Parallel Desire (7 page)

"Maybe I have it set to self-destruct, huh? Maybe it's just gonna go
poof
as soon as I'm on that highway." She gave his shoulder a small shake. "Ever think of that?"

He eyed her as if she were a crazy woman. "We don't have that kind of technology. You've been watching too much human media."

"The time you came from and our time are different, parallel universes but not the same—you understand that fact."

"Your point?"

"Well, in this timeline, universe, dimension, whatever you want to call it"—she captured the folder, sniffing it distastefully, as if it were emitting some sort of poisonous gas—"we've developed new formulas for all sorts of security precautions."

He tilted his head, just studying her. "You're messing with me."

"Maybe," she demurred, "or maybe not. But if I were you, lusting after this folder like you are, I sure wouldn't bet on it."

Before she could blink, his boxy, mitt-like hands were grappling her down onto the bed beside him. "Give me the folder," he cursed, pushing her onto the thin mattress. "Shelby, I fucking mean it. Give it over now."

She found herself wedged beneath his hip, his enormous body half atop her own. He pulled and jerked at the folder furiously, wrestling to get it out of her grasp; finally she simply let go, an action he clearly hadn't anticipated since it ricocheted backward, slicing him in the forehead. He cursed in low Refarian but, oddly enough, made no effort to move from his position over her. Instead, he braced his hands about both sides of her head, wincing and breathing heavily against her face. With a slow and deliberate gesture he pressed his nose against her cheek and inhaled her scent, the first of the Refarian mating rituals, and it sent a shockwave of sensation and reaction throughout her entire body.

He dragged in another long inhalation, trembling as he held her scent within his lungs, then slowly released the breath with a groan of pleasure and arousal. She couldn't help it; she just couldn't help herself at all—she arched back into the pillow beneath her head and returned the gesture, dragging the very scent of Jake Tierny deep into her being. Spirals of need and intensity crested through her, creating sudden wetness between her legs.

"Again." He growled forcefully, pushing his forehead against hers. "Take me again, Shelby."

"Just your scent, Jake. Just—"

A rumbling sound of lust and anticipation escaped his lips. "Scent me again, damn it."

She nodded, dragging at the air between them for a simple breath, much less to inhale the essence of the man. With sharp awareness, she realized that she'd slipped one hand about his neck, was clinging to him. With even more awareness, she felt a sudden hardness press into her thigh right as Jake's pupils dilated, growing large and dark within his brilliant green eyes.
Move your hand away, girl. Go on, now
.

And she really did mean to let Jake go; she truly did. But the thing was, feeling him against her, the smell of him infusing all of her senses, well, she just couldn't be the one to do the letting go. Thankfully Jake did that duty for the both of them. He lifted into a push-up, hoisting himself off of her, but then—their gazes locking, his tongue licking his lips—something snapped.

"Aw, damn it," he swore, and planted a hard, wet kiss against her lips.

D
esire curled deep within
Jake's belly, tightening with the same urgency that his groin had. Shelby Tyler's delicate, lithe body was the sweetest thing he'd felt beneath his own in such a long time. Too long. But this—this moment with Shelby—it felt like the old days before Hope, when he'd prowled and lusted for women, endlessly needing sex. Only those had been
human
women, he reminded himself, sliding one flat palm underneath Shelby's bottom. Just thinking of Hope sent a cascade of guilt rushing through his spirit; it was ridiculous, but he felt like he was cheating on her when he'd barely done more than scent Shelby. Still, he couldn't help remembering the thousands of times he'd become intoxicated from Hope's unique aroma, the way he'd always craved it But those powerful memories didn't prevent him from pushing his face against Shelby's neck and inhaling once again.

She ran her fingers through the bristling hair along his nape, thrusting her hips upward against his, teasing him, begging him. He'd never been able to hold back with a beautiful, sexy woman like she was; and he'd never had an ounce of resistance when it came to aggressive, seductive women, either.

"Am I still drunk?" he murmured, kissing her on the neck. How had they gotten to this point so fast?

"No, cowboy, you're in heaven." Her hands slid low down his back, meeting the warmth of his bare skin as his T-shirt rode up—but she didn't stop. She plunged her hands lower still, cupping his bottom and pulling him hard against her own body. Bringing their groins together.

For the first time in his life, he just might have landed in the sack with a woman who was faster than he was. It was a thought that terrified him—and made him grin with wicked anticipation. Oh, yes, it had been a long damned time since he'd held a woman—so many lonely years. Surely he could indulge just this once and keep Hope out of his mind, he told himself, shoving the pangs of guilt aside.

"You're a wild little thing, aren't you, Shelby?" He sniffed her cheek, nuzzling her.

"No wilder than you, sir." She panted softly, lowering her lashes.

He rolled with her, and she landed in a straddling position over him—almost as if they were in some defensive maneuver, a training exercise back on base. It was a fight for domination, with this intensely sexual moment their battleground. "Oh, I'd say you like your sex. And not a little bit." He watched her face turn crimson, her tongue nicking nervously over her lips. With both hands he anchored her against him, even though she began to squirm slightly. "Nothing wrong with liking sex, Shelby."

"I'm a woman, sir," she whispered huskily. "Different rules apply." Her eyes shined with vulnerability.

"Doesn't have to be that way." Her miniskirt had ridden all the way up her thighs, revealing a thatch of dark blonde curls—a satiny V right between her legs, now level with his eyes. Taking his forefinger, he pushed the denim fabric higher up her leg. "We both know that's a backward way of seeing it."

She pressed her eyes shut, and he dragged her skirt higher up her creamy, satin-smooth thighs. "What, girl? No underwear?" He gave a rough chuckle, feeling his groin answer with a tightening spasm. Only the men of their species went without underwear; the women typically wore silk panties—especially if they were wearing a skirt.

"Didn't have no clean ones," she blurted, yanking her skirt back down. But it was a tug-of-war she was going to lose, and he began peeling the material right back up her thighs.

"Don't ever play poker," he threatened seductively. She started to lift off of him, but he anchored her against his hips, hard. "Because you're a terrible liar. It turns you on to go commando, period. I bet you do it more often than not."

Her lips parted, and suddenly she bent low over him, planting both her palms squarely atop his chest. "What if I admitted that you were right? What would you say?"

"That you're a lot like me." He gazed up into her clear, vibrant blue eyes. "That you have needs just like me—and that's not something I've found too often in my life."

She sat up, locking both her thighs tighter about him. With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, she laughed. "Now look who's a liar, huh, boy? You haven't had sex since the day Hope died." She played a little rhythm on his chest with her palms, still laughing, taunting him. "You ain't so much as
touched
another woman besides Hope since that first time you made love to her."

He felt his pulse hammer, and the sound of rushing blood filled his ears. He gave his head a slight shake. "You don't know that. No way in hell you could know that. You don't have the gift of gazing."

"And I'm not an intuitive, either." She gave him a self-satisfied smile, climbing off of him. This time he did let her go, propping his head on one arm and watching her glide across the room.

"Then what in All's name
are
you, Shelby?" She gave him a faint smile in return, one tinged with something he couldn't name, but didn't reply. Again, he questioned her, only to be met with stubborn silence. "Are you an empath?" he pressed, already knowing that the gift of empathy wouldn't give her knowledge of his past actions.

"Look, Jake, we gotta make some decisions here. You've got that folder"—she gestured toward where it lay on the floor—"and once you review its contents, we need to hit the road. So you might as well get your mind out of the gutter, Commando."

Commando
. It had been Hope's teasing name for him that very first night they'd made love, that crazy drunken night when they'd gone home together from the bar. It was supposed to have been a one-night stand.

Terror chased down Jake's spine, a feeling that he could hardly acknowledge, much less name.

"Did you hear what I said, sir? We need to leave, stat."

"For where?" he asked, bending to grab the folder. "Because I'm not heading back to base—"

"Commander Bennett is expecting your return in two days, three tops. You're to meet with Chris Harper, sir."

"I d-don't understand," he barely managed to stammer. He couldn't imagine a face-to-face meeting with his brother-in-law, not after so much time. Not when he had years' worth of memories, of friendship and brotherhood and fighting, that
this
Chris couldn't begin to understand. They'd interacted briefly during the raid to rescue Hope and Scott—but Chris hadn't had a clue as to his real identity. He swallowed hard.

"Look," Shelby explained, planting one hand on her hip, "there's a lot that's gone down in your absence. I've finally got you sobered up, so now it's time you knew a few things yourself."

He ignored the way his heart tripped double time inside his chest, the almost nauseating terror choking at his throat. "Starting with?"

"Chris doesn't just have answers for you about the real Jake Tierny, sir—he needs your help. We all do."

He rose slowly to his feet, his right knee suddenly aching. An old battle injury, it kicked up whenever he least expected it. "All right, but tell me this: Why do you need my help? Why does Chris need my help? I should know that much before we go."

Shelby crossed the small distance that separated them. "I can wrap that knee for you," she volunteered without explanation, then plowed right ahead, "and I'll tell you what Commander Bennett has in mind once we're on the road."

How did she know about his knee? How did she seemingly read his mind—hell, his body, even? Yet she claimed she wasn't intuitive.

Grasping her by both upper arms, he backed her toward the door, pinning her there. "I don't go anywhere without knowing what you are, Tyler. So start talking. My knee, my sex life … you seem to know a great deal about me." He tightened his grip on her arms, giving her a shake. "Tell me what you are, damn it, Shelby."

She blinked back at him, hesitating, then finally whispered, "I'm the one All has sent to challenge you."

"That's not enough of an answer." Growling, he bent low, blowing a hot breath against her face. "Not enough at all, so I will repeat: What are you, Shelby Tyler? How do you know so damned much about me?"

Her eyes slid shut, and she leaned her head backward against the flimsy door. With a quiet sigh she admitted, "I'm a little intuitive, yes, but it's more than that."

"More how?"

Her clear blue eyes opened, fixing on him with a meaningful stare. Whatever she was about to say, he knew it was going to rock his world in a serious way. She drew in a slow breath, released it, then quietly admitted the one thing he never would have imagined.

"Well, Jake, it's pretty darn simple." She never took her gaze off him. "I'm a time walker."

K
elsey stared into the bathroom
mirror, allowing her robe to fall open. Her belly button had practically stretched to nothing, and as she stared at her stomach, she could actually watch Erica move, a bumping glide from one side of her belly to the other. Sliding her hand over the warm skin, she whispered to the baby, murmuring sweet words of comfort and welcome. That's what all the pregnancy books had told her: Always talk to your baby, even when she's still inside your stomach.

With an anxious lurch, she thought of standing before another mirror, just five months earlier. It had been before a presidential fund-raiser her father was hosting in Jackson, and he'd paid to put her up in an expensive hotel right at the base of Jackson Hole Ski Resort. The view from the swanky lodge had been fabulous, her room's windows opening to slopes already covered with fresh snow, even then, in mid-November. The bed itself was a solid wooden sleigh bed, the kind she'd not slept in since her teenage years, when she still lived in her father's home. A gas log fire roared in the hearth, and with the easy flick of a switch she could manipulate the temperature up or down. Rustic, but luxurious; she could definitely get used to that kind of life.

Little had she known that within weeks she'd become a queen.

After years of low-budget academic life, the bathroom at the hotel was a veritable palace, filled with lavender-scented bubble baths and aromatherapy shampoos.

Kelsey smiled, picturing the black cocktail dress she'd chosen to wear for the fundraiser, a night she'd known would be special—even if it meant tolerating her father's new girlfriend—so it demanded something ultra-sophisticated, not her usual faded blue jeans, knit cap, and hiking boots. After all, the president had flown all the way to their Wyoming hometown to glad-hand her father's people.

Closing her robe, she reached for the hairbrush resting on the marble counter and remembered how she'd battled her hair the night of that fundraiser. The thick hair that spilled across her pale shoulders hadn't cooperated then, any more than it did this morning. Wetting one fingertip, she secured an errant lock that sprang loose above her left eyebrow like an unwieldy corkscrew. Her hair had always been too thick, the curls prone to tangling and difficult to manage, but at least she loved the color. It was deep auburn—not brassy or garish—just like rubies caught in sunlight, her father used to tell her when she was a little girl.

That night had seemed magical, the last time she'd seen her father before meeting Jared again and leaving everything—and everyone—she'd ever known behind. And then the evening had turned ugly; if only her dad hadn't brought his new girlfriend out from D.C. That had turned out to be the big deal, not the fundraiser. Patrick Wells had carted his twenty-something little hottie home for one reason and one reason only: to obtain Kelsey's approval. Whether he got it or not hardly mattered in the end since, like everything else her widowed father tackled, he had been determined to have his way.

Her thoughts drifted back to the past again as she absently brushed her hair in long strokes.

"Angel, you'll like Blaire." They'd been standing in the elevator, her father in his tuxedo, striking as always, and Kelsey glaring at her own reflection in the mirrored doors, still wishing she'd bought a new dress. "She works for CNN in their Washington bureau," he continued. "She's a real up-and-comer. A bright woman, just like you, darling."

A comer. Kelsey had a pretty good idea of
exactly
what this Blaire woman wanted to come into: her father's money. Why else would a twenty-four-year-old find her
forty-six-
year-old father of interest? He'd saved that little age difference bombshell until moments earlier, at which point he'd decided he should warn her.

She turned to him, gazing up into his clear blue eyes, and schooled her face into the most innocent expression she could manage. "Daddy?"

He smiled back at her, his freckled face crinkling with laugh lines. "Yes, angel?"

"You do realize I turned twenty-eight three months ago, right?" she asked. "Which makes this Blaire person, what? Four years younger than me?"

His boyish grin had slipped somewhat then; he'd jingled the change in his pockets as the doors opened to the lobby, but said nothing else.

As for meeting Blaire that night, it had been … confusing. Although she'd grilled her endlessly, determined to unmask her evil plan to scarf up her dad's money, girlfriend had never crumbled.

"So you graduated from Georgetown last year?" Kelsey had asked while they waited in the buffet line.

Blaire brushed at her sleek blonde hair, granting her an awkward smile. "I graduated
three
years ago," she corrected. "Actually."

"Oh, my mistake. I guess I figured you'd have gone for a graduate degree or a doctorate."

Blaire glanced around the darkened banquet room, laughing. "I guess I wasn't exactly a 'school' person," she said. "At least not on a long-term basis. I mean, I wanted to get out into the world. To make things happen. I can be pretty impatient that way."

Was this a subtle dig at Kelsey's many years of schooling? At her preference for study and learning over the driven social interaction her father thrived upon?

"I personally prefer to use my mind," Kelsey answered coolly, and Blaire glanced up at her, her brown eyes widening.

"Oh, believe me, I'd love to be more like you," Blaire answered sincerely. "Patrick has told me all about your maps, and how NASA came to you when you were just a freshman." Genuine admiration—almost a kind of awe—filled the small woman's voice. "You really should hear Patrick talk about you."

Patrick
. Blake's familiar, breathy use of her father's name definitely undercut her efforts at placation. Kelsey clutched her dinner plate and wondered how on earth she could make conversation with the girl for another two hours or so.

The buffet line snaked forward at that moment, and Kelsey pointed. "You need to move up," she said, but Blaire stood her ground, obviously refusing to be derailed in their conversation.

"You know, maybe it's hard for you to believe, but I really love your father, Kelsey," Blaire continued with a tentative smile. "And I'm hoping you and I can be friends."

"Sure," Kelsey said with a disaffected shrug, glancing around the room at the gathered bunches of balloons hovering over each table. "We can be friends." But everything in her was screaming
Terror alert!

Blaire pressed the dinner plate against her chest protectively, holding it there like a china shield. "I know this is awkward," she said with a serious expression.

"My dad dates lots of women, Blaire." Kelsey laughed.
But he doesn't marry them
. That's what she wanted to add, but something about the genuinely warm expression in Blaire's brown eyes caused her to hesitate. "Lots of women who—" she tried again, and Blaire nodded, urging her to continue. "Look, you better move up," she said instead, pointing to the gap in the buffet line. Blaire turned without another word, and Kelsey found herself
wanting
to dislike her, yet somehow not quite able to. Especially as she watched the rail-thin woman slather gravy and potatoes and all manner of evil carbs onto her plate without batting an eye.

Blaire turned back to her. "Lots of women who what?" she asked, smiling. "You were about to warn me off your father, I think." Blaire watched her, waiting, and obviously didn't plan to let the almost comment go.

Kelsey shrugged. "The man has commitment issues, that's all."

Blaire still smiled, almost as if this assessment of Patrick Wells came as a surprise, but said nothing more.

Later that night, things had actually been going pretty well until she realized her father didn't plan to stick around for more than a few hours the next day. He was determined they'd all have lunch even though Kelsey had warned him about her research trip to Mirror Lake—and he'd promised to stay long enough for them to have a visit.

"Kelsey, please." She remembered him catching her by the arm as she'd rushed to leave the bar where they were having drinks. "It's important to me that you get to know Blaire."

Kelsey walked farther down the hall, so she and her father could have more privacy. Dropping her voice low, she turned to him. "You're always dating people," she said. "What's the big deal this time?" Tears burned her eyes because, deep down, she already knew the answer that was coming.

Her father's expression grew intense, serious; he hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Because I've asked Blaire to marry me, Kelsey. She's going to be part of our family. She is a wonderful woman," he said, keeping his voice even. "You will love her, like I do."

"No, I won't love her." Her throat tightened, aching. "I can't believe you'd do this to our family." She spun away from him and began hurrying down the carpeted hallway toward the elevator.

Her father followed right behind. "I have never stopped loving your mother," he said, falling into an easy stride beside her. "But it's lonely without her. I want to have someone. A partner in life."

She rounded on him. "
I
don't have a partner in life, Daddy! I don't have anyone," she cried. "And I am fine with that."

Her father lifted a hand, stroking her hair. "Are you really so sure about that, angel?"

Kelsey opened her mouth, ready to retort, ready to deny—to insist that strong people stood fine on their own. But somehow, despite her ready arguments, her throat had tightened and no words had come at all.

Of course he'd been right; how well she understood that fact now, the way she'd always pined for Jared after their memories of meeting each other years before had been erased. How restless she'd been.

Kelsey gripped both hands about the sink, feeling a sudden wave of dizziness, a frequent occurrence these days
. I have no idea if he and Blaire are together anymore. I know nothing about his past five months
.

She couldn't help but feel guilty. And angry. That same bitter, roiling fury that had dogged her from the time her mother had died, and her father had uprooted them in a move to D.C. Staring at her full belly once again, she noticed that the skin had started to glow.

I can't get upset, not with Erica inside of me.

She loved her father so much, and yet few people had ever held the power to hurt her as deeply as he did.

Today will be different, she vowed. Today we'll get along.