Read Online Touch of Darkness by Christina Dodd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christina Dodd
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head."
"Your dad's a survivalist?"
"You could say that."
"Is that why you live in the mountains in Washington? I always heard they were full of—" She caught herself in time.
"Head cases? I know a lot of them." He knew a lot of Varinskis, too—only their last names were Wilder.
She looked sorry she'd asked. "But actually, my parents moved to Washington to avoid their families. The families didn't want them to marry, so my folks ran away." Don't tell Tasya the truth. At least — not all of it. "A love match."
"For sure. They're the reason I believe in love." Now Tasya looked as if she wanted to sprint away. Yeah, honey, 1 can talk about love, and that scares you to death — and I'm going to find out why.
They reached the headspring of the stream that ran across the island. The ancients had worshipped here, too, piling stones around the spring, planting a single tree. It was dead now, except for one branch, warped by the winds that constantly blew off the ocean.
Rurik stripped off his boots and his belt. "What about your parents? You said they were dead, but were they a love match?"
"I don't think so. I think it was an arranged marriage." She clamped her mouth shut.
"An arranged marriage? In this day and age?" Taking his dead cell phone out of his pocket, he dropped it into one boot. "They weren't born in the United States." Tasya really clamped the lid on her private info. Luckily for him, he was good at prying. "But did they love each other?" He stepped into the stream.
"I don't remember. They died a long time ago." She watched him, frowning.
Without hesitation, he reclined. The clear, cold water flowed over him, stripping away the dirt that had worked its way into every crevice. It cleansed his scent, too—if the Varinski bomb squad got smart enough to look for him, they wouldn't easily track him.
When he came up out of the water, he shook his head like a dog, spraying water everywhere.
"What did you do that for?" Tasya asked in a tone that clearly told him she'd already asked several times.
He looked up at her. "The question isn't, what did I do that for? It's, why aren't you doing it?" He stood and stepped out, wiping the water from his face, squeezing the worst from his clothes.
She glanced up at the sky.
The line of thin gray had overtaken the blue, and the sun faded. The breeze kicked up; they hadn't much time before the Scottish summer storm stole the warmth.
Kneeling, she thrust her hand in the water, and grimaced at the cold. She looked at him again.
He pointed to himself. "Clean."
She removed her boots and her belt, and with great care set her backpack aside. "All right." Taking a deep breath, she immersed herself.
She was exactly like him. She probably tore off her bandages in one swift yank, too.
While she writhed in the stream like a beached salmon, he lifted two carefully balanced rocks from the primitive monument and recovered his survival gear.
Tasya wasn't the only one with a backpack that could outlast a nuclear blast. He had a change of socks in there. One passport identifying him as John Telford, and one identifying him as Cary Gilroy. A flashlight. A compass. A signal mirror. Matches in a waterproof cylinder. Fishing line. First aid kit. Iodine tablets. Freeze-dried rations. Space blanket. Three knives, a small pistol and ammo, sunglasses, a hat— and a razor.
He waited until Tasya came out of the water, sputtering with cold. "You look good." The dirt had washed downstream, leaving her pale skin damp and vibrantly pink. Her short, curly, black hair sprang up in every direction, and . . . oh, damn, he could see her nipples poking through her shirt.
He didn't want to see the outline of her nipples right now. He didn't want to think about her breasts, or the curve of her waist, or her tiny clit, or the way she made him feel when he pressed into her and she moaned and came. . . .
They were trapped on a Scottish island. They needed to get off before his cousins caught up with t
"Your dad's a survivalist?"
"You could say that."
"Is that why you live in the mountains in Washington? I always heard they were full of—" She caught herself in time.
"Head cases? I know a lot of them." He knew a lot of Varinskis, too—only their last names were Wilder.
She looked sorry she'd asked. "But actually, my parents moved to Washington to avoid their families. The families didn't want them to marry, so my folks ran away." Don't tell Tasya the truth. At least — not all of it. "A love match."
"For sure. They're the reason I believe in love." Now Tasya looked as if she wanted to sprint away. Yeah, honey, 1 can talk about love, and that scares you to death — and I'm going to find out why.
They reached the headspring of the stream that ran across the island. The ancients had worshipped here, too, piling stones around the spring, planting a single tree. It was dead now, except for one branch, warped by the winds that constantly blew off the ocean.
Rurik stripped off his boots and his belt. "What about your parents? You said they were dead, but were they a love match?"
"I don't think so. I think it was an arranged marriage." She clamped her mouth shut.
"An arranged marriage? In this day and age?" Taking his dead cell phone out of his pocket, he dropped it into one boot. "They weren't born in the United States." Tasya really clamped the lid on her private info. Luckily for him, he was good at prying. "But did they love each other?" He stepped into the stream.
"I don't remember. They died a long time ago." She watched him, frowning.
Without hesitation, he reclined. The clear, cold water flowed over him, stripping away the dirt that had worked its way into every crevice. It cleansed his scent, too—if the Varinski bomb squad got smart enough to look for him, they wouldn't easily track him.
When he came up out of the water, he shook his head like a dog, spraying water everywhere.
"What did you do that for?" Tasya asked in a tone that clearly told him she'd already asked several times.
He looked up at her. "The question isn't, what did I do that for? It's, why aren't you doing it?" He stood and stepped out, wiping the water from his face, squeezing the worst from his clothes.
She glanced up at the sky.
The line of thin gray had overtaken the blue, and the sun faded. The breeze kicked up; they hadn't much time before the Scottish summer storm stole the warmth.
Kneeling, she thrust her hand in the water, and grimaced at the cold. She looked at him again.
He pointed to himself. "Clean."
She removed her boots and her belt, and with great care set her backpack aside. "All right." Taking a deep breath, she immersed herself.
She was exactly like him. She probably tore off her bandages in one swift yank, too.
While she writhed in the stream like a beached salmon, he lifted two carefully balanced rocks from the primitive monument and recovered his survival gear.
Tasya wasn't the only one with a backpack that could outlast a nuclear blast. He had a change of socks in there. One passport identifying him as John Telford, and one identifying him as Cary Gilroy. A flashlight. A compass. A signal mirror. Matches in a waterproof cylinder. Fishing line. First aid kit. Iodine tablets. Freeze-dried rations. Space blanket. Three knives, a small pistol and ammo, sunglasses, a hat— and a razor.
He waited until Tasya came out of the water, sputtering with cold. "You look good." The dirt had washed downstream, leaving her pale skin damp and vibrantly pink. Her short, curly, black hair sprang up in every direction, and . . . oh, damn, he could see her nipples poking through her shirt.
He didn't want to see the outline of her nipples right now. He didn't want to think about her breasts, or the curve of her waist, or her tiny clit, or the way she made him feel when he pressed into her and she moaned and came. . . .
They were trapped on a Scottish island. They needed to get off before his cousins caught up with t
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