Darkness Chosen: Into The Shadow Part 27

"Magnus. Is Magnus alive?"

"He is, and living very well for a one-eyed former mercenary with eight fingers and twenty-nine teeth. Heas the consultant for the Warlord game."

"He likes video games?"

"He hates them. He always thought it was stupid that players sat and stared at a little screen and exercised their thumbs, so when I was talking about turning the whole experience into a game, he said build it so the action happened in a room all around the player. In Warlord, the player has weapons strapped to his body and sensors hooked to his hands, feet, and head, and he has to defend himself against the oncoming threats." His enthusiasm grew as he spoke. "The higher the level, the more difficult the battles, the more attackers involved. Itas actually a training setup for mercenaries."

"A video game in a room?" She watched him with an indulgent smile. "Where will it be played?"

"Pizza places. Paintball galleries. Burstrom has his finger in a lot of pies, and heas buying up property to build actual game houses. But in addition, Burstrom and I see potential for training in any kind of fighting and self-defense. Karate schools will build them in. Weave already started work to modify the idea for training boxers. The preliminary sales have brought in over seventy million dollars."

"Seventy million dollars." Her indulgent smile evaporated. "Youave got to be kidding!"

"My cut is only ten percent."

"Only? Thatas seven million."

"Thatas just the beginning. Projections for next year are for five times that."

"Wow." She had never figured him for a financial wizard.

"As with every venture, there is always a chance projections will fall short," he warned her.

She didnat see that happening. Not to this smooth-talking entrepreneur.

He continued, "In addition, I put the money I made as a mercenary in a bank in Switzerland, and with the help of my financial advisera""

"You had a financial adviser?"

"I would have been a fool not to." He let her absorb that. "So with the help of my financial adviser, my personal worth tops thirty million. That amount is completely separate from the money involved in the development of the Warlord game."

She was in shock. She remembered how he lived, in a tent with the spoils of a hundred raids . . . and he was worth thirty million? And counting? "Why are you telling me all this?"

"I want you to know that if you will do me the honor of marrying me, I will always take care of you."

It was a good thing she was p.r.o.ne. Otherwise she would have collapsed on the spot.

"My sins are beyond count. The memory of you was the only thing that kept me alive for the whole wretched year of my captivity." He leaned over her and smoothed her hair away from her face. He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers and smiled into her stunned eyes. "We have a connection. More than one." He grasped her wrists, brought them out from beneath the covers, and held the gold bracelets between them. "Look. You wear my badge of owners.h.i.+p."

"I wear them to show I escaped you!"

"You wear them like a wedding ring."

That struck home, and she winced.

"You can visit my mind," he said persuasively. "Marry me."

She remained absolutely still, absorbing his words, knowing the truth, but too afraid to acknowledge it.

"Search your brain," Warlord said. "What do you see?"

Immediately she knew the answer. But in knee-jerk defiance she said, "Nothing."

But he wouldnat let her get away with lying to him.

Leaning toward her, he put his forehead against hers. He looked into her eyes. And he placed his hand against her heart.

It was dark. It was cold. And she wanted her mommy.

But her mommy didnat come.

The servants whispered and looked at her. Her grandpa came in and stared at her, then scowled and shook his head. But mostly she was alone in the dark, cold house, scared and hearing whispers, wisps of words. . . .

Poor child. No mother at all. Lover dead. Jumped off a cliff after him.

Tears leaked out of Karenas eyes.

Mommy. Mommy.

Poor child. Dan Nighthorse dead. Mother fell off the cliff, landed on the rocks, and can you imagine? She bled there for a day, her internal organs destroyed, and when they rescued her she screamed.

Karen heard her father come home. She came out of her room and ran to the balcony, waiting for her daddy to visit her. And she saw her grandfather grab her daddy by the scruff of the neck and carry him into the office. She was with that Indian guide. Sheas been with him for years. Do you know what this means . . . ? The door slammed behind them.

What does it mean? Daddy. Daddy.

Poor child. Five years old. Dan Nighthorse dead. Mother fell off the cliff, landed on the rocks, and can you imagine? She bled there for a day, freezing in the cold, her internal organs destroyed, and when they rescued her, she screamed in agony. Poor child. Her mother died. Poor child. Sheas alone.

Forever alone . . .

Karen woke up crying.

Warlord had tears in his eyes, too. "My poor little girl. My poor little girl. I canat stand it. Youare not alone. Not anymore."

She tried to push him away. "Stop it. I donat want this. Stop it."

"Itas too late to stop it. You swallowed my blood, and it gave you the strength to fight off the effects of the venom. It gave you a window into my mind. And what else, Karen?"

"Nothing," she insisted.

Gathering her into his arms, he pressed her ear to his chest, and as she listened to the thump of his heart she fell into another memory.

The sun burned down on her. The horizon stretched forever. And she had one chance. One chance to make good, to make her father see her, really look at her, finally notice how hard she worked, how smart she was . . . one chance, and this was it.

Karen approached the sullen framing crew, two dozen men lounging against a pile of lumber.

They were mad, every one of them. Theyad been working Jackson Sonnetas Australian adventure hotel, they were less than halfway through construction, and their project manager had had a heart attack. They were getting the bossas twenty-three-year -old daughter as a replacement, and without saying a word they managed to let Karen know what they thought.

One chance, and they wanted to take it away from her.

She smiled, because smiling always disarmed the guys, stuck her shaking hands into jeans pockets, and asked, "Whoas the crew boss?"

One man, tall, thin, brown faced, raised his hand. He didnat stand.

Okay. One chance, and if she handled this guy right, if she could get him to work for her . . . One chance. "Alden Taylor. Experienced in framing, plumbing, electrical, Sheetrock, finish carpentry. Youave been with my father for how long?"

"Twenty-five years with the mean old son of a b.i.t.c.h." Alden had a p.r.o.nounced Australian accent, and he was trying to shock her by abusing her father to her face.

Instead head played right into her hands. "Would you say the mean old son of a b.i.t.c.h is given to acts of kindness?"

Alden snorted.

The other guys grinned and stirred.

"Charity? Generosity? No?" Karen didnat bother to wait for a reply. "Thereas one thing and one thing only my father cares abouta"getting his hotels built and operational so he can make a profit. Right?"

This time Alden tried to answer.

She brushed him aside. "That mean old son of a b.i.t.c.h has had me working on hotels every summer since I was fourteen. I can do everything you can do, plus finish concrete, plus design plans, plus I can talk to the hotshot investors and impress them with my construction management degree. Iam here as project manager because Iam the best Jackson Sonnet has got. He doesnat care that Iam his daughter; he offered me the same deal he offers everyone else. If I get the hotel in on time and under budget, heall pay me well. If I screw up, Iam out of here."

Aldenas lips twitched as if he wanted to grin. "He never changes."

"I beg to differ. He does change. He gets meaner every year." She was nervous, talking too fast, but she had everybodyas attention. "Iam shaky when it comes to electrical, and my finish carpentry stinks. Thatas why I asked that you be my a.s.sistant project manager." She walked over and offered Alden her hand.

He looked at it, took it, and let her tug him to his feet. "You promoted me?"

"Yeah. Congratulations, and welcome to twenty-hour days." She looked up at him. "This morning, before I even stepped onto the job, Dad called to let me know weare behind schedule, and he chewed my a.s.s for it. So while I walk the project, you get these guys to work. Then come find me; weall talk about your pay raise and go over the plans to figure out where we can make up some time." She started to walk into the half-framed hotel, then looked back at the stunned Alden. "I mean . . . if you want the job."

Warlordas voice startled her out of her trance. "Did he take it?"

"Yes." Then she realized what shead admitted. "Donat."

"So you got your one chance to make good. Did your father ever notice?"

"Please. Donat." She couldnat have him know all her secrets.

He tilted her head up and brushed his lips across hers, over and over, until her eyes closed. "My blood in you gave me a window into your mind."

"No." His touch, his kiss dulled the sharp edge of reality, but she knew the truth.

Over the last few days she had seen his weaknesses. She had witnessed his pain.

She had lived in his skin. She had sinned his sins. She had killed men. She had exulted in battle. She reveled in s.e.x with a thousand women. . . .

With his eyes she had seen her own face for the first time.

She had gloried in her capture, in the hours and days and weeks of unrelenting pleasure. She had been determined to win the sensual battle between them.

Shead survived, barely, the battle that put him in the mines. There she had dwelled in h.e.l.l with him, known his remorse as he watched his men die, felt the pain of his beatings, and suffered the slow dwindling of his spirit. And she had seen that no matter how oppressive the darkness and the heat and smells, no matter how deadly the work, Warlord had never given up. Not for his sake, but for his menas, he had been determined to gain their freedom.

Warlord had redeemed himself. Warlord had proved he had strength and a soul of honor.

Karen had no such strength, no such honor. Her life was small, her fears exaggerated. She had never wanted him to witness her anguish at her motheras death, the lonely days of her childhood, the futile attempts to please her father, the difficulty of her construction work . . . the anguish and joy of living as Warlordas slave.

Yet he had. At some point in the last few days he had been in her mind and witnessed it all.

"Marry me," he said.

She turned her head away. "Why would you want to marry me?"

"The sight of you, the scent of you, the heat of you go right through to my bones. You warm me, the hard, cold core of me, and when I saw you across the foyer at the spa, for the first time in two years I was alive and healed." Swiftly he added, "I will never hold you against your will."

She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes.

"I didnat say I wouldnat try to convince you. I didnat say I would ever give up. But I will not ever again hold you against your will. I have been held against my will. It was a hard lesson, but I learned it." He bowed his head to her. "Please forgive me."

They were trapped in a small tent, in a sleeping bag, in clothes theyad worn for five days. Yet he begged her like a courtier before Queen Elizabeth.

She didnat want to marry him. But she enjoyed the begging. She enjoyed it even more because she knewa"she knewa"that although he meant what he said, head had to fight his own possessive nature to make that promise.

"Please?" he said again.

She put her hand on his head, mostly because the pure black silk of his hair enticed her. "I forgive you."

"Will you marry me?"

That was Warlord. Always swift to follow up an advantage. "No."

"I would be a good husband to you. Karen, I love you."

"But I donat know if I . . ."

"Love me?"

"I donat know if I love you." Her father had taught her she couldnat depend on any man for the truth, and Warlord had confirmed that lesson. "I do know I donat trust you."

Yet she watched him with troubled eyes. Was she unfairly burdening him with the wrong baggage?

"Shh." He lifted her, stripped her T-s.h.i.+rt off. "You worry too much."

She ought to stop him. Tell him that she could never forgive him for the time she spent as his captive. Tell him that she knew even the long year head pa.s.sed in h.e.l.l hadnat vanquished the devil in him. Shead seen it at work in the last week, when he had hunted her down, lied to her about his ident.i.ty, tried to seduce her.

Warlord removed his clothes, then held her with a hand on either hip, pressed himself against her, and closed his eyes, as if the mere touch of her body on his skin moved him to ecstasy. His erection strained against her belly. His chest, beautifully decorated with the blazing thunderbolt, rose and fell with his breaths. She held his arms in her hands and coiled her legs around his . . . because the ecstasy enveloped her, too.

He lifted himself. He wrapped his thumbs under the elastic of her panties and slid them down her legs. "Kick them off," he whispered. "Please get rid of them."

Like a fool, she responded to his pleading.

In reward he slid deep into the bag to kiss her shoulders, the tender inside of her elbow, her palm, her fingertips.