by JoAnn Ross
She tried borrowing one of her patient’s quilts and lying on the pine plank floor beside the bed, but the braided rug and quilt were not enough to keep her from becoming chilled by the cold floor.
There was always the sofa in the other room. But Joe MacGregor’s warning about not leaving her stranger alone flashed through her mind like the red, white, and blue police lights atop the Jeep. And although she’d rather throw herself into icy Rum Runner Bay before admitting it, something about the living room made Kirby uneasy. Besides, without heat, it would soon be freezing in there, and she simply wasn’t up to building another fire.
“For heaven’s sake,” she complained, “it’s your damn bed. And it’s not as if you’re wearing some filmy do-me Victoria’s Secret baby-doll nightgown.” She seriously doubted her flannel pants, sweatshirt, and heavy wool ski socks would inflame any male’s libido. “Besides, he’s unconscious. What can he do?”
And even if he was capable of trying any funny stuff, she reminded herself that she was, after all, a detective who’d been awarded a commendation for her undercover work back in California. If she could handle the big-city bad guys, she was certainly safe from one near-frozen male who kept passing out on her. Wrapping her mother’s quilt tightly around herself, she pushed the cat aside and lay down beside him.
She was asleep the instant her head hit the down pillow.
* * *
Sebastian was having the sweetest dream. He was somewhere in Stanza Five, on one of the more hospitable planets. Veneitan, perhaps, lying in a bed of fragrant flowers.
A woman, warm and soft, was wrapped around him, her lips pressed against his throat. Her long curls were the color of a Logosian sunset, bright and burnished reds and golds. He brushed his cheek against the silky, fragrant strands.
It had been a very long time since he’d been with a woman. Unfortunately, his work on the quantum accelerator had precluded sufficient time for pleasure.
But now, as he slipped his hand beneath the hem of her tunic, ran his fingers lazily up the delicate bones of her spine, and was rewarded by her soft, yielding sigh, Sebastian decided he’d been a Haldon-headed idiot not to make time.
It was only a matter of setting priorities, he told himself, enjoying the feel of her warm flesh against his palm. Or, as Zorana was constantly saying, of utilizing proper time management.
His future bondmate was renowned throughout the galaxy for her time-management seminars. The woman was an expert at setting up schedules, organizing her day—her entire life, for that matter—into a series of color-coded time blocks that flashed and buzzed continually on her wrist computer.
Sweet Valhalla, how he’d hated that trigging computer! Especially when he wanted to linger with its owner and the damn thing kept clicking away the time, a digital stopwatch dictating his performance.
Still, he had to admit that Zorana was efficient at fitting myriad activities into a single lunar period. Perhaps it was time to acknowledge that her criticism of him had merit and ask her to organize him.
If it gave them more time to lie together like this, it would be worth listening to her disparaging comments.
Conveniently forgetting that Zorana had coldly broken their bond promise after he’d lost his prestigious position at the institute, Sebastian vowed to turn over a new leaf.
He drew her closer. When he pressed his lips against her temple, her breathing quickened.
“Ah,” he sighed. “You’re so soft. So warm.”
He continued stroking her, enjoying the quiet, inarticulate sounds of pleasure that were a distinct contrast to his bondmate’s usual prickly attitude toward anything the least bit emotional.
“I want to make love to you, Zorana. So very much.”
It was when his hand moved to her chest that the dream began to waver. Her breast fit into his hand so perfectly that it might have been designed with him in mind.
But how could that be? As she was always so quick to point out, Zorana was a perfect Logosian female. A superb product of genetic engineering, the woman he’d been promised to at age seven was blond, blue-eyed, and slender as a Genetian reed. Since the only logical reason for breasts was to feed a child, Logosian women—who had utilized either replicants or surrogates from off-planet for the unpleasant task of childbearing for the past two centuries—no longer possessed them.
His numbed mind worked through the logistics problem with the lumbering mental speed of a Janurian preschooler:
Zorana was a perfect Logosian.
Logosian women were all flat-chested.
The woman in his arms possessed exquisite breasts.
Therefore, utilizing the most basic deductive reasoning, this woman was not only not Logosian, she was not Zorana.
The logic was flawless.
There was only one problem.
Who the blazing Hadean was she?
* * *
Kirby’s sun-drenched beach fantasy of the day before had given way to a dream of an isolated ski lodge, somewhere high in the Alps. She’d spent the day schussing the steep, powdery runs with a French count who possessed more titles, charm, and money than any one man had a right to.
She knew, from the admiration in his flashing dark eyes, that she looked spectacular in her new, outrageously expensive lipstick-red ski outfit. The brilliantly clever design of the outfit somehow managed to maintain its sleek fit while successfully camouflaging the extra ten—well, if forced to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, more like fifteen—pounds she was always vowing to shed. That alone made it worth every penny.
After a last exhilarating run, they’d returned to the quaint lodge that resembled a giant cuckoo clock. Inside, they joined the other guests—Rhianna, Chris Pine, Hugh Jackman, and Taylor Swift—for brandy in the lounge.
But rather than enter into the spirited argument about the importance of quantum physics in overcoming hypothermia the others were engaged in, she and her count were content to exchange long, lingering looks.
Outside, an Alpine blizzard raged.
The voices of the others gradually faded while the room grew uncomfortably warm. They could have been the only two people in the world.
Finally, just when she felt in danger of melting from the lambent flame in his sexy bedroom eyes, the count suavely suggested that they retire to his room.
His obedient manservant, clad in the red livery of the Swiss Guard, had laid a fire in preparation of their return. The valet struck a match to the kindling, gave a low, sweeping bow, then backed out of the room, leaving them alone.
At last! The moment she’d been waiting for all day had arrived.
His devilish jet eyes didn’t move from her own adoring ones as he pulled her down onto the white fur rug in front of the fire. He pressed a kiss against her temple. Then slowly, tenderly, he began to undress her, his strong, dark hands doing wonderfully wicked things to her body.
“Ah, you’re so soft,” he crooned as his fingers caressed her breast, creating a glow deep inside her. “So warm. I want to make love to you, Zorana.”
Zorana?
Kirby’s eyes flew open.
And found herself staring directly into the all-too-familiar eyes of her dream lover. But these dark eyes didn’t belong to a French count any more than they’d belonged to that beach boy she’d fantasized about yesterday afternoon.
“Oh, no,” she groaned. Covering her face with her hands, Kirby prayed for strength. “It’s you.”
6
A memory flashed on the view-screen of Sebastian’s mind. A vision of white and cold and dark. Other memories returned. Memories of driving through the snow, the scent of flowers blooming in the warmth of her machine.
Sebastian realized that this was the woman who’d brought him in from the storm. Another vision, of her pounding energetically against his chest, flashed in his mind’s eye.
“I remember thinking—no, knowing—that I was going to die,” he said. “And I would have, were it not for you. You saved my
life,” he remembered.
“Yes. I suppose I did.” She glanced down, causing him to realize that his hand was actually beneath her tunic.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, pulling it away before she could say a word. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” He tried giving her a reassuring smile. “I believe I must have been dreaming.”
And what a dream it had been! His fingers practically itched with the desire to slip back beneath that bulky material.
“No problem,” she said, even as the flush on her cheeks suggested otherwise. “You were very ill. Close to death, I believe. It would make sense that you might be a little delirious.”
“A logical deduction,” Sebastian agreed. “But I’m afraid that I’ve upset you.”
“Not really.” She was not a very good liar. But he appreciated her intention to reassure. “I’m just not accustomed to waking up in bed with a strange man.” As she untangled her legs from his and left the blissfully comfortable bed, Sebastian experienced a tinge of regret.
He knew that the masculine pleasure he’d received from learning that she slept alone was decidedly human. He’d learned from his studies that terran males were accustomed to claiming women for their own in much the same way they claimed their other prized possessions.
In that respect, they were not so different from Logosian men. The marriage collar worn by Logosian wives—a collar his sister had sworn never to wear—was a much-revered tradition. Sebastian wondered if this woman was claimed.
“You’re looking better,” she said as she studied him judiciously. The slight flare of her pupils when her gaze paused on his chest suggested her interest wasn’t merely medical.
“I’m feeling a great deal improved,” he agreed. One particular part of his body more than others as that dream flashed back into his mind. “Thanks to you.”
“It’s my job.”
“It was your kindness,” he corrected. “And your tenacity. I will be forever in your debt.”
“Like I said, it’s my job. A simple thank-you will be more than sufficient.”
Sebastian took her literally. “Thank you,” he said with grave formality. “I do not know your name.”
“It’s Kirby. Kirby Pendleton.”
“I am honored to meet you, Kirby Pendleton.” He held out his right hand in the manner prescribed by an ancient Earthling text on manners Rosalyn had unearthed in the archives. Although the origin of such a custom was not clear, his sister had surmised that it had something to do with showing that the extended hand carried no weapon. “My name is Sebastian Blackthorne.”
“Yes.” She held out her own hand. “I know. You told me last night. It’s good to meet you, too, Mr. Blackthorne.”
“Please, call me Sebastian.”
What Rosalyn had assured him was merely a social, almost impersonal, touch proved anything but. A jolt of energy crackled between them, making his palm burn. When she jerked her hand free and crossed her arms beneath those beautifully formed breasts he had not imagined, Sebastian knew she’d felt it, too.
“So, where are you from, Sebastian?” Her voice was not as steady as it had been. Yet another sign he hadn’t been the only one affected.
Not quite knowing exactly where he’d landed, he said the first Earth city that came to mind, the one that had been his destination. “Venice. In California.”
“Pricey,” she murmured. “How long have you lived there?”
“Not long,” he hedged. “Why?”
She shrugged. “It’s just a coincidence, that’s all. I worked in Venice for five years before coming back to the island. I guess our paths never crossed.”
“It appears not.”
“So, where are you staying?”
“Staying?”
“Where’s your motel? Or inn?”
“I don’t know.”
“My sister runs the Pendleton Point Inn overlooking the ferry terminal. Perhaps that rings a bell?”
“I’m afraid not. Though I would assume it’s named after your family?”
“It is. Two of my ancestors were sea captains out of Searsport, on the mainland. Others were boat builders who started out with schooners in the 1800s, then moved here during the nineteen twenties…
“I suppose, if you don’t know where you’re staying, then you also don’t know where the rest of your things are, either?”
“No.”
“Nor what you were doing out in the middle of a Maine island’s woods nearly naked.”
A memory flashed through his mind—the sound of Rosalyn shouting something about Maine.
“I’m in Rum Runner, Maine?”
Frown lines furrowed her smooth, lovely brow. “That’s right. It’s an island, off the coast. It was named for the smugglers my family built boats for during Prohibition.”
When the translator gave the meaning of the island’s name, he wondered if, since Kirby Pendleton had come from a family of rebels and risk takers, the two of them might actually have something in common.
“What’s the date?”
Her frown deepened. “December sixteenth.”
At least he’d gotten something right. “What year?”
When she told him the date, revealing he’d miscalculated by one-hundred-and-eighty-three solar revolutions, Sebastian was stunned. The magnetic field must have altered time. He’d have to make the necessary adjustments before returning to Logosia. He certainly wouldn’t want to land back on his home planet during the brutal Resistance Wars.
“How much do you remember?” she asked.
“The last thing I remember, I was at home.”
“In California.”
“That’s right. Venice.”
Lying was extremely uncommon behavior for a Logosian. It wasn’t that there was any specific moral prohibition, per se, but the Ancient Ones, in the Book of Laws, had correctly pointed out that one lie inevitably led to another until soon the entire situation had become untenable.
Reason is truth, the elders had written. Truth, reason. All else is irrational.
Being half-human, Sebastian had found that shading the truth, on occasion, under proper circumstances—such as now—was not that irrational a solution.
“Then,” he continued, “the next thing I knew, I was walking down the road—”
“In the middle of the worst snowstorm in fifty years.” Her frown deepened. “With hardly any clothes on. If you’re not completely off your rocker, I’d say you must have received one helluva knock on the head.”
From the way she was looking at him, Sebastian had the strangest feeling she could see inside his head, which was ridiculous, since he knew that Earthlings—even those existing in his own time—were too primitive to possess the ability to enter another’s mind.
Still, rather than risk her spotting an out-and-out lie, Sebastian opted for not saying anything.
“You probably have temporary amnesia, from the shock of whatever happened,” she diagnosed.
“That is logical.” Sebastian thought it was time to change the subject before she decided to take him to whatever passed for the authority in these parts. “Do you have a lav?”
“A lav? Oh, the bathroom.” That appealing color rose in her cheeks again. “Of course. I spent the night pouring tea down your throat, which you might not even remember, being so out of it…
“Well, anyway, it’s right in there.” She waved her hand toward a door cut into a wall covered with bright yellow flowers. “You’ll find an extra toothbrush in the cabinet. You’re free to use my razor, so long as you’re not one of those chauvinistic men who complain that women’s legs dull the blade.
“Oh, and you’ll need some clothes to wear until we track down whatever happened to yours.”
She walked over to another door, opened it, and began pulling things from hangers. “Nate, my brother, spends a lot of time here, and fortunately, you’re just about the same size.”
When she turned around, he was standing beside the bed, looking far too viril
e for a man who’d been hovering on the brink of death only a few hours earlier.
As good as he looked lying down, upright, he was magnificent. His shoulders were wide, and the mahogany-hued skin of his chest was drawn tautly over sleek, smooth muscles. He must work out, Kirby considered. There was not an ounce of excess flesh on his body. His broad shoulders and chest tapered down to a narrow waist and hips. His stomach was as flat as her grandmother Pendleton’s old washboard and—
Oh, Lord.
She was obviously not the only one suffering lingering arousal from a sensual dream.
Lifting her gaze, she found him watching her with unblinking interest. Embarrassed at having been caught blatantly staring, Kirby dumped the pile of clothes on the mattress, turned, and left the room.
* * *
It was his fault, Sebastian considered. For some reason he would think about later, her slow, studied appraisal had made his body behave in a most un-Logosian way. But why should that cause her such distress? After all, his reaction had merely been a biological response to the same human arousal he’d read in her mind. Although rare for a Logosian, such a reaction was supposedly normal for an Earthling. So why had she suddenly turned as red as a Logosian moon and raced out of the room as if all the dogs of Garn were on her heels?
Such behavior was highly illogical.
Unable to solve the equation, Sebastian reminded himself that Rosalyn had warned him that he’d be dealing with a most illogical race. Heaving a weary sigh, he gathered up the clothing and went into the bathroom.
A mirror took up most of one wall. Sebastian stopped in front of it and was relieved to see that outwardly, at least, he remained physically unchanged. His relief was short-lived when he remembered he was going to have to somehow discover what had caused a serious time and location destination miscalculation without Rosalyn’s assistance.
Deciding to tackle that problem later, once he’d acquired sufficient scientific data, he glanced around, taking in his surroundings. Flowers bloomed on the walls in this room, as well, delicate purple flowers with dark green leaves.