“A little Mister Ed tartare, anyone?” Jane’s voice sounded overly bright, as if she was working hard at being cheerful and unaffected. “Never mind, you wouldn’t get the joke. This is steak, hairball. Rib eye, three bucks a pound. You should be very happy together. It’s frozen solid, so I’m nuking it for you. You want it thawed until it’s just bloody, or do you want it cooked?”
“I certainly don’t want it radioactive. Nuked?”
“Not nuked as in bombed. Nuked as in microwaved. Cooked in a microwave oven. You stick it in the box, push the button, and magic waves of energy bombard it until it’s hot enough to scald the roof of your mouth.” Something began to hum. “See? You’re not the only master of technology in this house.”
Baran found himself grinning despite his concern. Jane’s effort at humor made him feel a bit better about her chances. She was a fighter. She wouldn’t give up, no matter how bad things got. That determination made it easy to like her.
Maybe a little too easy.
His smile faded. Charming or not, she was still a civilian, and that meant she had limits he couldn’t afford to ignore. Baran could protect her, joke with her, even seduce her, but he didn’t dare forget that when it came right down to it, she couldn’t be trusted.
Trusting a civ was a good way to get killed.
Okay, Jane thought, watching Freika devour his dinner, it was time to start taking a proactive approach. “What other information do we have about the killer?”
“Not much,” the wolf said, tearing off a chunk of meat with his teeth. Since he didn’t use his mouth to talk, he could eat at the same time. “Basically what I’ve already told you.”
“Then let’s take it from another direction. What do we know about Jack the Ripper?”
“Freika, what do your files say?” Baran asked, moving to join them.
The wolf lifted his head and swallowed. “There is no other mention of this Jack the Ripper other than the Mary Kelly trid.”
Baran grunted. “More TE games.”
“Not a problem—I know where we can get all the information on the Ripper we could ever need.” Jane turned and headed through the living room to the back room that held her home office. It was nice having something constructive to contribute. “People in this time are fascinated by his murders. There are books and Web sites galore.”
“Which may be why TE didn’t waste crystal space on it,” he observed, trailing her. “They’re nothing if not efficient.”
“Unlike Jane’s computer,” Freika said, having reluctantly left his dinner to stick his head around the doorframe. He eyed the P.C. as Jane sat down at her desk. “What a primitive piece of junk.”
She considered flipping him off; it was a top-of-the-line machine, brand-new, with enough power to run all the graphics and layout programs she needed to put the paper together. Of course, by the standards of your average cybernetic talking wolf, it probably was a primitive piece of junk.
No doubt about it, Jane thought, turning the computer on and waiting for it to boot up. My life is getting really, really strange.
Six
When Jane’s fingers hit the keyboard, Baran moved to her side to watch. “What are you doing?”
“Hmm?” She used the mouse to click on the icon for Internet access. At least she had a cable modem.
“With your hands.”
“Typing on the keyboard. It’s the only way to interface with this kind of computer.”
He frowned. “Why not just tell it what you want it to do?”
“It doesn’t listen very well.” She keyed Jack the Ripper into the search engine. The resulting list contained thousands of entries; she clicked on the most likely looking selection on the first page.
The site was loaded with an astonishing amount of information, everything from morgue photos to police statements to transcripts of newspaper articles of the time. There was even the lyrics of “Sweet Violets,” the song Mary Kelly had sung to Druas. Jane printed it all out and went to the next site. Baran picked up the printouts, sat down in the second office chair, and started scanning them, Freika standing on his hind legs to read over his shoulder.
More than an hour later she turned off the computer and sat back in her seat, scrubbing her hands over her face. “Well, now we’ve got the opposite problem—too much information, most of it unreliable, and no way to tell what Druas actually did. We can’t even be sure he killed the five that are usually attributed to the Ripper.”
The Whitechapel killer was thought to have murdered five women in London between the dates of August 31 and November 9, 1888: Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols on August 31, Annie Chapman on September 8, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, both on September 30, and Mary Jane Kelly on November 9. But some researchers believed he’d killed other women as well, and there was considerable disagreement whether Eddowes was actually a Ripper victim at all.
“For what it’s worth,” Freika said, “the file TE gave me indicates they do think Druas murdered all five of the women.”
“That makes sense,” Baran said. “If the point is to enact the historical murders, he’d do all of them.”
Jane picked up a pencil and tapped it restlessly on the desk. “What about all those letters that were supposedly from the killer, including the one they took the Ripper name from—did he write any of them or not?” Even at the time, police believed most of the letters were frauds, written by unscrupulous journalists.
Baran shuffled through the stack. “Who knows? Though the package sent to this George Lusk with part of a kidney in it certainly might be genuine.”
“Judging from my file on him, it does sound like the kind of thing Druas would do,” Frieka said.
“Eeewww.” Jane put the pencil in her mouth and bit down, sinking her teeth in the wood while she thought. “I didn’t know the Ripper strangled those women first, but all the autopsies do seem to indicate that. The mutilations were done postmortem, getting progressively worse as he went along.” She grimaced and tossed the pencil aside. “Which doesn’t sound good for the women of Tayanita County.”
Including Jane herself. Better not think about that. She’d rather not have to race to the bathroom again.
Baran was still flipping through the stack. “What’s really ironic is all these elaborate theories about his identity. An English prince, a writer named Lewis Carroll…”
“Off with her head,” Jane muttered.
“…an artist, a doctor, even a woman. And each and every theory was dead wrong.”
“Funny how a time-traveling cyborg mercenary never made the list.” She rolled her eyes. “What were they thinking?”
They sat discussing the murders until even Jane’s vibrating tension couldn’t withstand the need for sleep any longer. She suggested calling it a night.
Baran nodded. “That’s a good idea. We’ll all be able to think a little clearer in the morning.” He stood, plainly waiting for her to lead the way.
Ohhhhh, boy, Jane realized. He’ll have to sleep in the same room with me. The sensual awareness that had dogged her rose on a gentle wave of heat. Even the horrors of the night evidently hadn’t managed to kill the attraction she felt. “The bedroom is upstairs.”
“I know.” He said the words briskly, without a trace of innuendo.
“I’ll stay down here and keep watch,” Freika said. “Druas may surprise all of us and actually use the door.”
Jane glanced at him. Despite his bland offer, the look in those lupine eyes was knowing and amused. Damn, she thought, even Wolfie expects us to get it on.
And he was probably right, she thought as she led the way upstairs. At least judging by the warm tingle spreading through her breasts. After the night she’d had, who’d have thought her battered brain could even produce that much hormone?
Battered or not, though, she was acutely aware of Baran’s potent male presence as he followed her into the bedroom. Fighting to ignore it, she tried to decide what to wear to bed that wouldn’t make her
look as if she were inviting a bout of Warlord love.
Despite her body’s interest, she knew she wasn’t up to entertaining his libido. From the looks of that big body, it would be an exhausting proposition.
On the other hand, she didn’t care to bed down in the jeans and shirt she was wearing, either. It would be hard enough to get any rest as it was.
Pretending to ignore her brawny houseguest, Jane crossed to her cherry dresser, hoping to find something unattractive. The first thing she saw when she opened the drawer was a skimpy lace teddy. She buried it a little deeper and dug out a sleep shirt that was so big Baran could have worn it himself. After excavating a pair of baggy gray sweats to complete the keep-your-distance look, she started for the bathroom.
A hand caught the door before she could swing it closed. Baran stepped into the room after her.
“Hey, back off,” she protested. “I need to change and…stuff.”
“Didn’t we cover this downstairs? I go where you go.”
“Baran, you can’t follow me into every ladies’ room in Tayanita County. That’s just not going to work.”
“Why not?”
She sighed with elaborate patience. “Because the other ladies will not like it.”
“I don’t see any other ladies here, Jane.”
“Baran…”
He folded powerful arms and lifted a dark brow.
She threw up her hands. “Fine, whatever. Can you at least turn your back?”
“Why?”
“Okay, now you’re being a pain in the butt.” She reached for patience and gritted, “I don’t want to take off my clothes in front of you!”
That eyebrow climbed another fraction. “I hate to destroy whatever illusions you cherish, but I have seen naked women before.”
“Yeah, well, you haven’t seen this woman naked.”
Baran sighed at her surly tone. “Jane, I’m a soldier. Half my fellow soldiers are female. In combat conditions you quickly learn you don’t have to have sex with every woman you see without her clothes.” He smiled slightly, rubbing his jaw like a man remembering a right cross. “When I was sixteen, I had a female sergeant once who…Well, I didn’t make that mistake again.”
He was in combat when he was sixteen? She shook her head, deciding to explore that topic some other time. “Regardless of your experience, I don’t undress in front of men I don’t know. And I’m going to change this sweater. It smells like…never mind what it smells like, I’m not wearing it another minute.”
Baran leaned back against the door and looked amused. “Go ahead. I’ll try to control my lust.”
Something about that silent get-over-yourself air ignited her temper. “Fine,” she snarled, grabbing the hem of her top. “You want me to undress? Okay, I’ll undress.” In a single violent gesture she jerked it up and over her head and threw it directly at his face.
He caught the shirt out of the air and tossed it into a corner. His indifferent gaze didn’t even flicker.
She snarled. Suddenly the helpless fear that had battered her all night morphed into full-blown, defiant rage.
Jane twisted her arms behind her back, unfastened her bra, and stripped it off. She was too furious to feel embarrassed when her full breasts sprang free, nipples instantly pebbling. From, of course, the cool air.
Baran lifted a bored brow. So?
Jerk. Jane reached for her waistband and ripped open the button of her fly. Her zipper hissed loudly as she tugged it down and started squirming her way free. Her bare breasts bounced. She could almost feel him watching. Despite her anger, something heated low in her belly.
Her own reaction making her even angrier, she gave her butt a gratuitous wiggle as she struggled free of her pants and kicked them viciously aside. Dressed only in a silky thin pair of scarlet panties, she straightened to her full height and glared at him.
He couldn’t have looked more indifferent if he’d been watching a commercial for feminine hygiene products. He wasn’t even hard. Except…
His eyes were glowing again.
If Baran hadn’t instructed his computer to keep him from be- coming erect, he would have had a hard-on up to his rib cage.
Yet he’d meant what he’d said. He was used to seeing women—and other men, for that matter—walking around in various states of undress. He barely noticed anymore.
But those were battle-toughened fems, lithe, muscular warriors who could hold their own, whether in a brawl or in bed. If they were unbonded and you expressed an interest, they’d sleep with you as casually as he’d scratch Freika’s skull jack when it itched. They always gave good sex—he’d never had bad sex—but it wasn’t anything to get worked up about.
But Jane Colby’s deliciously full, pointed breasts were a different matter altogether. He wanted to taste one of those tight pink nipples so badly, his balls ached.
Unfortunately, the look she was giving him was pure, unadulterated go-to-hell. Despite his powers, he strongly suspected if he touched her, she’d make him pay.
But those pretty nipples might just be worth it….
Blithely ignoring how close Baran was to losing control, Jane curled a delicate lip at him and turned her back with a mocking roll of her ass.
His gaze followed the long, sweet indentation of her spine down to her narrow waist and rounded behind. Her butt was clad only in something thin and silky and bright red, and there were two tempting little dimples right above her waistband. He pictured cupping that pretty butt in his hands while he lowered her onto his shaft….
She picked up the shirt she’d brought in with her and started dragging it on over her head. Her long, silken back curved and twisted with the motion, as if daring him to reach out and touch. He controlled his hungry hands with an effort.
She put on the pants next, sliding in one long leg at a time before slowly pulling the baggy fabric up over her thighs. Her firm behind flexed as she twitched the loose bottoms into place. Baran seriously considered bending her over that marble countertop and pulling them down again.
Throttle back, Warlord. Keep it together.
It didn’t help that every breath he took was scented with arousal—his own, and hers. Despite her irritation, she was getting just as hot as he was.
Unfortunately, he’d made such a point of being immune to her nudity, he couldn’t afford to indulge in any of the things he so badly wanted to do. She needed to trust him, and he needed to remain firmly in control. He knew he’d seduce her eventually, but now wasn’t the time.
Maintaining his blank expression, he set his jaw and clamped a grip over his lust.
“I need to use the toilet, Baran,” she said, sounding reluctant, as if it galled her to ask. “Step outside a second. I promise to scream if Druas beams in like Captain Kirk.”
He grappled for his fraying patience. “Jane, every minute is every minute. I’m not going to risk getting you killed to preserve your twenty-first-century concept of modesty.”
True, the chances that the killer would Jump into the bathroom at this particular instant were pretty slim. Unfortunately, Baran knew those odds would increase as time went on and the killer took up sensor surveillance. He had to establish standard procedure now so Jane wouldn’t balk over it later.
She whirled to glare at him. “This is embarrassing, dammit!” Her breasts rose and fell behind that too-big shirt that didn’t hide nearly as much as she thought it did. “It’s one thing to do a strip tease, but there are certain bodily functions I don’t like to share. Period. And somehow, I don’t think women three hundred years from now feel any differently.”
“People do all kinds of things in combat they wouldn’t normally do.”
“This isn’t combat!”
“Actually, it is.” But he turned his back anyway, the gesture designed to silently underscore that he’d gone as far as he intended to.
He knew he’d made his point.
Jerk.
Jane was still simmering when Baran led the way back into the b
edroom a few moments later. He could have stepped out of the room for sixty seconds; he didn’t have to be such a dominant schmuck about it. He…
Slid out of the leather coat and tossed it over the armchair, then grabbed his sweater and pulled it over his head. Muscle rippled up and down his long, powerful back with the movement.
She gaped at the sudden expanse of deliciously bare Baran as he bent to pull off his boots. He looked as if God had sculpted every ridge, muscle, and hollow personally as an illustration to lesser mortals.
That, or the Devil had done the sculpting in order to tempt vulnerable females into sin….
Then he started pulling his pants down his long thighs, and Jane roused from her hypnotized shock. “What the hell are you doing?” She knew exactly what he was doing, of course.
This was payback.
Very effective payback, too. The man had the most gorgeous male butt she’d ever seen, particularly clad only in a pair of tight, white jockies.
Baran calmly turned, folding his pants. The view from the front was even more stunning. His broad, V-shaped torso looked as if it belonged on the cover of a romance novel, the kind good Southern mothers threw in the trash. Most powerfully built men tended to look a little short-legged, but Baran’s were as long as the rest of his body. And in between…
Well, he didn’t strike her as the type to stuff a sock in his shorts, so that bulge had to be real. Considering that he wasn’t even erect, the man had to be hung like a Brahma bull.
And the grin he was wearing as he watched her check him out reminded her of his furry partner downstairs—all white, wicked teeth and dishonorable intentions.
Yeah, this was Operation Payback, all right. “What are you doing?” she demanded again.
The wicked gleam in his eyes intensified. What would you like me to do? But if he was thinking the question, he didn’t ask it. “Getting ready for bed.”
Jane folded her arms, ignoring the hot, eager trickle she felt somewhere south of her waistband. “You’d better not be about to tell me you sleep in the nude,” she said. “Because your butt is going to need some padding when you bunk down on the floor.”
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