Parallel Seduction (2 page)

"Beautiful?" Shelby prompted brightly, sitting up straight as a rail. "Smart as a whip, brave .…"

"A stranger to me!" Scott bellowed with a harsh glare. "We now have a professional association, if you want to even call it that," he said. "Nothing more or less."

"Of course, Lieutenant Dillon." Shelby made another note on his chart. What in All's name did this conversation have to do with his medical report? "But then tell me one thing. What do you think all those dreams of yours mean?" she remarked in a perfect tone of innocence.

He twisted the bed sheet in his hands. "You don't know crap about what I'm dreaming. So stop trying to get inside here"—he tapped his forehead—"and analyze me to death. Don't need it; don't want it. In fact, only thing I want from you is my next dose of pain medication. We'll call it even with that."

She leaned forward, meeting his gaze seriously. "I've been your night nurse since they brought you in here, sir, and I know you've been having some serious—perhaps amazing—dreams about 'that woman.' So why don't you stop denying it and talk to me a little? That's what you need, not to get even more stoned out of that thick gourd of yours."

Well, damn it all to hell.
Had he been mumbling in his sleep? Apparently. With a face flushed hot from shame and lust, he decided on evasive maneuvering. "You have a Southern accent. What on earth is a Refarian medic doing with an accent like yours?"

Her smile faded some. "I spent my first five years here in our Texas facility."

They exchanged a mournful, knowing look. "I see," was all he said. None of them liked to talk about the Texas incident.

"So, yeah, I guess I picked up a bit of an accent." She forced a smile. "Sure didn't mean to."

Shelby's bedside manner did distract him from his larger troubles, and her accent was—much as it pained him to admit—almost cute.

"Now, are you going to tell me about those dreams of yours or not, Lieutenant? 'Cause it's two in the morning, and it's going to be a long shift otherwise."

"Is that why you backed off my meds?"

"You needed to wake up a little, sir. That's all. Besides, you missed Hope Harper's last three visits."

He studied the ceiling tiles so she wouldn't see how the news that Hope had visited him while he slept—repeatedly—made his heart race. Unfortunately, he couldn't control the monitors beside his bed, and their previously semi-steady beeping accelerated like mad. He raked a hand through his disheveled hair, willing his heart to cease its rapid palpitations.

"Look, next time she comes … wake me up, all right?"

"Are you sure you don't prefer those dreams?" Shelby ventured silkily. "Because from the sound of it—"

"Wake me up," he commanded, assuming his voice of leadership.

"Got it, sir." She stood and pulled down his sheet, which he immediately jerked back over himself. After all, he was totally naked beneath the thin material, and he wasn't exactly prepared for his nurse to see him in the buff.

"I have to check your bandages," she reminded him, reaching yet again for the cover and giving it a staunch tug.

This time the cool fabric rose like a ship's sail, then popped back with a crisp salute, totally exposing him. But Shelby never looked at his groin—or any other part of his anatomy, for that matter—training all of her attention on gently unfastening the dressing on his right thigh.

As she bent over him, her brow knit in concentration, it occurred to him that she fit the profile. His profile. She was small, compact, and had fabulously large breasts. His taste for her type—in the human variety—had been nearly insatiable, as he'd chased them almost endlessly in the bars around Jackson and Teton Village. Even Jared had recently remarked on his need for human women, and Scott had absolutely no defense for his actions. It almost seemed like some sort of compulsion written into his hybrid DNA, as if the part of his genetic map that read "human" drove him like a randy missile to seek the females of humankind for mating.

Yet nothing in him was stirred by this blonde medic's proximity, her beauty, nor even his own sheer nakedness, and it wouldn't have been even if she were human. The inescapable fact was that his love of petite, fair-skinned blondes had now been directed toward one specific and very particular human woman: Hope Harper. And now with the sensual dreams of her kicking in like his sought-after pain meds, it didn't seem he had a chance in hell of curbing his attraction toward the woman.

He was lost to her already. Completely. He only prayed that time and his injured body wouldn't prove him a fool.

"I've been dreaming about her as my wife," he whispered into the half darkness, staring at the top of Shelby's bent head. "And other things … since I was a prisoner at Warren."

He wasn't sure why he suddenly felt like confessing, or why he yearned to tell this stranger his secrets, but relief fell over him like a soothing blanket of protection.

She nodded, continuing to inspect his wound. "Kinda strange, isn't that?"

"It's got me all tangled up inside."

Shelby reapplied the bandage, gently covered him with the sheet, and then collapsed into the chair beside him again. "Yeah, well, that Hope really is something else," she agreed with a bob of her head. "A real piece of work, that one."

He frowned, not sure what she meant. But he didn't have to ask, either, because she quickly continued, "I mean, it's like she doesn't even realize she's almost blind. She just pops down here every few hours, determined to see you, but doesn't even worry about herself. I'd be worried if I couldn't see where I was going around this place. Wouldn't you?"

An inexplicable melancholy came over him then; he'd thought talking to Shelby would ease his murky feelings of desire and longing for Hope. Now all he felt was that somehow Hope was going to get hurt here, in the midst of a war she had no real part in.

"She's a character, all right," he replied dully, trying to ignore the frisson of fear that chased over his spirit.

"And I can tell she cares about you too," Shelby said. "It's her feelings for you that keep pulling her back down to this place."

This caught his attention. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, last time she came she kept asking me questions about you—would you be able to walk for sure, were you in pain. I could just tell from talking to her that she really felt for you."

Something began niggling at him, and he didn't like it. "Tell me that you didn't mention my dreams."

Shelby grinned and didn't answer except to shrug.

"Nurse Tyler!" he roared. "Tell me you didn't say anything!"

"Oh, just that you kept calling out for her—I had to mention that one little thing."

"Leave. Now," he gritted, turning away from her. He wasn't sure if he wanted to have the woman publicly shot or if he wanted to kiss her out of gratitude. Because at least if Hope knew he cared for her, had been asking for her, then that meant she might keep coming back. And it might mean that she'd understand how he'd already grown to care for her, even after so short a period of time.

"I'll just check on you again in a bit, but don't worry, sir."

He cocked a curious eyebrow, daring to glance at her one more time. "About what?"

"It made Hope happy when I told her that. 'Cause she blushed like crazy when I said it."

She wasn't the only one; Scott's face burned hot over this entire discussion. "What exactly have I been doing in my sleep? Are you intuitive or something?"

"Nope, just loud."

He braced for the worst. "Loud … um, how?"

She patted him on the arm. "Apparently you're quite loud in bed, sir. That's what I meant. And apparently that's what you keep dreaming about whenever you call out Hope's name."

Scott shook his head, closing his eyes. "You're dismissed," he managed to say, although his voice wavered much more than he would have liked. Somehow this medic from Texas had known exactly what he was dreaming, and he doubted he'd been nearly as loud as she claimed. Intuitive or empathic or whatever she might be, he was transparent as a snowflake to the damned nurse.

H
ope hit the button on
her bedside clock, and its mechanical voice stated, "Two fifty-three." With a weary sigh, she flopped back onto her small cot of a bed. The Refarians didn't trust her yet, at least not completely, so they'd given her lousy quarters down in the belly of their main base, right next to some grunt who stayed up half the night playing what sounded like an alien version of poker.

In fact, from what she could tell, the soldiers they'd bunked her up with were basically no different from the guys she'd known growing up on half a dozen army bases scattered around the globe. Well, with one major difference: They weren't from this planet. And most of them had golden-red skin, almost Native American in appearance. A few random soldiers she'd seen looked blond and fair-skinned, but they were the exception, and her failing eyesight might have misled her about their appearance anyway.

The soldier who had the quarters next to hers was rowdy as all get-out: played his music too loud after hours, and was generally an inconsiderate slob. Like now. There was a sudden uproar of laughter, some shouting of male voices, and that did it for her. She reached around on the dark floor, feeling in the blackness for her shoe, and hurled it at the wall. "Hey! Shut up!" she yelled.

If you lived with the soldiers you had to act like one. In response, somebody banged on the wall and shouted at her in Refarian. Then there was some general whooping that she chose to ignore.

She rolled onto her side, held her pillow over both ears, and focused on sleep—something that had evaded her ever since she'd arrived at this alien compound. Well, correction: Sleep didn't evade her, but restful sleep was as elusive as her fading eyesight.

She chalked it all up to the dreams. Ever since being drugged back at Warren, she'd continued to dream of Scott Dillon. Sometimes he was her husband; sometimes she was pregnant; often they were having dimension-shattering sex. Literally—since apparently what she kept dreaming about and seeing was from some alternate reality. That was how the only other human in the compound, Kelsey Wells, had explained it to her in the most rational, logical tone. Yeah, it made total sense!

It was as if she'd chosen to step into a living
Twilight Zone
episode the minute she'd hopped on that transport with Lieutenant Dillon, a decision that had upended her world completely. And it definitely didn't help matters that her eyesight issues were taking a decided turn for the worse. The altitude up in this corner of Wyoming was even higher than back in Denver, where her degenerative retinopathy had already been sliding her into darkness at an accelerated rate.

Maybe this wasn't the right thing after all,
she thought, loneliness choking her.
Maybe I never should have leaped into something I knew so little about.

But she'd made a professional career of walking into the unknown, since that was pretty much what working for the FBI translated to. This situation in the alien compound was no different; it was also the right choice after witnessing the Refarians defend humanity when Warren Air Force Base had come under attack. No way was she consigning herself to the outside of this particular alien conspiracy, not now that she understood the stakes. It didn't take a genius to realize that Earth was in serious danger.

More noise erupted next door, and enough really was enough already. Leaping out of bed, she tugged on a borrowed pair of jeans, tossed on a military-issue T-shirt, and stormed into the narrow hallway to find utter darkness. She stood there, listening to the hiss of some sort of equipment. A radiator? A weapon? With her fingertips she felt her way along the corridor wall, locating the door of her neighbor.

She lifted her fist and banged hard. There was mumbling from within, then sudden light, blurred and covered with black spots—the same ones that always marred her fading vision. A tall figure loomed over her, which wasn't that hard when you were only four-foot-eleven.

"Listen, buddy"—she jabbed at the air with her fingertip—"it's almost three in the morning."

A husky laugh was her answer, then a surly, "Look, human, you're on
our
base. This is our home on
your
outpost, so deal."

She tilted her chin upward, summoning a look of defiance. "Yeah? Well, get this—I work for the FBI. Want me to have your license plate called in sometime?"

In half a heartbeat she heard the click of a weapon engaging. "Wanna say that again, human?" Tough Guy threatened. But from behind him a softer feminine voice called out, "Taggart, lay off her. She just got here. And she's on our side."

The smaller figure stepped into the arc of light. "Sorry about that," the woman said and, slipping an arm about her shoulder, led Hope back toward her own room. "I'm Anna, and he's a nutcase. I'll see if they won't move you tomorrow so you can get some sleep."

"Not my fault humans need to rest all the time!" Taggart complained to Anna, then slammed his door behind him.

Hope could have cried from gratitude. "I shouldn't have baited him."

"Actually, you should have." Anna laughed as they reached Hope's room again. "Tag deserves every bit of crap you can dish out."

"That's pretty much what I thought."

"Listen, are you all right? Is there anything you need?" Anna asked, following Hope into her darkened quarters.

Hope dropped heavily onto the side of her cot. "Just to see someone—anyone—who can help me figure out what I'm supposed to do around here. I've been to visit Lieutenant Dillon a few times, but .…"

"He's not doing very well," Anna finished, her bubbling voice suddenly somber.

"I'm worried about him," Hope admitted. "Have you heard anything more about his prognosis? The medics won't tell me a thing."

"He's going to recover, but he'll need physical therapy. And time. Lots of time."

"Scott's my only friend in this place, Anna. He's the reason I came at all because I knew he was on the right side of things."

And because I felt drawn to him for reasons I couldn't begin to understand,
she wanted to add, but swallowed the words.

"Well, Lieutenant Dillon is nothing if not on the right side of things," Anna said with a quiet laugh.

"What's that mean?"

"I'm crazy about the lieutenant, even though he rides us hard. He's a good leader to all of us."

Crazy about him? Crazy how?
Hope wondered, slightly panicked, but shoved the emotion aside. "Is he a high-ranking officer?" she asked coolly. "I mean, he's only a lieutenant, right? I'm not sure what his position is."

"So, they really haven't told you anything, have they?"

"Only about the mitres. Kelsey said that some sort of alternate dimension was created by the same device that wiped out all the Antousians back on Warren. That there were … side effects. But nothing about the lieutenant."

"Well, we don't have the same rankings you're accustomed to. Anyone in higher authority is called 'lieutenant.' Actual hierarchy isn't so much a part of our system, so that's the rough English translation. The equivalent, if you will."

"Then is he high up the chain?" Hope's heart suddenly sped to a rapid tempo. At last! Some answers about the literal man of her dreams.

"He's second in command below Commander Bennett over the entire Refarian military."

"Wow, didn't see that coming." Hope shook her head. She'd known Dillon must be important from the deference the night nurse showed him—either that or the woman had a major case of the hots for the man. But one of their military chiefs? That she hadn't guessed at all.

"Do you have any idea what he looks like even?" Anna asked her seriously. "I mean, can you see much? You wear those thick glasses."

Here we go again
:
someone thinking I'm helpless,
she thought. "He has black hair and dark eyes and fair skin," she answered evenly, happy to show Anna just how capable she was despite her vision problems. "He's about six feet tall, and I gather that he's pretty darn good-looking."

"How do you know all that?"

"I still see some; it's just blurry."

Anna shifted beside her. "No, about the good-looking part—how'd you know that much?"

Yeah, like I want to tell you that I keep dreaming he's making love to me in about five hundred different physical positions, making me scream his name at the top of my lungs and giving me such world-shattering orgasms that I can hardly recover once I wake up.

Hope snorted. "Don't ask."

She was thinking of the dream where Scott took her home from some bar to a motel room and had her up against a wall. That one seemed to recur most often, and always left her panties wet when she woke.

"Well, for the record, Scott Dillon is extremely handsome. Every single woman in this camp has a thing for him."

An ugly shot of jealousy rang out in Hope's mind. "Oh … well, so then he must have plenty of women." Her voice sounded falsely peppy, too breathless.

Anna patted her shoulder and walked toward the open door. "Oh, he has plenty of women, but not around here."

"Why not?" Hope asked in surprise, squinting as she tried to see Anna's expression by the light from the hallway. But it was too dark, leaving Hope to listen to Anna's tone as carefully as she could. "You just said all the single women on base are totally into him."     

"Because there's only one kind of woman our good lieutenant likes, and that's your kind, Ms. Harper. Blond, petite, buxom and"—Anna paused at the door significantly—"human. Very, very human."

And without so much as a goodnight or another word of advice, Hope's newest friend—her only other friend on the base besides Scott Dillon—closed the door and left Hope staring after her in shock.

T
he dreams folded about her
in the same way they'd been doing for the past week, muted and vivid. Surreal and immediate, everything at right angles and at odds with itself. Scott was in their tent this time, pressing warm kisses against her very pregnant belly. He trailed his fingers over the warm, itchy skin there, having pulled up her sweater. Occasionally he would nuzzle her; sometimes he'd lave her belly button with his tongue.

They were terrified; it hadn't been a good or safe pregnancy so far, not with all of her health challenges. Now, late-term, those complications were revealing themselves for what they were: the ravenous jaws of death, unrelenting. Unmerciful. Too much for either of them, or their baby, to take.

"I have to go for help; you know it." He leaned his cheek against her full, rounded stomach. "It's time, and we can't do this by ourselves."

"I'm strong enough." But her argument was faint. Scott knelt by her side, shaking his head.

"If I don't go now it will be too late." He leaned over her, kissing her softly on the lips. "I don't want to leave you, not now."

"Then don't!" She lifted a weak hand to his shoulder. "We'll be all right."

He seemed about to reply, but then turned toward the tent entrance where a dark figure had stepped in beside them. A doctor perhaps? Someone to deliver the baby? She'd never seen the man before in her life, and Scott raised his pistol, leaping to his feet right over her where she lay.

"Drop your weapon!" Scott shouted, and the dark, hulking stranger lifted both palms.

"I mean no harm." His voice was rich and thick and deep. "I can help her."

Scott circled the other man, glancing up and down his form, and then, as if in slow motion, turned back to face Hope. "Trust him," he said softly. "Trust Jakob Tierny. Go with him when he appears."

Hope struggled to sit up, shouting, and found herself not in the tent, but right within her small cot of a bed down in the bottom sector of the Refarians' Base Ten.

Trust Jakob Tierny.
She had no idea who that man was, or why Scott would be urging her to go with him. What she did know, however, was that when they'd been on Warren, he'd spoken to her in a dream then, warning of Earth's imminent attack. And his words had been totally true.

Hope shook her head, thankful that the poker game next door had apparently ended, and wondered—almost prayed—
Who is Jakob Tierny?