The Man From Forever. Dawn Flindt

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СКАЧАТЬ she’d taken more than two steps, he blocked her progress.

      She looked up at him, struggled against the sense of size and strength that flowed around him and lost the battle. There wasn’t an ounce of flab on him, no pale patches of flesh untouched by the sun. His arms and legs told of a man capable of any physical task demanded of him. She gauged his height at around six feet, an imposing piece of knowledge given that he was barefoot and still loomed over her. She glanced down at his feet; at least she tried to, but her gaze snagged on his perfectly molded thighs and calves. Tarzan couldn’t hold a candle to him. He seemed utterly impenetrable, a tree of a man capable of withstanding the fiercest storm.

      He took a step toward her and leaned down. When his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed, she realized he was using all his senses to gain a better understanding of her. She shrank from his scrutiny but didn’t try to escape again, not because she didn’t want to, but because as long as he wanted it, he could keep her here. She wasn’t up to the battle, especially not one with a man who made her feel newborn and weak and hungry simply by looking at her.

      What did he see? Arms and legs, slender body, hair usually kept out of the way with a ponytail or braid, no makeup.

      Rocking back on his heels, he again settled his hand on her shoulder. As before, lightning arched through her, and for a moment it took everything in her not to collapse. She opened her mouth, stood there with it hanging open, questions without words crowding what remained of her brain. She felt his fingers exploring, half panicked when his search brought his hand dangerously close to the swell of her breast. When he pulled back, she let out a sigh of relief; still, the loss left her feeling empty. He placed his thumb against the base of her throat. When she swallowed, it was as if a part of him had slid into her.

      “What…” Run! Yell for help!

      “You are part of him.”

      “Wh-what?” she stammered. He’d been silent for so long, communicating on another and utterly primitive level, that she’d forgotten he was capable of speaking.

      “General Canby. You are part of him.”

      That, more than anything that had happened so far, chilled her. She fought the urge to slap his hand, fought to keep a grip on what little of her separate self remained. “What—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “You carry his blood in your veins.”

      “Who told you that?”

      “It is in your eyes and the beating of your heart.”

      Shaking, she ordered herself to wrench out of his grip, but her body refused to obey. Or maybe the truth was, she needed to feel his fingers on her more than she needed freedom and sanity. “It can’t—you can’t possibly know—”

      “That is why you stood so long at the white man’s cross. And why your eyes said things better left hidden.”

      “What things?”

      “You are looking for a piece of yourself, Tory Kent. But you are wrong!” His grip increased. Then, before even more fear assaulted her, he relaxed his hold but still didn’t free her. She felt wedded to him somehow, as if forces greater than both of them had determined that they would stand like this and say the things they were. “This man.” He jerked his head in the direction of the cross. “He knew nothing of the hearts of the Maklaks. He had no heart, not one that understood those whose land this was.”

      “I—I don’t know who you’ve been talking to or what they told you, but I don’t appreciate how you’re using a confidence.”

      “Con-fidence?”

      The way the word rolled off his tongue turned it beautiful, rich and tantalizing. But that might be a dangerous deception she didn’t dare let herself get lost in.

      He had to stop touching her. That was the trouble—a stranger was taking liberties with her, breaking through that invisible and yet necessary space that surrounds a person and is broached only when intimacy is wanted. Amazed by her perceptiveness in the face of this—this, whatever it was—she took a deliberate step backward. As before, he let her go. Relief flooded through her and yet she felt lost, as if she’d lost her rudder in life somehow. An avalanche of words boiled inside her, but she couldn’t sort them out enough to string any of them together. Her thoughts snagged on the eagle she’d spotted a few minutes ago, veered off into a memory of the one that had bedeviled her at the stronghold yesterday, splintered and resettled themselves on his knife.

      His knife. Why hadn’t she paid closer attention to it before? She studied the dusty black, opaque weapon now; concentrating on it was easier than gazing into his ageless and yet ancient eyes or learning how he had knowledge of her that he couldn’t possibly. Although some of the knife was hidden by the cord holding it in place against his warm flesh, she saw enough. No machine had made it; she was sure of that. Thin chunks had been sliced from it to create something long and deadly. It lacked visual symmetry and yet she had no doubt that it was perfectly balanced. She guessed it was possible that this man or whoever he was in cahoots with could have found a slab of obsidian and gone through the laborious task of turning rock into a knife, but there was no reason for them to go to that much trouble.

      Unless, this ancient-looking weapon was what the man used to keep himself alive.

      Cold sweat coated her body and forced her to concentrate on what he’d just told her about herself. “Look,” she began with less force than she wanted, “I don’t know why you’re doing what you are, but it’s time for the joke to end. It’s good—believe me, you’re very, very good.” Too good. “But—but I don’t like it.”

      “You came here looking for a part of yourself in the wind and rocks.”

      What? How could he know…?

      “He is dead. You cannot find him.” The warrior took a single, telling step toward her. “Leave me alone, Tory Kent. Your presence ended my forever sleep and I hate you for it. You had no right!”

      He was saying that her coming here had brought him into the present? It was insane—insane and yet unshakable.

      “This—this isn’t fair,” she blurted. “Please, at least tell me your name.”

      His features contorted, briefly revealing raw anguish. He glanced upward, and she wondered if he was looking for the eagle. Then, the gesture reluctant, he again settled his attention on her. “You are not Maklaks. You will not understand.”

      But I want to. I need to. “I’ll try to pronounce it.” She stumbled through the words, only dimly aware that she was no longer trying to tell him that he couldn’t possibly be who he said he was.

      “Not that.” He sounded angry. “My name has meaning the enemy cannot understand.”

      The enemy. So that’s what she was to him. “Try me,” she whispered. “At least give me something to call you.”

      “Loka. I am Loka.”

      She took his name into her through her pores. It settled uneasily, a word from another time and culture, part of a proud and defiant people. “Loka.” She still couldn’t bring her voice above a whisper. “Is that all?”

      “It is enough.”

      Yes, СКАЧАТЬ