Dawn Flindt - The Man From Forever

The warrior had returned. Standing in stark relief against the muted background, he seemed otherworldly and yet… Unconsciously using her researcher’s senses, she took in his hard and healthy body, his sure stride, the proud lift to his head. He seemed unaware of anything except her, and as he came closer, her awareness of the rest of her world faded into nothing.

He might be a hoax—had to be a hoax. Still, her heart and nerve endings hinted at something very, very real. As yesterday, only a single strip of material stood between him and nudity. His slender weapon rode low and secure along his right hip, and his hand hovered scant inches from it, warning her that a sudden movement from her might propel it into his competent fingers. His long ebony hair absorbed the sun and played with the wind and made her ache to bury her fingers in it.

She tried to judge the speed of his walk to gauge how much longer she had before he was close enough to touch her, but she couldn’t tear her thoughts from his body’s beautiful flow. He seemed to be not arms and legs and shoulders and hips, but a single and perfect meshing of everything a man needed to be. His muscles came from the earth, from wrestling life itself from that earth. Watching him walking sure and flat-footed over hostile ground, she believed him totally in touch with his world. In winter he must have to dress to protect himself against the elements, but this wasn’t a man for expensive wools and high-tech synthetics. When the elements drove him to shelter, he would clad himself in what the land around him provided. Remain part and parcel of the land, of eternity.

Through flared nostrils, she breathed of the virgin air and felt herself a virgin—waiting for the man who would take her.

“What do you want?” she asked when only a few feet separated them. Why me? Her entire being hummed with awareness.

He stared, not blinking, eyes like night and the distant past and maybe the future, as well.

“What do you want?” she repeated in a voice that shook and carried no strength. He had it all; maybe he had everything she would ever need.

“You do not belong here. Go.”

His words were thickly accented, hard and rusty as if he hadn’t spoken in years. She tried to concentrate on that, but what he’d said demanded her complete attention. “Don’t belong?”

“I am la’qi. I say you must leave.”

“La’qi?” She stumbled over the foreign word.

“Chief. Chief of this place. I say you do not belong here.”

A hoax. Someone’s idea of a huge joke. Except no laughter waited in his eyes, and she didn’t see how even the finest actor could master his speech pattern, or look as if he’d been forged from the wilderness. It was as if his English came from a half-forgotten source, as if it had been years since he’d had anyone to talk to. “I don’t understand.”

Instead of saying anything, he placed his hand on her shoulder, the grip not quite painful but nothing she could escape. She swayed and then grew strong from his grasp. He, a stranger, had no right touching her. He would know that if he obeyed the laws she’d obeyed all her life, but his incredible eyes spoke of a world beyond her comprehension.

“What do you want?” she asked, although the weight and warmth and warning of his touch made talking all but impossible.

“For you to leave.”

“You—you can’t mean that.” His fingers were heat and barely contained strength. It was as if he were pulling her into him with the contact, and if she didn’t soon put an end to it, there wouldn’t be anything left of her. “I—I have a perfect right.”

“You are evil.”

Evil? This wasn’t funny. She’d tell him that just as soon as he released her thoughts, her everything. “Why are you following me?”

“You came to my land. Walked where you had no right.”

“No right? Look—” She tried to slide out from under him, but he increased the pressure just enough to warn of pain should she resist. She still felt as if he’d wrapped invisible chains around her, but she was now beginning to put herself back together. No longer did she feel as if she might shatter. “Look, this is public property. I don’t know what your game is, what you’ve been paid to pull this stunt, but it isn’t working.”

“I do not play games. I will know the truth. I must know. What is your name?”

“My name?”

“Yes. What do they call you?”

On the verge of telling him, she reached deep down inside for the tenacity that had taken her to the top of her profession. Risking a wrenched shoulder, she rocked back and ducked at the same time, effectively freeing herself. Still, she was left with the unsettling awareness that she now stood alone only because he knew he could recapture her whenever he wanted.

“You are the enemy.” His voice rumbled over the words and made her hair stand on end. “Your presence is not wanted on Maklaks land.”

“Maklaks?”

“Your people call us Modoc but we are Maklaks.” He punctuated his words by tapping his broad, hard, dark chest.

Telling herself that this was an Oscar-winning performance, she quickly judged the distance between her and her car. Even if she’d been an Olympic sprinter, there was no way she could reach safety before his long legs ran her down. Her hands, dangling helplessly by her sides, felt like totally useless appendages. In truth, she wanted to clamp them around her throat to protect it from the deadly looking knife strapped to his hip.

“I ask you one more time. What is your name?”

“Victoria Kent,” she said in a rush, her voice squeaking a little at the end. “Everyone calls me Tory. What—what does it matter? Look—”

“Victoria? Queen Victoria?”

He was talking about the queen of England. But the woman had been dead, what, nearly a hundred years? “N-no,” she stammered. “It’s a family name. My great-great-grandfather’s daughter—”

“Kent? What is that?”

“My father’s family’s name. Look, I don’t know what you’re pulling, but it isn’t funny. I’ve had—I’ve had just about enough of this.” She made what she hoped was a decisive move toward the path leading to the parking lot, but before 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.