Parallel Seduction

by Deidre Knight

  "Then don't!" She lifted a weak hand to his shoulder. "We'll be all right."

  He seemed about to reply, but then turned toward the tent entrance where a dark figure had stepped in beside them. A doctor perhaps? Someone to deliver the baby? She'd never seen the man before in her life, and Scott raised his pistol, leaping to his feet right over her where she lay.

  "Drop your weapon!" Scott shouted, and the dark, hulking stranger lifted both palms.

  "I mean no harm." His voice was rich and thick and deep. "I can help her."

  Scott circled the other man, glancing up and down his form, and then, as if in slow motion, turned back to face Hope. "Trust him," he said softly. "Trust Jakob Tierny. Go with him when he appears."

  Hope struggled to sit up, shouting, and found herself not in the tent, but right within her small cot of a bed down in the bottom sector of the Refarians' Base Ten.

  Trust Jakob Tierny. She had no idea who that man was, or why Scott would be urging her to go with him. What she did know, however, was that when they'd been on Warren, he'd spoken to her in a dream then, warning of Earth's imminent attack. And his words had been totally true.

  Hope shook her head, thankful that the poker game next door had apparently ended, and wondered—almost prayed—Who is Jakob Tierny?

  Chapter Three

  Chris Harper's supervisor eyed him warily. "You have no evidence whatsoever to support this theory of yours." Special Agent Blake Miles leaned back in his chair. "Those barracks were decimated, and that's our last ID on your sister."

  But his twin had survived the blast; Chris had known it from the beginning of her disappearance, having felt their familiar, humming connection that always seemed to flow between them. And today he'd actually sensed Hope reach toward him.

  "She's alive—gotten in over her head, but I know she's okay. Well, at least okay enough to still be breathing and walking around somewhere on this planet of ours."

  Blake was a friend, had been for a few years now, and it was that cautious blend of comradeship and professionalism that cast a shadow across the other man's face. "What proof, Harper? You've got to give me something solid here, anything, and I can run it up the pole. But hoodoo spooky voodoo? I can't do a goddamned thing with that."

  Chris raked a hand through his spiky hair; like every other guy within the bureau, he followed the unofficial "look." He could recognize a fellow agent anywhere: The uniform was nondescript, yet obvious to anyone inside their FBI-tainted tent.

  "I don't have concrete evidence," Chris tried to explain. "It's just the way she and I have always known each other. We're connected."

  Blake shifted folders on his desk, shaking his head. "Then we're stuck. Not one thing I can do to help you."

  Chris leaped to his feet, pacing the small office. "Do you have a body? Do you have any DNA evidence that she died back there at Warren?" He eyed his boss, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, but of course no answers were forthcoming. "Maybe you do, and you can't say. Maybe it's all need-to-know, but I don't think so. I'm betting that you don't have shit to make your case that my sis died in that blast."

  "We're chasing bigger leads here, Harper. Come on. Do you really think headquarters cares what happens to one of their linguists? They're only interested in pinning down this Refarian leader, Jared Bennett. Anything else is a waste of time in their minds, and I'm sorry, but that includes your sister's whereabouts and wellbeing."

  Chris ceased his pacing, planting both hands on Blake's desk. "And what if I told you that my gut says she's totally tied up with Bennett now? What would you say then?"

  Blake assessed him carefully, leaning back in his government-issue chair. "I'd say that you'd better have more to go on before asking me to go to D.C. about it."

  "You've listened to the tapes of her with Scott Dillon. You heard their conversations. She was taken in by that alien. Hell! She decided to help him. You don't think she wouldn't have gotten embroiled in this mess?"

  Blake chuckled, giving a knowing shake of his head: He knew Hope better than most of their fellow agents in this office, because he'd been briefly involved with her a year earlier. Although their relationship had hit an almost immediate dead end, Chris had always suspected that Blake still had feelings for her.

  Blake gave him a grudging grin. "I think Hope would chase her ass around the moon if she thought she could stir up trouble," he said. "That sister of yours likes to prove her mettle. Her illness seems to demand it."

  Chris folded both arms over his chest, nodding. "There you have it. She's in this thing, Blake. In it deep and crappy. It's totally her style, but she's put herself in the line of fire this time, and no matter what we think about what transpired at Warren"—every one of them who'd been there that day agreed that the Refarians had saved their asses—"she's not where she's supposed to be."

  Blake cocked back in his chair, studying him with a look that came from long experience. "What're you gonna do, Chris? I need to know so I can plan accordingly."

  He rubbed his eyebrow, thinking. He hadn't the first idea of a good strategy for finding his twin, but he did know she would eventually contact him. "Sit and wait. That's the only thing I can do—that, and be ready when she gets in touch. Her cell's been off ever since, but I'm sure she's got it, and eventually she'll power up that bad boy. We can triangulate her position when she does."

  And she would reach for him; in their oddball, shared way of talking inside their minds, she would eventually get in too deep and try to connect with him. Chris knew it beyond anything else that had happened over the past few days. His sis could never disconnect from him for very long.

  "I'm not reporting a thing back to headquarters." Blake stared past him. "We'll wait and see what she does."

  Chris nodded. "We'll see what she does, sure, but I already know what she's gonna do. At least eventually. And that's contact me. When that happens, we've got our lead right to those alien soldiers and to Jared Bennett."

  Scott was a beautiful man when he slept. In fact, he was beautiful all the time, and Hope didn't have to be fully sighted to realize that fact. She didn't dare touch his face, but as she kept watch over him during his sleep—really, more of a prolonged nap, since it was about lunchtime—she did risk feeling his arm, just sliding her fingertips up and down the warm skin. His arms had silky hairs on them, and she pictured how they must be black, like the hair on his head. As she stroked higher she felt bulky, hard muscle; his was a soldier's body, hardened from battle and training, not the pretty-boy bodies you would see in a gym. She could tell just from feeling him that he'd pushed himself against every limit he could find, and for a long time. The results were that he was lean and hard and absolutely gorgeous.

  She stood, bending over him. It was too dark in the room to make out any details about his face, but she sure did try. She deigned to stretch one fingertip and touch his mouth; he had a full, lush bottom lip and a thinner top one. A man's mouth, but with a touch of succulent danger, that hint of softness that betrayed so much hardness to back it up. She pushed her face just a tiny bit closer, catching his scent, and ached for her lost eyesight. Just to be able to see him … well, she'd do anything to know what he really looked like. So she did what she could, and that was lean in just a little bit closer.

  And right when she had her face within a few inches of his … he moaned. Loudly, shifting his hips around beneath the bed sheet, and for a split second she froze—like some thief in a spy movie caught in the bank vault. Slowly she began to back away, but her sweater didn't budge at all; stupidly, she'd managed to catch it on his bedrail, and so she found herself trapped, leaning right over him.

  Scott practically purred, releasing a soft groan that was a slow, sensual sound of pleasure. "Oh, yeah, sweetheart. Yeah, yeah." His voice grew much louder, and he moaned. "Just like that, yeah!"

  She heard his hips rustling beneath the sheet, then swore—absolutely swore—she heard him stroking himself. The man was a sexual freaking dynamo; if he did this in
his sleep, what was he like when awake?

  "Hope." He sighed her name, his rhythm beneath the sheets increasing. "Oh, Hooooope, oh, yeah. Love it, umm." And then he laughed in a downright wicked way. "You're my little wildcat, aren't you, Harper?"

  She clamped a hand over her mouth. Oh, my God! Oh, my God! This is me he's having sex with!

  Glancing all around in panic, she tugged and tugged on her sweater sleeve, but it just wasn't going to come loose. It had married itself to some part of his rail or medical equipment, and of course she couldn't see what the problem really was. She could jerk her sweater away, but he'd probably wake up and realize she'd been hovering over him while he was practically having an orgasm while whispering her name. And for all she knew, she'd yank out some medically vital piece of monitoring equipment, too. No, she had to proceed using all her FBI training, no matter how mortified she might be.

  "Hope, baby." His bed creaked loudly beneath him, the sheet sliding and moving—Scott sliding and moving along with it. He began thrusting his hips, and as the motion grew eager, Hope burned with an erotic mixture of lust and embarrassment.

  Was he having that dream about the wall? That was her particular favorite, the way he pushed her up against it, and kept her suspended with her legs wrapped about him. But it was the way he took her in that dream, the zero doubt about what he wanted or could deliver sexually that drove her craziest of all.

  She sighed dreamily, but then suppressed a groan upon realizing that, yeah, Scott probably was dreaming about that damn wall right now. In fact, he was obviously having a mind-bending sexual experience—with her, no less—while she basically played voyeur to the whole damned thing. The situation was totally messed up.

  All right, I've gotta do something about this. I'm stuck here; he's loose right there, and he's going to bust me for catching all this once his sexual fireworks go off.

  Stepping as far away as she could—which was only about two steps backward—she let her sweater sleeve stretch as much as it would, then gave one more tug, and it ripped free. And so did Scott's shout, a roaring freight train of annoyance.

  "Hey! What's going on?" He barked as if commanding his troops mid-firefight.

  "You were asleep." Finally free to move, she sank innocently into the seat beside him, masking her arousal and embarrassment. She might not be able to read facial expressions, but a military guy like Dillon undoubtedly made a habit of it.

  "Hope?" She could hear him scrub a hand over his hair; then, the sheet rustled as he shifted uneasily in bed. It was as if he were trying to figure out what had transpired—or, far more likely, what part of his actions she'd just managed to witness.

  Finally, he chuckled low in his throat, a husky, sensual sound that made her nipples tighten. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

  "Excuse me?" The flush on her face intensified like mad. She folded her arms across her chest, shifted, and then folded them again.

  He gave an amused snort. "I'm told I'm loud in bed, that's what. I'm assuming—based on your completely guilty posture—that you were more than slightly aware of my most recent dreamland escapades."

  "I didn't mean to be," she admitted with a quiet laugh.

  He laughed, too, a faraway sound in his voice. "Some dream about being in the berth of a battle cruiser, standing in front of this giant window, looking out at the stars. Your hands were splayed against the glass, I had you from behind"—he sighed, and she got the idea he was demonstrating—"just like this .…"

  She waved a hand to get him to shut up. "I haven't had that one yet; how about you let me just discover it on my own? Okay? Sounds perfectly fabulous, but I'd rather not experience it secondhand."

  "None of it's secondhand." His bed creaked, and his voice shifted as he wrestled closer toward her. "We lived these visions and dreams—you do realize that, right? That they're from a parallel world, an alternate future. We have this weapon, the mitres, that allows for time travel. It also opens dimensional space, and it's been used twice recently."

  She nodded. "I know; Kelsey explained it to me. That you had someone come through time from the future, and that he altered things. So what we both keep seeing from that original timeline doesn't necessarily exist—those future events, I mean—not since your people used the mitres. The past is a fixed certainty, but the future is a gray area. It's unmapped and constantly in flux, affected by what we do right now. Here, today."

  "Man, you're good; that's better than I'd have explained it myself, and I've been inside the damnable thing."

  "Don't be too impressed. A lot of that was Kelsey talking just now. And I'm not saying I totally get it; I definitely don't know what it means for this version of me or .…" She hesitated, feeling shy and blind and awkward. But then closing her eyes, whispered, "Or for us, Scott. I don't know how it all affects me right now."

  "Oh, sweetheart." Scott's smile was evident in his voice, unmistakable and reassuring. "We were amazing, rock-hard, and unstoppable lovers in that future. We were. But whatever happens between us from here on"—he reached out and stroked her hair—"that's still to be determined. But personally? I'm all for bringing that future to pass. You've seen exactly what I can give you, and trust me, I want to be inside a lot more than just your dreams."

  She shook him off. "Oh, good grief! You have just way too much sexual self-confidence." She rubbed at her burning cheeks. "That must come naturally to your species or something."

  He yanked at the covers. "Nah, it's just me and my basic love of sex. And why not love it? It's a fabulous indulgence when the rest of my life is all fighting and war and strategy. Sex with a good woman … well, it's one of the best pleasures in life. More to the point, I particularly love bedding human women whenever I can."

  "You're making me feel so special." She actually felt a little bit hurt.

  He jerked in the bed, coming back to himself. "Hope, I'm not saying you aren't different—exceptional."

  "You're saying you love bedding my species—any female of my kind."

  He sighed, all his sparring and repartee gone. "You need to know about my past; I figured I had to be honest, so you would know, not catch it around here as rumor or hearsay. I've been driven—and seriously I do mean driven—to couple with human women. I've begun to think it's some kind of strange mating urge."

  She gulped. "A mating urge? What do you mean?"

  "Look, we'll talk about all of this later. But my past is my past, Hope—just like those images are some alternate kind of past, something our other selves lived before. But right now I'm talking with you about here and now and what you mean to me."

  She caught his hand as he stopped stroking her hair, and pressed it to her cheek. "Tell me what I mean to you."

  "You saved my life, Hope, for one thing, but it's way more than that—and it's more than how well I'm getting to know you from these dreams and images."

  She finished for him. "We have a baby in the future." They'd talked about it at Warren, but she wasn't sure he remembered. "I saw you kissing my stomach."

  He caressed her cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers. "I know … I saw that, too. I even heard her name. Leisa. That was my mother's name."

  "Have you actually seen our daughter in any of those visions?" Her throat went dry; she'd yet to see their baby girl, and if he described the child, she knew she would probably burst into tears.

  "Not yet." His voice grew quiet, pensive. "And maybe that future isn't necessarily what we're going to live, but what I guess I'm trying to tell you, Hope, is this—we're not in an ordinary dating scenario here. I don't see or feel a lot of reason to go slow. I want to get out of this crap hole as soon as I can, and make love to you for real. I want to show you what I can do to you, how I can make you scream my name, and more than that, I want to get to know you, really know you."

  Well, there wasn't a lot a girl could say to argue with that plan. Except he had to get well and give it time, and she knew he didn't want to do that. "You've got to heal up first,
Scott." She slipped a hand onto his forearm, stroking the soft tickling of hairs she'd felt earlier.

  Scott closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her hand against his arm, feeling the hard-on between his legs grow even harder. A part of him even felt that he was still on that battle cruiser, driving up inside of her.

  "This is going to take some time," she told him resolutely.

  He cut his eyes sideways at her; her golden hair was shoulder-length and shimmered in the lights of his monitors. Day or night, this room was like a dungeon, and down here belowground there weren't any windows to allow in light. The medics had been encouraging him to sleep, and it wasn't a situation that made him happy, on any level.

  "I'm not an invalid, Harper, and I've got to get out of this place very soon."

  She gave her head a light shake, blinking as she glanced at him. "Do you think I'm an invalid just because I'm going blind? Because I have diabetes?"

  "Of course not." He scowled, not quite understanding her leap in logic. "I'm talking about me and this damnable hospital bed."

  "Then why should I, or anyone else, think that you're an invalid just because you almost died? You did almost die, Lieutenant, and maybe that's what you can't quite wrap your brain around. To get better, it's just going to take time."

  He blew out a long, frustrated sigh. "Patience is for pussies."

  She bent forward in her chair, chewing on her lip, and seemed to be gathering her thoughts. It was an expression he'd seen on her face a lot during his days at Warren. While he was held there, she'd been his translator. Of course, he spoke fluent English, but he hadn't let on about that fact to his captors, needing to protect himself any way that he could. They'd brought Hope in on his case after she'd spent months studying the Refarian language on FBI intercepts. Her beautiful way with his native tongue had allowed the two of them to form a private thread of communication that the Air Force couldn't interpret. She'd championed him during his captivity, worked so hard to help him—and to bridge the distance between himself and the USAF.