"C. J. Cherryh - Fever SeasonUC - Compilation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cherryh C J)

Lay down by himself then, face up and staring at the ceiling. So she edged over and put her arm over him. He patted her. And shivered. She felt it go all through him.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."
"What was that "un?" she asked. And when he said nothing: "Dammit, Mondragon, ye could say, ye know?"
"It's just a dream. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Jones. You don't have to put up with this. I'll go sleep on the couch."
"You don't. Ye ain't going anywhere. Ye want t' make love t' me?"
"God, Jones, what do you think I am?" He shivered again and drew a long breath. "Damn."
"Want I should make love t* you?"
"Couldn't hurt," he said after a moment. "But it won't do you much good."
"Hell if it don't." She edged on over a little and started massaging tight muscles, "You c'n go on to sleep, I don't mind." She gave him a kiss at the pit of the throat, which
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usually made him react. It did. His arms came up around her, he pulled her down, and for a long time just held her like that, skin against skin, so tightly it all but hurt.
"You ain't going to sleep," she said.
"No," he said.
And did nothing for a moment. Just held her. Then: "Jones," he said. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you."
"Well, that ain't real likely. You want to go to sleep or you want to do something or you want to tell me what that all was?"
He rolled her over. He was halfway rough, and all too quick, and she sighed and put up with him collapsing on her: she hugged him, and wound her fingers into his hair and tugged at it gently.
"Mondragon, ye want to teli me? Ye want to say what that's about?"
"No," he said, and moved his hand on her stomach, gently, sleepily as a child with a doll. Then: "Prison," he said. "Sometimes I dream about prison, Jones. You don't want to know about that. Sometimes I'm there, that's all."
Nev Hettek's prison was bad. She knew that much. They said things about that place she never would ask him about and he would never want to tell.
"That's past," she said. "You ain't never going back. You're here. Ain't no way you're going back."
"No way," he murmured.
But after a little while he said: "You can't ever get too safe, Jones, you can't ever get too safe. Don't take chances. I wish you'd get off the water. At least after dark."
"My best trade is after dark." Now it was her heart beating hard and fast and her muscles going tight. Damn, mama, you told me, didn't you? Damn man gets me into his bed and here it comes. Off the water, he says. Off the water!
"You're running too late," he said.
"Takes a while. Just takes a while. I had a barrel pickup. I told ye."
"Down there in Megary territory. Dammit, JonesЧlet Moghi
hire somebody else for those runs. You don't need to do that kind of work any more."
"The hell!"
"You don't. You can work the evenings, ifЧ"
"You can swim next time. Hear?"
"All right, all right." He rubbed her shoulder. "Forget it. You were late; 1 worried; is that any wonder?"
She thought about it. Decided not. She heaved a sigh and rested on his chest, fingers winding in his hair, which was longer than hers, and curly and fine. And sighed again, dredging up the bad news she had saved for going out the door in the morning. "Well, I got a late 'un tomorrow. One of Moghi's. Mondragon,Ч" She felt him draw a breath and stopped him with a hand on his mouth. "Right down the Grand and back, ain't no problem. I just got this load to getЧ"
"Moghi's load," he said, and took her by the arm. "Dammit, it's Harbor, isn't it? Isn't it?"
"Listen, friend, I been getting along right fine before you come into my life."
"Jones, let's not be so damn touchy. Let's use a little sense. For God's sake, you're not just any damn canaler, you're tangled up in my business, and what am I going to do if somebody grabs you some night and gives me a choice I haven't got? 1 just haven't got too many ways to turn, you understand me? And you're putting me at risk, you ever think of that?"
She did not like that kind of reckoning. It backed her against the wall, and took away her choices. And left her nowhere, because there was nothing else to be but Jones, and a canaler, and a skip-freighter with her own boat; there was nothing else she ever wanted to be, because nothing else made any sense.
Nothing else was worth anything. She had had her days of sitting at tie-up because of Mondragon's business; and waiting for bad news or worse news, with her gut in a knot. And watching canalers pass who were a hell of a lot happier, with a boatload of crates or barrels and a partner or so to help, not
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to be off about uptown in a lace-cuffed shirt and fancy boots and risking his damn neck for Anastasi damn-him Kalugin.
She had done one cross-town race when a hightowner body turned up floating; she had been mortally sure it was Mondragon. And she had never forgotten that feeling in her gut that morning.
Talk about 'held hostage.' mama, lookit this man. Lookit what he does to me.
She saw Retribution Jones sittingЧLord, right over there in Mondragon's chair, hat pushed back on her head, her bare foot swinging the other side of the chair arm. See, her mother said. Told you so.
She scrambled off Mondragon, rested her elbows together under her, and stared at the chair, but her mother was not there to argue with.
Only the feeling in her gut was.
And the other feeling, that was Mondragon's hand stroking her shoulder, Mondragon leaning on his elbow by her and trying to have his way by confusing hell out of her.