THE CRYSTAL WARRIOR
By Maree Anderson
CHAPTER THREE
The Warrior grabbed her by the elbows and lifted her until they were both eye-to-eye. Boy, was he pissed. Chalcey could tell from the barely restrained fury seething in those baby-blues. Drumming her bare toes against his legs didn't provoke so much as a flinch. Crap. She was really in trouble this time.
"Unless we are about to indulge in a romp amongst the cushions, do not bite me again, woman."
"Excuse me?"
"You bit my sword hand."
"Yippee for me!" Hang on just a sec, his sword hand? Fabulous. Trapped in the stairwell with a reeeally large, really delusional man.
Chalcey tensed her muscles, intending to kick him right where it hurt, but he must have read her intentions in her eyes. Being an exceptionally tall man, when he dropped her it was from a great height. She hit the concrete floor in an ungainly sprawl, landing hard on her butt. Really hard.
"Owww owww owww!" Her bruised butt hurt like... like... forty bastards, as her dad used to say. She blew the hair out of her eyes before scowling up at The Warrior. It was her best "you so don't want to be anywhere near me right now if you know what's good for you!" expression, the one Sam assured her was guaranteed to send guys running for cover.
It was completely wasted on him.
"Now we are even," he said, tone laced with an irritating degree of smug male satisfaction.
She peered up at him in the dim light afforded by the street lights outside. Had that chiseled, square-jawed face of his actually cracked a smile? Stop the presses.
He reached down to grasp her wrist and yank her to her feet.
"Okay," she said, opting for sarcasm to cover her dismay. "Now you've stroked your male ego and we're even, get the hell out!"
"I cannot."
"It's really simple, bud. Just turn around and stroll on out the door. Oh, and don't come back or I'll call the cops."
"I do not wish to leave. And my name is not Bud."
Chalcey digested this first piece of information with growing confusion and had another thought. "Uh, how exactly did you find me?" He sure hadn't followed her home. She'd checked as she fled hell for leather. Numerous times.
He hesitated, as though unsure exactly how to explain. "I followed your... call. I sensed your... your presence calling me in my mind, and I followed it. You became clearer the closer I came to you. Thus I tracked you to this abode."
She inhaled a deep breath, held it, and puffed it out sharply through her nose. He had some sort of a crush on her, poor guy. It was kinda sweet. And kinda hot, too. And... kinda disturbing.
He still had hold of her wrist so she punched her arm straight up in the air to shake off his manacle-like grip. Epic fail. Damn. It'd worked just fine in self-defense classes. "Okay. You look like a decent enough guy—" an absolute babe, in fact, even if he wasn't the brightest star in the galaxy "—and I'm incredibly flattered. Not to mention grateful for you helping me out with jerk-off Ray, and all. But flattery and gratitude only gets you so far. Hence the reason I punched you in the face in the first place. You need to leave now."
His attention flicked to the light filtering down from the studio above. He gazed up the stairwell. "Your abode is up there? This world contains wonders beyond imagination! Come. You will succor this bite before it festers and then we will discuss our situation."
He pulled her toward the stairs. She dug in her heels and leaned her weight backward. Another wasted effort, for he merely yanked her off her feet and into his arms.
"Woman, you are a most stubborn creature."
His breath tickled her temple. His arms caged her, holding her tightly. Her body told her exactly how much she liked being in his arms. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.
"I have found there is only one way to deal with stubborn creatures." He heaved her up and over his shoulder, and then proceeded to climb the stairs as though she weighed no more than a small child.
The indignity of hanging head down over someone's shoulder helped Chalcey shake off the haze of sensuality he'd wrapped her in when he'd hauled her close and she'd been plastered against his big hard body. Manhandling her? Again? This was so gonna have to stop. She kicked and thrashed her arms, all the while hollering like a banshee. He patted her rump but otherwise ignored her.
Chalcey had been many things in her life but because of her height and in-your-face cleavage, ignored by men had never been one of them. And she wasn't at all convinced this was a good time for it to start, either. She screamed louder, putting her heart and soul into it.
She generally considered herself of above-average intelligence, too—aside from opening the door without checking who was on the other side first, which was obviously just plain stupid—so when he got halfway up the stairs, she quit struggling. But only because she didn't want him to lose his balance and for them both to take a nasty tumble down the stairs. And by the time he reached the top of the stairwell, she'd concluded that screaming her lungs out wasn't going to do her any good at all, either. Her studio was located in a semi-commercial area, it was excruciatingly early on a Saturday morning, and the chances of anyone hearing her and coming to investigate were practically zilch.
Maybe it was lack of sleep screwing with her judgment, but she decided that despite his superior height and obvious strength, he was relatively harmless. If he'd really wanted to harm her, it made sense he would have done so before going to all the trouble of hauling her kicking and screaming up a steep flight of stairs. Besides, her throat hurt from all the useless screaming.
He shouldered open the door to the studio and halted. She turned her head to one side to watch his reflection in the wall of mirrors. He stood blinking in the bright lights, mouth agape. He turned full circle, slowly, before striding over to examine the mirrors more closely. From the curiosity wrinkling his brow, she would have bet her last dollar that he'd never seen one before.
"Heyyy," she said. "How about I fix up your hand, so you can go back to wherever you came from? How does that sound to you?"
Again she was thoroughly ignored while he reached out to tap the mirror with a fingertip. He turned his attention to the UV lights striping the ceiling. "Mayhap you are a priestess of magic?"
A priestess of what? "They're just lights."
"Lights?"
"Yes, lights. See that switch, there? By the doorway?" She waved a hand in the general direction of the wall-mounted switch. "Press the top button-thingy down and see what happens. Go on, I dare you."
He reached out a tentative hand. Huh. This should be interesting....
He thumbed the light switch, blanketing half the room in darkness. He reared back, his arm tightening about her legs so he didn't drop her. Considerate of him. "That is powerful magic, indeed," he said.
Sheesh. Compared with her recent encounter with Ray-the-Knife, her current situation struck her as way more comical than scary. The laugh bubbling from her lips morphed into an unladylike snort. "I wish I was one of those priestesses of yours. Then I could just turn you into a tadpole, flush you, and crawl back to my comfortable bed. It's a light switch, okay? Nothing special. Every house has one. Just turn it back on."
"I can do this?"
"Of course you can do this. Jeez! Anyone would think you're straight off the plane from Timbuktu or somewhere, and that you've never seen electricity in action before. Actually— You're not, are you? From like, Timbuktu?" That might explain a few things.
"Nay. My land is called Styria." He hesitated, as though fearful of the consequences should he actually dare touch the switch again.
She rolled her eyes. "Oh. My. God. I give up. Turn the thing on, already."
He did so and surprise, surprise, more light flooded the room. He amused himself by playing with the light switches. Off, on. Off, on. Off, on. She stifled a sigh. Me and my big mouth.
Off, on. Off, on. Okay. Enough was enough. "Who's a clever boy," she cooed. Or at least, tried to. It took a lot of effort to summon a convincing coo when you were slung over someone's shoulder. "All right. You've had your fun. Put me down so I can sort out your hand and send you on your way." And go back to bed, and dream about you doing terribly naughty things to my terribly willing body.
"Where do you store your herbs and medicinals?"
"If you mean my first-aid kit, then it's thataway." She pointed toward her private rooms off the main studio. "And last time I looked, I had two legs and knew how to use them. You'll do yourself a real injury if you insist on being all macho and don't put me down. And that, I won't be able to fix."
He ignored her—of course—and strode toward the partially open sliding door... only to hesitate before it.
She craned her neck around to see what the problem was. "It's a door. Open it fully and we'll both fit through just fine."
More hesitation. "I do not see how."
"You could put me down. Then I could—"
"I think not."
"God! What the hell have I done to deserve this? It's a sliding door. See that indentation in the metal handle there? Just put your fingers in and slide it—no! Not that way. To the right."
He followed her instructions... with such brute force that the unfortunate door sailed right off its runners. It teetered for a second or two, then tipped over, smashing down on the newly filled floor. Chalcey moaned and covered her eyes with her hands. "I so do not need this crap at this ungodly hour of the morning. Will you just put me down? Please?"
To her immense surprise, this time he didn't ignore her and actually did as she'd asked.
Hot-faced and disheveled, she tossed her hair out of her eyes, hitched up her drawstring pants, and ladled her breasts properly back into the crop top she'd worn to bed. When everything was at last back in its correct position, she glanced up to find him staring at her.
He had hungry written all over his face.
Ulp. She turned her back before her own appetites got the better of her and gave him the wrong idea. She led the way through to the kitchenette, smacking the light switch on as she entered. Her butt chose that moment to remind her it was bruised. She rubbed the offending portion of her anatomy as she bent to fish the first-aid kit from the cupboard.
He was still staring at her, head cocked to one side, when she turned back, clutching disinfectant and cotton swabs. No man had ever looked at her with such single-minded concentration before, as though he was trying to see inside her, to know and understand every little thing about her. Warmth bloomed on her face, in the pit of her stomach. Lower down. He mesmerized her. It took all the will she possessed to break his spell and rip her gaze from his.
What was she supposed to be doing again? Oh, yeah. Playing nurse. Despite herself, her gaze flicked to his face. Her eyes rounded when she spotted the bruise blooming on his cheekbone. "Uh— Did I do that? To your cheek?"
"Indeed you did."
"I'm, ah, sorry. I didn't mean—" Liar. She really had meant it. And from the amused quirk of his eyebrow, he knew it, too.
"If it hurts, I can get you an icepack," she said.
"I, too, am sorry."
"Huh?"
"For dropping you on your rump. I did not wish to hurt you." A pause and a gaze that glinted with amusement. "Too much."
She opened her mouth and shut it again with a decided snap. He declined to comment. Smart man. "Sit there at the table and give me your hand," she said.
Again, he did as he was told.
Nice! Chalcey resolved to practice that tone in front of the mirror. A girl never knew when instant obedience from the opposite sex might come in handy again. Pity she hadn't made use of the same technique earlier. But then she wouldn't have ended up with the best kiss of her life. Her face heated at that particular memory, and the blush crawled down her neckline. She ducked her head and concentrated on the task at hand.
Her teeth marks marred the tanned, callused skin of his hand. She tried not to feel too guilty for mauling him while she swabbed his palm with disinfectant. "Uh, bandage or band-aid?"
He quirked a puzzled eyebrow then shrugged. "You are the Healer, not I."
"Riiight. Whatever." She opted for a band-aid because she'd never been that good with bandages. Whenever she had to do the Florence Nightingale thing her victim ended up looking like something from The Mummy. Without thinking, she kissed his palm before releasing it. "There, all better."
"Is it your custom to bestow a kiss upon those you heal?" His voice was deep and husky. His odd accent rolled even commonplace words liquidly off his tongue, making them sound incredibly exotic.
Her face flamed again. Something about this guy really had the power to turn her insides all marshmallow-soft and gooey. "It's, ah, something mothers do for small children when they're hurt."
"And you are likening me to a small child?" His blue eyes darkened and he eyed her in a purely masculine, let's-get-naked-so-I-can-lick-you-all-over-and-prove-you-oh-so-wrong sort of way.
"Um.... No?" No way. Definitely not. Nyuh uh.
"Allow me to return the favor and banish your own hurts." He took her hands in his, turned them both palm up and kissed the grazed skin on her left palm. Then the right.
Whoa. Instant gut reaction the instant his lips touched her skin. What would those lips feel like on her scraped knees? Or other sadly neglected body parts?
His blue-blue eyes were made even more startling by his deeply tanned skin. He might have been carved from a slab of stone, all hard muscular planes and angles. There was nothing muted or gentle about him, from his broad forehead, knife-blade cheekbones, and square chin, to his practically bare chest—complete with abs most men of Chalcey's acquaintance would sell their souls for. Not to mention his heavily muscled thighs straining the worn and faded leather of his pants.
She moistened suddenly dry lips with her tongue. Time to quit ogling before she melted into a little puddle on the floor. She repossessed her hands and busied herself with cleaning up the detritus of her latest first-aid attempt.
When she'd regained her composure, she fixed him with a stern, schoolmarmish gaze. "Right. Time for you to go." Before she threw herself at him and begged him to do some of those exciting x-rated things she was planning on dreaming about.
"I cannot leave you," he said. "It causes me pain to venture far from your side."
"Awww, you say the sweetest things. But seriously, you have to go."
He stood, flexing his "sword" hand and Chalcey could well imagine he'd look right at home with one.
"I tell the truth, woman. It causes me physical pain when I am parted from you. I know not why. 'Tis obvious this is a land where magic abounds, and that I am somehow bound to you. I like it not at all, but until the gods decide I have atoned for my sins, I will endure my punishment. And mayhap—" he gave her that look again "—some pleasure might be had from it."
She backed away and scooted from the kitchenette, out into the main studio. Where it was not so confined. And safer.
He followed her.
Or not. "Ah, there'll be no binding, okay? So not into that stuff. And there'll be no pleasuring either. Look, I'm exhausted and I can hardly think straight. You need to leave. Now."
He crossed his arms over his fabulous chest.
Sigh.... Focus, Chalcey, focus!
"I will not leave."
She glared at him through slitted eyes. His jaw was set and she'd swear his teeth were clenched. He had that expression on his face guys get when they're determined to have their way, and absolutely nothing is going to stop them from getting what they want.
"Get out." She stamped her foot and pointed to the exit. "Now."
"I will not leave."
"I'll call the cops."
He stared down his nose at her and smirked. "If these cops be as weak and ineffectual as the male I encountered earlier, then by all means call them." He cracked his knuckles. "I look forward to sparring with them. And sending them on their way."
All-too-vivid Technicolor visions ran through Chalcey's mind. She pictured her beautiful studio, completely wrecked after this total badass had waded through a couple of unfortunate cops and tossed them around the place a few times. She shuddered and banished the thought. Nope. Not gonna happen. She couldn't afford for it to happen.
And speaking of unfortunates— A frightening thought smacked her, raising goose bumps on her arms. "Uh, how's the jerk-off you thought you had to save me from, by the way? Still breathing, I trust."
"Do you truly care about such scum?"
"No, but—"
"Good."
She was getting that sinking feeling again. Surely he wouldn't have—? "Shit! If you've done something really dumb, like, accidentally beaten him to death or something, I really will have to call the cops. He might be a first-degree asshole, but he didn't deserve that!"
His hard expression softened just a little in the face of her obvious distress. "The only serious wound he suffered was to his pride when he pissed himself. And he should not be bothering you again—provided that he has brains enough to comprehend what is good for him."
Whew. She wasn't dealing with a murderer, at least. Merely a stubborn, extremely determined man, who had the hots for her so bad he'd followed her home. Sam would be lapping this right up. But Chalcey wasn't Sam.
"Right. Well, thanks for helping me out. Not that I needed your help but— Thanks. And now you need to go. Don't you have anyplace better to be? A harem of panting women waiting for you at home?"
"No."
"No harem, or no home?"
"No harem. I do not believe in such things."
She didn't want to think too hard about why his answer gave her warm fuzzies. Now wasn't the time for warm fuzzies. Now was the time for being a hardass. "Fine. Good for you. So how about I just kick you in the balls and toss you out on your butt?" Your extremely tight, deliciously sculpted butt.
He grinned and she just about swooned. Ohhh. Yum!
"Now that I am fully apprised of your fighting capabilities," he said, "I will be more cautious. I do not think you will best me in combat. However, you are most welcome to try."
She believed him. Just like she believed he'd be delighted by the opportunity to wrestle with her. And take advantage of her. Again. Hand on hip, she pointed firmly to the exit. "Fine. The door's thataway."
"I will not leave."
"I will not leave," she mimicked. "What is your problem?"
"I have no problem."
Aaargh! This conversation was fast becoming mega-frustrating, and it wasn't helped any by the fatigue spots dancing before her eyes. "Why me?" she lamented. "How come you couldn't find some other girl to bother?"
He surveyed her with a puzzled frown. Then his face cleared and his features set into that familiar stubborn male resolve. "I believe the gods have chosen you."
Oookay then. They were at an impasse. And, if she were honest, maybe this entire situation was her fault. He could have gotten completely the wrong impression about that kiss. And the fact that she'd tried to protect him from Ray-The-Knife.
Ray, she wouldn't trust as far as she could throw him. But this guy? He didn't seem like the type who'd attack a defenseless woman in her sleep.
He did seem like the type who'd wake a sleeping woman and fuck her to within an inch of her life, and insure she enjoyed every minute of it. But frankly, if having sex with a limp, exhausted woman was his scene, he could be her guest.
She raked her hands through her hair and pushed it back from her face. Which she thought was pretty restrained, considering. "Okay, have it your way. Sleep on the floor of the studio for all I care. I'm going to bed. And if you come anywhere near me during what remains of the night, you'll get a face-full of mace that'll make you cry like a girl for the next week." She didn't have any mace, but he didn't have to know that. "And if you're still here tomorrow when I wake up, I'll have the workmen I've hired toss you out on your ass. So there!" She stalked off, muttering imprecations about her sheer unmitigated stupidity for letting him in.
"My name is Wulf," he called after her. "By what name do you travel?"
Curiosity got the better of her. She halted in her tracks and slowly swiveled to face him. "Wulf, huh? That sounds German, or maybe Scandinavian, but you sure don't look like you hail from 'round there."
He was silent for a moment, as though considering how much to reveal. Obviously the trusting sort.
"Fine. Whatever. Don't tell me then. I'm going to bed."
"'Tis short for the crystal I was named for. My true name is Wulfenite."
Where had she heard that name before? Incomplete pieces of a tantalizing memory swirled in her mind, drifting just beyond reach. Brilliant lights dazzling her eyes. A silver cup. A voice in her head, murmuring a name.... "Wulfenite."
A deafening click echoed in her mind. Her brain exploded like a firecracker and went supernova.
~~~
Copyright 2011 by Maree Anderson
www.mareeanderson.com