Topaz Dreams Page 5

  Why had he never noticed that a female could smell that way? It was almost as if her scent had lured him, personally invited him to ... He ordered himself to put her out of his mind and ignore the need rising within him. He needed to concentrate on the problem of controlling his reactions to this strange environment.

  Worst of all was the emotional stress level. As an empath, he regularly absorbed the feelings and emotional responses of people nearby into his conscious mind, without those emotions directly affecting him in any way. He occasionally had slight problems blocking one person's extreme fear or anger from his mind. Today in Outerworld, the multitude of conflicting, strong emotions bombarding him from every direction had distracted him beyond measure. When he had left the second office, he had asked the taxi driver to take him out of the city and he had not let the man stop driving until he had felt the noise and stress abate. That was how he had gotten to Glendora. It was not the perfect place, but it was good enough for him to regroup.

  The moment he began to relax thoughts of the woman intruded again. She had been nervous and a little afraid. He had absorbed it immediately. Who was she? What was she doing that he should see her twice in the same day in two very different disguises? She had also been interested in him as a male. Even if he had not picked up on it, he had seen it in her eyes when she had first looked at him. Could it be her desire he had felt and not his own? He was certain it was not, as much as he wished it was.

  Falcon tried to redirect his thoughts by considering the falsehoods he had related in the past twelve hours. Living among Noronians he was accustomed to handling their code of honesty, although he did not feel bound by it. As a native Emironian, he pledged to help others whenever possible by relieving their emotional pain. Occasionally, it was not feasible to do that and still remain totally honest. Falcon knew his current circumstances might require considerable fabrications, which would require careful, premeditated responses if he was to be convincing. The less contact he had with the Terrans the better.

  He switched off the television. It might have been helpful, but he had not listened enough to learn anything.

  Carefully, he removed the lenses from his eyes. He had found them somewhat irritating before the dirt of the city turned them to sandpaper. They were not making this job any easier. After shedding his clothing, he showered then turned off the light and ordered himself to sleep.

  He reminded himself one more time what giving in to any human emotion might mean. The possibility of trading his felan powers for a collection of uncontrollable reactions made his chest tighten with what he would call fear, if he wasn't positive that the discomfort was caused by the greasy food he had for dinner. If he could explain that away, why was it so hard to find an excuse for his response to that woman?

  It was impossible. His body was tense, his manhood so rigid it was painful. Perhaps his mind was too overloaded to perform its usual function of controlling his body. If he did not find a way to deal with everything going on around him and within him, he would never get through this assignment.

  He needed to relax. His body needed a release, and he was a world away from the Arena, where he could burn off the excess tension in a game. This was not giving in to an emotion, he reasoned. This was biological, and he did not seem to have any other option. Perhaps, just this once, it would be all right, and then he would be able to function normally again. Slowly, vaguely aware that he was making a choice, Falcon's hand moved to his thigh and higher. His fingers curled around the hard, pulsing muscle that begged for attention.

  Just this once.

  * * * *

  Steve searched the flat desert for landmarks as she drove the telephone company van along the barely recognizable road. Her brother, John, had come through for her, as expected, by supplying her with a copy of a report prepared by the Treasury Department during one of their investigations of Gordon Underwood some years ago. In the report were directions to Underwood's underground Nevada facility. She had attached a reliable compass to the dashboard as a precaution. At least she could find her way back to Las Vegas if she had to.

  Lou had tapped one of his "friends" to arrange for the temporary use of the van, and that person had made sure that Underwood's private phone line had been sabotaged during the night, so that someone would call for service first thing in the morning. The guards would be expecting a repairman any time now. Steve laughed to herself. It seemed that no matter how much money or power a man or a company had, the phone company still had the upper hand.

  The puzzle of the lion remained unsolved. Lou's contacts were not aware of any federal agency investigating Underwood at the present time. So, if he wasn't an agent, was he working independently? And which side of the law was he on?

  When Steve recognized the beginning of a well-used airstrip to her right, she came to a stop and raised her binoculars. There, a considerable distance away, beyond the end of the runway, she could see the shack which hid the elevator that would take her down to the small city. Somewhere down there the Underwood Foundation was headquartered, and, she hoped, so was Gordon Underwood.

  As she lowered the binoculars, she thought she caught a movement off to her left. Squinting against the glare of the sun, she could make out a figure, about a quarter of a mile away, moving in one direction for a while, turning, and heading in another just as methodically. Curious now, Steve picked up the glasses again. It was him! He turned toward the van and stopped. His gaze seemed to bore directly into her lenses. But that was impossible! He probably heard the van's engine and looked for the source of the sound. It only looked like he recognized her.

  There wasn't a car or plane in sight. How could he have gotten out here? For her peace of mind she decided to resolve that question before she did anything else. She put the van into drive, turned to the left, and headed straight to where he was standing.

  As she climbed out, he began walking toward her. Automatically, her fingers brushed the grip of her gun tucked in the back of her jeans and hidden by her loose shirt. The Glock was there, right beside the cuffs.

  Like a tarantula and a rattlesnake, they halted an arm's length, from each other and checked out the competition for this square of the desert. Her feet apart, her hands poised in front of her, Steve waited for him to speak or to move. Either way she was prepared to defend herself with words or actions. He did neither.

  "Who the hell are you?" Steve finally asked. "What are you doing here?"

  The man's right hand was moving toward her. Steve sensed the movement and reacted before she knew she saw it. With practiced ease, she grasped his wrist before he could strike, shifted her body into position next to his, and flipped his weight over her, using a simple hip throw. The next instant she prepared to drop her knee onto his chest and secure him on the ground, but he did not fall where she expected. As if he had taken off from a trampoline instead of her hip, he went farther into the air than she had ever seen anyone flip. He then landed smoothly on the balls of his feet.

  Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she noticed that when his hand came toward her, he had extended the first two fingers instead of all five. It seemed wrong, somehow, but she was still not taking any chances. The flip had not worked. Surely her next move would put her in a superior position. She did not want to maim him; she merely wanted some answers.

  Again he stepped toward her and began to raise his arm. Grabbing his wrist from a different angle, Steve swivelled his arm down and up against his back. Her heel caught his ankle to trip him a split second later. Before he could make any attempt to protect himself, she had him face down in the sand. Straddling his waist, she maintained a tight hold on his bent arm with her one hand while the other latched onto his free wrist and held it firmly on the ground to the side of his head.

  Breathing heavily, but feeling somewhat cocky, Steve leaned forward and spoke close to his ear, knowing her movement would pull his straining shoulder to the limit. "I believe I asked you who you are. I want your answer now!" No one had ever gott
en away once she had them in this hold.

  At first he only countered her pressure on his outstretched arm, lifting it a few inches, almost as if he were testing her strength. Then in a move so fast Steve could not understand how he had done it, he jerked his body, twisted out of her grasp, and flipped her onto her back, rolling with her until she was pinned securely beneath his weight with her wrists held firmly over her head.

  "You bastard! How the hell did you do that?" He had overpowered her without hurting her, except for her pride, but now she knew he could do that, too, if that was what he intended. His body seemed to be made of forged steel as it imprisoned hers, but a moment ago it had been as difficult to hold onto as liquid mercury. She squirmed, but the only part of her she could move was her head. Her gun and cuffs created uncomfortable indentations in her back. "Dammit! Say something!"

  Still, he did not speak... with words. His eyes were relaying a message, but she could not understand the language until his hips shifted slowly, and his mouth came down on hers with an animal hunger.

  Chapter Four

  Illusion is the first of all pleasures.—Voltaire

  Gordon Underwood savored the tender veal his manservant, King, had prepared for lunch. He smiled at his beautiful guest as she nibbled on her own meal and received a contented smile in return. The eight-room log "cabin" around them comforted Underwood with its warmth and simplicity. Even the weather in this northern frontier pleased him now. July in Alaska was far preferable to California, and he was certain they would not have to spend another winter there.

  Surely Karl Nesterman would stumble onto the answer soon. His thoughts drifted to the computer scientist in his secure quarters at the other end of the house.

  Underwood would have preferred it if Nesterman had accepted his five-million-dollar offer. He did not particularly like getting his hands dirty unless there was absolutely no alternative. For some ridiculous reason the man had turned him down, and Underwood resented the fact that he had been forced to kidnap Nesterman to get his assistance. He would have gladly shared the glory with the scientist, but not now. Now, he was not certain he would even pay him if he did complete his assignment.

  When the alien had mysteriously vanished from the hospital bed in the underground complex in Nevada six months earlier, Underwood had salved his wounded ego with the conviction that the alien's people would return for the gaudy opal ring Underwood had retained. He had immediately made plans to deal with such a visitor, so that he or she would not be able to escape so easily the next time.

  As he chewed a succulent piece of meat, he thought about the way he had set out to make his scheme a reality. His first order of business had been to find the right location to set his trap. It had to be a place where secrecy could be maintained for a time. It had to be remote enough not to attract unwanted attention, yet close to civilization so Underwood could run his business with as little interruption in his normal routine as possible.

  When he had learned of a five-thousand-acre parcel in central Alaska, he had snatched it up, using the customary trail of brokers and false corporations to carry out the deception. Located in one of the forests that had not already been claimed as a wildlife refuge, national park, or preserve, it was close enough to Fairbanks to satisfy his needs.

  It had also met another essential criterion. It possessed a lake large enough for a medium-sized seaplane to land. Underwood had wanted the simple house built immediately and refused to be dependent on the Alaska Railroad and the vagaries of winter travel overland to get the construction materials and workmen to the area.

  Once again he had proven the fact that if one had sufficient capital and clout, any obstacle, including Mother Nature, could be overcome. The totally self-sufficient house was completed to his specifications within four weeks, the final touches in the next four after he and King had moved in. He had placed the ring in a curio cabinet, along with other genuine artifacts, in a very specially equipped room.

  As he looked at his dinner companion, he prided himself on his cleverness. His business had run uninterrupted as many years ago he had created a system which funnelled all information through his primary secretary in the San Francisco office, so no one ever questioned not hearing from him personally for weeks at a time. He could be anywhere in the world, but one phone number could be called and he would be tracked down minutes later if she deemed it necessary. Only she and King knew of his Alaskan retreat.

  No matter how busy he was, Underwood was always available for her calls. After all, her loyalty was guaranteed, and she was also the most efficient of his army of secretaries. She was his mother, although he had not called her anything remotely personal since he was a child. Such sentiment was a weakness and Gordon detested weakness of any kind. She was also the first woman he had dubbed Miss Preston, after the original one was out of his life. Her name had been legally changed to further satisfy his whim. No one but the two of them knew her true identity or why Underwood trusted her with his empire, but no one dared cross her any more than they would him.

  Underwood savored his meal as he leisurely tasted the lightly grilled vegetables and sipped at the full-bodied burgundy. His thoughts reverted to the instructions he had given King while they waited for someone to come for the ring.

  Underwood remained convinced that the ring had a specific function, and even if its owner could afford to leave it behind, he wanted to know what that function was. But he could not devote the time it would take to find out as he could not ignore his business for that long. Only one man had the expertise to rival his own, and he had gone after Nesterman, certain if the money could not lure him, the promise of conquering the unknown would.

  For once Underwood had misread his intended conquest. The computer genius was younger, shorter, slighter, and, unfortunately, much less ambitious than Underwood. His refusal had hurt Underwood's pride enough for him to take drastic measures. Thus Nesterman's freedom of choice was taken away. If he failed to cooperate, his wife would be killed. It was that simple. Most things in life were—when you had money and power.

  When he had first told Nesterman about the alien, Underwood had been disappointed with the man's lack of interest. Eventually, however, Nesterman began studying the ring, whether out of curiosity or boredom, Underwood didn't care. Underwood had brought in the most sophisticated equipment his company had, and set it up in one of the two windowless rooms that made up Nesterman's apartment. The man may have been a prisoner, but Underwood made certain he was provided with all the comforts of home, with the exception of his wife, of course, and a way to contact the outside world. Even if he could, Nesterman had no idea where in the world he was, since he had never been permitted to look outside and he had been kept unconscious for the duration of the trip there.

  For the first two weeks of his captivity, Nesterman's findings had been limited to calculating the number of combinations that could be achieved by pressing the nodules on the sides of the gold band and or moving the opal in its setting. The number was astronomical. Unfortunately, no matter how many combinations he had tried, nothing seemed to happen. Underwood had ordered him to keep working and to record every combination as he went along.

  Now that Nesterman had had some success, Underwood hoped Nesterman solved the ring's entire puzzle soon. He could not know with absolute certainty that Nesterman's disappearance would never be connected to him. Given more time and a nervous wife, anything was possible.

  "King, lunch was superb, as usual," Gordon complimented his manservant as he cleared the table.

  Born of a Vietnamese mother and a Caucasian father, King was as tall and broad-shouldered as Underwood, with Oriental features and straight black hair. Ten years ago when King was twelve, Underwood accidentally interrupted a gang of hoodlums from beating the youngster to death in a Hong Kong alley. The orphan attached himself to Underwood who educated and trained the boy in a variety of ways. King was an expert in the martial arts, a gourmet cook, an excellent valet, housekeeper, a licensed p
ilot, and Underwood's bodyguard.

  At first Underwood had considered him little more than a pet project, or perhaps more like a pet. In a moment of perverse humor, Underwood named him King, and made him his personal servant because he liked the idea of being waited on by royalty. In spite of everything, King remained loyal and devoted to the man who was responsible for his life. Their lives intermingled in a way that was convenient and comfortable for each of them. To the outside world, King was merely an employee, but in private he was an integral part of Underwood's life.

  Underwood pushed his chair back from the table, and walked to where his guest sat. "I believe we will have another cup of coffee before I get back to work—in the drawing room please, King. Delphina, after such a fine meal, only your lovely voice could be sweet enough to be dessert. I would like to hear that song again, the one about the Noronians' trip across the universe to the planet Earth." He held her chair as she rose, and waited patiently as she smoothed the gathers of her long chiffon gown. When she placed her fingertips on his forearm, he escorted her to the drawing room, which had been called the den before her arrival.

  Underwood approvingly noted the crackling fire and the silver tray of liqueur decanters on the low table. He walked Delphina to her favorite seat by the fire, a large, tapestry-covered armchair. A few minutes later King entered the room carrying the coffee service and placed it on the table. After preparing their beverages, King slipped quietly from the room.

  Underwood smiled at the elegant picture they created: he in his velvet smoking jacket, she in her pale lime Empire gown, a lord and his lady.