Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Praise for Parallel Attraction
‘‘A fantastic and riveting new voice in paranormal fiction.’’
—Karen Marie Moning, New York Times bestselling author of Spell of the Highlander
‘‘At times humorous, at others heart-wrenching, but always compelling. Deidre Knight offers readers a fresh, wonderfully creative glimpse at the complexity of human decisions. What a page-turner!’’
—Gena Showalter, author of Awaken Me Darkly
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First Printing, October 2006
Copyright © Deidre Knight, 2006
All rights reserved
Scripture taken from the New Century Version®. Copyright © 2005 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
eISBN : 978-0-451-21965-7
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To my three angels—Samatha Jenkins, Julie Ramsey, and Elaine Spencer. You make every workday a blast, and you always have my back. This one’s dedicated to you!
Love,
Charlie
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many wonderful people who helped as I wrote this book. First and foremost I want to thank my amazing and talented literary agent, Pamela Harty of the Knight Agency. Her skill, expertise, and support contributed greatly to making this book truly shine.
Also, megathanks to my support staff within the Knight Agency office. You’re all angels and keep me together day after day: All my gratitude to Samatha Jenkins, Julie Ramsey, and Elaine Spencer. You’ve done a fabulous job learning the intricate workings of agency life! And to my fellow agent and friend, Nephele Tempest: You rock the West Coast!
And heartfelt thanks go especially to my husband, Judson Knight, for listening to my endless speculations on story lines and for making it possible for me to pursue all my dreams. My daughters, Tyler Knight and Riley Knight, make every day sparkle and are my truest inspiration. Mommy loves you both very, very much!
To the fabulous NAL publishing staff—Kara Welsh, Claire Zion and Anne Bohner—thank you for your faith in me and in this series, and for publishing it so well.
My gratitude goes out to fellow authors Susan Grant and Merline Lovelace for assisting with the daunting problem of writing about F. E. Warren Air Force Base. Merline’s gracious sharing of her photographs proved invaluable!
Angela Zoltners, as always, is my touchstone. I love you girlfriend! Thanks for always listening, reading, and helping me stay on track.
Kathy Baker, as always, you’re a gem, and thank you for all your support! I appreciate you very much.
Vickie Denny helped tremendously with my online presence. Big warm hug and thanks to you!
To Whitney Lee: Not only are you a special friend, but your belief in me has meant the world. Thanks for all your hard work on foreign rights for this series.
Nancy Berland and her team have put all their muscle behind this series and behind me as an author, and I will never forget all that you’ve done! Big warm hugs and thanks to Nancy Berland, Elizabeth Middaugh, Deanne York, Kim Miller, Carol Smith, Linda Leonard, and Susan Avary.
Research was a bedrock of writing this book because I had to tackle many subjects that I was unfamiliar with. For contributing their knowledge and expertise, I’d like to thank a number of people. First FBI special agent Norman Scott and FBI special agent Monique Kelso, who met with me in Wyoming (Monique drove a long way for that dinner!). Without your insights, this book would be far less authentic. FBI language specialist Monica Alvarez, your willingness to discuss the language specialist profession contributed directly to the character of Hope Harper—huge thanks!
To Rich and Janice Ramsey, thank you for supporting me so whleheartedly—whether in research or signings or sharing your multitalented daughter. Big thanks!
To everyone at Lockheed who assisted me by showing me the ins and outs of high-tech and furturistic aviation, my heartfelt gratitude. So far, not all that much of that powerful research has made it into the series, but stay tuned until next week! My thanks to Bret Luedke (F22 Chief Test Pilot), Keith Bilyeu (F22 Business Development) J. R. Reynolds (Senior Manager for Security and Emergency Services), Rich Ramsey (Senior Manager of Marietta Facilities), and Janet McBride (Facilities Site Lead Administrative Assistant).
And last, but certain
ly not least, once again a giant smooch and hug to my longstanding e-group of writing women: Kath, Tas, Mel, Nephele, Micha, Blanca, Anne, Tara, Bennie, Crystal, Stacey, and Angela. You guys helped me find the way through to living my dream!
What happens now has happened in the past, and what will happen in the future has happened before. God makes the same things happen again and again.
—Ecclesiastes 3:15
Bl’alastraka
A Refarian Book of Intimate Love
Author Unknown; English Translator Unknown
VERSE TEN, LATENT TEXT: Mating cycles shall be AVOIDED, not embraced, as to engage in the heat is considered a debasing of all that is lovely and pure in the Refarian mating rituals. This principle aside, should the mating fever be requisite for CONCEPTION—if the male is only fertile, or at his RICHEST fertility during a cycle—then the heated mates shall find no shame at their predicament. Our ancients cycleced for centuries, enduring the untenable seasons as a means of siring offspring. Let us not be shamed by the NEEDS of procreation; however, let us embrace a higher state of mind unless we are given no alternative.
Certain rumors exist in regards to the D’Aravni and D’Ashani and D’Alari houses, that these high-blooded Refarian royals are given to deep, torturous mating calls. VERSE TEN shall be a noted exception for these lines (or any lifebound to them) who, because of breeding or temperament of blood, find their cycles UNAVOIDABLE.
SIDE TEXT ADDENDUM: A word about INTERSPECIES cycling: when Refarian emissaries first explored Outer Worlds in hundreds of years past, it was discovered that non-heated species reacted with particular VERVE to our race’s mating calls. Should an INTERSPECIES UNION be contemplated in such circumstances, take heed and proceed with utmost caution—consider this, our love rites advisory!
Prologue
First Timeline—The Future
There weren’t many places a dead man could go if he hoped to survive; at least that’s how Marco had always regarded the matter. Back on Refaria as a boy, in the midst of warfare and revolution, he’d learned that soldiers who embraced the afterlife had an uncanny way of finding it. Right now, he wished he could lock in on some eternal, mystic wormhole that would shoot him straight out on the other side of his current hell.
He was literally in the middle of nowhere, hunkered down in the back corner of some dive on Highway 189, the perfect geographic location for him after everything tonight. He was nowhere; nameless; lost. He didn’t even know which bar he’d landed in, only that there were a half-dozen pool tables and a haze of cigarette smoke shrouding the place. And beer . . . racks and racks of beer, and Marco didn’t give a damn about his protector’s vows, not now, not tonight. He was going to get drunk and free-fall into a painless state of oblivion if it was the last thing that he did.
His waitress returned, her low halter top revealing a small butterfly on her right breast, and slid yet another bottle of Heineken across the scuffed wooden table toward him. He nodded mutely at the woman before staring down at his swarthy hands. He’d already lost count of how many bottles he’d tossed back since his arrival, and the cut on his forehead still hurt like hell, but that hardly mattered. Taking another heavy swig of beer, he felt the world around him grow even hazier— the dark bar was so cloaked in cigarette smoke, that he could hardly tell if it was the effect of the alcohol on his system or just the cloud hanging over the place. His eyes burned, and for a moment he closed them, feeling the world swim woozily all about him.
Yes, let me forget, he thought. In All’s name, just let me forget tonight.
Throughout the barroom, rough wooden picnic tables were positioned, little more than graceless constructions of two-by-fours slapped together at haphazard angles—as if the working-class regulars who populated the place required nothing more than basic stalls for their drinking pleasure. In fact, Marco had been lucky, managing to land one of the only real booths in the joint, and even then, the garish red leather beneath him was ripped and cracked, at least ten years past its prime.
Through the din of loud honky-tonk music, he could hear the phone at the bar ring, jarring him from his dazed state. The bartender—a burly guy with tattoos up and down each arm—grabbed it off the receiver. After listening a moment, he cupped his meaty palm over it. ‘‘Eh! Jordo!’’ he called out. ‘‘Your old lady wants you home!’’
Around the nearest table, a group of men erupted in bawdy laughter, slapping the guy who was obviously Jordo on the back while making crude comments.
Even he has someone who cares about him, Marco thought miserably, sinking down into the booth. But not me. Not that he’d ever had a woman of his own. No, he had always led a solitary existence when it came to matters of the heart. Still, people had cared for him, important people. But not now. He was utterly alone—without his Circle, without his king and queen, without his homeland. He was, quite simply, a protector without a protected. And maybe he did deserve to die as payment for his crimes. At least that would end the torment that had hounded him for the past year as he had secretly loved his best friend’s wife.
Marco leaned his head back heavily against the wooden booth, and glanced around the bar through slanted, half-opened eyes. Jordo and his pals were gone—most everyone was gone, as a matter of fact—he’d probably been here sopping up his sins with booze for at least three hours. He’d have to ride his Harley somewhere before the night was done, but where? He had no home anymore, not after tonight.
Alone, alone. The only way for someone so vile to be.
After a sluggish, dizzying moment, he raised his eyes at last and saw someone who looked vaguely familiar. A golden-haired angel stepping out of the haze and walking straight toward him. Why couldn’t he place the woman, moving so easily his way? And then, within a heart’s beat, she was standing just in front of him, smiling faintly. She was blond, beautiful, and seductive as hell. But someone else’s lover, not his.
‘‘Hi, Marco.’’ Her high-timbreed voice was raspy, and she clasped his shoulder as if they were old friends. ‘‘We meet at last.’’ She trailed her fingertips down his arm familiarly, and a shower of electricity shot through his arm and chest. No way was she human.
He lolled his head forward again, narrowing his eyes. ‘‘Do I know you?’’
‘‘Well, let’s just say you know of me.’’ She slid uninvited into the booth beside him. ‘‘You’ve certainly seen me before, though not up close. Never like this.’’
He inventoried her features: waving golden hair, blue eyes—lots of hair, he amended. Long and shimmering. Small frame. . . . ‘‘Thea,’’ he said finally, taking another sip of beer. ‘‘Thea Haven.’’
She smiled in satisfaction. ‘‘You have been watching, haven’t you?’’ Her voice seemed to trill in victory.
‘‘It was my job,’’ he answered dully, refusing to rise to his enemy’s bait.
What was Thea Haven after? And why was she suddenly here, tonight of all nights? It made no sense at all. His thoughts were clouded and dim from the alcohol—that had to be it.
‘‘Right,’’ she replied slowly, drawing the word out for effect. ‘‘Yes, I hear Jared really respects your hard work on his behalf.’’ Her voice was tinged with bitter irony.
He raised his eyes again and found her staring at him meaningfully—flame darting in her pale eyes. She knew. Somehow the woman knew everything that had happened tonight! Or maybe it was only his drunken mind playing tricks on him. Suddenly the dozen or so beers seemed like a really bad idea. He leaned his elbows forward on the table, burying his face in his hands for a moment. Anything to stop the bar from spinning tortuously around him.
‘‘Why are you here?’’ he groaned quietly. ‘‘What do you want, Thea? Really?’’
‘‘Well, that’s simple enough,’’ she replied seductively. ‘‘I want you.’’
Marco slowly lifted his head and met her eyes—and swore he heard her call his name somewhere within his mind; he couldn’t fight, not like this. Not tonight.
Jared’s enemies had planned their attack extremely well, and all he could do was surrender.
He lay back on the bed naked, the frayed hotel bedspread on the floor in a red tangle. Thea peeled off her underwear, sliding in after him. Her eyes took in the length of his body, the sinewy bulk of it and his solidly muscled torso. She had never seen a more beautiful man in all her days, not even her cousin, Jared Bennett. No, Marco possessed something even more alluring, perhaps because his beauty was of the reckless, dangerous variety. His dark skin was incredibly rich beneath her fingertips as she traced her hands across the silky black hairs that dusted his inner thighs, then between his legs. He shifted his hips in reaction, causing the cheap mattress springs beneath them to creak and groan.
His eyes were shut tightly, an expression of painful ecstasy dancing across his features. She began trailing kisses down his firm abdomen, lower . . . then even lower still, taking him into her mouth. He cried out, and she drew him in deeper, then eased him out again. He gasped her name, cupping her shoulders hungrily within his large hands.
Thea liked the feeling that she was pulling this Refarian soldier toward the brink, a man trained for every potentiality—except this one, apparently. A man sworn to resist all his king’s enemies. For the briefest moment, she simply liked being with Marco McKinley, period. But she quickly buried that thought. She couldn’t afford to feel anything for this man, and yet the emotions radiating off of him were so strong, so intense, it was hard to resist, especially since his gift of intuition left him wide open to her. If Thea chose to, she could feel everything happening within him. Maybe just for a moment, she thought breathlessly. What harm can one moment bring?
As she opened herself ever so slightly to him, she had a strong flash—and it was something she found nearly impossible to believe: This was Marco’s first time with a woman. Any woman. That was certainly something she could use to her advantage. She pulled away, gasping, and he opened his nearly black eyes. She could read the undisguised pleasure in his lazy gaze. Yes, she thought with a wicked smile, this plan is working to perfection.
Parallel Heat Page 1
