Free Loop by Karen Akins Page B

in the man’s forehead.
    “That’s it. Woodman.”
    “And you know the owner of the house?” he asked, looking me up and down.
    “Yes.” Okay, so maybe I should have spent a little more time in the mirror that morning. I was wearing standard twenty-first-century clothing—stretchy T-shirt, faded jeans, scuffed boots—not exactly running with the jet set no matter which century I was in. “I’m friends with their son.”
    He let it drop, but the ride seemed to take twice as long as it had mere days before. If I thought I had learned more than I ever wanted to know about wild ponies before, I now knew more than I ever thought possible. The going rate for a pony at the next day’s auction, the most sought-after markings, and the potential fertilizer output from three ponies.
    That’s right. I listened to the couple discuss horse poop for twenty minutes.
    When we pulled up to the house, they looked around the property uncertainly. The windows were dark, no sign of life.
    “You’re positive you don’t want us to stay?” asked the woman.
    “I’ll be fine. Thanks again for the ride.” I waved as they drove away.
    The doorbell played a cheery tune when I pressed it, but no one came to answer it. I backed up and stood on my tiptoes to see if the Haven Beacon was lit. It wasn’t. Mostly because it wasn’t there .
    “That’s weird.” The mission date was three months after my midterm, and I hadn’t seen any moving boxes or a FOR SALE sign last time. I went around back to the base of the deck, where I had shaken out my shoes. The sand ran through my fingers like water as I sifted the whole area. Nothing. Dang it.
    I walked back up to the porch and leaned on the bell until it played one long note, in case someone was home and playing hard to get. A flash of movement near the window registered in the corner of my eye. The door flew open. A man’s hand plunged out. It grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the foyer.
    I twisted my arm to release it, but the hand held on. Tight, yet not hurting me at all. I continued to struggle against my captor, but he adjusted to my every move almost before I made it. My senses jumped to prey mode—eyes darting in the dim light—and took in every detail. Door. Fully shut but not dead-bolted. The air smelled like home-baked bread and cloves. I couldn’t hear anything but the labored breaths that tickled my right ear. The rest of the room was unchanged from my last visit, except for a few new da Vinci sketches mounted high up on the wall. (Now there was a man sporting three green candles if ever there was one.)
    As I tilted my head, the grip on my arm loosened. I turned and found myself staring into the face of, well, I had no idea who it was. But he wasn’t hard on the eyes. Apparently, he’d just gotten out of the shower. He rubbed a towel slowly against his damp hair. Even with his muscles relaxed, they strained against his thin shirt.
    Ba-da-bing. The Mastersons never mentioned an older son. Nephew? Live-in male model?
    He let go of my wrist and took a few steps back. I fumbled to open Mimi’s QuantCom and braced for an emergency fade.
    “Bree. It’s … it’s you.”
    “How do you know my—?”
    Before I had a chance to finish, the stranger closed the space between us with a single stride. He crushed me to his broad chest even as I tried to push him away. He released me long enough to catch my breath. And it was good he did, because the next thing I knew warm lips were pressed against mine, kissing them with a frantic, almost desperate energy. He clutched my hand in his, circling it around his waist. His lips calmed into a gentle rhythm. The kiss wasn’t altogether unpleasant. It was altogether unexpected.
    I reared back and slapped him. Hard.
    “What was that for?” He rubbed the spot where I hit his cheek. A rosy mark lingered.
    “For kissing me, what do you think?” I took another step back and held my hand against the doorknob, ready to bolt if he so much as