness.

"Relax," Fred said, also not for the first time. "She’s fine. She’s delivered babies before, and she knows this forest as well as the Indians. Cool down, Smith. She’ll be back when she’s finished."

"Yeah, right." Easy for Fred to say. He was a lunatic, too, and Acasia was only his sister. To Cameron, who’d been thinking of her nonstop all day, she was a good deal more.

Behind him, Fred opened the screen door and stepped out. Yellow light spilled after him. "Here, drink this. It’ll help you settle down."

He handed Cameron a glass that the latter accepted with suspicion. The drink smelled fermented, which was fine, but… Cameron took a gulp, gagged on the taste and spit the liquid over the railing. "What is this stuff?"

"Native drink. Made from manioc root. Tastes like sin, but lets you feel good without ever really getting drunk. It’s an acquired taste. Drink it."

Cameron passed him the glass. "Thanks, but no thanks. I’d as soon be crazy."

"And I’d as soon you calmed down. You’re not going to do anyone any good like this—especially Casie." Fred took a swallow of Cameron’s drink and made a face. "I, on the other hand, can give her hell, as is my right."

"That because you’re her brother or because you’ve been giving it to her all her life?"

"Not all her life. Didn’t meet her till I was ten. She wasn’t quite three. My mother found out about her and her mother, and decided that if Simon Jones wanted to live in sin he could do it as well with two children as he could with one. Probably the best thing that could have happened to me. Casie’s mom is a bit wacko, but she’s a terrific mother. Mine was more like Casie. Couldn’t sit still for two minutes at a time. Watch out for that."

Cameron leaned on the porch rail and eyed Fred speculatively. In all the hours they’d spent together today, the man had said next to nothing—except to instruct Cameron about the forest. He hadn’t said one word about Acasia. Now he was suddenly imparting bits of the Jones family history. Just what was going on?

Across the torch–lit clearing, rock music blared from an open hut, an incongruous reminder of civilization. Children, teenagers and adults all cavorted to the beat, laughing, staggering around, cuddling in the shadows.

"We had our first teenage suicide here last month," Fred said abruptly.

Silently Cameron waited out the non sequitur, sure it would lead somewhere. Fred didn’t disappoint him.

"Casie was here when it happened. She took it personally, as though there were something she could have done. She just can’t take seeing people quit like that."

"Why’d it happen? You’d think down here, away from the cities, away from that kind of stress—"

"Civilization has long arms. You get some blue jeans, a little music, a dab of reading, and all of a sudden you’ve got want. Then everyone’s got problems—stupid, petty little pressures that never existed before. You can’t always guard against it, and you can’t always see it coming. And sometimes there’s just nothing anyone can do. Casie doesn’t want to realize that."

He was so close to what made Acasia tick that he could taste it. "What don’t I know about her, Fred?"

Fred took another swig from Cameron’s glass and grimaced. "Been here nearly twelve years and still can’t get used to this stuff."

Cameron kept himself deliberately in check, holding back his anger by closing his fist around the porch railing until his knuckles turned white. Someone out of sight behind the corner of the clinic giggled. Torchlight wavered over craggy faces, over dancers, made grotesque shadows out of ordinary expressions and movements. "What has a month–old teenage suicide down here got to do with what kept Acasia from me, Fred?"

"Paolo Gianini’s sister Lisetta committed suicide." Fred looked up at Cameron’s start of surprise, surprised himself. "You’re the only person beside Lisetta who Casie ever really talked to. I thought she’d told you…. I just assumed you knew…."

Fifteen years ago. Spring. Milan, Italy. The Gianini villa.

Acasia and Lisetta had been seventeen, sophisticated, carefree, wealthy, beautiful. At Acasia’s instigation, they’d just left the gates of the villa in Lisetta’s red Lamborghini, headed for Cannes, the Cote d’Azur, excitement. A black car had pulled in behind them, a black van in front. Men with ski masks and weapons had taken them from the red car, shoved them into the van and driven them away.

Acasia was helpless, mouth and eyes taped, hands and feet bound, jackknifed between the seats, listening to, and memorizing demands. They didn’t want her; she was to be their tool. They threw her from the van, and she lay in a heap on a sidewalk with a broken arm until someone found her. Then she did as the terrorists had instructed her: acted as a liaison between them and Lisetta’s family; taking phone calls and relaying messages; picking up recordings of Lisetta’s tearful messages proving she was still alive—maybe.

Lisetta’s parents, her brother Paolo—then a captain in the carabinieri—had pressured her to remember and relive everything: sounds, voices, inflections, road bumps, smells….

"Lissi spent five weeks in a state of virtual sensory deprivation and solitude before they finally found her and brought her home," Fred continued. "Casie played the whole thing tough, as usual, but Lisetta… She wasn’t a survivor like Casie. She broke. There was therapy for them both, of course, but it could only do so much. Lissi got to the point where she hung on Casie, depended on her for everything—and Casie let her. I guess she figured—and I’m sure people must have made her think—the whole thing was somehow her fault, that if she’d done God–knows–what Lisetta wouldn’t have been kidnapped, or would have been found sooner. Survivor’s guilt, I guess. When Lissi threw in the towel for good, Acasia decided that was her fault, too." Sightlessly, Fred stared at the sky, where flashes of violet lightning singed the clouds. "Sometimes the smartest people believe the dumbest things." He shrugged and shook off the mood.

"Anyway, after Casie pulled a couple of really stupid stunts, she decided on her own that she needed help coping with the guilt. But I think she’s been dealing with it in one form or another ever since." He looked at Cameron. "That’s it."

Cameron strangled the veranda railing. She’d lied to him in her letters, but he’d known that. Misrepresentation and evasiveness were part of the Simon Jones gene pool, but he’d always assumed that if Acasia was ever in need, ever hurt, she’d come to him for help—if not because they’d been lovers, then because they were friends. He should have known better.

Needle–sharp rain descended suddenly, dousing the torches in the clearing in front of the clinic and stinging Cameron’s cheeks. The music, muted by the rain, sharpened in tempo, the beat escalating, going wild.

"I looked for her," he said finally. "Simon ever tell you that?" When Fred shook his head, Cameron laughed shortly. "I forgot. Messages rarely passed through Simon." Tiredly, he wiped the rain out of his face. This anger was a new one for him, but old and out of place for Fred. He couldn’t go back to fix the past. From here out there was only the future. "Where is she?"