She felt her heart speed up, had the terrible, crazy thought that she must be dreaming. She felt as if she were falling down a deep well, and made a powerful effort of will to bring herself up sharp.
"Well?" he asked. There was a world of insinuation in his question. His eyes twinkled. "I tell you what," he said. "I'll race you to the grove."
"Winner?" she asked.
"Takes all," he answered, and her cheeks burned again.
Edgar Sikes slept alone in his room off the main communications center. He had another domicile, out at Surf's Up, but spent little time there. Most of his personal possessions—such as they were-were here in his little cubbyhole. It was cluttered and overstuffed. He rarely had visitors. Most of the time he was in the computer center, or in his room reading. He'd been reading a James Bond metabook when he went to sleep.
Something hit his door three times, hard enough to rattle it. He sat up with visions of SMERSH assassins dancing through his head.
Trish Chance was an impressive sight. Five foot ten of brown-skinned feminine muscle, her body was almost-but not quite-a parody of the female form. When he opened the door she brushed past him, buttocks sliding pleasantly past his, as if she were dancing with an inexpert partner. She turned as if posing. The muscles in her arms and shoulders shifted and separated like the coils of a spring.
In the crowded environs of this room, she was damned near overpowering. The only girl who had shared a bed with Edgar Sikes, once and nevermore. She smiled at him, and closed the door behind her.
She wore a formfitting pair of black denims, and a white ruffled shirt so tight across the chest that her breasts threatened to explode through the cloth. She smiled at him, lips curling up at the corners like those of a jungle eat who has spotted something extremely edible.
Edgar's throat tightened until he could barely swallow. "Ah-hi Trish," he said, startled by his own daring. Why was she looking at him like that?
She crossed the room to sit beside him on his narrow cot. It creaked at their combined weight. He sat too, and her thigh was only an inch from his. She wore some kind of sweet, musky oiled essence. Her skin had a soft, almost golden sheen in the dim light.
Trish was part of Aaron's inner circle. What was she doing here? "Is there something I can... do for you?"
In answer she leaned forward. What happened next was so shocking, and so powerful, that when she finally pulled back it took almost a full minute for his brain to get back into gear. He had never been kissed like that. His experience with kissing-or anything else to do with women-was scant. Yet and still he would have wagered either kidney that no more thorough kiss had ever been given-or gratefully received—in the history of the universe.
He leaned forward urgently, hands questing for something to hold on to-preferably Trish's extraordinary breasts. She held him away gently but firmly. In that instant he verified what he had always suspected-that Trish was much stronger than he. Why didn't that make him less a man?
Because his masculinity was so painfully self-evident that it could have withstood anything short of a hurricane without withering noticeably; and because Trish was saying, "You're going to get everything that you want-and more." Her hand slid between his legs. She started a silky stroking movement.
He whined. He hated to hear the sound of it coming from his own throat, but undeniably, there it was. Oh, God-he hoped he didn't start to whimper and beg.
"Please..." he whimpered. Maybe strong women liked whimpering. He was in a state to try anything. Dammit, she wouldn't let him any closer.
If she kept stroking like that, in another moment it wasn't going to make any differ-
She stopped, fingertips still touching. He felt like a violin string in the last moments of a Vivaldi concerto. A weird notion danced through his head: that Trish in his room was some last legacy from what he could not cease to remember as a neat array of clean bones... from the woman who would have been his father's wife. For just this once, for Linda, he would believe in life after death.
"First," she said softly. "First I need to know what kind of man you are."
"Whatever kind you want," he said, and believed he meant it.
"I want to know," she said, and her eyes bored into him. "I want to know if you're the kind who believes in revenge."
He withered. She couldn't know why; and he was thinking again. Not Linda. Aaron must have sent her; nothing else could have. And Edgar Sikes did believe in revenge.
Oh God. Her hand felt so good. She smelled so good. It had been so long. He pulled back a little to see her face.
"Yes," he said. On Aaron Tragon!
"Good," she said, and began to unbutton her blouse. "There's something that Aaron wants you to do."
"Aaron... ?" he asked inanely. But then she had bent him back flat on the bed, and her hands were unbuckling his belt with practiced precision, and her left nipple was in his mouth. And all he could think of was: I'll believe in the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny, or Dianetics . ...ut not in Aaron Tragon. But Trish, Trish, you don't have to know that! Not ever.
She knew it. Ruth could see that. Aaron was reining Zodiac back, letting her win. Chamels weren't quite as fast as horses, and Aaron was a fine horseman, but by the time they were halfway across the plowed field, she knew that she was going to win.
She knew it. Knew it! Well, whatever his little joke was, she was going to get full measure of satisfaction from her victory. She'd make him take her to one of the notorious Surf's Up bashes, that's what she'd do.
She would arrive with him, on his arm-
"Hiyahhh!" She looked around, and saw that Aaron had suddenly stopped playing, he was letting Zodiac have her way, and the mare was charging powerfully, head down, feet digging into the soil and ripping up great clots of earth, Aaron bent into the saddle, urging the quarterhorse on and on.
Ruth heard a little yip of fright escape her throat. For a time Tarzan kept his lead, and then Aaron slipped past her just as they entered the shadow of the grove, and she had lost.
She reared Tarzan around, and brought him to a halt. One thing at least-chamels could change direction or stop faster than horses. She slipped down his back and patted his muzzle, calming him, stroked the great, trembling hind legs. Tarzan stretched and folded down into a sitting position. Where shadows dappled his back, his color had begun to change.
Aaron returned on foot, leading Zodiac by the reins.
"You know," he said, "I think that chamels will actually be better for hunting than horses. They're more flexible in the brush."
"And almost as fast on the straight," she said.
He was very close to her. God, her whole body was shaking. She wasn't certain that they had ever been this close together. Not alone, anyway. He was breathing very hard, and sweating. His sweat smelled very... male.
"So," she said, a little frightened by her own daring. "Exactly what reward do you claim?"
He leaned nearer until she thought that he was going to kiss her. She moistened her lips, and tilted her face up, and when his face was only an inch away, he said: "I want you to serve the food."
She felt her face drop, her entire body freeze with disappointment.
Then he added: "First."
They spread the picnic blanket. Aaron handed her his backpack.
Her hands were shaking. She was trying so hard to do everything perfectly, to bring a dancer's grace to every tiny motion. But every part of her was too aware that he was watching, every inch of her skin was too sensitive, felt his touch even though they were separated by feet. She kept speeding up, and he, with infinite patience, kept reminding her to slow down.