Til the End of Time

by Iris Johansen

  He touched her cheek with an affectionate fore­finger. "Yes, we'll do that." He grimaced as he opened the door. "After you, my dear."

  Alessandra found her smile becoming increas­ingly strained as she circulated among the guests in the ballroom. She was never comfortable in this kind of atmosphere, though she had trained herself to appear at ease. She always felt as if she were drowning in perfume and smoke and the crosscurrents existing beneath the small talk float­ing on the surface of the party. Lord, when were they going in to dinner? At least at the table she'd only have to be polite to her immediate neighbors.

  "Miss Ballard, may I speak to you for a moment?"

  She broke off In mid-sentence to glance at the young man at her elbow. She had to concentrate for a moment before she could place the rather nondescript face. Michael Fontaine, one of Nal-dona's minor aides. "Yes, of course." She excused herself from the portly businessman to whom she had been speaking and followed Fontaine a few paces away, to the bar against the wall.

  He handed her a fluted glass from a tray on the bar and smiled at her with a charm that made his plain face appear handsome. "I thought you might be thirsty. Our guests have been keeping you so busy, you haven't had a chance to touch the drink you were served earlier."

  She studied him thoughtfully as she accepted the glass. "You must have been watching me closely to notice that. Why would you—" She broke off as she felt a piece of folded paper pressed against her palm as he transferred the glass into her hand.

  He met her startled gaze. "Read it," he said softly. There were lines of tension about his lips as he shifted his position to form a barrier between her and the rest of the guests in the room. "Quickly."

  She hesitated as she searched his face. It was more than tension. Fear. He was frightened. She put the cocktail glass down on the bar and swiftly unfolded the small note. It was very brief and scrawled in bold black script.

  Come to me on the terrace. If you don't come, you will quite probably die. Mention this note to Naldona, and the man who gave it to you will most certainly die. K.

  Alessandra slowly crushed the note in her palm. "K.?"

  Fontaine moistened his lips with his tongue. "There are some names that aren't safe to, men­tion here."

  Karpathan? She felt a tingle of shock run through her, and her gaze went involuntarily to the French doors. The most wanted man in the country was only a few yards away. Practically in Naldona's grasp.

  Her gaze shifted across the room to the small, elegantly clad man speaking with burning inten­sity to James. It wasn't only Fontaine who would die if she mentioned the note. The man who had written it would have no chance either. She reached for her cocktail and sipped it slowly. The phrasing in the note could be interpreted as a threat, you know."

  "No threat. A warning."

  "Interesting." Her gaze moved to the French doors again. "He must be quite a man to inspire you to take a risk like this. You must trust his judgment a great deed."

  "He's been watching you this evening and thinks you will not betray us," Fontaine added simply. "And he is the Tanzar."

  Tanzar. "Does that mean he walks on water?"

  He shook his head. "Loosely translated, it means the man who gives all. But when the people refer to Karpathan, it means something more. The man who is all."

  "I see." She didn't really, yet she was undoubt­edly intrigued. She had no use for politics or folk heros, but she had a sudden desire to meet this Tanzar and hear what he had to say. She put the glass back on the bar. "Can you cover for me if I slip out?"

  An expression of profound relief appeared on his face. "With no difficulty. I've gained consider­able practice in the art in the last two years. Drift over to the terrace doors. I've arranged for Naldona to be summoned to the study for a phone call. He'll be kept busy for fifteen minutes. I'll watch the doors and make sure no one goes out on the terrace while you're there."

  "You have it all planned." She turned toward the door. "Just make sure James isn't worried about me while I'm gone."

  "I'll take care of it."

  She began to wander casually in the general direction of the French doors leading to the terrace.

  Sandor hadn't expected her to be tall. Jannot's terse description had brought to mind the image of a Bardot-type sex kitten, but there was nothing kittenish about the woman slowly making her way toward the terrace doors. Alessandra Ballard was close to six feet tall, built on queenly lines, and every inch radiated voluptuous earthiness. The aura of lushness she projected filtered through the sheer Austrian drapes of the French door and reached him clear and vibrant as a siren's call. No wonder Fontaine had been sure she was Bruner's mistress. Though she was probably twenty-seven or -eight and Bruner rapidly approaching seventy, Sandor doubted that even Methuselah would have been immune to her sexuality.

  There was certainly no question of his own arousal, he realized half incredulously. His body had responded the moment he had seen her, and now he felt it hardening to near-painful readiness as she walked toward him. Hell, what was wrong with him? It hadn't been that long since he'd had a woman, and Alessandra Ballard couldn't even be termed pretty. Her shining nut-brown hair was worn in a severely simple bun on the top of her head. Her features were definitely irregular. Large, wide-set dark eyes glowed serenely beneath winged brows. Her nose was a trifle long, and her lips were a little too full. However, her neck and shoul­ders were truly magnificent, and the sight of the full globes of her breasts springing from the low-cut square neckline of her white gown made a simmering heat start to tingle through him.

  He stepped back into the shadows as she opened the door and stepped out on the terrace. She

  closed the door behind her.

  Karpathan?" Her voice was a mere thread of sound, but clear and unafraid. Her eyes, search­ing the shadows beside the door, were also free of fear. "Let me see you. You've obviously been out here watching me. It's my turn now."

  His surprise was instantly replaced by amuse­ment. He stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight. "Miss Ballard." He bowed mockingly.

  I assure you it wasn't my intention to deprive you of your feminine rights. I'm afraid it Was an instinctive act of self-preservation to cling to con­cealment. Shall I revolve like a runway model to make amends?"

  "That won't be necessary. I can see you quite well now."

  Perhaps more than she wanted to see, she thought suddenly. She was experiencing an unaccountable tension that had nothing to do with fear. She could feel it in the contracting of the muscles of her stomach and the tightness of her chest. She had seen newspaper photographs of Sandor Karpathan and knew he was good-looking, but now she saw he was more than handsome. The perfection of his classic features and the crisp-ness of his dark hair were overshadowed by the force field of strength surrounding him. He was wearing a dark sport jacket over a long-sleeved dark shirt and close-fitting trousers, and his tall, sinewy body looked hard and fit.

  Hard. Why was she so conscious of the un­flinching masculinity of the man? She was sud­denly excruciatingly sensitive to the soft fullness of her own body—the swell of her breasts against the chiffon of her gown, the teasing brush of the material against her thighs as the gentle summer breeze pressed the skirt against her body. She drew a deep breath and ignored the urge to scurry into the shadows from which she had called him. The instinct for self-preservation, he had said. She knew that particular instinct well enough to recognize it when she felt it, and it was here throbbing between them. "May I ask why I'm hon­ored by your attention?" With an effort she man­aged to keep her tone light and slightly mocking. "When I received the note, I wasn't sure if it was a threat or a warning. Fontaine said it was a warning."

  Karpathan nodded as he took a step closer. "We haven't much time, so I'll be as brief as possible. Naldona is planning to murder you and lay the crime at my door. He thinks the desire for revenge will push Bruner into giving him the arms he needs."

  She inhaled sharply. She was shocked, though she ha
d no reason to be. She had known what Naldona was from the instant she met him. "When?"

  There was a flicker of admiration in Karpathan s face. "You're taking this very calmly. No shocked exclamations, no arguments. Aren't you afraid?"

  She made an impatient gesture with one hand. "Of course I'm afraid. Why shouldn't I be? But being afraid won't keep me from getting mur­dered. There's a chance that knowledge might. When?"

  "We're not sure. Tonight sometime. I doubt if it will be before you've retired for the evening, but I can't be sure. Fontaine will keep an eye on you at the dinner party. I'll come to your suite later to­night and take you out of the palace." He paused before adding with a touch of sarcasm, "Do you think you can discourage Bruner from occupying your bed for one night? It's going to be difficult enough for me to get you out of here without worrying about stumbling over your aging lover."

  "You won't have to worry about stumbling over anyone." Her eyes were fixed on the formal rose garden beyond the stone balustrade. "Thank you for the warning, but I won't need your help. I'll take care of it."

  "The hell you will!" He was staring at her in stunned disbelief. "We're talking about a skilled assassin. Do you think Bruner is capable of sav­ing you from Naldona?"

  She lifted her chin. "I wouldn't ask him to. It would be stupid to tell James about this. He'd feel he'd have to protect me, and probably get him­self killed. James doesn't know how to handle violence."

  His eyes narrowed on her face. "And you do?"

  "I hate violence, but I know how to deal with it." She started to turn away. "I'd better go back inside."

  "Wait just a minute."

  His hands were on her bare shoulders. Heat. His hands were only mildly warm, yet she felt a throbbing hotness flowing, spreading, from the flesh beneath his hands to every part of her body.

  His face was taut, his eyes blazing, as he gazed down at her. "I'm not about to be dismissed. In case you've forgotten, I'm involved in Naldona's plot. If you die, this war may go on for another six months. I'll be damned if I'll let you send me away with a polite thank you."

  "James and I will be leaving the day after to­morrow. " To her surprise she found herself trying to placate him. "Now that I've been warned, I'll surely be able to avoid any danger until then."

  "Will you?" He gave her a shake that wasn't exactly gentle. "And how do you think you'll do that? Do you know how many ways there are to kill a person? Well, I do. I've become an expert on the subject in the last few years."

  The fresh scent of soap and a woodsy fragrance reminding her vaguely of burning leaves clung to his body. She shook her head as much to rid herself of this new sensual impact as in rejection. "Let me go. We're talking about my life. No one tells me what to do with it." Their eyes were al­most level as she glared at him. "Damn you, take your hands off me."

  He glared back at her for a moment before his hands reluctantly released her. He muttered a shocking expletive before he stepped back. "This isn't the end of it. Until Bruner leaves Tamrovia, your continued good health is very much my con­cern. There's no way I'm going to let Naldona mur­der you because you're too stubborn to accept help."

  She turned away. "Go back to your war, Karpa-than. I refuse to involve myself in the games you and Naldona play with other people's lives."

  "Games!" She could hear the roughened sound of his breathing behind her, and it sent an invol­untary thrill of fear through her. She felt as if she'd turned her back on an enraged puma. "War s no game, Miss Ballard."

  "Isn't it? Perhaps not to the victims, who act as pawns in your political quarrels. I'm afraid your romantic, folk-hero image doesn't impress me any more than Naldona's 'man of the people.' In your own way you're just as ruthless as he is."

  "I know." The words were softly menacing. "How­ever, I didn't realize you were aware of that aspect of my character."

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to antagonize him by pointing out that she knew how ruthless he could be. She was usually more diplomatic, but her physical response to him had caught her off guard, and she had reacted with instinctive defensiveness. But it was too late now to worry about regrets. She squared her shoulders as she reached for the knob of the door. "I'm fully aware of it. You even put Fontaine in danger to deliver your message tonight. If you'd been wrong in your gauging of my reaction, he very well could have been killed. You knew that and did it anyway." She glanced over her shoulder and met his eyes chal-lengingly. "What would you have done if you'd seen me take your message across the room to Naldona?"

  He returned her gaze unflinchingly. "I would have shot you," he said simply. "I had my pistol trained on you from the minute Fontaine ap­proached you. You would have been dead before you opened your lips."

  "You would have murdered me?" she whispered. "Shot me down in cold blood?"

  "I wouldn't have wanted to do it. It would have come down to a question of choices." His voice was suddenly weary. "If you had spoken to Naldona, Fontaine would have died and Naldona still would have found a way to asassinate you. If you'd died without revealing his complicity, there would have been only one death. I've had to make a number of unpleasant choices in the last two years. This would have been just one more."

  And these decisions had left their mark on him. He looked both disillusioned and soul-sick. For a fleeting instant she felt a surge of sympathy, be­fore she recognized the emotion and quickly crushed it. Good Lord, the man had said he would have shot her and she was feeling sorry for him. "You wouldn't have to make choices like that if you weren't set on becoming the great revolution­ary hero."

  "You're wrong. I have to make these choices now because I made the wrong choice two years ago. It's my hair shirt." His lips twisted. "And I have an idea you're going to be a hair shirt, too, Miss Ballard."

  He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and crossed the terrace, fading once more into the shadows.

  Alessandra drew a long, quivering breath and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them, smiled determinedly, and opened the French door. Fontaine was standing at discreet attention beside it. She nodded politely, and her smile took on added brilliance as she quietly slipped back into the ballroom.

  Two

  Lord, it was difficult to sit here and wait. Alessandra leaned back in the Queen Anne chair and tried to relax her tense muscles. She couldn't have been sitting here in the darkness as long as it seemed, or she would have turned into a doddering old lady. Her lips curved in an involuntary smile as she imagined the reaction of her would-be at­tacker if he crept into her bedroom and found himself confronting the stereotypical spunky old lady.

  Then the smile faded as she glanced critically at the bed across the room. Perhaps she should rum­ple the covers a little more. The dummy she had made with pillows looked realistic enough in the dimness, but a little disarray might—

  The door was opening!

  The turning of the knob was so quiet, she wouldn't have been able to detect it if her senses hadn't been finely tuned by the adrenaline flowing through her. The muscles in her stomach tautened painfully with fear and anticipation as she silently rose to her feet. It had been a long time. She had forgotten how frightening this mo­ment before the final commitment could be. Her hands nervously clutched the braided cord she had taken from the silk drapes at the window, as she moved to a position behind the door when it began slowly to swing open.

  Her heart was beating terribly hard. Could he hear it? Oh, Lord, what a crazy thing to wonder at a time like this. The weirdest thoughts always occurred to her when she—

  He was in the room, a small, dark shadow only a few feet away, his eyes on the lump beneath the silken coverlet of the bed. Only one man. Evi­dently Naldona had thought a single individual sufficient to murder a helpless, sleeping woman, she thought grimly.

  Something was gleaming in his hand. A knife. She had always hated the idea of a knife wound, the thin, cold blade piercing her flesh. He was hesitating. There was always a final hesitation before commitment, and eviden
tly her assassin hadn't experienced it before he opened the door. She waited. His reaction would be slower once his mind was settled on his objective. He took a step forward. Now!

  The braided cord slipped around his throat as she leaped forward. She used all her strength to tighten the cord, and heard a low gurgle as the man's breathing was stopped. His arms flailing wildly, his hands tore futilely at the cord. Oh, Lord, the hand holding the knife was rising to his throat. One slice of the cord and he'd be free! Her knee quickly burled itself in the middle of his spine as she jerked him backward. She had to end it swiftly. She held the cord taut with one hand and reached for the vase she had set on the edge of the chest by the door. The vase crashed down on the dark head. Shards of pottery flew in all directions, and the man gave a low groan. His knees buckled as he lost consciousness. She re­leased the cord while he fell to the floor.

  Alessandra stepped back, her breath coming in little gasps. It was over. She felt her muscles go limp with relief and sudden weakness. She hadn't realized just how frightened she'd been, until it—

  "Very good."

  She whirled to face the man lounging casually in the doorway.

  "Easy." Karpathan held up his hands. "I'm no threat, at the moment." She saw the flash of his teeth in the shadowy darkness of his face. "Actu­ally, after witnessing how efficiently you downed our friend, here, I'm not so sure you couldn't have handled me equally well."

  "What are you doing here?" Adrenaline was surg­ing through her veins from the shock he had given her, but she forced herself to appear calm. "You seem to wander over the palace at will. You'd think Naldona had handed you a master key."