VirtualDesire

Ann
Lawrence

Blush sensuality level: This is a suggestive romance
(love scenes are not graphic).

Book two in the Perfect Heroes series.

Tolemac
warrior Vad has only
one desire—regain his sword and the warrior honor it represents. He’s willing
to do anything, even cross the forbidding ice fields into the unknown. When a
beautiful and alluring woman appears to him, he’s sure she’s been sent to help him.

Gwen Marlowe desires only peace and
quiet, something hard to find at her game shop in Ocean City, New Jersey. When
a gorgeous war-gamer insists she “enter” a game and help him complete his
quest, she thinks he’s crazy. But soon, crazy or not, Gwen discovers she’ll
follow this captivating and sexy man anywhere.

A
Blush®
paranormal romance
from Ellora’s Cave

True love’s the gift which God has given

To man alone beneath the heaven:

It is not fantasy’s hot fire,

Whose wishes soon as granted fly;

It liveth not in fierce desire,

With dead desire it doth not die;

It is the secret sympathy,

The silver link, the silken tie,

Which heart to heart and mind to mind

In body and in soul can bind.

The Lay of the Last Minstrel
—Sir Walter Scott (1805)

She appeared in a glittering column of snow. Her long white
skirts floated about her as she came toward him in the indigo night. She was a
creature of the vast ice fields.

Beautiful. Sensuous. Alluring.

He stood frozen in place and watched her, his body numb in
the icy wind despite the heavy furs he wore. His mind refused to believe what
his eyes saw and his body craved. Golden hair, like a close-fitting cap, hugged
her head. Sinuous movements of her arms beckoned him near. Ribbons of silvery
fabric streamed behind her as she lifted her arms to him.

With a quick turn of his head he scanned the horizon. Where
were her retainers? Her protectors? The ice fields stretched unbroken in the
moonglow save for a few treacherous red rocks that pierced the snow and tripped
the unwary foot. He rubbed his gloved hands over his face.

Reluctantly, he turned east again to the beguiling ice
woman. A new fear, fear that he had lost his mind, joined with an older fear
that he might not survive this formidable land. He drew a deep, steadying
breath and caught a hint of summer flowers along with the scent of ageless ice.

She waited in silence, many yards away, and raised her hand
to him again. He obeyed her summons without thought, mesmerized by her, unable
to resist.

The thick snow crust crunched beneath his boots. The wind
rose in a mournful ululation as it lifted her sheer gown and twisted it against
her body. The fabric traced her lush shape, her full, womanly curves.

A man might warm himself in her embrace.

He pictured her lying naked on his furs, arms open in
invitation as they were now, welcoming him. The enticing vision tumbled about
in his head. He tried to grasp the warm thoughts, but his mind stumbled along
with his feet.

A shriek of wind jerked him back to his path and his goal.
The woman blurred a moment before his eyes, then became sharp-edged. Touches of
her femininity appeared and disappeared in the eddies of her swirling gown. A
sweat flushed his skin beneath the layers of his clothing.

For moments he staggered forward, drawing no closer to her.
Touching her became imperative, necessary, as necessary as drawing the chill
air into his lungs. He imagined her kiss. Her lips would be full and ripe and
gleaming with moisture, as if she had just licked them. He imagined that her
taste would heat his blood. He craved the warmth of her body, the intoxication
of her scent, the comfort of her long white arms.

He stepped into her embrace and clasped…nothing.

He howled at the pain of it, clenched his fists, and fell to
his knees. Around him lay nothing but vast, empty space. A blast of raw wind
cut his cheeks and harrowed his spirit. With little will to go forward, he
knelt, his head hanging down, and cursed the gods.

How smooth and slick and beautiful the world had looked when
he’d begun his journey. He had lost count of the sun-risings. Three? Four?
Seven? His body yearned for sleep. Clumsy with the cold and fatigue, he fell to
his side. A sudden stab of pain tore at his cheek and burned like fire up his
face to his eye. The flames of pain defied and mocked the cold.

A wounded-animal sound echoed in the empty expanse of
wasteland. Had the sound come from him? Struggling on limbs that repeatedly
refused to obey, he staggered upright, ashamed of his lapse.

There at his feet gleamed a bright red gem. It glittered
against the icy white moon-glow. As he watched, more gems appeared. They
bounced and rolled away, scattering in the snow. With shaking hands he tore off
his gloves and reached for one that lay alone, perfectly round and gleaming.
The numb tips of his fingers were clumsy as he tried to lift the fine jewel. It
burst and became blood, running between his fingers.

His blood.

Another bright red drop fell to the ice, congealed, and was
magically transformed into another gleaming gem. He dashed the drop away with
an angry sweep of his hand. More appeared, but he understood now and would not
be tricked again.

Relentlessly, he trudged along, too tired to take his
direction from the moons overhead.

Why was he crossing this merciless field of ice?

For love. For the love of a friend more brother than any man
of blood family could be. For a bond more precious than that with a lover.

As his strength waned, he found himself standing and staring
at the four blue-green orbs slowly aligning overhead.

He was lying—if only to himself. The love of a friend might
have sent him on his mission, but the salvage of his honor, his good name, kept
him moving forward through ice fields no other warrior had dared to cross.

For without his friend, honor was all he had. He had no
family, no illustrious ancestors, no lifemate waiting dutifully for his return.

Time passed. He knew this from the growing indigo shadows
cast by the moon-glow that defined the sharp red rocks tripping his feet. He
knew this from the nearly perfect alignment of the moons.

If he did not survive his quest, his name would be forever
inscribed on the roll of cowards and traitors, there for all future generations
to see and vilify. Surely a just end for a man with no lineage.

Where was he?

Confused, he turned first in one direction, then another.

He stared down at the fur cloak in which he had wrapped
himself. Blood matted the front. Where had the blood come from? Was he wounded?

Idly, he wiped at the frozen red stains. Where were his
gloves? Lethargy prevented him from searching for them. His gold ring looked
copper in the night. He wasted long moments staring at it, turning his hand
this way and that.

Finally, he conceded the ice to be the victor, the cold a
merciless conqueror, impervious to a warrior’s sword or knife. With regret, he
fell to his knees and scrabbled in his furs for the stone he carried close to
his heart. The stone, captured in delicate strands of silver, reflected the
color of the orbs overhead. The talisman slipped from his clumsy fingers and
fell to the ground. He dug about near his knees, searched the ground in all
directions, but the stone had disappeared, lost in the soft snow.

He tried in vain to rise, but his legs no longer obeyed.

“What more do you demand?” he asked the heavens, fists
clenched. Try as he might, his strength was gone. As was the stone.

And lost with it was his desire to go on.

He would not fulfill his quest.

Dignity demanded he not collapse cravenly but meet his fate
with his face to the heavens. The four small moons beckoned overhead. He liked
to think they were watching over him and would ease his passage from this life
to the next. The moons drew closer, like friends rushing to meet in a stellar
embrace.

“I failed,” he whispered. His eyes drifted closed. Thunder
rumbled in the distance. Lightning streaked across the barren horizon.

Gwen Marlowe twirled across the ballroom floor, spinning and
laughing. She came to a halt before a young man who had entered the Ocean City
Music Pier’s ballroom in a blast of rain and salt-laden wind. “Neil, my
Tolemac
Wars
ball is going to be a real winner.”

Thunder echoed across the cavernous room.

“Only if this storm doesn’t close the bridges and keep
everyone at home,” he said, and handed her a foam coffee cup.

“Pessimist.” She took a swallow, then threw out her hand
toward the long row of floor-to-ceiling windows. “The weatherman said the brunt
of the storm is going to miss us.”

“If you say so.” He dug her sneakers from under a chair and
held them out.

Gwen ignored them and gulped her coffee. She peered from one
of the tall windows. The two-mile-long Ocean City boardwalk had only a few
piers extending out into the ocean. The Music Pier was one of them. Glowering
clouds and intermittent bursts of rain obscured the view. The radio had
predicted that the storm would move east and miss their small coastal island,
which lay midway between the bright lights of Atlantic City and the Victorian
charm of Cape May. She hoped the meteorologists were right. “Don’t you feel
like we’re on a ship right out in the ocean?”

“Maybe the
Titanic
! Only the iceberg’s in here.”

“Don’t say things like that!” She bit her lip. Maybe the
weather
would
ruin the ball and all her work.

He touched her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry; this old place
has taken hammerings since 1928. I don’t think one small nor’easter is going to
knock it down. And the tickets are sold. It’ll be standing room only in here
tonight—storm or no storm.” He moved about the ballroom, gathering assorted
litter from her decorating efforts and stuffing it into a trash bag.

“Come on, Neil. I need your honest opinion. Does this look
like the ice fields from
Tolemac Wars II
or not?”

She held her breath. Neil Scott examined the ballroom, hands
on hips. Water dripped off his ancient black leather jacket and beaded in his
short, dark hair. Gwen noticed circles etched beneath his eyes.

“I feel like I’m in the middle of a blizzard, not a
rainstorm—a Tolemac blizzard. Relax. You’ve recreated the game.” He grinned.
The sudden smile wiped away the biker-from-hell look and hinted at the handsome
man he might be if he got enough sleep. “You should do stage design,” he said.
“It looks great. Even if the Tolemac warrior himself showed up, he’d be
impressed.”

“Really?” She skidded along the polished floor in her socks
and adjusted one of the drapes that gave the impression of a mountain of snow
on red rock. “I spent a fortune on all this. And wait ‘til you see my gown.”

“I draw the line at fashion commentary.” He bent and
retrieved the remnants of silver streamers and tossed them into the trash bag.

“But I could use a guy opinion. I made it myself, you know.
I hand-painted each layer of white silk with seven shades of white and silver.
I hand-stitched the silver sleeve ribbons—”

“Enough. This is really more information than I need.”

Gwen scooped up a handful of artificial snow and threw it at
him. It clung to his shoulders and hair. “What’s wrong? Up too late with your
coven?” He took off his jacket and shook off the snowflakes. A snake tattoo
slithered around his upper arm, just showing at the sleeve edge of his T-shirt.

Perhaps prompted by the angry gray sky outside, Neil was
garbed all in black. Daggers and skulls hung from one pierced ear. Gwen never
minded Neil’s many personas. He was just as likely to appear at the video game
shop they owned together in a white shirt and a tie. He worked hard, was always
on time, and did grunt work without complaint. He was the perfect business
partner.

On the front of his black T-shirt, a hideous skeleton
wielded a lacrosse stick. Neil had once been a star attack player for Johns
Hopkins. These days he attacked nothing more challenging than cardboard boxes
that needed to be broken down for the recycling bin, his weapon a utility
knife.

“Are you finished in here?” He pulled his jacket back on.

She nodded and took a last look around the room. “All that
needs to be done is putting out the food. If I do say so myself, the room looks
like a winter snow scene straight out of
Tolemac Wars II
.”
Tolemac
Wars II
was the latest and hottest virtual reality game. Thanks to her
friendship with the game’s creator, she had a monopoly on the game. If you
wanted to play
Tolemac Wars II
in South Jersey, you had to patronize her
boardwalk game store, Virtual Heaven. “Let’s take these trash bags back to the
shop.”

They ran the two blocks on wet, slippery wooden boards. Her
store stood in the nearly unbroken row of shops that graced the northern end of
the two miles of Ocean City’s boardwalk. Wind gusted from all directions. Rain
fell in sheets. The Atlantic Ocean hammered the boards with savage pleasure. On
the horizon, lightning flickered.

“Should there be lightning in November?” she said in a gasp,
out of breath. “What if there’s a power failure?”

She cast a longing glance up to the apartment she rented
over her shop. She’d left a light on. It splashed a yellow glow over the small
balcony fronting the apartment. She resisted the urge to go back to her warm,
snug bed. Fatigue was creeping in. She’d started her decorating at dawn, and
now, even though it was still early in the morning, she wanted to crawl into
her bed and sleep the rest of the day away.

“If the power fails, you’re cooked.” He ducked under the
awning over their shop door.

Gwen saw his half-hidden grin and turned the key with a
jerk. “I get it. I’m obsessing. You’re the pessimist and I’m the optimist.
Okay. The ball will be a huge success, written up in game magazines nationwide,
the extra ten pounds I gained this summer will be adequately hidden under my
flowing…” Neil dragged a finger across his throat. “Never mind,” she finished.

Once inside, she punched in the code to turn off the
security alarm. Neil flipped several switches, and light flooded the shop. She
tossed her raincoat behind the service counter.

Neil scooped up a white envelope that lay on the rubber mat
by the front door and placed it on the counter. He slipped a CD into the boom
box sitting next to the cash register. She winced as Mozart’s
Jupiter
Symphony
filled the shop. “Jeez,” she called to him. “Do we have to listen
to that stuff so early in the morning?”

Neil didn’t answer. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her over the
music. She smiled. More likely he was ignoring her. She guessed she’d pushed
him over the edge with her Tolemac ball worries. He shrugged out of his jacket
and began to open cardboard cartons.

Gwen set up the cash register for the day. Usually she
opened her shop only on weekends in November, but this was the week of the
war-game convention in nearby Atlantic City, and she’d been open every day for
the conventioneers, especially women, who’d flocked in to play
Tolemac Wars
II
. She’d started her plans for the ball the minute the game con had booked
into Atlantic City.