JANE'S WARLORD

by user

  The whole thing was irritating. Baran was a Warlord, not a time traveler. He didn’t even work for Temporal Enforcement. But TE had found a three-hundred-year-old video recording of him during Druas’s rampage in this time. They’d decided if a Warlord had been in the twenty-first century, it was because TE itself had put him there, presumably to stop the Jumpkiller. So they’d drafted Baran to make sure he got back here to do whatever he was supposed to do. Otherwise, they all risked creating a catastrophic paradox, and nobody wanted that.

  He only wished he had a few more details about what was actually going to happen. Unfortunately, TE seemed to operate under the theory that once you got where you were supposed to be, you automatically did whatever you were supposed to do.

  With a grunt of impatience, Baran continued his inspection of Jane’s primitive kitchen. When he turned a round knob on her cooking unit, one of the flat metal spirals on top of it slowly began to heat. His computer implant sent him an image of a metal container sitting on the spiral, bubbling. Might be interesting to experiment. Once when the rations had run low, he’d cooked a treehopper over a captured Xer Tach Pack.

  You could do all sorts of things with a Xeran power pack, if you were creative enough.

  “Baran, it’s under the bed,” the wolf called from upstairs. “I see its eyes glowing.”

  “Leave it alone, Freika.” He turned the coil off with a snap of his wrist.

  “But I’m hungry!” A snarling feline yowl rose. “And do you hear the way it’s talking to me?”

  “Eating the target’s cat would not create the first impression we want.” “Just one bite?”

  “No. This is going to be difficult enough as it is without you snacking on her furry friends.”

  “How could anybody be friends with a cat?”

  “Well, for one thing,” Baran said, walking into the living area, “it’s soft, it purrs, and unlike some I could name, it doesn’t mouth off.”

  Despite the genetic engineering that gave Freika sentience—and the computer implant that made him a four-legged library—Baran’s partner still had a timber wolf’s personality and instincts. Though useful in combat, those characteristics could be maddening the rest of the time.

  “A nibble?”

  “No.” Deciding not to trust Freika’s questionable self-control, Baran bounded up the stairs.

  It seemed to be his week for saving. Earth residents from predatory time travelers.

  Beyond the crime scene tape, a storm door creaked open and closed with a metallic ban£. Jane turned as the detective in charge of the case stumbled down the steps. Good, she could get the details of this thing and go home.

  Before she could open her mouth, Tom Reynolds leaned over and heaved the contents of his stomach into the budding azalea bushes.

  Jane winced. ‘That’s so not a good sign,” she called. “What’s bad enough to make you toss your crullers,

  Tom?”

  Reynolds jerked upright, a flustered expression on his round face as he hurriedly wiped his mouth. ‘Tell me you didn’t take a picture of that, Colby.”

  She grinned and toyed suggestively with the digital camera that hung by a strap around her neck. “Would I do that to you?”

  “Not if you ever want another exclusive.” Reynolds started toward her, shooting a hunted look around the taped-off perimeter of the yard. “How about TV? Are those vultures from WDRT here?”

  “Nope,” Jane said. “I’m the only one circling at the moment. I figure it’ll take DRT another twenty minutes to get here from Deanville.”

  “That’s something, anyway.” Tom pulled a wadded napkin out of a pocket and wiped his mouth, aware of Jane’s sympathetic gaze. If he had to catch a reporter on this nightmare so soon, he could have done worse. She’d never misquoted him, and if he asked her to withhold something to avoid blowing a case, she did it.

  And God knew she was easy on the eyes. Jane’s long-legged walk was a pleasure to watch even at a crime scene, and he’d caught other cops telling her intriguing cleavage more than they should. Her face always made him think of magazine covers: high cheekbones, big brown eyes, and the kind of wide, sensual mouth a happily married man had no business fantasizing about. With all the dark hair tumbling in curls around her shoulders, she could have done shampoo commercials. Yet he’d never seen her use her looks. She didn’t even seem aware of them.

  The nasty taste in his mouth suddenly reminded Tom he must have the breath of a frat boy the morning after a keg-ger. He grimaced, shoving aside the memory of just why he’d lost control of his lunch. He really didn’t want to throw up again, especially not on Jane’s pretty boots.

  Observant brown eyes softened as she looked at him. “I’ve got a bottle of water in the SUV. Want it?”

  “Yeah.” He sighed and admitted, “Taste in my mouth ain’t helping my stomach any.”

  She nodded and walked to her red Explorer. Tom trailed behind to watch appreciatively as she opened the door and bent over, fishing around in the cooler she kept in the backseat. Jane’s heart-shaped ass in those snug jeans would draw any man’s eyes, married or not.

  She turned and handed him a bottle dripping with ice and condensation. “Thanks,” he said, twisting the cap off as he headed for the nearest ditch to take a swig and spit.

  Jane watched him sympathetically. Reynolds wore the standard Southern detective uniform of chinos, blue sports coat, and blue oxford cloth shirt, slightly frayed at the collar because he had to watch every dime of his salary. His tie featured Wile E. Coyote and a ketchup stain. Short and balding, he had’a face like a bulldog, with a little too much lip and weary blue eyes.

  He was the best cop she’d ever known. She shook her head. “Tom, I’ve seen you eat barbecue after working a house where a guy had been dead three weeks. In July. What’s bad enough to make you abuse the

  azaleas?”

  The detective didn’t answer, his eyes shifting away from hers to scan the street. Since the nearest neighbors lived half a mile away, the only illumination came from the cars’ blue lights. Judging from the tension in his shoulders, he didn’t find the darkness reassuring. “Why are you here, Colby?” he asked finally. “You don’t go to press again until Monday. Call me tomorrow and I’ll fill

  you in.”

  “Can’t work a murder over the phone, Tom. Besides, when have you known me to miss a crime scene?”

  He sighed and hunched, his gaze now flicking warily across the trees that ringed the wooded lot. “This is not a good time to be conscientious, kiddo. I don’t like you out here all by yourself.”

  Jane gaped at him. Despite their long friendship, it was an unprecedented comment for him to make on the job. Police normally treated reporters little better than the vultures he’d called the WDRT crew. The last time a policeman had expressed concern over Jane’s safety, she’d been standing in the middle of 1-85 watching a guy with a sniper rifle hold off thirty cops. The officer’s actual words had been a snarled, “Get your ass back, lady.”

  “Okay, what the hell is going on? I’ve never seen you this spooked.” She reached into her purse to dig out a notebook and pen.

  Tom shrugged and spat another mouthful of water into the ditch. “We have an unidentified female victim.”

  She looked up from her notebook. “Who lives at this address? That should narrow things down.”

  “Maybe, but she doesn’t exactly look like herself at the moment. We know she’s a Caucasian blonde, but that’s about it.”

  Jane grimaced. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  The detective’s eyes went bleak and flat. “Believe me, it’s not.” Something in his tone sent a wave of icy prickles washing over her skin.

  Whatever had happened in that house, it wasn’t a typical Tayanita County murder.

  Roaring case of the creeps or not, Jane reminded herself she had a job to do. She shook off her unease, cleared her throat, and asked, “Cause of death?”

  “Haven’t done an autopsy yet.” />
  Sometimes she thought it would be easier mining diamonds with her fingernails than getting details out of a cop. ‘Tom, don’t go technical on me. Gun, knife, fists, what?”

  “That’s for the coroner to decide.” He took another swig of his water.

  “Like mat ever stopped you before. Look, here’s a clue—if there’s a small round hole on one side and a big ragged hole on the other, that means she was shot.”

  “Smartass. She wasn’t shot.”

  “Okay, so what was she? Or do we play Twenty Questions until I guess right?”

  “Why not? The rest of us are.” Giving his shoulders an uneasy roll, Tom admitted, “Looks like some kind of knife. Sharp.” His lips thinned. “Real sharp.”

  “Sharp as in box cutter, or sharp as in steak knife?” Box cutters were the preferred weapon in certain nasty quarters because the blade was short enough for legal carry in South Carolina. In domestics gone bad, though, spur-of-the-moment killers tended to grab whatever they found lying around the kitchen.

  Wearily he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Butcher knife, maybe. Autopsy’ll tell us more.”

  “So assuming your victim is the homeowner, how airtight is her significant other’s alibi?” If a woman was murdered in the rest of the country, her husband, boyfriend, or ex- was usually the one who did it. In Tayanita County those odds were a virtual certainty.

  “We’re looking for him.” His voice dropped into a harried growl. “And praying like hell he did it.”

  Jane straightened, reporter instincts immediately roaring into full cry. “This isn’t your standard redneck soap opera, is it?” she asked slowly. “This isn’t even I-caught-her-with-my-brother overkill. Twenty or thirty piddling stab wounds wouldn’t make Tom Reynolds heave his Ho-Hos. What’s inside that house?”

  “The worst I’ve ever seen.” He started scanning the street again, blue eyes brooding. “Tell you one thing, though. We’d damn well better catch this son of a bitch. Quick. He enjoyed himself a little too much.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “No comment.”

  She watched him a moment and tried again. “What’d he do to her, Tom?”

  “Nothing anybody wants to read about over their Wheaties.” He sighed. “Look, I’ll have more for you by the time you go to press. Go home.” His mouth tightened. “And lock your doors.”

  Sometimes asking stupid questions was part of the job. “You saying women in this town have a reason to be worried?”

  Something in his expression made it all too easy to imagine what was inside that house. “Jane, everybody in this town has a reason to be worried.”

  Baran banished Freika from the bedroom and sent him downstairs to keep watch. Jane’s cat, thoroughly traumatized, did not stir from its hiding place even after the wolf was gone. When Baran crouched to look under the bed, the poor little beast hissed at him with such frazzled hostility he decided to leave it alone.

  With a sigh, he rose to his feet, then paused when a flash of red caught his eye. A length of crimson silk lay spread across the bed’s tumbled white coverings. Curious, he picked it up. The fabric seemed to wrap around his hand, soft and sensuous against his weapon-calloused skin. Shaking out its folds, he realized it was evidently intended to drape like a scarf over interesting feminine curves.

  Negligee, his computer whispered in his mind, then added synonyms. Nightgown, lingerie, sleep-wear.

  Negligee. Even the word sounded sensuous. But as he appraised the gown’s whisper-thin folds, Baran realized how small the woman who wore it must be. The top of her head would barely reach his shoulder.

  He frowned. If Druas ever got his hands on her, she’d have no chance at all.

  The thought made his fingers tighten on the silk. A delicate trace of musk drifted up from the fabric, teasing his senses. Baran inhaled more deeply, letting his hyper-keen senses process it. Perfume, some kind of chemicals his computer identified as being from the body cleanser she used, and beneath that, the woman’s own unique scent. Intrigued-, he lifted the gown to his face and breathed deeper. His nose was almost as sensitive as Freika’s, and each inhalation carried a wealth of information.

  Now one deep breath told him she was healthy, young, female—and intensely, deliciously aroused. Startled, he sniffed again. The rich smell of desire was unmistakable.

  If he’d been able to slip a finger into her sex, she’d have felt like hot, slick cream. Just waiting for a man to... Baran swallowed.

  What had aroused her? The only male scents he’d detected in the house were weeks old and confined to the living room. He was willing to wager she had no lover.

  Though she obviously wanted one.

  Pull up her image file, he ordered his comp. Obediently the implant created a picture in his mind.

  Jane Colby wasn’t the most exquisite woman Baran had ever seen; in his own time, genetic engineering had made perfect beauty commonplace. Yet there was an appealing warmth in the eyes that were simple human brown instead of the metallic shades fashionable back home.

  She was also lushly female compared to the almost androgynous shape he was used to in civilian women. Her breasts rode high and rounded on her narrow rib cage above gently curving hips and legs that seemed to make up most of her height. She reminded him of the Warfems of his own kind, but without the tough, muscled build. The combination of curve and delicacy made her look both feminine and intensely sensual, as if she’d welcome passion instead of rejecting it.

  Baran wondered what her soft pink mouth would taste like, how her breasts would fill his hands, if her skin would feel as silken as it looked. His cock hardened, going long and tight, behind his fly. With a soft growl of hunger, he rolled his head against the gown in his hand, drinking in her smell, the slide of the slippery fabric against his face, the rasp of lace. He imagined thrusting into her for the first time, feeling all that wet arousal gripping him, milking him....

  It had been far too long since he’d had a woman. Days, weeks—he couldn’t remember and didn’t much care. All that interested him suddenly was this woman, this Jane Colby, with her pretty eyes and small, lush body.

  He breathed in her scent again as his hunger spiraled, tightening in demanding coils around his balls. The same genetic engineering that enhanced his strength made his lust even more intense than a normal man’s. Now that hot-burning need sent carnal images spinning through his mind—Jane, naked, on her back, on her knees, spread and ready for him, plump sexual lips slick with thick female cream....

  A rumble of hunger vibrating his chest, Baran opened his eyes and glared down at the bundle of red silk in his fist. He ached to open his fly and wrap the cool, slick fabric around his cock.

  Better not. Jerking off in her negligee would send a worse message than eating the cat.

  He took a deep breath. Blew it out. Fought for the discipline, the control, he’d learned with such difficulty, at such cost. He knew he couldn’t afford this kind of lust on a mission, any more than he could afford blind rage. Violent emotion could get a man killed. The Xerans had taught him that when they’d murdered Liisa.

  Hoping to distract his inconvenient libido, Baran glanced around Jane’s quarters. His eyes fell on a thick sheaf of bound papers lying facedown and open across the sheets. A paperback book, the computer whispered, flashing him images of massive drums spinning words onto long ribbons of white paper. Restlessly he picked up the little book. The English language download he’d absorbed the day before allowed him to read the text.

  She writhed, tugging at the silken ties that bound her to the bed as he delicately tasted the tender folds between her thighs. Any thought of resistance disappeared with each wet stroke of his tongue. She found herself begging for him and felt an instant’s shame. Then she looked down and forgot everything else as he lifted his head and smiled, lazy and taunting, before he...

  Baran blinked as his erection kicked behind the primitive metal closure of his slacks. So that’s
why her gown smells like sex. Unconsciously, his fist tightened around the fragrant bundle of silk. Her scent drifted up to his nose again, teasing. He licked his dry lips.

  Helplessly drawn, Baran’s gaze dropped to the bed. A new image appeared in his mind—himself, face buried between her thighs, breathing her scent, tasting her as she lay spread and bound.

  No.

  Why not? whispered a dark, suggestive mental voice. She dreamed of a lover. If he seduced her, wouldn’t she be more inclined to cooperate, allow him stay at her side as her guardian as well as her bedmate?

  And while he was there, he could have her however he wanted, however she wanted.

  That restless thought blew apart his nascent effort at self-control. Goaded, he reached for his fly to free his aching cock.

  No. He dropped his hand and balled it into a fist. He had to keep his mind on the mission. He couldn’t afford to let her have even this much power over him. You know better, Arvid, he told himself savagely. The minute you let a civ get control, you’re headed for disaster.

  Another woman had taught him that lesson all too well twenty years ago.

  Following an order he wasn’t even aware of giving, his computer plunged him into memories so vivid, they might as well have been real.

  Liisa was screaming. She never screamed. He tried to straighten, but the virus they’d used had infiltrated his computer and turned the implant against him. Now it held him paralyzed, bent, as helpless as if they ‘d locked him in chains.

  Somewhere something hard struck human flesh. A male voice—Lieutenant Ullock?—grunted in that distinctive way Baran had learned to associate with a deathblow.

  “Baran!” Liisa screamed.

  He fought to go to her, fought as his heart thundered uselessly, fought until the blood pounded in his skull.

  The only movement he managed was the slow roll of a tear down his cheek.