Overlord: The Fringe, Book 2 (8 page)

Refusing to be bogged down by silly thoughts she couldn’t do anything about, she turned her gaze around the room.

Against the far wall, across from the gigantic bed, there stood a huge three-mirrored vanity. She settled herself on the padded bench and lifted each of the decorative bottles. Potions and perfumes, trappings of beautiful women. Sniffing them all with a dubious nose, ignoring her reflection in the mirrors, she had no idea what to do with them. They wouldn’t make effective weapons. Not a one smelled caustic like she imagined acid would.

One smelled like lilac, another like amber resin mixed with those drooping, white forest flowers, still another smelled like glue. The most decorative bottle reeked worse than a musk-squirrel. She recapped the fragile glass and waved her hand around to dispel the nasty scent of a good animal gone bad.

A gem-encrusted platinum compact caught her eye.

Unable to stop herself, she darted her gaze around for the cameras as she picked it up. Not only beautiful, but the compact was worth a shipload of weapons. Vowing to find a way to steal the precious item, she flipped it open and found dark red powder on one side and a mirror on the other. It was a weird-looking mirror. She poked it. Plastimirror oozed to the top of the vanity.

Liquid, moldable mirror.

Feigning disinterest, she noted its properties, then deliberately ignored the metal once she stuffed it back into the compact, which she had to damn near pry out of her hands. If she swiped nothing else, she had to steal that compact.

Plastimirror.

Not a weapon by any stretch, but potentially useful. Mary kept it in mind as she opened every drawer in the room. Empty. Didn’t even have dust in them. A similar search of the bathroom didn’t turn up anything useful, and no matter how hard she looked, she couldn’t find the cameras.

“House, tell me where the cameras are.”

“No,” House said in a clipped tone that wasn’t at all like the lush suck-up voice House used with Commander.

“Worth a shot.” Mary glanced at the corners of her bedroom but couldn’t see a break in any of the decorative molding.

“Commander informed me you would ask.”

Knowing it pointless to ask House any of the burning questions in her mind, such as Commander’s name, or her location, Mary left her bedroom and went to the grand ballroom.

Morning sunlight beyond the massive bank of windows cast the fresco-laden ceiling in muted light. Pastel swirls of mythical beasts marched across the fifty-foot-high ceiling and halfway down the walls.

Methodically making her way around the room and the clusters of tables and chairs, she opened the few drawers she found. Empty. Not that she expected to find anything, but they were so conspicuously empty she knew
he knew
she would look through them.

“House, show me the library.”

“The library is outside your parameter.”

“Big surprise.” She thought a library would be the most logical place to find personal papers that might reveal who Commander was, or where he held her captive.

“Commander left a book for you.”

“Where?”

House directed her to a battered paperback, hidden among the cushions of a burgundy velvet fainting couch.

Danger in the Dark.

The battered cover showed a woman, much like Mary herself, with brown hair, brown eyes and shabby brown clothes, surrounded by a vague, shadowy figure. Did the woman run from the murky danger behind her, or toward it? Unable to tell from the torrid artwork, she flipped open the cover. After a few ripped out pages, she found:

Fear and desire own me as I run.

She considered the opening sentence with a chill. The words could be her own, and the thought raised the hair along the back of her neck.

“Are you enjoying the book?”

It flew from her hands as she shot to her feet and into a fighting stance.

Commander stood six feet away with a sardonic smile on his face.

Gasping as if caught sleeping during school, she let fly a string of expletives.

He plucked the book off the floor. “I find the cover art fascinating, don’t you?”

She relaxed her posture but refused to speak.

“Does she run from or embrace that shadow?” He held the book out to her.

Mary looked at the book, then at him. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“I wouldn’t want to ruin the story for you.”

When she still refused to take the paperback, he tossed it on the couch. “I think you’ll find the story…enlightening.”

“Okay, I give. What game is this?”

“Game?” he asked with insincere, baffled eyes. “I thought you might enjoy reading as opposed to dumping food on the floor.”

“Coffee isn’t food. It’s an indulgence of spoiled rich boys.”

“A minor point. I prefer my coffee in cups rather than on the floor.”

“Fine. If you’ll keep your reports to yourself, I’ll refrain from any more messes.”

“Will you read the book?” His gaze offered a challenge as he picked up and presented the paperback to her again.

“I’ll read it.” She yanked the book out of his hand. “Do you want a written book report, or can I give it to you orally?” As soon as she said the words, she wanted to take them back.

“I think I’d like the oral rendition very much.” His eyes twinkled with devilish delight.

She clamped down hard on a string of expletives. “Are you a randy thirteen-year-old boy trapped in a man’s body?”

Personification of innocence, he shrugged. “I merely answered your question.”

She considered the book more closely. Black ink covered up parts of the cover, and someone had ripped out the first few pages. “Why isn’t an author listed?”

“Some authors prefer anonymity.”

“Yeah-huh. Authors like you, perhaps.”

“I’m flattered, but I didn’t write it. That book was written hundreds of years ago.”

The cover felt like well-worn fabric, but the inner pages were crisp and the spine unbent. “This isn’t hundreds of years old.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You just said—”

“That the book was written long ago, not printed. Do you know anything about books?”

“I guess not.” A thought dawned. “Is this what you do all day besides prance around your big house like a fancy boy?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“Are we gonna fight again? I should warn you, even decked in this stupid dress, I’ve rested, and you might find—”

He lifted his hand. “If you will stop needling me, I’ll stop—”

“What?” She put her hands on her hips. “You’ll stop grinding your obscene wealth in my face? How about you let me go?”

“How about you stop acting like a child, and I’ll refrain from treating you like one?” He spoke through gritted teeth.

She
had
been acting like a spoiled brat, antagonizing him for no other reason than, well, she could. He allowed himself to be antagonized, and it amused her to upset him. Passion filled him when he got angry, and she liked that for some strange reason, but she didn’t want to push him too far.

“Fine. I’ll stop teasing you if you stop teasing me.” She thought they sounded like a couple of two-year-olds.

“How am I teasing you?” One brow lifted over his intense gaze.

“Knock off the lewd comments.”

“Agreed.” He bowed formally. “If you knock off the rude ones.”

“Deal.”

She accepted his offered hand. Big and strong, his hand swallowed hers. His flesh was hot and enticing, but without calluses. Her hands were hardened from cutting her own firewood, dragging buckets of water from the creek, maintaining two gardens, and filing the endless courthouse paperwork. A scathing remark formed in her mind, but she swallowed the slur in light of their truce.

She attempted to pull her hand back. He refused to let go.

“What?” She yanked her hand away.

In a flash, he captured her wrist and pulled her hand close so he could inspect her palm. As he did, she could smell the enticing citrus and pine of him.

“You have very strong hands.”

“I actually work for a living.” He must be used to women with soft hands and long, painted fingernails.

He leaned close and took a deep breath, as if tasting the air around her. “You never rest.” His concerned gaze found hers.

Confused by his abrupt and naked tenderness, she repeated by rote, “Idle hands are the devil’s playground.”

“I doubt he finds much play with you.”

“Can I have my hand back now?” She found his genuine concern alarming and knew she’d made a foolish deal. It would be easier to keep him at arm’s length if he acted like the playboy she expected, and she could freely point out his foibles.

Didn’t I tell him I wouldn’t make another deal with the devil, and isn’t that exactly what he’s just lured me into?

In a sweeping, courtly gesture, he bowed and placed a kiss on the back of her hand. When his lips pressed to her flesh, she felt the heat of his breath as he murmured, “You are a remarkable woman.”

Hurt, she extracted her hand from his grasp. “I thought you weren’t going to tease me anymore?”

Looking perplexed, he straightened. “I am not teasing you. You are a remarkable woman, Mary.”

Unsure of his motive, frightened by the melting in her heart, she changed the subject. “Yeah-huh. Teach me about books.”

Chapter Eight

Unable to conceal his pleasure, Michael led Mary through House to the outside compound. Showing her the way out of base command went beyond foolish, but he wanted to share with her his greatest passion. Smuggling books comprised a negligible percentage of his empire, but the very nature of forbidden books thrilled him more than anything else he did.

Eyes wide, Mary noted every turn and each pass by security. He hoped she realized the futility of trying to escape. Not that she shouldn’t notice. She wouldn’t be the elusive Bandit of Taiga if she didn’t take note of her surroundings, and he wouldn’t be sane if he didn’t observe her quick and calculating glances. She noticed everything, and her expression remained grim but determined.

He wanted her to accept that she could not elude him. Security on Windmere clamped down like a fist. Any intelligent person wouldn’t even
try
to escape.

He looked at her again. Intelligent. Far more so than he thought at first because of her ill-bestowed nickname. He imagined she hated hers as much as he did his.

“Your attention is focused on the ship at the end of the tarmac.”

“That is an unusual ship.” She shrugged, trying to appear uninterested, but her darting glances revealed her curiosity.

Custom-made, gleaming in the afternoon light,
Whisper
was a long, thin silver cylinder, almost like a needle, horizontal across the last slot on the tarmac. For two years, he’d kept everything inside exactly as he’d found it, except for the infirmary—Duster and his paranoia.

Michael had bought
Whisper
for an exorbitant price after thinking Kraft dead from a Random attack. As if magically resurrected, Kraft appeared on his doorstep as a cook-whore to Captain Jace Lawless of the rust-bucket
Mutiny
. What Michael thought was a second chance became a funeral. Love, the wicked emotional scent, billowed around Kraft in a compelling cloud, but her fathomless black eyes focused on Jace Lawless, not him.

Enraged when he couldn’t entice her, induce her, compel her, or even buy her to stay with him, he’d resorted to emotional blackmail. Kraft caved. She’d been willing to sacrifice herself so that Jace and his crew could leave with their lives. Kraft said honor compelled her, but love had driven her actions, and Michael still couldn’t shake the maddening scent from his mind.

He’d let them all go, thinking Kraft would realize he could give her far more than Captain Jace Lawless ever could. A month later, Kraft and the entire crew of
Mutiny
died in a freak accident with an IWOG attack ship. When Michael realized all hope was irrevocably lost, something inside him died. He knew he would never find love like that again. In his grief, he tested the limits of Duster’s patience and the security of his entire planet. Had Duster’s accusation been correct, that Michael was using Mary as a stand-in for Kraft?

Michael turned his attention to Mary. She still wore the ill-fitting green dress, but over it she wore one of his old black leather jackets that hung to her mid-thigh. When he’d tried to give her one that matched the dress, she refused, holding out the lace-covered velvet. “Yeah-huh. Would you wear this?”

She’d insisted on wearing her own brown boots, even though they didn’t match, either. Mary looked liked she just emerged from a rummage sale, but she was determined to win by small points.

Her face glowed and her blunt-cut chestnut hair spilled across her shoulders in casual wisps. Without a single female trapping, she compelled him more than any woman he’d ever known, even Kraft. Her ragtag outfit, her utter lack of vanity, echoed a complicated woman. One he wanted to unravel for a whole host of reasons.

He leaned close to read her scent but pulled back when she looked up and leveled her gaze at him. Her intelligent eyes hit him solid, as if they stood eye-to-eye and equally matched.

“That ship got a name?”

“Her name is
Whisper
.” He said it automatically, then startled at his admission, like she’d magically compelled the truth from him against his will.

“Kraft’s ship.” Mary didn’t bother to look at him for confirmation. “Kraft is a serious ass-kicker, isn’t she?”

Truce fresh in his mind, he strode away and said over his shoulder, “I don’t wish to discuss her with you.”

Mary caught up. “Is she dead?”

He stopped and faced her. “That is one sore spot you’d best not poke.”

“Okay.” Mary shrugged. “Which ship are we gonna take?”

“The shuttle, there.” He lifted his finger to his personal transport. At the last moment, he pointed to Duster’s. He thought Mary would appreciate what Duster called “funky character”. When he’d offered to upgrade the battered shuttle, Duster insisted, “I like her the way she is. Just leave her alone. You don’t fly
Scuttlebutt
, I do.”