Connor (21 page)

Connor looked to the judges for permission to speak. Then he rose, lounging purposefully so insolence was written in every line of his body.

"Never kiss another man's mate. Never try to take another man's mate. It will always come back to bite you on the arse."

"What are you talking about? Who are you men? You look… how can you look so alike?"

Connor smiled. "We are the Scorpio Sons, the result of cloning experiments carried out by the Guild in 1988. Was that before your time?"

Rothmen frowned as he tried to think. "I remember something about experiments aimed at creating super-soldiers. Are you telling me you're Guild warriors?"

"Bred by Guild, but not your warriors. We fight against you. Our mission is to bring you and your kind down before you can finish destroying our planet. There were a hundred babies secreted out of those labs back then, and many other female embryos created as our mates. You have met two of our mates." Connor used his hand to indicate Alyssa and herself.

"But they aren't clones –"

"You have heard the charges against you, Karl Rothmen," interrupted the judge. "Have you anything you wish to say in your defence."

Rothmen shook his head, as if trying to get his thoughts in order. Then he looked back at the judges, lifting his chin and assuming the now familiar superior stance she had come to despise.

"You can do what you like to me, but if you think your pathetic little band of monsters can bring down the Guild you are mistaken. When one falls another will take their place. You can never be rid of us until your planet is a blackened hole and we have moved on to the next planet we will colonise. It is what our ancestors have been doing for hundreds of millennia. And we will continue to do it, while ever there are victims to be found. Because that is all you are, pathetic victims of our super race. If you want to take us down you will have to find a faster way than this to do it."

"We are not like you. We will not behave as you do. This is a justice system and we will have justice for all the crimes your people have committed against ours, one criminal at a time. Karl Rothmen you are found guilty of crimes against humanity. You will be taken from this place and put to death. This ruling is final."

As Rothmen strutted away, chin held high, Allie couldn't help feeling her euphoria dampen. He was right. Taking these alien monsters down one at a time this way was too slow. As one was removed another did pop up. Look at how Deirdre stepped into the gap created by her husband's disappearance?

"This needs to be a war, not a justice system," she muttered to no-one in particular.

"We haven't the manpower to start an overt war against them. Picking off the leaders one by one is a slow method of bringing them down, I agree," Chase said, coming to stand with them as Rothmen was led away. "But it is the surest way of success. A headless monster is much easier to destroy. There are only a handful of members of the Inner Sanctum. There are only thirty on the Board. Yes, someone new comes in to replace those who go down, but the new ones are less experienced. It takes time to learn the ropes. And we won't give them that time."

Allie nodded, wishing there was another way. Not that she believed in war. But her impatience drove her to look for other alternatives.

"Do you want to see his execution?" Chase asked her.

She shook her head. "No. I got what I came for. I don't need to see him go down in a blaze of glory, or whatever front he'll put on. He's mad. You do know he's mad."

"He's a sociopath and a megalomaniac. If that makes him mad, so be it. Personally, madness implies abnormal behaviour. This is quite normal for their species. Ultimately they will fall because they care nothing for anyone but themselves. Not their own kind, not the greater good. Nothing but their individual needs and wants. That way always leads to destruction, eventually."

Con wrapped his arm around Allie and pulled her against his side. "Come on, lass. Let's go and celebrate. Have a few quiet days' holiday, just you and me, before we head back to Blightie and the war. Cameron will be missing you if you're gone too much longer."

She laughed. "Come on, 'fess up. It's you who miss Cam. You still have that threesome in the back of your mind. You want to see him naked. I can assure you, you've seen it all before. Just look in the mirror."

"Are you ever going to quit stirring the pot, little Alice Banana Wonderland?"

She groaned and punched him in the arm. "Are you ever going to leave my name alone, you Irish leprechaun?"

"Leprechaun is it? Aye, well I've sure enough found me pot o' gold." Con leaned in to kiss her lips deeply and appreciatively.

Smiling, she relaxed in his arms and returned the kiss. This easy, good-natured sparring would always be a part of their relationship; part of its appeal. They were both strong personalities and there would be a lot of pushing and shoving before they learned each other's boundaries and found a way to stay within those boundaries. But as long as the love survived, so would their bond. And the more she came to know the gorgeous clown in her arms, the more she knew it would survive while ever there was breath in her body. Mate, lover, friend and everything in between, that was her Con. And even fighting a war couldn't keep her from his arms.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

What a challenge Connor was! We struggled through my editor’s injured arm, (who was slowed but not stopped by her injury. Jan rarely lets anything stop her.) My amazing new betareader’s computer crashed so she lost all her work on the novel. A less tenacious and helpful lady would have given up, but Sofia pushed through, doing it all again so I could nip and tuck this novel into better shape. Then my Word program crashed after I’d done all the nips and tucks. I too had to go back and do it all again.

So three hardy ladies all struggled on, through thick and thin (whatever that means) so that you could enjoy Connor’s story. And I hope you thought it was worth it! If so, pleaassse leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. You can also visit me at
www.nhysglover.com

I am writing hectically, trying to get the full story of the Sons told. Cooper is finished and ready for editing; and Chase is just about to meet his lady as I write this note. If you’re keen to find out what happens next and ready to meet probably my favourite Son after Connor, then continue reading the excerpt from Cooper’s story that follows.

SCORPIO SONS 3: COOPER (EXCERPT)

Amy Hays stared nervously at the people around her. Some were obviously sick; others were the carers of the sick; and still others were just curiosity seekers, here for the show. The idea that she might somehow end up being part of that 'show' horrified her. And yet, wasn't that why she was here?

With her head down and shoulders hunched so that she looked as small as her long, lanky body could make her, she followed the rest of the audience into the large auditorium. The seats were all chairs, so those in wheelchairs could be easily accommodated. And there were quite a few wheelchairs in the crowd, she noted.

If she thought she had problems, what must it be like to be permanently imprisoned in a wheelchair, never being able to run or dance or even do something as simple as walk up a flight of stairs? No, she was luckier by far than those poor souls. At least her ailments weren't physical.

She felt very conscious of the fact that she was one of the few people who'd come alone. Everyone else had carers or friends with them. All except the young man two rows over from her back-row seat. He seemed as out of place as she was, having wheeled himself into his place, without help, only a few moments before she'd taken her seat.

That was worst of all. It was one thing to be unable to walk; it was another to be
alone
and unable to walk. Maybe he had friends and family who hadn't been able to come tonight. Maybe he had a wife or girlfriend who was just late arriving.

How old was he? Mid-twenties, she guessed, maybe five years older than she was. But something about the invisible wall around him made him appear older than he looked, and more damaged than from just the physical injuries apparent on the surface.

But he was handsome. His darkish, sandy-coloured hair was slightly too long, brushing the neck of the cream-coloured, cable-knit sweater he wore. It was glossy and had a natural wave she envied. Her long, ginger locks were as straight as a ruler. It was one of the many things she hated about her appearance.

The man fascinated her. And it wasn't
just
because he was so good looking, with those broad shoulders; strong chin; full, but not overly full lips; and deep-set eyes below heavy brows and high forehead. His cheeks were shadowed by several days' growth. Was he growing a beard or had he just not felt like shaving?

As if he felt Amy's eyes on him, the man turned to look over at her. For a moment he stared a challenge, those eyes like a hawk's, fierce and all-seeing. Then he blinked, gave his head a little shake, and forced his expression to lose its angst so it became almost vulnerable.

Embarrassed to have been caught staring, Amy looked away, her too-pale cheeks beginning to burn, she knew from experience, to an ugly shade of beetroot red. How many times had she been laughed at because of that awful colour? Her tormentors had often taunted her with how ugly her red hair and red cheeks made her.
Carrot top and beetroot face
had been shortened to the cruel nickname,
Vegi,
over the years. The fact that
Vegi
was a derogatory term for someone mentally challenged didn't go unnoticed by many of those terrible children.

How many times she'd come home from school in tears she didn't know. In the early years she had Maria to comfort her, but when Amy turned ten her father had caught her hugging her nurse. He'd told Amy she was too old for such babyish behaviour, and sent away the only mother she'd ever known. Oh, she had a
real
mother, one who'd carried her in her icy womb, but her
true
mother had always been Maria.

Up until then, she'd been able to cope. It didn't matter that she was ugly, stupid and unlovable, as long as there was just one person in the world who thought she
wasn't
those things. Just one person who loved her without condition. But once Maria was sent away, Amy began to break apart, a little bit at a time, until somewhere around puberty she began her in-again-out-again visits to the sanatorium for her 'nerves'. Oddly enough, those stays were the happiest parts of her teen years. People were kind to her in that expensive institution, even if it was only the aloof form of kindness offered by professionals. But at least no one hit her or called her names there. No one tried to rape her.

She cried every time they sent her home, and prayed for the next time she got bad enough that she'd have to be sent back. The drugs they gave her in that place made the pain go away for a while, allowing her to sleep. If she could, she would have slept her life away.

Despite her best intentions, Amy found her gaze drifting back to the man in the wheelchair. When they reached him, she had to jerk her gaze hastily away again; because he was staring at her this time, just as intently as she'd first stared at him.

What was he thinking? She hoped it wasn't:
What is that ugly idiot doing staring at me? Am I so pathetic that even someone like her pities me?

Her painful self-abusing thoughts came to an abrupt stop as the lights dimmed and a good-looking man in his thirties stepped out onto the stage and into a bright spot-lit circle. Around her people gasped in admiration. This healer was certainly impressive to look at. He wore a pure white suit, shirt and tie, which set off his dark good looks. When he smiled, his equally white teeth seemed to appear brighter than even the suit. A
Hollywood smile,
it was called. She had one, too. Her mother had insisted she have years of braces and her teeth bleached unnaturally white, to improve her looks. Anything to improve her looks.

Something about this man rubbed her the wrong way. Was it just because of his teeth, or was it his confidence; as if he was more showman than healer?

What did she expect to have healed anyway? Was
stupid
a disease that could be healed? Certainly
plainness
wasn't. But she'd hoped against hopes that this famous healer could give her a little confidence; take a little of the sadness from her heart;
anything
to make life bearable.

However, as the man began his spiel, her hopes began to falter. Nothing he said resonated with her. In fact, the way people around her ate up his dramatic words made her uncomfortable. How could they just accept those superficial platitudes as if they fell from the lips of God? Couldn't they see those words were hollow?

When the first of the supplicants started going to the front for healing, with much crying and many loud prayers to God, she found she could take it no more. Politely, she excused herself as she made her way to the aisle. People must have thought she was heading down to the front for a healing because they touched her arm and spoke words of support. It made her feel like a cheat to be leaving rather than staying. It made her feel wrong to have those small gestures of comfort given to her when she didn't deserve them.

At the aisle she glanced up and saw the man in the wheelchair making his way to the exit, too. Somehow, that made her feel better. If he was leaving as she was, then she couldn't be wrong about what she felt in there, could she? If someone else saw through the charlatan as she thought she had, then maybe she wasn't wrong.

Or maybe he had seen her getting up to leave and had come to verbally abuse her for staring at him. She hurried faster, desperate to avoid any kind of confrontation with him. But as soon as she was out the double doors and heading across the lobby, she heard someone call out to her. Or she assumed they were calling out to her.

Maybe the male voice calling, "Hey, hold up," was talking to someone else. She daren't look behind her to find out. Instead, she sped up until she was almost trotting to the exit.

But before she made it to the doors, a wheelchair drew alongside her and she recognised the handsome man she'd been staring at. How had he pushed his chair so fast? Maybe it was motorised. Of course, that was it. The chair was motorised, so he didn’t have to push himself long distances.

"Hey, please, stop. I want to talk to you," he said, looking up and across at her.

He seemed to be pushing the wheels himself. No motor then. How could he do that? Sure, his upper-body looked solid and muscular, but the distance he'd covered in such a short time was unusual.

Not wanting him to be forced to keep going at that speed, she slowed to a standstill just as she reached the outside doors. It was February. Winter. And though this was California, once she stepped outside it would be too cold to stand in one place for long.

"Thanks. I was pushing it there to catch you up. I wanted to see if you were leaving for the same reason I was."

Now she was paying attention, she noticed his accent. Australian, New Zealander or South African? One of those. Certainly not American. What was he doing here?

"Sorry. I…I didn't realise you were calling to me. I… didn’t know who was calling…" she stammered to a halt and began twisting her hands together as she always did when overwhelmed with nervousness.

"Yeah, my fault. I didn't know your name and it seemed poor form to yell, 'Hey you, the pretty redhead, hold up there!"

She blanched at his words. Was he being sarcastic or just flattering her because he wanted something?

"My name is Cooper Adams. And I'm no threat to you, I promise. There's nothing more harmless than a guy in a wheelchair." The way he said
harmless
made it sound more like he meant
pathetic
. Her heart reached out to him.

"I…I'm not afraid of you. I…I wasn't running away from you or anything. Well, maybe I was, but not because I thought… I wasn't afraid of you, physically."

She saw her mistake as soon as the words came out of her babbling mouth. She'd just reinforced his sense of being harmlessly pathetic. But instead of dwelling on the unintended insult, Cooper focused in on her other words.

"Why
were
you running from me then?" he challenged a little more forcefully. Here it came. He was about to let loose on her for staring at him. Making him a laughing stock.

She cringed away, almost feeling the impact of those words before he'd said them. She was so tired of people hurting her. So damned tired. Couldn't just one person in the world be nice to a stupid, ugly girl like her? It wasn't like she
tried
to be those things. If trying counted for anything, she'd be breathtakingly beautiful and intelligent.

"Hey," Cooper said, more gently this time. "Hey, I'm sorry. You don't have to explain anything to me. It's okay."

Kindness and gentleness? Was she imagining it because she so desperately needed it? She took the chance to glance over at him, bracing herself to see a leer. What she saw took her breath away. Concern. His sensitive, handsome face was filled with concern.
For her
.

It gave her confidence to answer him.

"I thought you were going to yell at me," she admitted softly.

It surprised her that he heard her. "Yell at you? For what?"

She shrugged and looked at the closed door in front of her. Just one more step and she could be through them. Just one more step and she could be on the street, hailing a cab, and leaving this handsome man with his concerned face behind forever. She didn't need this. She didn't know how to handle this.

"For staring at you. It was rude. I'm sorry. It wasn't because you're in a wheelchair. It was just that you were alone like me. Did you notice that everyone else seemed to have friends with them?"

"Yeah, I noticed. But I'm used to it. Doesn’t bother me. Actually, it’s a bit of a relief. For years, I had nothing
but
people hovering over me, falling all over themselves trying to meet my every need."

That surprised her. But when she thought more about it, Amy realised that she understood. She knew what it felt like to be treated as if you weren't capable. And that's what Cooper was saying. They made him feel as if he wasn't capable of looking after himself.

Amy felt the heat of a blush creeping up her neck, and the mortification only sped its progress. Wringing her hands again, she tried to repeat the eight-times-table in her head. It was the one she found the hardest to remember. When she focused on it, sometimes it was enough to stop the blush from taking hold.

"I wasn't going to yell at you because you stared at me. I was staring just as much at you, but you just didn't notice. I guess pretty girls don't. Comes with the territory."

"Please stop flattering me. You don't have to do that."

"It wasn't flattery, like American fellas hand out at every turn. I can understand why you'd get sick of that. We Aussies pay real compliments or say nothing. Mostly we say nothing. Don't want to give ourselves away, you know." He laughed at himself lightly. It was genuine laughter with no cruel edge directed at either himself or her.

It was better to leave that prickly subject alone so she changed the direction of the conversation. "I wondered if you were Australian. What are you doing here? Are you on vacation?"

Cooper laughed again. "Look, I'm getting a crick in my neck looking up at you. There's a coffee shop next door. Can I buy you a coffee and tell you everything you need to know…? Did you intentionally not tell me your name? That's cool, if you don't want to tell me. I could be a stalker, I guess."