by Jackie Ivie
“Good eve to you, kind sir.”
Officer Munson curtsied and tapped his arm with her fan, trying to gain attention. It wasn’t working. Eleanor was a Special Investigator assigned to the PP & SS division, as was Rachel. Tracking down Predatory Pedophiles and prosecuting Sexual Slavers was the mission. Eleanor was good at her job. Unfortunately, she wasn’t endowed with much bosom, and she was barely shoulder height on Rachel. She had been blessed with spectacular legs, however. She’d gone undercover as a dancer/stripper before and pulled it off. Not tonight. Apparently, great legs were not a feature they cared about in the Middle Ages.
And right then, Rachel saw him.
Forty five, my ass.
A man emerged from between the shadow cast by two tents: one, a smoked turkey-leg vendor doing a brisk business, the other, a seller of beaded paraphernalia who looked bored. Rachel narrowed her eyes. The potential target looked about mid-twenties. Five-six maybe. Pudgy, if the amount of chin was any indicator. He was dressed in black and orange, diamond-patterned pants and a matching jacket. She’d have ignored him if he hadn’t been engrossed in scanning the area. He wasn’t looking for anyone tall, either. His gaze was checking for little people.
Young, little people.
Good thing. He’d have caught her studying him.
He had a vague resemblance to the photo on file, although she couldn’t tell hair color and baldness through his joker hat with three pointy things that actually appeared to have bells at the ends. From general appearance, it looked like he hadn’t sent a stranger’s photo to her. He’d sent one of his father.
“And your companion? The oh-so-luscious lady?”
“Luscious?”
Eleanor answered. Good thing. Hooker Boots demonstrated meaning by performing the universal sign for large tits with his hands before his chest. If Rachel had been involved in the conversation, she’d have seriously considered shock treatment. Electrifying Hooker Boots with a taser actually sounded like a viable option. Except she’d lose track of her man.
And hell. With her luck, the crew stationed at the back of the admittance tent was filming this.
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. We’re going to be busy.” Eleanor told him.
“How about tomorrow evening?”
“Busy.”
“The day after?”
“Yes. Busy then, too.”
“Both of you?”
“Well. Yes. We’ll always be busy. That’s what happens with lesbians, honey.”
Rachel snorted and turned her head back slightly...just enough that she could still watch the joker between the tents, and pretend to pay attention to Eleanor as she lopped an arm about Rachel’s waist.
“Oh, really?”
Shit. If anything, Hooker Boots sounded even more intrigued. His next words proved it.
“You wouldn’t consider a ménage-a-trois, would you?”
Eleanor laughed. She didn’t sound amused. Rachel caught her tongue between her teeth and stuck her chin forward. Oh. Cuffs and electric shock were too good. What Hooker Boots really needed was a Karate back-knuckle blow. That might teach him some manners.
Wait. Their potential pedophile had moved back, encasing his body again in shadow. He was still there, however. Torchlight was glinting off one of his hat bells.
“Beat it, buddy. Okay?” Eleanor had completely lost any humor. Hooker Boots didn’t seem to catch it.
“Is that a no?”
“It’s a no, and then it’s punctuated with a hell no. You need to move on before I get annoyed. Got it?”
He must’ve understood. Rachel didn’t move her head to check. She took a step toward the bead-seller’s tent, surreptitiously keeping an eye on the tell-tale glint of joker’s bells.
“Can you believe the nerve of—oh! Baby. Abs.”
“What?” Rachel asked.
“Abs. Abs. Holy shit. I am looking at abs to die for. Are you blind?”
“Could you stop man-watching for half a second?”
Rachel took another slow, measured step toward the court jester’s hiding spot. This was workable. She could pretend to look toward the beaded ware, while keeping their man in line of sight. Eleanor didn’t make the same move. Her arm tightened around Rachel’s waist.
“Rachel? Seriously. Rachel?”
“You want me to—?”
Rachel’s words stopped. Her jaw dropped. Literally. Her view got completely cut off by six-foot-five of absolute god. And somebody looked like he’d gotten the attire right. The man who’d blocked her was dressed in low slung dark trousers that didn’t do much to hide anything, leather shoulder things that just made him look broader, armored shin guards on his lower legs, and a sword that looked not only authentic, but pretty deadly, as well. Munson hadn’t been fibbing about his physique, either. His abs were truly amazing. That was before she factored in his pecs. Arms. And an upward look got her a view of a face that stole what breath she’d gained.
Rachel’s eyes went wide. It felt like someone had sucker punched her. Her breasts got a massive dose of tingling. For the first time she appreciated exactly why nobody wore a bra back then, even if they could have. The sensation of real linen as it rubbed against her nipples transferred all the way through her. It even weakened her knees so that she wobbled momentarily before catching it.
Tall, dark, and handsome was a cliché. And it wasn’t remotely accurate. There was handsome, and then there was holy shit gorgeous. And then he added to the effect by stabbing the tip of his sword into the ground at the edge of her skirt, and going to a knee. That position, one knee raised, and both hands about the sword hilt, gave her a fantastic view of massive shoulders and arms, muscular pecs, and jaw-dropping abs. Rachel put a hand to her bosom to hold back the sigh. That even felt right.
She probably looked exactly like a model for a renaissance painting.
His head was just above waist-level. Receding hair was not an issue. He had a full head of gorgeous hair. And then he looked up and caught her in a rapt gaze. Buzzing filled her ears, as if someone had tased her or something. Eyes the same shade as his hair locked with hers for heart-stopping moments.
She’d never felt like this.
She’d never seen such depth.
His eyes were magnetic. Enthralling. Hypnotic. She forgot everything about her purpose. The assignment. Everything. And then he spoke, putting such an amazing depth of voice into the area, the entire world seemed to stop and listen.
“My lady. I have found you. Finally.”
Oh. Holy shit was not even close.
“You might as well give up, man. She’s a lesbian!”
Hooker Boots called it from somewhere. And before Rachel could rebut it, the clear and distinct sound of a cry split the area – a young, nine-year-old boy sound of cry.
CHAPTER FOUR
“My name’s not Jamie! Help!”
Whatever spell had been cast, the cry for help broke it. Rachel moved instantly, hiking her skirts up with one hand, and grabbing at her hennin with the other. She took off for the shadowy area. There was a boy standing there, wrapped in the arms of a woman – presumably his mother – Rachel wasn’t stopping. Munson could find out details, because the area was now empty of their man.
Shit.
Rachel sprinted between the tents, emerging into the shadow-land separating one row of vendor tents from the next. Back here, it was a different world. And it wasn’t well-lit. The tents didn’t have the bright stripes on their back sides. They all looked to be dull and dark. The nearest exit was on her left. She almost went that way. A flash of orange and black patterned attire caught her eyes, sending her the other direction. He was avoiding the closest escape? That was short-sighted and stupid of him. Munson had probably already sent the signal, and every exit was already blocked by police.
Then again, they wouldn’t know they were chasing a chubby court jester.
And he was winning. The skirts were getting soggy. That made them heavier. Unwieldy. She was ready to rip
the cone off her head and to hell with the hair she might lose, and the corset about her waist was crippling. And then she tripped over a tent line.
She didn’t fall far.
The gorgeous guy who’d been worshipping at her feet caught her about the waist and the next moment she was wrapped in an arm, held against his side. The other hand held that sword. And double holy shit. She hadn’t even seen him move. They were still moving as well – with a speed that meshed the wall of tents into one long blur.
“Who are we chasing?” he asked at her ear.
“Joker. Orange...and black...outfit.”
She sounded incoherent to her own ears. It wasn’t her fault. If she had access to breath, she’d have made sense. He looked up, craning his neck, and then he nodded. Rachel was set on her feet with a jolt and leaned against a utility, wire-bearing, light pole. Who the hell puts a light pole in the back alley of a renaissance faire? And why the hell couldn’t they have seen the lights at the top illuminated? Probably wouldn’t match the authenticity rule. She barely had time to grab it for stability before Sir Gorgeous was gone. A blink of time later she heard a distinct cry of pain coming from the murky area at least three tents beyond her.
“Wait! Don’t kill him!”
Rachel was on the move again, not even questioning why such a warning would be necessary. She just knew. And when she finally rounded the last tent, it was more than obvious, even in what light hit the scene. Sir Gorgeous was dangling Joker-Guy by one leg, his big-ass sword was aimed for the perp’s bowel-area, and that fellow was blubbering something about mercy.
“Mercy! Please! Don’t kill me! Mercy!”
Rachel parroted the words, although hers came in a breathless, ‘come-hither’ voice she didn’t know she owned. It was the corset’s fault. Damn thing. Even if they were sexier than hell, she wasn’t wearing one again. She was out of breath, and had a painful stitch in her left side. She shoved a hand there and pressed, while the other fished in a pocket for her cuffs.
“Don’t kill...him,” she repeated.
Sir Gorgeous looked across at her and lifted the perp about a foot higher. “You want him alive?”
“Not...really.”
The sword moved, flashing a pinprick of light from some source beyond the moonlit alley. Screw the cuffs. Rachel threw herself at Sir Gorgeous’ sword arm, and held on. The stitch in her side sent an arc of fire through her, and even that didn’t cancel out how direct contact with this man felt. Wow. Her fingers wrapped about his upper arm as if she wanted to caress an excellent example of a sculpted bicep.
“Don’t...kill him,” she whispered.
“You tell him, lady!”
“Shut up,” Rachel looked at the perp before returning to his captor. “Look. You need...to put him down. Okay?”
“Now?”
“Well...soon. I’ve got...to cuff...him. Get...somebody...to read his rights. Or whatever legalities...are required in this shire.”
She still sounded like she was whispering sexually charged words. No wonder he acted like he didn’t understand. He simply stood there, holding up approximately two hundred pounds of struggling human, while gazing at her with those bottomless dark eyes. Rachel was snagged. And from somewhere in her auditory range, buzzing started up again. She barely managed to escape the weird sense of enthrallment by turning her head, averting her gaze to a tent beside her. She removed her hands next, one after the other. Her fingers were even tingling. She’d never felt such an overwhelming sense of alertness.
She had to step back. Get some space between them. Find her wits. Get her libido back where it belonged: under her control. Rachel put her hand against her side again and leaned into it. The corset actually gapped a bit at the pressure. She couldn’t get a deep breath, but it was better than before. She bought more time by licking her lips.
“Well, you heard the lady. Release me.”
The perp moved upward with a quick motion. A moment later he was in a heap on the ground. Immobile. Rachel’s mouth went as wide as her eyes.
“You...killed him?”
Damn everything. She didn’t sound appalled and shocked. Her statement was more in the breathless and excited range.
“No.”
He sheathed his sword into a scabbard at his back. She knew what was happening because the vague image of his shadow on the ground. She didn’t watch. She didn’t dare see all that muscle in action. She was actually afraid to look up at him again.
“Look. Thanks, Mister...uh. I don’t even know your name.”
Her words were jumbled and her hands didn’t work properly. She stuck them in her pockets, and didn’t bring out cuffs. She’d fished out her taser from her thigh holster. Rachel moved it back and forth in her hand, wondering why nothing was making sense.
Why stun.
It sounded like he’d said something. She looked down at the weapon she held. Oh. Their guy was already out. No wonder he asked.
“Because I didn’t bring my gun, okay?”
She dared a glance upward. His brows were drawn together in a semi-frown. That look caused a tremor throughout her back, down her legs, and it seemed to even make it through the tight ankle boots. Holy shit! She’d never come up against such solid sex appeal. In one package. She returned to looking at the taser in her hand.
“I do not understand your reply,” he answered.
“Look. I’m not from around here. I’m from New York. I’m here, uh...helping with an assignment. And I don’t piss in somebody else’s pool.” And she was getting her breath back. Nice.
It took some time before he answered. She had plenty of time to look over her stun gun. Trigger. Electrical wiring.
“I do not understand that, either.”
“You asked why I stun people. I’m answering. I don’t act as judge, jury, and executioner. That’s somebody else’s department. I only arrest them and move on. As far as I know, this is an alleged sexual predator, and I’m putting the emphasis on alleged, got it?”
He moved closer, blocking out every bit of light. And then his index finger went beneath her chin and lifted her to face him again. And oh shit. Her knees actually wobbled.
“You misunderstood. I gave you my name. Wystan.”
Okay. She had to be hearing it wrong. She could blame the buzzing that had restarted the longer she locked eyes with him. Who named their kids such weird-ass names? Then again, what did she know? This was Britain. That name might be perfectly normal.
“Why-stun?”
“Yes. Wystan Ryn de Crecy.”
He let go of her chin and stepped back in order to execute a slight bow. It probably resembled the one Hooker Boots had done, but it looked a hell of a lot sexier. That was probably due to those low-slung pant-things he was wearing, and that spectacular physique. And she really had to get her mouth moving. Rachel cleared her throat.
“Okay. Wystan. Well. I’m Rachel. Rachel Berne. And...I’m going to do you a favor. Something completely against protocol.”
“What is it?”
“Disappear. Now.”
“Disappear?”
“Unless you like police procedure. Paperwork. Questioning. Lots of long hours in a cold room. That kind of thing.”
“Is that where you are going?”
Oh...sweet. That sounded like he might be interested. Maybe not as much as her, but things could be worse. Rachel couldn’t believe she was thinking along this line. One should not hook-up over the body of an unconscious perpetrator. It just didn’t feel right. She shoved the taser into a pocket and searched about for cuffs. And got nothing. How the hell could she have dropped them?
“I...don’t have firm plans, actually,” she finally replied.
“Ah. Good. You are free.”
“Look. Maybe you could just give me your number. I’ll call you.”
“I do not have a number.”
“You don’t have a cell?” Or...maybe you are just saying no?
“No.”
Well. That proved it. He
was saying no. Rachel’s belly actually fell at the rejection. And the guy at their feet punctuated the surreal scene by groaning and doing a slight roll.
“You need to secure him,” Sir Gorgeous pointed out.
“Yeah. I know. But...I sort of lost my cuffs.” Geez. If the London guys at the attendance booth found out, they’d never cease teasing her over it, too.
“Then, I will stay.”
“Berne! You in there somewhere?”
Eleanor’s floated through the alley, sounding like she was about two tents away. Wystan turned his head toward the sound.
“Ah. The other woman arrives. She will have the means to secure him?”
“No doubt.”
“Then I shall leave you, most fair lady. But not for long.”
He lifted her hand and touched a kiss to her knuckles and disappeared. There was no other word for it. One moment she was looking at six-foot-five male, and the next there was just dark empty space. And then there was Eleanor Munson’s face.
And sanity.
CHAPTER FIVE
“You’ve reached VAL Headquarters...where death really does come at a price. Ours. Nigel speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“Is Akron in?”
“Oh. Look. It’s Sir Galahad again. Let me guess. You need another rescue. More women are chasing you down.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Hey. I just read a book on Arthurian legend, and quite frankly, you should be flattered. Galahad was their purest knight. The most noble. The most—”
“Galahad was celibate, Nigel,” Akron’s voice interrupted.
“Exactly! Celibate. Just like—oh, crap! It’s you, sir. Ahem. I was just about to contact you. De Crecy is on the line again.”
