And after all that, she’d apparently passed out on the couch. Amelia spied an empty glass on the coffee table and sighed.
Well, that explains everything. Twenty–year-old whiskey went down smooth as butter, but it had a kick. Must have knocked her on her ass after the trip she’d had. It explained the crazy dreams too. Amelia chuckled. A huge stranger in her kitchen, with a laser gun that didn’t fire. Ridiculous.
She sat up and stretched, feeling bruised all over. Her mouth was bone dry; she needed water.
But that would have to come later, she decided, making a face. She was still in her travel clothes. Forget the bed; she’d never made it to the bath. Raking her fingers through her mess of hair, Amelia got to her unsteady feet. What time was it? Night. Late, too. It was dark outside.
“Time,” she said, surprised at how weird her voice sounded.
“Time,” the computer replied. “Fifteen minutes, 32 seconds past 11:00 p.m.”
Amelia yawned. “Bath. Hot, jasmine scent.”
“Confirmed.”
Shuffling her feet out into the hallway, she felt a sense of déjà vu. She frowned, looking at the kitchen, but there was nothing to see. On her other side, the stupid suitcase was still attached to the door where it had popped open and spilled her clothes. Amelia glared at it, too tired to even pretend she wanted to clean the mess up, and moved on to her bedroom.
Something was off. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Was something missing?
She shook her head. It was probably the exhaustion messing with her.
The light was already on in the bathroom and she heard water. Ah, the luxuries of home. Amelia shrugged out of her travel shirt and rubbed her sore shoulders. Her socks came off next, which left her in a pair of jeans and a strappy tank top.
As she bent over, a shadow crossed the threshold on the other side of the bathroom door.
What the hell…
She straightened, watching the door and the light filtering out around it. Nothing happened.
Shaking her head again, Amelia reached for the door handle. Hesitated. Scowled at herself and reached again. Her fingers just brushed it when the door pulled open from the inside.
Bam!
Memories returning in a rush. Laser gun pointed at her chest, not loaded. Broken glass, whiskey all over the floor, running-caught-fighting-aching-wheezing … darkness.
Amelia looked up, way up into the face of the psychopath who had broken into her home.
And she screamed. No one around to hear her. She screamed louder.
He winced and covered his ears.
Amelia went for the first thing she could reach. A pillow. In her fright, she didn’t care. She whaled it over his head again and again, until the thing tore apart and feathers rained everywhere.
When all that was left in her hand was an empty pillow case, and she was breathing hard, she looked up at him again. The guy was covered in feathers, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at her. “Feel better now?”
Amelia screamed again.
“Knock it off!” he commanded, his voice booming.
Amelia shut up instantly.
He sighed, in what sounded like relief.
“W-who are you? What do you want?” she said, still clutching the pillow case like a lifeline to sanity.
He looked down at himself. He was naked except for the white towel around his waist.
And now the feathers stuck to every wet inch of him.
What was going on here? Who the hell was this guy? Did she know him? Why else would he be in her home, taking a shower?
“Your bath is ready,” he groused, wiping at the feathers. They just stuck to him more. He swore. “Go do whatever it is you women do to stop freaking out.” And he brushed past her, padded on bare feet out of the bedroom, muttering to himself the entire way. He closed the door behind him.
Amelia was left gaping.
Amnesia? It was possible. Stress-induced selective memory loss maybe? But then why would she forget him?
No, she distinctly remembered the gun. Had there been someone else she hadn’t noticed? Had this guy actually saved her from something? He appeared to be perfectly comfortable in her home…
Oh, God, what are you trying to talk yourself into now, Chase? Look at the facts!
Facts. Like the fact she was exhausted to the point of passing out on the couch. Or the fact she’d spent the last month either sitting at her sister’s death bed, or travelling coach on the cheapest interplanetary flights possible, because everything else had been booked. Or the fact her life was turned upside down lately with telepaths, and beyond-unhinged killers, and genetically engineered shape shifters, or that she’d had a hand in the latter.
Long and the short of it: Amelia was losing her mind.
It was a liberating thought that made her smile. Right now, a hot bath and aroma therapy sounded like just the thing. She put the naked stranger anomaly on hold for a moment, nowhere near equipped to deal with that at the moment, closed and locked herself in the bathroom, stripped down, and crawled into her bath.
The warm goodness soaked into her immediately and she felt her muscles relax. She sighed, wincing only slightly at the ache in her ribs. The scent of jasmine filled the hot air; she felt like she was in a sauna.
Amelia lathered and rinsed out her hair, then soaped up her entire body to wash off the last six months. Everything was back to normal now. Or as normal as her life could get, apparently. Her sister was now half snow leopard, but at least she wasn’t dying anymore. And Amelia was back home, surrounded with familiar things. With the exception of an unexpected … house guest?
She glared at the sink where someone had set out a man’s shaving kit. He’d come out wearing a towel, but there was her customary set of pastel green ones hanging untouched on the rack. He’d made himself at home here. A disturbing suspicion arose. Had he slept in her bed?
He wouldn’t dare!
Then she remembered what had been out of place in her bedroom. The bed was turned down. She always tucked it perfectly neat before she left in the morning. Oh! The bastard was going down. She’d wait until he fell asleep and skewer his ass with the purely decorative fireplace poker in the living room.
Seething—was that blood underneath her fingernails?—she leaned back into the water up to her chin and breathed in deep to calm herself. “Music,” she said. “Classical.”
The computer beeped softly as it sorted through her extensive collection of music and arranged a playlist.
The heavy drum beat and bass guitar that blared through the speakers made her slip completely into the water. She surfaced with her hair plastered over her eyes and bath water up her nose. “Stop!” Coughing, sputtering, she drained the tub and got out, wrapping a towel around herself.
That was it! No more. This was the last straw and something was about to break big time.
Amelia stabbed her feet into her fluffy slippers and marched out of the bedroom. “Where the hell are you?” she demanded.
He was sitting at the kitchen table again, dressed in a pair of pants that had seen much better days, and feathers. He was picking them out of the angry scratches on his arm, but when he saw her, his hand froze above them, clutching feathers.
“How dare you!” she said, coming right up to the table. “You break in here, make yourself at home, attack me, and then you reprogram my music? I am going to kick your ass to Hell and back, you son of a bitch, you hear me?”
He didn’t move. What the hell was he staring at? Amelia looked down, ire draining out of her in lieu of shock. Oh, right. Towel and fluffy slippers. Her rosy skin blushed deeper. She crossed her arms over her chest to keep the towel firmly in place. “I’m going to get dressed. You do not move a muscle until I get back.”
His expression didn’t change and neither did the direction of his gaze. Without blinking, he shook his head. “Not going anywhere,” he said to her thighs.
Amelia swiveled and hurried back into her bedroom. Heart in h
er throat, she leaned back against the door after she slammed it shut. Moron! Where the hell was her superior intellect now? Quite possibly drained out of the tub along with the bath water and the last of her sanity.
She locked the door and quickly dressed in a pair of sweatpants, clean tank top, and shirt. Her hair was still dripping, so she toweled it as dry as she could and finger brushed it back. Her extra pair of glasses was on the night stand. She snatched them up and put them on. Sharp eyesight couldn’t hurt in a situation like this. Maybe it was time to do the vision correction procedure she’d been putting off for years now. Doctors couldn’t be trusted. Amelia was her own physician, with the help of some very sophisticated equipment, but these were her eyes, and no matter how safe she knew the procedure to be, it still gave her the willies thinking about performing it on herself.
Taking a deep breath, she set that aside for the time being.
Okay, nothing to it. Just a stranger in my house. Be rational. Talk to him. Find out what he wants. Stall for time and get some kind of SOS signal out.
Nothing to it.
She’d dealt with worse dregs of society than this guy. Okay, so for all she knew, he was one of them, but he was one man. He hadn’t tied or gagged her, which was his mistake and her very good fortune. She could get out of this on her own.
Had to. No one else was currently available to come to her rescue.
Amelia checked the clock. Midnight, exactly.
Squaring her shoulders, she unlocked the door and walked back to the kitchen.
What a way to start a new day…
Chapter 3
There were few things left in this universe that could rattle Gabriel. He’d seen it all, heard it all, and worse. But the sight of Dr. Amelia Chase, warm and wet from her bath, wearing nothing but a towel, yelling at him and calling him names just about rocked his world right out of orbit.
He’d seen her in pictures around this apartment, mostly in a suit or lab coat, with someone or another shaking her hand and posing for the camera. He’d thought she was beautiful in them.
But this…
The woman had skin like silk. All peaches and cream, smelling like jasmine and heaven. Seeing her in her green towel and those ridiculous slippers, Gabriel had forgotten to breathe. Higher thought? Shit, putting a sentence together had almost been beyond him. All he could think was getting that towel off her and those smooth legs around him.
Gabriel leashed the thought in an instant. The woman was already terrified enough as it was. But how interesting that in her fear she fought instead of cowering. She was back in her room now, but his fingers still curled to tug that damn towel off her. His mouth was dry, wanting to lick every single drop from her skin.
Too long without a woman.
Yeah, way too fucking long. But it was better than the alternative.
He pushed to his feet and brushed the rest of the feathers off his torso and out of his hair. The woman had attacked him with a pillow. A freaking pillow. Though, he’d bet if she’d had the baseball bat he’d found earlier closer at hand, she’d have bashed him with it instead.
He pulled a clean shirt on over his head and sat back down, hoping she wouldn’t come out of hiding until morning. Silently willing her to come back out without that towel.
And then she did, and he just prevented himself from shooting to his feet and startling her again.
She was dressed in loose slacks and a baggy shirt, something a woman would steal from her boyfriend. Did she have one? He hadn’t seen any pictures of her with a man. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder until now. She lived here alone, he knew that much.
She came to the table more subdued than before, but her spine was stick straight, and a pair of glasses sat on her pert nose. She looked like a kid playing dress up. So much innocence, Gabriel felt like he was tainting it by being in her presence.
The doc cleared her throat. “In light of the unusual circumstances,”—her tone said just how much of an understatement that was—“I am willing to put aside what happened earlier, for now. I believe it is … not impossible … for us to have a rational conversation. After which, of course, I will expect you to leave.”
It would have sounded almost professional if he didn’t keep picturing her naked. “Fair enough,” he managed. “Please, sit.”
She hesitated, but finally sat, leaving plenty of room for herself, in case she had to bolt. He really hoped she wouldn’t. If he had to chase her down again, he might be tempted to do something stupid. “Who are you?” she asked, for the third time.
He answered only because she looked like she might actually hear him this time. “My name is Gabriel Connors.”
“Do we know each other?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Where to begin? “Have you ever heard of the Romans, Dr. Chase?”
For a moment her gaze met his and he could see her wondering how crazy he really was. Then it was gone and she answered as if it had been a perfectly legitimate question. “Of course. Who hasn’t? But my work centers around the future, Mr. Connors, not the ancient past.”
So innocent. “I’m not talking about the past, doc. The Romans are … a society.” And he used that term lightly. “A bunch of rich fucks with an archaic fetish.” She hardly winced at his language, so he continued, keeping the information light, without the gory details. “They recruit promising talents out of college to cast them into their fantasy world. And I’m talking slaves, whores, and gladiators.”
She frowned. “What?”
“It’s like an elaborate game of make believe. They have an entire city built according to plans from ancient Rome, and they live and breathe that life. How many rich people do you know who like to pretend they’re slaves?”
“Okay.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Okay?”
She shrugged. “I spent the last few months on Torrey.” As if that explained something. When he clearly didn’t get what she was driving at, she waved it aside. “What do you mean by gladiators?”
Clever little scientist, getting straight to the heart of the issue. “Think of it as cock fights, but with humans. Sometimes animals. And humans who qualify for animals.”
“Okay.” This time she said it with a little less confidence.
“These people, the Patricians, they go all out on their sick games. When I say slaves, whores, and gladiators, it’s not pretend. That’s very real. Slaves get treated worse than dogs. Haven’t seen a whore who hadn’t gotten beaten or raped at least once a month.”
“And the gladiators?”
“Fight to the death.”
She nodded. A detached observer, taking in the facts. Gabriel was curious about what she might be thinking. Her face betrayed nothing.
“The system is merit-based. A whore who does her job well can be promoted to … I guess you’d call it companion status. Still doing what she was hired for, but exclusive to one man. Sometimes passed down to the son like a possession. But at least as a companion, she has some small income of her own, jewels and such to look pretty on someone’s arm. Slaves can only get promoted to gladiator status.”
“To fight to the death.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why would anyone do this?”
He shrugged easily, despite the arrow of old pain stabbing through his chest. “To prove something. Or maybe because they’re desperate. With no other prospects, on some shithole planet, if the choice is street rat in the cold or street rat in ancient Rome … many don’t even look at the fine print.” It was never that simple. Rome had a way of burrowing itself under your skin. Yes, the desperate flocked there without a second thought. But there were those who walked into the great city despite being fully informed. Because of it.
But the doc didn’t need to know that. It muddied waters already murky enough for her to wade through.
“What does this have to do with
me?” she asked.
“We’re getting to that, doc,” he said.
She waved him on. “At your leisure, then.”
This might get tricky. “Gladiators,” he said, “also have ranks. The best, the crowd pleasers, can ascend to champion status. They get paid well to fight in front of a crowd. Money, women, anything they want. All they have to do is spill some blood. They say a gladiator can fight his way to freedom. But I haven’t heard of it ever happening. Probably a rumor they spread to keep the morale up. Keep them fighting.”
“Fascinating. I still don’t see what I have to do with any of this.”
Gabriel sat back, stretched his legs and crossed his ankles. She was close enough that his legs almost touched her, and she shifted the slightest bit to the side to evade him. “There is another rumor among the gladiators, doc. And this one I am tempted to believe.”
She rolled her eyes, clearly humoring him now, and not with good grace. “Oh? Why is that?”
“Because the man spreading it was a half crazy ex-con from New Alaska.”
The good doctor blanched. The first true show of emotion since she sat down.
“After a few weeks, he racked up some kills, got drunk, and let his mouth run about some kind of experiments. Said the highest security prison known to man was some kind of cesspool of mad scientists messing with people’s chemistry. Kept going on and on about people who never slept, and people who died in their sleep and were found disfigured beyond recognition. The most fucked up son of a bitch I ever met, kind of guy you’d cross the galaxy to avoid, and he was more afraid of the doctors than the mass murderer sleeping in the bunk above him.”
Gabriel watched her reaction carefully, but aside from a nervous swallow, she said nothing. Her self-control was impressive. Just for that, he decided to prod her a little. “Care to comment on that, doc?”
“What’s there to comment on?”
Interesting. “This same guy,” he continued, “told me one man survived. By the time they transferred him out, he was unrecognizable. With streaked hair and a creepy half animal face, and his skin striped like a tiger. Feel free to jump in any time.”
Blood Debts (The Blood Book 3) Page 2