He flew it across the Alaskan border, over Canada and into Washington. He landed in a small airport for private flyers, showed the taxi his fake American ID, and retrieved the Volvo he had left there the last time he had made an impromptu urban excursion.
He frowned as he pulled his car into a parking garage and stepped out into the drizzles. He longed for the days of the Kaharan sun high in the sky, the breeze frigid but dry. He longed for a lot of things, but it was less than prudent to wish for things he knew he would never have again.
He raised an eyebrow at the city hall building. From across the street, and through the blanket of clouds, Malak could see the fifty micro-steps that led up to the glass doors, the mix of steel, glass, white brick, and stucco that made up the rest of the building, and the sharp corners and edges that grounded it in space. It looked more like a villain’s layer or a modern museum than the place where the mayor held office.
As he got closer, he noticed someone sitting on the top steps. Her lion’s mane of hair flowed down her shoulders and back. When he was within hearing distance, he saw that she was eating an ice cream cone…outside…in the rain.
“That’s an interesting choice for a snack.” He stood close enough to smell the soft scent of cigarette smoke emanating from her hair.
She glanced up at him: a flick of her eye, a snap of her head. It was so quick, Marak forgot she was human, only for a second. But then he saw her eyes. More gold than pupil, they practically glistened from the inside out.
“Ice cream is the best thing to happen to us since fire,” she said, her smokey voice wrapped in an accent he had never heard before.
Marak laughed at this. “I’ll have to disagree with you on that.”
A drop of it landed on one of the four rings on her right hand. She twisted her wrist and licked it off, expertly drawing her lips back to prevent the dark red lipstick from landing on the back of her hand. “Now, what could be better than ice cream?” A mischievous grin stretched across her face.
Marak raised an eyebrow. “The wheel?”
“You’re an architect, aren’t you?” She stood up.
Marak raised an eyebrow. “How could you know that?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. That grid pad in your hand…” She cocked her head to the side, thinking. “No. It’s the sweater.”
Marak furrowed his brow. “What is it about the sweater?”
She narrowed her eyes, examining him. “It’s too nice. You wouldn’t be coming here in a thing like that unless you were trying to building something, or tear it down.”
“Do I detect disdain?”
She bit her plump bottom lip, looking away in embarrassment. “Oh no! My liberal is showing.”
Marak raised both of his eyebrows. “So I’m a conservative, too?”
She took the last big bite of her cone, chomping down on it while she wiped her hands on a paper towel. “It’s the sweater,” she said, her voice dripping with humor.
Before Marak could think of anything remotely funny enough to retaliate with, she slipped something out of her leather messenger bag.
“Here,” she said.
He examined the piece of…well, he didn’t know what to call the six inch by six inch slab of metals, jewels, and cloth. He gazed at it, the piece daring him to decipher it. He wanted to ask her to explain, but by the time he looked up again, she had already reached the bottom of the stairs. She ran across the street.
The thought of following her did cross his mind, but by the time he had run his calculus, she had already disappeared all together. He glanced back at the piece of metal.
On the bottom right corner was an address, today’s date, and a name: Lacey Dane.
Chapter Two
Lacey practically toppled over the edge of the toilet seat. She clutched the dirty porcelain with both hands and gaped at the undisturbed pool of water.
There.
She had heaved out the entire contents of her dinner.
Better now than during.
She continued to shake afterward, a family of dry heaves following suit. Her body continued to tremble as she stood up and made her way to one of the rows of sinks and mirrors and stared at herself. Aside from the light film of sweat, she remained intact.
Her mane of curly, black hair had retained it shape and shine, her gold eyes looked as off-putting as ever, and she had managed to protect her satin dress from wrinkles and stains…but a nagging worry in the back of her mind still plagued her. It urged her to go back into that bathroom stall, where a prominent part of her wanted to stay for the rest of the evening.
She sucked in a deep breath, putting in a conscious effort to control the energy coursing through her body for the first time in years. Everything from the fluorescent light to the rush of the water kept her heart coursing in overdrive, preventing her from seeing anything clearly.
“Oh God.” She blinked about a million times, her hands clutching the sink. It was coming, but way too early. The energy set her lungs on fire. Her blood boiled, the thin, hot liquid slipping and sliding its way through her.
She bit her lip. She had a show to do. It couldn’t come now. She held on to herself as much as she possibly could, holding her breath, squeezing her eyes shut, anything but shouting out.
Sometimes she wondered if there were others like her out there. Sometimes she wished her parents hadn’t thrown her out of their home before she’d had a chance to find out for herself. Because then maybe she would know how to control herself. Because then she wouldn’t be alone.
A rush of anger flooded the energy. The anti-force soaked in that trembling feeling, like a bagel to coffee. She let out a deep breath and let her eyes flicker open. She glanced around her, looking for some massive destruction. When she confirmed that the bathroom wasn’t entirely annihilated, she let out another breath of relief. But then she got a good look at the sinks.
All the faucets had been bent and contorted.
With a huff, she flipped her hair and slipped out of the bathroom. Outside, her show was in full swing. Elites from all over the country wandered around, taking in her fusion art with a grain of salt and a glass of champagne.
She cleared her throat at the waiter who walked right by her. He stopped so that she could collect two glasses for herself. She shot back the contents of both of them and managed to drop them on his tray before he got too far away. With the fizz bubbling through her, she took her stance in the center of the floor.
With her frizzy head, her bright red satin dress, and her arm of jewelry, she was hard to miss. Before too long, the room of eighty or so people had all turned their attention to her. The tech guy turned down the lights, just enough so that the small stones imbedded into her gown glowed.
There hung a constellation of metal objects above her head, everything from scrap metal to cookware to old weapon parts to things, like phones and rings and car keys, people paid hundreds, or thousands, of dollars to get their hands on.
Across from her hung the Frick, her pride and joy, her “life’s work.” The massive amalgam of canvas, glistening metals, jewels and oil paint dominated the back wall of the gallery, the strong colors demanding attention.
She tipped her head back, hoping what she had stifled in the bathroom still hid somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind. She let her heartbeat pick up, willing the excitement and the anxiety to take control of her yet again.
The objects circled around her head. A draft tore through the room, facilitated by two massive fans on either side.
She continued to throw things around with her mind and let the wind take the credit. Phones and pots swung dangerously close to heads, beads rolled around the marble ground, but the knives—the knives were all hers.
She caught the barrel of a gun with her teeth, much to the crowd’s amazement. She walked around in a circle, the knives following her around. She reached behind her, her hands catching her fall just above her head, holding her body in a backbend. No sooner had she landed like this did a cho
rd holding one of the daggers, sending the knife straight down toward her chest.
She wasn’t looking, but she could hear it through the amazed reaction of the crowd; she could feel it with the shifting energies of her body. At the last second, she flipped her legs over her head and reached for the dagger, grabbing it by its handle before the blade could hit the ground.
The quick gasp morphed into applause as she took her bow. The tech guy pulled the lights back up, and she got out of that room as soon as she possibly could. She stood outside in that chilly drizzle with her head turned up.
She held her Marlboro Black in between her first and second fingers, flipping open her lighter and setting the poison alight in one swift motion. She sucked in a breath of the cig and then a breath of the air, letting it all calm her nerves. She would go back in when she could hold a conversation without giving anything away. After three or four more puffs, she was starting to get a hold of herself.
After her last puff, she turned to head back inside.
The man from city hall stood at the top of the staircase, towering over her, his brilliant sapphire eyes glistening in the warm light and a smile stretched across his face. Her heart stopped. She couldn’t believe it.
He came.
Chapter Three
After cocktail drinks and appetizers, Lacey still couldn’t believe she had actually been picked up by this gorgeous man with a strange name, who was no doubt a millionaire.
She caught his eye as she shifted out of the waiter’s way.
He pursed his lip at the salad she had just deposited.
“What is it?” Lacey forked her own.
He shook his head, waving the thought away. “I just asked for balsamic.”
Lacey ducked her head, chomping on the leaves before responding with, “So it isn’t nothing.”
He blinked. “I just won’t eat it. I don’t need it.”
Lacey smiled at this.
“What?”
“Waiter!” She waved her hand at one of the other servers as he brushed past them. “He asked for balsamic and”—she leaned over at his plate—“that’s either ranch or blue cheese or some other creamy thing, but it’s not balsamic.”
The waiter nodded once before swiping the plate.
Marak chuckled. “You terrify me.”
She shrugged, feeling smug for doing something right after the ice cream cone fiasco. “Is it my knife wielding skills or my confusing art?”
He shook his head, holding his arms out. “Both? Neither? I’m perplexed.”
“Did you ask me here to analyze me?” She found his stare impossibly unnerving.
“You know why I asked you here.”
She nodded. Of course. They were back to this. Her work was just another conquest he could brag about to his golf club mates. “You want Fick.” It was the biggest installation at her show, and, frankly, the only one anyone seemed to care about. That is, anyone with the money to buy it.
“I was going to say that I asked you here because you are the most stunning woman I have ever seen, but yes, that too.”
She cocked her head to one side, taking note of the fact that he had ignored his salad. “Now I’m confused.”
“About what?”
“Do you want my body or my art?”
“Is there a right answer to this question?”
“There’s an honest one.”
“Well, what do you want me to say?” He folded his hands in front of him.
“I think you should decide what you want to say first.”
“What makes you think I haven’t already?”
Lacey grinned. She felt the wining answer pop into her head, but she let it sit there as she took another sip of her wine. “You can’t even commit to a salad, let alone to a woman…or a work of art..”
“You don’t seem very receptive to my advances.”
“You don’t seem to be advancing at all.”
He let out a dry laugh. “So, if you’re so confused, why are you here?”
She leaned over, taking in a whiff of his refreshing scent. “Because you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life.”
His eyes went all smoky after that, but Lacey held her face there because she wanted to see what he would do. Just when she thought she looked exactly like an idiot, he reached up and trailed his hand along her jawline.
She froze, her eyes, fixated on his.
Goosebumps sprouted on every inch of her body, from her head to her toes. Her womanhood throbbed and her lip quivered, because somehow, with one touch, he had managed to take hold of every inch of her neurotic mind.
He was going to do it. The man with the sweater and the grid pad and the uneaten salad was actually going to reach out and kiss her. She was almost certain of it.
But then the waiter showed up with their veal shanks.
They flew back into their chairs, the two of them mumbling incoherent things at the waiter, at each other, at the food.
As soon as she turned and walked away, Marak stared intently at her. “So, you really won’t sell me a painting?”
She shook her head. “Wow. I am almost flattered that you’re this obsessed with breaking my pact.”
“I don’t understand this pact of yours at all.”
She couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she took her first bite of that succulent veal. “Of course you don’t.”
“Could you stop speaking in code?” he asked, knife and fork in hand.
She shot him a hardened look. “I’m not—”
“You’re intentionally being vague to put off giving me an answer.”
Lacey put on a show of insult. “I resent the accusation.” She put another bite in her mouth before adding, “And besides, I already gave you my answer.”
“So what will you do with your work then?”
“I’ll keep performing it…obviously.”
“Not that. The Frick.”
She shrugged. “I’m thinking about a huge demonstration.” She could feel the excitement building up. “All of my pieces have a theme. And, I was thinking, if I could get them all together, I could just dump them in a huge wasteland…maybe Detroit…”
Marak laughed at this.
It was about the fiftieth time he had laughed that night, but Lacey couldn’t help smiling at it. “You laugh a lot.”
“I have a robust sense of humor.”
Lacey smirked. “That’s cute.”
Marak took another sip of his wine. “Detroit is a city…not a wasteland.”
“Have you been? The place has been run down for years. Besides, it’s not just aesthetic. Capitalism took that city into its massive mouth, chewed it up, and spit it out. I think it’s perfect for my jeweled junk.”
“Jeweled junk.” Marak nodded. “I like that.”
“So, you’ll back off about the painting?”
He nodded. “From now on, we can both pretend that this is just a dinner amongst two interesting people.”
“We have to pretend?” Lacey drained her glass of wine. She could feel a warmth flooding her face that she hoped wouldn’t translate to bad decisions later.
He raised an eyebrow. “When is a dinner ever just a dinner?”
Chapter Four
The next morning, Marak woke up to silence. He sat up, listening to his heart pounding, glancing around his temporary lodgings.
Lacey.
Her face leapt into his mind before he even had a chance to wonder what time it was. Their night together blurred through his thoughts as he dressed himself. The whole thing had gone perfectly. Well, almost.
It would have been perfect if she had found it in her heart to sell him the Fick. But he should have known that her art was her heart. She had a kind of resilience about her that he knew he could never break with fixation.
And yet, how could that be possible? He thought about this as he made his way to the conference room for their weekly meetings with the commander. He hoped it wouldn’t come up in conversation, because
other than building a city the Kaharans could be proud of, the Commander’s main focus was on finding women to further propagate their species. He knew Marak was spending a substantial amount of time on human settlements, so it was only natural that he would inquire.
He should be so lucky.
Turen broke into a round of applause as he entered the room. “Wow. On time and dressed as well. What a miracle.”
“I had a strange night of sleep.”
He would have explained more, but no sooner had that sentence left his mouth did the sounds of the commander beaming in fill their conference room. Seconds later, his heavy frame, suited in the traditional Kaharan military dress, filled the space above the center of the table.
Marak opened his notebook and readied his pen.
“Good morning.” The commander gave each of them a curt nod. “What are the updates on your progress?”
Turen ran down the list of things they had accomplished that week, which, aside from building assorted utility buildings, was not vey much.
The commander nodded. “It sounds like the both of you are doing an exceptional job.”
Marak tried to fight the childish grin. After almost half a year of working directly alongside the commander on this project, he had wanted nothing more than to appease him. His desperation to do at least one thing right after the comet had destroyed their home planet and most of their families was the only thing keeping him from going off the deep end.
“Yes. The only thing left to work out is the town hall.”
The commander narrowed his eyes. “What about the water problem?”
Turen sat up in his chair. “With all due respect, I really believe you should rethink your restrictions.”
The commander blinked. “There is nothing wrong with my restrictions.”
“If you would let us use Kaharan means—”
“What part of blend in do you not understand?”
The bark stopped Turen cold.
To break the silence that ensued, the commander continued with, “So, I hear you have spent a lot of time in Seattle this past week.”
Marak nodded. He knew it was only a matter of time…and it scared him. He wished he could protect her from her obvious gift and from his commander. Yet, at the same time, he knew he could never lie. “I have been looking for inspiration.”
MILITARY ROMANCE: The War Within Himself (Alpha Bad Boy Marine Army Seal) (Contemporary Military Suspense & Thriller Romance) Page 81
