Текст книги "The Doomsday Key"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Gray had already related some details to Painter. But he hadn't expanded on what Rachel had divulged on the train.

"Director, maybe you'd better hear this from Lieutenant Verona herself. I'm not sure of the significance, but it's worth noting if only for thoroughness."

"Very well. Put her on."

Gray crossed back to the bed and passed her the cell phone. "I thought you should tell Painter what you learned."

She nodded. He remained standing near the bedpost. After a few pleasantries, Rachel cut to the strange matter of the priest's obsession.

"Before everything went to hell in Rome," Rachel explained, "I had acquired a list of published papers and treatises written by Father Giovanni, some going back to when he was a student. It was plain he was fixated on a specific mythology of the Catholic faith, an incarnation of the Virgin Mary known as the Black Madonna."

Gray listened with half an ear as she explained. He was familiar with the subject. He had studied comparative religions before joining Sigma and knew the history and mysteries surrounding the cult of the Black Madonna. Over the centuries, going back to the very start of Christianity, statues and paintings had appeared that depicted the Mother of Christ with dark or black skin. These came to be revered and treasured. Over four hundred of the images still existed in Europe, a few dating all the way back to the eleventh century. And a large number of them were still worshiped and venerated: the Black Madonna of Cz__stochowa in Poland, the Madonna of Hermits in Switzerland, the Virgin of Guadalupe in Mexico. The list went on and on.

Despite this ongoing veneration, controversy continued to surround these unique Madonnas. While some claimed miraculous properties associated with them, others declared the dark skin was due to nothing more than accumulated candle soot or the natural darkening of wooden statues or old marble. The Catholic Church avoided acknowledging any significance or spiritual powers for these incarnations.

Rachel continued with Father Giovanni's fixation. "Marco was convinced that Celtic Christianity built its foundations upon the Black Madonna, that this image represented the fusion of the old pagan Earth Mother with the new worship of the Virgin Mary. He spent his career searching for this connection, the true source behind the mythology."

Rachel paused, plainly listening to a question from Painter, then answered, "I don't know if he ever found that source. But he found something, something worth dying over."

Rachel stopped again to listen, then said, "Right. I agree. I'll pass you back to Commander Pierce."

Gray accepted the phone, lifted it to his ear, and returned to the window. "Sir?"

"Considering Rachel's story, it seems plain what your next step must be."

Gray had no doubt of the correct answer. "Investigate the excavation site in England."

"Precisely. I don't know how the murders in Africa and Princeton tie to Father Giovanni's research. But there must be some connection. I'll follow up in Oslo concerning the genetic research-you see what that mummified finger points to."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you need any additional personnel for this mission? Or can you manage with Joseph Kowalski and Lieutenant Verona?"

"I think the leaner we move, the better."

Despite his best effort, a strained edge tightened his voice. There remained one detail he had never divulged to Painter Crowe. Gray stared down into the garden, to the crimson glow of a cigarette. He hated to lie to the director, even if it was only a sin of omission, but if Gray told Sigma Command about their new ally here, Painter would have no choice but to send a team to collect her, to cart her off to an interrogation camp.

Gray could not allow that.

Still, he hesitated.

Was he making the right choice? Or was he needlessly putting the entire mission in jeopardy?

Gray turned from the window to discover Rachel staring at him. In her eyes, he recognized that his decision threatened more than just his own life. Still, he also remembered a pained plea two years ago, one full of need and hope.

Trust me, Gray. If only a little.

Facing the dark window again, Gray stared at his reflection. After a long steadying breath, he spoke into the phone.

"We'll be fine on our own."

Chapter 11

October 11, 11:22 P.M.

Oslo, Norway

Ivar Karlsen pulled on the heavy oak door, its planks strapped with hammered iron. Snow swirled through the moonless night and whipped in sudden gusts into the narrow arched entry. Cold pinched his exposed cheeks, while the iron handle was so frozen it burned his fingers as he hauled open the door. The day's storm had indeed turned into the first true snowfall by evening.

The harsh weather stirred Ivar, got his heart pounding, his breath blowing strongly. Perhaps he did indeed have Viking blood running through his veins as his old bestemor claimed.

Ducking through the door, he stamped his boots to dislodge the caked snow. A dark stairway lay ahead, leading down into the depths below Akershus Castle. Ivar threw back the hood of his fleece-lined sherling coat and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. Clicking it on, he headed down the stairs.

The stone steps had been laid when the fortress was first built, dating back to the medieval period. His steps echoed off the low walls. He had to duck to keep from brushing the ceiling. Reaching the lower level, the stairs ended at an old guardroom with the original iron wall hooks and torch brackets still intact. Heavy beams held up the ceiling.

On the far side, a brick archway opened on a hall of tiny cells where downtrodden nobles and all manner of high criminals had been kept in squalid and miserable conditions. It was here that the Nazis had tortured Ivar's countrymen, those who resisted the German occupation. Ivar had even lost a granduncle down here. Honoring that sacrifice, Viatus continued to donate large sums to the preservation and upkeep of Akershus.

Ivar swept his flashlight down the throat of the gloomy dungeon passageway. This section was closed to the usual castle tours. Few even knew of its existence...or its darker history. It was here that those who committed high treason to the crown and country were held. The Nazi collaborator Viktor Quisling had been kept locked down here before he was executed. Many others had met their deaths, going back centuries.

Ivar's fingers closed over an old coin in his coat pocket. He kept it with him at all times. It was a 1725 Frederick IV four-mark, minted by Henrik Christofer Meyer. Meyer had also died down here, whipped and bloodied, for replacing silver with copper in the king's coinage and pocketing the savings.

King Frederick IV-considered at the time to be a benevolent and merciful leader-still held to a strict code of honor. It was rumored that he had Viking blood in his lineage. And following the Viking code, betrayal of any manner had to be dealt with harshly.

Upon the king's order, Meyer was not only ordered whipped at the post and sentenced to life imprisonment, he was also marked permanently as a traitor to the crown. Meyers was branded with a hot iron poker in the center of his forehead. The king used one of the mint master's own substandard coins for the branding, burning the image into the man's flesh.

The coin in Ivar's pocket was one of those very coins. It had been in his family for centuries, the story passed from one generation to the next. It grew to represent the Karlsen family code: to balance mercy and generosity, yet never tolerate treachery in any form.

Ivar heard the door above open and slam closed, cutting off his reverie. Footsteps echoed as someone hurried down the steps.

A slim, long-legged woman entered the guardroom. She carried a bit of the winter chill with her. Snow frosted her fiery hair; her gold eyes reflected his flashlight. She wore a long gray coat over dark clothes.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Ivar," she said. She tossed her hair, scattering snow like some ancient goddess of winter.

Though only in her late twenties, Krista Magnussen had become the chief geneticist for his corporation's Crop Biogenics division. She had risen quickly, demonstrating both brilliance and a seemingly supernatural resourcefulness. It was only last year that Ivar had learned the true basis of her resourcefulness. The revelation had come at a time when things had begun to go awry with his careful plans. The house of cards he'd been meticulously building had begun to lean. It had needed shoring up.

Krista again proved her value; Ivar had been shocked to discover that she was not entirely who she appeared to be. Corporate espionage was commonplace throughout the industry, but he'd never suspected such a young, brilliant woman. And he never suspected the reach of her connections. She worked for a shadowy network that went by many names. They offered their mercenary services in exchange for access and a percentage of future profits. Over the past year, they had proved to be invaluable at shoring up his plans, even accelerating them.

And it had been Krista herself who dealt with the delicate and unfortunate matter of the senator's son.

She moved closer, gave Ivar a firm hug, and brushed his cheek in a chaste kiss. Her lips were still cold from the storm.

"I'm also sorry," she said, "that I had to summon you so suddenly at this hour."

"If it's important..."

"It is." Krista shook her long coat, shivering off snow and melting droplets. "I've just heard that our targets in Rome survived."

"They're alive? I thought you said they were dead."

"We underestimated them," Krista said with a shrug. She made no effort to justify, obfuscate, or avoid responsibility. As always, Ivar respected her candor.

"Do they still possess the artifact?"

"Yes."

"How do you know all this?" he asked with a frown.

Krista smiled, still coldly. "It seems our attack got someone's attention, someone with something to prove. After events in Rome, we were contacted. Offered a deal. We now have someone on the inside."

"Can they be trusted?"

"I don't leave such matters to mere trust, Ivar. Our organization will be staying close to them, keeping a fire lit under them."

"I don't understand. If you have someone on the inside, why not have them secure the artifact or destroy it?"

"That may not be the wisest choice." Her eyes sparkled in the darkness, shining with a brilliance that dazzled.

"What do you mean?"

"Father Giovanni betrayed you. Took your money, allowed you to finance his research. Yet when he found the artifact, he stole it. Fled with it."

Ivar's fingers tightened on the coin. The priest was made to pay for his crime. Shortly after learning of Krista's connections, Ivar had told her the bloody story of Henrik Meyer, as both a lesson and a warning to her. Instead, she took the story to heart and suggested the mutilations, to help disguise the murders, to make them look more like the work of ecoterrorists. Ivar also found a certain satisfaction in the punishment, a return to an older form of justice, where those who betrayed the world were marked for all to see.

Krista continued. "But with the artifact secure again, now is our chance to hunt for what remains missing. To discover what Giovanni sought."

Ivar's attention focused fully back on her. He could not keep the desire out of his voice. "The Doomsday key..."

Such a discovery would not only secure his plan, it could make history. The key had the potential to unlock a mystery stretching back millennia.

Krista explained her plan. "Those who now hold the artifact have proved to be resourceful in the past. With the proper motivation, they might succeed where Father Giovanni failed."

Ivar reined in his raw desire and maintained his practicality. "And you're certain you can handle such an undertaking?"

"Not just me." Krista smiled, this time warm and full of assurance. "As I promised from the beginning, you'll have the full support of the Guild."

She crossed to him. "We will not fail you. I will not fail you."

Moving into his arms, she kissed him again. Not chastely this time, but full on the lips. Her hair brushed his neck, icy and damp, sending chills through him, but her lips, mouth, and tongue burned like liquid fire.

Ivar forgot about the coin in his pocket and reached to the small of her back. He pulled her closer. He recognized that she was seducing him, and he suspected that she knew he wasn't fooled. But neither of them pulled away.

They both knew what was at risk, what waited to be won.

The future of mankind.

And the power to control that fate.

SECOND

FIRE AND ICE

Chapter 12

October 12, 10:12 A.M.

Hawkshead, England

It seemed impossible that murder could be traced back to such an idyllic countryside.

Gray drove down the winding road framed by rolling hills. With each passing mile the lane grew narrower until it was barely wide enough to accommodate the rented Land Rover. A patch of hardwood forest overhung the road, creating a tangled tunnel of woven branches. Once clear of the woods, the vistas opened again and revealed the rounded peaks of the surrounding fells, or what passed for mountains here in England. Snow already covered the crags in a white blanket since an early winter storm had blown across the district the night before.

Closer at hand, meadows and hedge-lined farm tracts cut the landscape into a quilt of brown grasses and fallow fields. Streams and creeks sparkled among mirror-smooth lakes and smaller highland tarns. Ice rimed the edges of all the waterways, and windblown snow frosted the entire landscape.

The natural beauty struck one to silence.

Or almost everyone.

"You're lost, aren't you?" Kowalski accused from the backseat.

"I'm not lost," Gray lied.

Rachel rattled her road map and eyed Gray doubtfully.

Okay, maybe they were a little off course...

They had left Liverpool two hours ago and followed the directions easily enough up into the Lake District of northern England. The highways were well marked, but once Gray exited the major thoroughfares, he ended up in a countryside of meandering lanes, unmarked roads, and a broken landscape of hills, forests, and lakes.

Even GPS proved to be no help. None of the roads matched its software. They might as well have been driving through open country.

Their destination was the town of Hawkshead, one of the many honeypot villages that nestled within the natural wonderland of the English Lake District. They were to meet a colleague of Father Giovanni, a historian from the University of Edinburgh named Dr. Wallace Boyle. Boyle had organized the dig out in a remote section of the central fells and still oversaw the site. He had agreed to meet them at a hotel pub in Hawkshead.

But first Gray had to find the place.

Rachel studied the map and searched out the window for any landmarks. Behind Rachel, Seichan sat next to Kowalski and stared sullenly out at the rolling hills and dales. She had barely spoken a word since leaving Italy and continued to hover at the edge of their group, maintaining a wary distance.

"If we don't get somewhere pretty damn quick," Kowalski continued, "you're going to have to stop at the next tree or bush. My back molars are floating."

Gray sped up the next hill. "If you hadn't downed those four pints of beer back in Liverpool-"

"Not my fault. All those cockamamie names. Blackwater Brewery's Buccaneer. Cains Double Bock. Boddington's Bitters. Tetley's Cask. Guy can't tell what he's getting 'til he tastes it. Took a while to find a good one."

"But you drank them all down."

"Of course I did. It would've been rude not to."

Rachel folded her map and gave up. "It can't be much farther," she said with little conviction. "Maybe we should stop and ask for directions."

Moments later, it proved unnecessary. With a final rattling push, the Land Rover topped the next rise, and a small village appeared, spread across the valley ahead.

Gray looked over at Rachel. The relief on her face answered his question. It had to be Hawkshead. Cobblestone lanes crisscrossed past fenced gardens and squat timbered homes. Snow mantled the village's slate roofs, and thin trails of smoke rose from the chimneys. Across the way, an old stone church crouched atop a hill and overlooked the village, like a grim gray deacon scowling down at the town below.

As they wound down toward the village, stacked-stone walls rose alongside the road. The Land Rover rumbled over an arched granite bridge to enter the outskirts of town. The buildings and homes were of wattle-and-daub construction with exposed timbers, traditional for an English Tudor town. Small front gardens and window boxes hinted at the splendor that must be spring and summer here, but after the storm last night, snow piled atop boxes and across yards, creating a wintry Christmas scene.

Gray slowed the Land Rover to a crawl as his tires crunched over icy cobbles. He headed toward the main square, where their meeting place-the Kings Arms Hotel-was located. They were already twenty minutes late. Reaching the square, Gray slid the SUV into a small parking lot.

As they exited the vehicle, the cold bit into any exposed skin. The dampness of Liverpool and the long heated drive had not prepared them for the icy chill of the Lakeland elevations. Wood smoke scented each cold breath. Bundling tighter into their thick coats, they set off.

The Kings Arms Hotel lay on the far side of the main square. The squat, slate-roofed building had greeted travelers for five hundred years, stretching back to the Elizabethan era. A low stone wall cordoned off a beer garden in front, its tables and chairs currently covered in a thin coat of fresh snow, but the fiery glow from the inn's lower windows promised steaming warmth and hot drinks. They hurried toward it.

Kowalski trailed them. "Hey, lookit all the bears..." His voice had a wistful note to it, a tone as incongruous as a bull suddenly singing an aria.

Gray glanced back at him. Kowalski's gaze was fixed on a shop window. Beyond the frosted glass, amber light revealed a display of teddy bears of every size and shape. The sign above the door read Sixpenny Bears.

"There's one dressed like a boxer!" Kowalski began to detour toward the window.

Gray directed him back. "We're already late."

Kowalski's shoulders slumped. With a final longing glance back at the shop, he continued after them.

Rachel stared at the big man with a bewildered expression.

"What?" Kowalski said grumpily. "It was for Liz, my girlfriend. She...she's the one who collects bears."

Rachel stared a moment longer, her expression doubtful.

Kowalski grumbled under his breath and tromped heavily toward the inn.

Seichan stepped next to Gray and touched his elbow. "You go inside. Meet with that historian. I'll keep watch out here."

Gray stared over at her. That hadn't been the plan. Though her face remained calm and disinterested, her eyes continued to roam the square, most likely analyzing the area for sniper roosts, escape routes, and the best places to duck for cover. Or maybe she just refused to meet his eye. Was she truly seeking to guard them or maintaining a cold distance?

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his legs slowing.

"No." Her eyes flashed toward him, almost angrily. "And I mean to keep it that way."

Gray didn't feel like arguing. After all that had happened in Italy, perhaps it would be best to keep a guard outside. He headed after Kowalski and Rachel as Seichan dropped back.

Joining the others, he crossed through the frozen beer garden and reached the front door. He noted a sign near the entryway that read "Good dogs and children welcome." That probably excluded Kowalski. Gray considered ordering his partner to stay outside with Seichan, but that would only make the woman angrier.

Gray pulled the door open. A heady warmth flowed out, accompanied by the smell of malt and hops. The pub was straight off the hotel lobby. A few voices echoed out to them, along with a booming laugh. Gray followed Kowalski into the pub. His partner aimed straight for the restroom with a quickness to his step.

Gray remained at the entrance and searched the room. The pub of the Kings Arms was small, a scatter of wooden tables and booths built around a stacked-stone fireplace. A roaring fire had been stoked against the cold. Next to the hearth stood a life-sized wooden model of a crowned king, likely the namesake of the hotel.

Another thundering burst of laughter drew Gray's attention to a corner booth near the fire. A pair of locals, dressed in hunting clothes and knee-high boots, stood before the table and its lone occupant.

"Fell right in the bog, you say, Wallace!" One of the hunters chuckled, wiping at an eye with one hand while hoisting a tall glass of dark ale in the other.

"Arse over kettle! Straight in," the man in the booth agreed, a Scottish brogue thickening his tongue.

"Wish'un I could've seen that, right enough."

"Ah, but the stench afterward, lads. That you wouldn'ta want to be near. Not at all." Another hearty laugh followed from the man seated in the booth.

Gray recognized Dr. Wallace Boyle from his picture on the University of Edinburgh website. But the professor in the photo had been clean-shaven and dressed in a formal jacket. The man here had a grizzly dusting of gray beard and was outfitted like his fellow hunters in a frayed herringbone jacket over a quilted waistcoat. On the table rested a moss-green tweed cap, fingerless gloves, and a thick scarf. Next to him, propped upright on the bench seat, was a shotgun zippered into a gunslip.

Dr. Boyle noted Gray's attention and approach. "Tavish, Duff, looks like those reporters I was setting to meet have arrived."

That had been their cover story: a pair of international journalists covering the bombing at the Vatican, following up on the death of Father Giovanni. Kowalski acted as their photographer.

The two hunters glanced Gray's way. Their faces went hard with the usual suspicion of locals for outsiders, but they nodded in wary greeting. With a final heft of their drinks, they left the table.

"Cheers, Wallace," one said as he departed. "We best be going anyway. It's already getting to be brass monkeys out there."

"And it'll get colder," Wallace agreed, then waved Gray and Rachel over toward his table.

Kowalski had returned from the restroom, but he never made it past the bar. His eyes were fixed to the chalkboard over the fireplace that listed the local brews. "Copper Dragon's Golden Pippin? Is that a beer or some sort of fruity drink? I don't want anything that has fruit in it. Unless you call an olive a fruit..."

Gray tuned out his partner as he headed over to Wallace's table. The professor stood, unfolding his six-foot-plus frame. Though in his midsixties, the man remained robust and broad-chested, like a younger Sean Connery. He shook their hands, his gaze lingering a little longer on Rachel. The man's eyes pinched for a moment, then relaxed, hiding whatever had momentarily perplexed him.

Rachel began to slide into the booth first, then suddenly froze. Her side of the bench was occupied. A wiry furred head lifted into view and rested a chin on the wooden table, not far from a half-eaten platter of bangers and mash.

"Rufus, get down from there," Wallace scolded, but without much heat. "Make room for our guests."

The black-and-tan terrier huffed through its nose in exasperation, then ducked away and came strolling out from under the table. He moved closer to the fire, circled twice, then collapsed down with an equally loud sigh.

"My hunting dog," the professor explained. "A mite spoiled, he is. But at his age, he's earned it. Best fox flusher in the isles. And why shouldn't he be? Born and bred right here. A true Lakeland Terrier."

Pride rang in the man's voice. This was not a professor headed toward early retirement, nor even one resting on his laurels, which were many, according to the man's bio. Dr. Wallace Boyle was considered to be a leading expert on the history of the British Isles, specifically the Neolithic age through the Roman occupation.

They all settled into the booth. Gray placed a small digital recorder on the table, maintaining their cover as journalists. After a few pleasantries about the weather and their drive, Wallace quickly turned to the matter at hand.

"So, you've come all this way to see what we discovered up in the fells," Wallace said. His brogue grew less heavy, his speech more formal, tailoring it to his audience. "Since the death of Father Giovanni, I've been fielding questions and inquiries nonstop for the past two days. Yet no one's seen fit to come out here in person. Then again, the good father himself hadn't been out here in months."

"What do you mean?" Rachel asked.

"Father Giovanni left at the end of summer. Headed to the coast, then off to Ireland, last I heard from him." Wallace shook his head sadly and tapped his glass of beer with a fingernail in some semblance of a toast to the dead. "Marco was a brilliant chap. Truly a great loss. His research and fieldwork on the roots of Celtic Christianity could have changed the way we view history."

"Why did he come here to begin with?" Gray asked. "To the Lake District."

"He would've ended up here eventually, I suppose. Even if I hadn't summoned him following my discovery up in the mountains."

"Why's that?"

"Marco's passion-or more like his obsession-had him scouring any and all areas where paganism and Christianity overlapped." Wallace lifted an arm to encompass the region in general. "And the history of this district is a story of that very conflict written in stones and ruins. It was the Norse who first came to this area, sailing over from Ireland to farm here in the ninth century, bringing all their traditions. Even the word fell comes from the Norse word for 'hill.' In fact, the village of Hawkshead was founded by a Norseman named Haukr, whose name still lives on in this place. That should give you some idea of the long history of this region."

Wallace nodded out the window toward the church that overlooked the town. "But times change. During the twelfth century, the entire area came under the ownership of the monks of Furness Abbey, the ruins of which can be found not far from here. The monks cultivated the region, traded in wool and sheep, and ruled the superstitious villagers with an iron fist. Tensions dragged on for centuries between the ancient pagan ways and the new religion. The old rituals continued to be performed in secret, often at the prehistoric sites that litter the countryside."

"What do you mean by prehistoric sites?" Rachel asked.

"Places dating back to the Neolithic period. Five thousand years ago." Wallace ticked them off on his fingers. "Ancient stone circles, henges, barrows, dolmens, hill forts. While Stonehenge might be the most famous, it's only one among several hundred such sites spread across the British Isles."

"But what interested Father Giovanni about your specific excavation?" Gray asked, seeking to draw the professor closer to the core of their investigation.

Wallace cocked one brow. "Ah, well, that you will have to see for yourself. But I can tell you what led me to this region."

"And what was that?"

"A single entry in an old book. An eleventh-century text nicknamed the Doomsday Book."

Kowalski stepped to their table. He carried a tall glass of pilsner in each hand, drinking from both. He paused in midsip upon hearing Wallace's words. "Doomsday," he said. "Great. Like we don't have enough problems already."

11:05 A.M.

Seichan walked the full length of the square. In her mind, a map formed of the local area. Every detail, brick by brick, every street, alley, building, and parked car. All became fixed in her head.

She noted two men dressed in hunting gear as they left the pub. She stalked them as they ambled over to a truck in the parking lot. She made sure they drove away.

Afterward, she found a good vantage point from which to observe the Kings Arms Hotel. It was the doorway of a closed gift shop. The alcove allowed her to shelter against the occasional stiff gust and to keep out of direct sight. On her right, the shop's window displayed a pastel-colored diorama of small ceramic animals dressed in little outfits: pigs, cows, ducks, and, of course, tiny bunnies...lots and lots of bunnies. The Lake District was the home of Beatrix Potter and her creation Peter Rabbit.

Despite her need to watch the hotel, Seichan's attention drifted to the shop window. She remembered very little about her childhood, and what she did remember she wished she could forget. She had never known her parents and was raised in an orphanage outside of Seoul, South Korea. It had been a squalid place with few comforts. But there had been a few books, including Beatrix Potter's, brought years ago by a Catholic missionary. Those books and others were her true childhood, a place to escape the hunger, abuse, and neglect. As a young girl, she had even made a toy bunny out of a scrap of burlap stuffed with dry rice. To keep it from being stolen, she had kept it hidden behind a loose board in the wall, but eventually a rat found it and ate out the stuffing. She had cried for a solid day, until one of the matrons beat her, reminding her that even sorrow was a luxury.

In the doorway, Seichan turned her back to the window display, shutting out those memories. Still, it wasn't just the past that pained her. Through the window, she watched Gray converse with an older man in tweed garb. It had to be Dr. Wallace Boyle. Seichan studied Gray. His black hair was longer, lankier across his forehead. His face had also grown harder, making his cheekbones stand out. Even his ice-blue eyes had a few more crinkles at the edges-not from laughter, but from the passing of a hard couple of years.

Standing in the cold, dusted with snow, Seichan remembered his lips. In a single moment of weakness, she had kissed him. There had been no tenderness behind it, only desperation and need. Still, she had not forgotten the heat, the roughness of his stubble, the hardness of his hold on her. Yet in the end it had been meaningless to both of them.