VirtualDesire (7 page)

Whoa. He is not from Tolemac. He is not really looking
for a dagger. He is… What is he?

A confused cover model sent from the agency? A wacky war
gamer too into his role? Or… An idea burst over her. Maybe he was payback.

Payback for inviting a gang of
Tolemac Wars
fans to
her friend Maggie’s wedding. Maybe she and her husband were playing a practical
joke on her—bent on making her think this guy was really from Tolemac and
then—zing—he’d whip out a cell phone and call them to tell them she’d been well
and truly suckered.

The idea made more and more sense. Her friends had sworn
vengeance. After all, the fans had been a tad disruptive at the wedding. So
she’d forgotten to tell the group not to bring their swords… So a fight had
broken out… Well, there was no way she was giving Vad the dagger and playing
right into his practical-joking hands—not that they weren’t really nice hands.
However, it might be fun to go along with the joke and somehow turn it back on
Maggie and her husband.

“This knife you’re seeking, is it sacred?” she asked,
smoothing his hair through her fingers, checking his body for a lump that might
indicate a concealed cell phone. No. She’d seen him buck naked and taken his
clothing away with her own hands. No, any lumps or bumps ruining the smooth
leather expanse of this guy’s leather pants belonged to him. The room was
suddenly hot again. Sweat broke out on her palms.

“No, the dagger has no holy meaning.”

He wasn’t picking up on his cues. Most relics in the
Tolemac
Wars
games were holy. Their value was to priests or wisemen. Warriors
killed for them, or devoted their life to finding them.

“Okay. Don’t tell me why the knife’s important.”

“Okay.” He mouthed the word as if he were taking part in a
language experiment. “What are you doing to my hair?” His eyes crossed as he
peered up at her hands.

“I’m braiding it. I once saw this painting of a Native
American who had these skinny braids down one side… Never mind. I’m fixing the
dry, broken ends so they don’t show.”

“I do not care if my hair is damaged.” He began to rise,
pulling her hard work apart with a jolt.

“Sit still.” She shoved down on his shoulders. It was like
pressing on a steel girder. “There’s no way I’m taking someone as messy as you
to my ball.”

Color heated her cheeks from her misplaced indignation. His
head could be shaved and he’d be spectacular. In fact, he could stripe it blue
and purple and he’d still be the best-looking man on her little barrier
island—or in the state of New Jersey…or east of the Mississippi, for that
matter.

Vad’s hair slid silky soft through her fingers as she redid
the braids. Good old-fashioned common lust raced right through her. She bit her
lip to concentrate. He was not going to be right. Women might fall all over
him, but she was not going to be one of them.
Ever
.

She made a decision: practical joker, agency model, or nut
case, she would go along with his contention he was Vad until the ball was
over. Eventually he’d step out of his role, and then she’d tell him she’d known
what he was up to all along.

In the meantime, if she could get him to the Music Pier, her
ball would go down in history as the best Tolemac ball ever.

Finally she dug through the jumble of thread and needles in
her sewing box until she found exactly what she wanted—a steel gray embroidery
thread to match his eyelashes. She wove it into the narrow braids she’d
constructed from his damaged hair.

When she stepped back and examined her handiwork, she knew
she was a liar. She was no different from any other woman.

He was no longer more beautiful than a Nordic god. He was
way past that. He was all the really great-looking gods rolled up in one.

“Well, Vad. There’s not much more I can do for you,” she
said, slamming her sewing box closed. “I can’t work miracles, you know.”

Getting to the Music Pier with Vad was like walking a giant
two-year-old. He jerked to a halt for the fifth time, nearly pulling her arm
from its socket.

“What is it this time?” A seagull he had to examine? A trash
can he had to peer into, sniff, circle? A woman she had to peel off his arm?

She followed the direction of his intent gaze. A police
cruiser was coming toward them on the boardwalk.

“Nilrem’s Seat of Wishes,” he said, his eyes wide. “I have
dreamed of the seat many times…” He frowned. “No. The seat in my dreams is
black, without…” He waved a hand at the bubble lights as the car drew even with
them. “If you know Kered, do you know Nilrem? Do you know the legends of
Nilrem’s treasures?”

“No, I’m sorry, never heard of them.” She lifted her hand in
greeting to one of the officers who’d come to her apartment earlier that
afternoon. The cruiser stopped; the window lowered. The headlights illuminated
the fine mist swirling about in the high winds like smoke curling from a
chimney.

Vad’s arm tensed beneath her hand. He did not move, but she
knew instantly that he was upset about something.

“You’ll get a great crowd at your ball tonight,” the officer
said. “Wish I wasn’t on duty.”

“I’m sorry you can’t be there, too. See you.” She urged Vad
the last few steps to the Music Pier. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head and took a last look at the police car.

“Nothing is wrong, but I do not understand what the Seat of
Wishes, surely Nilrem’s most famous treasure, is doing here—beyond the ice
fields.”

He was really good. Just the right touch of confusion. A
soupçon
of distress. The treasure idea was cute. “Well, why can’t the seat be here?”
she asked. She could also tell he wasn’t budging until he’d said what he had to
say.

“‘Tis said in legend that Nilrem buried eight treasures,
with a challenge that any man who found them might know great wisdom. To my
knowledge, no warrior has yet located the treasures, and yet there is one of
them.” He turned around another time to stare after the police cruiser.

Gwen smiled. Any moment now, someone was going to jump out
and yell, “Gotcha!” She just knew it. Were her friends hiding in the Music Pier
restroom? Or across the way, tucked beneath the boardwalk?

This was a practical joke of the highest caliber. And her
friends would be really disappointed if she didn’t at least appear to believe
that this guy was from Tolemac.

Vad wiped a hand over his brow. Cracking under the pressure,
she thought. It must be really difficult to stay in character so long.

“‘Tis magic,” he said.

“No. There’s no such thing as magic.”

“But can you not use the Seat of Wishes to go wherever your
heart desires?”

She swallowed a laugh. He looked so adorably earnest. “Yes,
the Seat of Wishes will take you wherever your heart desires, as long as you
are pure of heart. Now move it. I’ll melt if we don’t get out of this rain.”

“Melt?”

His voice dropped, and he examined her in a way that made
her feel hot but at the same time naked and exposed.

“Come on.” She grabbed his arm and hauled him into the Music
Pier. She took his cloak and tossed it behind the blue-and-gold stage curtain
with her own coat and Neil’s leather jacket.

Moisture beaded Vad’s hair like a dusting of tiny diamonds.
With Vad facing as he was now, to the rear of the Music Pier, staring at the
huge, roiling waves, she could not see his damaged cheek, and for a moment he
looked just like who he said he was…the warrior from
Tolemac Wars II
. He
must be the model for the character. But she imagined when he’d signed on for
this practical joke, he hadn’t expected it to go on so long. It probably paid
really well, though. Her friends were richer than a Tolemac councilor.

A fleeting thought, that he would not need to camp in her
game booth overnight if he was paid well, was quickly replaced by another
thought when he turned her way.

Maybe he was mentally ill. Maybe he really thought he was
the warrior. A strong protective instinct overcame her. There was something
vulnerable about him.

An hour later, Gwen rocked back and forth on her heels as
she surveyed her ball. It was more than successful; it was a megahit. Despite
the downpour outside, the ballroom was wall-to-wall people, or creatures and
Tolemac free folk, if you went by costumes alone.

“He’s great, isn’t he?” Gwen asked Neil. “I thought he’d be
completely overwhelmed by the women. But he’s just taken it all in stride. He’s
so charming. No matter how many of them want his autograph or want a
photograph, he obliges.”

Neil nodded. “Yeah, I guess they have photo shoots in Tolemac
all the time. But if he takes another step back, he’ll be cornered. And he
keeps touching and turning the programs like he’s never seen paper before.”

Neil crossed his arms and leaned on the edge of the stage.
His costume consisted of the clothes he’d worn that day to work—black jeans and
a T-shirt. There was no getting Neil into warrior garb—or out onto the dance
floor. Her gaze went to Vad again. She swayed and hummed to the music—a Celtic
piece, mournful and somehow alluring. “Vad hasn’t danced yet, has he?”

Neil shook his head. “Somehow he doesn’t look like the
dancing kind.” He took her glass of punch and sniffed it. “How many cups of
this have you had?”

“It’s great, isn’t it? Who made it? There’s this spicy hint
of—”

“It’s spiked. Or it was,” he said. “I took care of it, but
some wicked warrior added a little extra ingredient.”

“Oops. I hope we don’t get arrested.” A giggle bubbled in
her throat. “Imagine R. Walter storming in here and arresting us for spiked
mead or ale or whatever we’re pretending it is.”

“Yeah, well, Ocean City is dry—and R. Walter will never
believe you didn’t know the punch was spiked. Now, how many cups have you had?
You’re grinning like a fool.”

“I only had maybe four…maybe eight cups.”

“You’ll feel great in the morning!” He shook his head and
stalked off with her cup.

Mrs. Hill took his place. Her long blonde wig and two silver
arm rings proclaimed her a Tolemac free woman of rank. “Vad is such a doll,
isn’t he?” she chirped.

“Yep.” Gwen smiled. Mrs. Hill’s cheeks were flushed a hectic
red.

“I don’t think he’s used to giving autographs, though.”

“No.”

“He gave me the most wonderful recipe for hart stew.”

Gwen coughed. “He gave you a recipe? That’s a new one.”

“Oh, yes, although he was a bit sheepish about it. Cooking
is women’s work in Tolemac, you know. Of course, he told me quite sternly that
one should never take the meat of the white hart.” Mrs. Hill’s voice was a
grave imitation of Vad’s.

“Oh, of course not, not the white hart.”

“Strange, he’s never heard of turmeric. I used to make quite
a venison stew myself when Kurt, my husband, hunted, and I always used a touch
of turmeric. By the way, your costume is gorgeous! You’re the ice woman, aren’t
you?”

“Yes, do you really like it?” Gwen felt inordinately
pleased. She’d spent hours on the costume. For once, she felt almost beautiful
in the billowy layers of silk.

Mrs. Hill nodded approval. “I love it. I never quite
understood the ice woman’s role in the game. She’s just a suggestion, a swirl
of snow and ice. Somehow you’ve made her into a living, breathing entity.” She
adjusted one of the many jagged layers of Gwen’s gown. “And how’s Neil doing?
Is his mother still recovering from her accident?”

“Yes,” Gwen said. She was not going to discuss Neil’s mother
with Mrs. Hill. Everyone in Ocean City knew Mrs. Scott had driven into a bridge
abutment of the Garden State Parkway and had had a blood alcohol level way over
the legal limit. Unfortunately it wasn’t her first DWI.

“I know she’s had skin grafts and God knows what done, poor woman.”

His mother’s history of problems had made Neil quit graduate
school and return to Ocean City in the first place—this latest tragedy merely
meant he was home indefinitely. Neil always turned the conversation when it
veered toward his widowed mother and her accident. What a pair they made—both
unable to deal with their family problems.

“And remind me to introduce you to that Gulap over there,”
Mrs. Hill said sotto voce. “He’s single and making a very good living.”

Gwen groaned. The man Mrs. Hill indicated, dressed as a
leopard-like Tolemac creature, was three times Gwen’s size—around the middle.

“It’s time you married again, you know. Time for some
babies!”

Tears filled Gwen’s eyes. What chance had she of having her
own children? She needed a husband for that. She needed to fall in love before
she could have a husband, and she never wanted to take a chance on love again.

She’d loved twice. R. Walter had defected with her sister,
and Bob… She didn’t want to think about Bob.
It’s just the punch making me maudlin
,
she decided, and surreptitiously wiped her eyes. “Thanks for the offer, Mrs.
Hill. But I’m really not in the market for a husband. I’m quite happy by
myself.”

“Nonsense. Look at your sister. Two boys and a third on the
way.”

A third on the way. She hadn’t known Pam was expecting.
“I’ve got to go, Mrs. Hill.” For a moment the room spun, and she felt the full
effects of her cups of spiked punch.

“Oh, stand still,” a woman of almost six feet cried. She
aimed a camera at Gwen and fired off a few shots. The chief photographer for
Video
Game
magazine, Liz Williams, bore down on Gwen like a Tolemac army
besieging a fortress. Liz was instrumental in obtaining coverage for Gwen’s
ball each year.

“Hi, Liz.” Gwen welcomed the interruption. Mrs. Hill walked
away. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it! I get to dress up like a medieval
princess and take pictures of devastatingly gorgeous men. I’ve got at least two
rolls of him!” The photographer jerked her thumb in Vad’s direction. Behind her
stood a small man who was scribbling on a notepad. As diminutive as he was, he
would be the one to translate the event into words. Gwen gave him a warm smile.

Liz spoke in exclamations all the time and at the top of her
lungs. Her yellow costume clashed badly with a purple tote bag bulging with
lenses and film.

“Do you have everything you need?” Gwen asked.
Video
Game’s
feature on her ball last year had meant thousands of dollars in
mail-order business for Virtual Heaven.

Liz leaned near, her breath a blast of spiked punch. “No!”
she shouted in Gwen’s ear. “I want that warrior! And maybe that evil-looking
dark guy standing next to him. He’d make a tasty appetizer!”

Gwen followed the direction Liz pointed and saw Neil talking
to Vad. The contrast in the men’s hair color and garb was striking. They did
look inviting together—edible, even.

Neil caught her eye and winked.

Whoa. I must be drunk
, Gwen thought.
Neil never
winks. Never.

“What a pair of great asses!” Liz gushed. “Do you think a
man’s penis size is in direct proportion to his height?” Liz’s reporter flushed
red across his balding forehead.

“Liz! Lower your voice.” Luckily the classical music, surely
something Neil had picked, soared into a crescendo and drowned her words. Gwen
fanned herself with a program.

To distract Liz, Gwen guided her around the perimeter of the
room, past the refreshment tables, the only non-Tolemac spot in the room.
Modern buffet servers were filled with hot and cold foods and mountains of
saltwater taffy and bowls of caramel-covered popcorn.

“Do you think that guy who builds the hardware for the
Tolemac
Wars
game—what’s his name…?”

“Gary Morfran, the hardware genius?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Do you think he’ll be making any changes
to the virtual reality gear this year? I’d really like to interview him,” Liz
said.

“I don’t know. I’d personally like him to make the headset
lighter. Mrs. Hill’s always complaining.”

“And where’d you learn to make such fabulous costumes?” Liz
asked as she peeled a lemon taffy and crammed it into her mouth. Her next
remarks were lost in garbled-candy exclamations. Something about icicles and
ribbons.

“I majored in textile arts in college, and I’ve been
painting fabric ever since. Usually I make quilted bags or vests, but this time
I went all out and did a whole dress. It’s silk. Seven shades of white and
silver painted on—”

“Stand in front of that fake snowdrift,” Liz interrupted
her. “The lights overhead make you sparkle.” She fluttered her hands through
the silver ribbons on Gwen’s sleeves. “In fact, let’s open a door, blow some
wind through here.”

“No! Liz, no.” But it was too late. In a burst of salty,
watery wind, Liz tore open a door. All Gwen’s snowdrifts lifted, swirled, and
gusted into the air. “Shit.”

“Now that was far from ladylike,” Neil said, and helped Gwen
haul the door closed. A crack of lightning flashed over the water, painting the
black water silver, spotlighting a small boat near the horizon.

“Shut up, Neil. I could cry. Look at my decorations.”

She stared miserably about. Her red rocks were barren; her
drifts were all on the south side of the ballroom.

He put an arm around her shoulders. “No one cares. They’re
either three sheets to the wind or just happy to be here.” He gave her a gentle
squeeze.

“You’re right.” She sighed, and dropped her head on his
shoulder. “No harm done, I guess.”

Vad did not enjoy the uncomfortable pang of jealousy that he
felt when the snake man—Neil—embraced Gwen.

“May I have your autograph?” a tiny woman with hair a
strange color, like melting metal, said. In her hand was a bound set of papers
of magnificent colors. Each time he touched the beautiful papers, he thought of
the hours it must have taken to write each word and paint each design. With
reverence, he wrote his name.