by Sharon Sala
Joshua snorted softly, but there was humor in his voice. “Yeah, if he gets any more involved in this case than he already is, we’ll have to put him on the payroll.”
John laughed. “Knowing Woodliff, he’d turn down the offer.”
“You think? Why so?” Joshua asked, feeling slightly insulted.
“Because you guys have too many rules, and Woodliff doesn’t always play by the rules.”
Joshua laughed then, relieved they hadn’t been dissed. “You’re right about that. Later.”
The line went dead.
John hung up the receiver, turned to Alicia, crossed his arms over his chest and fixed her with a steady gaze.
“Talk to me.”
“About what?” she asked, then turned away.
“Don’t look away from me,” he said shortly.
She frowned. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“There’s something about me you need to know,” John said.
Her frown deepened. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t play games, Alicia. If there is ever going to be anything between us, you deal with that now or call it quits.”
She went still. “If? As in you’re willing for there to be something between us?”
“Ah…” he said softly. “Now I understand.”
Alicia inhaled a shaky breath. “Good for you. Enlighten me, please, and then we’ll both get the joke.”
In three strides he was standing in front of her. He reached down and took her by the hands, pulling gently until she was standing up.
“Do you see me laughing?”
She shook her head.
“Then pay attention, because I haven’t said this to a woman in a real long time. Something happened between us when we made love. Something I don’t want to lose. I know we’ve got a hell of a fight ahead of us, but when it’s over—and it will be over, I promise you—I’m going to ask you a question.”
Alicia was beginning to tremble. This was so far beyond anything she’d hoped for that she was afraid she was dreaming. He could be infuriating and formidable and damned bossy, but she was so falling in love.
“What’s the question?” she asked.
He grinned. “You weren’t paying attention.”
“I was…am…paying attention,” she muttered.
“Is this mess over with yet?”
“Oh. No, I don’t guess so.”
“Then it’s not yet time for me to ask the question.”
She doubled up her fist and thumped him lightly on the chest. “You make me crazy.”
Then she saw his eyes darken as the smile slid off his face.
“You make me forget promises I made. Promises that have to be kept.”
“You mean what my father did to—”
He suddenly pressed two fingers across her mouth, stopping the words before they were spoken. The tone of his voice softened until it was hardly more than a whisper as he said, “Know this, and know it now. What that man did to my family was done long, long ago…before you existed. You hold no part in it. No guilt in it. You are as much a victim as they were.”
She sighed as her vision blurred. “Oh, John,” she said softly, then slid her arms around his neck and kissed the hollow at the base of his throat.
John flinched as if he’d been shot. He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on the crown of her head, and tried not to think of White Fawn, but it was an impossible task. That was the way she used to show him that she wanted to make love.
Alicia paused. She could feel the tension in his body. She’d done something wrong, but she didn’t know what.
“John?”
He groaned, then picked her up in his arms. “I want to make love to you. I need to make love to you. Now.”
Alicia sighed. Everything was all right. She’d just been imagining things.
“Then what are you waiting for?” she asked softly.
He turned around and laid her down on the Navajo rug in front of the fireplace.
“Here?” she asked as he began to undress her.
“Too far to the bed,” he answered.
She laughed, and began pulling off her clothes and pointing at him. “You’re so overdressed.”
The shock of her kiss slid away. “You are so right,” he fired back, and peeled off his clothes in record time.
Alicia paused for a moment, allowing herself to look her fill.
The scars that had first shocked her were hardly noticeable now. And she couldn’t understand where the term “red man” had ever come from, because his skin was a beautiful shade of brown. Then he was lying beside her, exploring her body with those long, supple fingers, teasing every pulse point to a maddening ache. She reached for him, encircling his erection with her fingers, then stroked slowly, steadily.
He groaned. “Don’t stop,” he said hoarsely, and gave himself up to her touch.
Learning that she had the power to make a man like Nightwalker weak with longing was heady stuff, but when he began to return the favor, she lost her sense of self. Suddenly nothing mattered but the moment when he would bury himself so deep inside her that the separation between man and woman ceased to exist.
“No more playing,” she begged. “Take me now.”
He slid between her legs, pausing a heartbeat longer before burying himself inside her.
And then he began the dance.
Alicia wrapped her arms around his neck, then closed her eyes and rode the rhythm with him until they were both half out of their minds. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to mindless pleasure.
When Alicia began to climax, the tremors of her body were the ultimate aphrodisiac. Knowing he’d given her that joy was an exhilaration that pushed John past the limit of his control. With a final thrust he went deep, then let go, spilling his seed in her womb until there was nothing left but aftershocks.
Alicia was shaking from exhaustion, but she’d never been this happy. She couldn’t keep what she was feeling inside. She was stroking his back in a slow, gentle motion as she kissed the side of his face.
“You make me feel so loved.”
John rose up on his elbows to gaze down at her face. “It isn’t me. It’s us. I cherish you, Licia…more than you can know.”
Alicia sighed as she looked up at him. His expression was fierce, but his touch was gentle. His husky words of love stroked her ragged senses.
Cherish. Such an old-fashioned word, and one with a wealth of meaning.
“Love you, John,” she said softly, then parted her lips just enough for the kiss she saw coming.
Thirteen
Dieter was in New York City, in a hotel he’d chosen for its unassuming appearance and its proximity to a subway station, chewing a bite of hamburger and channel surfing when he caught the tail end of a newscast that startled him.
He swallowed before he was ready and choked, then dropped the burger back into the wrapper as he upped the volume.
“What the hell?” he muttered, staring in disbelief at the screen, listening as the newscaster spoke over the stock footage.
“Samuel Todd Watkins, a man long associated with organized crime, was taken into custody yesterday after a failed attempt on missing heiress Alicia Ponte’s life. A spokesperson for the Federal Bureau of Investigation lists Watkins’ arrest as the latest event in the unfolding drama of the hunt for Richard Ponte, the multibillionaire munitions magnate who’s been charged with treason against the United States of America. At this time, there are no new leads into Ponte’s whereabouts, but it remains obvious to the authorities that Ponte’s desire to end his daughter’s life, in retaliation for turning him in, continues. Rumors abound that Watkins has made a deal with the federal prosecutor in exchange for a reduction of charges, although reports are that he will still spend the rest of his life behind bars. According to authorities, additional arrests are pending.”
Dieter’s belly rolled with panic as he bolted up from the bed and grabbed his suitcase and began tossing in hi
s belongings. He started to leave, then ran to the window instead. He didn’t see anything out of place, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t already made and marked.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered as he threw the room key on the bed and headed out the door. He paused in the hallway long enough to locate the stairwell, then started walking, making it down seven flights in record time before exiting into an alley. By the time he got to the sidewalk, he was shaking. In his haste, he bumped into a pedestrian and got a cursing for his carelessness.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, put his head down and headed for the subway stop.
Every step he took, he felt a thousand eyes on him. Every sound he heard became amplified a hundredfold, until he was at the point of panic. Suddenly someone grabbed his shoulder.
He spun, his eyes wide with shock.
“What? What?”
A well-dressed man pointed toward the street. “The light, man. It’s red. You need to pay attention or you’ll get yourself run over.”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you,” Dieter said.
The moment the light changed, he was across the street and running down the steps into the subway, where he promptly disappeared into the crowd.
The Newbury Clinic and Hospital in Lucerne had once been the private home of a deposed duke. Now, it was a world-renowned center for gender-changing surgery, as well as state-of-the-art techniques in facial reconstruction—and all in the strictest confidentiality. Over the seventy-five years they’d been in practice, many well-known celebrities from all over the world had availed themselves of the Newbury’s discreet services.
When Richard arrived, he was just another patient. He had asked, and paid dearly, for an entire facial reconstruction, as well as chest implants, giving him the physique of a bodybuilder without any of the work and training. But he’d had one more request that had given the doctors pause for thought. Over the years, the staff had received many bizarre requests, but no one had ever asked for what amounted to a doggy bag of the removed bits and pieces. When Richard was ready to leave the hospital, he had requested that all the tissue, bone and skin removed from his face and body be ready to go with him. The surgeons didn’t ask why. For an added fee, Richard’s request was met. Everything they removed from him would be cryogenically frozen and awaiting transport upon his release.
He’d been in surgery for more than eleven hours, then in recovery for two. The nurse had been monitoring her latest patient’s vitals carefully, noting that he had been in and out of consciousness for some time. Everything seemed to be stable, but his surgery had been major, and the danger of infection or blood clots was high. And if a clot did form and break loose, at the least he could suffer a stroke. At the worst, he could have a fatal heart attack.
She checked the drip on his IV, then upped the dosage of painkillers as per the doctor’s instructions, before taking another blood pressure and pulse check. Satisfied with the stats, she said, “Mr. Schloss…Mr. Schloss. Can you hear me?”
Richard groaned.
“You are out of surgery and doing well.”
“Um.”
“Good, good. Are you in pain?”
He blinked.
“I’ve increased your pain medications. You should be feeling relief any moment.”
He grunted, counting every heartbeat until the narcotics kicked in. When the sounds and voices began to fade, he sank into blessed oblivion.
“You’re a coldhearted bastard. You promised me a shilling. I could get more, you know. You’re worth a whole lot more to the crown.”
He ignored the prostitute as he continued to button up his trousers, but he didn’t like her tone. And what she’d said had sounded vaguely like a threat. He tossed tuppence on the floor at her feet and had turned to leave when the sudden sound of a disturbance outside caught his attention. He ran to the window. Something wasn’t right. The king’s guards were everywhere!
He spun around. The woman he’d just bedded was on her way out the door.
“What have you done?” he yelled.
Suddenly the door flew inward as more guards spilled into the room.
“Grab him!” someone shouted as he flung himself toward the window.
He’d been in a London prison once before and barely survived. He wasn’t going back again.
The mullion-paned window shattered on impact as he went through it headfirst. He fell in a shower of sunlight and glass, only vaguely aware of the screams and shouts above him. All his life he’d fought to be in control. Never trusting anyone. Always wanting more than the seventeenth century deemed a man of his status might have. And now gravity was in charge of the few seconds he had left of his life.
“Bugger them all!” he cried.
Then everything went black.
Richard was gasping, drawing one deep, bone-jarring breath into his body after another as he came to. The pain it caused racked him from head to toe. He clawed at his face, but nothing felt right. Before he fell, he’d had a full head of hair and a beard. He felt the bandages and realized in horror that he hadn’t died from the fall after all.
God, oh God. I can’t go back to gaol.
Suddenly people were grabbing his hands to keep them from his face, talking to him in urgent tones, beseeching him to calm down.
“Mr. Schloss. Mr. Schloss. You’re in hospital. You had surgery…remember?” a woman said. “Please, you must calm down.”
A man’s voice rose above the woman’s, issuing orders that made no sense.
Who the hell was Mr. Schloss, he wondered, and why were they putting him under? Under what?
Confusion ended with the new dose of narcotic that slipped into his veins and sent him back into unconsciousness.
Dieter was in Houston, Texas. Not because he knew the city so well, but because it was big enough that he figured he could lose himself there. And it was a seaport, which enhanced the possibility of slipping out of the country on a ship leaving the docks.
In his youth, he’d worked for a Greek shipping line for a while, so passing himself off as a sailor would be a cinch. What he needed were the papers to back it up. But he didn’t know who to contact or have the money to make it happen. He was as fucked as a man could be without ever having had a moment of the pleasure. He’d tried to call Richard off and on for the better part of two days, but without any success. All he could do now was lie low and wait for the man to call back. If he didn’t, it was as good as over for him.
Damn Richard Ponte. Damn himself for not abandoning a sinking ship. Damn the whole world to holy hell.
The western sky over John’s house was a wash of reds, oranges and yellows, a display of heavenly fireworks the human hand could never reproduce. The sight always moved him, but at the same time it reminded him of how very, very long he’d been on this earth.
He stood silently, watching as the sun continued to sink, until there was nothing left but the glow below the horizon. A coyote howled somewhere in the distance. The sound spoke to everything he was: wild at heart. He’d learned to live within the rules of the twenty-first century, but he would forever be a warrior of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya.
“John?”
He turned. Alicia was standing in the doorway with a hesitant expression on her face.
“Yes, baby?”
The endearment should have reassured her, but it didn’t.
“I wish I could take away that look in your eyes,” she said.
Startled that she’d learned to see through him, he tried to deny it.
“What look?”
She sighed. “At least have the decency not to lie to me.”
As he lifted his chin in challenge, the last of the evening light turned him into a dark silhouette. Now his features were as vague as the little bit of himself he showed to the world.
“I did not lie.”
She shrugged. “There’s such a thing as a sin of omission.”
Once again, she was on target. “So what do you want to know?”
She crossed the
terrace, then stopped before him and lifted her hands to his face. The hard angles were becoming as familiar to her as her own features.
“It breaks my heart to see the sadness in your eyes and know a member of my family is responsible. I know what you said…that I’m a victim, too. But it’s not the same thing, John. It’s not.”
She put her arms around his waist and then laid her cheek against his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady, just like the man. But it was the scars on his body and in his heart that told the true story. She didn’t know how it had happened and he wouldn’t talk about it, but he was alone in the world—all that was left of an entire family—and it was her father’s fault.
John sighed. This woman deserved more than he was able to give, but he wasn’t man enough to walk away. He wanted her. She’d started out as part of the problem, and now she was becoming the solution to his lonely existence. But it would be at her expense. She was right. He hadn’t been honest with her. Only, he didn’t know how to explain what he was or if explaining was even the right thing to do.
“Let it be. Time has a way of working out the knots in almost every problem. All we need is more time.”
She nodded. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but knowing John, it was all she was going to get.
“Come inside?”
He nodded. “Yes. I’m hungry. How about you?”
“If you’re cooking,” she said.
He grinned. “Yes, I’ll feed you.”
And another day passed.
The hallucinations Richard had been having for the last week were driving him crazy. Every time they gave him something to sleep or the pain meds put him out, he slipped right into another wild dream. The dreams were so real—meticulous in detail, including historically correct clothing, speech and food. What was even stranger was the fact that sometimes the locations no longer existed or had been renamed from one century to the next. History had never interested him, so it wasn’t as if he was just dreaming about people and places he’d studied. And it kept him in a state of constant stress, always dreaming about dying. It led him to the fear that he was getting some sublime message from God, that he was being prepared mentally for imminent doom. Even though the doctors seemed to think he was healing properly, he was well aware of the possibility that anything could happen.
