Caught. Kristin Hardy
by his side.
The music ended, and the silence of the hall was broken only by the rustling of the throng.
Hortath cleared his throat. “May all the gods of this land give strength and health to our ruler, Queen Anan. Let great joy and celebration mark this day, the day the Queen will stand before you with her consort, a great warrior to keep the realm safe and bring forth heirs.”
But it wasn’t Anan’s choice. The priests made the decision, as they did in so many things. Anan would find out at the same time as the rest of the kingdom. She would take Lagash, they’d speculated, though she bore him no love and he was two score harvests older than she. She would take him into her life, take him into her bed.
Batu ached for her sister.
Hortath raised his hands. “Let stand forth the consort whom the gods have chosen.” He waited a moment for silence. “Let stand forth Egmath.”
And the hall erupted with cheers.
Let stand forth Egmath. The impossible words reverberated in Batu’s head. She felt stunned, as though the knowledge held the force of a blow. It was impossible, unbearable. Egmath was hers, her destiny. But the priests wished to control his power and they’d sworn him to Anan.
At the foot of the dais Egmath looked frozen, unable to move. And she who knew him better than all, she who could read every nuance in his expression, saw pure agony in the liquid dark eyes. He looked at her and for a moment they locked eyes, not caring, finally, about the multitudes around them. For a moment, words, feelings flowed through his gaze.
My beloved…
My only…
My lost one…
My duty…
And Egmath stepped forward and strode up to the dais.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Prologue
Upstate New York Saturday, April 29
“I AM SO DONE WITH THIS,” Julia Covington said to herself.
And stepped out the door into thin air.
Not surprisingly, she dropped like a rock. That was why smart people knew enough to stay inside the airplane.
They’d lied when they’d said it was like flying. It wasn’t a bit like flying. Or floating. What it was like was falling, strapped to a jump instructor, her stomach up her throat, the wind flapping around her, nothing to hold her as she watched the distant—and really large, really hard—earth come inexorably closer.
And her mind, analytical to the last, couldn’t stop processing. Acceleration due to gravity was thirty-two feet per second squared, which meant every second she fell thirty-two feet per second faster. Until terminal velocity, of course, a mere hundred and twenty miles an hour, which she should be reaching shortly. On the ground she’d get thrown in jail for going a hundred and twenty miles an hour. Up here she just got charged a lot of money for the privilege. A hundred and twenty miles an hour—more than sufficient to make a nice little splat when she hit the ground.
She really hoped she’d packed the parachute right.
She glowered at her old college roommate Sasha, who’d come up with the whole extreme-sports idea. It’ll be good for you. Live life on the edge. Grinning giddily, Sasha waved.
“How did I let you talk me into this?” Julia shouted, words that were ripped away by the wind.
Sasha cupped one hand to her pressure helmet. “Whaaat?”
Julia shook her head. It didn’t matter. She knew why she’d done it—the same reason behind nearly every absurd thing she’d done over the past eight months. Since her divorce. Since her emancipation from Edward Cleary, her controlling, disillusioned Svengali of an ex-husband. Edward, who’d loved her as the naive student he could mold and instruct. Edward, who wasn’t at all prepared for a Julia with a mind of her own.
And she’d been demonstrating that mind of her own since the papers had been signed by trying every foolish thing she could think of that would make Edward turn purple with disapproval. So okay, maybe the incident on the balcony at Mardi Gras hadn’t been well thought through, but she’d crash the Miramax party at Cannes again any day.
It had been a pretty fun eight months.
And it was time to end it.
Too bad she hadn’t come to that decision before she’d leaped from the airplane. Timing, as they said, was everything.
She felt the tap of the jump instructor on her shoulder and she swallowed. The minute of free fall had whipped by astonishingly quickly. Now came the moment of truth, the moment she pulled the rip cord. A feather light landing or…splat?
Julia grasped the toggle. She stared at the ground, at the squares and circles of green rushing toward her. What was the saying—God protects fools and drunks? Well, she certainly wasn’t drunk, more was the pity, but she was the champion of all fools.
Holding her breath, she tugged—
And with a whispering rush, the chute unfolded smoothly, dragging her vertical. Suddenly, she was floating, with the world spread out below her. Okay, now this part wasn’t so bad. This, she could do. Now she had time to think, time out from the world to figure out what came next. Because she was going to be hitting ground eventually, and when she did, it was time for a change. Most women had transitional men after divorces.
She’d had a transitional life.
Time to move on. Of course, she’d had a transitional man, too—or at least a transitional purely sexual, as-often-and-outrageous-as-possible affair. She sighed wistfully.
Time to move on there, too.
Because when you came right down to it, she wasn’t wild Julia, skydiving, sex-in-public party girl. She was serious, practical, collected Julia. Anything else was temporary, a pose.
The past five minutes had graphically demonstrated that to her.
It was time to get her life back in order. When she hit the ground, she’d get started. When she hit the ground, it was time to make some changes.
1
Manhattan Friday, May 5, 1:00 a.m.
“GOOD LORD.” Alex Spencer rolled onto his back, gasping for breath, heart hammering against his chest. “No more Asian sex manuals for you, woman. You’ve ruined me.”
“I’ve ruined you?” Julia Covington managed through her own heavy breathing.
With her dark hair tumbled loose and wild around her shoulders and her skin gleaming pale in the light from her entryway, she looked like some odalisque in a seventeenth- century painting—beautiful, tempting and thoroughly addictive. Even now, looking at her made him dry-mouthed with desire.
If he’d been thinking straight, he’d have been worried.
Then again, he’d hardly thought straight once since that evening she’d appeared at the museum fund-raiser in a flame-hot red dress that had left nothing to the imagination. The dry, serious Ms. Covington, who never appeared in anything but utterly simple garments in shades of taupe, charcoal and cocoa, was suddenly a siren. He couldn’t have said what had shocked him more—the dress or the fact that she’d left with him.