Prince of Time

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.

Dizzy, Thorn gripped the edge of the basin and forced himself to recall his last memories. They were from yesterday evening. Lodar and Darnot arriving at his quarters to continue the argument they’d been having for weeks. He remembered the older man coming up behind him and then a stinging sensation in his shoulder. The rest was a blur. Except for the part where Lodar was leaning over him, his face very close—telling him he was going to get what he deserved.

A cold sweat beaded his forehead. He risked another look in the mirror and saw his skin was the color of moldy mush.

It was the symptom his fuzzy brain had been unconsciously searching for. His system was going into a toxic reaction to the delta capsule. He’d seen it happen a couple of times after inadequate preparation. If he didn’t get some ribenazine in the next few minutes, he was going to be on the floor, kicking and screaming and wishing he were dead. He wouldn’t have long to wait. The next phases were irreversible coma and death.

As he lurched out of the grooming alcove, the woman looked at him in alarm and asked an urgent question he couldn’t comprehend.

Sparing her a quick arm gesture, he commanded himself to stay conscious a few minutes longer as he staggered across the room to the cabinet marked with the symbol for healing. Inside he rummaged through small vials of liquid until his fingers closed around the one he needed. With fingers that felt thick and clumsy, he pulled at the seal. Too late. His formidable will lost the battle with his body and he crumpled to the floor.

Chapter Two

In seconds Cassie was across the room and kneeling beside him.

“Thorn!”

He didn’t answer.

She looked from him to the cupboard. It was filled with small bottles and boxes of various sizes, none of which was familiar.

Frantically she knelt beside him and turned him on his back.

He’d looked ill.... Perhaps he’d been after some medication. But as far as she could see, he’d passed out before he could take anything.

The greenish cast of his skin was frightening. When she touched him, she found his flesh cold and clammy. The pulse in his neck was thready, his breathing labored. And a few minutes ago she’d heard him retching. He needed a doctor, but she was the only help he was going to get.

She’d seen him grab up a small bottle just before he lost consciousness. Lifting his hand, she pried the stiff fingers open and removed a vial of blue liquid. Would the contents cure him? Or kill him?

She shuddered as another disturbing thought struck her. Was this a sudden attack of some contagious illness? Was that why he’d been isolated in this place?

Willing the ungenerous questions out of her mind, she concentrated on Thorn. How was she supposed to know what to do for him?

He’d been lying quietly on the stone floor. All at once his face contorted in pain, and he thrashed his arms and legs like a drowning man. Cassie grimaced at the agony etched into his features.

He cried out—two distinct words she didn’t understand, repeating them several times. “Reah. Januk.”