Corish shrugged, smiled tolerantly down at her, accepting her impudence. Lars Dahl, however, covered her hand on his arm and, just then, their thighs brushed and she lurched against him, abruptly aware of receiving an intense shock. Startled, she glanced up at Lars Dahl, his face illuminated by the pit fires, his lazy smile appreciating the contact shock they had both felt. His long fingers curled tightly around hers with a hint of possessiveness. His blue eyes sparkled as his gaze challenged her. His arm fastened hers to his smooth warm waist as Killashandra candidly returned his glance. He sidestepped suddenly, pulling Killashandra with him so that she had to drop Corish’s arm.
“I’ve certainly done enough talking,” he said, grinning more broadly at the success of his maneuver and maneuvering. “Corish find yourself another one. You’re mine, aren’t you, Sunny?”
Corish gave a slightly contemptuous snort but continued on while Lars Dahl stopped, swinging Killashandra into a strong embrace, his hands caressing her back, settling into her waist to hold her firmly against him as he bent his head. The flowers were crushed between them, their fragrance spilling into her senses. With an inadvertent gesture of acceptance. Killashandra’s hands slid up his bare warm chest, her fingers caressing the velvet skin, taking note of the strong pectoral muscles, the column of his throat. His lips tasted salty, but firm, parting hers as he settled his mouth against her, and once again the shock of their contact was almost like . . . crystal. Hungrily Killashandra surrendered to his deft kiss, trying to meld her body against the strong, lean length of him. She altered her arms, stroking the silky skin of his hard-muscled back, all her senses involved in this simple act.
They parted slightly, his hands still caressing her, one hand on the bare skin beneath her shirt as she gently stroked his shoulders, breathless and unable to leave his supporting arms. If his embrace had begun as perfunctory, it wasn’t now. There was about his grasp a sense of astonishment, wonder, and discovery.
“I must know your name,” he said softly, tipping her chin up to look into her eyes.
“Carrigana,” she managed to remember to say.
“Why have I never seen you before?”
“You have,” she said with a rich, suggestive chuckle, amused by her own presumption, “but you are always too busy with deep thoughts to see what you look at.”
“I am all eyes now . . . Carrigana.” A slight tremor in his soft tone sent one through her body, as his hands renewed their grip, encouraging her body to conform to his.
Part of her mind recognized the sincerity in his voice while another section wondered how she could make the most of this encounter. All of her didn’t care what else happened to either of them if they could just enjoy this one evening. She was so hungry . . . it had been months since she’d made love.
“Not yet, sweet Sunny, not yet,” he said determinedly but gently disengaging himself. “We’ve the whole night before us,” and his low voice lilted with promise. “You’ll know I cannot absent myself so soon. And we’ll both be the stronger after a good meal” – his laughter rippled with sensuality – “for our dalliance.”
She let herself be swung again to his side, his arm tucking hers against his ribs, his warm hand stroking hers as he guided her to the barbecue pits. She had no argument against his so firm decision. Although she murmured understanding, she seethed with abruptly interrupted sensations, forcing herself to an outward amity. Perhaps it was as well, she told herself, as they collected platters from one of the long tables and joined those awaiting slices of roasted meat. She’d need time to recover and buffer herself against the charisma of the man. He was as potent as Lanzecki. And that was the first time she’d thought of the Guildmaster in a while!
What did Lars mean in saying she’d know why he couldn’t absent himself so soon? How important was he within the island society, aside from being its first citizen to get into the Conservatory?
Then they were in the midst of the eager diners, with Lars exchanging laughing comments, teasing acquaintances, his rich lilting laughter rising above theirs. Yet he kept a firm grip on Killashandra and she tried to compose her expression against the surprise in the women’s faces and the curiosity of the men. Who was this Lars Dahl when he wasn’t kidnapping crystal singers?
Once thin slices of the juicy meat had been served them, Lars Dahl escorted her back to the table and they sank to the sand. Lars kept his left hand lightly on her thigh as he filled their plates from the foods displayed in the center of the table: breaded fried fish bits, steaming whiteroots, chopped raw vegetable, large yellow tubers which had been baked in polly leaves and exuded a pungent spiciness. He snagged a jug as it was being passed and filled their cups, deftly pouring without losing so much as a drop. Killashandra was aware of furtive glances the length of the table for Lars Dahl’s partner. She looked for Keralaw for her support but there was no sign of her friend. Nor could she discern any animosity in the scrutinies. Curiosity, yes, and envy.
“Eat. I guarantee you’ll need your strength . . . Carrigana.”
Though she gave him a gleaming smile, she wondered why he had hesitated with the name, as if he was savoring the sound of it, the way he had rolled the rs and lengthened the final two as. Was he dissembling? Had he recognized her? He knew she’d been injured by that island star-knife . . .
She almost pulled away from him, startled by a sudden knowledge that he had thrown that vicious starblade at her. She shook her head, smiling to answer his sudden quizzical look, and applied herself to the heaped food. His hand soothed her thigh, the fingers light and caressing.
You sure can pick ‘em, Killashandra, she thought, pulled by intense and conflicting emotions. She couldn’t wait to roll with him, somewhere in the warm and fragrant plantation, with the surf pounding in rhythm with her blood. She wanted to solve the conundrums he represented, and she was determined to resolve each one to her advantage – and furious that he didn’t even recognize the woman he had first injured and then abducted.
Yet, with all apparent complaisance, she sat, smiled, and laughed at his rather clever comments. Lars Dahl seemed to miss nothing that went on about him, and ate hugely. A beaming plump man wearing half a dozen garlands passed about a platter of the black flesh of the smacker fish, nudging Lars Dahl with a lewd whisper for his ear only, while Lars was lightly kneading her thigh, and then the plump man winked broadly at her, dumping a second slice of the fish onto her plate.
She was indeed grateful for the second slice of the smacker for it was succulent and highly unusual in taste, having nothing oily or fishy about it. The fermented polly juice was more subtle than the overripe fruit she had eaten on the island. Lars kept her cup filled, though she noticed that he only sipped at his while appearing to imbibe more freely than the level in his cup suggested.
When she admitted that she could eat no more of the cooked foods, he carefully picked one of the large, dark red melons, and, with one hand – someone called aloud with a quick guess as to where his other hand was – he split it with his knife, glancing expectantly at her. Out of the corner of her eye she had seen another woman so served scoop the seeds from her halved melon. Laughingly she did the same service, settling Lar’s half in his plate before taking her own. Then, before she could lift her spoon, he had made a thin slice which he lifted to her lips. The flesh of the melon was the sweetest she had ever tasted, velvety, dripping with juice once the flesh was pierced. He took his first bite on top of hers, his even, strong teeth leaving a neat semi-circle all the way to the rind.