Silver Storm: Timewalker Chronicles, Book 2 (3 page)

Want in one hand, shit in the other. He could daydream all he wanted for better parents, but it wouldn’t change a thing. They hadn’t beaten the hell out of him, screamed at him night and day, or spent their lives shooting heroin. They’d simply been detached, busy living their own lives, and now they were gone. He had no siblings. No extended family that wanted anything from him but his mother’s money. He had nothing left now but a dog, a gigantic, empty house that felt more like a fine art museum than a home, more money than he could ever spend in his lifetime, and scars. Lots of scars.

Bandit hopped up and yipped at him, happily wagging her tail as if to remind him that he had
her.
And how dare he think he needed anything else? The princess of a puppy had been his mother’s whim and a completely spoiled lap dog. The tiny pooch had lived a life of luxury, traveling in his mother’s designer purse everywhere she went. Somehow, Tim didn’t figure Louis Viutton would approve. He’d considered giving the pup away after the funeral, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. That was a year ago. The little girl wasn’t much bigger now, a whopping ten pounds soaking wet, but she kept him company, she was smart, she liked to fish, and she was the only family he had left.

And the ridiculously expensive, diamond-decorated bag she’d spent the first few months of her life riding around in? He let her keep it, enjoyed watching the mutt drag it around the house like a chew toy. His mother was probably rolling over in her grave.

“Okay, fur ball. Let’s see what we can catch today.” Tim cast his line out over his favorite fishing spot and let the spinner sink a few inches before slowly reeling it back in. The rhythm and monotony chased away the last of his lingering nightmares.

Bandit growled low in her throat and paced over her pillow, rumbling like a tiny electric toy stuck in the
On
position. The hair on her body started to rise, forming a round fluffy brown-and-white snowball with huge brown eyes. Bandit looked like a cartoon character. Tim would’ve laughed, but the hair on his arms crackled with static electricity as well and rose to attention like a thousand miniature soldiers. The water puckered as if it were being hit by raindrops, but there were no clouds. No rain. No thunderstorms on the horizon waiting to zap him and his boat into oblivion with a stray bolt of lightning.

So, where the hell was this charge coming from? Felt like an arc flash was building all around him. He needed another run-in with a lightning bolt like he needed more scars on his ugly-ass head.

Tim reeled in his line and stashed the fishing pole in its spot along the side of his seat. Bandit stood at rigid attention on her fluffy brown bed and continued to growl, a steady little rumble of warning that set his teeth on edge. They were too exposed on the water, too out in the open. He clenched his jaw to keep a stream of expletives from rolling off his tongue.

Perhaps this was a freak storm. There had to be a perfectly good explanation, because if it were the boys from the lab or the Casper Project, the Rear Admiral’s men would’ve knocked on the front door. And if they’d figured out what he’d done, he would’ve been dead months ago.

No, whatever this was, it wasn’t normal. His silence came as automatic as breathing. He didn’t start the small trolling motor. He took out a wooden oar and paddled smoothly for the tree line behind his house. Two minutes, perhaps three, and he’d be under cover. He hoped that wouldn’t be two minutes too long.

“Shit.”

The electrical buzz building in the air continued to grow stronger until he could hear the slight hum around him. His skin prickled and the water on the side of the boat rose, formed hundreds of fluid stalagmites rising, bursting, and sinking back into the water faster than he could track them.

Earthquake? E.M.P? Geomagnetics? Had those bastards finally found someone to finish his research? Had they done the unthinkable and created a weapon that would make the atom bomb look like a fourth of July firecracker? Had his sacrifice, the explosion, the fire, and his weeks in the hospital all been for nothing?

The electric charge shocked him with static buildup every time he moved. Time to get off the water before whatever was happening cooked him in place or worse.

He glided into the reeds only a few feet from shore and tried to figure out how he could get off the boat without touching the supercharged water. Any second now he expected stunned or dead fish to start popping to the surface. Maybe the Fish and Game boys were doing this for a count or culling of the lake. He couldn’t imagine why they would, but they should’ve posted warnings.

Bandit yelped and sank to her belly, whimpering and shivering. A thunderous boom filled the air and a burst of silver light to his right blinded him. Instinct drove him to the bottom of his boat for cover. He grabbed Bandit and held her squirming torso down as his mind raced with possibilities.

A bomb? Lightning?

Whatever it was ruined a perfectly good morning of fishing.

As suddenly as it all began, it was over. The super-charged air dissipated like it had never been and the hair on his arms returned to its usual resting place. His clothes stopped crackling. The water, roiling moments ago, returned to a serene and placid lapping against the side of his small boat. The geese took up their honking as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Bandit suddenly leaped to her feet and jumped onto the bench seat he’d just vacated. Her curled tail wagged fiercely as she yapped at something just out of his sight.

Ears still ringing from the blast of lightning, he pulled his ever-present knife from its sheath at his waist and lifted his head just enough to see over the edge of the boat.

She floated face up at the water’s edge. Unconscious. Naked. Her head was toward shore in no more than three or four inches of water, leaving the rest of her long, willowy body drifting alongside his boat. Was she dead? That was all he needed. Dead body, 9-1-1 call, and uncounted hours at the police station saying, “I don’t know,” until his tongue was bleeding.

Hell. He didn’t dare get in the water and risk immediate electrocution. Bandit had no such inhibitions.

“No!”

Too late. The little wet rat swam happily to the woman’s side and sniffed her hair, sopping-wet tail wagging like a curled mop waving him into the water.

“You little turkey.” With a sigh, he threw the small anchor and then jumped over the side after his crazy dog. He landed in knee-deep water and leaned over to the woman, feeling for a pulse. His shoulders relaxed when the steady beat of her heart thrummed beneath his fingertips. Her chest rose and fell, her small, perfect breasts capturing his gaze as they followed the peaceful rhythm of a deep, dreamless sleep. No blood. No lacerations. No bumps on the head or obvious injury. She was, in a word, perfect.

Sun-bleached brown hair floated around her pale face in a halo of dark silk. Full, deep pink lips and dark lashes outlined her features like an artist’s brush strokes. A light dusting of freckles gave her a pixie-like quality he found shockingly appealing. She looked like a sun-drenched California beach beauty, complete with tan lines from an itsy-bitsy bikini and a siren’s hair. Long hair. Long everything. He guessed she was at least six feet tall, with incredibly long legs, a slender waist, and small tight breasts that would fit his hand to perfection. She was lean, like a gazelle, muscular and slim. Obviously either an athlete or someone obsessed with the gym.

What the hell was she doing naked, floating in a lake where she’d appeared from nowhere like a bad magic trick?

Her eyelids fluttered open to reveal dazed hazel-green irises that seemed unable to focus on his face. Her whispered words shocked him.

“Timothy Daniel Tucker.”

Three words. His name. His whole name. No one had called him that since his mother had thrown it around the house when he would behave like only a particularly aggravating teenage boy could. He was damn good at aggravating a woman when he wanted to be. At least when they were conscious…

“Who are you?” Tim demanded an answer, but she was out again. So, who the hell was she and why did she know his name?

Regardless, he couldn’t leave her in the water. The lake was cold, even this time of year, and she’d get hypothermia. Training kicked in and he lifted her from the water to carry her inside. His house backed to the lake. Five steps and they’d be at his fence, in his yard. He’d get her inside and warmed up. Once she came to, he’d get some answers. If he didn’t like those answers, a phone call and an ambulance ride would get her out of his hair.

Bandit jumped around in the water and swam to shore right behind him, tail still wagging like she’d lost her little mind.

“You know something I don’t, girl?” Tim walked under the raised porch and yanked the sliding glass door to his basement open with his thumb. Careful not to bang the unconscious woman’s head on the doorframe, he turned sideways and stepped into the rec room in his basement. Suede leather couches. A couple of fat recliners. Giant flat screen T.V., X-Box, pool table, a kitchenette and bedroom off to the side. It was the ultimate bachelor pad and his mother had hated every piece of furniture, the flooring, even the soothing green he’d painted the walls. She’d wanted classic regency era, English furniture, imported, ridiculously uncomfortable, and built for a man half his size.

She wanted a show room with designer vases, art, and floral wallpaper accented with fake flower arrangements, not a living space. Nothing she did was homey or about comfort. At least that was why he told himself he never went upstairs anymore. Might as well live in a four-thousand-square-foot, five-bedroom show home, a fucking museum. Most days it felt like he did.

Bandit yapped happily and he’d swear the dog was smiling as she trotted after him into the house dripping lake water. Gently as he could, he laid the mystery woman down on his soft brown couch and pulled a fuzzy green blanket from where it rested over the arm of the couch to cover her. He tucked her in like a mummy, a sigh of relief escaping. With her delectable body covered, maybe he could start using his brain again, start thinking about something other than the softness of her skin. He grabbed a thick towel out of the bathroom closet to put under her hair. The silken mess reached just past her shoulders and was soaking everything in sight.

As gently as he could, he tugged the wet mass out from beneath her shoulders. With his right hand he reached along her neck to cup her head and lift it, sliding the towel beneath her and doing his best to fight with long strands that seemed determined to stick to her skin. Heat pulsed beneath his palm, surged through the soft flesh of her neck, unnaturally hot, but he ignored it for the moment, intent on his goal…getting the wet mass of her hair contained in the towel. Moving the sopping strands on her head around was worse than battling tangled rope. He grimaced at his lack of finesse, absolutely certain he was only making it worse.

“Sorry.” She couldn’t hear him, but it made him feel a bit better about the hack job he was doing to her head. Towel in place, he stepped back and debated what to do next. She’d said his name. He’d never met her before, he was sure of it. The whole thing screamed trouble, and that was one thing he couldn’t afford if he wanted to stay off the Rear Admiral’s radar. He didn’t care who she was, it wasn’t worth the risk.

He reached for the cordless phone on the end table and studied her face while he went over the facts again. She wasn’t bleeding or obviously injured. No black eye or bruised ribs from a fight with a boyfriend. No wedding band. No marks on her perfect body whatsoever. How she ended up next to his boat in the middle of an electrical storm, he had no idea. But her arrival wasn’t normal. There was no
logical
explanation for where she came from or how the hell she’d managed to get that close to his boat without alerting either him or Bandit.

So, that left
illogical
explanations.

Illogical, like the feeling he had that he’d seen her somewhere before, or that he’d kill to protect her.

The two feelings were equally unwelcome. First, she was gorgeous. He was sure he’d remember her if he’d met her before. And he hadn’t. His life the last ten years hadn’t left much room for a woman, and he hadn’t felt right asking one to put up with what he did. He’d seen the wives of soldiers wailing in grief too many times to go there.

And protect her? Kill for her? He didn’t do that anymore. He’d put in his time. Followed in daddy’s footsteps, first at West Point, then flight school, a few very long years fighting bad guys in the field and he should’ve been over the whole hero complex. But no. He was hard headed. After that, his father had sucked him into the world of government contracting and top-secret weapons development on the private side. Give him a rifle and a clear objective any day of the week over the last couple of years that he’d spent locked in the lab. He’d woken up from that insanity. Walked away. No thanks. That game was over. He’d made sure of it.

9-1-1. Three numbers, a few questions, and she was someone else’s problem.

He dialed the numbers, stared at the green
Send
button, then her face. Bandit’s head tilted in a sweet mixture of curiosity and all-out adoration as she stared at the woman. “Dumb dog.”

He couldn’t do it.

“Damn it!” He needed some kind of explanation from the mystery woman. She’d arrived practically on his doorstep, less than fifty yards from his home, in the middle of the most bizarre electrical event he’d ever seen. Curiosity might kill him, but he had to have some answers.