Prince of Time. Rebecca York
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?