Chapter Eight

I didn’t go back to sleep that night. How could I?

I did lie down, after scooting my sleeping bag closer to Murphy’s. Not because I wanted to be nearer to him, but I had developed a sudden fondness for his gun.

As soon as the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, Murphy awoke. “We need to get a move on.”

The guy had a decent work ethic, despite his laid-back, beach bum persona.

“The earlier we disappear into the mountains,” he said, “the easier it’ll be to stay ahead of whoever’s chasing us.”

“I thought we lost them.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Better to get out of here before we find out, oui?”

” Oui,” I said, then scowled. “I thought you were going to stick to a nationality.”

“That I was,” he said with a touch of the Irish.

The more I was with Murphy, the more curious I became about him, which was probably not a good thing considering the length of my sexual deprivation. While I should have been rolling my sleeping bag tightly and cinching it onto my backpack, instead I watched him move, fascinated with the long, lithe length of him, the way the sun cast golden streaks through his hair and sparked shiny flames off his earring.

The feathers were still there, but tangled from the night, and that image gave me all sorts of other ones.

His hands flexed as he filled his backpack, the long, agile fingers making me shiver despite the early heat of the day. How would that silver thumb ring feel if he ran it all over my body?

Pretty damn good.

I forced myself to turn away from the intriguing sight of Devon Murphy bending over and got busy. I had no business fantasizing about the man. I had no business fantasizing about any man. Sex was part of a life that was dead to me.

So why did I keep thinking about it?

“Ready?” Murphy asked.

We’d loaded our packs and partaken of gourmet granola bars and some exquisitely warm water.

“You just going to leave that there?” I indicated the Jeep with a lift of my chin.

“I can’t figure out a way to take it along.”

To me, leaving the vehicle behind was like a big arrow pointing where we’d gone.

“This is a crossroad,” he said more seriously. “I’m sure you know what that means.”

I nodded my understanding.

Crossroads and cemeteries were where black magic lived. No self-respecting Haitian would come anywhere near here.

Murphy and I traveled steadily, the slight incline causing my legs to grumble. The tropical heat made sweat drip from beneath my New Orleans Saints cap onto my pricey new hiking boots.

Though most of Haiti had been cleared for farming, then farmed often and badly, so that the land was dying, I saw no indication of it here. As we moved farther and farther above sea level, the trees grew closer and closer together, with sections of foliage so dense Murphy had to hack a path with his machete.

By midafternoon, my sense of direction was shot. The sun would have helped, but only a few sparkles of light managed to penetrate the dense cover. By my calculations, we should have walked off a cliff several miles back.

“How do you know where to go?” I asked.

“Do you think I’d have taken the j ob as your guide if I didn’t know what I was doing?”

For money I figured he’d do anything, and I had to wonder why. He’d been educated… somewhere. He obviously had a gift for languages. Without the feathers and the beads, he could work at the UN. So what was he doing here?

“Why not here?” Murphy asked.

Whoops. Guess I’d said that out loud.

“Living above a tavern in a slum, hacking your way up a mountain, dodging creditors and bullets, there has to be something more.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Seems exciting enough to me.”

“You’re looking for excitement?”

“I’m looking for something,” he muttered.

For the rest of the afternoon the heat, the pace, the strangely omnipresent jungle, made conversation minimal. As dusk threatened, I smelled water.

At first I thought it was Murphy’s maddening scent combined with my continual thirst. We’d been drinking steadily but sparingly. On a trip like this we couldn’t carry as much water as we should.

When I realized the aroma was actual water and not his skin—thank God; I’d begun to have fantasies of licking his flesh and tasting a crystal-clear lake—then I had to struggle against the urge to shove Murphy to the ground and run right over his back.

He gave a last mighty hack with his machete, and the vines fell away to reveal a secluded pond surrounded by ferns. The gentle lap of the water against the banks, the scent of mist, the pleasant chill in the air, caused me to wonder again if we’d stumbled onto a place out of time.

I took several quick steps forward and Murphy flung out an arm to stop me.

“Move that or die,” I snapped.

“Might be snakes.”

“I’ve got a pet python. Snakes I can handle.”

He gave a long, slow blink, the movement only emphasizing the dark length of his lashes. “You have a what?”

I suppose that did sound weird to the uninitiated.

“I’m a voodoo priestess,” I said. “I need a snake.”

“If you say so.”

Actually, I hadn’t needed a snake; I’d wanted one.

Lazarus wasn’t cuddly, but after my husband’s betrayal and my daughter’s death, being touched had made me twitchy. A snake companion seemed like good idea at the time. Lazarus was loyal, and he rarely peed on the rug.

“Just be careful around the water.” Murphy lifted his arm.

“There aren’t any poisonous snakes in Haiti.”

“So they say.” Murphy didn’t appear convinced.

I lifted the amazingly cool, clear water to my mourn and drank for several long, wondrous moments, then dunked my head, splashed my neck, and let my wrists dangle beneath the surface until the heat melted away.

When I felt almost human again, I glanced around, figuring Murphy was doing the same, or making camp.

Instead I found him staring at me.

Droplets of water sparkled in his hair, ran down his neck, and dampened the collar of his shirt I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth and his eyes, gone misty green as if they’d taken on the hue of the trees, followed the gesture.

“You don’t know, do you?” he murmured.

“Know what?”

He walked toward me, his gait easy, his manner calm, yet he seemed edgier than ever before. “How goddamn sexy you are with your skin all hot, and your mouth all cool.”

My cool mouth fell open. “I didn’t; I’m not—”

“Maybe you don’t,” he said, “but you are.”

“Huh?”

Who ’s sexy now? my mind mocked.

Not that I wanted to be sexy. I had no time for dates, for men, for anything but my mission to save Sarah.

Except this man made me think of sex all the time. Wild jungle sex, on the ground, in the water, against a tree. Hell, anywhere, everywhere, any way that he wanted.

He came so close I felt heat rise off of him like steam. His gaze wandered away from my face, and I followed it.

My ablutions had soaked the front of my shirt. My bra, nothing more than a wisp of cotton meant to keep my nipples from thrusting obscenely against my tank top, was not doing its j ob. No wonder Murphy couldn’t stop looking at me. At them. They were practically begging to be looked at. And touched.

I tried to turn away, but he stopped me with just a brush of his fingertips on my arm. “What are you searching for, Cassandra?”

The question was so out of place, I very nearly answered him. Why was he so interested in what I was doing in the jungle?

“Nice try,” I said, and inched back.

Instead of letting go, he yanked me into his arms.

Maybe his show of interest wasn’t just an act after all. Probably , if the force of his kiss and the thrust of his erection were any indication.

I knew next to nothing about men, but I’d heard they could become aroused with very little encouragement like “hello,” or perhaps a single glimpse of a woman’s hardened nipples.

I was certain Murphy wanted me, but he also wanted the truth. Too bad I wasn’t going to give it to him.

Although I might give him something else.

Because he could kiss like the devil himself. Or how I imagined the devil would kiss if he ever bothered to do so.

And why wouldn’t he, if he could kiss like this? Satan would rack up a huge tally of souls if he traded kisses instead of wishes, or whatever it was he traded for souls nowadays.

Murphy didn’t bother at finesse; he had no reason to convince me of anything. Within seconds his mourn devoured mine; I clung to his shoulders, my breasts pressed against his chest, my hips cradling his erection as his hands explored my backside.

He tasted of the water and, amazingly, the night, despite the sun and the sweat and the heat His tongue was as clever kissing as it had been speaking, and I traced the length of it with my own.

His teeth grazed my lower lip, sharp, almost painful, but the sensation only enticed me more. I bit him back and he growled. Or at least I thought he did.

The sound did not vibrate against my mourn. I did not feel its echo in his chest, and I should have, considering that chest’s proximity to my own.

The low rumble sounded again, and I was reminded of the beast in the jungle last night. The one Murphy had insisted was nothing but a dream.

I tore my mouth from his and glanced toward the trees.

Looked like my dream had followed us here.