(Anthology) Forever Read online




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  FOREVER

  An Ellora’s Cave Electronic Publication in association with authors:

  Marilyn Lee, Stephanie Burke, & Louisa Trent

  MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-142-7 Mobipocket (PRC) ISBN # 1-84360-146-X Other available formats (no ISBNs assigned): Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), & HTML

  Ellora’s Cave, Inc. of the USA, Ellora’s Cave, Ltd. of Scotland. All Rights Reserved.

  The Quest: Hunter’s Passion © Copyright Marilyn Lee, 2002.

  A Man Called Lust © Copyright Stephanie Burke, 2002.

  Touch Me © Copyright Louisa Trent, 2002.

  This book/e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax, or any other mode of communication without author and publisher permission. To do so is a crime punishable by heavy fines and the confiscation of your computer.

  Edited by Cris Brashear & Martha Punches.

  WARNING:

  The following material contains strong sexual content meant for mature readers. FOREVER has been rated NC-17, erotic, by five individual reviewers. We strongly suggest storing this electronic file in a place where young readers not meant to view this e-book are unlikely to happen upon it. That said, enjoy…

  Touch Me

  © Louisa Trent, 2002.

  Prologue

  She came to him in delirium.

  Wrapped in the silvery robes of moonlight and nothing more, she whispered, “Touch me.”

  At the soft plea, John Hawk lifted his feverish head.

  The husky female voice was low and soothing, melodious in tone, a siren’s song he would recognize anywhere. Instinctively. It didn’t matter that his mind’s image of her was indistinct, that her features were undefined by memory; his knowledge of her was primal. He knew her the same way an animal knows the scent of his mate.

  Hawk pushed aside the fine mosquito netting that surrounded the cot and slid his naked body to the edge of the sweat-soaked mattress. He sat there, contemplating his precious hoard of matches.

  The supply was dwindling.

  Making up his mind, he reached for one and struck it against his nail. When it flared, he lighted the rusted kerosene lamp, turning the wick to low. By the faltering glow, he surveyed his squatter’s shack.

  Only one wavering shadow appeared on the patched tarpaper wall.

  Disappointment swamped him, though deep down inside he’d known she wouldn’t be waiting for him in the darkness.

  He was so bloody tired! Tired of having only the noises of the jungle for companionship. Tired of sleeping with only the illusion of her. He needed more; he needed to fuck her—

  Hawk untangled himself from the rumpled bedding, and carrying the lamp, dragged his feet across the tiny room. He collapsed a few steps later onto a surplus orange crate, his makeshift chair.

  The writing materials were also improvised: his paper was a piece of cloth torn from a faded shirt; his ink, the blood that flowed freely from his slashed left forearm; a sharp stick served as his pen; his lap did double-duty as his desk.

  He was aching. Trembling. Chilled to the bone. He didn’t know which was spiking more, his fever or his cock.

  A toss up, he decided, impatiently swatting a lank of blue-black hair out of his burning eyes and willing his erection away; he couldn’t compose a letter with a hard-on.

  But his brain, like his dick, refused to cooperate.

  His thoughts were disjointed. Chaotic. A scattered obsession, a confused compulsion, going round and round inside his head, faster and faster, spinning out of control, the jumbled mess circling in an unending loop that led…

  Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.

  Except to her.

  The phantom half sentences, those ghostly phrases, wouldn’t take form. It was as though his brain’s circuitry was no longer connected to his hand—

  Shit! Why couldn’t he concentrate? Why couldn’t he get it to together? Why couldn’t he write the damned message?

  Because he was in tough shape, that’s why. His condition was worsening, he admitted to himself, no longer able to deny the truth. Since his escape from imprisonment, the episodes of illness were becoming progressively longer and closer together…

  But always, when he was at his weakest, the green-eyed witch would come to him, whispering, Touch me…

  He had no watch, no clock, but sometime between the darkness of a starless night and the hopelessness of an unforgiving dawn, his mind cleared. His thoughts converged and became orderly. Completely lucid, it came to him what he needed to say. Exactly. Precisely.

  Clamping his left hand over his right wrist, he forced his once dexterous gun-hand to move. He refused to give in until the words, those slippery phrases, took shape.

  The individual red letters were barely legible: Abrupt slashes. Twisted circles. Misshapen dots of ink-blood spilled across the scrap of cloth. Some words stuck to invisible lines; some hung suspended.

  The result was grotesque. Obscene. Anyone reading the message would think a raving lunatic had given substance to the words.

  And they’d be dead right.

  Only a friggin’ nut would write this letter, since there was no way in this hell to post it:

  Witchy-woman,

  A wild raptor trembles on the branch, his plumage broken.

  Flight is impossible; the sky is too far away.

  Will you catch the bird before he falls?

  SOSays, Accipiter

  Exhausted, Hawk extinguished the small nub of brightness. He gave himself over to the darkness…and to the ungentle courtship of his hand.

  He fisted his cock, his fingers jerking up and down the hard length. Just like the devil’s own magic, he saw her once again.

  She was golden fair, as beautiful as any cherished dream he’d ever had and lost. When she opened her arms to him, she glowed pale and unadorned. And he knew she was his.

  For once.

  For always.

  Catherine.

  Chapter One

  Catherine Covington hurried towards the Common, her long russet skirts whipping around her ankles.

  This was the first day of dress rehearsals at Pilgrim Village, a historically accurate reproduction of an early seventeenth century farming community, and she didn’t want to be late.

  Dressed in a plain but heavy English yeoman’s gown, her feet sturdily booted in black leather, she raced along the packed dirt lanes, shivering against the cold despite the warmth of her winter wool cape.

  The opening season at The Village began the fifteenth of March. As this was the first of February, there were no curious stares, no tourists begging her to hold still while they snapped her photo, no million questions in search of an answer.

  Catherine wasn’t very good at answering personal questions, but as the ‘first-person’ historical interpreter of midwife and healer, Euphremia Catherine Prim, she was take-no-prisoners kick ass…

  Er…that is to say, she was most excellent.

  As she recreated Mistress Prim’s daily life, Catherine was well used to questions and stares and photo ops. She could stay in character, maintaining her period accent as well as her dignified poise under the closest scrutiny, even when the rudest comments were made.

  Head down, Catherine rushed through the Common’s m
ain wooden gate, the heels of her leather boots crushing some ice under foot. She raised her arms, ever so subtly, and her cloak billowed in the breeze off the ocean like a black bird caught in the crosswinds of a deep blue sky.

  Catherine shivered again, and this time her trembling had nothing to do with the frigid temperatures or first-day rehearsal nervousness. Her feet and fingers had gone to pins and needles, a precursor of a vision.

  Surreptitiously, her tingling hand tunneled under the black cape. A prickly finger delved her laced bodice, tunneled under her boned corset and shift, until bare skin was reached.

  She touched her unfettered left breast, plumped up by the stays.

  Her birthmark was warm. Glowing. Pulsating.

  Hawk was coming to her.

  Soon, her awaited-one would be touching her bared breasts. Soon, her intended would be touching her all over. Her receptor would be hungry for sex, his appetite for her flesh, insatiable.

  Catherine had summoned Hawk to her, and as he had no choice in the matter, he would have to come. Their lovemaking was written in the stars, preordained in her womb. They were fated to come together on Valentine’s Day…

  * * * * *

  CIA Special Agent Williams placed his polished loafer squarely on the bottom rung of Catherine’s chair and glared down at her.

  “What do you mean you know where operative John Hawk is? The Agency’s been trying to find him since his prison break last month. We’ve already combed every inch of the terrain within a ten-mile radius of the hellhole where he was kept. We came up empty-handed. And now you’re telling me you know where he is? Yeah, right, lady.”

  “I know where John Hawk is because he sent me a message.”

  Agent’s Williams’ palm was extended. “Hand it over.”

  “I can’t,” she replied, shoulders squared against impending disbelief. “Hawk wasn’t able to use the usual overland method; there are no post offices in the jungle. The letter was sent by psychic delivery.”

  Agent Williams’ expression was grim. “Is this some kind of twisted joke?”

  She took a calming breath. “Do you, or do you not, want to find Agent Hawk?”

  “The man’s a fuckin’ hero, Covington. Before he got caught, Hawk infiltrated a major drug supplier to this country. Because of information we received from him, the CIA was able to close down a major South American drug cartel. This, on top of saving two fellow agents’ lives during an ambush. Those same CIA agents were later imprisoned with Hawk. And once again Hawk helped them escaped. They got out safely, and we were able to pick them up, but Hawk was not so fortunate. He’s still out there somewhere. During their exit debriefing, those agents told us what Hawk went through to free them and others. We want Hawk found, all right—”

  “Then you will do as I say! You waste valuable time interrogating me!”

  It was very apparent that Agent Williams was a cigar smoker; a stale tobacco odor wafted from his three-piece polyester suit. Combined with his toxic after-shave, she was beginning to feel quite nauseous.

  Catherine fanned a hand in front of her nose.

  Strong scents, over-exposure to sun, irritating sounds…a touch too rough—all her senses were inordinately acute. She suffered untold agony because of them…and because of closed-minded disbeliveers like this petty bureaucrat.

  Agent Williams looked over his shoulder at the far wall and lowered his voice. “Go home, Covington. Take your little pink crazy meds. In the future, stick to telling your tall tales to the kiddos, okay? “

  Catherine’s patience was at an end, and counting all the stars in the galaxy would not help keep her temper. Hawk must be found soon or he would die.

  She turned and waved at the one-way mirror.

  “Yoo-hoo! Agent Olivera! I know you are in the viewing room. Would you come in here please? I need to speak to you directly.”

  The door in the back wall opened and a swarthy gray-haired man entered the interrogation room. After a perfunctory nod was exchanged between the two men, CIA agent Williams left them alone.

  Catherine smiled at the FBI administrator. “How nice to see you again, Phil. Why, we haven’t chatted since the Morris case. How is Mindy doing?”

  “Mindy is doing fine, thanks to you.”

  “I’m glad that in some small way my silly women’s intuition was able to help, Agent Olivera.” Catherine batted her eyes.

  “Don’t patronize me, Covington. I happen to believe in the existence of paranormal phenomena, and unlike CIA Agent Williams, I have never confused psychosis with psychic ability. You found little Mindy before that sadistic s.o.b. could kill her because of your ESP abilities, not because of your double X chromosomes.”

  FBI Agent Olivera took a deep breath. “ Covington, let’s cut the crap. There is energy in the world that goes beyond natural occurrence. There’s a whole area of existence that can’t be quantified by scientific means. For the last twenty years, it has been my privilege to explore that area. Do us both a favor and don’t try to dumb it down for me.”

  The FBI agent folded his tweed jacket sleeves over his portly body. “If I’m confused it’s only because you usually deal with missing children cases.”

  For Hawk’s sake, Catherine dropped the cutesy act. Her lashes stopped batting and she looked the FBI agent right in the eye. “That’s correct: I do only work with children.”

  “So, why are you here? Agent Hawk’s no kid.”

  “I might ask the same of you, Phil. What are you doing here? Agent Williams is CIA. You’re FBI. I thought you people were territorial when it came to the sharing of information…and power. ‘Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet…”she quoted

  “Don’t start throwing Kipling at me, Catherine. I know this circumstance is unusual, but it’s unusual because of you. Because I have worked with you in the past on child abduction cases, the CIA asked for my help. Frankly, the CIA doesn’t know how to handle you.”

  “I see. Well, Agent Olivera handle me. You call yourself a believer—prove to me that you are more enlightened than most governmental bureaucrats, prove that you don’t think I howl at the moon once a month or that I’m in need of a cushy psych facility somewhere.”

  “ Covington, tell me this message you received from John Hawk and I’ll be happy to prove it.”

  Catherine closed her eyes and recited the blood-soaked words; the message was committed to her heart:

  Witchy-woman,

  A wild raptor trembles on the branch, his plumage broken.

  Flight is impossible; the sky is too far away.

  Will you catch the bird before he falls?

  SOSays Accipiter

  “Now do you believe me?” she asked softly and opened her eyes.

  Agent Olivera was obviously excited. “That’s his SOS, all right. The CIA told me the watchwords to look for when I spoke to you. Hawk’s CIA operative name is ‘Accipiter’, for the obvious reasons. That is something you would have no way of knowing because Hawk was instructed to only use the code in life or death situations.”

  Because of professional ethics, it was her duty to remain emotionally detached, uninvolved, with those she sought to help. But her eyes filled with very unprofessional tears and her vocal cords were tight with emotion when she said: “Hawk is dying. He contracted malaria during his imprisonment. If he is to survive, he must be rescued from the jungle and taken immediately to a hospital for treatment.”

  “ Covington—Catherine—do you and Hawk have some connection? Have you ever met?”

  “We have never met, but yes there is a connection. I cannot speak of it—”

  “Williams told me that the CIA learned from their rescued operatives that John Hawk went through hell during his imprisonment. Months of torture. They think he might be dangerous. If he finds you, he could pose a serious threat.”

  “You needn’t tell me that, Phil. I know he is dangerous. And disturbed.”

  The FBI administrator nodded. “According to everyt
hing I’ve heard from the CIA, John’s also a good man and a fine operative. Naturally, the CIA will pull out all stops to recover him. You have nothing to worry about on that score.”

  “Very well. I believe you. But before I tell you Hawk’s location, I must remind you that the same conditions I hold the FBI to in my child abduction cases apply here as well.”

  Catherine gained her feet. “It is imperative that I remain anonymous. I cannot work under a microscope.”

  “If you’re so hot to protect your anonymity, then why dress up like you do? Why the TV show? You’re a damn witch celebrity in this town. Why don’t you hide, go underground with your talents?”

  “The best place to hide is out in the open,” Catherine explained. “There is no underground when it comes to the media. I learned that sad lesson at a very young age. The more a person tries to be secretive, the more things tend to be brought to light. I prefer to control the spotlight. I prefer to control the media attention I receive, not the other way around. I’m so open about being a story-telling-psychic-witch that no one would ever suspect that I actually—”

  “That you actually are all three,” he finished for her.

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “The CIA believes that Hawk and the others could never have escaped imprisonment without outside intervention of some sort. Now, we don’t need to discuss particulars of that intervention if you don’t want to, but I know he had help and I happen to think that help came from you.”

  Catherine licked her suddenly dry lips. “I want you to understand that I have not claimed, nor will I claim, ownership of psychic activities. If I am asked, I will vehemently deny possession of any paranormal powers. We will continue to chalk up my assistance to women’s intuition. Yes?”

  “I’ll see what I can do—”

  “No, you will ensure it, Agent Olivera,” she said succinctly. “I will not be intimidated. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Catherine swept her cape over her shoulders, then handed FBI Agent Olivera the coordinates the CIA would need to find John Hawk.