Shadow Woman A Novel

Chapter Twenty-three



Lizzy’s mouth went dry and her vision dimmed. She had absolutely nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. She was on a bicycle. He was on a motorcycle, maybe fifty yards away and coming straight at her.

Quickly she unzipped her backpack and pulled out the kitchen knife. In the afternoon sun it looked dull and inadequate, but it was all she had. Unless there was something in the shed, maybe a pickax, a scythe, an awl—anything that would help give her an edge—the knife would have to do.

Though what good would any of that do against a bullet? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t just give up, not after all this. She had to keep trying.

She was running before she consciously made the decision to run, her body taking over, refusing to give up. She didn’t bother with the bicycle; on the rough field, she was probably as fast or faster on foot than she’d be on the bike, as long as she didn’t break an ankle. She ran, tired muscles forgotten, aches and pains disappeared. All she knew was desperate effort, a burning need to get to the shed before he did. And she prayed, prayed there would be something there she could use to defend herself, prayed, hell, that the farmer who cut these hay fields would drive in on his tractor to start moving hay into the shed. Anything.

She was running west, the afternoon sun hot on her face, blurring her vision. She didn’t look back, didn’t look to see how much he’d gained on her, just flung herself headlong across the stubby grass stalks. Twenty yards to the shed … ten … then she was there, the deep shade of the structure enclosing her. She skidded to a halt, temporarily blinded, bright spots swimming in front of her eyes.

Fiercely she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to regain her vision. Damn it! She should have thought about that—she should have squinted to reduce the amount of sunlight in her eyes. Now she was helpless for a few precious moments, and the deep rumble of the motorcycle was getting closer, louder.

No time! She gripped the kitchen knife, but she knew in her bones it wasn’t enough. She had to find another weapon now.

She opened her eyes a sliver; her vision had adjusted enough that she could see to make her way deeper into the shed, working to the right, searching the periphery for anything she could use. Snakes … wouldn’t there be a hoe or something around to kill snakes?

Yeah, that would work. A hoe against a handgun.

A hoe would be better than nothing, and that was pretty much what she had right now. A knife was for close-quarters combat. She needed something that would allow her to keep some distance between her and her adversary.

The rumbling engine cut off.

And there it was, by God, as if her desperate thoughts had conjured it out of midair: a hoe. The blade was rusted, the handle wasn’t in the best of shape, but it was a weapon. She grabbed it up in one hand, knife clutched in the other, and turned to face Death as he approached.

He’d stopped the motorcycle twenty, maybe twenty-five yards away, and was sitting astride the Harley with his booted feet planted on the ground, calmly watching her as she scrabbled through the shed and finally came up with the hoe.

His black face shield caught the sun, reflected it back at her.

She was so frightened she felt dizzy, and spots swam before her eyes. She could hear her breath, her lungs pumping too fast, and dimly she realized she was hyperventilating. She had to stop, she had to get control of herself, or she’d have no chance at all. Deliberately she sucked in a deep breath and held it, forcing herself to calm down.

The dizzy sensation faded and her vision cleared. She squared off and braced herself.

Leisurely he dismounted from the bike, kicked the stand down, and stood the Harley on the hard-packed field. Given how uneven the ground was, Lizzy had the fleeting thought that he must have found the one piece of flat earth in the entire field. His movement still calm and deliberate, he pulled his chin strap loose, used both gloved hands to pull the helmet up and off and place it on the seat. Then he started toward her.

If he had a weapon, it wasn’t evident. His hands were empty.

That didn’t mean he didn’t have a handgun tucked into his waistband in the small of his back.

No, that wasn’t how he carried his weapons. He used a shoulder rig.

Her heart was already racing, and suddenly her blood was thundering in her ears. She heard a tiny sound vibrate in her throat, something wordless and uncontrollable. Her vision shrank down to a tunnel, centered on his face, the almost brutally carved structure of his cheekbones, the eyes as dark as night, focused like a hawk’s on his prey.

There was kind of a saunter to how he moved, hips loose and easy, wide shoulders moving back and forth, his balance perfect no matter which way he needed to jump.

She looked at his face.

Time spun away from her, everything solid falling away. Dizzy, she put out the hand that gripped the knife and touched a support post, but she couldn’t grab it without dropping the knife and she wasn’t about to do that. Her chest heaving, she stared unblinking at him as past and present blended together in a swirl of color, of night and day, then and now.

His face.

She had watched him before, coming toward her just like that, as sure of himself as if he controlled everything in his world.

The quick flash of feet and fists, the thudding sound of flesh hitting flesh, the grunts as blows landed. His training partner scored a hit to the testicles and he went down, cussing through tight-clenched teeth, while she and her own training partner howled with laughter because he almost never lost a bout.

He didn’t lose this one, either. He bowed his spine and flipped upright before his training partner could take advantage, and two quick pop-pops, one with his right elbow and the other with his left knee, sent his partner down. The man lay sprawled on his back on the mat, breathing hard and groaning. He tapped one hand on the mat in surrender.

X grabbed a towel and came to where she and her partner watched, his prowling stride as fluid and easy as before, his dark eyes narrowed on her face. Sweat dripped down his face, darkened his olive-drab tee shirt. “Why do women always laugh when a man gets kicked in the balls?” he growled as he swiped the towel over his face.

“Because they’re so precioussssss,” Lizzy said in her best Gollum accent, still laughing because he was a little pissed. She so seldom got anything on him, she enjoyed it to the fullest whenever she did.

“Damn right they are,” he returned.

He was closer, his gaze still locked on her.

X … No, not X … but close. X …

Xavier.

His name was Xavier.

The name exploded through her brain, and suddenly it was there, memories cascading through the wall that had been breached. The days. The nights. She gripped the hoe handle with all her strength, using it to support her weight as she fought to stay upright.

Xavier!

He crawled over her, his naked body rubbing all over her, his powerful legs pushing between hers and spreading them wide, so that he settled into the cradle of her hips and loins. She loved that moment when he paused to guide the thick tip of his penis to her, loved the flex of his hips that nudged him inside her that first little bit. He was thick and hard and there was always that instant when her body was startled by the size of him, then she’d feel herself soften and relax and take more of him. He’d wait for that moment, hold himself back until he felt her accept him, and then he’d push deep, and she could never hold back a gasp at the hot slide of his flesh into hers.

Xavier. Oh my God, it was Xavier.

He stopped just inside the shadow of the shed, his head cocked a little to the side as he intently watched her. He didn’t dismiss the knife or the hoe, not in her hands, though she had no doubt at all that he could take her. She hadn’t trained in … however long it had been since they’d trained together. She was weak, out of practice, hadn’t had enough sleep, plus she was exhausted from riding that damn bicycle for hours in the summer heat, while he’d been cruising on his Hog.

Fury blasted through her. Damn his eyes! He did have a tracker on her, somewhere. He could have caught her at any time, but instead he’d hung back, played games with her, let her damn near kill herself before he made his move. That probably had been him on the motorcycle earlier, leapfrogging ahead of her, enjoying the game. She was so furious, she’d have kicked him in his precious balls if she’d been able to. The day wasn’t over yet, though.

“Lizzy,” he said, his deep voice calm and dark, a little cautious, as if he didn’t want to spook her. She realized he didn’t know what, if anything, she’d remembered. “I won’t hurt you. Do you remember me?”

Yes. There were still big gaps in her memory, but she remembered him.

She had loved him. Whether or not he’d loved her had been up in the air, still was, because she didn’t know what had happened. But one thing definitely hadn’t changed: she still did love him, she realized, otherwise her heart wouldn’t be feeling as if it were about to burst. He was here. The long time apart felt as if she hadn’t been living at all, as if her world had been gray and empty. Pain and joy and all kinds of anger unfurled in her, and she briefly closed her eyes. This was too much; she couldn’t get a grip on any of her emotions, couldn’t organize any of her tumultuous thoughts into any kind of order.

“Yes,” she finally managed, all but whispering the word. She drove the knife point into the post, left it sticking there. She looked back at him, her lips trembling. “Precioussssss.”

No sooner had the word left her lips than he lunged, was on her, the impact of his body knocking the hoe to the ground. It would have knocked her to the ground as well except for the grip he had on her, both arms around her, and he lifted her off her feet and kissed her. His mouth was hot and firm and hungry; she didn’t think she’d ever been kissed like that before, as if he were starving for the taste of her. He slanted his head and his tongue took possession of her mouth, and the impact on her senses was like being body-slammed.

Yes. Yes, she had been kissed like this before—by him. The rightness of it, the sense of belonging, sliced through her as sharply as any blade.

Her arms wound around his neck and she kissed him back the way she used to, the way she’d done in the dreams that had been trying to tell her something, had all but been pointing at him and screaming Him! Him! She kissed him as violently as he kissed her, not caring if her teeth cut his lip, not caring about anything other than his taste, the feel of him, the hot smell of his skin, the fact that he was here.

He held her with one arm and with the other pulled the helmet from her head, dropped it to the ground. The helmet dispensed with, he began taking off her clothes.

He was so fast it was almost like being under assault. Her senses spun violently as she tried to orient herself. He wasn’t going to—was he?—yes, he most definitely was. She instantaneously went from disbelief to acceptance, to need. It had always been like this with him, their attraction so fierce she felt as if her skin could barely contain her.

Within a minute she was naked from the waist down, and she didn’t care that they were in a shed, and that the shed was open to the road that ran along the hay field. In the shadows, at that distance, probably no one could see anything anyway. And even if they could—she didn’t care.

She cared about him. She’d found him again, or he’d found her. It didn’t matter. They were together.

There was nothing to sit on, nothing to lie on except the ground, but he was strong enough that they didn’t need either. He unbuckled his belt, unsnapped his jeans, and shoved them down just enough. Holding her braced against the support pole, holding her up with both hands gripping her ass, he surged against her. She locked her legs around him, lifted herself, opened herself, and he pushed in hard.

Time spun away again. The world spun away. Memory and reality collided; it was the way it had been before, the heat and stretching and almost-pain. There was no foreplay, no trying to arouse her, but he’d always had her number and could make her come even when she was trying her damnedest not to, just to spite him. She came easy for him, in both senses of the word. He kissed her, and she was turned on. He touched her, and she was ready for him.

She had been without him too long.

She felt the tension inside her building fast, rushing toward her like floodwaters. He thrust deep and fast, moving her up and down on him. She moaned, the sound raw. It was coming, that complete upheaval that was too intense to be mere pleasure, drawing all her muscles tight until she felt as if her entire body was trying to clamp around him.

Then she came, bucking in his arms, her fingers clenching on his back, her face buried against his throat as she tried to stifle the guttural sounds she was making. He drove her harder against the post, his hips pistoning; then his rhythm changed to something slower, rolling, deeper. He grunted—she remembered that grunt—a brief, hard sound before one long groan tore from deep in his chest, then she felt the tension seeping from his muscles as he slowly relaxed, resting his heavy weight against her.

She closed her eyes, drove her fingers through his thick dark hair, gripping the back of his skull. “Xavier.” How had she lived without him?

He’d know what was going on. He could fill in all the awful blanks in her memory. The important thing was that she’d remembered him. She loved him more than she could hold in, and now that they were together again she didn’t plan on letting him go until she’d wrung him dry.

And then she was going to kill his ass for what he’d put her through today.