Page 169 of Blood Stone
The chair rose, with a sucking sound of air rushing into a vacuum. The chains made a collective clinking and rattle that was alarming in the silent room.
He let the chair drop back, listening for any reactions to what he had just done. When no one came bursting into the room, he let out the breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding.
Then he braced himself again. With another thrust of his thighs and abdomens, he pulled the chair up the central post it was seated upon, fighting against the vacuum holding it in place, until the stub of tubing screwed to the base of the chair that inserted inside the post that rose from the splayed legs of the base lifted far enough out to break the seal. Then it was simply a matter of moving the extra weight of the chair and chains around while he was bent over and chained into that position.
He stepped toward the sofa carefully, maintaining precarious balance, then lowered the chair to the floor right in front of Winter’s knees. It put his head at the height of the sofa seat and tilted him over at a crazy angle, for the post at the bottom of the chair thrust him sideways.
His shoulder thrust against the edge of the sofa, keeping him upright. “Winter,” he said sharply, one more time.
No response.
He focused on her thigh. She was still wearing the pale green silk trousers she wore at the party last night, but they were wrinkled and blood splattered now. Silk was organic and no barrier to him. He traced the line of her thigh, visualizing the great artery that ran its length. The artery pumped directly to her heart and brain.
He closed his eyes for a moment and thought of Roman and Kate. He deliberately provoked images of last night. The touch of Kate’s hand on his body. Roman’s lips. Sliding into her.
When his body was tight with need, with throbbing-hard desire, he let his teeth descend and rocked forward, burying them in Winter’s thigh, right through the silk, into the big artery, injecting pure aphrodisiac, a much bigger dose than usual, prompted by his visualizations.
She moaned softly, her head rolling.
“That’s it,” Garrett whispered. “Come on, wake up,” he coaxed.
Winter lay still for long minutes, but her breathing grew deeper and Garrett could hear her heart beat steady and grow stronger.
Finally, one eyelid slid open, showing a sliver of green.
“Welcome back,” he murmured.
* * * * *
The Los Angeles City Hall has an observation deck on the twenty-seventh floor and many people mistakenly think that is the top floor of the building, but it isn’t. The building has thirty-two floors and like most public buildings, Roman found there was a way to gain access to the roof from the thirty-second floor. It helped that he was expected and that doors with mechanical bars he might have had trouble with had been conveniently chocked open.
He emerged into the cool of the evening, with a light breeze blowing on his face, as the sun was dipping into the Pacific, red blazing on the low horizon, while indigo blue filled the rest of the night sky. The sun itself was a fiery ball of pulsing pink and crimson as the sea swallowed it.
It matched his mood, he decided, as he turned his back on the dowsing fireball, and looked along the narrow catwalk. It was empty, but there was a fine trembling in the metal plates beneath his feet which told him there was someone else moving about the edge of the roof, on one of the other sides, where he couldn’t see them yet.
Then they turned the corner and threaded their way along the three foot wide galley way, their hands on the high metal balustrades on either side.
There were three of them and from the sunglasses, white shirt, and non-descript suit of the one in front, Roman judged him to be a guard of some sort – either private security or FBI, or possibly plain clothes cop — one of the covert specialty divisions that L.A. ran to these days.
Roman leaned back against the balustrade, making it look casual, but trying to see who was behind the guard. It didn’t help him see any better. The gangway was too narrow.
The front man reach Roman and stepped past with a sway of his body. He took another three steps then turned around. Roman heard the steps, but he wasn’t watching them.
He was examining the face of the man following the guard.
“I know you,” Roman said flatly, for his face was one he’d seen on television hundreds of times. Usually behind a podium, with the American flag and the Los Angeles county flag behind him and the seal of the city on the front of the podium.
The man smiled. “We know each other, Roman Xerus. Look to your personal history.”
Roman studied his face anew, trying to strip away the modern suit, the contemporary haircut and the Los Angeles downtown skyline behind him. He studied his eyes and re-heard again his voice…and heard it bawling orders on a bloody battlefield.
“Europe. The Hundred Day Offensive. Berlin and the surrender,” Roman murmured. “Idoremember. Colonel Drysdale of the Royal Welch Fusiliers.”
“Nasty business, that. Over one million allied troops were lost.” His accent was suddenly very British.
“I was counted amongst them.” Roman grimaced. “I had to start again after that one.”
The man who had been Drysdale smiled a little. “So did I.” He turned to look at the dying sun. “This abduction business you mentioned in your message is nasty, too.” All trace of his British accent was abruptly gone.
