Dear Reader,

Pack your bags and join our heroine Cassandra Devereaux on a thrilling adventure to Alaska where she discovers Thorn—one of the most unusual heroes we’ve ever created. We also had a great time doing the research for Prince of Time. Ruth and her husband found the perfect setting for the book while on a trip to Alaska. And a scene in the story reflects her impressions of the flights she took with several bush pilots. Eileen’s investigations yielded fascinating facts on the origins of language.

And while working on our villain’s motivation, we both had the opportunity to take a closer look at some of the strange and scary predictions being made in conjunction with the approaching millennium.

Prince of Time is the twelfth 43 Light Street book. Lucky thirteen in the series will be a super release from Harlequin in 1996. It will feature Detective Mike Lancer, Jo O’Malley’s new partner, in a psychological thriller with a serious “identity crisis.” After that, we’ll be writing two more Light Street novels for Intrigue.

All our best chills and thrills,

Ruth Glick and Eileen Buckholtz

Aka Rebecca York

Prince of Time
Rebecca York

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cast of Characters

Cassandra Devereaux—On an expedition to Alaska, she met the man of her dreams.

Thorn—He was a stranger in a strange land. And his time was running out.

Jacques Montague—Collecting artifacts was his passion. Amassing power, his obsession.

Marie Pindel—Where did her loyalty lie?

Lodar—He took revenge on anyone who got in his way.

Zeke Chamers—Had he stumbled on the find of the century or a clever fake?

Feydor Lenov—The Russian followed orders—for a price.

Victor Kirkland—The State Department official was playing two operations close to his vest.

Marissa Devereaux—She’d do anything to save her sister.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

One moment she was exhilarated, excited, trembling on the brink of discovery. In the next, an ominous rumble on the mountain far above her told Cassandra Devereaux she was going to die.

Glen Fielding, her Alaskan guide, was already running.

Early this morning he’d landed his float plane on a clear blue lake a hundred miles northwest of Denali National Park. And Cassie had been awed by the rugged peaks and endless green of the Douglas firs as she and Glen paddled his canoe to shore and hiked a couple of miles through the wilderness to this remote slope.

Glen was twenty feet below her and on the right, but it was already too late for either of them to escape.

Cassandra screamed as several tons of last winter’s snow came rumbling down the mountain like a glacier broken loose from its moorings. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not in summer.

She gasped Glen’s name as he disappeared under a blanket of white. Lumps of ice pelted her head and shoulders before she ducked under the shelter of a protective ledge. The mountain shook like a fortress under aerial bombardment, and she waited for the tumbling snow and boulders to sweep her away.

As suddenly as the avalanche had started, it stopped, leaving Cassie crouched in eerie silence. Cautiously, she moved her arms and legs. The worst pain she detected was in her right arm, but it was bearable.

“Glen? Glen?”

He didn’t answer.

She tried to struggle forward, tried to get to the spot where he’d disappeared. But she was trapped by a solid wall of white.

A choking sensation clogged Cassie’s throat. Ignoring it, she found her pack under a rock and scrabbled through the contents, cursing when she remembered that Glen had taken the trench shovel. Grimly, she set a flashlight on a pile of snow and started digging. But after a few minutes, her fingers stiff from the cold, she could see that her efforts only brought more snow down on her head.

Breathing hard, she snatched up the light and searched the pack again, looking for the two-way radio. The case was broken. When she twisted the dials, there wasn’t even a crackle of static.

Cassie hugged her shoulders and leaned back against the rock wall of her prison. At least she was alive, she told herself. For now.

But what about Glen, she wondered with a stab of guilt. She had a pilot’s license. She could have flown here herself. But she’d wanted to look like nothing more than a travel agent, so she’d paid well for Glen’s services. She hadn’t told him she was on a highly classified assignment from the government. Instead she’d used the cover story she and her sister, Marissa, found so convenient—that they specialized in scouting out adventure locales. And she’d been hired by a millionaire sportsman in the lower forty-eight who wanted to climb a mountain nobody else had tackled.

As she and Glen had approached the Alaskan range, her special instruments had confirmed that there was something strange on the east slope of one of the peaks.

“Never taken anyone here before,” her guide had remarked as he set the plane down on the water with a gentle touch.

“That’s what my client wants,” Cassie had replied cheerfully, trying to mask the excitement in her voice. This expedition was important to her, more important than she was willing to admit.

Now look what she’d gotten herself into, she thought as she fought panic. Nobody knew where she was. No one was going to come rescue her the way Jed Prentiss had saved her sister a few months ago. With a fleeting smile, she thought about Jed and Marci, taking comfort from the knowledge that her sister was well and happy. At least one of the Devereaux sisters had escaped the ravages of their childhood.

But that childhood had also made them both fighters. And Cassie wasn’t going to give up so easily. Pulling out her flashlight, she started inching along the ledge, squeezing around a boulder that had crashed against the rock. Behind it was a large indentation and, on the ground, shards of what might have been basalt. Only they looked too jagged.

Cassie picked one up, running her thumb cautiously along the edge. It felt more like plastic than stone. Turning, she realized that light emanated from the hole the boulder had made. When she shouldered the cracked surface, it gave with a groaning sound, and she stumbled through—into some sort of manmade corridor. The walls were cold metal, but they radiated a gentle amber glow like an old computer screen.

Dear heaven! It looked as if the boulder had crashed into an escape hatch for a secret military post. The irony made her laugh, the sound echoing hollowly off the tunnel walls. So much for the FCC’s little mystery! They were going to be angry about spending the money to send her up here.

Cassandra expected to hear alarms ring and see guards with machine guns. But there was no intruder alert, only the insistent hum of equipment deep in the earth.

“Anybody home?”

Only the hollow echo of her own voice answered. Maybe this was an automated facility. Replacing her flashlight in her pack, she crept forward, aware that the humming was getting louder as she descended into the mountain. Several feet ahead of her, the passage was dark. But as she moved forward, the glow kept pace, imparting an eerie sense of being ushered onward.

Yet she couldn’t detect the video cameras that must be marking her progress. And she found herself fighting a growing sense that she’d stepped into a science-fiction movie. The very air smelled as if it had been scrubbed by special purification equipment and recycled for centuries.

Shivering, she tried to put aside such fantasies. This place couldn’t have been here for centuries. It had almost certainly been built as part of our Soviet surveillance network.

Her progress stopped abruptly at a flat metal door with no handle. Now what? She didn’t have a key card. And there was no way her retinal patterns or handprints were in the computer. Trying the old-fashioned method, she banged on the door. When nothing happened, she began to look for a control panel. Maybe she’d find a phone, and she could call for help. There had to be something! She couldn’t have come so far only to be shut out.

Doggedly, she went over every inch of the metal walls, pressing and feeling for invisible seams. She wasn’t sure which random motion had the desired effect, but a sudden whooshing noise made her look up to see twin panels glide out of the way like the doors on the starship Enterprise.

Beyond was a yawning, profound blackness, alive with the pulsing sound she’d been hearing since she’d entered the tunnel. The unknown waited for her inside, and she was afraid. But in the end, there was really no choice. Gathering her courage, she crossed the threshold.

As before, the lights came up, and she saw that she was in what looked like a control room, surrounded by banks of futuristic computers and other equipment she couldn’t identify. In the center of the room was a tall chamber about the size of a telephone booth.

Curiosity—or perhaps a feeling of compulsion—drew Cassie toward the enclosed space. Its walls were opaque and shot through with streaks of color like mother-of-pearl. Afraid, yet fascinated, Cassie watched as they began to glow and change, becoming translucent—the transformation coming from the top down.

The humming of the equipment increased, rising to a crescendo around her, but she hardly heard. All her attention was focused on the compartment before her. Someone was inside. She saw the eyes first. Was transfixed by the laser intensity that held her captive, compelling her to take a step forward and then another to meet her destiny.

Blood pounding in her ears, she stood immobile as the walls of the chamber went through a final metamorphosis. Before her motionless gaze, they turned transparent as glass. And she found herself staring in shock at a naked man.

He didn’t respond to her sharp intake of breath, and she realized with stunned certainty and a degree of relief that those probing eyes were not looking at her. In fact, although she stood only six feet away, he didn’t seem aware that anyone else was in the room. Was it possible that only she could see him through the transparent surface separating them? The supposition gave her a measure of reassurance as anger flashed across his rigid features, anger that rolled from him in an almost physical wave, penetrating the chamber, crashing against the walls and ceiling of the small room.

Cassie wanted to turn and run. Get away from him before he shattered the walls of the capsule, charged out and blocked her escape. But some almost supernatural force kept her from turning away from the threat he represented. In that moment she was sure that he had compelled her to this place. But her mind couldn’t cope with such an outlandish assumption, and she dismissed it.

She worried her lip and wiped her damp palms on the legs of her jogging pants as she stood and watched him. His face was strong, the features pleasing and vaguely exotic. Cassie studied the slight slant of his eyes, the exaggerated thrust of his chin, the wide mouth, wondering if he came from some tribe of Native Americans that barely interacted with the outside world. Was that it? Did his people live up here in the Alaskan wilds? Had they built this place? If so, why was he imprisoned?

His posture was erect and still as a statue, and she had an even wilder thought—that he was a prince from another time and place thrown into a trance by an evil sorcerer. He’d been under this mountain for centuries, waiting. And she was the woman sent to wake him with a kiss.

The fantasy was getting personal again. She shook her head to banish it. But still, she couldn’t tug her gaze from him. She watched as he drew in a shuddering breath, filling his lungs greedily and then exhaling with more control. Slowly, he raised his hand and flexed the fingers, looking at them with a slightly bemused expression. Raising the hand farther, he flattened the palm against his chest, pressing it over his heart as if needing reassurance that life was surging through his veins. He let out a deep sigh. Then his face changed, the features taking on a sudden wrenching vulnerability that made her own heart contract.

Transfixed, she watched as his palm slid across his chest, across skin that was a light copper and covered with a mat of curly hair that was almost black. Before she had time to reflect on the strangeness of the combination, the hand moved, sweeping lower down. Her gaze was compelled to follow as he briefly touched his flat stomach, narrow waist, strong thighs and finally the male part of him. With a swallow, Cassie silently acknowledged that he would have drawn appreciative stares on a nude beach.

The observation jerked her befuddled brain back to reality. He wasn’t on some California beach. This guy was standing buck-naked in the middle of a secret government facility. Or was it an asylum for the criminally insane with him as the star inmate? She didn’t know what she’d walked into—but she was getting the heck out.

She took a step back. Before she could turn to run, his eyes caught the movement, and she knew without doubt that the capsule was as transparent from inside as well as out. At first he’d been absorbed with himself, like a sleeper awakening in a strange place. Now his gaze locked with hers, and she realized he was suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone in the room.

His lips moved urgently. He appeared to be shouting at her, but she could hear nothing. At the quick shake of her head, his mouth formed a harsh line. Then he closed his eyes as his fingers felt rapidly along the sides of his prison, doubtless searching for a release latch. Thankfully, Cassie couldn’t see one. She wanted him safe on the other side of that transparent barrier. Her relief was short-lived. He touched some hidden mechanism she hadn’t spotted, and the front panel of his isolation booth slid silently open.

She gasped as the invisible wall disappeared. She gasped again as he stepped out of the compartment. There was no hesitation. She was his quarry. Freed, he closed the distance between them with such speed that his movements were almost a blur. His hand shot out and circled her wrist, his fingers rigid as a steel manacle.

“Don’t hurt me.” Her mouth was so dry she could hardly force the words out. Why hadn’t she gotten out of this place when the getting was good?

Up close, his eyes were a startling blue. As he studied her, they turned the color of frost, making her fear shoot up several degrees. He answered her plea with a short burst of syllables that would have been melodious if his voice hadn’t sounded like broken glass. She didn’t know the language—and she’d studied half a dozen in college and graduate school. Yet she recognized from the inflection that he was asking a question. And that he was angry—as if she were somehow to blame for imprisoning him in that strange tube.

She shook her head, all the while struggling to wrench from his grasp. But it was as futile as trying to fight a force of nature.

She moved as far away as the extension of her arm would allow, her eyes never leaving his. She was grateful that he didn’t pull her closer.

Speaking slowly and distinctly as though addressing a child, he repeated the string of syllables. The speed of the delivery, however, did nothing for her level of comprehension. There was absolutely nothing she recognized.

“I—I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

His eyes narrowed, and she felt the physical force of his pent-up anger and frustration. He spoke again, and she could tell that he was demanding an answer, perhaps even threatening her if she didn’t cooperate. Yet at the same time she sensed he’d given up hope of commanding her cooperation.

“I’m sorry. Please—”

“Klat!” The ugly syllable erupted from him. She didn’t know what it meant, but she recognized a curse when she heard it.

Cassie sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Now it was her turn. “Who are you?” she asked, repeating the question as slowly as he had spoken—in Spanish, German, French, Russian and slightly shaky Japanese. Too bad she didn’t know Klingon.

Not even a flicker of recognition crossed his strong features. His answer was as unintelligible as his prior attempt at communication. Still clasping her wrist, he stepped closer, taking in details the way she had done so recently. Only now he wasn’t separated from her by a barrier.

He was dynamic—and very naked—and standing so near that she could smell the masculine scent of his body and take in the fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. His scrutiny almost shattered her carefully forged composure.

She swallowed. At least his closeness meant she didn’t have to keep her gaze from wandering to certain parts of his anatomy. All she could see was his naked arms. His naked chest. But she remembered the rest. Very well.

She stood as still as a deer in the forest, telling herself that if he’d wanted to hurt her, he could have done it when he’d first bounded out of his prison. Yet her pulse pounded in her ears, making her light-headed.

The man of steel had a surprisingly gentle touch when he wanted it. Still, she stiffened as he grazed her blond hair with his free hand, murmuring something unintelligible.

The brush of his fingertips on her neck sent a shiver down her spine. Or perhaps it was the way his blue eyes skimmed each of her features as if committing them to memory. Tension crackled between them. They might not be able to understand each other’s language, but they were communicating on a level that hardly required words.

His tight focus on her was arresting, almost mesmerizing. He made another low comment as his fingers skimmed her cheek, her nose. When they reached her lips, she closed her eyes and swayed toward him, acknowledging some deep, primal level of connection between them. Then she blinked and pulled back sharply, astonished that she had permitted that kind of intimacy.

Perhaps he uttered an apology. She was in no position to know. She didn’t breathe when his hand dropped to her shoulder and traced the open front of her bright pink parka, handling the soft fabric with the same concentration that he’d given her hair.

He asked another one of his questions—probably whether she’d gotten it at Bloomingdales or Saks.

“Neither. It’s from Hudson Outfitters,” she answered gravely.

He laughed, a rumble from deep in his chest.

Her gaze flew to his. Had he understood her joke? Then she realized he was simply responding to the terrible absurdity of the situation. The laugh transformed his face. Until now, his expression had wavered between grim and grave. Her heart gave a little lurch as she caught the promise of warmth. And an undefinable charm that made her insides melt. To cover her confusion, she put her hand to her mouth and gave a little cough. But she sensed that he wasn’t fooled.

However, the laugh had a more practical effect, as well. It freed her from her trance. Her brain began to function on a more normal level, and she decided she was tired of having him control the situation. Especially when he could be arrested for indecent exposure.

“I wish you’d put something on,” she said. She took off her jacket, disregarding its size, and thrust it toward him.

He looked at the garment, unmoving. Then, releasing her hand, he turned and strode toward a row of doors along the wall. Behind the first was a room made entirely of some low-luster metal. But she couldn’t tell its function.

He left the door ajar and tried several others, all of which appeared to enclose supply cabinets. From the third, he pulled out a white lab coat of a slightly odd design, shook it open and slipped his arms nonchalantly through the sleeves. Then he closed the opening with what looked like a Velcro strip.

“Thanks. I guess you could tell all that tanned skin and rippling muscles were making me nervous,” Cassie quipped in a conversational tone. At least there was one advantage to her situation. She could make any damn smart comment she wanted.

He answered in the language she didn’t understand. Maybe with his own sarcastic rejoinder.

She couldn’t take more of this. Seized by an overwhelming need to reach him on some meaningful level, she thumped her chest. “My name is Cassie. Cassie Devereaux. Maybe we can start with that.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She realized she’d said too much. “I’m Cassie,” she repeated and pointed to herself again. “Cassie.”

“Cassie?”

On his lips, the syllables were warm and richly exotic.

She nodded.

He tried it out again, looking pleased. “Cassie Devereaux.”

“Yes. And you?” She pointed toward him.

He hesitated for a moment. “Thorn.”

“Thorn what?”

“Thorn.”

“All right,” she conceded. “It’s just Thorn.”

* * *

“ALL RIGHT. It’s just Thorn,” he parroted back. He had no understanding of what he was saying. Except for his name, he thought with frustration. He was a trained linguist, but he didn’t know what tongue she was trying to teach him. It didn’t have any root he could identify, but at least shades of meaning didn’t seem to depend on guttural clicks. The stresses were unusual, however, and he was having trouble wrapping his mouth around the unfamiliar j sounds. And the grammar eluded him.

Cassie was waiting. Watching. For an unguarded moment, he wanted to touch her again, feel the incredible softness of her cheek, her lips, lose himself in the honesty of physical sensations.

As he focused on her face, he had the strong conviction he’d met her before. Or had he only dreamed of her? When he tried to analyze the thought, it evaporated like mist from the surface of a deep mountain lake.

He didn’t know who she was. Or where she’d come from. Or exactly where they were playing out this drama. And when.

The last observation sent an icy chill sweeping across his skin. Panic threatened to engulf him. Underlying it was a profound sadness. He stifled both emotions with the force of his will.

The woman’s eyes continued to question him. Before he started shouting out answers, he turned and strode toward the grooming alcove. Stepping across the threshold, he slammed the barrier behind him, hoping the mores of her culture would respect his privacy. After using the facilities, he leaned over the washing basin and splashed cold water on his face. His reflection in the three-dimensional mirror mocked him.

He looked sick.

That was the cue for a wave of nausea to rise in his throat. Swaying over the basin, he grasped the cold metal and retched up stomach acid. Grimacing, he opened a compartment and pulled out a tube of mouth refresher.

The spicy flavor swept away the nasty taste and made him feel a little better, but he knew the reprieve might be temporary. He’d been running on adrenaline, reacting from moment to moment since he stepped out of the delta cylinder—and his energy reserves were just about drained.

Dizzy, Thorn gripped the edge of the basin and forced himself to recall his last memories. They were from yesterday evening. Lodar and Darnot arriving at his quarters to continue the argument they’d been having for weeks. He remembered the older man coming up behind him and then a stinging sensation in his shoulder. The rest was a blur. Except for the part where Lodar was leaning over him, his face very close—telling him he was going to get what he deserved.

A cold sweat beaded his forehead. He risked another look in the mirror and saw his skin was the color of moldy mush.

It was the symptom his fuzzy brain had been unconsciously searching for. His system was going into a toxic reaction to the delta capsule. He’d seen it happen a couple of times after inadequate preparation. If he didn’t get some ribenazine in the next few minutes, he was going to be on the floor, kicking and screaming and wishing he were dead. He wouldn’t have long to wait. The next phases were irreversible coma and death.

As he lurched out of the grooming alcove, the woman looked at him in alarm and asked an urgent question he couldn’t comprehend.

Sparing her a quick arm gesture, he commanded himself to stay conscious a few minutes longer as he staggered across the room to the cabinet marked with the symbol for healing. Inside he rummaged through small vials of liquid until his fingers closed around the one he needed. With fingers that felt thick and clumsy, he pulled at the seal. Too late. His formidable will lost the battle with his body and he crumpled to the floor.

Chapter Two

In seconds Cassie was across the room and kneeling beside him.

“Thorn!”

He didn’t answer.

She looked from him to the cupboard. It was filled with small bottles and boxes of various sizes, none of which was familiar.

Frantically she knelt beside him and turned him on his back.

He’d looked ill.... Perhaps he’d been after some medication. But as far as she could see, he’d passed out before he could take anything.

The greenish cast of his skin was frightening. When she touched him, she found his flesh cold and clammy. The pulse in his neck was thready, his breathing labored. And a few minutes ago she’d heard him retching. He needed a doctor, but she was the only help he was going to get.

She’d seen him grab up a small bottle just before he lost consciousness. Lifting his hand, she pried the stiff fingers open and removed a vial of blue liquid. Would the contents cure him? Or kill him?

She shuddered as another disturbing thought struck her. Was this a sudden attack of some contagious illness? Was that why he’d been isolated in this place?

Willing the ungenerous questions out of her mind, she concentrated on Thorn. How was she supposed to know what to do for him?

He’d been lying quietly on the stone floor. All at once his face contorted in pain, and he thrashed his arms and legs like a drowning man. Cassie grimaced at the agony etched into his features.

He cried out—two distinct words she didn’t understand, repeating them several times. “Reah. Januk.”

Then the thrashing grew more violent, racking him with frightening spasms that looked as if they would tear muscles and tendons.

“What should I do?” she begged.

Agony contorted his features. The spasms came hard and fast, one barely ending before the next one began.

His body wrenched, lifting him momentarily off the floor. He screamed, and his heels drummed. It was getting worse. Cassie sensed that whatever was wrong was going to kill him in a matter of minutes.

Swiftly making a decision, she pulled the seal off the bottle he’d been holding. Prying his jaw open with one hand, she tipped the vial to his lips with the other.

With agonizing slowness, the liquid dribbled into his mouth. He grimaced.

“Swallow it. Please swallow it.” She waited tensely, all her senses tuned toward Thorn. Finally, he did.

“Thank you,” she breathed. Now she could only wait and watch for some sign that she’d done the right thing.

His body still shook with spasms. Aching to do something more to help him—anything—she pressed her torso against his and held his arms at his sides, trying to make sure that he didn’t hurt himself. Although he was the patient and she the care giver, the physical contact was strangely comforting. Groping for his hands, she laced her fingers with his, and lay with her eyes closed, willing the viscous liquid to do its work.

She didn’t know him, nor could she fathom what he was doing in this strange place. She couldn’t even hold a meaningful conversation with him, for heaven’s sake. But she felt that some kind of inexplicable bond had formed between them. At least that was the only way she could explain the terror that had overwhelmed her when he’d fallen to the floor.

By slow degrees she realized that the spasms were quieting, and the beat of his heart was growing stronger and more regular. For several more heartbeats, she kept her cheek pressed against his powerful chest. Then she raised her head. The agony on his face was only a shadow of remembered pain.

Cassie hovered over him, one of his large hands still clenched in hers. Finally he sighed and lay quiet like a swimmer who had finally pulled himself onto shore after a long, exhausting race.

“Thank God,” she murmured.

His lids fluttered. His lips moved. And she sensed that he was making a tremendous effort to struggle toward consciousness. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched his face. His lids opened, and those startling blue eyes focused on her. Almost immediately, they registered surprise, then the same vulnerability she’d seen when he first came out of the transparent chamber.

“You’re going to be fine,” she told him, hoping her voice conveyed her meaning.

He tried to say something.

“No. You’re too weak. Just sleep,” she murmured. “We’ll talk later.”

Somehow.

His lids drifted closed. After a few moments, he appeared to sink into a normal sleep. She found blankets of some synthetic material in the supply cabinet and made him a bed.

Then, with an unsettled feeling, she looked down at him. What was it about this stranger that brought out such tender feelings? Usually she kept men at a distance. She’d learned not to get involved because she knew that the minute you let someone get close, you gave them the power to hurt you.

This was only a response to a fellow human being in need, she told herself. But she didn’t really believe that. And the admission was frightening.

Silently, she backed away from Thorn. Now that the emergency was over, she’d better find a way out of this place. Behind the capsule where he’d first been standing were the computers she’d seen when she’d first entered the facility. She squinted at the equipment. The design was sleek and streamlined, obviously highly advanced models, but she’d used a variety of computers—both at the State Department and at the travel agency. Perhaps she could boot one of these. If it was connected to a modem, escape from this place could be as simple as a phone call.

Sitting down in a gray contour chair, she stared at the machine. There was a flat, glassy-looking screen embedded in a raised panel, but no keyboard. Was the system voice activated?

“Computer,” she called out the way the crew did on the starship Enterprise.

Nothing happened, and she felt ridiculous. Maybe the keyboard would light up if she touched the desk.

The moment her hand connected with the machine, a bolt of electricity shot from the surface. It crackled over her skin and zinged like a burst of lightning through her whole body, making her gasp in pain.

Slumping in the chair, she cradled her hand against her chest. After several moments, she was left feeling weak and shaky. Holding out her hand, she stared from her reddened flesh to the desk and back again. So much for communicating with the outside world. She wasn’t going to risk a shock like that again.

The hair on the top of her head prickled as if a secret door had opened to the underworld, and a cold breeze was blowing toward her. Until now, she’d thought of this installation as odd. Strange. A mystery as intriguing as its naked occupant. But the situation had taken another twist. She’d just learned that this hidden place was dangerous as well as strange. And perhaps deadly.

* * *

HALFWAY AROUND the world, Zeke Chambers leaned back in his rickety chair and finished the last of the strong, sweet coffee. His gray eyes scanned the view of unspoiled mountains against a crystal blue sky. The peaceful scene was deceiving. Yesterday at sunset, a small homemade bomb had ripped through the entrance to the cave his international team was excavating, turning the orderly dig site into chaos. Luckily, no one had died, and the structural damage was minimal. But two workers had been sent to the local physician, and the team’s schedule was set back several days until the debris could be cleared.

Like the rest of his colleagues, Zeke had a tent at the site. But last night he’d slept in a real—if somewhat lumpy—bed in the village inn and treated himself to a hot shower. From his table at an outdoor café, he could see men and women making their way with carts and baskets to the market down the street where horse-drawn wagons full of vegetables and wares competed with small European cars for the parking spots along the main street. Had one of the innocent-looking villagers been responsible for the bombing? And why?

Zeke sighed. When Victor Kirkland at the State Department had helped him get this “plum assignment,” the man had neglected to mention it might also be dangerous.

“Zesto café?” a young waitress interrupted his thoughts.

“No, I’m fine,” he answered in her language.

Zeke popped a last bite of nut-and-cinnamon pastry into his mouth and wiped his sticky fingers on a cloth napkin before turning back to his laptop computer.

He could afford his own top-of-the-line equipment. In fact, the trust fund he’d come into three years ago when he’d turned thirty provided enough income for him to take any job he wanted—or not work at all if he chose. After an extended sabbatical last year, he’d found he was as happy backpacking through Europe as teaching anthropological linguistics at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore.

With the hunt-and-peck style he’d developed to accommodate the dozens of foreign-language keyboards and word-processing programs he had to use, Zeke keyed in a few more lines to his log entry from the day before.

“Explosion at cave site under investigation. Could be local protestors who think we’re going to cart off their national treasures. Or grave robbers trying to beat us to the punch. Should resume work by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good morning, Professor Chambers. May I join you?” a deferential voice inquired.

Zeke glanced up to see Dr. Feydor Lenov standing beside the table. The bearded Russian archeologist, a late addition to the team, had flown in several days before.

“Have a seat.” Zeke saved his file, then popped the black disk from the laptop onto the tablecloth.

The Russian heaved his considerable bulk into a chair, and Zeke waited to see if it would take his weight. It did. He’d heard the man had been a competitive weight lifter in his youth.

After ordering coffee, Lenov leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Heard anything more about the bombing?”

“Not much, except we can get back to work tomorrow.”

“Well, I should hope so. I didn’t come here to twiddle my thumbs. Montague will be hopping mad about the delay.”

Zeke raised an eyebrow. “You’ve met our sponsor?”

“Once, several years ago at an exhibit in Paris, we exchanged a few words. He likes antiquities better than people.” Lenov’s accent sounded midwestern.

Zeke wondered if he’d learned his English in the States or in a KGB training class. “Looking for something particular at the site?”

The Russian’s answer was drowned out by the sound of an altercation at a neighboring table. Scraping his chair on the stone floor, he moved closer to Zeke and away from the ruckus.

The men who’d been arguing suddenly began trading punches. A table overturned, and customers scattered like frightened mice. Zeke grabbed his computer and jumped out of the way. For a large man, Lenov moved just as fast, dodging as one of the combatants fell across their table. With an angry look, the fighter pulled himself up. But his assailant had hightailed it down the street. Shouting insults, the injured party followed.

Zeke shook his head. His wonder at the volatile local temperament turned to paranoia as he righted the table and searched the floor. His disk had vanished.

* * *

AS CASSIE CRADLED her injured hand in her lap, she swiveled her chair toward the door where she’d entered. It was still wide open. For a wild moment she pictured herself dashing down the tunnel and into the cave of snow. She wanted to get away from this place. More than that, she wanted to get away from the man sleeping on the floor before he woke up and something else happened.

What?

She’d never felt so off balance. Or so open to possibilities. The combination left her feeling breathless. Yet escape was not an option. She’d simply be right back where she’d started a few hours ago. Trapped under an avalanche.

So whether she liked it or not, she was going to have to stay here and cope. With the mysterious environment. With its even more mysterious occupant. Thorn.

Cassie licked her dry lips. Was he the enemy?

All at once she remembered a weird situation she’d walked into back in college. She’d been in the almost-empty library during Christmas vacation because she was trying to get an extra-credit paper finished. Two male students had come up to the soda machine while she was taking a break. One was wearing scruffy jeans and a T-shirt with holes. The other sported an expensive sweater and stone-washed Calvins.

After they left, a guy who’d been watching from the corner sidled up and started asking a bunch of questions about which of the previous pair she thought was more likely to succeed in college.

She’d thought the questions odd and started to leave. He’d begged her to help him out because he was doing an experiment for a psychology class on women’s expectations of men based on their clothing. Cassie had gotten away as quickly as she could.

In a lot of ways, this setup felt similar. She could almost imagine a team of scientists watching the action on television and scoring her responses on a scale from one to ten. How would she react to the naked man? What would she do when she discovered they couldn’t communicate? What about when it looked as if he was dying?

Cassie sat up straighter. “Okay. I’ve figured it out. The experiment’s over,” she said to the room. “You can let me go home.”

No speaker crackled to life. No doors opened, and her mouth firmed in disappointment. It was followed at once by an ironic little laugh. She hadn’t really expected a response, had she? She hoped she wasn’t that far gone.

This wasn’t a case of getting trapped in the college library by a dorky grad student trawling for victims. She’d been caught in an avalanche and almost died. Her guide was probably under a ton of snow.

And there was one more factor she’d been trying not to think about. Her own compulsion to come here. She shivered. She’d pulled strings to get this assignment—fought for it in ways that were completely out of character for her. And ever since she’d arrived, she’d had a sense she was fulfilling a destiny written in the stars long ago.

Nonsense, she told herself.

Standing too quickly, she reached to steady herself against the desk. At the last second she cursed and pulled her hand from harm’s way, taking a step back.

Automatically she glanced at Thorn to see if he’d heard. Then she cursed again at the double stupidity. He was out cold. Even if he could hear, he wouldn’t understand.

She grimaced. Every way she twisted and turned in this bizarre place, she came up against a new problem. She didn’t like having no control. And she didn’t like waiting for someone to wake up and tell her which machines were safe to touch. Particularly a man. Her father had made damn sure of that.

Unable to stand still while her mind spun in circles, Cassie stomped toward the room where Thorn had closeted himself before rushing to grab the medicine bottle. She’d heard water running while he was inside. Odds were it was a kitchen or a bathroom.

But after crossing the threshold, she stopped short. It took a moment to orient herself. There was a funnel-shaped object coming out of the floor. A toilet? She peered into the hole. No water. And no flushing mechanism.

What might be a sink was a shallow trough jutting out of the wall. Then she caught a glance at her reflection in the mirror above it. Instead of being flat, the image was three-dimensional.

She stood very still and pressed her fingers against the surface. It felt hard and flat. Yet the rectangle displayed her head and shoulders as if she were looking at a brilliantly clear holographic image. Eyes wide, she swung from side to side, noting that she could practically see the back of her head—as well as every imperfection in her skin.

Who would go to the trouble of using advanced holographic technology on a bathroom mirror, Cassie wondered as she gazed at the startling image.

With a shrug she looked for water taps. There were none. But when she brought her hand over the trough, water sprayed from hidden nozzles in the wall. It was warm. With a little experimentation, she found that by bringing her hand closer to the wall or moving it farther away, she could adjust the temperature.

What looked like decorative columns above the sink turned out to be two stacks of lightweight tumblers fitted into grooves in the wall. Cassie filled a glass and took a cautious sip. To her pleasure, the water tasted as if it had come from a crystal-clear mountain stream. Well, at least that was something.

“So who designed this place?” she asked her unconscious companion as she emerged again. “Is the Defense Department using it to test advanced technologies? Are you training for an invasion of Mars? Or is this like in World War II when they used Native American languages as a communications code? Is that your background?”

She looked inquiringly at the slant of his closed eyes and the copper color of his skin. “No answers? What a surprise.”

However, he stirred restlessly in his sleep, his mouth drawn as if in pain.

Instantly she was contrite. He wasn’t responsible for what had happened to her. In fact, he’d seemed as confounded by the situation as she. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Kneeling beside him, she smoothed back the straight black hair that had fallen across his forehead. Not a military haircut, she noted absently as she fingered the strands. They were surprisingly silky.

She should stop touching him. Yet she craved the contact. It was because they were trapped here together, she told herself. Because he was the only other person in this alien place and they needed each other to survive. Yet she knew that didn’t fully explain the tightness in her throat. The worry. The fear of loss. She felt those things for this man called Thorn, whether she admitted it or not.

Her gaze took in more details. His lashes were even darker than his hair. His features spoke of maturity, yet his skin was almost unlined, except around his eyes. Awake, he’d been forceful, antagonistic, even harsh. Sleeping, he looked peaceful. And defenseless. She couldn’t stop herself from gently touching his lips. They moved against her fingers, responding to the intimate contact, and the movement sent a little shiver up her arm.

Cassie pulled her hand away, yet she didn’t want to sever the human contact. Flattening her fingers against his chest, she felt his heartbeat once more. The rhythm was sure and steady. His breathing was normal. Abandoning medical observations, she slipped inside the front closing of his coat and stroked her fingers through the thick hair of his chest.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” she whispered. “We’re both in trouble. Are you going to tell me about it?”

Cassie hardly expected an answer. She certainly didn’t expect Thorn’s hand to cover hers. But it did. Her gaze shot to his face. His blue eyes were open, and he was staring at her with a look of mingled wonder and wariness.

* * *

THORN REMEMBERED every detail of the few minutes he’d spent with this woman—starting with the moment he’d stepped out of the delta capsule.

Things had happened quickly. Too quickly. Ending with long, agonizing seconds when he’d known he was going to die, and he’d called out to the two people who mattered most to him. His heart squeezed painfully, and he pushed their images away. If he started thinking about what might have happened to Reah and Januk, he’d go insane.

So he focused every particle of his attention on the woman who crouched over him. She’d saved his life by getting the ribenazine into him.

Why? Had she been acting under Lodar’s instructions to make the captive drop his defenses by saving his life? Perhaps he was being too cynical.

Whatever her goal, he sensed the tension radiating from her in almost palpable waves. Of course, she had good reason to be afraid. Of him. Of this place. Either she was playing a very dangerous game or she’d stumbled into a situation completely beyond her ken.

He sat up and leaned against the supply cabinet, wincing at the stab of pain that felt like a nail being driven into his forehead. When he tried to get to his feet, the woman put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“No.”

It wasn’t difficult to guess the meaning of the short syllable she uttered. It was more than a polite suggestion—it was an order.

With an inward sigh, he conceded the point. Relaxing as best he could, he looked at her inquiringly. She met his gaze steadily, a bold move for a native woman. If that’s what she was.

He studied her face. She was very beautiful, with gently wavy hair the color of warm light cast by an oil lamp. It went well with the alabaster skin that bloomed with a hint of pink over her high cheekbones in response to his scrutiny. His gaze was drawn to her clear emerald eyes that at first glance seemed a little too large. They were just the opposite of her nose. It was small and delicate and entirely feminine. As feminine as the gentle curve of her mouth. He’d never seen anyone like her before. Anywhere.

He took the hand from his shoulder and looked at the back. Her fingers were long, tapered, smooth—and strong, he added, remembering her grip on his jaw when she’d been trying to get the medicine into him. Her nails were rounded and buffed. No, he amended as he smoothed his thumb across their surface. They were coated with a shiny, transparent substance he’d never seen before.

She shivered under his touch, but didn’t draw away or lower her eyes.

“Ah, you are very bold, Cassie,” he said in his own tongue, wishing she could grasp his meaning, wishing he could gauge her reaction.

She responded to her name with a tiny twitch of her lips. He pushed her a little further, shifting his grip to find her pulse. The beats accelerated.

She remained very still, trying wordlessly to convey the impression that she wasn’t afraid of him. He knew from her shallow breathing and her pounding heart that it was a lie. Yet he kept coming back to the central truth of their short acquaintance. She’d saved his life when she could have left him convulsing on the floor.

He’d give a lot to know her real motives. Since he could hardly conduct an interrogation, he cataloged other observations. He could tell a lot from her hand, for example. And from the way she took care of her hair and face. She looked no more than twenty. Yet she was wise beyond those years. She was from the ruling class. Perhaps even royalty, because she’d never done manual labor. She was from a land far away from the one where he’d been assigned, since she hadn’t been raised to defer to his people. In fact, she seemed to have no idea of his status.

He turned her hand over and saw a red circle on her index finger that looked like a recent burn.

When he gave it the barest touch, she winced.

“What happened?” he asked in his own language, accompanying the question with a raised eyebrow that he hoped would help convey his meaning.

She caught on immediately. Scrambling up, she crossed the room and pointed to one of the data analyzer terminals, waving her arms and spouting a long string of words that meant nothing. When he looked perplexed, she strode into the grooming alcove and emerged with one of the drinking goblets.

Was she going to pour water on the delicate equipment? That was all he needed.

“No,” he ordered, using one of the few words he’d learned of her language.

Ignoring him, she tossed the vessel at the machine and jumped back. When the missile hit, an electrical discharge sizzled like a bolt of lightning.

“Klat!” The curse was wrung from him in anger—and surprise. “That is how you got burned?” he asked in his own tongue, frustrated that he couldn’t get an answer. What he wouldn’t give for a language decoder.

She responded with a sigh and a question of her own, part words, part pantomime. She pointed to him, pretended to touch the equipment and made a sound like an explosion, “Boom!”

It was accompanied by appropriate hand gestures, the performance very telling. She was asking if the same thing would happen to him.

He shrugged. “Ask Lodar.” Even as he made the suggestion, he felt a mixture of anger and apprehension stir inside him. Teeth clamped together, he pushed himself off the floor and discovered his muscles felt like pudding. Before he’d taken two shaky steps, Cassie was at his side, holding him back. He was chagrined to discover that at the moment she had more strength than he. Obviously he was in worse shape than he’d realized.

He saw her eyes were round with worry. That, as much as her restraining hands, stopped him from crossing the room. He wasn’t used to anyone caring so passionately about what happened to him. Bemused, he reversed his course. But before sitting down on the makeshift bed, he found a packet of regenerating salve in the healing cabinet.

“Come here,” he said quietly, accompanying the order with a hand gesture.

Hesitantly she sat beside him.

“Let me fix your hand.” Although she couldn’t understand, it was strangely calming to simply talk to her.

He opened the packet of salve and rubbed a little on the back of his own hand to show her it was all right. Then he reached for hers. Careful of the burned flesh, he spread the ointment on her wound.

He saw her draw in a quick breath. Saw her let it out in a soft sigh as the salve began to soothe.

She stared down at her injured skin, watching the red color fade. Then she raised wide, questioning eyes to his.

He shrugged and squeezed her fingers. For long moments, she sat with her hand in his. They couldn’t talk, yet words were hardly necessary now. He was content to be simply with her like this for hours, the innocent contact like a healing balm. Languid warmth stole over him.

She started to lean on his shoulder. Then her head jerked up, and the rosy flush he liked so much spread across her cheeks. So she’d felt the closeness, too. And it made her skittish.

She blinked, her face changing from guileless to guarded. Scrambling up, she darted across the room, picked up a blue carry bag and brought it over. When she returned, she sat an arm’s length from him and began to rummage inside. With a little grin, she pulled out a small leather-covered book and what looked like a writing instrument. Fascinated, he waited to find out what she had in mind—besides putting some distance between them.

She opened the book and passed it to him. The pages were covered with unintelligible symbols. The only things he knew for sure was that her people had a well-developed written language that used an alphabet rather than ideograms. And that her handwriting was precise.

He shrugged.

She found an unused sheet and drew two people. One had a parody of his face. The other had longer hair and two half circles to indicate breasts. She pointed to the first one. “Thorn.”

He beat her to the punch and pointed to the other. “Cassie.”

She nodded, obviously pleased. Underneath, she carefully wrote a string of the symbols he’d seen on the previous pages.

“Cassie,” she pronounced as he studied the configuration, noting double consonant in the middle.

When he pointed to each symbol, she gave him the phonetic sound. “Kaa-see.” They repeated the process for Thorn.

He sighed. In a couple of weeks, they might get somewhere with this. By that time they might both be dead.

She pointed to him and grimaced, her face showing pain, her shoulders sagging in weariness. She used a word he’d heard her say just before he’d fallen asleep. “Thorn weak.”

“Weak,” he repeated in her language, wishing he could pretend he hadn’t comprehended the meaning. Sick and vulnerable. Lacking strength. They were probably all good approximations. He scowled at her.

She looked apologetic, as if she knew how much he hated the observation. A timid woman would have backed off. Instead, she followed with a drawing of the Thorn figure lying on a bed, his eyes closed. “Thorn...needs...sleep.”

The next picture showed Thorn standing straight and tall. She drew him again, sitting at the analyzer and walking through a door. Pausing, she took her lip between her teeth. Then at the top of the page she drew a circle with wavy lines radiating from the perimeter.

He studied the sketch, and his chest tightened as he deciphered the pictogram. She’d drawn an almost universal symbol—a sun. He pointed toward the sky, tipped his face up and closed his eyes, pretending to bask in pleasant warmth.

She nodded eagerly. “Sun,” she supplied and began speaking rapidly.

He put up a hand to stop her. He didn’t know the meaning of the words flowing from her, but he understood she thought he’d be smart to get some sleep before exploring this place. With a sigh, he crossed his legs at the ankles and inclined his head toward the cabinet of healing supplies. Inside were several varieties of cutaneous patches he could use. One would put him into a deep, mending sleep for several hours. The prospect was tempting. If he’d been alone, he wouldn’t have hesitated to use it. But he couldn’t risk being out of commission while his companion’s motives were still in doubt.

Her green eyes regarded him solemnly. This time he was the one who broke the contact. He longed to trust her. Longed to give in to the conviction that they were in this together. But he’d be a fool to act from such weakness. He looked toward the cabinet again.

A different patch would put his system in overdrive. But he couldn’t go that route, either, since the dose had to be strictly rationed. If he took a stimulant jolt now, he wouldn’t have the option of using it later when he might need it more.

Thorn sighed. He’d find out soon enough what nasty surprises Lodar had left for him. For all he knew, there might even be an army outside, waiting patiently for him to stick his head out the door. Unfortunately, he was in no shape to take them on yet.

Or maybe his present problems had nothing to do with the man he’d been foolish enough to provoke. Maybe the installation where he’d awakened was simply falling apart.

Because? An answer popped into his mind. He felt the walls closing in on him, and for several heartbeats he fought sheer, blinding terror. Then he drew on the inner reserves that had gotten him this far. There was no use getting worked up about how bad his situation might be.

His thoughts retreated to a safer venue. He’d take Cassie’s advice—because it was the smartest course. For tonight the best thing to do was concentrate on getting his strength back. And while he was at it, he’d see what he could tease out of this woman who was so warm and close with him one moment and so skittish the next.

Chapter Three

Zeke roared down a gravel road on his rented Harley-Davidson. The countryside sped by in a blur of dark green trees, pink and yellow wildflowers and gray rocky hills. But his mind wasn’t on the scenery. This morning, after the incident with the stolen disk, he’d nosed around the café and the market trying to get a lead on the men who’d started the fight. Either they were outsiders, or the locals weren’t talking.

After steering the powerful bike off the road onto a rutted dirt path, he had to slow his speed to dodge a pothole that would have swallowed a tank. Around the next bend, he came to a sun-dappled clearing dominated by a mammoth granite boulder. For more than a thousand years, it had covered the mouth of a limestone cave. But infrared satellite analysis had yielded the secret of the interior, and reclusive billionaire Jacques Montague had quickly put together a team to explore the site.

A dozen small tents surrounded a large one that served as both dining hall and artifact repository. The living conditions in camp were Spartan, not that much different from a dozen other underfunded sites Zeke had worked. But Montague had supplied some pretty sophisticated equipment—everything from heavy construction machinery to a portable cellular communications system. There were all sorts of rumors about the man. According to one, he had a terminal illness and was determined to find something as important as the Dead Sea Scrolls before he died. Even Victor Kirkland from the State Department had only sketchy information about their eccentric sponsor.

The dig was usually bustling with activity. Today, it was quiet since few of the dig team had gotten back from town. Marie Pindel, the team leader, was hurrying toward the cave.

Zeke pulled up beside her and cut the engine.

She gave him a startled look. With her cap of dyed copper hair and large eyes, the petite Frenchwoman looked more like a fashion model in her designer jeans and knit top than a forty-seven-year-old anthropologist with two controversial best-sellers and three grandchildren to her credit.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” she said. “I was just going over to survey the damage. The local police have finally packed up their little meters and magnifying glasses and decided we won’t embarrass them by dying of carbon monoxide poisoning.” She shrugged expressively. “As if we didn’t have equipment ten times as sensitive as theirs.”

Zeke unsnapped his helmet. “You’re breaking your own rule about going in alone?”

“I won’t have to, now that you’re here. Let’s go take a look,” she called over her shoulder as she took off again.

Grabbing his tool pack from the motorcycle’s carry case, Zeke trotted after her to the cave entrance. As always, it was a tight squeeze through the narrow opening for his six-foot-three, one-hundred-ninety-pound frame, and he had to take it sideways all the way to the main chamber where they’d been working. While Marie adjusted the battery lantern and checked the air quality, Zeke trained a high-powered flashlight on the damage from the homemade bomb.

He grimaced as the beam played over the stone walls in the far corner of the gallery where only two days before he’d been transcribing picture script. Now much of the stone engraving had been obliterated by the blast. But that wasn’t the worst. A burial pit, which had yielded a decorative vase, a curved plow called a crook ard and several smaller tools forged from iron had evidently taken the brunt of the explosive. It was now black ash and rubble.

Marie’s eyes flashed with anger. “How could anyone do such a thing?”

“Who knows?” Zeke muttered. “At least we rescued some of the artifacts before the blast. And I’ll be able to work with the low light exposures of the wall script and the notes I’ve transcribed.” Disgustedly, he stepped closer to the scarred stone. The light beam caught on a crack that ran from floor to ceiling. Had the explosion caused that, too?

Starting at the bottom and moving upward, he felt along the break. It seemed solid. Relieved, he stepped back and inspected the surface again. The beam played down the limestone and up again, illuminating a strange mark a good foot above his head. At first, he thought it was residue from the blast. On closer inspection, he could almost make out a faint imprint.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Marie asked.

“I don’t know.” Stretching, he pressed his palm against it. The stone seemed to warm. They both gasped as the hard rock split along a six-foot seam to reveal a small room no bigger than a walk-in closet.

“My God!” Zeke exclaimed as the flashlight illuminated the space inside. A large, finely engraved bronze box sat on a pottery tile on the floor.

Marie was by his side in an instant. “The explosion must have broken the seal on a hidden tomb.”

His pulse raced with excitement. Gently, as if working with the most delicate glass, he felt over the surface of the box until his fingers found a hidden latch. Inside were several perfectly preserved panels covered with writing.

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

Marie leaned over his shoulder, shining the light directly on the script. “Can you tell what it is?”

Being careful not to touch the material, he studied the characters. One panel resembled ancient Greek script, yet it appeared to be another language altogether. There was a picture, too. A naked man in a strange-looking capsule.

Tentatively he touched the surface. “This doesn’t make sense,” he told Marie. “Feel the covering. It’s almost like plastic.”

She touched the panel and nodded. “As far as I know, no one from the ninth century B.C. had anything like this. You think it’s a fake?” she asked.

“Do you?”

“I want you to check it out before we tell the others. We might be sitting on the most important discovery since the Dead Sea Scrolls. Or...”

“Someone could be playing a very nasty joke,” she finished for him.

* * *

TO HER EMBARRASSMENT, Cassie’s stomach growled.

Thorn said something in his own language and made eating motions.

She nodded. “I suppose there’s a kitchen somewhere around here,” she said in an artificially chipper tone. “But it may not have anything I’d recognize as a stove. And even if you’re willing to do the cooking, the equipment could explode in your face when you touch the controls. So why don’t I dig into my emergency supplies?”

Thorn leaned back and watched her, apparently very interested in what she intended to do.

The scrutiny made her feel self-conscious, and she lowered her eyes. She was coming to realize that in the confines of this room, the simplest actions had monumental meaning. Each thing she and Thorn experienced together was fresh and new. An adventure. A clue to understand each other. And more. A strand of the growing bond tying them to each other. Part of her was wary. The way she’d always been. Part of her longed to get closer to this man.

Ducking her head, she pulled some packets of dehydrated soup from her knapsack and handed them to Thorn. He shook them, listened to the dry grains rattle inside and shrugged.

“Just add hot water and you’ve got a meal in a bowl,” she announced, imitating a TV commercial. It was so much easier to make silly conversation he couldn’t understand than to cope with the confusion she felt.

In the bathroom, she filled two cups with hot water. When she brought them back, she found Thorn had torn open one of the envelopes.

After sniffing the contents, he dipped a finger inside and cautiously brought a bit of the dry mix to his tongue.

He made a face, then looked on with interest as she added the mix to the water and stirred with a plastic spoon.

“Chicken soup,” she informed him as she looked at her watch. “Good for what ails you.”

He took her wrist and examined the timepiece as if he’d never seen anything like it. She pointed to the second hand, made a circle around the watch face and held up three fingers. “It’ll be done in a jiffy.”

Apparently more interested in the instrument than her scintillating commentary, he slipped the expansion band over her wrist.

After studying the face, he grabbed her pencil and notebook and copied the numbers from the dial to a clean sheet of paper, writing them in a line across the page.

As he pointed to each, she gave him the name. “One, two, three, four...” Up to twelve.

He held up his fists and began to raise one finger at a time, reciting, “One, two, three, four, five...”

“Yes!” she exclaimed.

He went through the ten fingers and examined his hands like a magician who’s just made a coin disappear. “Eleven? Twelve?”

“Hmm,” she mused. “I guess I never thought about it. Our number system is based on ten. But the day is divided into twenty-four hours.”

Taking the pencil she drew a circle and bisected it. On the right she drew the sun; on the left, a crescent moon. Then she marked off twelve divisions on each side.

When she looked at Thorn expectantly he nodded and pointed to the numbers on the watch.

“Right. Twelve hours in a day.” She tapped the sun. “And twelve hours in a night.” She tapped the moon. “Give or take variations for summer and winter, of course.”

His face was a study in concentration.

“Understand?” she asked.

“Understand,” he repeated, nodding vigorously.

“Good.”

Snatching up the notebook, he flipped back several pages to the third drawing she’d made. Thorn lying in bed. Eyes closed. “Thorn...sleep...night,” he said slowly but distinctly.

A shiver went through her. He’d put together enough words to make a sentence in a language he’d never heard before today. Was he a genius or a trained linguist? “My God. Yes,” she whispered.

He looked pleased with himself. And eager for more.

“Okay. Try this.” She wrote, “2 + 2 = 4” and handed over the notebook.

He countered with “2 + 3 = 5.”

For the first time since she’d bumbled into never-never land, Cassie forgot to worry about her predicament. Instead, she was totally focused on Thorn. It was as if a door had opened between them. She was reaching him on a new level of understanding, and she wanted to go even further.

Cassie had no idea how long they sat there, close together, going over more complex concepts. But she did realize that he hadn’t taken his eyes off her; she felt her cheeks grow warm. For the last while he was looking at her differently, and she knew that in some subtle way his opinion of her had changed. She picked up her cup and took a swallow. Then she gestured toward Thorn’s.

“Eat your chicken soup,” she urged.

He nodded and sipped cautiously.

“Well? Good? Bad? Okay?” She accompanied each question with the appropriate facial expression.

“Chicken soup...okay.” He took several more swallows. Then, putting his cup down, he held out his hands in front of him, about two feet apart. Sawing the right one up and down he said, “Good.” For emphasis he imitated her previous smiling face. Then he repeated with “Bad.”

She took another swallow as he turned the “good” hand up and slanted her what she’d come to think of as his questioning look. At the same time, he moved his fingers in a gesture that appeared to indicate that he wanted her to give him something. What did he want? Then it dawned on her that in any well-developed language, there should be a lot of words for such important concepts as good and bad.

His eyes seemed to darken as he reached out and took her hand, squeezing a little as if to encourage her.

His fingers were strong and warm. Her throat was suddenly dry as he shifted his grip to bring her palm in contact with his. She fought to keep from dropping her gaze or pulling away.

“Uh, nice...” That was much too tepid for what she was feeling. “Enjoyable...pleasurable...wonderful...sexy...”

Cassie flushed scarlet as she realized where the chain of associations had taken her. Her embarrassment increased as he solemnly gave her back the words. Damn his phenomenal memory. She could picture him congratulating her with a slap on the back and a hearty, “Sexy job.”

More than that, she knew she’d given away too much. And it didn’t help to tell herself that he hadn’t understood the implications. He’d figure it out the way he was catching on to everything else.

She was about to pick up her cup when he slipped his hand under her chin and tipped her face toward his.

“I—” She didn’t know what she was going to say because he drove the thought completely out of her mind by stroking her jaw line. Her breath caught in her throat when his finger moved to her lips.

“Thorn...”

“Pleasurable...wonderful...sexy,” he pronounced, giving the words deeper meaning.

“Yes.” She sat very still as his fingers drifted to the side of her neck, feeling her pulse. It was already beating furiously. At his light touch, the tempo speeded up.

He held her gaze. Held her captive as surely as if he’d slipped a handcuff over her wrist and clicked the lock home. She forgot to breathe as his hand moved lower, brushing aside the front of her coat, gliding over the knit fabric of her shirt, over the swell of her breast. Her nipples tightened. And she knew he felt it. By the catch in his throat, by the way his blue eyes deepened.

He stroked her, murmuring something she couldn’t understand—but his voice sent an erotic current shooting through her body. For a yearning moment she swayed toward him, yielding to the physical contact and something more elemental. Deep in her subconscious, she felt as if this kind of touching, this response, had happened between them before. That they were renewing a previous and very intimate acquaintance.

Then she caught herself. What was she doing? More to the point, what the hell was he doing?

“No!” She pulled away from him, her eyes shooting sparks that told him what she thought of his behavior. The nerve of the man—taking that kind of liberty. And where had she gotten the wacky idea that it was safe to drop her guard?

He said something that might have been an apology.

She glared at him. Yet deep inside she knew it wasn’t all his fault. She should have stopped him.

But at what point? When he touched her jaw? Her lips? It was obvious he didn’t know the rules of her society. Or maybe he didn’t care.

Unwilling to look at him, she scooted away, putting several feet between them. She didn’t trust him. Or herself now. And she felt so confused, she had to blink back tears. For thirty years she’d avoided involvements. A few hours with this man and she was breaking every rule she’d ever made. She wanted to get up and make camp on the other side of the room. Instead she settled for turning back to her soup, eating as if her life depended on it, while she tried to fathom her own out-of-character behavior.

He said nothing. Instead he ate slowly. Cassie finished and was thinking about fixing two more cups when a change in the background hum of the station made her lift her head and sit very still. Thorn was also listening intently.

She saw a puzzled expression flash across his face just before the lights blinked. Then they went out, plunging the room into total blackness.

In the dark, she heard him bite out the word that she understood was a curse, “Klat!”

“What’s happening?” she asked in a shaky voice.

Thorn echoed the question in his own language. Reaching across the empty space separating him from Cassie, he found her arm and tugged her toward him. Her body went rigid. A clattering noise made his body tense for an attack. Then he realized her foot had hit an empty soup cup, sending it skittering across the floor.

He cursed again. He was jumpy as a bush stalker in heat. But why not, when he half expected armed men to come pelting into the room.

When Cassie tried to pull away from him, he gripped her shoulder. He understood why she might resist his touch. He knew full well he’d overstepped the bounds a few minutes ago when he’d cupped her breast, stroked her erect nipple. But when he’d felt her pulse quicken, he’d known it wasn’t out of fear, and some arrogant male impulse had urged him to find out how far he could go with her—even as he’d told himself he was simply conducting a sociology experiment. How would a female in her culture respond to advances from a strange male?

She tried again to pull away, but he held her tightly, unwilling to let her vanish into the darkness. Was the station under attack from hostile forces? Had the life-support system been damaged? Or was this simply a routine maintenance sequence, scheduled for the middle of the night?

He listened intently, prepared for any possibility. Silence reigned around them. The only thing his keen senses could pick up was that the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees.

Cassie kept trying to wiggle out of his grasp, growing increasingly agitated as she repeated a message he couldn’t decipher. “No!” he ordered in her language.

She answered with what sounded like a plea. “Please.” She’d used the word before, he recalled. When she’d been trying to get the medicine into him. He’d been near comatose, but his hearing had still been functioning. Was her present purpose equally urgent? A matter of life and death for both of them? Or had Lodar told her she’d better be at least ten feet from Thorn when the lights went out?

He sighed in the darkness, torn between paranoia and anger at himself. For the past hour he’d been seduced into a feeling of camaraderie with the very beautiful Cassie Devereaux. More than camaraderie, he admitted with a grimace. He’d been weak enough to fall under her spell. But he’d better remember that she could be the agent of his destruction.

The first order of business was to make sure she didn’t slip away in the darkness, leaving him sitting with his back to the wall. He found her right hand and laced the fingers with hers.

“Okay,” he muttered in her language, waiting to find out what she wanted to do.

Tentatively she leaned forward. He heard her carry sack slide toward them and wished he could see what she was doing as she fumbled with the contents. He was startled when she braced a cold, hard tube against their locked hands.

A weapon?

He snatched the cylinder out of her grasp. As his hand slid along the barrel, a beam of light shot from the end of the tube, slicing a path through the darkness.

“Flashlight,” she informed him.

He was glad she couldn’t see his hot face. The thing was merely a light source. But how long would it last?

The room was getting colder. Cassie pulled her jacket closed. As if by mutual agreement, they stood.

Willing himself to steadiness, he led her across the room to the door where she’d presumably entered. Playing the light down the dark tunnel, he breathed a little sigh when it proved to be empty. At least they weren’t being invaded. Yet. When he pressed the lock pad, there was no response.

“I need to check the main generator,” he told her, wishing she could follow what he was saying.

Cassie hung back as they approached the data analyzers. He reassured her with calm words before shining the light on the partition beyond. She nodded tightly as they skirted the machines that had given her the shock.

Although his manner was brisk as he reached for the access panel, she tensed.

They both let out a little sigh when the door came open without incident. Using the light, he examined the station controls and the specification charts. He could see from the schematic that there were three solar-powered units attached to electrical storage grids. Two were completely drained from a recent malfunction. The third was operating a few essential systems—like air purification—and automatically conserving energy for an emergency. Perhaps the damage to the power units could even explain the shock she’d gotten.

He pointed to the schematic and indicated the power source. “Sun.”

Cassie nodded vigorously, and he wondered if she really understood about solar collectors and electrical conversion.

He continued the explanation for himself, since he knew she couldn’t possibly follow. “The solar collectors are rapid recovery units. Let’s hope power is restored to something approaching normal when the sun comes out in the morning.”

She seemed reassured by his even tones. Or maybe she’d simply observed that he wasn’t dashing for an escape hatch.

He struggled to mask his frustration. It was one thing to play sexy little games with this woman. It was quite another to get some real answers out of her.

“How did you break in here? What is happening outside?” he demanded, wishing she could tell him what he needed to know as he pointed toward the door. Yet what did it matter what she said? He couldn’t afford to trust her.

“I guess were going to have to take a look,” he said in clipped tones, pulling her toward the door. They both shivered in the icy air wafting toward them.

“C-o-l-d,” Cassie said in her own language, giving the observation teeth-chattering emphasis he had no trouble comprehending.

He repeated the temperature appraisal. “Cold.” Next they’d be discussing the barometric pressure and the projected global weather forecast.

She darted back to the makeshift bed, retrieved a blanket and draped it over his shoulders. “Warm.”

“Warm.” Two brilliant new concepts, he congratulated himself, feeling ridiculous huddling under a shawl like an old woman. But he conceded the virtue of prudence. And dignity. If someone was waiting outside, he didn’t want to greet them looking as if he’d tottered from a sickbed. Opening a supply cabinet, he began to search for something more substantial than a technician’s coat. He was rewarded with a cache of silver knit pants and shirts—the expedition’s standard issue.

When he threw off the blanket and started to unbutton the thin coat, she turned quickly away. He’d forgotten about her ridiculous nudity taboo.

Stomping into the grooming alcove, he shucked off the coat and pulled on the pants and shirt. He followed with a pair of thermal socks, wishing he could add boots.

When he came out, she nodded her approval.

He didn’t want her approval. Ignoring her, he marched back to the entrance. Ice seemed to seep through the bottoms of his feet as he and Cassie made their way down the tunnel. The passage ended at a broken doorway that he could see had been camouflaged as rock.

When he started to shoulder through, Cassie said something that began with “Av—”

Ignoring her, he stepped through the ruined barrier. Almost immediately, he halted in surprise. He was in a long, narrow cave—so long that it swallowed up the flashlight beam. The wall from which he’d emerged was of dark rock. The facing one was made of snow.

So how had Cassie gotten in? He wasn’t about to let her start drawing pictures again. He wasn’t going to trust anything besides his own observations. For a moment he stood, listening to the utter silence. Then, doggedly ignoring the cold, he made his way down the tunnel between the black rock and the white snow.

Cassie kept pace with him, talking all the while. When he ignored her, she grabbed his sleeve and yelled, “Klat!”

The curse got his attention. He stopped short and turned. She gave him an exasperated look.

After a moment, she repeated a word she’d used before. “Avalanche.” First she pointed to the snow. Then rolling her hands in a circle, she swept them in a downward motion. Looking behind her, she pretended to run. Finally she put her arms over her head and huddled down, protecting herself from the onslaught.

“Avalanche,” she said again. “Understand?”

“Avalanche,” he repeated, finally picturing what had happened. Snow had come roaring down the mountain toward her, and she’d taken refuge against the rock face.

“Understand?” she asked again.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

It was their longest conversation. Too bad he was almost as articulate as an illiterate camel driver.

However, Cassie looked pleased. Taking a step back, she raised her arms and stretched, as if to dissipate some of her tension. Her hands slammed into the wall of white that hung over her.

Quickly she pulled them back. But the damage was already done. Recently settled snow began to tumble down on top of her so quickly that Thorn barely had time to gasp out a useless warning. One minute she was in front of him gesticulating. In the next, she had disappeared, buried under an enormous pile of freezing whiteness.

Chapter Four

A mixture of fear and astonishment wrenched through Thorn as he stared at the place where Cassie had been standing moments ago. His first reckless impulse was to toss the flashlight aside and start digging her out with both hands. Instead he clenched the cold metal tube. The blasted cave was pitch-dark; he needed to see what he was doing.

Using up a few precious seconds, he scraped together a little pile of snow and made a stand for the light so that the beam was positioned in the right direction.

There was no margin for error, he thought with a grimace as he started to dig with the only tools he had. Almost at once his fingers grew icy. He ignored the numbing pain and scraped away at the snow, alternately cursing himself, calling Cassie’s name and gasping drafts of air into his lungs.

His whole body was shivering violently from the cold. No, more than the cold. His head spun. He knew he was in no shape for the unexpected exertion. But somehow he kept digging. Because he had to get the snow off of Cassie before she suffocated. So he continued to toss white clouds behind him as he worked in the semidarkness and to pray that he wouldn’t be too late.

It seemed to take forever. It was probably less than a minute when he felt something harder than the recently settled snow. Not rock. Something that yielded to his touch, although with his hands numb from the cold, he couldn’t tell much.

He saw the bright pink outerwear covering Cassie’s back and gave silent thanks as he corrected the direction of his search. Redoubling his efforts, he scooped like a madman. His fingers slid off her shoulder. He dug lower and hooked his hand around her arms, giving a mighty tug. One arm came free. Immediately she began to dig, too, and he knew what he’d only sensed before. She didn’t give up easily.

With a sigh of relief, he brushed the snow away from her nose and mouth. She shook her head and sucked in a gasp of air that ended with his name. Her face was white and etched with terror. Yet her eyes were focused squarely on him as if she couldn’t believe that he’d gotten her out.

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