VirtualDesire Read online

  Virtual Desire

  Ann Lawrence

  Blush sensuality level: This is a suggestive romance (love scenes are not graphic).

  Book two in the Perfect Heroes series.

  Tolemac warrior Vad has only one desire—regain his sword and the warrior honor it represents. He’s willing to do anything, even cross the forbidding ice fields into the unknown. When a beautiful and alluring woman appears to him, he’s sure she’s been sent to help him.

  Gwen Marlowe desires only peace and quiet, something hard to find at her game shop in Ocean City, New Jersey. When a gorgeous war-gamer insists she “enter” a game and help him complete his quest, she thinks he’s crazy. But soon, crazy or not, Gwen discovers she’ll follow this captivating and sexy man anywhere.

  A Blush® paranormal romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Virtual Desire

  Ann Lawrence

  True love’s the gift which God has given

  To man alone beneath the heaven:

  It is not fantasy’s hot fire,

  Whose wishes soon as granted fly;

  It liveth not in fierce desire,

  With dead desire it doth not die;

  It is the secret sympathy,

  The silver link, the silken tie,

  Which heart to heart and mind to mind

  In body and in soul can bind.

  The Lay of the Last Minstrel—Sir Walter Scott (1805)

  Chapter One

  She appeared in a glittering column of snow. Her long white skirts floated about her as she came toward him in the indigo night. She was a creature of the vast ice fields.

  Beautiful. Sensuous. Alluring.

  He stood frozen in place and watched her, his body numb in the icy wind despite the heavy furs he wore. His mind refused to believe what his eyes saw and his body craved. Golden hair, like a close-fitting cap, hugged her head. Sinuous movements of her arms beckoned him near. Ribbons of silvery fabric streamed behind her as she lifted her arms to him.

  With a quick turn of his head he scanned the horizon. Where were her retainers? Her protectors? The ice fields stretched unbroken in the moonglow save for a few treacherous red rocks that pierced the snow and tripped the unwary foot. He rubbed his gloved hands over his face.

  Reluctantly, he turned east again to the beguiling ice woman. A new fear, fear that he had lost his mind, joined with an older fear that he might not survive this formidable land. He drew a deep, steadying breath and caught a hint of summer flowers along with the scent of ageless ice.

  She waited in silence, many yards away, and raised her hand to him again. He obeyed her summons without thought, mesmerized by her, unable to resist.

  The thick snow crust crunched beneath his boots. The wind rose in a mournful ululation as it lifted her sheer gown and twisted it against her body. The fabric traced her lush shape, her full, womanly curves.

  A man might warm himself in her embrace.

  He pictured her lying naked on his furs, arms open in invitation as they were now, welcoming him. The enticing vision tumbled about in his head. He tried to grasp the warm thoughts, but his mind stumbled along with his feet.

  A shriek of wind jerked him back to his path and his goal. The woman blurred a moment before his eyes, then became sharp-edged. Touches of her femininity appeared and disappeared in the eddies of her swirling gown. A sweat flushed his skin beneath the layers of his clothing.

  For moments he staggered forward, drawing no closer to her. Touching her became imperative, necessary, as necessary as drawing the chill air into his lungs. He imagined her kiss. Her lips would be full and ripe and gleaming with moisture, as if she had just licked them. He imagined that her taste would heat his blood. He craved the warmth of her body, the intoxication of her scent, the comfort of her long white arms.

  He stepped into her embrace and clasped…nothing.

  He howled at the pain of it, clenched his fists, and fell to his knees. Around him lay nothing but vast, empty space. A blast of raw wind cut his cheeks and harrowed his spirit. With little will to go forward, he knelt, his head hanging down, and cursed the gods.

  How smooth and slick and beautiful the world had looked when he’d begun his journey. He had lost count of the sun-risings. Three? Four? Seven? His body yearned for sleep. Clumsy with the cold and fatigue, he fell to his side. A sudden stab of pain tore at his cheek and burned like fire up his face to his eye. The flames of pain defied and mocked the cold.

  A wounded-animal sound echoed in the empty expanse of wasteland. Had the sound come from him? Struggling on limbs that repeatedly refused to obey, he staggered upright, ashamed of his lapse.

  There at his feet gleamed a bright red gem. It glittered against the icy white moon-glow. As he watched, more gems appeared. They bounced and rolled away, scattering in the snow. With shaking hands he tore off his gloves and reached for one that lay alone, perfectly round and gleaming. The numb tips of his fingers were clumsy as he tried to lift the fine jewel. It burst and became blood, running between his fingers.

  His blood.

  Another bright red drop fell to the ice, congealed, and was magically transformed into another gleaming gem. He dashed the drop away with an angry sweep of his hand. More appeared, but he understood now and would not be tricked again.

  Relentlessly, he trudged along, too tired to take his direction from the moons overhead.

  Why was he crossing this merciless field of ice?

  For love. For the love of a friend more brother than any man of blood family could be. For a bond more precious than that with a lover.

  As his strength waned, he found himself standing and staring at the four blue-green orbs slowly aligning overhead.

  He was lying—if only to himself. The love of a friend might have sent him on his mission, but the salvage of his honor, his good name, kept him moving forward through ice fields no other warrior had dared to cross.

  For without his friend, honor was all he had. He had no family, no illustrious ancestors, no lifemate waiting dutifully for his return.

  Time passed. He knew this from the growing indigo shadows cast by the moon-glow that defined the sharp red rocks tripping his feet. He knew this from the nearly perfect alignment of the moons.

  If he did not survive his quest, his name would be forever inscribed on the roll of cowards and traitors, there for all future generations to see and vilify. Surely a just end for a man with no lineage.

  Where was he?

  Confused, he turned first in one direction, then another.

  He stared down at the fur cloak in which he had wrapped himself. Blood matted the front. Where had the blood come from? Was he wounded?

  Idly, he wiped at the frozen red stains. Where were his gloves? Lethargy prevented him from searching for them. His gold ring looked copper in the night. He wasted long moments staring at it, turning his hand this way and that.

  Finally, he conceded the ice to be the victor, the cold a merciless conqueror, impervious to a warrior’s sword or knife. With regret, he fell to his knees and scrabbled in his furs for the stone he carried close to his heart. The stone, captured in delicate strands of silver, reflected the color of the orbs overhead. The talisman slipped from his clumsy fingers and fell to the ground. He dug about near his knees, searched the ground in all directions, but the stone had disappeared, lost in the soft snow.

  He tried in vain to rise, but his legs no longer obeyed.

  “What more do you demand?” he asked the heavens, fists clenched. Try as he might, his strength was gone. As was the stone.

  And lost with it was his desire to go on.

  He would not fulfill his quest.

  Dignity demanded he not collapse cravenly but meet his fate with his face to the heavens. The four small moons beckone
d overhead. He liked to think they were watching over him and would ease his passage from this life to the next. The moons drew closer, like friends rushing to meet in a stellar embrace.

  “I failed,” he whispered. His eyes drifted closed. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Lightning streaked across the barren horizon.

  Gwen Marlowe twirled across the ballroom floor, spinning and laughing. She came to a halt before a young man who had entered the Ocean City Music Pier’s ballroom in a blast of rain and salt-laden wind. “Neil, my Tolemac Wars ball is going to be a real winner.”

  Thunder echoed across the cavernous room.

  “Only if this storm doesn’t close the bridges and keep everyone at home,” he said, and handed her a foam coffee cup.

  “Pessimist.” She took a swallow, then threw out her hand toward the long row of floor-to-ceiling windows. “The weatherman said the brunt of the storm is going to miss us.”

  “If you say so.” He dug her sneakers from under a chair and held them out.

  Gwen ignored them and gulped her coffee. She peered from one of the tall windows. The two-mile-long Ocean City boardwalk had only a few piers extending out into the ocean. The Music Pier was one of them. Glowering clouds and intermittent bursts of rain obscured the view. The radio had predicted that the storm would move east and miss their small coastal island, which lay midway between the bright lights of Atlantic City and the Victorian charm of Cape May. She hoped the meteorologists were right. “Don’t you feel like we’re on a ship right out in the ocean?”

  “Maybe the Titanic! Only the iceberg’s in here.”

  “Don’t say things like that!” She bit her lip. Maybe the weather would ruin the ball and all her work.

  He touched her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry; this old place has taken hammerings since 1928. I don’t think one small nor’easter is going to knock it down. And the tickets are sold. It’ll be standing room only in here tonight—storm or no storm.” He moved about the ballroom, gathering assorted litter from her decorating efforts and stuffing it into a trash bag.

  “Come on, Neil. I need your honest opinion. Does this look like the ice fields from Tolemac Wars II or not?”

  She held her breath. Neil Scott examined the ballroom, hands on hips. Water dripped off his ancient black leather jacket and beaded in his short, dark hair. Gwen noticed circles etched beneath his eyes.

  “I feel like I’m in the middle of a blizzard, not a rainstorm—a Tolemac blizzard. Relax. You’ve recreated the game.” He grinned. The sudden smile wiped away the biker-from-hell look and hinted at the handsome man he might be if he got enough sleep. “You should do stage design,” he said. “It looks great. Even if the Tolemac warrior himself showed up, he’d be impressed.”

  “Really?” She skidded along the polished floor in her socks and adjusted one of the drapes that gave the impression of a mountain of snow on red rock. “I spent a fortune on all this. And wait ‘til you see my gown.”

  “I draw the line at fashion commentary.” He bent and retrieved the remnants of silver streamers and tossed them into the trash bag.

  “But I could use a guy opinion. I made it myself, you know. I hand-painted each layer of white silk with seven shades of white and silver. I hand-stitched the silver sleeve ribbons—”

  “Enough. This is really more information than I need.”

  Gwen scooped up a handful of artificial snow and threw it at him. It clung to his shoulders and hair. “What’s wrong? Up too late with your coven?” He took off his jacket and shook off the snowflakes. A snake tattoo slithered around his upper arm, just showing at the sleeve edge of his T-shirt.

  Perhaps prompted by the angry gray sky outside, Neil was garbed all in black. Daggers and skulls hung from one pierced ear. Gwen never minded Neil’s many personas. He was just as likely to appear at the video game shop they owned together in a white shirt and a tie. He worked hard, was always on time, and did grunt work without complaint. He was the perfect business partner.

  On the front of his black T-shirt, a hideous skeleton wielded a lacrosse stick. Neil had once been a star attack player for Johns Hopkins. These days he attacked nothing more challenging than cardboard boxes that needed to be broken down for the recycling bin, his weapon a utility knife.

  “Are you finished in here?” He pulled his jacket back on.

  She nodded and took a last look around the room. “All that needs to be done is putting out the food. If I do say so myself, the room looks like a winter snow scene straight out of Tolemac Wars II.” Tolemac Wars II was the latest and hottest virtual reality game. Thanks to her friendship with the game’s creator, she had a monopoly on the game. If you wanted to play Tolemac Wars II in South Jersey, you had to patronize her boardwalk game store, Virtual Heaven. “Let’s take these trash bags back to the shop.”

  They ran the two blocks on wet, slippery wooden boards. Her store stood in the nearly unbroken row of shops that graced the northern end of the two miles of Ocean City’s boardwalk. Wind gusted from all directions. Rain fell in sheets. The Atlantic Ocean hammered the boards with savage pleasure. On the horizon, lightning flickered.

  “Should there be lightning in November?” she said in a gasp, out of breath. “What if there’s a power failure?”

  She cast a longing glance up to the apartment she rented over her shop. She’d left a light on. It splashed a yellow glow over the small balcony fronting the apartment. She resisted the urge to go back to her warm, snug bed. Fatigue was creeping in. She’d started her decorating at dawn, and now, even though it was still early in the morning, she wanted to crawl into her bed and sleep the rest of the day away.

  “If the power fails, you’re cooked.” He ducked under the awning over their shop door.

  Gwen saw his half-hidden grin and turned the key with a jerk. “I get it. I’m obsessing. You’re the pessimist and I’m the optimist. Okay. The ball will be a huge success, written up in game magazines nationwide, the extra ten pounds I gained this summer will be adequately hidden under my flowing…” Neil dragged a finger across his throat. “Never mind,” she finished.

  Once inside, she punched in the code to turn off the security alarm. Neil flipped several switches, and light flooded the shop. She tossed her raincoat behind the service counter.

  Neil scooped up a white envelope that lay on the rubber mat by the front door and placed it on the counter. He slipped a CD into the boom box sitting next to the cash register. She winced as Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony filled the shop. “Jeez,” she called to him. “Do we have to listen to that stuff so early in the morning?”

  Neil didn’t answer. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her over the music. She smiled. More likely he was ignoring her. She guessed she’d pushed him over the edge with her Tolemac ball worries. He shrugged out of his jacket and began to open cardboard cartons.

  Gwen set up the cash register for the day. Usually she opened her shop only on weekends in November, but this was the week of the war-game convention in nearby Atlantic City, and she’d been open every day for the conventioneers, especially women, who’d flocked in to play Tolemac Wars II. She’d started her plans for the ball the minute the game con had booked into Atlantic City.

  She picked up the envelope Neil had found, examined it a moment, then flipped it into the trash unopened.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  Gwen started as Neil spoke. “It’s just a letter from my mother.”

  Neil salvaged the note. “Why don’t you open it?”

  Gwen rounded the counter, took it from his hand, and threw it back into the waste can. She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. “Did you sleep in those clothes?”

  Neil retrieved the note and again slapped it on the counter. “I showered,” he said. “It’s not me. I thought it was you, no offense.”

  When Neil turned his back to crank up the CD player’s volume, Gwen surreptitiously sniffed her underarms. “Not me.” She tapped the letter with a finger for a moment, then slit the envelope flap open wit
h her thumb.

  She scanned the short note as she picked up Neil’s jacket. It smelled innocently of old leather.

  “What’s it say?” Neil plucked his jacket from her hand and folded it onto a shelf behind the counter. He also picked up her raincoat, shook it out, and hung it on a hook.

  Gwen shoved the letter into the back pocket of her jeans. “It’s just the usual invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. You know. Everyone will be there, why not good old Gwen?” She lifted the wastebasket and sniffed. “This place smells like wet wool.” She glanced overhead. “Could there be a leak somewhere?”

  A sharp rap on the window glass made Gwen whip around. “Oh, dear.” She waved Neil off and went to the door. She opened it a scant inch. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hill. We’re not open yet. Not until ten o’clock.” She pointed to her watch, which said nine. “The game needs to warm up. I haven’t even turned it on; I’m sorry.” She needed all her strength to pull her shop door firmly shut on the woman swathed in a raincoat, who flapped a twenty in her face. With a sigh and a decisive turn of her key, Gwen locked the door.

  She turned to Neil. “These women have no life. Don’t you think it’s worse now that we have Tolemac Wars II! The women are even more gaga over this warrior than the first one.”

  Neil nodded, then touched her arm. “How come you’re not going to your folks’ for Thanksgiving?”

  “You’ve never tasted my mother’s cooking. If you had, you wouldn’t ask.” Gwen shook her head. She was not about to tell Neil her family troubles. Neil had enough trouble of his own. He’d just dropped out of graduate school to look after his alcoholic mother.

  “I’ll take out the trash. Maybe that will take care of the smell.” Neil propped the back door open and gathered up several plastic bags.

  Gwen grabbed the vacuum cleaner and dragged it across the shop to the virtual reality booth that daily stuffed her cash register with tens and twenties—or her and Neil’s cash register. The boom in virtual reality game popularity had necessitated a partnership—she just didn’t have the ability to run the shop alone anymore.