by Ann Lawrence
She swallowed a laugh. He looked so adorably earnest. “Yes, the Seat of Wishes will take you wherever your heart desires, as long as you are pure of heart. Now move it. I’ll melt if we don’t get out of this rain.”
“Melt?”
His voice dropped, and he examined her in a way that made her feel hot but at the same time naked and exposed.
“Come on.” She grabbed his arm and hauled him into the Music Pier. She took his cloak and tossed it behind the blue-and-gold stage curtain with her own coat and Neil’s leather jacket.
Moisture beaded Vad’s hair like a dusting of tiny diamonds. With Vad facing as he was now, to the rear of the Music Pier, staring at the huge, roiling waves, she could not see his damaged cheek, and for a moment he looked just like who he said he was…the warrior from Tolemac Wars II. He must be the model for the character. But she imagined when he’d signed on for this practical joke, he hadn’t expected it to go on so long. It probably paid really well, though. Her friends were richer than a Tolemac councilor.
A fleeting thought, that he would not need to camp in her game booth overnight if he was paid well, was quickly replaced by another thought when he turned her way.
Maybe he was mentally ill. Maybe he really thought he was the warrior. A strong protective instinct overcame her. There was something vulnerable about him.
An hour later, Gwen rocked back and forth on her heels as she surveyed her ball. It was more than successful; it was a megahit. Despite the downpour outside, the ballroom was wall-to-wall people, or creatures and Tolemac free folk, if you went by costumes alone.
“He’s great, isn’t he?” Gwen asked Neil. “I thought he’d be completely overwhelmed by the women. But he’s just taken it all in stride. He’s so charming. No matter how many of them want his autograph or want a photograph, he obliges.”
Neil nodded. “Yeah, I guess they have photo shoots in Tolemac all the time. But if he takes another step back, he’ll be cornered. And he keeps touching and turning the programs like he’s never seen paper before.”
Neil crossed his arms and leaned on the edge of the stage. His costume consisted of the clothes he’d worn that day to work—black jeans and a T-shirt. There was no getting Neil into warrior garb—or out onto the dance floor. Her gaze went to Vad again. She swayed and hummed to the music—a Celtic piece, mournful and somehow alluring. “Vad hasn’t danced yet, has he?”
Neil shook his head. “Somehow he doesn’t look like the dancing kind.” He took her glass of punch and sniffed it. “How many cups of this have you had?”
“It’s great, isn’t it? Who made it? There’s this spicy hint of—”
“It’s spiked. Or it was,” he said. “I took care of it, but some wicked warrior added a little extra ingredient.”
“Oops. I hope we don’t get arrested.” A giggle bubbled in her throat. “Imagine R. Walter storming in here and arresting us for spiked mead or ale or whatever we’re pretending it is.”
“Yeah, well, Ocean City is dry—and R. Walter will never believe you didn’t know the punch was spiked. Now, how many cups have you had? You’re grinning like a fool.”
“I only had maybe four…maybe eight cups.”
“You’ll feel great in the morning!” He shook his head and stalked off with her cup.
Mrs. Hill took his place. Her long blonde wig and two silver arm rings proclaimed her a Tolemac free woman of rank. “Vad is such a doll, isn’t he?” she chirped.
“Yep.” Gwen smiled. Mrs. Hill’s cheeks were flushed a hectic red.
“I don’t think he’s used to giving autographs, though.”
“No.”
“He gave me the most wonderful recipe for hart stew.”
Gwen coughed. “He gave you a recipe? That’s a new one.”
“Oh, yes, although he was a bit sheepish about it. Cooking is women’s work in Tolemac, you know. Of course, he told me quite sternly that one should never take the meat of the white hart.” Mrs. Hill’s voice was a grave imitation of Vad’s.
“Oh, of course not, not the white hart.”
“Strange, he’s never heard of turmeric. I used to make quite a venison stew myself when Kurt, my husband, hunted, and I always used a touch of turmeric. By the way, your costume is gorgeous! You’re the ice woman, aren’t you?”
“Yes, do you really like it?” Gwen felt inordinately pleased. She’d spent hours on the costume. For once, she felt almost beautiful in the billowy layers of silk.
Mrs. Hill nodded approval. “I love it. I never quite understood the ice woman’s role in the game. She’s just a suggestion, a swirl of snow and ice. Somehow you’ve made her into a living, breathing entity.” She adjusted one of the many jagged layers of Gwen’s gown. “And how’s Neil doing? Is his mother still recovering from her accident?”
“Yes,” Gwen said. She was not going to discuss Neil’s mother with Mrs. Hill. Everyone in Ocean City knew Mrs. Scott had driven into a bridge abutment of the Garden State Parkway and had had a blood alcohol level way over the legal limit. Unfortunately it wasn’t her first DWI.
“I know she’s had skin grafts and God knows what done, poor woman.”
His mother’s history of problems had made Neil quit graduate school and return to Ocean City in the first place—this latest tragedy merely meant he was home indefinitely. Neil always turned the conversation when it veered toward his widowed mother and her accident. What a pair they made—both unable to deal with their family problems.
“And remind me to introduce you to that Gulap over there,” Mrs. Hill said sotto voce. “He’s single and making a very good living.”
Gwen groaned. The man Mrs. Hill indicated, dressed as a leopard-like Tolemac creature, was three times Gwen’s size—around the middle.
“It’s time you married again, you know. Time for some babies!”
Tears filled Gwen’s eyes. What chance had she of having her own children? She needed a husband for that. She needed to fall in love before she could have a husband, and she never wanted to take a chance on love again.
She’d loved twice. R. Walter had defected with her sister, and Bob… She didn’t want to think about Bob. It’s just the punch making me maudlin, she decided, and surreptitiously wiped her eyes. “Thanks for the offer, Mrs. Hill. But I’m really not in the market for a husband. I’m quite happy by myself.”
“Nonsense. Look at your sister. Two boys and a third on the way.”
A third on the way. She hadn’t known Pam was expecting. “I’ve got to go, Mrs. Hill.” For a moment the room spun, and she felt the full effects of her cups of spiked punch.
“Oh, stand still,” a woman of almost six feet cried. She aimed a camera at Gwen and fired off a few shots. The chief photographer for Video Game magazine, Liz Williams, bore down on Gwen like a Tolemac army besieging a fortress. Liz was instrumental in obtaining coverage for Gwen’s ball each year.
“Hi, Liz.” Gwen welcomed the interruption. Mrs. Hill walked away. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it! I get to dress up like a medieval princess and take pictures of devastatingly gorgeous men. I’ve got at least two rolls of him!” The photographer jerked her thumb in Vad’s direction. Behind her stood a small man who was scribbling on a notepad. As diminutive as he was, he would be the one to translate the event into words. Gwen gave him a warm smile.
Liz spoke in exclamations all the time and at the top of her lungs. Her yellow costume clashed badly with a purple tote bag bulging with lenses and film.
“Do you have everything you need?” Gwen asked. Video Game’s feature on her ball last year had meant thousands of dollars in mail-order business for Virtual Heaven.
Liz leaned near, her breath a blast of spiked punch. “No!” she shouted in Gwen’s ear. “I want that warrior! And maybe that evil-looking dark guy standing next to him. He’d make a tasty appetizer!”
Gwen followed the direction Liz pointed and saw Neil talking to Vad. The contrast in the men’s hair color and garb was stri
king. They did look inviting together—edible, even.
Neil caught her eye and winked.
Whoa. I must be drunk, Gwen thought. Neil never winks. Never.
“What a pair of great asses!” Liz gushed. “Do you think a man’s penis size is in direct proportion to his height?” Liz’s reporter flushed red across his balding forehead.
“Liz! Lower your voice.” Luckily the classical music, surely something Neil had picked, soared into a crescendo and drowned her words. Gwen fanned herself with a program.
To distract Liz, Gwen guided her around the perimeter of the room, past the refreshment tables, the only non-Tolemac spot in the room. Modern buffet servers were filled with hot and cold foods and mountains of saltwater taffy and bowls of caramel-covered popcorn.
“Do you think that guy who builds the hardware for the Tolemac Wars game—what’s his name…?”
“Gary Morfran, the hardware genius?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Do you think he’ll be making any changes to the virtual reality gear this year? I’d really like to interview him,” Liz said.
“I don’t know. I’d personally like him to make the headset lighter. Mrs. Hill’s always complaining.”
“And where’d you learn to make such fabulous costumes?” Liz asked as she peeled a lemon taffy and crammed it into her mouth. Her next remarks were lost in garbled-candy exclamations. Something about icicles and ribbons.
“I majored in textile arts in college, and I’ve been painting fabric ever since. Usually I make quilted bags or vests, but this time I went all out and did a whole dress. It’s silk. Seven shades of white and silver painted on—”
“Stand in front of that fake snowdrift,” Liz interrupted her. “The lights overhead make you sparkle.” She fluttered her hands through the silver ribbons on Gwen’s sleeves. “In fact, let’s open a door, blow some wind through here.”
“No! Liz, no.” But it was too late. In a burst of salty, watery wind, Liz tore open a door. All Gwen’s snowdrifts lifted, swirled, and gusted into the air. “Shit.”
“Now that was far from ladylike,” Neil said, and helped Gwen haul the door closed. A crack of lightning flashed over the water, painting the black water silver, spotlighting a small boat near the horizon.
“Shut up, Neil. I could cry. Look at my decorations.”
She stared miserably about. Her red rocks were barren; her drifts were all on the south side of the ballroom.
He put an arm around her shoulders. “No one cares. They’re either three sheets to the wind or just happy to be here.” He gave her a gentle squeeze.
“You’re right.” She sighed, and dropped her head on his shoulder. “No harm done, I guess.”
Vad did not enjoy the uncomfortable pang of jealousy that he felt when the snake man—Neil—embraced Gwen.
“May I have your autograph?” a tiny woman with hair a strange color, like melting metal, said. In her hand was a bound set of papers of magnificent colors. Each time he touched the beautiful papers, he thought of the hours it must have taken to write each word and paint each design. With reverence, he wrote his name.
The woman seemed to value the documents more once he had written on them.
The snake man came to his side. “Gwen told me to see if I could help fend off some of these fans.”
“Help me?” Vad frowned. “Everyone is very polite. I enjoy their conversation. They see to my comfort.”
“Really? How many cups of punch have they brought you?”
“Punch?” In truth, he understood only one in every five words they said. But he was learning their language. Caramel, com, turmeric, quickie. Each woman added to his vocabulary. “What is your status here, Neil? What is the meaning of the snake in this place?” What harm could come from asking?
“I’m part owner of Gwen’s shop. When my father died, he left me a little money, and I used it to invest in Gwen’s business. She wasn’t doing so well after her husband—lifemate to you—died. She needed a partner. I used to work at Virtual Heaven when I was in high school, so I knew the business.
“And the tattoo means I was drunk one night and not thinking clearly—typical college state, I’m afraid. Other than that, don’t read too much into it.”
Vad took a deep breath, but kept himself from asking for a better explanation. Involuntarily, he looked about the room for Gwen. So she had lost a lifemate. It explained the contrasts of wealth and poverty in her home.
These festivities did little but delay his mission. He kicked a boot at the polished floor. Snow lay over everything—or had until the loud one had opened the door. Sparkles radiated from glowing colored glass in the ceiling. It was all false. Like the spectacles after the harvests.
His head ached. When he lifted his hand to his brow, it trembled. Quickly he tucked it into his knife belt.
“You’d be perfect!” Liz yelled over the loud hum of conversation. “Come on.”
“Where?” Gwen asked as Liz hauled her through the crowd.
“Over there!” She pointed vaguely toward the ceiling. “I need an ordinary woman to kiss that hunk in the corner. What a shot that will be—front-cover material.”
“Whoa.” Gwen skidded to a halt. “No way. I’m not kissing anyone.”
Liz leaned down from her nearly six-foot height. “What’s the matter with you? Think of the PR for Virtual Heaven. Not to mention an opportunity to lock lips with—”
Liz’s words were lost as she hustled Gwen at a quick trot through a wall of people. “There he is!” Liz cried as she halted in front of a mob of women waving programs for Vad to sign. Mini-explosions of camera flashes reflected on the wall of windows behind him. So Liz was not the only woman intent on a photo op.
“We’ll need to stand on a chair to see over this crowd,” she said to Liz.
“Watch this…” Liz’s iron grip on Gwen’s arm tightened as Liz used her elbows to hurl Gwen through the mass of women and into Vad’s chest.
Vad grunted and closed his arms about her.
“Liz, I don’t think—” Gwen began.
“Quick. Kiss each other; I don’t have all night.”
“Oh, sure, I guess—”
His mouth closed on hers. All coherent thought washed away like a sand castle at high tide. His lips were firm and warm.
The room spun a bit, but his hands were there to catch her. He wrapped his arms around her, drew her against the hard length of his body. She felt a moan rise in her throat and had enough sense to clamp down on it.
He really knew how to kiss.
She thought of power and heat. Then she thought of nothing. Her mind zapped white for a brief instant; then her body zapped red-hot.
His kiss was a long, lazy perusal of her lips. He tasted of caramel-covered popcorn. She lost all sanity. Giving no thought to who watched, she raised her hands and gripped his head. She drew him closer and bit his lower lip. With a jerk of his head, he responded; his hips moved against hers, and his arms tightened.
His mouth no longer explored; it pressed hard, crushed, possessed.
Gwen moaned softly, dug her fingers into his hair, and opened her mouth. He opened his, and she plundered his mouth with her tongue.
With a groan he lifted her high into his arms. Her arms slipped about his neck. She felt naked against him, every bone, every muscle defined.
A white-hot blade skewered his vitals. It twisted and dug so deep he gasped. The woman in his arms led him places he had only imagined. He followed. The path led to short breath, a rapid heartbeat, sweat on his brow.
Now. End it now. Now…
He spread his hands over the delicate bones of her back and held her even closer. End it. End it. The words ran over and over in his mind.
He ended it. He put her away from him, safely at arm’s length. His mouth ached. His loins throbbed.
She stared up at him, her lips half-open. Then she snapped them closed. “You’re about as comfortable to kiss as a stone wall.”
So she was going to
pretend she’d felt nothing? He unlaced his tunic and opened it.
An audible moan rose from the women surrounding him.
“Geez, keep your shirt on. These women are rabid,” Gwen said. Her hands drew the edges of his tunic together.
“You will protect me, I think,” he said, and flicked her hands away. He drew out various colored lumps wrapped in smooth paper. “You flattened my sweets.” She burst into laughter. “You have saltwater taffy in your shirt?” Her smile reminded him too much of the heat of her kiss.
“Aye,” he said. “The women offered it. It would be unkind not to accept it.” He felt as if he had some of the sticky goodness stuck in his throat. “We crushed it, didn’t we?”
In truth, the sweets were soft and warm from his body and hers. “You were overly fierce in your attentions.”
“Me?” She smacked his arm. “You’re the one who crushed me.”
“I did nothing. You kissed me—”
“Now, children! Enough bickering!” Liz angled her camera between them. “Maybe you could open your shirt just a wee bit more…” Deftly, the loud woman spread his tunic open, revealing his chest. “Boy, you must work out 24/7!”
His precious square of scented cloth slipped to the floor from where he’d tucked it in his tunic.
Gwen was glaring in the strange woman’s direction. He bent and retrieved the scented cloth.
“Or maybe you’ll catch cold,” the tall, yellow woman said, jerking his tunic closed. She stepped away from Gwen’s glare.
The crowd enfolded the loud woman. Gwen turned back to Vad. “Let me help you,” she said, even though he was sure she knew he was perfectly capable of lacing a garment on his own. “Why do you have a dryer sheet?” She drew the fine cording together at his throat.
He shrugged and changed the subject. “So I am like embracing a stone wall, am I?” he asked.
“Yes. Too bad you’re not comfy like that Gulap over there.”
He frowned. Not comfy. The word he did not know, but the meaning was clear. “When is this festivity over?”
“Oh, we can go back to my place in about an hour.”
Go back to her place? Perhaps she could show him what comfy was.
