Alien Overnight (4 page)

Cursing, Monica threw back the quilts and stumbled into the adjoining bathroom.

After using the toilet in the shadow of the night light, she pawed through the medicine cabinet in search of acetaminophen, knowing she was probably killing off more liver cells than she could afford by taking so much over-the-counter pain reliever. God, maybe she’d better see someone…

She squashed the thought before it could take root. If this was something that would kill her, she might as well let it, because she’d be too miserable to live if she got scrubbed from the mission now.

Three caplets and sixteen ounces of icy-cold Montana tap water later, she was snuggled under the quilts once more, thinking she’d have to order a heating pad or an electric blanket from the quartermaster in the morning. Drifting into a fitful sleep, she finally found relief in the heady otherworld of her dreams.

She always smelled him first, that deliciously spicy, savory yet sweet odor that no one but she seemed to notice. All the Garathani smelled yummy even when they weren’t aroused, like towering homemade gingerbread men.
His
scent especially, which really reminded her more of mincemeat pie, made Monica’s stomach growl with hunger. She took several deep breaths, coating her airways and saturating her senses with it, feeling her body relax and grow strangely alert at the same time.

Then the quilts were drawn away and the chill of sixty-degree air seeped through her thermals for just an instant before her back was covered once more, this time by an extraordinarily large and heavy male body.

Monica sighed with delight. Oh, now this was more like it. This was the kind of dream she’d always wanted to have. She groaned with pleasure at the steady breaths 18

Alien Overnight

gusting warm and damp against the side of her neck, shivered with anticipation at the sheer size and hardness of the arms braced beside her shoulders. His spread thighs bracketing hers brought tears of relief to her eyes, their incredible heat making her squirm to get closer. In response, he settled firmly against her back and she moaned again. Forget the electric blanket—this man was a Grade-A blast furnace.

“God, could you do this every night?” she mumbled, dragging her arms up and resting her forehead on her stacked hands. The low rumble of his chuckle and the quick puff of his hot breath against her ear gave Monica another shiver. The sinuous stirring against her bottom, however, made her tense up, more aware than she’d been since his short stint as a xenoanatomy subject of how potently male—and how frighteningly alien—he truly was.

Uneasy now, she lifted her head and opened her eyes.

Oh yeah
. This dream she’d gladly have every night for the rest of her life. She was squashed into a sandy, palm-dotted beach, the turquoise waters of the Caribbean rushing toward her and receding, the midday sun beating down on her back. Now, if only she had a fruity umbrella drink and the latest Michael Crichton thriller…

“You’re asleep,” came the soothing whisper in her ear, and she sighed as she laid her head down once more.

“I know, but it still feels weird. It’s not often I have a dream where I know I’m dreaming. I think I like it.” His scent was getting stronger and she lapped it up, breathing in greedy lungfuls as she lay basking in the fabulous heat.

“Who am I?”

“Kellen,” she answered without hesitation. “You’re
always
Kellen.”

“You dream of me often.” It wasn’t a question.

“Sometimes.” The stirring against her rear end became a nudging and she squirmed restlessly. “But not like this.”

“You will from now on,” he murmured, settling even more heavily against her backside.

“Promise?” Her question ended on a gasp as he slid one of his gigantic hands beneath her chest. She tried to twist away, ashamed of her inadequacy even in sleep, but he ignored her struggles and closed in on her right nipple. His thumb brushed over her, and the roughness of it through the weave of her thermals produced a rush of feeling so intense it knocked the breath from her lungs. He stroked over the tiny nipple again and again, and Monica thrashed under the weight of him. Her pulse was racing, her breathing erratic, so frightening were the sensations rippling through her.

Or was it the idea of waking up and feeling those sensations slip away as if they’d never been that made her so frantic?

“What are you doing to me?” she moaned. In answer, he pinched her nipple between his thumb and finger and pulled sharply. Lightning blasted down her body, striking hard between her thighs and ripping a strangled scream from her throat.

19

Robin L. Rotham

“Preparing you, little Terran.” The reply was dark with humor and something else… Any attempt she might have made to figure it out was lost to the feel of his mouth opening against the side of her throat. His tongue licked out, scorching a trail of fire up to her ear, and she whimpered.

“Oh God, for what?”

His left hand edged beneath her thermals to pluck at her other nipple and she lurched, howling at the shower of sparks splashing into her belly.

He chuckled as he nipped at her earlobe. “For an alien invasion.”

*

Monica woke with a start, jerking straight up in bed. Bright morning light pierced her eyes and she shaded them quickly with one hand, her head pounding in sync with the rhythm of her heart.

Bright morning light
… Holy shit, what time was it?

“Ten-fourteen!”

She was out of bed and stripped to the skin before the echo of her shout died.

Thankful there was no window in the bathroom, she left the vanity lights off while she gulped down more ibuprofen and brushed her teeth. Wrenching open the taps, she stepped under the cool spray and showered in record time despite the headache that knifed through her eyeballs. After toweling off her hair, she spritzed and sculpted it into its usual spiky disarray with her fingers, eyes slitted against the dim light. How long had it been since she’d had it cut, anyway? Seemed like it was just last week, but hell if the mop on her head wasn’t getting shaggy again.

Squinting against the glare of the bedroom, she bypassed her makeup tray for the first time since arriving at Beaumont–Thayer. If her coworkers didn’t all know she was a freak already, they would once they saw her today. The dramatic Goth makeup made her skin appear ashen, but without it, she looked positively cyanotic. Damn near purple, in fact.

Fuck ‘em, she thought, tugging plain white panties up legs that were too long to be so chubby and stepping into a pair of wool socks. She’d just have to be careful not to close her eyes or someone might call a code on her.

It occurred to her that the pain had finally left her legs sometime during the night.

Too bad it had ridden a bullet straight to her brain. God, if it wasn’t one damn thing it was another. She sighed at the injustice of it all as she scrambled into ultra-thin long underwear and a set of scrubs. Once all her jewelry was in place—there was a limit to how much personal armor a girl could stand to leave off—she plopped large horn-rimmed glasses onto her nose. Contacts were out of the question, with her eyes already killing her.

“Hmm.” Changing her mind, Monica slid the glasses off and tucked them into her breast pocket, then pulled open the top drawer of the highboy and rooted through her 20

Alien Overnight

underwear until she found the rigid plastic case containing her prescription sunglasses.

She hadn’t worn them in months because there was nowhere to go and no way to get there, out here in middle of the great frozen north. Blowing a few specks off the lenses, she slid them on. Ah, much better. Now she could approach the window without breaking into a cold sweat from the pain.

She stepped to the bedside table and frowned to see the alarm on her clock turned off. Man, she must have been totally zonked to do that and not remember it. Then again, it had been a hard night, filled with bizarre dreams.

Erotic
dreams.

Monica sank to her knees beside the bed with the intention of reaching underneath for her clogs, but…
wow
. She’d finally had her first erotic dream, and man, had it ever been a doozy. Heat trickled down her belly even as she sucked in a tremulous breath of dismay.
Oh shit
—
please tell me you didn
’
t dream about
him! She had to work with the commander every day now, since her sudden transfer three weeks ago.

Maybe it had been Lieutenant Shauss. Yeah, that was it. That guy was everywhere she went these days, and he always seemed to be watching her, so whose fault was it if she was getting strange ideas?

Not hers, that was for damn sure.

Furious knocking made her jump.

“Hey, Gothchild! You in there?”

Shelley’s voice was reassuring in its teasing concern. Sliding into her clogs, Monica shook off the feeling of impending disaster and grabbed her keys before throwing open the door.

“I decided to give bankers’ hours a whirl,” she joked with a sheepish smile as she stepped into the hall and headed for the evaluation clinic. After a couple of steps, she trod harder, trying to shove her feet further into the clogs. God, why did it seem like her heels were hanging off the open backs? Maybe these new socks were too thick—she’d have to change them at lunch. Assuming she got lunch. God, she’d better get lunch.

After missing breakfast, it felt like her navel was kissing her spine.

“Even bankers go to work earlier than this,” Shelley scoffed. “By the way, that’s a charming shade of lavender you’re wearing today.”

“Bite me.” They’d spent enough free time together that Shelley had seen her sans camouflage before, but apparently not often enough for her to resist commenting on it.

“And nice glasses. You tie one on last night or what?”

“Or what.” At Shelley’s look, she added, “I’ll tell you about it at lunch, okay?”

“Fine, but you owe me. Your boss came into the clinic looking for you and stood about this,” she held her thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart, “close to me, thank you very much.” Shelley shuddered. “I don’t know how you stand spending so much time around them, and I sure as hell don’t get why you’d want to spend the next ten years living among them.”

21

Robin L. Rotham

“Pansy,” Monica dissed with a grin.

“You bet your ass, and like all good pansies, I belong firmly planted on Earth.”

“That’s just fine—more room in the cosmos for me, then. Did I miss anything important this morning?”

“Just your first orientation,” Shelley said dryly. “But no worries—Dr. Emrich wanted to trade for the morning group anyway.”

Monica stopped dead in front of the reception desk and stared at her. “I can’t believe I slept through the start of orientation. My God, that’s one of the main reasons I’m here, to help get these women—”

“Chill, Gothchild. Like I was saying, you’re taking his afternoon session, where you’ll get to orient just as many doomed women as you would have this morning, if not more. Now get a move on. The commander’s looking for you, remember?”

“Right.” Heat flooded her cheeks as the memory of her dream surfaced, and Monica looked away, her pulse spiking. She could lie to herself all she wanted, but it
had
been him. Damn it. Why couldn’t it have been George Clooney all snuggled up to her backside, fondling her nonexistent breasts under the tropical sun? There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d ever have to look
him
in the eye.

“So why aren’t you moving?” Shelley asked when she hesitated.

“Just thinking.”

“Well, think about doing your roots. Your hair is pretty funkedelic this morning.”

“Already!” Monica’s hands flew to her hair.

“And think about giving Laundry hell, too, for leaving you the wrong scrubs. You look like you’re expecting a flood.”

Monica glanced down at her woolly ankles and frowned.

“Gee, I’ll get right on that. Anything else, Mother?”

“Yeah—get your rear in gear!”

*

Thankfully, other than the bevy of stone-faced guards lining the halls lately, the only soul she passed on the way to her airless little broom closet was Jasmine King, one of the shared secretaries.

“Don’t tell me—your car wouldn’t start,” Jasmine teased, handing over a cup of fragrant coffee from the gourmet machine behind her desk. “Or was traffic murder?”

Monica bared her teeth in a snarl over the rim before taking a too-hot gulp. There were definite disadvantages to living where you worked, chief among them being that there was no excusable reason for being late. And there was no playing hooky, either, because the minute you called in sick, a gaggle of doctors was beating down the door, trying to take your vitals, palpate every inch of your skin and culture your every orifice.

She knew this from personal experience and would never try it again.

22

Alien Overnight

Jasmine’s grin broadened. “So, are you auditioning for the lead in a vampire flick today or what?”

“Everybody’s a comedian,” Monica muttered.

“Seriously, woman, you totally look like a corpse. And what’s with the shades? Did you finally piss somebody off enough to take a swing at you?”

Tipping her sunglasses down, she glared at the lovely Jasmine, tall and elegant as ever in a beige business suit that emphasized her tasteful curves and made her peaches-and-cream complexion glow like she’d swallowed the sunrise. Was the little witch even wearing any makeup? If she was, it was good. Really good. Such understated perfection made Monica feel even more like the frump-slash-freak she was, but Jasmine was so nice—when she wasn’t being a pain in the ass—that she just couldn’t hold it against her.

“I have a headache, Stepford, and if you tell anyone, you’ll need more than sunglasses to cover what I do to your face.”

“Nice. Didn’t you take some kind of oath to do no harm?”

“Knowing I was bound to run into people like you, I crossed my fingers.”

Jasmine’s short laugh made Monica hide a grin as she started down the line of cubicles toward her office.