Children of Destiny Books 1-3 (Texas: Children of Destiny Book 9) Page 40

  Suddenly she felt young and very unsure, not at all the uninhibited creature of the night. She began to tremble. “K-Kirk...I-I...”

  She was at a loss.

  “Honey,” he whispered tenderly, soothing her hair. “You don’t have to be afraid...of anything. Not from me.” He kept stroking her hair, and slowly her rapid and uneven breathing eased. But she avoided his eyes.

  An awkward long-lasting silence enveloped them.

  “W-what happened to our camel?” she blurted at last in an uncertain, childish tone. Then she blushed at the stupidity of her question, at her incredible awkwardness with him.

  “The...camel?” He smiled faintly and released her hands, glad in a way that she was releasing him from the bonds of sexual tension. “I can’t imagine why you’d ask about that miserable, flea-ridden beast.”

  Strangely, the minute Kirk let her go, she longed for him to hold her again. What was wrong with her? Why did just being near him confuse her so?

  “B-because he nearly died carrying me,” came her soft, mortified voice, “and I feel sorry for him.”

  “He’s been tended to. I thought he was finished, but it’s impossible to kill anything as foul humored as that he-devil. One long drink and he tried to bite my arm off.”

  She relaxed.

  “I can see that you understand that instinct.”

  “Oh, don’t tease me about that! Please! I-I would never, never bite you again!’’

  “I might not mind...a gentle nibble or two...under certain circumstances,” he said softly, his white grin bold.

  When she went red to the ears, his grin faded instantly. “Are you okay? Do you feel all right?”

  “I feel like I’m starving.”

  “You probably are. It’s way past time I got up and fixed you something to eat.”

  She stretched languidly. “And like I could sleep two whole days.”

  Because it was so tempting to lie beside her, Kirk arose abruptly. He was wearing nothing but red briefs, and he stood before her without the slightest degree of modesty. She could look or not, for all he cared.

  Since he was a safe distance away, and she didn’t think he was watching her, her eyes devoured him. Her shy gaze traced his large male body that was dangerously honed by smooth teak muscle, noting that there was no part of him that was not muscle, no part of him that was not dark. There were two purplish scars on his back. He’d told her that he’d been shot in Mexico and nearly died trying to rescue two kidnap victims.

  As he moved, stooping down to pick up his desert robes, she noted the ripple of muscle, the beautiful raw grace of his movements.

  All dancers admired beautiful bodies, male or female. Her glance traveled approvingly down his scarred back to his waist, down his legs. Kirk, who was secretly basking beneath her shining gaze, was watching her covertly.

  Then her eyes froze in horror. Her mouth gaped open. She clamped it closed and looked away, hoping he hadn’t seen her bitter disappointment.

  But he had.

  “What’s the matter now?” Kirk demanded, his male vanity stung that anything about his body might displease her.

  “Nothing,” she murmured, but he knew she was lying when she refused to look at him.

  He strode angrily over to where she was reclining.

  “Tell me,” he commanded.

  “It’s not your fault,” she murmured dismally, lifting her white face to his dark one for a moment and then bowing her head once more. “The last thing I want...is to hurt your feelings...after all you’ve done.”

  “Just tell me what part of me fails to come up to your standards,” came his deep, cold voice.

  Her eyes were glued to his feet. “Oh, dear...”

  “Tell me!”

  “Oh, I can’t... Oh... The most important parts!” Her tone was a dying whisper.

  He sank down beside her, their despair now mutual. “No woman has ever complained before,” he ground out unhappily.

  “You’ve got flat feet!” she wailed. “How could such a beautiful man have flat feet?”

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Is that all?”

  She was nodding forlornly. “To a dancer that’s everything.”

  He grabbed her and crushed her to him, bursting into a rowdy rumble of relieved laughter.

  “Don’t you understand? I could never, never love a man who had flat feet,” she whispered.

  He was still laughing, his good humor fully restored. He lifted her face to his.

  “Princess, there’s a first time for everything.”

  “But good feet are the single-most important attributes a man should have.”

  “You have a great deal to learn about men,” he murmured on a low chuckle, “and I would think it an honor if you choose me to be the one to teach you all you’ll ever need to know.”

  Then he kissed her, slowly, softly and thoroughly, filling her with such sensual warmth and wildness, she decided languorously that maybe, just maybe, he knew what he was talking about.

  Kirk stayed with Azid two days. He hadn’t wanted to stay so long. He knew how quickly Aslam could track them and kill them, and maybe kill Azid too, if he decided they were worth the trouble. But Dawn needed to rest and eat and regain her strength, and Kirk hadn’t the heart to force her into the desert again so soon.

  Six

  Kirk paced restlessly out onto the balcony and studied the jagged darkening mountains soaring thousands of feet against a violet sky. The house was enveloped in an ominous quiet.

  Slitted eyes slowly, carefully scanned everything. The courtyard and gardens seemed peaceful enough.

  Kirk sensed danger in every pore in his body.

  It was important that he not show it—even to Dawn. They were being watched. He could feel it.

  Dawn was enchanted with the house, its setting, the smell of roasting lamb and sweet tea bubbling over a samovar that drifted up from the kitchen. She felt very far and very safe from Aslam. She was thinking, tomorrow they would be truly safe. But then Kirk might put her on a plane by herself back to New York and disappear out of her life forever. Tonight might be their last night together.

  The Arab couple had taken Kirk at his word when he’d said they were married and had given them only one room. Dawn had gone into the bedroom first, and Kirk had followed her, closing the door, leaning his great body against it until she turned. Her startled eyes had gone from the double bed to his dark unreadable expression, and she had blushed as though aware for the first time of the intimacy of sharing a real bedroom with him. His own body went still and hot and tense.

  “You’d probably prefer your own room,” he said.”

  She licked her lips.

  “I had to say we’re married,” he explained. “It’s unacceptable for a single man and woman to travel together in this country.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I’m sure you’d probably rather be by yourself too.”

  Abruptly he had looked away and stalked past her to the balcony.

  Dawn was now filling a brass bathtub with water from steaming kettles that the Arab woman had heated over the fire and brought upstairs. Kirk came back inside from the balcony and silently watched the process for a time. The kerosene lamp made her skin glow like gold.

  Her slightest movement was filled with infinite sensual grace. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable. Never before had he been forced to live so intimately with a woman. He had never wanted such closeness. Somehow this woman had opened a door to some secret place inside him, a place he’d wanted locked forever. Five days alone with her, and she was a devouring fire in the center of him; a stark, vivid longing that consumed his every thought, his every emotion.

  She was a beautiful, gentle creature, an innocent girl in a hostile, barbarous land. He felt an awesome responsibility toward her. He couldn’t fail her. At the thought, his face went grim. He had to keep his hands off her, his wits sharp.

  When the tub was full he offered to leave so that she could bat
he in privacy. He needed to go out, to check on things, to get away from her.

  She glanced at him, her upturned face rosily flushed from her task, the flickering golden light lambent in her luminous eyes. He wanted her, and to conceal his feelings, he hardened his expression.

  Uncertainly she caught her lower lip with her teeth. “I’d feel safer with you here,” she whispered.

  So she sensed it, too, he thought silently, knowing he couldn’t leave her, no matter how much he wanted to. Not if she was afraid.

  She began to unhook her gown, and he forgot the danger. All he could think of was the woman. As he watched those golden fingertips descend, peeling white cotton from her long, beautiful throat, a sudden tremor shook him. Dear God! What did she think he was made of—stone? Her fingers hovered at the last hook between the creamy swell of her breasts. Kirk closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Then, as if she felt the intensity of his burning gaze, her eyes rose slowly to his again, and for a long moment they stared at one another across the room through the mist rising from the steaming tub. A sudden quick heat flamed in his body, and he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. She blushed, twisting her hands and then clasping them shyly behind her back. A muscle ticked in his cheek. Raggedly he ran a hand through his tousled hair. Then quickly he crossed the room, turned his back and threw himself into a chair so she could complete her undressing.

  By accident she had left a brass pitcher on the table, and from where he sat he was riveted by her reflection. He caught his breath, clenched his hands into fists and tried not to look at her, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  She stepped out of her gown and let it pool at her ankles on the red-tiled floor. He sat statue still, his heart pounding violently, as he watched her scoop her long silken hair into a loose knot at the top of her head. A single strand slid through her fingers and dangled in a provocative damp coil against the curve of her neck. He wanted to go to her and lift the wayward tendril and repin it for her. He imagined her turning slowly, coming into his arms; he imagined kissing her, imagined the eagerness of her lips beneath his.

  Kirk ached to rip off his clothes and assuage his raging passion.

  She lifted a graceful leg delicately over the rim of the tub. Then her slender body sank languidly beneath the hot water.

  He fought to remind himself of the danger around them, but he was hypnotized by her budding sensuality. He could think of nothing but the desire to take her in his arms and make her his woman.

  Hungrily his eyes slid over her, lingering on her breasts. She lifted a cup and scooped water out of the tub and poured it over her shoulders, and he watched the glistening rivulets run across her golden skin and moistly heat her nipples. He watched delicious spirals of steam curl up and caress her face.

  He wanted to jump out of his chair, to touch her, to caress her. He wanted it more than anything he’d ever wanted, but he knew that this time he did not dare to because he would never be satisfied with mere touching.

  He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the vision that aroused such agonized need. Then he opened them again just as she lifted another cup. More dazzling rivulets followed the same hot path down her glowing skin.

  Desperately he swallowed and wiped his sweating brow with the back of his hand. Then he sank lower in the chair, struggling to control his breath and racing pulse.

  It was cool in the room. He felt he would burst with explosive heat. He knew he should say something, throw a towel over the pitcher—anything. She lolled back in bliss, and her hair came loose and flowed in waves to sweep the floor. Her body was relaxed, open to his view. He was rigid, every muscle paralyzed from the emotion that gripped him.

  He studied the long curve of her pale golden neck. No woman he’d ever known had had such a pretty neck, throat and shoulders. Funny, but he’d never realized how erotic a lovely neck could be on a woman.

  She was exquisite. Every day she seemed to grow more beautiful to him. God, why couldn’t he make himself look away? It seemed despicable, watching her, pretending to have his back turned, her not knowing.

  Then she took the washcloth, lifted a graceful leg and soaped it from her toes to her thighs. His blood pounded so hard and so fast, he thought he would die.

  He wanted to turn around, to strip out of his own clothes and take her in his arms. He wanted to kiss her—everywhere—from her navel to her thigh, until she was as hot and ready as he. He could almost taste the velvet-fluid womanly essence of her.

  He had to remember where they were.

  Blood ran like fire in his veins. There was a hard knot in his gut.

  He thought of the long nights when he’d held her in his arms. The torture of wanting her more every night than the night before. But this was worse, even than that.

  With an effort he struggled to remember the danger swirling around them.

  Kirk didn’t feel like talking, but he was going mad. He had to do something. He got up out of the chair almost kicking it over backward, keeping his back to her, his huge, muscled body rigid. He swore softly, viciously beneath his breath.

  He lifted the pitcher and then set it back down with a clank as if the metal that had contained her image burned him.

  “H-hey, D-Dawn...”

  “Mmmm?” she replied drowsily, deliciously, lifting her other leg to soap it.

  “So tell me about yourself, princess.” His voice was strangely hoarse.

  She held the washcloth poised on her glistening thigh and leaned forward. “Are you okay? You sound kind of funny,” she murmured breathily.

  Kirk clenched his hands and unclenched them. “Throat’s a little dry...that’s all…from the desert.” He knew he sounded like an idiot. “So, tell me how you came to be a ballerina.”

  She began scrubbing her breasts with the cloth. “I thought you were the guy that didn’t like that kind of small talk.”

  “So I’ve changed.” He bit his bottom lip. “We’ve been together day and night for nearly six days...and nights. I’m curious.”

  “It sure took a while for you to get...curious.”

  His eyes flicked to the fiery vision of the golden woman. “I had a few things on my mind.”

  “Like terrorists and dying camels and nursing me.”

  No! Like you! he wanted to scream. Did she know nothing of men?

  “You’ve been wonderful, Kirk. Nobody’s ever been more wonderful. When we started out I thought you...” Her voice softened. “Never mind what I thought then. It was stupid of me to have brought it up.”

  “No, tell me.” Why did her opinion of him matter so desperately?

  “I thought you were rough and crude, some sort of macho barbarian, the kind of Southern male that hasn’t a trace of sensitivity or appreciation of the finer things in life. But I was so mistaken about you. You’re the sweetest gentleman I’ve ever known.”

  She stood up and stepped out to dry off, and Kirk almost groaned out loud.

  He clenched the edges of the table and leaned on his hands. “Honey,” he managed in a voice as dry as dust, “you’ve got me all wrong. I’m the farthest thing from...a sweet gentleman.”

  “No. You were a stranger, and yet you’ve been kinder to me than my own—” She stopped herself. There was a note in her low tone that caught his heart. “What I mean is that there haven’t ever been many people who really cared about me. I guess my father did...” Her choked voice trailed away.

  “Your father?” Kirk thought immediately of Wayne, but who was she thinking of?

  Her beautiful face twisted in bitter pain. “He died when I was ten,” she whispered in a funny, faint voice. “That’s odd. I haven’t mentioned him in years. Usually I can’t bear to talk about him to anyone. He was the only person who ever loved me. I—I... Always before I felt too lonely to think of him, but now... with you...somehow...I can.”

  “Go on,” Kirk said softly.

  “You don’t want to hear my problems.”

  “Yes, I do.”


  She hesitated. She seemed to be fighting some inner battle with herself, just as he was doing. It was as if she didn’t think Kirk could possibly want to hear her problems, but at the same time she could no longer control the deluge that came tumbling out.

  “You see,” she whispered on a raw sob. “M-my mother never cared about me at all. I don’t know why she ever had a child in the first place. Sometimes it was hard to believe she was even my mother. I used to pray sometimes that she wasn’t, that God would give me a new mother. When I was eleven I received a fully paid ballet scholarship to New York. We lived in Mexico City. My parents had an import business. The happiest moment of her life was when she put me on that plane for New York. I really haven’t seen her but a couple of times since. She never writes. My own mother...and she just doesn’t care whether I live or die. I really don’t like to talk about her. I don’t know why I did. I never do. I was eleven, in New York, in a huge ballet school. I was so alone. So scared. I didn’t know what to do, where to turn. Somehow I learned to survive.”

  So she was not so different from him after all. Maybe that’s what drew him to her, despite the intensity of his stubborn will to remain unaffected.

  He wanted to go to her, to kiss away the loneliness, the bitter pain, to lose part of his own in the joy of taking her, but he dared not touch her.

  Every muscle in his body tensed as she pulled her white gown over her naked body. She picked up a brush and ran it slowly, sensuously through the long waves of her hair. He watched her, hypnotized, thinking her beautiful as she brushed her hair in the golden lamplight.

  “I really wasn’t ever a perfect dancer, but I worked so hard, harder than anybody ever worked. Days. Nights. I had nothing else, you see, until Lincoln noticed me.”

  “Lincoln?”

  She set the brush down. Her hair gleamed like black satin against her white gown. Kirk wanted to run his hands through it, to watch it spill through his fingers, to lift it to his face and smother his lips with the sweet silken mass.