VirtualDesire (5 page)

Neil gave the customer the charge slip to sign. He grabbed
Gwen’s arm. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but are you sure you should
be alone with that guy?”

Gwen edged around a customer who had settled a stack of
computer games on the counter. “I’m sure. I think he’s as much a gentleman as
you, in fact.”

In a few moments she stood outside the bathroom door,
listening to snores as loud as the crash of the cymbals in any of Neil’s
symphonies. She rapped sharply on the door. The snores ended in a snort and a
grunt. “You okay in there? Can I get you anything?”

Vad swore and fumbled the bottles he’d knocked into the tub
back onto the edge. “I am bathing, woman.” His voice sounded like a hoarse
croak to him. He swallowed. “If I wished assistance, I would call for it.”

“Suit yourself,” she hollered back to him, a touch of sour
wine in her voice. Her footsteps receded.

There were no pots of soap for washing in sight. Although
the bathing tub was more the size of those found in a children’s bathhouse, the
edge of the tub had deep recesses decorated with bulky silver ornaments. On
closer examination, he realized they moved. He gave one an experimental turn. A
soothing bubble tickled his thigh.

He sighed and thought of calling the woman to bring him
soap. His eyes settled on a green bottle. The green liquid looked suspiciously
like some witch’s potion, but the words on it said,
For Cleaner, Silkier
Hair. Normal to Dry
. He ran a hand over his hair. Definitely dry, like
straw, and filthy. Thank the gods he could read the language of this strange
place. He read the bottle.
Ammonium Lauryl Sulfate
. On second thought,
there were many words here he did not know.

He struggled with the bottle for a moment, trying to pull
out the smooth white cork. Instead it popped open. He peered into the tiny hole
at the top. The wonderful scent of green grass in spring teased his nose. He
tipped the bottle and poured a generous amount into his palm. The many
experiences he’d had in bathhouses told him this was some potion meant to
please and tantalize.

He slid down until his head was underwater, his knees
sticking into the air. In a rush, he surfaced and shook. He rubbed the liquid
into his hair. The joy of finally bathing made him groan aloud. He dunked. Pouring
the green liquid over his head, he twice more lathered his hair until it really
was cleaner and silkier.

He sniffed the other bottles. One said
Jasmine Body Gel
.
Only the middle word did he know. The thick liquid’s scent was even more
alluring than the one for his hair. Not a manly scent, he must admit, but
potent—spicy and intoxicating. As he rubbed the gooey pink liquid across his
chest and belly he bumped his elbow on one of the silver decorations.

A whooshing sound filled the room. A gush of water surged
between his thighs. He yelped. His knees disappeared in a froth of water
pulsing from the sides of the tub. The empty bottle he’d discarded in the water
bounced and jumped about. Suds foamed and rose, spilling over the sides and
across the floor. He stared in fascination and poured more liquid into the tub.

Gwen heard the jets come on in the bathroom. “I guess
warriors like a whirlpool, too,” she muttered. She lifted her late husband’s
worn green velour robe from the hook on the back of the bedroom door. It was
one of the few articles of his clothing she hadn’t donated to charity. As she
approached the bathroom door she heard an ominous bellow and a huge splash.

She flung open the door. The man lay submerged in suds.

He floundered indignantly to his feet. Bubbles covered him
from shoulder to thigh. Her mouth hung open. Then she realized what he’d done.

She shrieked and pointed to the controls. “Off. Turn it off.
You’ll gum up the works. Turn it off!” Frantically, the man twisted the
controls. The jets fell silent.

“No,” she mouthed as he turned one final knob. In a blast of
water, the shower overhead washed him clean.

She cleared her throat. The robe dropped from her hand.
“Well,
you’re
definitely not a boy.”

“Unless you are offering your services to clean the floor,
woman, I suggest you leave.” Vad stepped over the side of the tub. His foot
slipped in the slick mess of water and suds. He skidded across the room, his
arms flailing.

Gwen thought of a hockey goalie stretching for a save. She’d
never again be able to attend a Flyers game without picturing the players
naked. There was something quite magnificent about a well-honed man in motion.
Any motion.

He righted himself and reached for his furs. Around his
beautifully sculpted right biceps were three silver arm rings. Then light
glinted off the long blade in his hand.

“Oh, my God,” she said with a gasp. Her throat dried.

Then the man lifted one of the towels and wiped the blade.
“Water plays havoc with fine steel,” he said. She remembered to breathe when he
turned away and inspected the knife’s leather sheath. Tension flooded through
her again as he swung back to poke the sodden mass of fur at his feet.

“Put the sword down.” She hated the tremor in her voice.

Puddles of soap and water slowly crept in her direction.
They would soon soak the robe she’d brought for him, but she couldn’t make
herself move.

His sword pointed toward the floor, he came to her. “I wish
you no harm.”

How she wished she believed him. He was too big and too near—and
way too naked. His steady blue gaze held her frozen in place. The touch of his
fingers to her cheek was gentle, but she could not stop herself from flinching.

“A warrior must think of his weapons first, and ‘tis naught
but a small knife. Nothing to be afraid of, woman.” Her head bobbed in assent,
but she took a step away from him, then another. He bent and lifted the robe.
It was heavy and soft. A floral scent clung to the fabric. His body responded.

With as much disdain as possible, he donned the robe. Still,
she stood in the door as if ready to flee. Her ale-dark eyes were huge in her
face. Her fear insulted him. He had never harmed a female in his life.
Well…there had been that time he had dropped his shield on a slave’s foot. But
surely that did not count—it was an accident. She had recovered quite nicely
once the healer had stitched her up. Perhaps this one, too, might regain her
humor, given the opportunity. It was not often his weapons gained more
attention than his manhood.

Shaking out a white cloth, he once again lifted his blade.
He began to stroke the cloth up and down its length. “Unless you wish to polish
my other sword, woman, be gone.”

She flitted away. A cold breeze replaced her. He sheathed
his knife and, although it was the work of slaves, he tossed cloths upon the
floor to sop up the mess he’d made. There were piles of cloths, cloths enough
to dry many bathers. In a cupboard he found more. They joined the others on the
soapy floor.

He donned the robe to conceal the knife sheath and sighed
over the dampness of the leather. Unbidden, his fingers stroked the green
fabric. It was like none he had ever felt before. It had a nap like fur, yet
inside it was woven, proving it to be cloth of some kind. He shrugged and
scooped up his sodden cloak.

A commotion brought him from the bathing chamber, dripping a
trail of water from his furs. So…she had feared him enough to fetch the snake
man. The woman half hid behind her champion and prattled something about his
knife.

“By the gods, woman! Are you so spineless you quail at a
small blade?” Keeping one eye on the snake man, he heaved his cloak onto her
table.

Her shriek burned his ears.

“How dare you! That was my mother’s table. She loved that
table. I learned to write at that table.” Before he could stop her, she dragged
his cloak off the battered wood and, after twisting and turning the silver knob
on the glass door, heaved the furs out like so much refuse to be discarded.

He shoved the snake man aside. The man went down like a sack
of feathers. Vad leaped to the deck and snatched up his furs. He clasped them
to his chest. Anger warred with compassion. The woman was scrubbing the water
from her scarred table. He knew well the value of ancestors. As an orphan, he
had no mother’s table to preserve.

The snake man picked himself up off the floor. “Get
downstairs, Gwen. Call the cops.” He spread his arms to protect the woman.

Wind whipped at Vad’s robe and tore at his hair. It thrummed
like the wings of a thousand ravens about his ears. Vad considered how best to
handle her protector without hurting him or offending her further.

Gwen giggled. Her Vad look-alike pushed through the deck
door, struggling a moment as six and a half feet of man and a mountain of fur
were caught between the uprights. He looked ridiculous. The robe came only to
mid-calf on him. The ocean winds flapped it about his legs and threatened to
once again reveal a tantalizing length of muscled thigh—and other important
stuff.

Somehow she could not be afraid of a man who nursed a dirty
cloak like a beloved child. Any fear she had dissolved. “Let him alone, Neil.
I’m sorry I called you.”

Neil ignored her. He took matters into his own hands. He
strode to the kitchen, lifted the phone, and punched 9-1-1.

Gwen sighed. “Prepare yourself, Vad. You’re about to answer
a zillion questions.”

“From whom?” He hovered at the deck door, arms clutching his
cloak.

“The police.” When he tipped his head and looked confused,
she smiled. “Here, beyond the ice fields, we don’t have an army in charge. We
have what we call the police. In fact, if you listen, you should hear them any
moment now.”

He dropped his furs. With fluid grace, he drew his knife. He
looked as if he were preparing to confront an army. “What is a zillion?”

“A lot. Take it from me.” Gwen sighed heavily at the distant
wail of sirens on the sea air. It made her heart beat faster. She didn’t want
him arrested. She wanted him at her ball. “Now put the knife away.”

“Yo, bud. Take it easy.” Neil encircled Gwen in his arms and
put her behind him again.

As much as she appreciated the gallantry, it blocked her
view. Robe open, blade in hand, the man looked so much like the Tolemac
warrior—from his straight, noble nose to his honed, muscular body—she almost
fainted. Beard or not, there was no mistaking that arrogant sneer.

She whispered in Neil’s ear, “He must have posed for those
posters. Look at him. Really look at him.” Her heart slammed in her chest—and
not from fear.

The police hammered on her door. Neil jerked it open.

“Oh, no,” she said with a groan. The man who stepped into
her apartment was the last man on earth she wished to see. Her former
fiancé—now her older sister’s husband. Talk about grand larceny. What the heck
was the traitorous detective doing answering a routine call?

“Gwen? Are you okay?” R. Walter Gordon stepped into her
apartment. Two other officers stepped in behind him. There were no guns drawn,
but Gwen knew that if Vad made a move, there would be.

“I’m fine. We really don’t need you,” she said, hands up,
palms out. Her voice sounded shrill and peevish to her. This was her warrior.
Nut case or not, she’d invited him into her apartment. If someone hurt him,
she’d never forgive herself. “Just go away. Please.”

“The guy’s got a knife,” Neil said.

The officers ignored her as they faced Vad. If they’d missed
the knife, they must be blind. Relief came from an unexpected quarter. Vad
turned his blade hilt out and offered it to Gwen; then he belted his robe and
yawned. He scratched his ear. He looked like a harmless, sleepy guy who’d just
climbed out of bed.

Oh, no
. What would Walter think? And what story would
he spread—like a bad flu virus—to her sister and her mother? She hugged Vad’s
knife to her chest as he had his furs. She acted without thought. She slid an
arm around Vad’s waist and hugged him close as well. “There’s nothing wrong
here, Walter.”

Neil gasped. Vad stiffened, but did not move from her
embrace. It was like hugging a petrified tree.

With little of the air of a bed companion, Vad said, “This
impertinent woman tried to take my cloak. The snake man overreacted. ‘Tis oft
times seen in poorly trained warriors.”

She wanted to kick him in his perfect shins.

Walter froze.
Oh, no
, Gwen silently groaned. The
British accent had done it. Walter was a hopeless Anglophile. He’d bored her to
tears reading droll Inspector Morse lines from his favorite British
mysteries—until he’d run off with her sister, that was.

“What’s going on here?” the detective asked.

“Neil? Who’s watching the shop?” Gwen used her sweetest
voice. “Could the customers be stealing us blind? Should we take the shortages
out of your share of the profits?”

He took the hint and left the apartment.

Walter, his eyes on Vad, took the knife from Gwen. He
stroked his hand over the decorations that graced the silver cross-guard of the
long blade. “Is this Celtic?” He gave a low whistle as he examined the handle.
The handle looked as though it was made of solid turquoise wrapped with a band
of gold. “It’s beautifully done.”

Vad graciously accepted the compliment. “‘Tis an ancient
design.”

Gwen sighed. Once Walter got going on Celtic folklore,
they’d be here all night. He’d minored in mythology at school. It was how
they’d met each other—paired on a mythology project and then later paired in
other ways.

One uniformed officer, behind Walter, moved forward and bent
over the knife. But Gwen was very aware of the other man, one hand resting
casually on his gun, still standing by the door. Vad, Walter, and the one
policeman discussed double-edged versus single-edged blades. She wanted to bang
their collective heads together.

She sank onto the sofa and rolled her eyes. She patted the
place next to her and Vad joined her. He leaned back and crossed his arms on
his chest. Now he looked as if he’d spent a few hours in her bed—and shower.
Wouldn’t that fry Walter’s scrapple?

Vad’s long, wet hair hugged his head. His robe gaped over a
smoothly muscled chest. She averted her eyes but leaned against him and clasped
his hand. She sensed tension sweeping through his body, but he entwined his
fingers with hers. A slow warmth built in the pads of her fingers and spread
throughout her palm. He wore a wide gold ring on his left hand. Its design
echoed the Celtic knotwork on his blade. She hadn’t noticed it before.

Was he married? The feeling of his strong fingers wrapped
about hers reminded her most poignantly of how lonely her life had become. She
dropped his hand. Married men should not hold hands with lonely widows.

Judging from the questions Walter directed at Vad, there was
little chance he’d arrest anybody. Instead, Vad received a severe lecture on
waving weapons around. Gwen came into her share of censure, too. After a hiatus
of seven years, Walter was on a roll. She tuned him out as she had when they’d
dated, nodding now and then, her mind uncomfortably occupied with the warmth of
the man whose long thigh and hip pressed against hers.

One of the uniformed officers frequented her store. He eyed
Vad with something akin to the look she saw on rabid fans just as they donned
the headset for a virtual reality experience. When her ex-fiancé ground to a
halt, she introduced her guest to the officer.

“This is Vad, the Tolemac warrior. He’s my boyfriend.” She
enunciated every word in case Walter had missed the more subtle hints.

“
A
Tolemac warrior,” Vad corrected.

“You’re coming to the ball tonight, aren’t you? You’re sure
to win a prize,” the officer gushed.

“Prize?” Vad and Walter spoke simultaneously.

Gwen shot to her feet. Vad followed suit. “Sure, best
costume. Finest weapon,” she said as she tucked Vad’s robe more securely about
his waist. The man had no modesty. “That’s why Vad was showing me his sword.”

“Knife,” the three men said in unison.

She took the blade and put it on top of her entertainment
cabinet.

The officer thrust his notebook into Vad’s hands. “How about
an autograph?”

“Go on, give him your autograph,” Gwen urged. Then they
might leave. The sooner the better. Preferably before Vad said something to
make Walter escort him to the funny farm.

They stood around in silence while Vad turned the notebook over
and over in his large hands.

“Aut-o-graph?” Vad stared at what he held in his palms. He
drew his fingers carefully over the paper. It was fine, far finer than any he’d
ever seen. The writing instrument was curious. He sniffed it. Wood. He touched
it to the fine paper and it left a mark.

“Sign your name. Big. Across the page.” The woman patted his
arm. He felt as stupid as a small child.

Boldly, he slashed his name across the page, the way he
would if putting his name to an important peace treaty.

The blue-garbed man snatched it up. “Wait until Marlene sees
this. She’ll shit. Whoops. Beg pardon, ma’am, Lieutenant.”

Vad watched, fascinated, as brown speckles on the man’s face
glowed against a flush of dark red. He’d seen this changing skin once before,
in a woman who had claimed to be from beyond the ice fields.

The man called Lieutenant drew out his own writing implement
and ignored the other man’s lapse. Vad would have ordered a flogging for such
familiar behavior.

“Let’s run through your story again so we can all get home
to our families for lunch,” the lieutenant said. For some reason, the woman’s
expression became stiff and sour. He sensed an unease that had naught to do
with what had summoned these men.

Thunder crashed, shaking the house. The woman winced, her
eyes going to the storm outside. She twisted a ring about. He walked behind her
and dropped his hands onto her shoulders and squeezed.

“One last time, Walter,” she said on his behalf. Her voice
trembled just a bit. “Vad is here for the wargames convention. He didn’t sleep
very well last night, so I guess he’s kinda grumpy. His costume stinks a bit.
You know how fur smells when it gets wet—so I threw it out on the deck to air.
He wasn’t too happy. My fault. I should have asked his permission. Neil came in
just when Vad was checking his knife. Neil overreacted. End of story.”