Crystal Warrior: Through All Eternity (Atlantean Crystal Saga Book 1) Read online

  Georgina stared at the older woman for a minute without really seeing her. Then with a muttered, ‘I wish I bloody well knew,’ she drifted back into the office.

  The door to that office stayed uncompromisingly shut all morning and since nothing came up during that time which Vanessa couldn't handle herself, she deemed it prudent not to interrupt its occupant. But when one of the handsomest men she'd ever seen strode into the shop just after midday, and without a glance at the shelves laden with books, came straight to her at the counter and asked where he might find Georgina Hackville, Vanessa decided a little distraction might be good for her boss's soul.

  And what a distraction! Vanessa watched appreciatively as he followed her directions to the office at the back of the shop and wondered if Georgina would even notice. She'd been what some might call a `late bloomer', summarily plucked at the first hint of unfurling by a man old enough to know better. Or so Vanessa believed. Alan Warner had been terminally ill with cancer when she'd come to work for Georgina and she'd never actually met the man, but no happily married woman Vanessa had ever met had been as turned in on herself as Georgina had been after his death. She was no psychologist, but Van knew more than grief had stalked the corridors of her boss's mind for many months.

  She watched Georgina work days in the bookshop and nights in the cafe for almost two years before she saw even a flicker of reaction to another man. Gould Barrington had spent a day in the shop signing books just over a year ago. He'd been fascinated by the totally independent-spirited woman owner and, Vanessa suspected, hadn't been fooled for a minute by those dark tailored suits and mannish-looking blouses she liked to wear. He'd wasted no time once his book-signing tour was completed in ensconcing himself in a hotel in Auckland and courting her with the determination and single-minded devotion to a project they'd all come to know as the hallmark of Gould Barrington.

  In a matter of weeks he'd helped with the landscaping of the grounds of the new house she'd had built on the North Shore, moved into it with her and made Auckland his base of operations regardless of the fact his publishers were in New York, and his family in Wellington. Georgina had mellowed, though little appeared different on the surface. She smiled more often, and had a softer, more womanly air about her.

  And she still seemed immune to the pheromone signals put out by hunks like the one who was now knocking tersely on her door. Something about the set of those magnificent shoulders beneath the taut material of the white business shirt and the carefully contrived casualness of the suit jacket hanging from one shoulder alerted Vanessa. This man was not a stranger to the woman in the office, nor was he as sure of himself as he might appear to the casual observer.

  Vanessa was not a voyeur, nor was she nosey, but she did care very deeply for her boss. Georgina had known more grief than a young woman should, in Van's opinion, which left her vulnerable in some indefinable way. Van decided it would be prudent to check the stock on the Sci-Fi shelves just to the right of the office door.

  Thus she was perfectly placed to note the fierce satisfaction that lit the intense green eyes of the stranger when he let himself out of the office again a few minutes later. Noted also the careful schooling of the dark, hawkish features into total inscrutability as he passed swiftly through the shop, and smiled secretly. What he couldn't hide from those who were able to see, was the fiery red aura that walked with him, like his own personal signature cloud.

  Red, the color of force of will, sexual passion, strength, power, and vibrant energy. Holy cow!

  Consumed with curiosity, Vanessa was hard pressed not to enter the office and demand to know who he was, but good sense prevailed. Patience was usually rewarded, she reminded herself. But it was a good fifteen minutes before Georgina emerged, her eyes glittering strangely in the set white mask of her face.

  ‘I'm going out for lunch,’ she said, scarcely pausing as she passed the counter.

  But Vanessa was an old campaigner; besides which, all her protective instincts were on full alert. She fell into step beside Georgina.

  ‘So who was the hunk? And don't tell me you don't know who I'm talking about. Even you can't be that blind.’

  Georgina upped her pace, then at the street she came to a dead halt, staring at the shop fronts across the narrow High Street like a sailor straining to see beyond the horizon.

  The answer, when it came, was spoken in words as sharp and deadly as knives and Vanessa almost wished Georgina had left her in ignorance. Almost.

  ‘Torrens Montgomery—Fran's fiancé.’

  Walking thoughtfully back through the shop, Van mulled over the indelible impression that Georgina had added those last two words as if she herself needed reminding of that fact.

  And prayed she was wrong.

  The lunchtime crowd always made negotiating the narrow pavements of Auckland's High Street something of an obstacle course but today Georgina noticed no one. The moment Torr's knock had sounded on her door she'd known with absolute certainty it was he on the other side. He'd entered in response to her husky request, closed the door at his back and leaned against it, staring across the room at her as if by that act alone all would be made clear.

  Georgina had come slowly out of her chair, as much because standing made it easier to breathe than for any thought of politeness. How long had they stood there staring, drinking their fill without having to worry about being noticed?

  Torr Montgomery was gut-blastingly beautiful. It wasn't the word she needed to describe him, but it was the only one she could think of. Hell! Gould was beautiful in a strong, manly, virile sort of way but Torr Montgomery made Gould look effeminate. Dark, tanned skin stretched tautly over solid muscle and a huge but perfectly proportioned frame. Black hair curled into the back of his neck in a way that made fingers of need twist into the pit of her stomach. Vitreous green eyes scored trails through her inner landscapes with the ease of a laser through snow. He knew her.

  We need to talk.

  I guess we do.

  That much had been decided in silence.

  ‘Is that a park at the top of the street going up the hill?’

  ‘Yes. Albert Park.’

  ‘Meet me there in fifteen minutes. I'll get some lunch.’

  Georgina hadn't been able to answer. The pounding of her heart made her afraid it would leap right out of her throat if she opened her mouth.

  ‘All right?’ he'd asked then, almost gently.

  She'd nodded. For long frozen minutes after he left, she stared at the door as if crystallized where she stood. She didn't sit down again until she realized her legs were trembling so badly she was in danger of crumpling onto the carpet. Staring vaguely down at her hands which were no better than her legs, she'd wondered how she was going to get herself together sufficiently to walk out of the shop and up to Albert Park at the top of Victoria Street.

  Almost absently, she'd reached across to the small wooden bowl of polished gemstones that had been Merryn's shop-warming gift when she'd first opened `The Literal Cafe'. Among several beautifully polished pieces of jade and nephrite, there were also pieces of amethyst, carnelian, lapis lazuli, and rose quartz.

  It was this last which Georgina rolled constantly between her fingers in her jacket pocket as she climbed up the steep incline to Albert Park. Merryn maintained that rose quartz was the calming stone and maybe she was right. At least she'd calmed down enough to walk out of the shop and up the hill as if she was in control and knew what she was doing. She didn't think she'd fooled Vanessa though. That one knew her too well.

  He was waiting beside the tall sculptures of rounded river stones piled one atop the other and soaring like totem poles at the entrance to the park. He carried two paper bags and a single yellow rose in a cellophane wrapper. The shock of the rose rippled right down the core of her spine.

  ‘Hi,’ she muttered and continued climbing the steep, stone steps.

  With a slight inclination of his head Torr fell silently into step beside her. Small talk had no place be
tween two people whose minds communicated without the need for words.

  A couple vacated a seat on the far side of the fountain. Torr loped ahead and claimed it, then watched every step she took which brought her to his side.

  As she sat, leaving space enough between them for a third person, he set down the brown paper bags and handed her the rose. Georgina almost sat on her hands in rejection of the perfect glowing bloom and she couldn't begin to formulate any sort of response to his gesture. In desperation she lifted her eyes briefly to his, realizing too late he would know as much and more from her mind than she would choose to share.

  ‘This flower appears to bring you more pain than pleasure yet you have it enshrined in the center of your dining table. Will you tell me what it means to you?’ he asked, withdrawing the flower.

  How could she explain to this man, this stranger, the true meaning to her of a yellow rose? How had he known so unerringly that it was something other than a favorite flower when Gould who'd been her live-in lover for over a year had simply accepted that it was?

  ‘It's a memorial to someone who—meant a great deal to me,’ she managed.

  ‘Ah.’ He stared intently at the rose for a moment, then put it to his nose. ‘These cultivated roses never have any scent,’ he said lightly and tossed it into a rubbish receptacle a few feet away.

  He ripped open the paper bags to reveal four bread rolls bursting with ham and colorful salad, and individually wrapped in plastic film.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he offered, suiting action to words as if they'd just been discussing something no more momentous than the weather.

  Georgina looked at the food and shook her head, turning to watch the sparrows who'd already spied them and were dancing ever closer to their feet in hope of crumbs.

  ‘Dammit woman, you didn't eat breakfast,’ he growled. ‘You'll eat now. You know I can make you. I can make you do anything. I've done it before.’

  Once the words left his mouth Torr slowly lowered his bread roll to the bag on the seat between them and fixed Georgina with a smoldering, resentful stare. His eyebrows were jagged black triangles above a straight, uncompromising blade of a nose. Muscles spasmed along the harsh, jutting line of his jaw. Where yesterday he'd appeared intensely charismatic and virile, today he looked simply dangerous.

  Georgina glared unflinchingly back into the glittering depths of his eyes.

  You don't have a ship or an energy web at your command this time!

  I wouldn't make the mistake of thinking they could hold you—this time. You wouldn't have gone then had I been able to reach you first. Just to touch you would've been enough.

  You think your touch would've held me?

  If I was merely to touch you now, what would happen next would get us both arrested. You know as well as I do a touch is all it takes. Hell, I'm nearly there and all I'm doing is looking!

  Georgina flinched away from the naked desire in his eyes. In blinding, pulsing spectro-color, she knew exactly how it would be to touch, to know this man, to surrender herself to the cosmic physical forces that vibrated between them. Her knees began to tremble again and she crossed her ankles tightly to conceal it.

  `Now we know just what a whore you are.'

  The words, spoken by a man who was legally her stepson, had lived and festered within her for years. Highlighted by a single yellow rose, they leapt accusingly into her mind, feeding off the passion that burned within her to touch Torr Montgomery and be damned to the consequences.

  Recoiling inwardly, Georgina snatched at a roll as if it were a life raft in a stormy sea. She'd long ago accepted when Alan initiated her into the delights of sex at the rather advanced and naive age of twenty-three, it was as if he'd opened Pandora's Box and lost the lid. After his death she'd ruthlessly buried box and contents deep and the rose was supposed to be the key that kept it, and her wanton inner self, securely locked.

  Then Gould had arrived, dug with dogged determination until he'd unearthed it again and freed the contents, calling it `treasure beyond price'. She thought she'd thrown away the box then, along with all vestiges of guilt, believing she'd never need it again.

  Although the rose still lurked in the center of her table, a constant reminder to be vigilant.

  Now, not only was there nowhere to cage these raging desires, she was losing control of her mind too!

  ‘Do you have any idea what's going on here?’

  His voice was rough with emotion and heat.

  Georgina shook her head and concentrated on unsealing the plastic wrap on the bread roll.

  ‘We've got to talk about it, Gina, and this is probably going to be our best chance of doing so without involving either Fran or Gould.’

  He’d called her `Gina’ and the echo of it settled into her soul with a familiarity beyond intimate, a rightness beyond pure. Georgina nodded, still unable to speak.

  ‘I'll tell you how it is with me. Then I'd like to know what's happening with you. Maybe we can make some sense out of it. Agreed?’ he demanded tersely.

  There was no point in refusing. She'd already agreed to come and talk, hadn't she? Georgina nodded again and silently scrunched the plastic wrap back around the bread. Her heart was beating hard in the base of her throat and she doubted she'd be able to swallow anything without choking. She put the roll back on the paper.

  Torr fixed his attention on her as he spoke and Georgina found it impossible to look away from that penetrating gaze.

  ‘I knew you. The moment I saw you at the airport—even before Fran called out to you. I knew that I knew you—in the ancient biblical sense—and my body was instantly ready to renew that knowledge with a fervor I've never before experienced. I love Fran. I thought she was my life mate. We're good in bed—bloody good.’ He stopped for a moment and looked deep, drinking in with an obvious satisfaction, the glitter of reaction in her eyes, then added roughly, ‘Just as I imagine you and Gould are good. But in no way can either relationship compare with how you and I were once. How we will be again.’

  ‘No!’

  The one word was torn from Georgina's throat by main force. She could not have held it in any more than she could have uttered any other words after it.

  ‘Why do I know we've had this conversation before? Why are we able to converse without even speaking? Where do the bloody words come from? The knowledge? Why do I know you belong to me as surely as does my right arm and why do I know I should trust you less than my worst enemy?’

  Georgina's head snapped back at that.

  ‘Why?’ she demanded.

  ‘How the hell should I know why?’ he snarled straight back. ‘I didn't make up the rules of this damned game! I didn't decide what I'm to know and what I'm not. When I look at you I know you're mine—and I know if I place my heart in your keeping, you'll tear it out, the first chance you get. You already did. I can feel the torn and bleeding flesh here,’ he said, grasping at his chest with a large, tensile hand. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why? For instance, what did you mean by a ship and an energy web at my command?’

  The bones in her face ached. Her eyes felt so hot they could melt. Slowly she raised her hands to her cheeks. Her fingers were icy cold.

  ‘I don't know where the thoughts come from. They just are. And I see pictures. I never have. It's always been my mother or Merryn—and sometimes Fran. I've never had the `knowing'—and I don't damn well want it!’

  ‘What do you see?’ he asked, ignoring her passionate outburst.

  Georgina dropped her hands to the level of the second button on her plain white blouse where her restless fingers began picking agitatedly at the tiny dragon carved from clear quartz crystal that she wore there out of sight and next to her skin. Fran had sent it to her from London on her first trip away from home, saying it would be her talisman against all life's `dragons'. She'd not taken it off since, even though Gould didn't like it, and her fingers always betrayed her by straying to it in moments of stress. Torr's eyes fastened on those restless fingers now and
she dropped them abruptly to her lap.

  ‘Yesterday, when you stopped to look at the waterfall—in the foyer—I saw a warrior behind you. He was taller and broader—even than you—and he wore a golden horned helmet on his head and carried a huge iron broadsword in his hand. He—looked like you and yet—not like you.’

  Torr's face was a mask, expressionless and harsh.

  ‘What happened when you were under the pyramid last night? You called my name. It was quite distinct.’

  Georgina closed her eyes and the vision was etched clearly in her mind.

  ‘Taur,’ she whispered. ‘T-A-U-R. That's the warrior's name.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Georgina shook her head and opened her eyes to glare belligerently at him.

  ‘I don't know. It leapt into my mind spelt like that when Fran introduced us at the airport.’

  ‘What did you see when you were under the pyramid?’ he pressed.

  ‘You—No, the Warrior—on a great white war-horse up among the stars and—I was running to him.’ Georgina stopped, her thoughts turning inwards as the pain of it ripped through her.

  ‘And?’

  Her voice sounded far-away to her own ears.

  ‘Suddenly I was floating far above him and he—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was totally engulfed by this—roiling mass of—sea water.’

  She closed her eyes tightly and sat perfectly still in an effort to blank out the awful image.

  ‘Shit!’

  Her eyes flew open. Torr's skin had taken on a yellow tinge and his eyes burned like twin flames in their sockets.

  ‘You didn't know I had a phobia about the sea then.’

  ‘No.’

  There was a long silence as they sat staring beyond each other, lost in their thoughts and inner images. Then Torr turned to Georgina and said, ‘Reincarnation and past lives are things that Fran writes about—and other people believe in. I've never given it much thought and I don't feel comfortable doing so now. But—we—belong—together.’ He stopped and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘We've—been together before and the chemistry must have been awesome. It still is.—Will you consider leaving Gould and coming away with me? Whatever happens, I'm leaving. Fran doesn't know it yet, but she will.’