Parallel Attraction Read online

  Jared stared into the open cockpit, itching to take the craft out for a test. Even after some harrowing recent engagements, the fighter in him still needed to get off the ground again—and soon. He reached out an appreciative hand to stroke the buttery-soft leather of the pilot's seat. "Comfortable too," he said with an admiring nod.

  From the cement floor below, Scott Dillon glared up at him, and he could read the warning that flared in his friend's eyes: Don't go getting any ideas, Commander. If his chief lieutenant had his way, Jared would never go up again, but that simply wasn't an option. Not only did their strategy necessitate his involvement, he also refused to be grounded like some impotent figurehead.

  Jared hoisted himself up onto the side of the craft, and was already planting one boot inside when his intelligence commander, Thea Haven, trotted across the hangar toward him. From the expression on her face, he could tell long before she reached him that there was a serious problem, and he swung back down to face her.

  "The elders have gathered," she announced, standing at ease after he returned her salute. "They're calling you to chambers, sir."

  "The occasion?" He glanced across the hangar toward the darkened assembly room where he always met with his council. Nervousness shot through his heart; the elders never convened unless something truly serious warranted it.

  Thea's blue gaze darted toward Scott, and Jared had the sense that his two commanders had already discussed the matter. She seemed ready to tell him more, but then inclined her head respectfully. "Sir, they wait for you," was all she said.

  Jared took his place in the data portal, sliding into the throne-like chair, and immediately the sensory scan of his vitals began. First his cornea, the red filter light sweeping over both of his eyes. Then, as he flattened his palms on the electrode pads, he felt a slight tingling as his fingerprints and energy readings were verified. For an answering moment, there was only the quiet hum of data renewal, and he allowed his eyes to drift shut, fighting back the wave of anxiety that meeting with his council always evoked.

  In the darkened chamber, the council members began to appear in a semicircle about him. Not literally—they were, of course, back on Refaria. But thanks to technology that accessed energy packets flowing through wormholes (which allowed them to move faster than the speed of light), he and the elders were able to interact in these chambers in real time, even across the vast distance that separated them. Reflexively his fingers tightened around the metallic arm of his chair. In turn, each elder made the traditional sign of respect: a slight bow, then one hand over the heart, a proud yet reverent stance. And he damned well hated it; he always did. Still, someone along the way—perhaps Scott, or maybe Thea, he wasn't sure—had reminded him that the people needed the traditions, even if he did not require them. Even if he did not want them.

  Once the full council had fully surrounded him, he shifted in his chair in an effort to make himself comfortable, then invited them to speak.

  Aldorsk, the chief elder who had once advised his father, stepped forward into a clear beam of silvery light. "My lord," he began, his voice scratchy as he spoke slowly in their native tongue: "I feel certain you know the reason why we gather today. Indeed, you must."

  Oh, indeed. He had hoped it wasn't true, but the furtive glances between Scott and Thea had left him pretty damned sure. Scowling, he waved for the man to continue.

  "With all respect, the council feels the need to remind our leader that he has no heir."

  "Your leader has no position," he countered, crossing one long leg over the other uncomfortably. If they wanted to force him onto a throne, couldn't they at least create one to accommodate his full height? "Your leader," he reminded all eight of them, his voice curt, "helms a small, fractured rebellion on an alien planet."

  A hushed cry swept the room, heard even across the great intergalactic distance that separated them. "You underestimate the situation," the head councilman answered softly. "Need I remind you that the mitres are nearly opened? The tide in this war turns daily."

  Unable to help himself, Jared released a rough growl of frustration, closing his eyes against the image of the elders gathered before him. "I am a warrior, not a king," he replied, wrestling to regain his patience. "I do not intend to take a mate."

  "My lord, you have but five years left in your fertile time." This remark came from Dalne, the youngest council member. Leave it to a woman to speak so frankly about his approaching infertility. "That is, if we are fortunate. Perhaps less than that."

  "You make your leader sound quite inexperienced." He laughed, working to deflect the council's efforts at persuasion. "As if he does not know his own body."

  "Sir, it has nothing to do with...." Dalne's words trailed to nothing, and she glanced anxiously at the others for help.

  Jared chose to take the lead. "I am no virgin, and do not require these lessons that the council seems determined to issue."

  Aldorsk stepped forward, attempting to placate him. "My lord, we mean no—"

  Jared cut her off. "I also know that any other Refarian male would have at least ten years left in his fertile time." He yielded a coarse rumble. "Perhaps fifteen. I possess a finicky, problematic bloodline, do I not?"

  Blushing, Dalne made a low bow. "Forgive me for saying what you'd rather not hear, sir." One look into Councilor Dalne's eyes revealed her extreme agitation. It couldn't be an enjoyable task, reminding him that his fertility approached an end—and at such a relatively young age. Thank the gods that his council didn't know that he'd never passed through so much as a single mating cycle. Mate or no mate, he should at least have experienced the fever by how; after all, at thirty, such was commonplace for those of his line.

  With a cough, he made a polite change of subject. "Dalne, what is the weather like at Mareshtakes today?" As she glanced over her shoulder, he could imagine that she gazed out a window at their council's hidden encampment back on Refaria.

  "The sun shines bright, sir," Dalne answered with a cautious smile. "The temperature is mild, breezy."

  Tilting his head backward, he tried to picture his beloved ocean, restless and rolling with waves. He could smell the brine so clearly that his chest literally tightened with the memory of it. He repeated her words like a prayer: "The sun shines bright."

  "It is middle day at the moment," she continued. "Cloudless, and the tide ebbs low."

  A wistful smile passed his lips. "Ah, Mareshtakes was always most beautiful at low tide." That was when the rocks could be seen, refracting the sunlight in all its glorious, prismatic color.

  Six years, and he'd not been home. Six years, and he'd led this revolution from Earth, never looking back. With the war's escalation, this alien planet had been deemed the safest place for him, hidden far from his enemies back on Refaria. But he'd grown weary of the campaigns; weary enough that he did long for a mate sometimes, though not on their terms.

  They had but one woman in mind for him, his second cousin and trusted lieutenant, Thea Haven. Narrowing his eyes, he allowed his gaze to travel the semicircle. "Make note of one thing," he said, his voice tightening over the words. "I do not intend to bond with Thea. Nor do I intend to mate at all."

  A rumble of objection and argument erupted, but he disengaged from the portal, decisively silencing their complaints. He had listened, which was all they required of him; in the end, the decision fell to him, and his decision stood. To remain alone was the only choice for a wartime commander.

  Chapter Two

  The Wyoming sun slipped low on the horizon, the mountains forming long winter shadows over the lake area where Kelsey Wells studied the results of the day's geological research. What is my next step? she asked herself, mentally reexamining the data for the umpteenth time. She walked the length of the trail, counting off each of her steps between the scrappy, snow-dusted pines. Somewhere, here in the sedimented layers beneath her feet, had to be the answer to her puzzle, and with it the final touches for her graduate thesis.

  She had firs
t come camping here as a teenager with her parents—a few years before her mother's death, and long before her father had dragged them off to live in D.C., the hub of his political consulting universe. Ever since those earliest days, she had felt drawn to the rough-hewn terrain of this particular part of Yellowstone. No matter what she did, or how many varied landscapes she studied as a geologist, images of the Tetons' perfect reflection in the bowl of Mirror Lake beckoned her. They filled her dreams, and haunted the subconscious threads of her waking life with a pervasive sense of melancholy that she could never quite understand.

  Then roughly a year ago she'd come camping here with friends from the university. That was when she had noticed a strange pigmentation to the rocks on the lake's eastern shore; and when she'd followed the trail deeper into the woods, more questions had emerged. She'd grown up here in Yellowstone, studying the formations and tar pits and spewing geysers, and those childhood experiences had influenced her studies as a geologist. These days Kelsey spent a great deal of her life staring at the ground—was in fact more attuned to her natural environment than to the buildings in downtown Laramie or to cars or to clothing, or sometimes even to people. So when she found a potential anomaly such as the formations here at Mirror Lake, she couldn't let it go.

  "Whoa, Kelsey," came Ethan's familiar voice from down by the lake's shore. "Found something here! Come look." Ethan was her closest friend in the geology department. Although a self-professed science geek like herself, he certainly didn't look the part, not with his wavy blond hair and pale gray eyes and lean snowboarder's physique. The Ethan package was definitely appealing. And she knew he liked her—wanted something more than friendship—but for some inexplicable reason, she couldn't seem to shake the feeling that someone else was waiting for her. Not that she'd found that somebody yet, but she could never give up the nagging hope.

  She trotted several yards along the shore and met him partway.

  "Look at this." He extended a shiny bit of silvered metal. "What do you make of this sample?"

  She drew in a breath of cold mountain air. "That's strange," she agreed, seeing the way it glinted in the late afternoon sun.

  "Looks like mica…only not." He scrunched his eyebrows together quizzically.

  She finished his thought "But it's denser." Scraping it into her sample bag, she marked the substance unknown and added notations regarding the time and exact location. Ethan bent back over his filter tray, sifting anew.

  "You ever hear back on those samples from last month?" he asked.

  "Still waiting on the lab results."

  Ethan glanced across the lake, shivering as he stared into the setting sun. "We better go soon," he said, pushing closer against her. "Getting cold out here, Kelsey, and it'll be dark before long. Don't you want to go make our campfire?" They'd planned to spend the night, two scientists on a mission, but as the day had worn on she'd noticed that he kept mentioning their tent-sharing with far more enthusiasm than a mere scientific expedition warranted.

  "You go ahead," she said, studying the shadowed mountains across the lake. Something in their stark features felt unexpectedly eerie—familiar in a way that had nothing to do with her visits to this lakeside terrain over the past year. The mountains' rugged visage, rising upward toward the setting sun, whispered to her as though in a lost language that she'd once spoken fluently. She shivered, still staring, almost mesmerized.

  Ethan waved a hand in front of her eyes; she hadn't even realized that her thoughts had drifted so far away. "Sorry," she said, laughing in embarrassment. "I was just thinking about…." She didn't want to share her unsettling sense of déjà vu with Ethan.

  "A boyfriend?" he prompted, his gray eyes narrowing with undisguised possessiveness.

  "No." She wanted to spare his feelings, yet she had to be honest. "But Ethan, you and I are only friends. You do know that?"

  "Sure, Kelsey," he agreed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he turned up the trail that led into the trees and toward their camp. "Course."

  But then, right as he was about to vanish around the bend, he turned back. "You know, Kelse," he said. "Maybe one day you'll get tired of waiting for a guy who doesn't exist and notice the one who's right here in front of you."

  He made it sound so easy to stop yearning for a soul mate, she thought as she faced the lake, letting Ethan slip away. She'd had a soul mate once—or so she'd thought. A young intern in her father's political consulting firm. That had been the only time Kelsey had actually let herself become part of the whole D.C. scene. Until one night when she walked in on that so-called soul mate and another of her father's employees, the two of them naked and sweaty and wild in each other's arms.

  Kelsey had never looked back. Except to regret giving Jamie Watson the gift of her virginity. That was one gift she would have saved for someone exceptional if only she had known better; even so, she often pretended that it was still her gift to give.

  Sleep came in fitful bouts for the first few hours. Ethan squished up against her back like a nylon caterpillar, and she continually edged away until her nose pressed against the tent lining, and this only made her feel colder—and lonelier. Not only was he a space invader, but Ethan snored too, the loud, staccato kind that sounded like a gunshot nearly every time she managed to drift off to sleep.

  Still, dreams pressed closer, and so did images of the woods around them, of her running through them in a white gossamer gown, bright as fairy wings. And of a man too, following her, chasing after her. When she spun to face him, he glowed like her gown—bright, magical, yet tall as a mountain. She whispered his name, a sound that felt foreign and strange; then he reached to touch her cheek, his fingers burning her face.

  She woke in a cold sweat, shivering and fevered all at once. Lifting a hand to her face, she realized that it felt warm as though from someone's touch. As if the forest man had truly chased her in her dreams, blessing her with kisses and that strange name of his.

  Maybe it was the dream that beckoned her. Or maybe it was her curiosity about the night sky over Mirror Lake. Whatever called her, Kelsey dressed and drifted out of the tent, ignoring the mist that folded over the midnight darkness. Drawn down to the shore, she stared up at the clear sky overhead, a dazzling tapestry of lights. Moments like this made her wish she'd studied astronomy instead of geology. Beneath the full moon, the landscape gleamed, the snow-encrusted mountains jutting skyward like crystals.

  Plopping onto the frozen earth, Kelsey huddled, her warm breath clouding in front of her face. Expectant. That was what she felt, blowing into her cupped hands to warm herself. Something about that dream had moved her, she realized, left her anticipating the extraordinary.

  Drawing her knees close to her chest, she watched the sky. The Leonids were visible right now, as they always were in mid-November. Maybe she'd catch a glimpse of a dusty-tailed meteor shower, she thought with a smile.

  And that was when she heard the blast—a loud, explosive sound that she thought might have been a sonic boom, and yet she knew it had to be something much greater. After the initial thunderclap, what looked like jets shot over the mountains rimming the lake's other side. Strange jets, she thought, rising to her feet. Maybe stealth fighters? Black and ominous in shape, barely visible in the night sky, they blasted across the water like a pair of twin phantoms from hell. Then they were gone, leaving a cacophonous trail in their wake, a litany of thunderclaps that still echoed off the silent landscape.

  Did the fighter jets cause the explosion? she wondered, studying the mountains again. The park was a no-fly zone, but maybe the government was testing some new equipment out here in this remote area. They'd been known to do that, and it wouldn't surprise her. Still, the suddenness of it—and at nearly midnight—didn't quite add up. Besides, those jets had been moving faster than it was possible to move. At least for anything she'd ever heard of.

  That was when she saw it: a darting brightness just over the water, glowing like a boat's headlight. Squinting, she tried to make out
the shape. It seemed to agitate, shooting first in one direction, then another, then back toward the shore where she stood.

  And then the shape intensified, looming large as it made unexpected landfall, and she found herself face-to-face with a blazing wall of energy. No, she realized, not energy: a being of sorts. She gasped, staring up at him—and everything within her understood that this being was most definitely masculine. She thought of Ethan, asleep back in the tent, and hoped he'd heard something, that maybe he could help her. Save her. Stumbling backward, she tried to cry out, but found herself unable to form any words.

  Still, she heard in her mind, like a distant whisper. Be still. In immediate response, her breathing came under control. She had to get to Ethan. But that thought fled her mind as the being moved closer, and she felt his energy burn low within her, like molten lava, something ancient and primal and foreign and innocent all at once. No face, no arms, no body. Only the lovely golden fire of him.

  "Who are you?" She gasped. In response he retreated, the wall becoming more compact and intense. Less open. "I won't hurt you," she promised softly, terrified, but somehow desperate to keep him there all the same.

  He released a quiet reverberating noise in reply, one that she wasn't sure how to interpret. "I-I don't...." She hesitated,

  aware that breathing had become nearly impossible. "I don't understand what you're saying." When his rumbling grew louder, more forceful, she began to back away, twisting her ankle on a rock behind her. Falling backward, she stared up at him.

  He had her cornered. This might be where he wanted her. Towering large, he loomed closer, and she pressed her eyes shut against his fire. "Tell me what you want," she insisted, inching backward on the ground, trying to put more physical distance between the two of them.