Captive Desires

by Diane Whiteside

  “A tiger?” Alekhsiy’s head snapped up and he stared at Kyle. This was the symbol of the Imperial Tiger, who’d been unseen in Torhtremer for centuries until a few years ago.

  “Yeah, I designed it.” Nora smiled at it from beside him, bouncing on her toes until she could see over his shoulder. “Feng shui tigers are usually feminine, right? I thought it’d be neat to have something of our own that was really Torhtremer.”

  “Better than ugly old Turner’s badge,” muttered Evan.

  “Maybe, but he had Madison Avenue design everything for his troupe.” Nora lifted her shoulder, her mouth flattening.

  Kyle gave her a quick hug.

  “Plus, he had those master Japanese swordsmiths make his men’s swords.” Colin sniffed. “Even the rattan ones used during tournaments.”

  Nora gulped. “Oh shit, those blades will bruise like fire and ashes. And can break anybody else’s.”

  Not mine, even after it shifts for the match.

  “And he’s paying the troupe’s members full-time salaries to train for this.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Kyle asked sharply.

  “The official unofficial gamers’ board where I learned the tips to get me through the ice fortress.”

  “Are you sure?” Nora demanded.

  “The post was gone the next day. Would they have deleted it, and the cached copy, if the third richest guy in the world hadn’t found it and forced them?”

  Reluctant belief sank into Kyle and Nora’s expressions.

  “He’ll have the best in the world then, at all positions,” Kyle growled.

  “He won’t want to look too good,” Nora cautioned, “or everybody would know what he was up to. Turner always wants to play the underdog.”

  “There’s also that Japanese-American team out of California, who’ve won four of the past five years.” Kyle drummed his fingers on his booth’s corner pole, his gaze absent as he counted up opponents.

  “The Texans are great, too.” Evan’s eyes were wide with enthusiasm. “They get so many points in archery and hand-to-hand fighting that they can afford to take the penalties for illegal swords.”

  Alekhsiy would enjoy learning what that meant—and probably sacrifice a few crocks of mead to the Red God of War for granting him this suit of armor.

  “Evan, you’ll scare him off,” growled his mother.

  “It’s the truth, Mom.”

  Nora rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

  “Maybe we won’t win, but we have a good chance of making the final round,” Kyle insisted.

  Of course we do. Alekhsiy smiled privately. Who in this world has more years of battlefield experience than I do with cold iron?

  Still, he needed to be wary. He had yet to learn either the ways of this tournament or how this world fought.

  “When is the first bout?” Alekhsiy pinned the brooch onto the leather straps crossing his shoulder.

  “Tomorrow. Are you sure you want to join us?”

  “It will be my honor, sir.” He bowed again.

  The jeweler in the booth next to them stepped back into the aisle to study her completed arrangement of glass-fronted boxes and delicate metal trees. Mirrors backed them, while other mirrors offered buyers the chance to admire their beauty. Tomorrow they’d be draped with glittering delights to tempt anyone who cast a glance in their direction. An easy task indeed, judging by the samples adorning the delicate proprietress.

  The air stirred, marking the arrival of a larger party. A man strode down the stairs, moving faster and smoother than his own footwork could account for. A wizard?

  No. The stairs themselves were moving. The serpent’s tongue flicked Alekhsiy’s finger. Could this be the enemy he was sent to find?

  The newcomer was swarthy and bald, standing a little less than average height. Unlike everyone else here, he wore a fine linen coat and trousers over an even more elegant shirt. A single colorful strip of silk was knotted around his neck, left to dangle across his deep chest.

  He was accompanied by another man, adorned with a sash of office entitled “Con Staff.” He cradled a small tablet in his palm and wore the black tunic and trews so common in this room.

  The pair were followed by a half dozen men who attempted to hide their multitude of weapons behind linen coats and trousers similar to their leader.

  Evan and Colin dived inside their booth. Their parents stood up straight in its entrance.

  Alekhsiy came to full attention.

  “I do not see why I have to wait,” the first man said impatiently. He turned sharply at the stairs’ foot and headed for the great portal, his head cocked expectantly toward the Con official.

  “Turner,” breathed Colin.

  The other man fell back, eyeing the goldsmith who was standing in the middle of the aisle. He glanced from side to side, clearly measuring alternate routes. “Sir,” he began.

  “What are you hesitating for?” Turner spun around but kept going, moving rapidly backward. “I haven’t got all day to waste.”

  He slammed into the elderly jeweler, knocking her over and onto the floor. She yelped, a screech more of alarm than pain.

  “Dammit, what the hell were you doing getting in my way?” Turner roared, barely keeping his balance.

  Kyle and Nora raced to help her, closely followed by other artisans. The goldsmith’s eyeglasses had been knocked awry and her clothing disarranged. But she was already starting to sit up.

  “What madness claimed your thoughts, Turner, when you knocked down an elderly gentlewoman who had done you no harm?” Alekhsiy demanded.

  The entire room fell completely silent.

  Turner spun to stare at him. “Who are you, to call me to account?”

  Alekhsiy didn’t place his hands on his weapons. He didn’t need to. He knew where they were and how fast he could reach them. He could also reckon exactly where every one of Turner’s so-called bodyguards were and how quickly they could snatch up their arms. They didn’t matter, not when he could kill Turner long before they moved.

  But he couldn’t do that yet, even though the serpent ring was fiery hot against his finger. He still didn’t know where the sorcerer was who held the key to the lock in the gate to Torhtremer. Both dangers had to be stamped out if Torhtremer was to be safe for generations yet unborn.

  “A concerned gentleman, who believes in honoring all ladies.” Alekhsiy tilted his head slightly, indicating their audience.

  Would vanity cause Turner to back down? If so, he’d be all the more dangerous on the tournament field. If not—well, perhaps this strange world permitted hand-to-hand combat to settle disputes of honor.

  Turner glanced around and saw the rapt crowd. He snarled, a harsh flush mounting his cheeks. His fists clenched.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t see you, ma’am.” He managed to stretch his lips into a fanged semblance of a smile for his victim, who had reached her feet.

  She nodded jerkily and sidled a little closer to her booth.

  “I hope you’re not injured.”

  “Not at all.” She shook her head desperately.

  “Good, good. But I’ll have my secretary contact you tomorrow, just to make sure.”

  Her thanks were barely audible. Turner must be a brutal merchant, indeed, to inspire such caution.

  The crowd relaxed and turned away, raising its own conversations once again.

  “You’re in one of the mixed troupes, aren’t you?” Turner glared at Alekhsiy.

  “I have the great honor to have been accepted into Yevgheniy’s Spears, sir.”

  “Then I’ll see you again at the tournament.”

  The Con official squeaked softly and closed his eyes briefly. His skin turned a vapid shade of green.

  “It will be entirely my pleasure, I’m sure.” Alekhsiy bowed formally.

  Turner snorted and brushed past, followed by his men. The official brought up the rear, drumming anxiously on his tablet with his thumbs. He shook his head at Alekhsiy for a moment, th
en raced to catch up with his unpleasant guest.

  “Are you all right, Pam?” Nora asked the jeweler, her arm firmly around the other’s waist.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Only my pride was bruised.” She produced a shaky laugh. “I can’t believe I didn’t hear him coming, not when he and his entourage always create such a ruckus.”

  “Well, I, for one, need a good drink, and you’ll just have to help me find it. The boys can watch your stall while we’re gone.”

  “Oh, but I . . .”

  “Excellent.” Nora bore her vaguely protesting neighbor off to the great stairway, briefly opening a gap in the crowd.

  Starflower scent swirled through the aisle, erasing the machines’ taint.

  Alekhsiy whirled, searching for its source.

  Green-gold eyes met his, luminous as the sun dancing on a southern sea. His little dancer? He’d only ever glimpsed her before from high above, while he was trapped at the void’s edge, unable to do aught but watch her dance. He’d never touched, never spoken, never heard her voice . . .

  Sable hair spilled over her creamy shoulders, begging to be gathered into his hands. She was slender, yet stronger and more richly curved than he’d expected from his distant sightings. Her head reached only to where she might hear his heartbeat begin to drum. Her features were made to set a man dreaming and inspire him to his greatest deeds—conquer a kingdom that she might rule it, carve a statue for the world to remember her by, build a farm to content her for a lifetime . . .

  Her delicate scent deepened, tugging at his heartbeat.

  Her mobile mouth rounded into a question. By the Mother of All Life, those lips should be wrapped around his rod.

  “Alekhsiy?” she whispered. It was as though he’d stepped directly out of her imagination and into real life.

  How could she know his true name?

  TWO

  “Danae!” Colin, the smooth talker, was suddenly brushing dust from his clothes. Alekhsiy could hardly blame him.

  “How long have you been here?” Evan demanded, unhindered by any such lovelorn qualms. “Did you bring me anything?”

  “The latest anime from Tokyo, my friend. Less than three days old.” She tossed him a translucent pouch and he surged up on his toes to catch it like a starving wolf cub.

  “Plus the best bets in anime and manga from the Far East, courtesy of Dance Explosions’ stage ninjas.”

  Colin whooped and snatched the much larger cloth bag out of the air.

  Her gaze slid back to Alekhsiy for a moment, washing over him like a caress.

  “And, of course,” her voice was huskier, “there are the final episodes of . . .” She paused dramatically.

  “You didn’t!” Kyle gasped. He vaulted over the counter and hugged her.

  Alekhsiy considered, and discarded, a dozen ways to throttle him.

  “Nora will be so thrilled to finally have them. How can we thank you?”

  “Win the damn tournament?” Danae shrugged, still sneaking glances at Alekhsiy.

  He preened privately like a strutting fool. But her clothes could have distracted one of Torhtremer’s few celibate monks. A soft tunic painted with brilliant images of flowers and birds clung to her body down to her hips and slender trousers—or were they stockings?—enveloped her legs. Her clothes concealed everything, and yet they sent his imagination racing into worlds where delectable parts of her would be uncovered and she’d be begging him to touch her again.

  He clasped his hands behind his back, lest he run a fingertip along her jaw now.

  “Seriously, it just felt good to have an excuse to get out and about while I was over there,” she assured Kyle. “And thank you for providing those cool knives to go with Larissa’s costumes.”

  “Piece of cake.” Kyle waved off her thanks, his packages securely tucked into his arms. “We sell tons of Torhtremer reproductions, since we’re the only movie licensee. It was easy giving her a couple.”

  “Always said you were the best bladesmiths.” She flicked another glance at Alekhsiy, this time at his shoulders. “Did you find your swordsman, Kyle?”

  “Oh yeah.” Their host shook himself and turned toward Alekhsiy. “Danae, this is Alek Alekseiovich. He’s here on a Torhtremer LARP but he’s agreed to be our other bladesman.”

  Her eyes narrowed for a moment.

  “Alek.” She rolled the name over on her tongue, then held out her hand. He was ridiculously relieved. Surely a dancer’s approval meant little to his quest.

  “My lady.” He bowed low over her hand and kissed it.

  She caught her breath and her slender fingers trembled in his. He turned her hand over and pressed another kiss into her palm, and another onto the delicate blue veins tracing her wrist.

  “Alekhsiy,” she sighed, so softly surely only he could hear her.

  Heat dripped down his spine with the need to hear her say that again, louder, in his bed.

  “Alek, this is Danae Livingston. She first introduced me to Nora here at GriffinCon.”

  Alekhsiy nodded, understanding the warning. He wasn’t being ordered to back off, only to treat her very well indeed.

  “Well, the boys and I had better finish setting up here. The tournaments start tomorrow and we need to get some sleep tonight.”

  “I’ll be cheering for you.”

  Alekhsiy shifted his grip so he was holding hands with Danae. She shot him a startled glance but said nothing.

  “We’ll be cheering for you, and Larissa’s unbelievable costumes.”

  “Wait till you see this year’s batch.” Danae giggled softly.

  “Really something, are they?” Kyle whistled before looking at Alekhsiy. “I’ll text you, Alek, with the time and place for the tournament’s welcome session. What’s your addy?”

  Addy? He used text as a verb? The wizards’ spell offered no help. Alekhsiy gaped at him.

  “Or e-mail,” Kyle added more impatiently. “Come on, just a little crack in your character won’t hurt. The session’s the standard overview on what’s going to happen during the tournament. Every participant needs to attend at least once during their career.”

  “Send it to me, Kyle, and I’ll give it to him,” Danae cut in. “We’re going to dinner now.”

  She glanced up at Alekhsiy, who quickly nodded.

  “Oh, sure, that’ll be fine,” Kyle agreed, far too heartily.

  Alekhsiy kissed her hand again and wondered about the customs of this strange land.

  Danae blushed.

  Thursday night before the Fourth of July was quiet in the barbecue joint across the street from the hotel, at least in a corner booth away from the bar. The food was good and the servings were unlimited, evidenced by their remains scattered across the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. The latest country tunes blared out of the loudspeakers. Normally that would be her favorite sign that she’d returned home. Now she just wanted to focus on her companion.

  The college kid waiting on them had quickly figured out he’d make more money running drinks to the Happy Hour crowd than he would hovering over a nearly deserted restaurant section.

  So she was alone with Alek, watching him eat ribs as if they were the most delicious thing in the world.

  Alek—or Alekhsiy? He looked exactly the way Alekhsiy Iskandronovich, younger brother of Mykhayl, High King of Torhtremer, did in all her stories.

  He did not resemble the Alekhsiy of Hollywood’s block-buster movies. Or rather, how Peter Calhoun, rising movie star, played him. Calhoun was too short and skinny for a character who did all that marching and fighting in chain mail, if you asked her. But, of course, nobody ever did ask a fanfic author. They had only talked to Corinne Carson, author extraordinaire of the original six Torhtremer novels—and she’d only had script approval, not casting.

  Danae was just another fanfic author—albeit one whose following snatched up everything she posted within hours, thank you very much—who was working to explore Torhtremer a little bit more. But just with stories
about Alekhsiy Iskandronovich.

  And this man was, God help her, perfect fuel for her dreams.

  He stood well over six feet tall, broad shouldered, deep chested, yet incredibly graceful under all that chain mail. His thick blond hair fell past his shoulders, yet he was clean-shaven, brazenly displaying his strong jaw.

  His face held the hawkish beauty, utterly self-contained yet ready at a moment’s notice to erupt into passion, that looked out from so many Viking bodyguards on gilded mosaics. Even his nose—oh, Lord, even his nose had just the right dent in it where somebody might have nicked it with a sword.

  And his mouth—firmly disciplined, of course. She’d given him so many adventures where he got laid—and in damn exotic fashion, too!—all written from his happy partner’s perspective. She had no ambitions to write great literature—she was a dancer, dammit. But she’d never been entirely sure whether she’d captured the experience of being his lover or simply written down her own fantasy, however engaging.

  He finished his last bite and pushed his plate away. Despite his care in using his napkin, telltale traces of his meal still lingered, as they did for everyone who ate here.

  “May I?” A crooked smile curved her lips.

  He frowned but nodded after a moment.

  She reached up and lightly touched her fingertip to a drop of barbecue sauce at the corner of his mouth, then started to settle back into the seat beside him. But he caught her wrist and kissed her finger, licking the sauce off.

  A warm, deep tug surged between his mouth and her heart. She gulped, shaking a little. How could her heartbeat speed up from such a simple caress?

  He slowly dragged his teeth over her finger. The harsher caress set a deeper pulse throbbing inside her, all the way down between her legs.

  “Alek,” she breathed.

  “Do you want to stay here?” He nuzzled her palm.

  She snuggled closer. “Don’t be silly.” That was an easy answer.

  She laid her head against his shoulder, tilting it back to see his face. Good God, it had been too long since she’d been laid if she was getting starbursts under her skin from something so simple as having her hand kissed. Or maybe it was this guy and his definite expertise.