The Pagan Stone by Nora Roberts Page A

seemed he was doomed to deal with them. There’d be no going back to sleep after the little movie clip his subconscious had drummed up. It was too damn bad such a promising dream had taken a turn so far south at the—ha—climax.
    He could pick apart the symbolism, he thought, staring at the ceiling of Cal’s guest room. But then, it was easy to identify the springboard for the lion’s share of tonight’s entertainment.
    He was a guy. He was horny.
    Moreover, it suited his fantasy to have her come to him rather than him pursuing her. They’d made a pact not that long ago on this very topic. How had she put it? You won’t try to seduce me, and I won’t pretend to be seduced.
    Remembering made him smile into the dim, dawn light. But if she made the moves, all bets were off as far as he was concerned. The challenge would be to con her into making those moves so she believed it was her idea in the first place.
    Then again, the interlude in the dream had ended badly. He could ascribe that to his own cynical, pessimistic nature, or he could consider it a portent. Or, third option, a warning. If he let himself become involved with her—because it hadn’t just been sex in the dream, he’d been involved —they could both pay the ultimate price. Blood and fire, he thought—as usual. And it hadn’t been her lover’s name she’d cried out when she’d been consumed by passion and flame, but bestia .
    Latin for beast. A dead language used by dead gods and guardians.
    Simply put, the distraction of sex would blur their focus, and the Big Evil Bastard would strike when they were defenseless. Meaning, any of the three options indicated the smart money was on keeping it in his pants, at least as far as Cybil Kinski was concerned.
    He rolled out of bed. He’d shower off the dream, and the urges it stirred. He was damn good at controlling his urges. If he was restless and horny, it meant he needed a game and sex. So he’d make it a point to find both. A quick trip to AC would meet both needs, eliminate any possible complications or consequences.
    And he and Cybil would use the sexual tension between them as an energy source for the greater good. Of course, if they won, if they lived, he’d make damn sure he found a way to get her naked. Then he’d find out if her skin was as soft as it looked, her body as limber, her . . .
    That line of thinking wasn’t going to help him control his urges.
    He toweled off, opted out of shaving (what the hell for?), then pulled on jeans and a black T-shirt because they were the handiest. As he started downstairs he heard the murmur of voices, and a quick, sexy giggle behind the closed bedroom door. So the lovebirds were up early and already cooing, he mused. Odds were they’d be at it long enough for him to have a quiet, solitary cup of coffee.
    In the kitchen, he started the first pot of the day, and while he brooded, he walked out of the house to hike down to the road and the paper box. Cal’s front slope was a riot of blooms. The azaleas—one of the few ornamentals Gage actually recognized—were in full, showy bloom. Some sort of delicate weeper arched over, dripping pink. All that color and shape tumbled down toward the gravel lane, cheerful as children, while the woods stood along the edges with its thickening green hiding its secrets. Its joy and its terrors.
    Birds trilled, the winding creek murmured, and his foot-steps crunched. Some of Cal’s blooms were fragrant, so their perfume fluttered in the air while dappled sunlight played over the ribbon of the creek.
    Soothing, he thought, the sounds, the scents, the scene. And for a man like Cal, unquestionably satisfying. He enjoyed it himself for short stretches, Gage admitted, as he reached into the blue box and pulled out the morning paper. And he needed, again unquestionably, infusions of Cal and Fox. But if those stretches played out too long, he’d start jonesing for neon, for green baize, for horns and crowds. For the action,