Authors: Marilyn Campbell
Topaz Dreams (5 page)
Miss Preston took pity. "No. Everything has its
proper place. Foundation business is conducted only at the Underwood
Foundation ... in Nevada. Now, I really have a lot of work to do, so..."
"Yes,
of course. Again, I'm sorry for the interruption." Steve stopped at the
door and turned. "By the way, the man I bumped into on the way in here
... The camera would love his face. Any chance he works around here?"
"Oh,
he certainly was nice to look at. No, I don't know him. Wish I did. You
know, he probably would like to get an offer from you, though. He came
in here because someone had told him Mr. Underwood would help him get a
job. I sent him down to Personnel. If he filled out an application,
they might be willing to contact him for you."
"Thanks. I might just
go down and see them. Maybe the day won't be a total loss!" A quick
side trip to Personnel confirmed what Steve already suspected. The man
never showed up there.
had a lot to consider during her trip back to San Francisco. Although
she had not had high expectations for success when she started out this
morning, she had remained optimistic. Miss Preston One had clearly
lied. She was too efficient to have made a mistake about her boss's
whereabouts. Miss Preston Two, on the other hand, did not seem shrewd
enough to mouth a lie while flustered over something else. Of course,
it was possible Underwood actually was in Nevada. He could even be
hiding Karl Nesterman there.
There really were no alternatives yet.
She would have to follow the trail wherever it led until she came up
with something better. Tomorrow would be soon enough for a trip into
the desert.
Tonight she intended to satisfy her curiosity on another
matter. Walking into the lion in the L.A. office had practically done
her in. The bag he carried indicated that he had been prepared for a
trip, but he had to have used private transportation to get there ahead
of her. She had taken the first flight out and he had not been on it.
Steve was certain the man had seen through her disguise, yet he had not
given her away. Why not?
The only logical answer was that, like her,
he was after Underwood. It was unlikely he was working undercover for
the FBI. Both Bob Crandall and Evelyn Nesterman assured her no one else
knew about the contents of the journal that connected Nesterman with
Underwood. She could not take it for granted that the lion-man was even
on the right side of the law. Underwood was known to deal with some
shady characters from time to time.
When Steve checked in with Lou
later that night, he promised to make a few calls and get back to her
before she left in the morning. All Steve could give him was the man's
description, but at least he could try to find out if anyone official
was dogging Underwood. The old-boy network was alive and well, and Lou
always gave as good as he got.
Because of the information on
Underwood's underground facility, Steve knew gaining access would
require more than a simple disguise and a little acting. Although she
turned down Lou's offer to send someone with her, she requested his
assistance with some props and subterfuge. Sometimes the simplest plans
worked the best, even when they had been used hundreds of times. And
this one never failed.
the town of Glendora, on the outskirts of Los Angeles, Falcon stretched
out on a motel-room bed. The television monotonously murmured the day's
news, but he barely heard the details. Things had not gone smoothly so
far.
From Innerworld he had had no problem migrating directly to
Underwood's San Francisco office, but when he had attempted to go to
Los Angeles, he had discovered it was not as simple as he had
anticipated. Street addresses in crowded metropolitan areas did not
neatly translate into correlating coordinates that the transmigrator
could adapt to.
He could get close to his destination using his
ring, but the only way he could hit it precisely was to go back to
Innerworld for recalculation each time he wanted to relocate. The
temporary ban on using the main transmigrator prevented his doing that,
and the strain of repeated migration through the dense layers of the
planet in a brief time span would weaken his body considerably. He had
no choice but to use his ring to get as close as possible then rely on
Outerworld transportation for the remainder of the trip.
A vehicle
called a taxi had taken him on a nightmarish ride through the city of
Los Angeles which included a very slow progression on an expressway
that seemed to be misnamed. He still had the calculation for the exact
location of Underwood's desert facility, so he would not have to waste
a lot of time traveling tomorrow.
For tonight he needed to rest and
clear his head. His second journey to Outerworld with Aster had taken
him to New York City, and he had been very glad to leave there. Los
Angeles reminded him of New York. Millions of people congregated in
such a small area, combined with the proximity and abundance of
buildings and vehicles, created a noise level Falcon could barely
tolerate. His hearing was too keen. He picked up sounds others did not
hear— as he had heard the woman's gasp when she saw him the second time
today. He forced himself not to think about how he had felt at that
moment... how his body responded even now.
San Francisco had not
been nearly as unbearable as Los Angeles. The outdoor temperature in
San Francisco had been somewhat similar to Innerworld, and the city
itself had been very pleasant to look at, unlike Los Angeles where the
view was tedious and the weather was sweltering. The air itself was
disgusting. How could people live in a place that poisoned their lungs
and burned their eyes? Perhaps he was too sensitive in this regard as
well. He could smell things others did not—as he had smelled the tangy
fragrance that identified the woman for him despite the disguises she
had worn.
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.
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 gotten 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.
proper place. Foundation business is conducted only at the Underwood
Foundation ... in Nevada. Now, I really have a lot of work to do, so..."
"Yes,
of course. Again, I'm sorry for the interruption." Steve stopped at the
door and turned. "By the way, the man I bumped into on the way in here
... The camera would love his face. Any chance he works around here?"
"Oh,
he certainly was nice to look at. No, I don't know him. Wish I did. You
know, he probably would like to get an offer from you, though. He came
in here because someone had told him Mr. Underwood would help him get a
job. I sent him down to Personnel. If he filled out an application,
they might be willing to contact him for you."
"Thanks. I might just
go down and see them. Maybe the day won't be a total loss!" A quick
side trip to Personnel confirmed what Steve already suspected. The man
never showed up there.
* * * *
Stevehad a lot to consider during her trip back to San Francisco. Although
she had not had high expectations for success when she started out this
morning, she had remained optimistic. Miss Preston One had clearly
lied. She was too efficient to have made a mistake about her boss's
whereabouts. Miss Preston Two, on the other hand, did not seem shrewd
enough to mouth a lie while flustered over something else. Of course,
it was possible Underwood actually was in Nevada. He could even be
hiding Karl Nesterman there.
There really were no alternatives yet.
She would have to follow the trail wherever it led until she came up
with something better. Tomorrow would be soon enough for a trip into
the desert.
Tonight she intended to satisfy her curiosity on another
matter. Walking into the lion in the L.A. office had practically done
her in. The bag he carried indicated that he had been prepared for a
trip, but he had to have used private transportation to get there ahead
of her. She had taken the first flight out and he had not been on it.
Steve was certain the man had seen through her disguise, yet he had not
given her away. Why not?
The only logical answer was that, like her,
he was after Underwood. It was unlikely he was working undercover for
the FBI. Both Bob Crandall and Evelyn Nesterman assured her no one else
knew about the contents of the journal that connected Nesterman with
Underwood. She could not take it for granted that the lion-man was even
on the right side of the law. Underwood was known to deal with some
shady characters from time to time.
When Steve checked in with Lou
later that night, he promised to make a few calls and get back to her
before she left in the morning. All Steve could give him was the man's
description, but at least he could try to find out if anyone official
was dogging Underwood. The old-boy network was alive and well, and Lou
always gave as good as he got.
Because of the information on
Underwood's underground facility, Steve knew gaining access would
require more than a simple disguise and a little acting. Although she
turned down Lou's offer to send someone with her, she requested his
assistance with some props and subterfuge. Sometimes the simplest plans
worked the best, even when they had been used hundreds of times. And
this one never failed.
* * * *
Inthe town of Glendora, on the outskirts of Los Angeles, Falcon stretched
out on a motel-room bed. The television monotonously murmured the day's
news, but he barely heard the details. Things had not gone smoothly so
far.
From Innerworld he had had no problem migrating directly to
Underwood's San Francisco office, but when he had attempted to go to
Los Angeles, he had discovered it was not as simple as he had
anticipated. Street addresses in crowded metropolitan areas did not
neatly translate into correlating coordinates that the transmigrator
could adapt to.
He could get close to his destination using his
ring, but the only way he could hit it precisely was to go back to
Innerworld for recalculation each time he wanted to relocate. The
temporary ban on using the main transmigrator prevented his doing that,
and the strain of repeated migration through the dense layers of the
planet in a brief time span would weaken his body considerably. He had
no choice but to use his ring to get as close as possible then rely on
Outerworld transportation for the remainder of the trip.
A vehicle
called a taxi had taken him on a nightmarish ride through the city of
Los Angeles which included a very slow progression on an expressway
that seemed to be misnamed. He still had the calculation for the exact
location of Underwood's desert facility, so he would not have to waste
a lot of time traveling tomorrow.
For tonight he needed to rest and
clear his head. His second journey to Outerworld with Aster had taken
him to New York City, and he had been very glad to leave there. Los
Angeles reminded him of New York. Millions of people congregated in
such a small area, combined with the proximity and abundance of
buildings and vehicles, created a noise level Falcon could barely
tolerate. His hearing was too keen. He picked up sounds others did not
hear— as he had heard the woman's gasp when she saw him the second time
today. He forced himself not to think about how he had felt at that
moment... how his body responded even now.
San Francisco had not
been nearly as unbearable as Los Angeles. The outdoor temperature in
San Francisco had been somewhat similar to Innerworld, and the city
itself had been very pleasant to look at, unlike Los Angeles where the
view was tedious and the weather was sweltering. The air itself was
disgusting. How could people live in a place that poisoned their lungs
and burned their eyes? Perhaps he was too sensitive in this regard as
well. He could smell things others did not—as he had smelled the tangy
fragrance that identified the woman for him despite the disguises she
had worn.
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.
* * * *
Stevesearched 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 gotten 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.
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