Parallel Heat (6 page)

From his dresser, he scooped up her neatly folded clothes, the ones she’d worn here several days ago. ‘‘Love,’’ he said gruffly, settling on the side of their bed, ‘‘you must wake.’’ Slowly she stirred, rolling away from him, instantly settling into sleep again. ‘‘Kelsey,’’ he persisted, ‘‘wake up.
Now
.’’

Her clear blue eyes fluttered open, taking him in through a sleepy haze. ‘‘What’s happened?’’ She squinted at the soft lighting coming from his desk.

‘‘You need to get dressed.’’ He pressed the clothes against her chest. ‘‘Quickly, please.’’

She frowned at his formality. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Because you must.’’ Perhaps if he spoke simply, invoking his authority, things would go more smoothly between them.

She bolted upright in bed, both auburn eyebrows knitting together in confusion. ‘‘Has something happened? What’s wrong?’’

He rose from the bedside, putting his back to her. ‘‘You have to leave.’’ He kept his voice as even and emotionless as possible. Never mind that it was a farce of what he truly felt; he busied himself with methodically donning his uniform. ‘‘There is a situation, and it will be best for you to return to Laramie now.’’

‘‘What kind of situation?’’

‘‘That does not matter,’’ he answered evenly. ‘‘You must go.’’

‘‘Like hell!’’

‘‘Kelsey.’’ He sighed, pausing as he tugged a simple black T-shirt over his head. ‘‘This will be so much easier if we don’t fight about it.’’

Behind him, he heard her feet spring lightly to the floor, and before he could catch his breath, she grabbed his arm. ‘‘Jared, this isn’t happening. No way in the world are you trying to send me away, not now. Not like this—it’s the middle of the night! We just got married.’’ His spine stiffened, and he stood still as a statue, his hand on the waistband of his uniform pants. ‘‘Tell me you aren’t serious!’’ she cried. ‘‘You can’t possibly be.’’

Slowly, with infinite composure, he turned to face her, schooling his face into an impassive mask of stone. ‘‘Mate, there has been an incident,’’ he said, not quite meeting her pained gaze. ‘‘I’ve had to make decisions in the past hour, ones that will affect you and me both. I must send you as far from me as possible. Laramie can’t be’’—his throat tightened painfully, a solid knot lodging in it—‘‘far enough away, love. I would send you to Refaria if I could, I swear it.’’

The anger dissolved from her expression, her familiar blue eyes filling again with love. ‘‘But what
happened
, Jared? Tell me what’s going on here. I won’t go if you don’t tell me why.’’

‘‘Isn’t it enough that I ask it?’’

‘‘No,’’ she answered quietly, ‘‘it’s not.’’

He closed his eyes, feeling his jaw flex and tense. Gods, the woman had a way of penetrating his most careful composure; she always had. ‘‘Kelsey, please,’’ he begged, shaking his head. ‘‘I’m sending Thea and Anika with you, but you’ve got to get out of this camp.’’

‘‘Did I do something wrong?’’ she asked, her soft voice wavering uncertainly. ‘‘If I did, just tell me.’’

Without thinking, he cupped her face within his palms, and crushed his lips against hers, needing to taste her. Within his deepest self, he felt his Change threaten to overtake him, just that quickly. His love for this human was beyond elemental, it consumed everything within his soul. How could he send her away like this?

Her lips parted hungrily, her tongue exploring the warmth of his mouth as both of her hands closed around his neck. For long, endless moments they communicated that way, just feeling one another. Flickering beneath the surface, their connection begged to open wide—he sensed her try to release it, felt her reaching, plumbing the depths of his soul. But he refused, breaking the kiss, pushing their bond aside.

Angrily, she wiped her mouth. ‘‘Why did you do that?’’

‘‘Because you’re only making it harder.’’

‘‘You’re way into this unilateral stuff, Jared, but I’m an equal partner in this relationship. I may not be the king,’’ she said, ‘‘but I’m sure as hell your wife—and that makes me the queen, doesn’t it?’’ He bowed his head in shame, but said nothing. ‘‘
Doesn’t
it, J’Areshkadau?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ he answered simply, ‘‘you know that it does.’’

She clasped him by both shoulders. ‘‘Then tell me what has you so freaking upset! You’re scaring me.’’ He couldn’t shut her out, not as bonded as they already were. He’d thought himself able, and yet staring into her searching eyes, seeing such strong love reflected there, he couldn’t possibly keep any secrets from his wife.

Finally, for want of a better strategy, he slipped from her grasp and walked across the room, claiming the letter. ‘‘Here,’’ he said, handing it to her. ‘‘This is what has changed everything.’’

 
Thea watched as Marek unexpectedly made for the door, quickly vanishing between a throng of new arrivals to the bar. ‘‘He’s leaving,’’ Scott announced, rising from his seat. ‘‘We have to follow him.’’

Everything within Thea wanted to object, wanted to put as much distance as possible between the stranger and herself. But she was a leader, and she knew better. ‘‘Come on, let’s go.’’ She leaped to her feet. ‘‘I’ll go after him, you bring up the rear.’’ Her heart hammered out a loud crescendo, causing a deafening roar within her ears. Marek was absolutely the most dangerous man she’d ever encountered; every instinct within herself told her as much. Still, she couldn’t resist her desire to understand why precisely he was affecting her so strongly. More than that, they had to learn his identity.

Following in his wake, she shoved her way through the bar patrons, nearly sending a waitress’s tray careening to the floor. ‘‘Hey! Watch it!’’ the woman called after her, but Thea didn’t waste time looking back. She was out the front door and onto the ice-covered sidewalk like a flash of lightning.

Outside, the wintry air assaulted her, burning her lungs. With a quick glance down the sidewalk she spotted Marek moving at a brisk pace. He was already at least twenty paces ahead of her, his long legs allowing him to cover large distances much faster than she could. He had to be more than a foot taller than her; she had always been far too small for a Refarian, and at moments like this one she especially despised her petite size. Picking up her pace to a near run, she closed some of the distance, but then her boot slipped on a section of black ice, sending her sprawling onto the sidewalk. By the time she’d recovered, Marek Shaekai was nowhere to be seen.

In exasperation, she broke into a full-fledged run, rounding the corner that he’d undoubtedly taken. Vaguely she registered that a heavy, clotting snow had begun to fall, flakes of which kept stinging her eyes. She blinked, quickening her pace, but something unexpected stopped her in her tracks, choking the very air from her lungs as powerful arms took hold of her, lifting her off of the ground and pulling her into a dark, hidden doorway. Before she could cry out, or shout to Scott, one immense hand spun her against a hard, solid body while the other covered her mouth. Her eyes darted wildly, trying to locate Scott, but beyond the doorway all she saw was the empty nighttime street being covered in silent snow.

Behind her, she felt the solid bulk of Marek’s frame, felt his heart beating quickly against her neck. He had her; he had her right where he wanted her, trapped within his implacable grasp. She struggled, but his iron grip prevented her from squirming at all, lodging her with incapacitating strength against his large chest. She couldn’t see him—he had pinned her from behind—but she had no doubt as to her captor’s identity.

‘‘Let me go,’’ she tried to shout, but because he clasped her mouth tightly shut, nothing more than unintelligible, guttural sounds came out.

Behind her, she heard him chuckle, his hot breath fanning against the top of her head. ‘‘A real wildcat, aren’t you?’’ he breathed, bending low so that his mouth grazed her earlobe. ‘‘I like that in a woman.’’

She tried to elbow him in the ribs, but he had her completely captive, held by one large arm that might as well have been made of steel. So she made a screeching noise, and he responded with low, growling fury—the unmistakable sound of an irritated Refarian male.

‘‘Be still or I’ll have to really aggravate you,’’ he cautioned silkily, his voice a husky rumble of sound. ‘‘Neither one of us wants that, now do we?’’

He seemed to wait for her response, but she refused to rise to his bait. In the silence she became painfully aware of his breath against her nape, the huffing sound of it, so quick and urgent. His forearm tightened about her rib cage, his knuckles grazing the underside of her left breast, and instead of feeling frightened, gods forbid, she felt aroused. Electrified. On edge as if the man had just stripped her bare, ready to devour her. Slowly, the hand cupping her mouth slipped away. ‘‘You aren’t going to scream,’’ he said knowingly. ‘‘So I might as well let you talk.’’

She heaved air from her lungs, a cloud of breath instantly forming. ‘‘Let me go, you asshole,’’ she snarled. ‘‘Or I will scream so loud every cop in Jackson will come after you.’’

‘‘You wouldn’t.’’ A deep, rumbling laugh escaped his chest, but he made no move to release her; with his free hand he slowly scraped his knuckles against her cheek, outlining her jaw for a long, impossibly seductive moment. She shivered at his touch, cursing herself for the unstoppable attraction she felt toward him, her enemy. Rough fingertips traced down her nape, trailing around to the base of her throat; for a moment, he hesitated, lingering over the straining beat of her pulse. When she thought he would never stop, she began to quiver at his touch. Then, and only then, did he ask, ‘‘Why did you follow me?’’

‘‘I didn’t.’’

He blew out a hot breath against her cheek. ‘‘Like hell.’’

‘‘Why were you in that bar?’’ she shot back.

‘‘I like that place,’’ he whispered in her ear. ‘‘Got a problem with that?’’

‘‘I-I should know you—you’re recognizable to me.’’ She spoke in euphemisms rather than come straight out and admit that she knew he was a fellow Refarian.

‘‘I’ll take that’’—he nuzzled her cheek significantly—‘‘as a compliment.’’

She was about to argue with him, when suddenly the click of a weapon drew their attention to the street. Standing there, silver pistol trained on them both, stood Scott Dillon. She released a grateful breath. ‘‘Let her go,’’ he commanded Marek in an even voice. ‘‘Or I’ll finish this now.’’

Marek eased the tension of his forearm, allowing her to slip from his bracing grip. ‘‘No problem,’’ he said in a voice like sleek gravel. He held out both palms in blameless surrender as she stumbled out of the darkened doorway toward Scott’s side.

‘‘You’re coming with us,’’ Scott ordered, using the barrel of his gun to indicate the direction he wanted Marek to walk.
He must be planning to take him to the Suburban,
Thea thought, feeling as if her heart had been permanently lodged in her throat.

Marek gave a slight nod and made a step to leave the darkened doorway. Scott’s gaze never wavered from Marek, his stance that of a long-time soldier. Thea assumed a similar posture, her gaze sweeping in a full arc around them, but then, seemingly from nowhere, came a new voice: ‘‘Drop your weapons.’’

Thea whirled in the direction of the newcomer and discovered that Marek’s companion from the bar stood behind them all. He was of medium build and had messy blond hair, looking much more a ski bum than an adversary.

Scott lowered his weapon, holstering it with a fluid movement. ‘‘Let’s take this off the street,’’ he ordered.

Good work, Dillon,
she thought.
Keep command of the situation.

‘‘Where do you propose we go?’’ Marek asked with a smug grin. ‘‘It seems we’ve reached a stalemate.’’

‘‘Back in the bar,’’ Thea said. ‘‘That’s a neutral enough meeting ground.’’

For a brief moment Marek and his companion exchanged a glance that obviously communicated a great deal, then both nodded in reluctant agreement, the other man holstering his weapon too.

‘‘We have a lot of talking to do,’’ Scott said. ‘‘Starting with who you are and what you’re doing here in Jackson.’’

‘‘The better question, Lieutenant Dillon’’—Marek paused dramatically, smiling at Thea in devilish provocation—‘‘and
Lieutenant Haven,
is what you hoped to accomplish by engaging us. That’s the answer I want to hear.’’

 
Scott hunkered over an open bottle of beer; they’d all ordered drinks in order to avoid undue attention from anyone within the bar. ‘‘You have us at a disadvantage,’’ Scott said, taking a long swig from his bottle. ‘‘Knowing our names when we’re not sure who you really are.’’

Marek nodded seriously, his voice low. ‘‘It doesn’t matter who we are. What matters is that we’re your allies.’’

‘‘An ally doesn’t hold someone prisoner,’’ Thea fired back angrily.

He stared at her for a full five seconds before answering, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing intensely. She felt almost as if she could lose herself in those depths, as if every time she made eye contact with him some secret language buzzed through her mind. His eyes were so dark they almost seemed black, rimmed by a thick fringe of inky lashes that gave them a moody, sensual quality. ‘‘I wasn’t aware that holding you in my arms translated to holding you prisoner,’’ he finally stated huskily.

You’re just trying to be infuriating!
she wanted to snap. Instead she opted for a more even-tempered response: ‘‘Marek Shaekai, you aren’t the only one who knows the score here.’’

The velvet lashes lowered slightly, his expression becoming guarded, but otherwise he displayed no recognition of the name.

‘‘It
is
who you are, isn’t it?’’ she persisted.

‘‘That’s another man’s name,’’ he answered coolly, ‘‘so you don’t know quite as much as you think you do, Haven.’’

‘‘You’re Refarian—both of you,’’ Scott interjected with a glance between the two men. ‘‘We know that much.’’

Marek leaned forward in his chair, planting both elbows on the table. Dropping his head and speaking so softly they all had to lean closer, he whispered, ‘‘And you, Scott Dillon, are
not
.’’