Kiss of the Phantom: Sexy Paranormal (Book 3, Phantom Series) (11 page)

For a long minute, she heard nothing but his steady breathing, commingled with a heartbeat. The sound wasn’t strong and seemed almost hollow, but phantom or not, Rafe Forsyth lived. He witnessed the new world with fresh eyes, and he mourned the woman he’d loved with an honest heart. She suddenly felt very inadequate, and she didn’t like the emotion one bit.

She forced a yawn. Rafe pressed his arm possessively around her back and whispered, “You are exhausted!”

She murmured her agreement, and then closed her eyes. In her entire adult life, she never remembered wanting a man to hold her until she fell asleep. This was certainly one for the record books, she thought, before the soft stroke of Rafe’s hand along her spine lulled her into dreamless sleep.

***

“If there’s one thing I love about thieves and reprobates, it’s that they don’t ask a lot of questions,” Mariah replied to Rafe’s inquiry the next evening about how she’d explained his disappearance to the man who forged their new passports. “By the time I took possession of our papers and paid him, he had a whole new set of customers.”

Rafe nodded, looking out into the inky black night and wondering how Mariah knew where she was going when there were no landmarks visible from this height and night was too cloudy to use the stars for navigation. He simply had to trust that she knew what she was doing, a task he found increasingly difficult since their talk just before dawn, when he’d learned how little she understood about something as elemental as relations between men and women.

In her century, sex no longer had the same importance that it had in his—but the basics had not changed. Attraction led to pursuit, which often led to pleasure. His study to become the next village shaman after his father-in-law, Belthezor, made him keenly aware of how sexual relations rooted not only a marriage, but families and, therefore, the clan. Only after he’d spoken vows to his wife had he taken Irika to bed.

He’d not been unknowledgeable of the mechanics of coupling, but he and Irika had discovered together what brought them the most pleasure. Skin to skin and heart to heart, they had shared dreams and wishes for their future and had created the life that had become their son.

Once Irika had been with child, they’d made love more gently. Even as a girl, Irika had never been robust. The
puri
women of the tribe predicted trouble for her and the baby if she did not rest. She obeyed them, drinking the herbal remedies they cooked up for her over the open flames in the center of the village, while Rafe learned to do without the comfort of his wife’s body.

After Stefan’s birth, Irika had taken a long time to heal. Then, just when the sparks of their passion had reignited, the mercenary threat arrived, Rafe had been cursed and Irika had died. Rafe could not help regretting all he’d lost. His wife. His son. His future.

What could Mariah offer him, other than his freedom?

Or, more telling, what could he offer her?

Naught but the magic.

“How will you land this airplane in the dark?” he asked, knowing that the shadowy shapes beneath them were mountains and hills and thick treetops.

“Very carefully.”

She flicked on an instrument to her right, igniting a glowing green line that moved in a circular motion over a dark surface, blipping and beeping.

“Here we go,” Mariah said, pointing into the darkness.

Rafe saw only more shadows.

“I see nothing.”

“See that light? To the west, just there.”

He squinted and thought perhaps he saw a flicker of orange.

“It’s a bonfire. The locals keep it burning for the rangers who patrol this area, part of which is a preserve. It’s right on the edge of an airstrip the drug runners once used before the
federales
commandeered it. I’ve flown in here before. Rain and wind sometimes shift the path, but if I can touch down without breaking us up, we can hide the plane in a hut where
narcotraficantes
used to store their stashes before deliveries. Yeah, this will work. This will work perfectly.”

Rafe ignored the fact that her claims seemed more intended to convince herself than him. He braced himself, enduring the rocking of the airplane and the sudden, unexpected bounce that made her whoop with excitement. Just when he thought the experience of landing in the dark could not possibly get worse, the tires bounced hard on the ground, jarring him from his teeth to his toes.

She squealed with glee once the plane began to slow, though it tossed them from side to side until finally stopping abruptly. Rafe exited the aircraft quickly. When his boots touched the earth, he had to fight hard not to fall prostrate and kiss the unmoving soil.

Mariah tossed a bag onto the dirt beside him before she exited the airplane. “A little airsick?”

“Is that what you call it?” he asked.

She laughed and continued to unload. “Not everyone loves a bumpy ride. But we need to make this quick. Take our supplies over to that trail,” she said, pointing toward a thick line of trees. “I’ll take the plane into that hut of a hangar and get her secured.”

Rafe did as she instructed. The weight of the packs tempted him to use Rogan’s magic, but he resisted. After the second trip to the forest edge, hauling the supplies Mariah had insisted they’d need to reach the remote area where she’d dropped the coins, the sweat that soaked down his back and the pulling pain in his arms and neck invigorated him even as the effort exhausted him.

“Ready for another adventure?” she asked, carrying two bags on either shoulder when she joined him.

The moon overhead, a crescent of incredible brightness, threw a silver glow over the field and the adjacent forest. Rafe took a moment to breathe in the unfamiliar air and register the scents of verdant trees. The sun-baked earth beneath his boots seemed to drink in the moisture of the night. While the sensations of this place were completely unlike Valoren, they seeped into his blood and immediately became part of who he was.

He was Romani.

Gypsy.

One with the earth.

“Rafe?” she asked.

“This place has magic,” he decided.

“This place has you,” she replied, patting the bag where she kept Rogan’s marker. “And the stone. Where you go, magic goes.”

“No,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her close. “This is a new magic. One that may make Rogan’s evil sorcery utterly useless.”

Rafe intended to explain to Mariah what he meant, but angry voices from the south spurred them to grab their things and thrash into the forest for cover. The trees and thick foliage provided an instant blind of shadow, blocking them from a half dozen men, dressed in what appeared to be nightclothes, running toward them with crude but still dangerous weapons. Long blades and thick broom handles. A rusted old rifle. They cursed and spat in a language Rafe had never heard before, but judging by the way Mariah curved tighter into an invisible ball and grabbed his hand to encourage him to do the same, they were not spouting salutations.

Only twenty paces into the brush, he and Mariah were invisible to their pursuers. Rafe caught his breath and squeezed Marian hand tighter, not surprised that her anxiety matched his own. He would use the magic if necessary, but he could not allow the constant pull of the evil sorcery to become second nature. His soul was already infected. Willful command of the dark powers would send him down a path more perilous than any in this foreign jungle.

Mariah remained perfectly still beside him. The slice and chop of the swords against the leaves and branches that surrounded them sent them scurrying farther into the foliage, abandoning their belongings. They ducked low to avoid exposure from flashlights, but after a quarter of an hour of searching, the incensed group seemed satisfied with their disappearance and went back in the direction they came.

He and Mariah waited another ten minutes just in case. Once the silence was filled with the buzzing, cawing and rustling of what Rafe assumed were the native animals, they retrieved their belongings and eased back onto the path.

“What language were they speaking?” he asked.

“Spanish, mostly,” she said, moving their packs around to equally distribute the load. Rafe grabbed a haversack she’d intended to take herself and slung it over his shoulder. “The dialect was hard to place, though. Around here, there are quite a few natives, descendants of the Mayans, whose coins I’m after. The plane is probably walkabout,” she grumbled. “There’s an outpost of sorts not too far from here. I bought supplies from them last time, and I paid a more than fair price, so they should be somewhat happy to see me.”

Clicking on the light she’d attached to her shoulder, she illuminated the narrow dirt alley that would lead them to their first destination. She started walking with surprising speed. Despite having flown for hours on very little sleep, despite the danger and uncertainty she’d faced over the past several days, Mariah’s voice hitched higher with excitement the deeper they went into the jungle. She was in her element—the uncertain and unknown.

Though the atmosphere quickly grew steamy and sweaty, Mariah kept up a steady pace. Unlike the dry forests of Valoren, this jungle hung on to moisture like a sponge, then dripped it onto his skin. They’d hiked for what Rafe guessed was over two miles when she finally declared they should stop for a rest and a drink.

She pulled out a canteen filled with cool water and offered him the first swig, which he declined. She drank greedily, swiped her mouth with her sleeve and then pressed the container into his hands. They did not speak. Between quenching their thirst and attempting to regulate their breathing, there wasn’t much energy left for chitchat.

At least, not for her. Rafe sat still, closed his eyes and listened to a heartbeat in the jungle that had nothing to do with the pounding in his chest. This place overflowed with magic. The farther into the wildness they wandered, the stronger it became. The sensation was familiar and yet utterly foreign. He had no idea whether proceeding would make Rogan’s dark magic stronger or, perhaps, defeat it altogether.

“The outpost is just down that slope,” she said, packing the water again and slugging it back into her bags.

Rafe grunted his understanding. It had been many years since he’d worked this hard. If, however, the slope proved farther than she thought, he’d call upon Rogan’s magic to, at the very least, conjure up a cart and horse.

As promised, the outpost, which consisted of a single thatch-roofed hut surrounded by a ramshackle fence that somehow managed to contain several asses, a half dozen snorting and snuffling pigs, nesting chickens and one loud, barking dog, was less than a ten-minute walk from where they’d rested. Mariah motioned for him to remain at the edge of the jungle. She draped the bag that contained the Valoren marker around his neck, and then proceeded toward the dwelling alone.

Only he knew that she had a pistol hidden in the waistband of her jeans, covered by the hem of a loose, long-sleeved shirt.

From the hut, a woman armed with a rifle emerged from behind the blanket that served as the door. Mariah held a stack of what she’d told him were twenty-dollar bills and spoke in the woman’s native tongue. The woman shouted over her shoulder for a compatriot, who came out and shone a light in Mariah’s face.

Seconds later, the rifle disappeared, the man whistled for the dog to quiet and the woman came out beyond the gate to talk with Mariah for a solid five minutes before money was exchanged and Mariah returned.

“Okay, we’ve got us a burro.”

“A what?”

She pointed to one of the asses. “We’ll move faster if we don’t have to carry all this stuff ourselves.”

“We keep traveling tonight?”

Mariah started arranging their bags so that the heavier items, like a supply of bottled water, would go with the beast. “There’s a river about a kilometer northeast of here. We’ll follow it until we’re safely away from any civilization, then set up camp. With old Pedro to do the heavy lifting, I can do most of the hiking tomorrow. Now that we’re here, it’s safer to travel in daylight. This jungle is on the edge of a preserve, so there’s a lot of wildlife. Not to mention natives who’d rather not be bothered by outsiders.”

In less than an hour, they were hiking down a slightly more traveled path. The deeper and denser the jungle became, the more invigorated Rafe was by his surroundings. Several times, he thought he caught glimpses of curious spirits trailing beside them, watching them, but by the time he turned his head, they were gone. As they walked, Mariah told him a bit about the natives of this area and their Mayan ancestors. His visions began to make sense.

“They understood magic,” he concluded, after hearing about their attitudes and rituals in regard to the land. Like his Gypsy forebears, the Mayans communed with the land they lived on, and in return, the earth showed them her secrets. Unlike the Romani, the Mayans did not wander. They did not comprehend the true nature of the conquistadors and were, therefore, destroyed. Of course, Gypsies never trusted the
gadje
, and the people of his village were just as dead.

“I don’t know much about Mayan beliefs about magic,” Mariah replied. “But I do know that while the people were highly advanced, they were also brutal and uncivilized.”

“Were they uncivilized or simply uncivil to their invaders?”

She chuckled. “Touché. Don’t get me wrong. I find the whole Mayan culture fascinating. I don’t know much about them beyond what Velez told me, though.”

“And yet you steal their...what is the word? Artifacts?”

“They’re not exactly around anymore to protest, are they?”

He held his tongue. They were here. And closer than she believed.

“I was just doing my job,” she continued.

“A job that is not legal,” he pointed out.

With a snicker, she hacked away at what must have been a particularly thick vine. “I can’t believe I’m getting an ethics lesson from a Gypsy,” she muttered.

Rafe smiled. “So my people still have a negative reputation among the
gadje
?”

“Mostly earned,” she insisted. “I’ve known quite a few Gypsies in my lifetime, and I couldn’t trust a single one.”

He adjusted one of the straps that had been digging painfully into his shoulder. “There aren’t many people you trust, Mariah Hunter. I doubt Gypsy blood makes any difference.”

She stopped. The ass—or burro, as she called it—halted and shook his head in protest of the break in his steady pace. She quieted the animal with a gentle hand on his neck.

She then turned on him with those guarded amber eyes.

“I trust you,” she said.

He stepped nearer to her. “Have you any choice? As long as you continue to possess the stone, you possess me. Our interactions are inescapable.”

“Nothing is inescapable,” she countered.”You’ve told me yourself that you have this evil entity inside of you because of the magic that traps you. Just a few nights ago, you went bonkers in a thunderstorm, but I didn’t run from you, did I? I ran to you. I helped you. If that doesn’t say trust, then I don’t know what does.”

The burro shuffled impatiently. Mariah turned and, with the animal’s bridle in her hand, continued to press forward.

Rafe lagged behind, mulling over her words and considering how, yet again, Mariah Hunter had utterly surprised him. Though cagey and suspicious by nature, she’d taken him and his wild story as truth. By coming here with him, she was risking her livelihood—her very life—on the belief that his story was true. And yet, she still erected walls around her emotions like no other woman he’d ever met—walls he suddenly wanted very much to scale.

As she’d predicted, they came upon a river soon afterward. Mariah bent down and took a sniff of the water before splashing her face, hands and neck. Rafe joined her. The night was hot and the air sultry. He was surprised when the ass refused to drink, and he tried to coax the animal to the water’s edge.

“He’ll drink when he’s thirsty,” she told him. “Burros are accustomed to this heat and humidity. We’re going to stay near the water for a while. He’ll be okay.”

“We’ll camp here?”

Mariah focused her light up the path and frowned. “This is a little too exposed for my tastes. If we go upstream about”—she consulted her map—“a quarter mile, I think we’ll be better off. Up for more hiking?”

Rafe readjusted the pack. “Lead the way.”

The river rushing beside them provided a natural music like none Rafe had ever heard. The water in Valoren had come from a spring in the mountains, which flowed down into slim streams that swelled only with the winter melt. He’d never seen a body of water quite as large as this, and upon admitting this to Mariah, she told him about the nearby Gulf of Mexico.

“Like an ocean,” he said. “My brothers were all born in England. They loved the ocean and often spoke of its hypnotic ebb and flow.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve never seen any body of water beyond the springs of Valoren.”

“You’ve missed out.” They’d left the path, and now Mariah hacked through undergrowth with a sword much like the ones carried by the villagers who’d greeted them at the airstrip, which she called a machete. “The gulf is warm, not cold like the Atlantic, which is what your brothers would have known. And the beaches here in Mexico and Florida—they can be as white as snow, with not a rock in sight. And the color—I don’t even know if I can describe it. It can be the most amazing shade of aquamarine, somewhere between a blue and a green, depending on its mood.”

Rafe stilled her hand when she moved to chop through another layer of thick, verdant leaves. The longing in her voice spawned an emotional rush he could not resist. He needed to touch her, if only for a moment, to gauge whether he alone experienced a renewed pull of attraction.

“Sounds amazing,” he said.

Entirely aware of the state of them—tired, hungry, smelling of sweat, donkey and something she’d called bug spray—Rafe couldn’t resist the instantaneous sizzle of his skin against hers. For a fleeting moment, an irrepressible yearning coursed through her. Was it from her description of the Gulf of Mexico or from his touch?

“Don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?”

“Touch me,” she said, though she made no move to jerk out of the contact.

“Why?”

“My hands are dirty.”

“Your entire body is dirty, as is mine.”

The moon broke through the branches laced above their heads. Rafe spotted a smudge of dirt across Mariah’s nose. He’d have wiped it clean if his hands weren’t just as covered by dark grime and perspiration. And yet, the thought of not touching her simply because of the filth of a long and tiring night seemed vain and superficial. He’d gone so long without so much as accidentally brushing against her. He had not realized until now how his body ached for contact with hers.

“We’ll wash once we make camp,” she said, pulling out of his reach.

Her gaze dipped to the ground as her tongue swiped softly over her lips. A sudden breeze, ripe with attraction, blew off her body.

“You’ve labored long enough,” he said, taking the long-bladed knife from her grasp. “Allow me.”

Their hands touched, and just before she pulled away, he experienced a hint of hunger emanating from her skin. She wanted him as he wanted her—with no magic driving them except the natural allure of the dark and dangerous jungle.

He chopped down with the machete, amazed at how the sharp blade sliced through thick branches as if cutting through a single sheet of parchment. He led the way, entirely aware of Mariah following close behind, not from the muffled clop of the donkey’s hooves on the loamy ground, but from the wave of trepidation following behind him.