Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

Her eyes were green. A perfect kelly green that shot through Mercer like a live wire. She looked at him for a moment, scraping her nails through short hair that was dark yet blond and auburn at the same time, held to her neat skull with just a trace of gel. Mercer felt like he was drowning.

Individually, the features of her face were perfect, softly rounded lips framing a sensual mouth that seemed just on the verge of laughter. Her cheekbones swept down the sides of her face with the grace of a gull’s wing, and her chin was strong with a slight cleft. Above her stunning eyes, her brows were wide and dark, shocking on such a delicate face but adding an undeniable magnetism. Her nose was small and gentle, very feminine.

From her high, broad forehead to her narrow throat, she was exquisite. There was no comparing her to the brassy trophy women that many of the men here called their wives. She had the looks of a fashion model, daunting and unobtainable, but he thought he noted a charm that those women didn’t possess.

She shifted her weight from one long leg to the other. Her dress clung to hips that curved from her narrow waist with unmatchable grace. The slit up the front swept aside to reveal one smooth inner thigh and, had Mercer been able to breathe, the sight would have taken his breath away. The front of her dress covered her body completely from her calves to her throat, but he noted that her unsupported breasts were small and high, the chill of the damp night forcing her nipples against the fabric.

“What can I get for you, sir?” The bartender distracted Mercer.

By the time he’d ordered a gimlet and turned back toward the French doors, she was gone. Damn.

He took his drink, absently muttering a thanks. It was then that he became aware he’d been physically aroused just by that quick glimpse of her. That hadn’t happened to him since his eighth-grade class had a twenty-one-year-old substitute for a week.

“You can put my clothes back on.”

“Excuse me?” Mercer turned and his breath jammed in his throat. She was even more beautiful up close. Her lips had an enticing pout that he unconsciously felt himself swaying toward.

“You just undressed me with your eyes, and I’d appreciate it if you put my clothing back on, Dr. Mercer.” The mischievous glint in her eyes showed that she was relishing Mercer’s discomfort. He guessed her age at early thirties, that perfect moment in a woman’s life when she retains the beauty of youth but tempers it with the knowledge of experience.

“You know who I am?” Mercer was incredulous. He was certain that he would remember her if they’d met before.

“My, how quickly they forget.” She laughed and started to walk away, her backside switching from side to side while the narrow ridge of her spine remained straight. A few paces away, she turned back. “We met yesterday morning.”

She was lost in the crowd by the time Mercer realized who she was. He had been so enraptured by her looks that he had never paid attention to her voice, throaty yet soft, alluring and… recognizable.

Mercer nearly spilled his drink as he lunged into the crowd looking for her. She had been his vocal opponent at George Washington University. He had a hard time reconciling that shabbily dressed girl with the stunning beauty who’d just walked away. What in the hell was a militant environmentalist doing at a reception hosted by one of the largest oil companies in the world?

He moved forward quickly, apologizing to guests as he brushed by in his search. Suddenly, a man turned, and they bumped nearly face to face. Both were startled by the contact. Mercer saw that the man had gone nearly white when he saw Mercer, but his color returned quickly, and his handsome face split into a broad grin.

“Mercer, I didn’t think you were going to make it.” Max Johnston seemed genuinely pleased to see Mercer at his party.

Johnston was in his early sixties but looked ten years younger; his body was thin and wiry, honed from a legendary workout routine and biannual triathlons. His face was lined and weathered from the Texas sun where he was raised, but he had acquired a veneer of Ivy League polish that masked his origins. His hair was still thick and wavy, silvered just at the temples. He grasped Mercer’s hand and pumped it vigorously.

The person Max had been speaking with drifted off.

“I had to mug a headwaiter to get his tuxedo.” Mercer smiled back. “Quite a turnout, congratulations.”

“I have a lot of hope for the Johnston Group,” Max said as if reading from a prepared speech. “The President set a challenge to get America off its oil addiction, and I think we can help.”

“Isn’t that like cutting off your nose to spite your face?” joked Mercer.

“Hardly. Petromax is so diversified that shutting off our oil imports may actually help the company. In fact, I just closed a deal to sell off our last three supertankers. No, we’re ready to help shape the future.”

“Aren’t you involved with the exploration of the Arctic Wildlife Refuge?” Despite his desire to find that woman again, Mercer found himself drawn into a conversation with his host.

“Yes, but that’s only a small part of what we’ve planned. The oil we pull from the Refuge will provide Petromax with the capital to establish itself as the leader in alternative energy technology. We’ve already started pilot programs, and our lab people are close to developing a commercial hydrogen-cracking unit using seawater as fuel. Fusion thinking has taught us that there is more energy in matter than we had ever imagined.” Johnston held up a half-full glass of champagne. “There’s more power in this glass than mankind has produced since our first fire in some cave two hundred thousand years ago, and day by day we are getting closer to getting at it.”

Mercer looked past Johnston’s shoulder and saw the woman walking toward them, her body swaying to the chamber music while her eyes remained locked with his. He sensed he was about to be in the middle of a conflict between Johnston and the environmentalist. “Uh-oh.”

Max turned, following Mercer’s line of sight and muttered, “Oh, shit.”

“You know her?”

Before Max could answer, she was with them, slipping a slim arm under Max’s in a familiar gesture. Max regarded her indulgently for a moment, then turned back to Mercer to make the introductions. Before he could speak, she piped up.

“I apologize for lying to you, Dr. Mercer.” Her smile numbed him. “We have met once before yesterday, but I doubt you’d remember. It was about ten years ago in Houston, when Petromax announced the discovery of the Edwards Plateau Oil Field. I remember that you were wearing an olive-colored suit with a black-patterned tie. You were the only man there without a cheesy cowboy hat.”

“Honey, those hats are the symbol of the greatest state in the Union.” Max turned from the girl and looked Mercer in the eye. It was a look of trepidation. “Well, then, I guess introductions aren’t really necessary, since you two know each other.”

Mercer found his voice. “I could still use a little help here.”

Max gave her a fond smile. “This is my daughter, Agatha.”

“My grandmother had to suffer through life with the name Agatha.” She stuck out her hand, which Mercer took like a pilgrim grasping a religious icon. “But I’ll be damned if I will. Please call me Aggie, Dr. Mercer.”

It was as if an elemental force passed between their hands. Mercer held onto her long after a simple introduction demanded, long after mutual attraction expected. Long after… it was only when Max delicately coughed that he reluctantly let her go. Their eyes remained locked, clear green to cloudy gray, virgin earth to stormy sky.