The incandescent blue rings separating his irises from his pupils darkened, then gradually transformed. Faujer’s features shifted, growing sharper, starkly compelling. Her heartbeat raced and she struggled against the vision’s sensual pull. She didn’t know this man, had accepted no lover but Faujer. The stranger lowered his mouth to her folds and caressed her with his tongue. Shocked and intrigued she squirmed against his mouth as his gaze branded her soul.
Pleasure gathered, spiraling up through her body. Who was he? How had he intruded on her fantasy? She shook her head, unable to banish the carnal images. Hot. She felt so incredibly hot.
Mine. She heard the word clearly and her body vibrated, on the brink of orgasm. He licked and sucked her most intimate flesh, taking her to the edge again and again. Shaking, she stumbled back against the shower stall.
He raised her other leg to his shoulder and pushed into her throbbing core. Inch by glorious inch, he filled her. He drew back just as slowly and her inner muscles clenched, not wanting to let him go. Each slow, deep thrust drove the sensations higher until she feared she’d go up in flames. This was so different from anything she’d felt with Faujer. Who was ... Why ... Her thoughts scattered as pleasure burst through her abdomen. She pressed her thighs together and smothered a cry.
The vision faded, sensation receding along with the stranger’s face. She licked her lips and finger combed her hair out of her eyes. Muddled and shaky, she pushed away from the wall and turned toward the spray.
“Rinse.” She lifted her face to the cool water. What had just happened? She often had vivid dreams. Some of her dreams corresponded so closely with events that she was afraid to talk about them. Still, this was the first time a vision had taken over her mind.
Her body tingled and heat rolled across her nerve endings. Why was she so hot? She’d become adept at releasing the sexual frustration Faujer created with his selfishness. Still, none of those orgasms had began to compare with the pleasure she’d just felt.
Deactivating the shower, she grabbed a towel off the rack and searched her memory for the stranger’s identity. She had to have encountered him at some point, she simply couldn’t remember when. Pulling on a gown of shimmering jewel tones, she ran a comb through her hair and returned to the adjoining cabin.
Faujer had rolled onto his side, not bothering to pull up the covers. How would she ever be able to tolerate his careless treatment now that she knew what she was missing?
Your assignment is complete. You will bring her to me at week’s end.
Aria pressed her hands to her temples as the voice erupted in her mind. She didn’t recognize the first man, but Faujer replied, But, sir, if the crisis is past, there is no reason --
Are you questioning my orders?
She was hearing Faujer’s thoughts, no, his dreams. How was this possible?
You will deliver her to me and that’s final.
Was this why Faujer had been so eager? Was he about to give her to another man? A terrifying possibility took shape within her mind. Did the demanding voice belong to the man with the red-ringed eyes? Her mind reproduced his image with disconcerting clarity and a violent shiver shook her body.
Mine.
The room swelled in and out of focus. She grasped at Faujer’s desk, but her hand passed right through. Panic surged. She screamed, the sound lost in the building roar. Her arms flailed and her legs kicked. Rushing colors consumed reality.
I will find you, my love.
Aria sobbed. Despite the endearment, she couldn’t tell if it was a promise or a threat.
Chapter One
Silence descended on the theater as the house lights dimmed and the audience stilled. Lord Drakkin watched from his vantage point in the second row of the balcony, fascinated by the palpable excitement rippling through the crowd. A spotlight illuminated center stage and the narrator recited the prologue from William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. From this point on, each performance took on a life of its own.
The narrator finished his introduction and the massive black curtain behind him rose, revealing a bustling market scene. Colorful lights and inventive shapes lent an “alien” air to the set. Drakkin smiled. At least some human’s idea of how an alien world might look.
Two mouthy servants from the planet Capulet wended their way through the market. They exchanged sexual innuendos and thinly veiled threats mostly regarding the obscene things they’d like to do with the women of planet Montague. Drakkin shifted in his seat, anxious for the first two scenes to conclude. He wanted to see her again.
Aria, the show’s vibrant star.
Aria, the reason Drakkin had come to Earth.
This was the third time he’d watched Star-Crossed. Interaction with less-developed races held inherent risks. He needed to be sure of his information before he contacted her directly. Still, these voyeuristic encounters were frustrating at best. He needed to speak with her.
He crossed his legs and followed the action on stage, mildly amused by the lively performance. The dialogue had been updated. The elegance of the original script exchanged for conversational prose and revealing costumes. At five points during the play the audience voted, determining which course the story would take. Three options were offered each time the audience voted, so conceivably a person could watch Star-Crossed one hundred and twenty-five times and not see the same show twice.
Amid a burst of iridescent bubbles and flashing lights, the queen of planet Capulet glided onto the stage. Finally. The queen called for her daughter and a light appeared, revealing Aria standing on a platform elevated at stage right.
A noticeable hush fell over the audience. Drakkin thought himself prepared for her appearance -- after all, this was his third time -- still his heartbeat paused for a moment, then raced until blood roared through his ears. Heat washed over his body in slow, tingling waves. He shook his head and narrowed his gaze, amplifying his vision so he could see every detail.
What was it about this woman that so completely captivated him? He wasn’t the only one affected by her mystique. Tension built and movement ceased as every eye absorbed the beauty of “Juliet.”
Shimmering silver-blonde hair flowed to her waist, a scattering of mauve tendrils offering contrast to the pale mass. She grasped the pole in front of her and spiraled to the stage in a graceful swirl of silver hair and shapely legs. Her costume hugged every contour of her tall, curvaceous form. Drakkin’s body hardened with male appreciation, while a dark, protective impulse urged him to snatch her from the stage and spirit her away.
He had only seen images of a jumanna in the massive archives known as the Wisdom of the Ages. How Aria had ended up with the distinctive coloring of a Fire Pearl he had no idea. It would account for her sensual grace and mesmerizing presence, but he would have to touch her before he could determine if she possessed the rare gift or just the coloring.
She moved across the stage, her hips gently swaying. Didn’t she realize how dangerous it was to display herself so openly? Even if she wasn’t a jumanna, the Rodytes had to be searching for her. It didn’t make sense that she would be so reckless. So much of this didn’t make sense. He had lurked in the shadows long enough; it was time to take the next step.
* * * * *
Expelling a long, ragged sigh, Aria closed her dressing room door and rubbed her stinging eyes. Another VIP party. She groaned. Preston Carmichael, the director/producer of Star-Crossed, had warned her that he intended to promote the hell out of the show. She’d agreed to smile for the camera and shake hands with whomever he ushered her way so long as she could do it in character. In public, she would always appear as Juliet, ill-fated alien from the planet Capulet.
Aria claimed to have an extreme skin allergy that required her to employ a personal make-up artist. Preston shrugged off her odd routine as long as she arrived on time each day ready to take the stage. The other cast members were friendly, if a bit put off by her eccentricities.
She wiggled out of her damp costume and
slipped on a silk dressing gown. Glancing in the vanity mirror to her left, she spotted a tall, dark-haired man behind her. She cried out and spun around.
No one was there.
With her hand pressed over her thundering heart, she looked back into the mirror. Her wide-eyed reflection stared back, but she was alone in the dressing room. “You’re losing it, Juliet,” she whispered to her reflection.
A firm rap sounded at the door. Aria started, then chuckled as she turned toward the door.
“Is everything okay?” Stephanie’s familiar voice came through the panel.
“I’m fine, Mom. I just saw a mouse.” Not very imaginative, but Steph took her onstage role as her mother very seriously.
“Are you decent? Can I come in?”
Aria pulled open the door and smiled at Steph. “Those are two different questions.” Steph slipped into the dressing room and Aria closed the door.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You seemed a little off tonight.”
Steph was the closest thing to a friend Aria had found since arriving on Earth ten months before. The other performer was far more experienced and her protectiveness was endearing. Confiding in Steph had seemed easy and comfortable, at least to the point Aria was able to confide in any human.
“The dreams are getting longer and more vivid.” She tightened her belt and averted her gaze. After her erotic encounter with the stranger the day she’d teleported to Earth, she hadn’t been surprised to find him in her dreams. But the dreams were completely different from the vision. She couldn’t explain the distinction to Steph, so she’d only told her friend about the dreams. “I just need some sleep.”
“He still hasn’t spoken to you or acknowledged that you’re there?”
She shook her head, glancing back at the mirror. Had her reoccurring dream turned into a hallucination? “I feel like I’m spying on him. Seeing the same man every night would be a lot more fun if we interacted.”
“Did you call Dr. Neaman? She’s wonderful.”
The idea was utterly impossible. If Aria showed up at a psychiatrist’s office “in costume” her strange dreams would be the least of her concerns. “What would I tell her? I see random segments of a man’s life playing out in my dreams. He never speaks to me or tries to touch me --”
“But I damn sure wish he would?” Steph shook her head, a sad little smile curving her lips. “Even in your dreams you have no life. Why do you do this to yourself?” Wrapping her arm around Aria’s shoulders, Steph gave her a firm squeeze. “Several of us are going clubbing tomorrow night and you’re coming with us. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“I can’t --”
“You’re going. That’s final. Now, get a move on it. The VIPs are gathering.” Before Aria could say anything more, Steph left the dressing room.
“Perfect.” Now she would have to disappear after the show tomorrow night and that was easier said than done. Reaching across her vanity, she picked up a wide-toothed comb.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” A deep, masculine voice intruded on the quiet, gradually fading in as if some unseen hand operated a mixing board. “I didn’t realize you could see me.”
She licked her lips and shifted her gaze to the spot where the dark-haired man had been. The surface of the mirror distorted, rolling in silvery ripples as his image came back into focus. Her hand tightened around the comb and she glanced toward the door. Would Steph hear her if she screamed again?
“You don’t need to be afraid. I only want to speak with you.”
This couldn’t be real. She looked over her shoulder. The space behind her was still unoccupied, but his image remained in the mirror. “Who ... What are you?”
“A mouse, remember.” A smile parted his lips and drew her attention to his wavering features. She couldn’t see him clearly, but she knew it was him, the man who visited her every night -- no, it was more like she visited him.
The longer she stared at the image, the more detailed it became. Gleaming black hair just brushed the man’s shoulders, while three thin braids disappeared into the surrounding distortion. His features were arranged in dramatic angles and rugged planes. Her gaze lingered on his mouth, noting the full lower lip and the perfect bow of the upper. Could a man’s lips be beautiful?
If his mouth didn’t earn the distinction, his eyes certainly did. The outer mass was tinged blue, while a red ring divided his black irises from his pupils. Her mouth went dry as she remembered their first and most disconcerting encounter. Only once had the images been erotic and once wasn’t nearly enough.
Mine.
“Who -- are you?” She met his gaze, forcing calm into her tone. Was she imagining him now? That was the most rational explanation. She craved the sort of wild abandon she’d glimpsed in her vision, the consuming passion, the elemental connection.
“My name is Drakkin.” He inclined his head and the red ring in his eyes gleamed. “If I solidify behind you, will you promise not to scream?”
Get the hell out of here. The practical side of her nature urged. Surround yourself with people, then go get some sleep!
Unable to force words past her dry throat, she nodded and slowly turned around. He can’t be real. But she wanted him to be real, ached for him with every fiber of her lonely being. The argument twisted through her mind as the man took shape in front of her. His skin-tight black shirt outlined a well-defined chest and rippling abdomen. Though toned and proportionate, his body emanated strength without the bulging muscles that fascinated so many humans. The thick material of his pants was unlike anything she’d seen before. Intricately tooled, yet supple, the garment flexed with his slightest movement.
He crossed one arm over his chest and bowed from the waist. His three thin braids swung forward, brushing against her thigh. “I’m Lord Drakkin of Hautell, the central mountain region of Bilarri.” He straightened as his gaze returned to hers. “Bilarri is the planet on which I reside. Your father sent me to find you.”
I will find you, my love.
Her muddled brain scrambled for explanations as she felt the faint brush of his braids. Reaching out one trembling hand, she gave his shoulder a little push. He caught her wrist, guided her hand to his chest, and pressed her palm to his warm flesh.
“I’m real, Aria.” He covered her hand with his, staring deeply into her eyes. “We need to talk.”
Someone knocked on the door and she jumped back with a guilty start. “I’m almost ready,” she called out. “Just give me another minute.”
“The lounge is packed and the autograph hounds are yapping.” It was Preston Carmichael this time. “Don’t make them wait too long.”
“I hear and obey.” She did her best to sound playful. Had Preston noticed the tension in her voice? She couldn’t drag her gaze away from Drakkin. She’d been taught to mistrust sorcerers, to expect deceit and betrayal from anyone capable of manipulating magic. Had he sent the dreams as a sort of warning?
“I’m sorry to disappoint your adoring fans, but the autograph hounds will have to wait.” The autocratic edge in his tone was more in keeping with the images twisting through her brain. She’d watched his life for the past ten months, all the while wishing he’d notice her, talk to her, touch her.
Sweeping her into his arms, he pressed her tightly against his body. Her face tingled as the red rings in his eyes began to glow. She shoved against his chest and cried out. He turned and the dressing room followed in his wake. Twisting, bending, in an ever tightening skew, her surroundings contorted into a blur of color and sound.
Drakkin cradled Aria against his chest as he sank to the mound of furs. They had been halfway to Bilarri when she went limp against him. Her warmth and intoxicating scent had been so distracting, he’d nearly lost control of the conduit. Interdimensional travel was always tricky, but he’d also created a temporal shift. They would remain slightly out of sync with their dimension until he released the shift. Even if the Rodytes figured out where Aria had been, the temporal adjus
tment would make her all but impossible to track.
He glanced around the nenalte with a lazy smile. Despite its generous size and numerous amenities, the clever structure could be disassembled in a matter of minutes. The people of the San Adrin deserts had been nomadic for centuries. Most had since settled in permanent encampments, but they were fiercely proud of their heritage. The nenalte had been designed by necessity and refined by the inherent love of luxury all Bilarrians shared. The outer shell was densely woven for protection against the elements and durability, while brightly colored fabric and rich cloth of gold lined the interior walls.
A distinct scratching drew Drakkin’s attention toward the overlapping flaps. He only knew one other person capable of navigating a temporal shift, the person who had arranged for the nenalte to be assembled here. “Enter.”
The man bent nearly in half as he eased through the low opening. “I thought I felt your arrival.”
Drakkin smiled at Indric, Prince Regent of the San Adrin. “I appreciate your hospitality.”
“You’re always welcome in my camp and you know it. Of course, you’re not actually in my camp yet.”
“I’ll repeat the greeting when I am.”
Indric bowed his head, sending his gold-threaded black hair flowing over one broad shoulder. “If you keep entrusting me with your women, I might start thinking you have no use for them.”
“I trust you implicitly, and neither of these women belongs to me.”
“Really?” He stroked his close-cropped beard and gazed off into the distance.
“Krystabel needs peace and security. I believed she could find them among your people. Was I wrong to bring her here?”
Indric’s gaze snapped back to his. “You insult me with the question.”
“There was more than passing curiosity in your tone.”
One corner of Indric’s mouth quirked, but he ignored the observation. “If this one does not belong to you either, why have you brought her here? Your message didn’t elaborate.”
Star-Crossed Page 10
