by Linda Mooney
Chapter Ten
Hidden
She smelled food, and her stomach rebelled, reminding her how long it had been since she'd eaten, and a lousy little container of yogurt at that.
Opening her eyes, it took her a second to grasp her surroundings. When she did, she gasped and sat up in the bed. Too late, she knew she'd reacted too quickly. She wasn't recovered enough, and her head swam nauseatingly. Clutching her temples with both hands, she fell back against the pillow.
I'm in someone's bed. Where? Whose? I'm...
She felt something slide silkily across her skin, and she knew it wasn't the sheet. Raising one arm above her face, she squinted at the thin, dark blue material. Gradually, it came back to her. Their plan, the breakout. The ungodly heat that sucked all the moisture from her body, until she lost the ability to sweat. And still the heat and brightness increased.
She'd passed out and had no idea how she'd gotten here, or where here even was. Two things, though, were clear. She wasn't in that cell. And she was alive.
“Quazar.”
Propping herself up on her elbows was okay. Her head continued to buzz, but at least she could get a good look-see around the bedroom.
There was no mistaking the male touch—the dark curtains muting the sunlight coming through the windows, the brown sheets on the bed, the brown-striped comforter, the heavy dark oak furniture which included the bed and carved headboard, the bureau along the opposite wall...and a nightstand to her right. A small glass of water sat on a coaster. Propped against it was a white index card with two words printed on it.
DRINK ME.
She obliged. Almost immediately she could feel the liquid refreshing her. Giving her needed moisture. Giving her strength. Sherandar eyed the bare walls. She'd never heard of anyone not putting a picture or painting, or something on the walls. Of course, given where she might be...
“Girl is it possible this is...Quazar's place?”
Grabbing the sheet, she started to throw her legs over the side of the tall mattress, when the bedroom door swung open, and Quazar strode into the room. He carried a tray with bowls and mugs on it. Seeing she was awake, he smiled, and Sherandar felt herself melting.
During all those months while she was concocting various gadgets to barrage him with, she had dreamt of what he might look like underneath that one-piece body glove and partial mask. She'd already written off the too-perfect physique as being more padding than muscle, but the face intrigued her. Did he have dark hair or light brown? Or none at all? It was difficult to tell by his five o'clock shadow in that dinky cell.
Did he wear it in a buzz cut, like a military trim? Did he have any tattoos? She'd even gone so far as to wonder if he was circumcised. Invariably, she'd formed a vague, albeit indistinct physical image of the man, but when she'd helped him remove his uniform, he'd turned out to be nothing like what her imagination had created.
Sherandar stared at the man as he sat on the edge of the bed and laid the tray on top of the comforter. His black hair was longer on the top, short on the sides, and at that moment a few still-damp strands drooped over his forehead, giving him a rakish yet vulnerable appearance. The five o'clock shadow he'd sported while held captive was a little darker, a little thicker, and a hell of a lot sexier.
Her eyes dropped to the chiseled chest with its crop of dark curls spread across his pecs. The dominant six pack was unavoidable, as was the skimpy silver bathing suit he wore. The only thing he wore. And her memory brought her back to that moment in the cell when she'd removed his one-piece outfit. She'd discovered no foam, no padding whatsoever. Every bump and bulge was the real thing. So she wasn't surprised to discover that he did wear a cup over his genitals. But after gazing raptly at his semi-swollen erection, and the rest of his package, she'd given the codpiece another amazed glance and wondered how in the world he'd managed to fit it all in.
“I fixed some oatmeal and toast,” he told her, either unaware of her stare, or not caring. “There's also coffee. If you'd like some juice, I can go get you a glass. I can offer orange or cranberry.”
“No. That's all right. Coffee's fine. But I don't like oatmeal.”
“You'll like this,” he said with a gentle smile that sent little pieces of confetti swirling in her middle. “I added some applesauce and a little cinnamon for flavor. It wouldn't be wise to eat anything heavy right off the bat. Not when we've been without food for some time. Got to take it gradually, or else the stomach will reject it. Here. Drink this first.” He handed her another glass of water. She waved it away.
“I just drank what you left me,” she said, indicating the empty glass on the nightstand.
“Indulge me,” he insisted, pressing the glass in her hand. “Trust me on this.”
Wrinkling her nose at him, she drank the second glass. Her headache almost disappeared entirely.
“Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Next course.” He handed over a small bowl no bigger than her palm. Sherandar accepted it and picked up a spoon. The aroma drifting up to her nose was tantalizing. “Skimping a bit on portion size?” she teased.
“After our near-starvation experience? That bowl will be plenty for now.”
She gave the oatmeal another skeptical look. “Okay. I'll give it try. But if my taste buds give it a thumbs down...”
Quazar laughed. “Trust me.”
She gave him a distrusting grimace, and blew on the spoonful of oatmeal before gingerly putting it in her mouth. It was warm and irritatingly delicious. Well, I'll be damned.
“And your verdict is?” he asked, the smile growing bigger.
She could only nod as she hastily ladled another spoonful into her mouth. Immediately, he reached up and stayed her hand, getting her attention once more.
“Slowly, Sher. Savor it. Let it cool a bit before swallowing. Our stomachs have shrunk and need time to adjust.” Releasing her hand, he picked up the second bowl and began to eat. Sherandar watched him.
“What are you? Ambi?”
“Ambi?” he repeated, then added, “Dextrous? Yes. Why?”
“I just noticed.” She motioned at the tray with her head. “No butter or jam for the toast?”
“Not today. The stomach needs it plain and dry.”
She snorted. “Geesh, you sound like a college professor lecturing his students.”
“Ehh, let's just say I know a thing or two about food.”
“Does this mean I also have to take my coffee black?”
“It's a special blend I prefer that has a low acidic content. You can drink it black, if you prefer. There's cream and sweetener on the tray.”
“Decaf?” she almost chuckled.
“Oh, heavens, no. I like my joe regular, not unleaded.” He reached over the tray to pick up a sugar cube, except it wasn't one. She gave him a surprised look.
"Are those marshmallows?"
"Good observation." He dropped four into his coffee.
"You drink your coffee with marshmallows?"
"Okay. So I'm not all protein drinks and low-carb diets. I also like Martha Murray's cheesecakes, especially the turtles, and an occasional greasy hamburger from Sammy's Diner. Have you lost faith in me yet?"
His confession made her laugh, and he joined her. And it was then she believed she would never again be as happy or as content again in her life than she was right now. Despite all that she had been through, after what she and Quazar had endured and survived together, and despite the fact that Bob the Destroyer was probably scouring the planet, looking for them, this perfect moment in time would never repeat itself.
She glanced at the bed beside her. The pillow looked fresh, not plumped after a night of sleeping on it. Quazar saw where she was looking.
“I spent the night downstairs.”
“Oh? You took the couch?”
“I meant the basement.”
“You slept in the basement? You have another bedroom downstairs?”
“Not quite. Call it my works
hop.”
“You? Mister my body is a freaking sun? You have a workshop? What do you do when you're not flying around and saving mankind? Build tables and bookshelves? Repair small appliances?”
He threw her a lopsided grin. “It holds a few odds and ends. And my solar generator.”
“Is that why you look so healthy?” She cocked her head to one side, her spoon clinging to her lips. “You don't show any signs of what you'd been through. Me, however...” She ran the fingers of her other hand through her dirty hair. “We're at your place, aren't we, Quay-Quay? Once you barbequed Big Bad Bob's place, you brought me here, didn't you?”
To her surprise, Quazar held out a hand, as if to shake hers. “Paul. My name is Paul. Nice to meet you.”
Stunned, she shook it. “For real? Your real name is Paul?”
“Paul Canton. And, yes, it is.”
She couldn't stop staring at him. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Well, for one thing, since we've seen each other naked, I felt it was about time we introduced ourselves. For another, I brought you to my place because Bob has probably discovered your real identity by now, and has his goons canvassing the place, waiting for your return. However, since you helped me to maintain my secret, he has no idea what I look like. Or who I am.”
“So you figure us holing up here would be the safest bet?”
Paul nodded. “That, and the fact that I needed to get as much of my strength back as quickly as possible, before that egomaniac strikes again.” He pointed to the tray. “Are you done?”
“Yeah. For now. Thanks for breakfast. And for...all that other stuff.”
“You're welcome, Sher.” He started to rise with the tray when she reached out and grabbed his arm. His warm, strong as a steel girder arm.
“Hey. Quid pro quo.”
He paused, waiting for her to continue.
“Sherandar. Sherry Ann Darby. That's my name.”
"Isn't that kind of lame? Using your real name to cut and paste together a pseudo?"
"Consider it my purloined letter. Put it right in front of them, and they'll never see it. Ever read any Poe?"
"Hidden in plain sight," he noted.
"And your point is?"
The corners of his mouth lifted, and her eyes transfixed on his lips.
“Then you don't mind me calling you Sher,” he commented matter-of-factly.
After another moment that bordered on the awkward, he turned to leave. Sherandar gasped in shock at the sight of the intense bruising, like thick angry ropes, crisscrossing his back and shoulders. Hundreds of jagged and splayed lines, ranging from dark purple to black. She couldn't begin to imagine the pain he had endured.
“Oh, dear God!”
He glanced over his shoulder, then turned around. “You should have seen it earlier. It's tolerable now, after spending last night in the regenerator,” he assured her almost too flippantly. As if he was trying to make light of the extent of his injuries.
“That's why you turned your back to the camera. Not just to protect your identity, but so I wouldn't see what that lightning had done to you. So I wouldn't know how badly you were hurt.” So I wouldn't fear the fact that you might not be able to get us out of that hellhole. She swallowed hard at the scope of what he'd done.
Paul hesitated at the door. “I need to go back and lie down some more. Will you be okay while I'm gone? You're welcome to use the TV and browse the video collection. Or listen to some music.” He chuckled. “I have the Rolling Stones.”
She knew exactly what he was referring to. “Go ahead. Make fun of my taste in music. You probably listen to stuff like Beethoven and Celine Dion.”
“Actually, I do enjoy Ode to Joy and some Josh Groban. But I also listen to country and western, a little heavy metal, and big band. You'll find I have very eclectic tastes. Oh, and while I'm unconscious, help yourself to a shower. There might be something in that third drawer in the bureau that you could wear. Just do me one favor.”
“What's that?”
“Don't leave the apartment, Sher.” His demeanor was suddenly stony. “Don't answer the phone or the door, and stay away from the windows.”
“Don't worry, Paul. I won't take any chances.” She brightened. “Oh! Before you go, you don't happen to have any tools, do you?”
He frowned. “What kind of tools?”
“You know. The basics. Hammer, wrench, sonic screwdriver, soldering iron, high-powered optical lenses.”
He chuckled. “Check the basement. Knock yourself out. Let me guess, more gizmos?”
She shrugged. “It passes the time. Besides, Bob the Douche took my necklaces and my favorite jacket. I can at least replace my necklaces, but he'll pay for that jacket.”
"I'll let you have first crack at him, then. Like I said, help yourself. Just stay away from the regenerator. Deal?"
"I only promise to leave your liquor cabinet alone."
Paul laughed again and left the room, leaving the door ajar.
Throwing back the covers, Sherandar started to climb out of bed, when she realized her body had accepted her breakfast, and was ready to go back to sleep. She gave a huge yawn. “Maybe Quay-Paul had the right idea. A little more rest wouldn't kill me,” she mumbled. “I mean, it's not like I don't deserve it. Five more minutes. Maybe fifteen. I'll take a bath later, after I raid his refrigerator,” she promised herself.
Crawling back under the comforter, she grabbed the extra pillow and snuggled against it, pretending it was a certain dark-haired man with chocolate brown eyes and a smile that brightened her heart. She was asleep within seconds.
Chapter Eleven
Help
Paul slid the tray onto the kitchen counter. Pressing his knuckles against the inlaid granite, he bowed his head and sighed. "This was a bad idea, Canton," he whispered to himself. "A bad, bad idea."
Get a hold of yourself. Clear your mind. Concentrate on what's important. Regain your strength. Get your powers up to their maximum levels again. Those two lightning strikes should have killed you, but they didn't. But they did their damage. A lot of damage.
"So what the hell was I thinking?"
He glanced into the living room, at the wall across from the sofa where the bedroom was located on the adjacent side. Even with no makeup, her face and skin bearing the burns she'd suffered during their escape, and her thick hair wild and in need of a brush, she was the most beautiful, the most desirable woman he had ever seen. And to make things worse, her smartass attitude only enhanced her attractiveness because he knew she had the brains to back it up. The woman was more intelligent than him, as hard as it was to admit. Yet, there was a lot of vulnerability within her. A lot of tenderness and caring. It was her heart she tried to protect the most with that gruff exterior. And when she'd collapsed at his feet after he had melted their cell and blockhouse to the point where he could take off, there had been no second doubts in his mind where he had to take her.
It's a miracle I was able to summon enough strength to bring her here.
"Then why does the thought of letting her leave tear up my gut?" Because she would have to. Eventually. Once this mess was cleaned up, and Bob was brought to justice, he and Sherandar would part ways. Truce over. Enemies once more. There was no way there could be any peace between them.
He rubbed a hand over his face. Several days' growth scraped his palm. He scratched his cheek. Normally, he didn't shave until Quazar was needed. Or he had a date.
His eyes went back to the dividing wall. When was the last time I entertained a woman? When was the last time I made love to one?
Between his career and being Quazar, there was little if any time for a personal life. On those rare occasions he had gone out, the women he had met had been lovely. Funny. Delightful company. But never challenging. Never anything more than a casual night of conversation or sexual release. He'd never given them his phone number or address because he'd never felt there could be a chance at a second or third, or lasting connection with th
em.
A few years ago he had come to realization that he wasn't meant to have the normal life. At least, not the kind with a wife and kids. What he was, what he could do, was dangerous enough. Subjecting a family to that would be insane. Not to mention what kind of woman she'd have to be to put up with him and his abilities.
"Then you showed up with your crazy little inventions. Those frustrating, bothersome gizmos. Taunting me. Ridiculing me. Doing whatever you could to get under my skin like an irritating rash I couldn't get rid of. So what turned the tide, Sherandar? Sherry Ann Darby? What turned the tide?"
His legs felt like gelatin. He needed to get back downstairs and inside his regenerator. He needed to get as far away as possible from the woman lying in his bed. He needed space and time to think about what he'd done, and come to some sort of decision as to what his next step would be.
Taking the steps carefully, Paul reentered his basement where the solar bed sat along the wall opposite the entryway to the subbasement. Opening the lid, he started to reach for the timer when a familiar ringtone sounded. He strode over to where he'd left his cell phone plugged in by his computer. He knew without glancing at the screen who was calling.
"Hey, Chey."
"Where the hell have you been!" his sister immediately berated him. "Do you know how long I've been trying to reach you? There was a train derailment outside of Cypress, and a major fire over on Renfrow! The fire department and all were hoping you'd show. Where were you? You wouldn't answer my calls. It's been days, Paul!"
"You're right. It's been a while." Wearily, he went back to the regenerator and sat on the inner bed lining, bending over so as not to hit his head on the upraised lid.
She knew in a heartbeat something was wrong. "You don't sound so good. What happened? Were you out on another job? Are you all right?"
"No," he admitted truthfully. "I'm not all right. In fact, I nearly died."
He heard his sister softly murmur, "Oh, dear God," before addressing him again. "Tell me what happened."
"On my way back from that news conference the other day, I was struck by lightning."
