Crystal Warrior: Through All Eternity (Atlantean Crystal Saga Book 1)

by YatesNZ, Jen

  ‘I'd better go check on dinner,’ she said loudly and stepped out of the pool.

  ‘George, you rat! I need help here!’ Fran was trying vigorously to pull Torr under the water by his legs.

  Georgina looked back and wished she hadn't. The muscles of his deeply tanned shoulders and arms rippled and flexed as he gripped the edge of the spa. Teeth a grinning slash of white against the dark tan of his face, his hair clung to his forehead in wet, curling tendrils of black silk. Suddenly her focus shifted and she could have sworn there were long wet ropes of ebony round his shoulders and something, tattoos maybe, around his upper arms and above his right breast.

  She blinked to clear her vision, and again wished she hadn't. With arms spread and fingers gripping the edge of the pool, his chest was a wide wall of water-slicked, sculpted muscle and his biceps bunched invitingly. Inviting—what?

  Snatching up a towel, she turned and hurried inside, calling over her shoulder, ‘I'm sure you can handle it.’

  Always you run from me. When will you face the truth of who we are and to whom you belong?

  Her feet faltered as the words jabbed into her mind in a voice that was Torr's yet was more—dark-timbred, husky. Imperious.

  And the words themselves? Fear gripped the pit of her stomach. Mental hospitals were full of people who claimed to hear voices in their heads.

  Chapter 2

  Beer in hand, Torr leaned against the river-stone fireplace dominating the lounge of Georgina Hackville's home watching Fran regale her family with anecdotes of her travels and their stopover in Honolulu on their flight south. Every now and then she'd flash him a smile, seeking corroboration or a detail she couldn't remember. It was the perfect time to study the Hackville women. Near six feet tall, all three sisters were strikingly similar, differing mainly in coloring.

  Silver blond with ivory porcelain skin and calm blue eyes, Merryn put one in mind of angels. Fran, model-slim with gold skin and hair and luminous sea-green eyes, shimmered with vibrancy. To his consternation, in contrast to the enigmatic, muted personality of her twin, she appeared too bright, too—damn! His head had gone all to hell. On that trip to Peru he and Fran had looked at one another and known they belonged together. No other woman had ever lured him into matrimonial waters. He loved Fran, her vibrancy, her lively nature and penchant for the fantastic, in the bedroom and out of it.

  But she is not the Golden One.

  The words were as clear as if someone had spoken them. He'd always imagined he had control over his mind and the thoughts in it, but in the last few hours that belief had been seriously challenged.

  His thoughts at that admission were definitely his own and far from polite. Mad people heard voices in their heads.

  Shaking his head to dislodge that uncomfortable fact, he shifted his focus to Georgina. With hair the color of polished bronze and eyes a watchful, feral gold, she reminded him of a mountain lioness. There was a remote wariness about her that spoke of inner strength, the kind of strength that climbed mountains or survived famine; that doggedly followed the claims of conscience even when her heart was clamoring to tread a different route. And like the lioness her adrenaline fired the moment he threatened her space, came too close. It was so easy. He only had to look at her, focus on her, and he was in her mind and she in his.

  Golden One.

  Surely Fran was more brightly golden than Georgina, Georgina more dull, he argued with himself, absently downing the last of his beer. His eyes slid to Fran.

  All that glitters is not gold.

  Shit! He tilted the glass again and found it empty. For a moment he glared into its depths then set it on the mantelpiece, which Georgina had earlier explained was a slab of ancient kauri timber salvaged from a Northland swamp. His mind was rioting nicely out of control without him adding the impetus of alcohol, he thought savagely.

  He tried to focus on Fran's description of the birds they'd seen in Honolulu but as if magnetized, his attention was drawn to Georgina again. She was playing peep-o with Jordie and the baby was chuckling delightedly. It was the most relaxed he'd seen her. She'd changed out of the nondescript clay colored suit she'd worn to the airport and was now wearing a pair of brown linen slacks and a dark green knitted cotton sweater which, though loose, contoured the firm high breasts, flat stomach and womanly hips. He knew how perfectly that body fit his own, how responsive and arousing he found it, yet until a few hours ago he'd never set eyes on her.

  Her hair, which had been pinned on top of her head when she was in the spa, was neatly secured by a black clip-on bow. His fingers itched to loosen it, prowl through it. Fran's hair shimmered like flowing golden silk. Georgina's, he knew, would be thick and luxurious and heavy and if she left it loose it would curl and glisten in sunlight like burnished bronze. He could see her dressed in fluid gowns of finest silk and glorious colors. Emeralds should glow on her breast, her hands, in her hair.

  Christ, he was losing it! Yet he couldn't stay the flow of fantastic images.

  He could feel her hair wrapped round his fingers. He knew he'd had his hands in her hair—somewhere—some time. He knew things about her he had no business knowing. She'd choose duty over the man she loved. If he didn't keep her prison secure she'd leave him. Her skin would be smooth as silk velvet and taste of apricots. Where in hell did this stuff come from? Anyone would think he'd been reading a romantic fantasy on the plane instead of Barrington's latest adventure. Ever since he'd seen her at the airport it was as if something had shifted in his psyche, as if his view of the universe had changed somehow.

  It made him damned edgy.

  A couple of National Geographic magazines lay on the coffee table. Picking one up, he flipped through the pages but even the impressive photography of exotic places couldn't hold his attention away from the tableau of women. Merryn’s husband, Case, had taken Katja and Jordie for a walk outside. Perhaps he should've gone too.

  He forced his gaze from Georgina to her mother, who was clearly delighting in having all her daughters about her. Intriguingly complex and unconcernedly beautiful, Ellen Hackville, though not short, was somewhat shorter than her daughters. Even so, Torr decided with rueful admiration, she wasn't likely to be eclipsed by them. The red of her hair was probably artificially enhanced as there wasn't a grey strand in sight, but not obviously so. Her clear green eyes danced with lively intelligence and something which in a younger woman he'd have had no hesitation in labelling `sensuality'.

  For the next half hour he sought to distract himself by searching out the legacy of character inherited from her by each of her daughters. Fran was easy. It was that vivacious intelligence that intrigued men as much as it terrified them, and the unusual green eyes. It had taken a little longer to unravel Merryn's mystery. There was the obvious similarity of bone structure and dark curved brows that were a striking contrast to her pale hair but it wasn't until he'd had a chance to observe Ellen in a pensive moment that he'd recognized the mystical quality so pronounced in Merryn.

  He'd just come to the conclusion whatever there was of Ellen in Georgina was carefully, even ruthlessly repressed, when Katja, returned from her walk several minutes before, jumped up from her mat in front of the hearth, emitting a single woof. A man entered the room, his neatly barbered slightly long, sandy hair was wind-rumpled as though he'd been driving with the window down. The new-comer scanned the room with a natural and unconscious male arrogance, then with an all-encompassing smile, strode toward Georgina with the tightly coiled energy of a man used to action.

  Her features expressed relief, the first natural, unguarded emotion he'd seen since he'd met her. Their bodies met and melded with the familiarity and intimate knowledge of partners—and he was fighting the primitive need to challenge. Until he'd met Georgina Hackville he'd been looking forward to meeting Gould Barrington, world-renowned adventurer and writer.

  Now he just wanted to smash his face in.

  Damn! His legs were aching.

  Something about this country at
the southern extremity of `down-under' had seriously unhinged him. Best he make a lightning recovery for any minute now he had to shake hands with that bastard, which would be difficult if his own was clenched in a fist. He was on the edge of losing control of something within himself. The last time he'd allowed that to happen a good friend had died. For sure, Justin, his saloon car racing partner and father of two beautiful kids, had just admitted to spending a wild night with Libby, his own live-in partner of the time. It wasn't as if he'd been terribly upset about Libby's defection for she'd never pretended to be faithful. Theirs had been a relationship of sexual convenience, which had suited them both.

  But he believed in commitment and if a commitment had been made, one honored it. The despair and scarcely controlled tears in Nina Amoore's eyes that day when she'd come looking for Justin at the race track where they'd been testing a new car had deeply upset him. He'd been further fired by Justin's casual dismissal of her and the two little boys who were clearly desperate for their father's attention. As always back then, he'd allowed his anger free rein. Waiting behind the wheel of the car for Justin to join him in the passenger seat, it had boiled into uncontrollable rage.

  He'd roared away from the pit while Justin was still securing his seatbelt. Their exchange had been short and violent. He'd taken his eyes off the track to berate his friend for his callousness and the car had clipped the inside metal barrier, swerving across the track. Adrenaline pumping madly from anger and shock, he'd swung violently on the wheel, only succeeding in flipping the vehicle. He could still hear the screech of metal and Justin's screams as they slid along the tarmac on the roof and he would never forget the terrible sense of being out of control, as if he'd created the situation from the emotion within himself.

  Out of control.

  The passenger side of the car had slammed into the outer wall of the track and Justin had died instantly. He himself now had plates in both lower legs that ached damnably in the cold. Or if his temper rose in the dangerously unpredictable way he'd learnt at such cost to master.

  Georgina introduced Gould to Fran. Torr found himself watching with a clinical detachment as Barrington fell under Fran's spell. No man introduced to Fran Hackville failed to respond to her radiant vivacity. He waited for the reaction he should feel at the sight of another man's hands on his woman. To his consternation he was more disturbed by the way Georgina slipped her hand into the crook of Barrington's elbow and clung to him as if he were her rock in stormy waters.

  That was a role he knew should be his. What a hell of a mess. He was angry when he had no right to be, coldly detached when he should've been at least mildly heated and had voices in his head saying things he couldn't possibly know! By the time he came to shake Barrington's hand his tension manifested in a sudden hard grip which brought a momentary start of surprise to the writer's intense blue eyes and a grim sense of satisfaction to himself.

  It was rare for Gould to have to look up at anyone. For a brief second Georgina had the sensation of two warriors, harshly beautiful in bronze helmets and leather war kilts, facing one another across an ancient black and white tiled arena. She drew in a ragged breath to dispel the strange phantasm. A jolt had gone through Gould and she'd seen darts of light like emerald sword-thrusts from Torr's eyes. The energy bristling about them was the same as that around two dogs meeting in the street, or stags in the wilderness. Perhaps she should start writing this stuff down. It sounded more like something she'd read in a fantasy novel than thoughts she'd find in her own head!

  Realizing she was clinging to Gould's arm as if dependent on him for her very life force, she withdrew her hand and stepped back a little. Striving for a normal tone of voice, she said, ‘Torr's just finished tiling the bathroom in the Dower House. Fran says it looks superb.’

  Gould's jaw clenched as he retrieved his hand from Torr's grip and rammed both fists into his pockets. Maybe that wasn't a good choice of topic to try and get the men talking to one another—and maybe she should just step out of the arena and let the two of them sort it in their own way.

  As we've done many times before.

  The stillness following the echo of the words in her head seemed to last an age though in reality it was a mere breath. Emerald eyes flickered towards her and Torr’s nostrils flared slightly. Then his glance settled back on Gould and he said evenly, ‘It's not something I'd want to do for a living.’

  A brief smile softened Gould's terse lips.

  ‘You won't find me arguing with that. Actually I've been thinking,’ he said, turning to look directly at Georgina, ‘maybe we should get a tradesman in to lay them. I don't understand why you're so set on doing it yourself.’

  ‘I just thought it'd be fun for us to do it together—like we did the garden,’ Georgina was startled into blurting. They were spending less and less time together these days and it had begun to worry her. But this was the first he'd indicated he wasn't happy about them doing the job themselves.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Torr said, a sudden wry grin softening the harsh lines of his face, ‘that's domestic' material. Fran wasn't allowed near the job until I'd finished and all she had to do was admire my handiwork. Much less painful.’

  Fran grinned wickedly up at him.

  ‘That was after I'd created mayhem trying to—distract you and knocked a box of expensive figured tiles into the bath and damaged about half of them. The way you roared at me you'd have thought they were priceless jewels!’

  ‘I thought they were when I paid for them!’

  With a husky ripple of laughter Fran eased in close to Torr, slipping her hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

  ‘Anyway, as I explained earlier,’ she said, ‘writer's don't lay—tiles.’

  There was a suggestive lilt to her voice and her eyes had taken on a sultry virescent glow. But her gaze was on Gould, not Torr. Oddly, Georgina found she was satisfied to have it so.

  Aware of Gould at her side suddenly rocking back on his heels, she wanted to gauge his facial reaction too, but her attention was firmly snagged by the hooded green eyes of her sister's fiancé. She'd seen Fran squeeze his temptingly taut butt before she'd moved in close enough to block the view and start flirting suggestively with Gould. Georgina had always imagined the man Fran decided to marry would command all her attention, would curb her need to enslave every male in the room with her golden vivacity.

  Why would Fran look at any other man when she could lose herself in the jungle green depths of Torr Montgomery's eyes, know the touch of his strong capable hands, the satisfying closeness of his honed warrior's body? Why would she—?

  A long time ago in another place, another time I knew you both. Even then I took her first, but it was you I loved, Golden One.

  Georgina felt her eyes widen, felt panic grip her heart. For just a moment those green eyes glowed with an anger that seemed—ancient. Then the glow faded to be replaced by something she could only call disconcertion. His eyelids drooped and the connection snapped. She felt it as a physical severance, as if in one moment a fine electrical wire had joined them and in the next it had been cut clean through.

  ‘I'll go and serve dinner,’ she said, edging away.

  Running. Always you run from me.

  Voices in her head? Or was Torr Montgomery playing some sort of cruel mind game with her? What the hell was going on?

  With Merryn's help the food was quickly arranged on the irregularly shaped swamp kauri table in large pottery serving dishes. Gould lit the candles in the silver candelabra in the center of the table and in the two matching bronze floor stands in the corners of the room. With the fairy lights switched on in the patio garden beyond the glass doors the dining room, three steps down from the lounge, assumed the ambience of a magical cave.

  ‘George, where did you get this table?’ Fran asked, her voice almost breathless with wonder, her fingers caressing the glass-smooth resin surface. ‘That rose looks real!’

  ‘It is,’ Georgina said quietly, standing for a moment in con
templation of the perfect yellow rose suspended in the clear resin filling a natural hole near the center of the slab. ‘A guy up at Kerikeri makes them to order. I love the natural shape. He puts all sorts of things into them. I just wanted a yellow rose.’

  ‘Why a yellow rose?’

  Trust Fran to know it was important. Fortunately she'd long ago worked out her answer, for almost everyone asked that question.

  ‘It's vibrant and cheerful. Yellow roses are just that little bit rarer than red or pink and I'm not a red or pink person.’

  Fran cocked her head on one side and peered at her sister across the table, then she pulled out her chair and said with a laugh, ‘And ain't that the truth! Yellow roses are definitely you. Me? The redder the better.’

  In the general laughter that followed Georgina heard the voice in her head again.

  In the language of flowers a yellow rose speaks of infidelity or secrets. What's your secret, Golden One?

  Fire scorched her cheeks. Georgina jerked her head up and found Torr's eyes, viridescent in the candlelight, fixed on her. She hadn't known that. How had he?

  From the gardener at the Dower House.

  He hadn't spoken because Gould was now explaining to the group at large about some of the things they'd seen embedded in other tables from the same craftsman. Fire burned low in her belly now. Was it anger or desire? She no longer knew and it no longer mattered. Either was unacceptable towards Torr Montgomery. He was her sister's fiancé.

  Keep out of my head.

  Consciously projecting the thought, she looked directly at him and was surprised to see him shake his head as if something were bothering him and he was trying to dislodge it. Could he be as disconcerted as she was? Turning abruptly to Merryn who had Jordie in his car-seat, she pulled up an armchair so the baby could sit at the table with them. Fran's homecoming was supposed to be a gala family occasion but it was rapidly becoming a nightmare.