VirtualDesire (4 page)

Sweet summer flowers—her scent. The garment had pieces he
could see right through and trailing ribbons of silver. He crushed the gossamer
fabric in his fist. The gown would tempt the most stalwart warrior.

A bell chimed in the other room. He cast the garment to the
bed and strode quickly and quietly back into the front chamber.

Just in time.

The woman came through the curtain carrying a tray with a
bowl on it. “Sit,” she ordered him.

The rich scent of meat wafted from the bowl—it was a simple
broth with chopped vegetables and meat, but not much of either. Without
thought, he sank onto one of the chairs at the table. His mouth watered. For a
moment, hunger overpowered his aching head and his wariness.

Without ceremony she plunked the bowl before him and handed
him a silver spoon. He turned it about in his hand. When his hand trembled, he
dropped the spoon. He could not show weakness to this female. Her chambers
might appear poor, but the gold-rimmed bowl and the silver spoon bespoke some
former time of greater prosperity. Or perhaps they were from her master—gifts
for her services.

The woman settled across from him. She had a sweetly
heart-shaped face with a stubborn little chin. Her nose was small, her mouth
full with soft lips. Her teeth were good and her eyes the color of new ale.
Except that she’d shorn her hair like a boy child’s, she was perfect for a
pleasure slave. A man liked a wide mouth and large breasts. He also much
enjoyed well-cushioned buttocks.

She interrupted his thoughts with more prattle. “Now, how’d
you get into my shop?”

Lifting the bowl, he gulped the broth and promptly scalded
his mouth. He thought of at least three ways to improve the broth, the first of
which was to add more meat.

Slowly, to avoid her unanswerable question, he finished the
broth, then searched for something with which to wipe his mouth.

She flapped a square of cloth at him. “Is this what you’re
looking for? I’m glad to see you have some manners.”

He snatched the cloth and wiped his hands and mouth.
“Manners? Where are yours? You sit next to a warrior as he eats?”

The crack of her hand on the table pulsed through his head.
He moaned.

“I’m sorry!” she cried. In an instant she was standing,
reaching for him, touching his forehead with her small, smooth hands. Her chest
was dangerously close to his face.

It took all his awareness training not to lean in and rest
his head on those lush breasts. He shook her off and rose.

“I will leave now.” He retrieved his cloak.

“And where are you going?” She stood before him, fists on
hips, a small, insignificant barrier to the outside.

“You said there is a gathering of warriors.”

“You are not leaving until you give me some answers.”

Her chin went up and her eyes snapped fire.

A man also liked a little heat in a woman.

He briefly touched his three arm rings, concealed by his
shirt. “I am a warrior. I command an army of Tolemac warriors, the least of
whom would strip you naked and flay your back for your impertinence.”

Gwen did not move. While she’d microwaved the soup, she’d
thought about this man’s uncanny resemblance to the warrior in the poster. She
had to have him at her ball. If
Video Game
magazine sent a reporter and
photographer, her ball was sure to make the cover with him—if she could get him
cleaned up.

She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and blocked his
exit. She could not let him get away, but he stood there stubbornly, silently
daring her to move away from the door.

“Look. You can’t meet other warriors looking like that. No
offense, but you’re a mess.”

He touched his cheek. A crust of blood lay on his beard.

“No one will believe you’re the—a—Tolemac warrior if you
don’t clean yourself up. Neil can take your clothes to the cleaner. You could
bathe, maybe shave. You’d look more like Vad if you lost the beard.”

His chin jutted out. His hand went to his knife—a very
authentic-looking prop. “I am Vad.”

“Sure you are,” she said, humoring him. It was really
difficult to think a guy this gorgeous could be dangerous. Nutty, maybe, but
not dangerous. His gaze kept darting from door to door. “There isn’t anyone
here. No one will disturb you.”

“The man in black?”

“That’s Neil. And no. He wouldn’t think of coming up here
without permission. He might look like a hell-raiser, but he’s really a gentleman.
Anyway, he has to watch the shop.”

She decided to take matters into her own hands. She left him
looming and glowering in the center of the living room, and flipped on the
bathroom light. Hastily she swept several damp towels and a pair of panties into
the hamper. A sound behind her made her yelp.

The man paid her no attention as he shoved past her, his
gaze riveted to the full-length mirror on the wall. She watched as he reached
out and touched its surface. “By the sword, ‘tis magic. I must truly be beyond
the ice fields.”

The wonder on his face and in his voice made her frown. He
must have hit his head. He no longer seemed to be playing a role.

The bathroom felt small and crowded with him at its center.
The bathroom was the only thing she liked about her apartment, other than its
convenience to the store downstairs. Once a spare bedroom, the bathroom was
tiled white. A whirlpool tub sat in the corner on a raised, tiled platform. The
toilet sat behind a privacy screen she’d fashioned from a tall bookshelf
crammed with plants. Her late husband had been shamelessly immodest and laughed
at her need for privacy. He might not have minded sharing the facilities, but
she had.

The man stared up at the rain drumming on the skylight
overhead. His posture drew attention to the long lines of his throat and the
perfection of his profile. Her own throat dried.

A thought entered her mind and spilled out of her mouth.
“Why don’t I fill the tub for you? You could soak and even shave, if you like.”

He impaled her with a suspicious look.

“Okay.” She held her hands palms outward. “Stay that way. So
what if you smell like a dead goat? So what if—”

“Enough, woman. Draw the water.” He turned and left the
bathroom. She watched him pace and stride from one end of her apartment to the
other. The black leather of his trousers hugged every inch of his well-muscled
thighs. She knew he was in pain. His hand sought his forehead far too often. A
muscle beneath his eye twitched.

Gwen turned on the faucets. The water thundered into the tub
as hard as the rain drummed on the skylight. The sound drew him to the doorway,
where he stood and stared at the tub as if it might bite.

Impulsively, Gwen lit a candle. The soothing scent of
lavender filled the bathroom. She arranged several thick white towels on the
tiled ledge at the head of the tub. Anything else he might need stood at hand:
bottles of shampoo, shower gel, washcloths, pink plastic razor. She giggled.
She was sure a Tolemac warrior would be heartily insulted to use such a
feminine-looking device.

She turned off the taps and dug out two aspirin, glanced at
his size, and decided to offer him the whole bottle.

“These are for your headache,” she said, tugging at his arm.
When he made no move to take the pills, she sighed and put the pills and a cup
on the edge of the tub. “Give that cut a really good scrub. I’ll give you some
ointment for it later.” Whatever she had expected him to say, it was not his
next few words.

“Are you planning to help me bathe?”

Gwen nearly swallowed her tongue. “No. Not likely. Wouldn’t
think of it.”

Vad grinned as the woman flew out the door, slamming it
behind her. He had evaded her questions and rid himself of her presence with
little effort.

In a moment he had stripped naked. He sighed with relief at
finally being free of his malodorous garments, yet shame filled him anew. A
warrior should take as good care of himself as he did his weapons. He tossed
his filthy clothing from the room to the floor outside the bathing chamber. He
unsheathed his knife and slipped it under the edge of his cloak, which he laid
nearby on the floor with his boots.

He looked around, studying the slick, shiny walls that
reminded him most painfully of the ice fields. The walls were smooth and cold
to his touch.

Although the tub looked inviting, with steam rising over the
water, it was the shining glass that drew him. He pressed his palm to it. His
breath misted the surface. Even reflected in a still pool, he’d never seen
himself with such clarity. The whites of his eyes were threaded with red. The
deep cut on his cheek looked as nasty as it was painful. Dried blood crusted
his beard. His hair lay matted against his brow. Dirt streaked his skin. In
fact, there was a line of grime about his neck that he eyed with fastidious
displeasure.

But a wide grin split his mouth, opening a crack in his
chapped lips. A low rumble of laughter came from deep in his chest. He slapped
his hands against the reflective glass and leaned his forehead against its cold
surface. He swallowed his glee lest the female be drawn near. He met his own
eyes.
Nay
. She would not be tempted by this damaged face, this human
wreckage.

An elation born of a lifetime of being mistaken for one of
the angels of the gods bubbled and churned in him. No one would make that
mistake now. He appeared as what he was, a mortal man, a warrior. He had no
healing powders to prevent scarring. He grinned with satisfaction.

His muscles trembling, he fairly collapsed into the hot tub.
The water nearly burned his buttocks. With an oath, he fell back with a splash
and groaned. The heat embraced his hips, reaching only to his waist. He had to
fold his long legs to fit in the hard white tub. The bathhouses in Tolemac had
water taps that brought water from rain butts on the roof, but none with such
force as this one had, none that poured hot water. He was much more used to it
bubbling up from the earthen bottom of a bathing pool.

A moan of pleasure escaped him. He swallowed it whole as he
heard the woman’s footsteps outside the door. She called to him through the
door. “Are you all right?”

“Aye,” he bellowed back.
I am more than all right
, he
thought.
I am scarred and marked as if from battle.
He propped his legs
on the platform surrounding the tub and slid down until his head rested on the
edge. In an instant, he was sound asleep.

Gwen heard the snores. She smiled and tossed the man’s
clothes into a garbage bag. Slinging it over her shoulder like Santa’s pack,
she ran down the stairs and dashed into the shop. “I’ll take over for a few
minutes, Neil. Would you run these over to the dry cleaners? Tell Harry one
hour.”

“I don’t think you should leave that guy alone upstairs.
How’d he get in here? He’s probably stealing your jewelry right now.”

Gwen glanced down at her wedding band, as simple and
unadorned as the gold hoops in her ears. She remembered the day her husband had
slipped the ring on her finger. Forever, he’d said. Who could have guessed
forever would last for only one year? The thought never failed to raise a huge
lump in her throat. “I’m wearing my jewelry, Neil. Now get a move on with this
stuff. I don’t think he’s a thief. I think he’s just a wacky wargamer, like you
said—and harmless. And I want him at my ball. Just think of all the publicity.
But,” her eyes glazed over, “he needs his clothes; he’s buck naked right now.”

“There’s no way Harry can get that stuff back in an hour if
his leather stuff is in there.”

She dug into the bag and drew out the leather trousers. The
black leather was incredibly soft and supple in her hands. For a moment she mused
on how the leather had clung to the man’s legs. “Bribe him.” She folded the
trousers carefully and tucked them back into the bag.

Neil took the laundry. “Stop thinking about his ass and
cover your own. He’s a nut.”

Gwen felt the heat rush into her face. Had she been that
transparent? The instant Neil was out the door, she lifted the phone and
punched in a familiar number. When an answering machine stated its neutral
message, she swore under her breath.

“Maggie? If you’re fooling around, stop it and pick up the
phone.” No one obliged her. “Okay, listen, I have this guy here at my place.
He’s the spitting image of Vad. In fact, he claims to
be
Vad.” She
mentally cleaned him up and shaved him. “He’s beyond gorgeous. Tell your
husband the poster doesn’t begin to do him justice. Think Nordic god. Sure wish
you could meet him.”

Maggie was Gwen’s best friend and was married to the creator
of
Tolemac Wars
. They were staying at a farmhouse Gwen owned in the New
Jersey pine barrens, left to her by her maternal grandmother. Gwen was grateful
her friends could use the house. She personally found it lonely. The six
bedrooms were meant for a large family. She had no family—or no family she
wished to acknowledge. Her little apartment suited her needs much better, and
was handy to her business; and whatever remained of Bob was here, too. Bob.
He’d always said she’d end up on the farm, tending a garden and cooking up huge
meals in the vast kitchen. How wrong he’d been.

For the next half hour Gwen absentmindedly handled the crowd
in her store. A turmoil of questions about the man upstairs prevented her from
really attending to the customers. When Neil returned, she gave him a grateful
smile. He popped out her Garth Brooks CD and slid in another.

Gwen made a face as she ran a credit card through for
approval. “Oh, no, not that pathetic Tchaikovsky symphony again.”

Neil shook his head and took over for her. “That’s
Pathetique,
you infidel.”

“Whatever you say.” She patted him on the shoulder. “On that
note, I’m going to see how Mr. Sleeping Beauty is doing.”