Til the End of Time

by Iris Johansen

  Four

  "Ho, Sandor, I was about to come after you. I would think you'd know your way home by this time." The huge, bearded man squatting by the fire rose to his feet with a litheness belying both his size and forty-odd years. His dark eyes wan­dered appraisingly over Alessandra. "But perhaps you were in no great hurry."

  "It's difficult to remember the way home, when we change the location of the base every week or so. I don't have your gypsy instincts, Paulo." A little smile tugged at Sandor's lips. "And a few things happened to delay me."

  The large man shrugged. "That instinct has to be bred in the bone. But you have other instincts just as amusing. That's why I stay with you." His white teeth suddenly flashed in his bearded face. "You offer the best hunting in Tamrovia."

  "Thank you." Sandor inclined his head in a mocking bow. "We try to please. I have a task that might amuse you right now. Or rather, our guest has a task. Alessandra Ballard, this is Paulo Debuk."

  "Now, here is a proper-sized woman." Paulo Debuk s massive paw engulfed her hand. "It's about time you found yourself a woman who isn't a bit of meringue. This one has the substance needed to be the Tanzar's woman." He pumped her hand vigorously. "I'm truly delighted you have come to your senses. She will give you fine, strong sons."

  "I will?" Alessandra asked faintly. She wondered if everyone who met Paulo Debuk felt as over­whelmed as she did. If he was one of Sandor's officers, he was very strange one. Instead of the green camouflage fatigues worn by the other sol­diers she'd seen as they approached the camp, he was garbed in rough denim trousers tucked into brown suede boots. A dark brown shirt with full flowing sleeves was stretched over his broad shoul­ders and deep chest. Debuk's full dark beard was flecked with gray, but the dark eyes gazing into her own were as bright as the smile he was be­stowing upon her. It was a moment before she could arouse herself from her bemusement. What had he said? Something about . . . She hurriedly pulled her hand away. "No. You misunderstood. I'm here to—"

  "Miss Ballard and I have made an arrangement." Sandor's eyes were glinting with amusement. "But unfortunately my progeny aren't part of it. Per­haps we can put in an addendum later to that effect. She has a message for you to deliver in Belajo."

  "Delighted," Paulo drawled. "It was getting very

  dull waiting around here anyway. I'll be glad to have something to do."

  Sandor frowned. "No word from Zack?"

  "A radio message last night," Paulo said. "But you're not going to like it. There's been a delay in shipping the arms across the border. It will be another two days before they arrive here at the base."

  Sandor murmured a curse half beneath his breath. "I was afraid of that."

  "Zack is doing all he can. He knows you're having to twiddle your thumbs until the ship­ment arrives."

  "I know. I know." Sandor turned away with barely concealed impatience. "But there has to be some way he can hurry it up. I'm going to see if I can get through to him." He glanced back over his shoulder at Alessandra. "Give your message to Paulo. He's as close to a disinterested observer as you'll find in Tamrovia." He didn't wait for an answer, but strode hurriedly to a large tent sev­eral yards across the glade.

  Well, that certainly put her in her place, Ales­sandra thought. As soon as he was again faced with the problems of his revolution, her attrac­tiveness to him faded into the background.

  "He's very worried about the weapons," Paulo said gently. He had been studying her face as she watched Sandor walk away. There was understand­ing as well as sympathy in those sparkling dark eyes. "The longer the delay, the more chance of death and injuries on both sides. Sandor wants it over."

  "I know. When ambition calls ..."

  Paulo shook his head. "You think he's ambi­tious? What can this war give him that he doesn't have already?"

  "Power."

  "Sandor?" Paulo threw back his head, and his laughter boomed out. "Do you know what he's most afraid will come out of this war? He is fright­ened they will insist he become president of the new republic. He is tired of being Tanzar."

  "He can always say no."

  "He is a man who believes in commitment. Such a man has trouble saying no when there is need." Paulo's lips twisted. "And there is always need for the Tanzar."

  Sandor Karpathan would quite probably be the first president of Tamrovia! Why did that idea give her such a sinking feeling in the pit of her stom­ach? She unconsciously squared her shoulders. "Sandor said you were unbiased. Yet you're in his camp and presumably ready to run his errands."

  "I am a gypsy. We stand apart from wars and politics."

  "Then why are you with Sandor?"

  "I like him. He is a fine hunter." Paulo's eyes twinkled. "Almost as good as I am." He paused.

  “You're afraid to trust this message with Sandor?"

  Was she afraid? Her emotions were in tumult. "I'm not sure." She smiled. "But I believe I can rely on you, Paulo. Do you think you can take a message to someone and bring back an answer by tonight?"

  "Of course, unless that person is in a solitary cell in Naldona's high-security prison." A wide grin lit Paulo's face. "Then it might take me until tomorrow morning."

  Alessandra chuckled. Paulo was obviously larger than life in terms of more than his size. "Don't worry—this person is quite accesssible. That's one of the reasons I chose him."

  "Pity. I was hoping for more of a challenge to break the monotony. Do you need a pen and paper?"

  She nodded. "Please."

  Thirty minutes later she had finished writing the final instructions to Father Dinot and given the message as well as directions to Paulo. She stood watching him move silently through the forest as he left the camp, and slowly shook her head. The man was a giant, a flamboyant giant to boot, and the last person she would have chosen for an undercover mission.

  "You look skeptical."

  Sandor, frowning, stood beside her. Evidently the radio call had not gone as he wished, she realized.

  "Don't tell me you don't trust Paulo either."

  She pursed her lips in a soundless whistle. He really was in a bad mood. "I wasn't questioning his integrity, merely his size. Is it safe to send him into an occupied city, where he'll stick out like a sore thumb?"

  The frown faded slightly. "He'll be safer than any man I've got. Paulo can come and go in seem­ingly impossible situations. I think he must take on the protective coloration of his surroundings."

  "Amazing," she murmured.

  "He'd be the first to agree with you." He took her arm. "Come."

  She glanced up at him, startled. "Where are we going?"

  "You wanted a bath." He was propelling her toward the perimeter of the camp. "You're going to get one."

  "Here?" She glanced around. She could see at least twenty soldiers milling around the glade. "I think I'd prefer a little more privacy. "

  "It will be private. You've forgotten how posses­sive I am. I've given orders that anyone within fifty yards of your 'bathtub' will answer to me." He smiled grimly. "In my present mood I think I might be glad if one of them disobeyed."

  There was precious little chance his wish might come true, she thought. The aura of leashed vio­lence surrounding Sandor would discourage any trespassers.

  Her "bathtub" turned out to be a small, clear pond about a half mile from the camp. It was surrounded by thick shrubbery, forming a nautral protective barrier to guard her privacy.

  Sandor reached into his pocket, brought out a bar of soap, and handed it to her. "Don't lose it in the water. Soap is as scarce as all our other sup­plies right now. I'll go back to the base and scav­enge a bit to find you a clean towel, and I'll bring vour backpack at the same time." He turned away. I'll be back in twenty minutes."

  She slowly shook her head as she watched him walk away without a backward glance. Just when she thought she had begun to know the man, he showed her a new and different side of his char­acter. She might as well have been one of the bushes rimming the pond, for all the personal con
cern she'd detected in his parting words. Tell­ing herself he must be upset by the news he had

  learned didn't lessen her pique. Pique. What a petty emotion. She believed she had outgrown such childish emotions . . . but now it seemed Sandor was inspiring all sorts of feelings to emerge in her—and not all of them pleasant.

  Perhaps, she thought, his actions hadn't been as abrupt and impersonal as they seemed. Her past experiences had precluded the possibility of her having much modesty remaining in her make­up, but he couldn't know that. Gallantly, he was providing privacy for her, as he hadn't been able to do last night at the palace. She felt a stirring of tenderness for Sandor, and a slight smile curved her lips as she began to unbutton her blouse.

  She was singing. No, it was more of a throaty hum, with an occasional word here and there. Sandor paused before the screen of shrubbery to listen. Lord, there wasn't a more sensual sound on earth than a woman softly crooning to herself. He felt an equally natural and obvious bodily reac­tion to the unconscious sensuality of the sound. So obvious, he was forced to wait for a moment before pushing his way through the shrubbery.

  Alessandra was standing in the middle of the pool, her back to him, her wet hair clinging to her neck and falling in long strands down her back. He hadn't realized her hair was so long. It came to the middle of her naked back, now that it was no longer bound in a bun. Naked. The realization caught him with brutal force. He had been ex­pecting it, yet the shock was still there, tighten­ing the muscles of his stomach and thighs, stroking his arousal with feather-light fingers of electricity. He couldn't breathe. He wanted to look away, hoping some of the ache would disappear if he could no longer see her. Yet he couldn't shift his eyes away from her.

  The water in which she stood was waist deep, but clear so that he could see the pale gleam of her lush hips and strong, well-shaped legs. Crys­tal drops of water beaded her shoulders and the long, beautiful line of her spine. Her skin glowed with a nearly palpable sheen in the dappled sun­light filtering through the trees. He watched in fascination as a small drop of water began to glide with excruciating slowness from her shoulder blade down her back. He smothered a groan as intense desire stabbed his loins.

  The low croon broke off, and he saw the mus­cles of her back tense. "Sandor?"

  "Turn around." His voice was hoarse. "I want to see you."

  "I don't think—" She stopped. She could feel his gaze on her naked back, and it was sending shivers of sensation through her. Heat. Touching her breasts, burrowing between her thighs. She closed her eyes. She had been about to protest, but she had sensed that this was coming. It was another step forward in their relationship. A step she wanted to take. "I want you to see me."

  She turned to face him. She threw back her head proudly, watching his face as he looked at her. Her large breasts were firm and ripe, and she was not ashamed of either their size or the re­sponse she knew would be obvious to him. She didn't have to look down to know how swollen or taut she was or how her nipples were jutting out in hard, pointed invitation. She could see it in his eyes as they fastened on her with raw intensity. She inhaled sharply, the muscles of her belly flinch­ing as if from a balled fist.

  "Come here," he said thickly, not taking his gaze from her breasts. He dropped to the ground the knapsack and towel he was carrying. To free his hands for her, she thought with a flare of excitement mingled with panic. "Please," he added.

  She began to walk toward him. The water was cool and heavy as it ran over her thighs and but­tocks. She felt only heat. She was burning up. Sandor was burning too. She could see the flush darken the tan of his cheeks, and his eyes . . . His hand reached out and pulled her from the water to the bank. She felt a sudden shyness pierce her former serenity. "You're very polite," she said with an attempt at lightness. "Do you always say please when you want something?"

  He didn't raise his gaze from the full invitation of her breasts. "I'll say anything you want to hear, if you'll let me keep looking at you." His words came jerkily. "And I'll do anything you want me to do, if you'll let me touch you." He slowly bent his head. "Will you let me touch you, Alessandra?"

  She couldn't answer. Her throat tightened and then closed entirely when his tongue licked deli­cately at a drop of water beading the pink crest of her breast. Her body gave its own response, and she heard him laugh with husky delight before his lips closed on her nipple. She moaned, the bar of soap dropping to the ground as her hands fluttered up to tangle in his hair. His mouth was moving with hot, moist urgency, suckling, nibbling at the long, pointed nipple. His fingers were toying with and encircling the swollen spheres as if he were starved for the taste and texture of her. She made a low sound deep in her throat and her fingers threaded through his hair, clutching at him with mindless urgency. Her body was trem­bling, and she could scarcely stand up.

  He lifted his head, and his eyes were dark and oddly blind-looking. "You're shivering," he mut­tered. "Let me dry you." He bent down to pick up the towel he had dropped to the ground. "Are you cold?"

  "No, far from it."

  He carefully dried her throat and shoulders. The terry of the towel was gently abrasive against her skin. She tensed as the towel brushed against the exquisitely sensitive tips of her breasts. Sandor's gaze lifted swiftly at the small betrayal, and he smiled.

  "Good," he said softly. "Still, I think we'd better get you dry." His hands cupped her breast from below and lifted it into high prominence. The towel moved over the mound slowly and thor­oughly, until her breath was coming in little gasps and her gaze was clinging to his face as if she were drowning. "Aren't they lovely?" he asked softly. Like luscious ripe apples." He lifted the other breast and began to towel it with the same thorough­ness. "I feel like I'm shining an apple for the teacher." He genjtly released her breast and began to dry her abdomen. "Only, I'm the teacher who's going to enjoy them." He dropped to his knees in front of her. "Spread your legs, love."

  She obeyed slowly, gazing down at him in bemusement. Her hands were still wound in his hair, and she found herself moving them in a loving, stroking motion. His lips were pressed against her belly, and his tongue suddenly darted out to lick teasingly at her navel. He rubbed the towel up and down on her soft inner thighs with soothing gentleness.

  "I like your hands on me." She could barely hear the words, muffled against her skin. "I'd like them all over me. Gentle and then harder, your nails digging into me." The towel was suddenly between her legs. Her hands tightened in his hair as her hips tilted instinctively forward. The mo­tion of the towel was no longer slow and gentle. It was hard and fast, and the rough friction was unbelievably erotic.

  "Sandor." The name was gasped between her clenched teeth. "Stop, it's too—"

  "Too much?" The towel was instantly gone from between her thighs. Instead it was draped around her buttocks. "I'll try to be more gentle. I'm barely holding on, and it's difficult to ... " The words trailed off as he began to cover her lower belly with tiny nipping kisses, his teeth pressing just enough to arouse without hurting. He began to move the towel from side to side in a slow, rhyth­mic tempo. "Is that better?"

  If by "better," he meant sheer sensual torture, it was definitely better. The combination of the fric­tion of the towel on her buttocks and the abra­sion of his teeth and tongue was driving her insane. "No. I'm hurting. I want..."

  He looked up. His gaze was intent and wild in his taut face. "Are you?" He suddenly dropped the towel, and his bare hands were on her buttocks, his face buried against her stomach as he desper­ately clutched her close. "Lord, so am I, love," His open mouth was moving over her in a hundred frantic kisses. "I have to be inside you."

  "Here?" It wasn't an objection. She was far beyond the point of objection. She only wanted him to make love to her.

  His hands clenched her buttocks as he went tense. "I'm behaving like an animal. Is that what you mean?"

  Startled, she said, "No, never."

  "Maybe I am an animal." His hands released her and he was sud
denly on his feet, unbuttoning his shirt. "There have been moments lately when I've wondered if I'd ever be anything else after this damn war is over." He was taking off his shirt and throwing it aside. His fingers were on his belt. "I was ready to throw you down on the ground and take you like one of the whores who follow my troops." He was naked now, and she caught a glimpse of lean, tanned muscles and an arousal so bold, her eyes widened in surprise. "And if you don't get the hell out of here, I'm still going to do it. I won't be able to stop myself." He stepped from the bank and into the pond. Water splashed ev­erywhere as he began to cleave through the pond, his arms moving with explosive violence. He stopped in the center of the pool to look back at her. He stood up, and the water lapped around his hips. "What are you waiting for? Get dressed and get back to camp."

  Puzzled, she stared at him. "What's wrong?" She was still aching with an emptiness it now appeared he had no intention of filling. "I wasn't fighting you. I wanted you to make love to me."

  "I know you did." He scowled. "Will you please put your clothes on? This cold water isn't helping as much as I hoped it would."

  "All right." She bent down to unfasten the knap­sack, her attention on his bewildering reversal. She pulled out a pair of bikini panties and slipped them on. "You wanted it too." She fastened her bra and thrust her arms into the yellow blouse. "Why did you stop?"

  "Because I'm not an animal." His gaze was fol­lowing her fingers with fascination as she but­toned the blouse. "Yet. And because I don't want to give you a quick roll in the hay you'll be able to dismiss later. When we come together it's going to mean something to both of us. I can wait."

  Well, she wasn't sure she could. She stepped into her jeans and pulled them up. She hadn't expected her sexuality to explode this way. It must have been like a ticking bomb inside her all these years, waiting for a spark to set it off. Ex­cept Sandor Karpathan was more like a forest fire than a spark, she thought. She could feel his fire touching her still as she stood looking at him. She could feel her breasts swell and thrust against the cotton of her bra as her gaze went over him.