Crystal Warrior: Through All Eternity (Atlantean Crystal Saga Book 1) (3 page)

‘I love the house, George,’ Fran enthused as she stepped out onto the patio again. ‘If I was sticking around I'd get Case to design one for me. I can't believe that man.’

‘He only drew the idea. An architect drafted the plans.’

‘Even so,’ Fran mused as she looked about her, ‘I'm impressed. What're you doing with the floor in the kitchen?’

‘Arguing.’

Fran's laughter, golden bright like herself, ribboned into the steam as she stepped into the spa. She refilled Georgina's glass from the wine bottle then settled herself in the water.

‘You never used to argue. I had the ideas and you agreed! I think I need to explain a thing or two to your Gould.’

Georgina grinned and relaxed a little.

‘I'm not quite as compliant as I used to be.’

‘Mmm. I did notice that,’ Fran commented, giving her sister a long, contemplative look. ‘Comes from being your own boss, I guess.’ She leaned across to clink her glass with Georgina's. ‘Cheers! Here's to success for both of us.’

‘Cheers—and welcome home.’

They both sipped then Fran put her glass down and asked, ‘So what is it that's not happening in the kitchen?’

‘Tiles,’ Georgina said with a sigh, placing her glass beside Fran's. ‘When the house was first built I couldn't decide what I wanted on the floor in that kitchen-breakfast nook area so I just had it stained and done with polyurethane. Gould really liked that and his choice would be to put more and more coats of poly on it until it’s like a glass surface over the wood. But I want something—a bit more—that would give a flow-on effect into the small conservatory. I went to a `House and Home' expo and saw these terracotta tiles with small inserts of colored glazing, and loved them. Gould says we might as well rip up the floor and just have dirt. It'd be cheaper—and easier.’

‘Are you doing it yourselves?’

Georgina picked up her glass and twirled it contemplatively.

‘I thought we might and Gould did agree since I was set on having it. But I'm beginning to think either he really doesn't like the idea of tiles or—he's just not the handyman type.’

‘Probably the latter,’ Fran stated knowingly.

Georgina raised her brows questioningly at her sister.

‘It's obvious,’ she laughed, spreading her hands under the water. ‘The man's a writer! Writer's don't—lay tiles!’

‘Definitely not in my experience!’ growled a deep voice, and Torr, again ignoring the steps, vaulted up onto the patio and with only a brief glance at the two already in possession, stepped into the pool, settling himself on the submerged seat opposite. Fran immediately slid around until her body was snug against his and lifting an arm, he pulled her in closer. ‘She might lay me on the tiles but she refused point blank to have anything to do with the laying of the tiles themselves.’

‘Oh, very cute,’ Fran agreed with a hint of teasing sarcasm. ‘Actually George, Torr's the one to talk to about laying tiles. He's just re-done the main bathroom in his house. You know, the old Dower House? He's made a fabulous job.’

Georgina was still a step back in the conversation, her imagination running riot with the vision of Torr making love on swathes of soft white towels on gleaming blue and white tiles—and the woman in the picture wasn't her sister. Gripping the stem of the glass, she forced her hand to remain steady while taking a sip of the wine and dragged her mind to what Fran had just been saying. The new image that came to mind was almost as dangerous as the last. Torr on his knees beside her laying tiles, conjured up images that had nothing to do with house decorating and everything to do with hurtling all her senses into overdrive.

This was worse than when Gavin, Alan's son, had seduced her while his father lay near death. This time she hadn't the excuse of the emotional and physical exhaustion of hours sitting with her sick husband waiting for him to die. She was tired but couldn’t claim to be under any sort of stress. It was instead, she decided, a case of the whore, whom Gavin had accused of being the basis of her nature, slipping through the cracks of the walls she'd so carefully plastered around her. There was no way she would ever lay herself open to such an accusation again.

‘You're laying tiles?’

‘Yes. In the kitchen.’

‘I'd be glad to help.’

What was there in that small exchange to set her pulse leaping, to heat her blood so it throbbed in her lower regions with a fury she'd rarely experienced?

Then he added with a sideways grin for Fran, ‘We'll lock the writers out. They'll only want to write in the grout.’

‘Huh!’ Fran cried, slapping her hand on the water and splashing him. ‘Writers are also very good at making coffee and snacks, which tile layers need like anyone else!’

‘Writers only make food and coffee when they've got writer's block, not when someone actually needs it,’ Torr retaliated, gripping Fran's wrists and grinning wickedly.

Immediately Fran was on her feet trying to twist Torr under the water while he, with what Georgina considered was a typical male tactic, tried to overbalance her with his foot.

Georgina felt suddenly starved for air. Her body was so aware Torr Montgomery shared the same pool her skin was prickling and parts of her simply ached. More than that, her hands were clenched into fists beneath the water to keep from clawing her sister away from him. In the interests of self-preservation it would be sensible if she used the need to check on dinner as an excuse to leave them together in the pool.

Not that there was anything to do. She'd carefully chosen a menu that would leave her free to entertain her guests. It seemed like a lifetime ago, that time of innocent happiness before meeting her sister's fiancé.

‘I'd better go check on dinner,’ she said loudly and stepped out of the pool.

‘George, you rat! I need help here!’ Fran was trying vigorously to pull Torr under the water by his legs.

Georgina looked back and wished she hadn't. The muscles of his deeply tanned shoulders and arms rippled and flexed as he gripped the edge of the spa. Teeth a grinning slash of white against the dark tan of his face, his hair clung to his forehead in wet, curling tendrils of black silk. Suddenly her focus shifted and she could have sworn there were long wet ropes of ebony round his shoulders and something, tattoos maybe, around his upper arms and above his right breast.

She blinked to clear her vision, and again wished she hadn't. With arms spread and fingers gripping the edge of the pool, his chest was a wide wall of water-slicked, sculpted muscle and his biceps bunched invitingly. Inviting—what?

Snatching up a towel, she turned and hurried inside, calling over her shoulder, ‘I'm sure you can handle it.’

Always you run from me. When will you face the truth of who we are and to whom you belong?

Her feet faltered as the words jabbed into her mind in a voice that was Torr's yet was more—dark-timbred, husky. Imperious.

And the words themselves? Fear gripped the pit of her stomach. Mental hospitals were full of people who claimed to hear voices in their heads.

Chapter 2

Beer in hand, Torr leaned against the river-stone fireplace dominating the lounge of Georgina Hackville's home watching Fran regale her family with anecdotes of her travels and their stopover in Honolulu on their flight south. Every now and then she'd flash him a smile, seeking corroboration or a detail she couldn't remember. It was the perfect time to study the Hackville women. Near six feet tall, all three sisters were strikingly similar, differing mainly in coloring.

Silver blond with ivory porcelain skin and calm blue eyes, Merryn put one in mind of angels. Fran, model-slim with gold skin and hair and luminous sea-green eyes, shimmered with vibrancy. To his consternation, in contrast to the enigmatic, muted personality of her twin, she appeared too bright, too—damn! His head had gone all to hell. On that trip to Peru he and Fran had looked at one another and known they belonged together. No other woman had ever lured him into matrimonial waters. He loved Fran, her vibrancy, her lively nature and penchant for the fantastic, in the bedroom and out of it.

But she is not the Golden One.

The words were as clear as if someone had spoken them. He'd always imagined he had control over his mind and the thoughts in it, but in the last few hours that belief had been seriously challenged.

His thoughts at that admission were definitely his own and far from polite. Mad people heard voices in their heads.

Shaking his head to dislodge that uncomfortable fact, he shifted his focus to Georgina. With hair the color of polished bronze and eyes a watchful, feral gold, she reminded him of a mountain lioness. There was a remote wariness about her that spoke of inner strength, the kind of strength that climbed mountains or survived famine; that doggedly followed the claims of conscience even when her heart was clamoring to tread a different route. And like the lioness her adrenaline fired the moment he threatened her space, came too close. It was so easy. He only had to look at her, focus on her, and he was in her mind and she in his.

Golden One.

Surely Fran was more brightly golden than Georgina, Georgina more dull, he argued with himself, absently downing the last of his beer. His eyes slid to Fran.

All that glitters is not gold.

Shit! He tilted the glass again and found it empty. For a moment he glared into its depths then set it on the mantelpiece, which Georgina had earlier explained was a slab of ancient kauri timber salvaged from a Northland swamp. His mind was rioting nicely out of control without him adding the impetus of alcohol, he thought savagely.

He tried to focus on Fran's description of the birds they'd seen in Honolulu but as if magnetized, his attention was drawn to Georgina again. She was playing peep-o with Jordie and the baby was chuckling delightedly. It was the most relaxed he'd seen her. She'd changed out of the nondescript clay colored suit she'd worn to the airport and was now wearing a pair of brown linen slacks and a dark green knitted cotton sweater which, though loose, contoured the firm high breasts, flat stomach and womanly hips. He
knew
how perfectly that body fit his own, how responsive and arousing he found it, yet until a few hours ago he'd never set eyes on her.

Her hair, which had been pinned on top of her head when she was in the spa, was neatly secured by a black clip-on bow. His fingers itched to loosen it, prowl through it. Fran's hair shimmered like flowing golden silk. Georgina's, he
knew
, would be thick and luxurious and heavy and if she left it loose it would curl and glisten in sunlight like burnished bronze. He could see her dressed in fluid gowns of finest silk and glorious colors. Emeralds should glow on her breast, her hands, in her hair.

Christ, he was losing it! Yet he couldn't stay the flow of fantastic images.

He could
feel
her hair wrapped round his fingers. He
knew
he'd had his hands in her hair—somewhere—some time. He knew things about her he had no business knowing. She'd choose duty over the man she loved. If he didn't keep her prison secure she'd leave him. Her skin would be smooth as silk velvet and taste of apricots. Where in hell did this stuff come from? Anyone would think he'd been reading a romantic fantasy on the plane instead of Barrington's latest adventure. Ever since he'd seen her at the airport it was as if something had shifted in his psyche, as if his view of the universe had changed somehow.

It made him damned edgy.

A couple of National Geographic magazines lay on the coffee table. Picking one up, he flipped through the pages but even the impressive photography of exotic places couldn't hold his attention away from the tableau of women. Merryn’s husband, Case, had taken Katja and Jordie for a walk outside. Perhaps he should've gone too.

He forced his gaze from Georgina to her mother, who was clearly delighting in having all her daughters about her. Intriguingly complex and unconcernedly beautiful, Ellen Hackville, though not short, was somewhat shorter than her daughters. Even so, Torr decided with rueful admiration, she wasn't likely to be eclipsed by them. The red of her hair was probably artificially enhanced as there wasn't a grey strand in sight, but not obviously so. Her clear green eyes danced with lively intelligence and something which in a younger woman he'd have had no hesitation in labelling `sensuality'.

For the next half hour he sought to distract himself by searching out the legacy of character inherited from her by each of her daughters. Fran was easy. It was that vivacious intelligence that intrigued men as much as it terrified them, and the unusual green eyes. It had taken a little longer to unravel Merryn's mystery. There was the obvious similarity of bone structure and dark curved brows that were a striking contrast to her pale hair but it wasn't until he'd had a chance to observe Ellen in a pensive moment that he'd recognized the mystical quality so pronounced in Merryn.

He'd just come to the conclusion whatever there was of Ellen in Georgina was carefully, even ruthlessly repressed, when Katja, returned from her walk several minutes before, jumped up from her mat in front of the hearth, emitting a single woof. A man entered the room, his neatly barbered slightly long, sandy hair was wind-rumpled as though he'd been driving with the window down. The new-comer scanned the room with a natural and unconscious male arrogance, then with an all-encompassing smile, strode toward Georgina with the tightly coiled energy of a man used to action.

Her features expressed relief, the first natural, unguarded emotion he'd seen since he'd met her. Their bodies met and melded with the familiarity and intimate knowledge of partners—and he was fighting the primitive need to challenge. Until he'd met Georgina Hackville he'd been looking forward to meeting Gould Barrington, world-renowned adventurer and writer.

Now he just wanted to smash his face in.

Damn! His legs were aching.

Something about this country at the southern extremity of `down-under' had seriously unhinged him. Best he make a lightning recovery for any minute now he had to shake hands with that bastard, which would be difficult if his own was clenched in a fist. He was on the edge of losing control of something within himself. The last time he'd allowed that to happen a good friend had died. For sure, Justin, his saloon car racing partner and father of two beautiful kids, had just admitted to spending a wild night with Libby, his own live-in partner of the time. It wasn't as if he'd been terribly upset about Libby's defection for she'd never pretended to be faithful. Theirs had been a relationship of sexual convenience, which had suited them both.

But he believed in commitment and if a commitment had been made, one honored it. The despair and scarcely controlled tears in Nina Amoore's eyes that day when she'd come looking for Justin at the race track where they'd been testing a new car had deeply upset him. He'd been further fired by Justin's casual dismissal of her and the two little boys who were clearly desperate for their father's attention. As always back then, he'd allowed his anger free rein. Waiting behind the wheel of the car for Justin to join him in the passenger seat, it had boiled into uncontrollable rage.

He'd roared away from the pit while Justin was still securing his seatbelt. Their exchange had been short and violent. He'd taken his eyes off the track to berate his friend for his callousness and the car had clipped the inside metal barrier, swerving across the track. Adrenaline pumping madly from anger and shock, he'd swung violently on the wheel, only succeeding in flipping the vehicle. He could still hear the screech of metal and Justin's screams as they slid along the tarmac on the roof and he would never forget the terrible sense of being out of control, as if he'd created the situation from the emotion within himself.

Out of control.

The passenger side of the car had slammed into the outer wall of the track and Justin had died instantly. He himself now had plates in both lower legs that ached damnably in the cold. Or if his temper rose in the dangerously unpredictable way he'd learnt at such cost to master.

Georgina introduced Gould to Fran. Torr found himself watching with a clinical detachment as Barrington fell under Fran's spell. No man introduced to Fran Hackville failed to respond to her radiant vivacity. He waited for the reaction he should feel at the sight of another man's hands on his woman. To his consternation he was more disturbed by the way Georgina slipped her hand into the crook of Barrington's elbow and clung to him as if he were her rock in stormy waters.

That was a role he knew should be his. What a hell of a mess. He was angry when he had no right to be, coldly detached when he should've been at least mildly heated and had voices in his head saying things he couldn't possibly know! By the time he came to shake Barrington's hand his tension manifested in a sudden hard grip which brought a momentary start of surprise to the writer's intense blue eyes and a grim sense of satisfaction to himself.

It was rare for Gould to have to look up at anyone. For a brief second Georgina had the sensation of two warriors, harshly beautiful in bronze helmets and leather war kilts, facing one another across an ancient black and white tiled arena. She drew in a ragged breath to dispel the strange phantasm. A jolt had gone through Gould and she'd seen darts of light like emerald sword-thrusts from Torr's eyes. The energy bristling about them was the same as that around two dogs meeting in the street, or stags in the wilderness. Perhaps she should start writing this stuff down. It sounded more like something she'd read in a fantasy novel than thoughts she'd find in her own head!

Realizing she was clinging to Gould's arm as if dependent on him for her very life force, she withdrew her hand and stepped back a little. Striving for a normal tone of voice, she said, ‘Torr's just finished tiling the bathroom in the Dower House. Fran says it looks superb.’

Gould's jaw clenched as he retrieved his hand from Torr's grip and rammed both fists into his pockets. Maybe that wasn't a good choice of topic to try and get the men talking to one another—and maybe she should just step out of the arena and let the two of them sort it in their own way.

As we've done many times before.

The stillness following the echo of the words in her head seemed to last an age though in reality it was a mere breath. Emerald eyes flickered towards her and Torr’s nostrils flared slightly. Then his glance settled back on Gould and he said evenly, ‘It's not something I'd want to do for a living.’

A brief smile softened Gould's terse lips.

‘You won't find me arguing with that. Actually I've been thinking,’ he said, turning to look directly at Georgina, ‘maybe we should get a tradesman in to lay them. I don't understand why you're so set on doing it yourself.’

‘I just thought it'd be fun for us to do it together—like we did the garden,’ Georgina was startled into blurting. They were spending less and less time together these days and it had begun to worry her. But this was the first he'd indicated he wasn't happy about them doing the job themselves.

‘Uh-uh,’ Torr said, a sudden wry grin softening the harsh lines of his face, ‘that's domestic' material. Fran wasn't allowed near the job until I'd finished and all she had to do was admire my handiwork. Much less painful.’

Fran grinned wickedly up at him.

‘That was after I'd created mayhem trying to—distract you and knocked a box of expensive figured tiles into the bath and damaged about half of them. The way you roared at me you'd have thought they were priceless jewels!’

‘I thought they were when I paid for them!’

With a husky ripple of laughter Fran eased in close to Torr, slipping her hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

‘Anyway, as I explained earlier,’ she said, ‘writer's don't lay—tiles.’

There was a suggestive lilt to her voice and her eyes had taken on a sultry virescent glow. But her gaze was on Gould, not Torr. Oddly, Georgina found she was satisfied to have it so.

Aware of Gould at her side suddenly rocking back on his heels, she wanted to gauge his facial reaction too, but her attention was firmly snagged by the hooded green eyes of her sister's fiancé. She'd seen Fran squeeze his temptingly taut butt before she'd moved in close enough to block the view and start flirting suggestively with Gould. Georgina had always imagined the man Fran decided to marry would command all her attention, would curb her need to enslave every male in the room with her golden vivacity.

Why would Fran look at any other man when she could lose herself in the jungle green depths of Torr Montgomery's eyes, know the touch of his strong capable hands, the satisfying closeness of his honed warrior's body? Why would she—?