"I'll manage. You fix it to stay with W'eylin."
"W'eylin good man. Maybe do,” Vanteen conceded.
"You'll do it,” Trista said firmly. Vanteen smiled then hugged her.
"Will miss smart girl. Best friend ever know."
"I'll miss you, too. I'll never know anyone like you again.” Trista hugged her. “Vanteen very special,” she said in Okarran. Vanteen's little furred ears twitched.
"Name next daughter Trista."
Trista hugged her again. That was the highest honor an Okarran could bestow on another.
"Smart girl go now. Vanteen got work duty."
"I know. Goodbye, Vanteen.” Trista turned and stepped into the beam. A few moments later she was lying in the sun on the beach wearing her bathing suit. She felt nauseous and dizzy and her head was pounding, but she knew where she was.
And she remembered all of it.
Vanteen was right. She was changed. The carefree girl was gone, swept away, and a grieving young woman was left. The people who knew her would not understand and she could not tell them. Who would believe her?
The life she'd planned seemed dull and gray. And lonely. But she was here again and her only choice was to move forward.
She got wearily to her feet and began the long walk down the beach back to Laci and a world she'd left a year ago. The tide came in under a sky that was the same color as the summer skies over Mahdis Keep and washed away all traces of her footsteps.
Twenty-two
Trista woke at dawn to the sound of gentle rain falling on the patio roof. She immediately reached for the remnants of her dreaming, but it was gone, like all the others. Still, she knew what the dream had been.
She rose stiffly and gathered up her jacket. She couldn't believe she'd slept outside all night. It was late spring and the nights were cool. Her lounge chair was not the most comfortable of beds.
She opened the door and stepped inside, tripping over Tux. Tux was very unhappy and very vocal. She picked him up but he refused to purr. She filled his empty food dish and still he wouldn't purr.
"Just be in a snit, then.” He stopped yowling and glared at her. She checked the time and groaned. It was Friday and she had to be at the office in two hours. She wondered again why in the world had she allowed herself to fall asleep on the patio.
She could have grabbed half an hour in the warm softness of her bed but that would have made getting up again all the harder. She went in to her bedroom and stripped off yesterday's clothes and threw them in the hamper. She brushed out her hair, then started the shower and stepped under the hot spray. It was wonderful.
Trista washed quickly until she shampooed her hair. As soon as she began to massage her scalp she remembered the dream. She leaned against the tiles and steadied her breathing. She refused to give in to the grief right now. She had to work to do today.
She finished her hair as quickly as she could and rinsed off. Wrapping herself in a towel, she carefully walked to the kitchen. Carefully because Tux was weaving between her feet. Trista picked him up again.
"I'm sorry Tux,” she crooned to him. She tucked his head under her chin and he finally began to purr. After a moment she put him on the window seat and poured her coffee.
The rain in the night had left the world damp and misty and fresh. Trista took her coffee and stepped outside, breathing deeply. Memories of another morning were with her. A misty morning she had shared.
If she had known that would be her last morning with him, she would have committed everything—everything—about it to memory. She couldn't remember the name of the birds that were singing, or the flowers that bloomed so fragrantly, but she remembered him.
He had stood, tall and handsome, framed in a shaft of misty sunlight. His sea-green eyes had lit with joy when she'd walked towards him. His dark, wavy hair was unruly in the sudden breeze. His chest and his feet had been bare.
She gripped the edge of the rail as the grief rose up and weakened her knees. She felt the little scar on her breast through her tee shirt. It was real. He was real.
She went back inside. Tux was still in the window seat.
"If you were a dog you could learn how to fetch my briefcase,” she told him. He merely blinked celadon eyes.
She retrieved her briefcase that held her old laptop and flipped it open. Her dream of finding a home in the world of architectures had materialized, although not quite as she'd envisioned.
A unique ability to assess a situation and put forth ideas to resolve difficult problems had made her Aria Architecture and Design's crack trouble-shooter. The position afforded her the best of both worlds. She could build on the unique work of others to bridge difficult problems and was still able to dabble in original design.
She checked her calendar and sighed. There was a contract signing at ten at a client's office. She'd need to wear a suit.
After that, however, the day looked pretty clear. She suspected she could probably load her briefcase with a few of her open files and come home and work after the signing. She hoped so anyway.
Her cell phone rang as she was sliding the laptop back into the briefcase.
"Trista Roberts."
"Good morning, gorgeous. You want to hear some scuttlebutt, don't you?” It was Evan, a co-worker at Aria.
"Personally? No. Professionally? Of course.” Trista could almost hear Evan grinning.
"Mathers lost the Kildare account."
"E-gads. Does this mean you think you're going to approach Kildare?” she asked.
"Most assuredly, my dear,” he answered. “Want a ride in to the office?"
"No, you are not going to approach him and no, I do not want a ride in. I was hoping to come home after the contract signing with Oxford Builders."
"Ah, good old Reginald Oxford the Third,” Evan said. “Well, then, ta-ta.” The connection went dead.
Damn Evan. He was not going to listen to her. She'd spent two years baby-sitting Mathers on this job when she'd known all along his team wasn't right for the project. Evan O'Donald was not the right person for it either.
She quickly made a call of her own.
"Mariel, it's me. Word is Mathers lost the Kildare account. Get on it."
The scream of frustration on the other end of the line almost deafened her.
"Oh my God, you're joking. Tell me you're joking,” Mariel shouted. “I've got to call Kelly."
"Of course you do. That's why I called you. Make it fast. I'll be in the office as soon as I can get there,” she said and hung up.
"Sorry, Tux my love,” she said as she picked him up and kissed the top of his silky black head. “I've got to rush."
She dressed in her favorite blue suit that brought out the blue of her eyes. She brushed on a minimal amount of makeup and pronounced herself ready to face the day.
Trista pulled into her parking space as Mariel was getting out of her car. They headed up the walk together.
"Not to worry, girlfriend,” Mariel said with a smile. “Kelly says all is well. He says Kildare was just blowing off steam at Mathers."
"I hope that's true. You will handle the Oxford contract signing."
"Right,” Mariel said in disbelief, stopping. “Where will you be?"
Trista kept walking. “I'll go pay a visit to Latham Kildare."
An hour later Trista was easing her car into a space marked ‘visitors only’ at LMK Industries. She told the receptionist who she was and who she wanted to see. To her surprise, she was ushered into Latham Kildare's posh office suite immediately. Another receptionist lifted her handset and announced her. The door to the inner sanctum opened and Latham Kildare himself welcomed her.
He was a man of slightly more than average height, maybe five-eleven, with dark hair that was shot with silver. He had dark brown eyes under black brows. A few years ago Trista would have found him incredibly handsome. Now she barely noticed such things.
"Mr. Kildare, thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” she said extending her hand.<
br />
"Ms. Roberts, it's my pleasure,” he replied truthfully.
"Mr. Kildare, I understand it is your wish to have another firm handle your promotional needs,” she said without preamble. She knew how to read people. This man would appreciate her getting straight to the point. Besides, he knew why she was here.
"Mr. Kildare, I am here to assure you that Aria has people in place that can handle the promotion of your project. Mathers team is but one of five. I would personally recommend you meet with Kelly Henson and his team. I feel you will be more than pleased with them. It's my personal opinion they should have been on your project from the beginning."
"You should have suggested them, Ms. Roberts."
"It was not my place to do so then, Mr. Kildare. It is now."
"I see. I suppose you can arrange a meeting with this Kelly Henson and myself?"
"Of course. Please advise me as to your availability and Aria will make whatever adjustments of its schedule is necessary to accommodate you, Mr. Kildare."
"Call me Latham, please. All right Ms. Roberts.” He paused and looked at his desk calendar. “I'm free for lunch."
"Very well, Mr. Kildare. I will advise Mr. Henson and make reservations at the Troubadour, if that is acceptable to you."
"Please include yourself for the lunch, Trista. If you're able, that is. I'd like to hear what you have to say. Aria's next idea of a promotional campaign might need some damage control, too."
* * * *
Trista left the restaurant and pulled into the southbound flow of traffic. The long lunch at the Troubadour had been worth it. Latham Kildare was happy which meant everyone involved was happy.
She was close enough to a bookseller that she'd take a few minutes for the detour. Once there she browsed and selected three books and, on a whim, a magazine promising it could show her how to give her bedroom a makeover for under five-hundred dollars in just one weekend. She wondered what their solution to black cat fur might possibly be.
A Chinese take-out was beside the bookseller and Trista decided to order a few basics items. A large fried-rice would stretch the entire weekend and make the onerous chore of cooking for one much easier.
She climbed back into her car and called Mariel. Mariel was on her way home as well, and yelled obscenely about having to answer her cell phone while driving. Trista told her to have a good weekend and hung up. She smiled as she started the engine. Mariel always lifted her spirits.
Tux's reaction to the smell of take-out was always worth another laugh. He meowed and rolled on the floor. And rolled and trilled. Today he jumped onto the counter and stuck his head in the bag.
"You know better!” she exclaimed when she turned and saw him. She lifted him and he hissed. She dropped him on the floor. What was wrong with him?
"Still mad, are we?” she asked. He meowed at her.
"Well, that's just too bad, cat,” she told him as she put the food in the refrigerator for later.
She poured a glass of iced tea and sat on the window seat. She leafed through the magazine, wondering why she'd gotten it. She didn't want to makeover the bedroom. Not just for herself. Not if he wasn't here. And he never would be.
Trista stared out the window and lived in her memories until dusk fell. Another evening she'd survived. She decided to soak in the tub, then give that blasted magazine she'd bought a second look.
Trista sank into the hot water with a groan that was half tiredness and half sheer delight. She relaxed and let herself float as much as she could in the tub. It called to mind the dream of last night.
They'd bathed together at the warm spring only once. But her dreams relived that hour over and over in varying scenarios. But the end was always the same. She stroked the scar on her breast. It was actually a small brand. And it was real. She clung to that fact.
Trista leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
* * * *
"Come,” he said, extending his hand to her. She took it. He steadied her as she stepped into the water.
"Is it too hot for you?” he asked softly. His words were accented. He'd learned to speak her language with a great deal of difficulty, as she had his. They spoke to each other in an odd mix of languages, his and hers, but they always understood.
"No, it's wonderful,” she said, sinking down until the water covered her shoulders. He sank into the water with her. He held out his arms and she floated into them.
He kissed her softly and she sighed into his mouth. His hands stroked across her hips, down the outside of her thigh. She shifted and opened her thighs to him. His hand slid up the inside of her leg and stopped.
She moved against him to feel his maleness. He was hard and she held him in her hand for an instant. He pulled away and took her hand and placed it over his heart.
He soaped his hands and began to wash her, caressing her breasts. Her nipples peaked as he slid soapy hands over them.
He reached for the shampoo and lathered her hair. It was dark and long, falling to between her shoulder blades. She floated on the water as he finished his ministrations.
When his hands stilled, she turned and washed him. He gently stopped her when she reached for him again.
"We cannot. Not here. You know this,” he said gently.
"I know. I want you,” she whispered to him.
"Please, love. Let us take what we can and be content with that."
"Kiss me again, please. While there's time,” she begged. He lowered his mouth to hers, groaning in his throat. He pulled her tightly against him.
She touched her tongue to his in invitation and his tongue touched back. His licked and nibbled at her lips, his hand fisted in her wet hair. She could only cling to him as his passion rose and he plundered her mouth.
She wrapped her legs around him and he was suddenly inside her. Caution and propriety were abandoned. She whispered his name and he was gone.
* * * *
The water was cold when Trista woke. Great. Falling asleep in the tub was such a good idea. At least the two tablets she'd taken for her headache had worked. She climbed out and dried off. Nine p.m. She should eat, even if it was late.
"Kitchen,” she said to Tux and he trotted off, tail held proudly aloft. He was waiting by his dish when she got there.
She fed him then rooted in the freezer for a bag of frozen stir-fry veggies. The veggies with the rice from the take-out restaurant would make dinner tonight and lunch tomorrow. She wrapped a frozen egg roll in a damp paper towel and put it in the microwave for forty seconds.
Trista took her plate to the sofa and flipped on the television. She was rapidly bored with it. The most interesting thing showing was on the weather channel and even then tornados just didn't fire her interest. She'd just finished what she'd wanted of her dinner and put the plate down for Tux to pick over when her cell phone rang.
"Trista Roberts."
"Trista, it's Mariel. I need to be rescued. I'm at the gas station over on Route 117."
"Did your car break down again?” Trista asked in disbelief. The response was obscene, even for Mariel.
She was shaking with laughter at Mariel's descriptions of what cars were good for and what should be done with them, but she managed to speak.
"I'll be there as soon as I can,” she said and snapped her cell phone closed. She pulled the jeans and tee shirt back on and grabbed her keys.
Trista turned on the expressway and cruised to the center lane. The trip home from Mariel's would take her by The Creamery. Maybe she'd stop and treat herself to ice cream.
A movement in the corner of her eye was all the warning she received. The other car slammed into hers and shoved her into the concrete barrier. Another car hit hers from the rear. There was no time to think, no time to react.
Her soul screamed for the one person in the universe that mattered to her.
* * * *
She was vaguely aware of the pain. The paramedics were giving her oxygen and talking in grim tones. They told her she'd lost a lot of blood
but to hang on, they were going to get her to the nearest hospital.
They kept asking for her name. Then they wanted to know who to call. She told them she was alone, but they kept asking. She was annoyed with them. She wouldn't explain to them that she'd left family and friends, everyone and everything, behind because it had hurt so badly when they'd simply refused to believe her.
A white-faced nurse at the emergency room asked her the same thing. She heard the voice from a long way away. She was dying and she knew it.
She would say his name just this once, that it would be part of her world again, if only for the briefest second.
Q'winn H'akan.
Twenty-three
The metallic tang in her mouth was the first thing that crept into Trista's consciousness. It was in the freezing air she was breathing. It stirred memories and sent her heart rate skyrocketing. She had to be imagining it.
She tried to open her eyes but couldn't. It was just too hard. Something was keeping them closed and she couldn't get her hand to move so she could rub them. There was a vibration all around her, through her, that finally brought her to shrieking awareness. Gentle hands held her and talked to her in a language she'd not heard for four years.
"Be still,” the voice said to her, so she was.
"What ship?” she tried to ask. Their language was difficult for her. She heard the slur in her words. She'd never be understood if she couldn't speak more clearly. She tried again.
"What ship is this?” The effort sent her into a coughing fit that brought alarm to the sound of the voices around her. Hands touched her again and the voices urged her to silence.
"Q'winn,” she whispered and the voices faded into the blackness that swirled over her.
Much later Trista fought her way back to a floating consciousness. She felt the spider web of the drug in her system, making her weak. The metallic tang was gone and she was warm. Too warm. She tried to throw off whatever was covering her, but she couldn't move her arms. Tears ran from the corners of her eyes and into her hair. She was having trouble breathing and panic welled up in her making her struggle against the restraints.
The Skies of Mahdis Page 20