Rebecca York - Prince of Time

She moved as far away as the extension of her arm would allow, her eyes never leaving his. She was grateful that he didn’t pull her closer.

Speaking slowly and distinctly as though addressing a child, he repeated the string of syllables. The speed of the delivery, however, did nothing for her level of comprehension. There was absolutely nothing she recognized.

“I—I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

His eyes narrowed, and she felt the physical force of his pent-up anger and frustration. He spoke again, and she could tell that he was demanding an answer, perhaps even threatening her if she didn’t cooperate. Yet at the same time she sensed he’d given up hope of commanding her cooperation.

“I’m sorry. Please—”

“Klat!” The ugly syllable erupted from him. She didn’t know what it meant, but she recognized a curse when she heard it.

Cassie sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Now it was her turn. “Who are you?” she asked, repeating the question as slowly as he had spoken—in Spanish, German, French, Russian and slightly shaky Japanese. Too bad she didn’t know Klingon.

Not even a flicker of recognition crossed his strong features. His answer was as unintelligible as his prior attempt at communication. Still clasping her wrist, he stepped closer, taking in details the way she had done so recently. Only now he wasn’t separated from her by a barrier.

He was dynamic—and very naked—and standing so near that she could smell the masculine scent of his body and take in the fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. His scrutiny almost shattered her carefully forged composure.

She swallowed. At least his closeness meant she didn’t have to keep her gaze from wandering to certain parts of his anatomy. All she could see was his naked arms. His naked chest. But she remembered the rest. Very well.

She stood as still as a deer in the forest, telling herself that if he’d wanted to hurt her, he could have done it when he’d first bounded out of his prison. Yet her pulse pounded in her ears, making her light-headed.

The man of steel had a surprisingly gentle touch when he wanted it. Still, she stiffened as he grazed her blond hair with his free hand, murmuring something unintelligible.

The brush of his fingertips on her neck sent a shiver down her spine. Or perhaps it was the way his blue eyes skimmed each of her features as if committing them to memory. Tension crackled between them. They might not be able to understand each other’s language, but they were communicating on a level that hardly required words.

His tight focus on her was arresting, almost mesmerizing. He made another low comment as his fingers skimmed her cheek, her nose. When they reached her lips, she closed her eyes and swayed toward him, acknowledging some deep, primal level of connection between them. Then she blinked and pulled back sharply, astonished that she had permitted that kind of intimacy.

Perhaps he uttered an apology. She was in no position to know. She didn’t breathe when his hand dropped to her shoulder and traced the open front of her bright pink parka, handling the soft fabric with the same concentration that he’d given her hair.

He asked another one of his questions—probably whether she’d gotten it at Bloomingdales or Saks.

“Neither. It’s from Hudson Outfitters,” she answered gravely.

He laughed, a rumble from deep in his chest.

Her gaze flew to his. Had he understood her joke? Then she realized he was simply responding to the terrible absurdity of the situation. The laugh transformed his face. Until now, his expression had wavered between grim and grave. Her heart gave a little lurch as she caught the promise of warmth. And an undefinable charm that made her insides melt. To cover her confusion, she put her hand to her mouth and gave a little cough. But she sensed that he wasn’t fooled.

However, the laugh had a more practical effect, as well. It freed her from her trance. Her brain began to function on a more normal level, and she decided she was tired of having him control the situation. Especially when he could be arrested for indecent exposure.

“I wish you’d put something on,” she said. She took off her jacket, disregarding its size, and thrust it toward him.

He looked at the garment, unmoving. Then, releasing her hand, he turned and strode toward a row of doors along the wall. Behind the first was a room made entirely of some low-luster metal. But she couldn’t tell its function.

He left the door ajar and tried several others, all of which appeared to enclose supply cabinets. From the third, he pulled out a white lab coat of a slightly odd design, shook it open and slipped his arms nonchalantly through the sleeves. Then he closed the opening with what looked like a Velcro strip.

“Thanks. I guess you could tell all that tanned skin and rippling muscles were making me nervous,” Cassie quipped in a conversational tone. At least there was one advantage to her situation. She could make any damn smart comment she wanted.

He answered in the language she didn’t understand. Maybe with his own sarcastic rejoinder.

She couldn’t take more of this. Seized by an overwhelming need to reach him on some meaningful level, she thumped her chest. “My name is Cassie. Cassie Devereaux. Maybe we can start with that.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She realized she’d said too much. “I’m Cassie,” she repeated and pointed to herself again. “Cassie.”

“Cassie?”

On his lips, the syllables were warm and richly exotic.

She nodded.

He tried it out again, looking pleased. “Cassie Devereaux.”

“Yes. And you?” She pointed toward him.

He hesitated for a moment. “Thorn.”

“Thorn what?”

“Thorn.”

“All right,” she conceded. “It’s just Thorn.”

* * *

“ALL RIGHT. It’s just Thorn,” he parroted back. He had no understanding of what he was saying. Except for his name, he thought with frustration. He was a trained linguist, but he didn’t know what tongue she was trying to teach him. It didn’t have any root he could identify, but at least shades of meaning didn’t seem to depend on guttural clicks. The stresses were unusual, however, and he was having trouble wrapping his mouth around the unfamiliar j sounds. And the grammar eluded him.

Cassie was waiting. Watching. For an unguarded moment, he wanted to touch her again, feel the incredible softness of her cheek, her lips, lose himself in the honesty of physical sensations.

As he focused on her face, he had the strong conviction he’d met her before. Or had he only dreamed of her? When he tried to analyze the thought, it evaporated like mist from the surface of a deep mountain lake.

He didn’t know who she was. Or where she’d come from. Or exactly where they were playing out this drama. And when.

The last observation sent an icy chill sweeping across his skin. Panic threatened to engulf him. Underlying it was a profound sadness. He stifled both emotions with the force of his will.

The woman’s eyes continued to question him. Before he started shouting out answers, he turned and strode toward the grooming alcove. Stepping across the threshold, he slammed the barrier behind him, hoping the mores of her culture would respect his privacy. After using the facilities, he leaned over the washing basin and splashed cold water on his face. His reflection in the three-dimensional mirror mocked him.

He looked sick.

That was the cue for a wave of nausea to rise in his throat. Swaying over the basin, he grasped the cold metal and retched up stomach acid. Grimacing, he opened a compartment and pulled out a tube of mouth refresher.

The spicy flavor swept away the nasty taste and made him feel a little better, but he knew the reprieve might be temporary. He’d been running on adrenaline, reacting from moment to moment since he stepped out of the delta cylinder—and his energy reserves were just about drained.