The Warrior (28 page)

“Too far to the bed,” he answered.

She laughed, and began pulling off her clothes and pointing at him. “You're so overdressed.”

The shock of her kiss slid away. “You are so right,” he fired back, and peeled off his clothes in record time.

Alicia paused for a moment, allowing herself to look her fill.

The scars that had first shocked her were hardly noticeable now. And she couldn't understand where the term “red man” had ever come from, because his skin was a beautiful shade of brown. Then he was lying beside her, exploring her body with those long, supple fingers, teasing every pulse point to a maddening ache. She reached for him, encircling his erection with her fingers, then stroked slowly, steadily.

He groaned. “Don't stop,” he said hoarsely, and gave himself up to her touch.

Learning that she had the power to make a man like Nightwalker weak with longing was heady stuff, but when he began to return the favor, she lost her sense of self. Suddenly nothing mattered but the moment when he would bury himself so deep inside her that the separation between man and woman ceased to exist.

“No more playing,” she begged. “Take me now.”

He slid between her legs, pausing a heartbeat longer before burying himself inside her.

And then he began the dance.

Alicia wrapped her arms around his neck, then closed
her eyes and rode the rhythm with him until they were both half out of their minds. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to mindless pleasure.

When Alicia began to climax, the tremors of her body were the ultimate aphrodisiac. Knowing he'd given her that joy was an exhilaration that pushed John past the limit of his control. With a final thrust he went deep, then let go, spilling his seed in her womb until there was nothing left but aftershocks.

Alicia was shaking from exhaustion, but she'd never been this happy. She couldn't keep what she was feeling inside. She was stroking his back in a slow, gentle motion as she kissed the side of his face.

“You make me feel so loved.”

John rose up on his elbows to gaze down at her face. “It isn't me. It's us. I cherish you, Licia…more than you can know.”

Alicia sighed as she looked up at him. His expression was fierce, but his touch was gentle. His husky words of love stroked her ragged senses.

Cherish. Such an old-fashioned word, and one with a wealth of meaning.

“Love you, John,” she said softly, then parted her lips just enough for the kiss she saw coming.

D
ieter was in New York City, in a hotel he'd chosen for its unassuming appearance and its proximity to a subway station, chewing a bite of hamburger and channel surfing when he caught the tail end of a newscast that startled him.

He swallowed before he was ready and choked, then dropped the burger back into the wrapper as he upped the volume.

“What the hell?” he muttered, staring in disbelief at the screen, listening as the newscaster spoke over the stock footage.

“Samuel Todd Watkins, a man long associated with organized crime, was taken into custody yesterday after a failed attempt on missing heiress Alicia Ponte's life. A spokesperson for the Federal Bureau of Investigation lists Watkins' arrest as the latest event in the unfolding drama of the hunt for Richard Ponte, the multibillionaire munitions magnate who's been charged with treason against the United States of America. At this
time, there are no new leads into Ponte's whereabouts, but it remains obvious to the authorities that Ponte's desire to end his daughter's life, in retaliation for turning him in, continues. Rumors abound that Watkins has made a deal with the federal prosecutor in exchange for a reduction of charges, although reports are that he will still spend the rest of his life behind bars. According to authorities, additional arrests are pending.”

Dieter's belly rolled with panic as he bolted up from the bed and grabbed his suitcase and began tossing in his belongings. He started to leave, then ran to the window instead. He didn't see anything out of place, but that didn't mean he wasn't already made and marked.

“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered as he threw the room key on the bed and headed out the door. He paused in the hallway long enough to locate the stairwell, then started walking, making it down seven flights in record time before exiting into an alley. By the time he got to the sidewalk, he was shaking. In his haste, he bumped into a pedestrian and got a cursing for his carelessness.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, put his head down and headed for the subway stop.

Every step he took, he felt a thousand eyes on him. Every sound he heard became amplified a hundredfold, until he was at the point of panic. Suddenly someone grabbed his shoulder.

He spun, his eyes wide with shock.

“What? What?”

A well-dressed man pointed toward the street. “The light, man. It's red. You need to pay attention or you'll get yourself run over.”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you,” Dieter said.

The moment the light changed, he was across the street and running down the steps into the subway, where he promptly disappeared into the crowd.

 

The Newbury Clinic and Hospital in Lucerne had once been the private home of a deposed duke. Now, it was a world-renowned center for gender-changing surgery, as well as state-of-the-art techniques in facial reconstruction—and all in the strictest confidentiality. Over the seventy-five years they'd been in practice, many well-known celebrities from all over the world had availed themselves of the Newbury's discreet services.

When Richard arrived, he was just another patient. He had asked, and paid dearly, for an entire facial reconstruction, as well as chest implants, giving him the physique of a bodybuilder without any of the work and training. But he'd had one more request that had given the doctors pause for thought. Over the years, the staff had received many bizarre requests, but no one had ever asked for what amounted to a doggy bag of the removed bits and pieces. When Richard was ready to leave the hospital, he had requested that all the tissue, bone and skin removed from his face and body be ready to go with him. The surgeons didn't ask why. For an added fee, Richard's request was met. Everything they removed from him would be cryogenically frozen and awaiting transport upon his release.

He'd been in surgery for more than eleven hours, then in recovery for two. The nurse had been monitoring her latest patient's vitals carefully, noting that he had been in and out of consciousness for some time. Everything seemed to be stable, but his surgery had been
major, and the danger of infection or blood clots was high. And if a clot did form and break loose, at the least he could suffer a stroke. At the worst, he could have a fatal heart attack.

She checked the drip on his IV, then upped the dosage of painkillers as per the doctor's instructions, before taking another blood pressure and pulse check. Satisfied with the stats, she said, “Mr. Schloss…Mr. Schloss. Can you hear me?”

Richard groaned.

“You are out of surgery and doing well.”

“Um.”

“Good, good. Are you in pain?”

He blinked.

“I've increased your pain medications. You should be feeling relief any moment.”

He grunted, counting every heartbeat until the narcotics kicked in. When the sounds and voices began to fade, he sank into blessed oblivion.

Richard was gasping, drawing one deep, bone-jarring breath into his body after another as he came to. The pain it caused racked him from head to toe. He clawed at his face, but nothing felt right. Before he fell, he'd had a full head of hair and a beard. He felt the bandages and realized in horror that he hadn't died from the fall after all.

God, oh God. I can't go back to gaol.

Suddenly people were grabbing his hands to keep them from his face, talking to him in urgent tones, beseeching him to calm down.

“Mr. Schloss. Mr. Schloss. You're in hospital. You had surgery…remember?” a woman said. “Please, you must calm down.”

A man's voice rose above the woman's, issuing orders that made no sense.

Who the hell was Mr. Schloss, he wondered, and why were they putting him under? Under what?

Confusion ended with the new dose of narcotic that slipped into his veins and sent him back into unconsciousness.

 

Dieter was in Houston, Texas. Not because he knew the city so well, but because it was big enough that he figured he could lose himself there. And it was a seaport, which enhanced the possibility of slipping out of the country on a ship leaving the docks.

In his youth, he'd worked for a Greek shipping line for a while, so passing himself off as a sailor would be a cinch. What he needed were the papers to back it up. But he didn't know who to contact or have the money to make it happen. He was as fucked as a man could be without ever having had a moment of the pleasure. He'd tried to call Richard off and on for the better part of two days, but without any success. All he could do now was lie low and wait for the man to call back. If he didn't, it was as good as over for him.

Damn Richard Ponte. Damn himself for not abandoning a sinking ship. Damn the whole world to holy hell.

 

The western sky over John's house was a wash of reds, oranges and yellows, a display of heavenly fireworks the human hand could never reproduce. The sight
always moved him, but at the same time it reminded him of how very, very long he'd been on this earth.

He stood silently, watching as the sun continued to sink, until there was nothing left but the glow below the horizon. A coyote howled somewhere in the distance. The sound spoke to everything he was: wild at heart. He'd learned to live within the rules of the twenty-first century, but he would forever be a warrior of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya.

“John?”

He turned. Alicia was standing in the doorway with a hesitant expression on her face.

“Yes, baby?”

The endearment should have reassured her, but it didn't.

“I wish I could take away that look in your eyes,” she said.

Startled that she'd learned to see through him, he tried to deny it.

“What look?”

She sighed. “At least have the decency not to lie to me.”

As he lifted his chin in challenge, the last of the evening light turned him into a dark silhouette. Now his features were as vague as the little bit of himself he showed to the world.

“I did not lie.”

She shrugged. “There's such a thing as a sin of omission.”

Once again, she was on target. “So what do you want to know?”

She crossed the terrace, then stopped before him and lifted her hands to his face. The hard angles were becoming as familiar to her as her own features.

“It breaks my heart to see the sadness in your eyes and know a member of my family is responsible. I know what you said…that I'm a victim, too. But it's not the same thing, John. It's not.”

She put her arms around his waist and then laid her cheek against his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady, just like the man. But it was the scars on his body and in his heart that told the true story. She didn't know how it had happened and he wouldn't talk about it, but he was alone in the world—all that was left of an entire family—and it was her father's fault.

John sighed. This woman deserved more than he was able to give, but he wasn't man enough to walk away. He wanted her. She'd started out as part of the problem, and now she was becoming the solution to his lonely existence. But it would be at her expense. She was right. He hadn't been honest with her. Only, he didn't know how to explain what he was or if explaining was even the right thing to do.

“Let it be. Time has a way of working out the knots in almost every problem. All we need is more time.”

She nodded. It wasn't what she wanted to hear, but knowing John, it was all she was going to get.

“Come inside?”

He nodded. “Yes. I'm hungry. How about you?”

“If you're cooking,” she said.

He grinned. “Yes, I'll feed you.”

And another day passed.

 

The hallucinations Richard had been having for the last week were driving him crazy. Every time they gave him something to sleep or the pain meds put him out,
he slipped right into another wild dream. The dreams were so real—meticulous in detail, including historically correct clothing, speech and food. What was even stranger was the fact that sometimes the locations no longer existed or had been renamed from one century to the next. History had never interested him, so it wasn't as if he was just dreaming about people and places he'd studied. And it kept him in a state of constant stress, always dreaming about dying. It led him to the fear that he was getting some sublime message from God, that he was being prepared mentally for imminent doom. Even though the doctors seemed to think he was healing properly, he was well aware of the possibility that anything could happen.

He was also getting nervous because he hadn't talked to Dieter since before his surgery. When he'd finally felt well enough to dig out his cell phone, he'd been horrified to see that Dieter had been trying to contact him for more than a week. The only problem was, Dieter had left no messages other than that he needed help. When Richard had returned a call, he'd been put through to voice mail, which pissed him off. He couldn't leave his name for fear the phone might fall into the wrong hands—or, even worse, that Dieter had been taken into custody, like Jacob. So now he was playing a waiting game of his own, hoping Dieter called him back before long.

He kept the phone on the small table beside his hospital bed. Following hospital policy, he had it turned to vibrate, and when it started a little dance across the surface, he grabbed it anxiously.

“Hello?”

“Thank God,” Dieter said. “I've been trying to contact you for days.”