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LENGTH: Mid Novel-Borderline Full
SENSUALITY: Spicy

Cover art (c) Amber Moon 2004
ISBN 1-58608-310-4
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Don't let her go into the fire... Don't let her come home ... or she will die... A desperate plea that he can't ignore, that sends a shiver up his spine.

When Dusty Monroe cries for help from the burning ship, Gregor Quinn rescues her not knowing if she is his friend or a dangerous enemy waiting to tear him down. But the stones in his amulet, charmed with a binding spell have brought her to him. They share visions ... of hope ... of fear ... of flaming passion....

And he watches her die.…

Rating: Contains strong sexual content, explicit sex, violence against the heroine (not by hero) and some strong language.

A PLACE OUT OF TIME

By

Angel Lynn

© copyright December 2004, Angel Lynn

Cover Art by Amber Moon, © copyright December 2004

ISBN 1-58608-310-4

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

The slap was hard, much harder than those she endured before. She could feel the heat rise to her cheek where he backhanded her. He dragged her to the back of an alley to the side of the diner, away from the ogling of the pedestrians on the sidewalk, looking for privacy to scold her.

Scold her.

She would snort at the choice of words if she knew it wouldn’t earn her another slap.

Dusty touched the tender spot with her fingertips. There would be another bruise to explain.

This time on her face.

She had barely healed from the marks he left on her upper arms only a week before when he angrily grabbed and shook her. All over her inability to cook noodles long enough. He called her stupid then, telling her she was good for nothing, and then he dug his fingers so hard into her upper arms she felt her hands go numb. She shouldn’t have worn that short sleeve shirt when she went out that night, but Dusty didn’t realize that the shape of the contusions he left on her were obviously recognizable as fingerprints. She didn’t think anyone would notice. But they did. Those marks alone evoked a barrage of questions from her friends, but she told them she and Timothy were just goofing around--wrestling and it got a little out of hand. How would she explain this one? Well, at least she was able to hide the bruise on her back where he kicked her last month.

Dusty was sure he’d done damage to her kidney. Just thinking about it made her wince, the doctor’s lecture replaying in her mind, as he handed her a card with the domestic abuse hot line on it. She threw it away as soon as she left his office. If Timothy ever found it, he’d kill her.

"My God, Timothy, I was only ten minutes late."

The accident on the interstate, which caused rubbernecking drivers to pass by at a snail’s pace, nosing to get a look at the mangled mass of metal, was what had delayed her.

She should have used her cell phone to call him, but she didn’t.

Dusty had no desire to listen to Timothy’s ranting and raving. Her anxiety from being trapped in the highway gridlock, under the blaze of an eighty-five degree sun, had already put her emotions on overload.

With bewilderment, Dusty looked at Timothy. It wasn’t her fault, and she tried to explain.

His fuming expression remained solidly in place. It was always Dusty’s fault. "You were with him, weren’t you?"

Dusty shook her head.

Not this again.

Her thumb unconsciously twirled the two carat, diamond ring that circled her left ring finger. It was a nervous habit she had acquired--she didn’t know when--but it was a continuous reminder that he was the man she had chosen to spend the rest of her life with--shackled to, was the more appropriate sentiment.

"Who, Timothy?" Dusty forced herself to stare directly into his eyes, hoping he would see the truth there.

How had it come to this?

During the first year of their courtship, and before they were engaged, Dusty thought Timothy was her knight in shining armor, always attentive to her needs, calling her daily just to say, hello, showing up at her work or her apartment unexpectedly because he missed her.

In retrospect he was a little too possessive, obsessed even, but she convinced herself that it was because he cared. He would make an ideal husband. Timothy was intelligent and handsome, and quite successful. At thirty-five years of age, he was a highly regarded executive--President in Charge of Loans at the local division of Orbital International Bank. With the frequent business trips out of town and added responsibilities, it looked as though a major promotion was on the horizon.

Dusty assumed the increased stress from his job was what changed him. It was subtle at first. He started to become agitated and she became the target of his frustration.

But then he became aggressive.

The first time he hit her, she walked out on him. He begged for her forgiveness, making promises he would not keep.

She forgave him--and then she forgave him again. Eventually he stopped asking for her forgiveness and instead just blamed her--for everything.

That was six month’s ago and Dusty was finally beginning to realize that Timothy was not going to stop beating her.

Maybe it really was her fault.

Her friends knew. Brenda and Ellen tried to warn her, telling Dusty that there was something just not quite right with him. From the very beginning, two years ago, when she introduced Timothy to her friends, they had been suspicious of his exaggerated charm.

Dusty brushed aside their opinions. Her determination to make this relationship work, when she had failed at so many others, was overriding her reason. After all, at thirty years of age, she wasn’t getting any younger--as Timothy was always reminding her.

True, Timothy was demanding but she didn’t mind, or chose to ignore it. She wanted a strong-willed man, one who would take charge.

Am I supposed to marry a wimp?

It was a logical excuse. Not that getting slapped around was a picnic in the park.

Oh honey, Brenda had looked at Dusty with sympathy as she placed a gentle arm around her shoulders. Good men don’t hit their women.

He’s not hitting me.

If you say so.

Once they were married, once she belonged to Timothy, he would change. Anyway, Timothy would kill her if she left him. He told her so, many times, with his silent glares and his spoken words, and his physical abuse.

Mostly with his physical abuse.

Dusty took a deep breath and began backing away from him, seeking the safety of the crowded, public sidewalk behind her.

"Are we going to have lunch?" She watched Timothy’s fists clench and unclench. A contemptuous grin appeared on his lips as he scanned her body.

"Let’s skip lunch today. You’re getting fat and you do want to fit into your wedding dress, don’t you?"

Fat?

Dusty blew out a gust of air, a mix of righteous anger and disbelief. This was a new insult. At five foot eight and one hundred and fifty-six pounds, Dusty was fit and firm with muscle. She worked out regularly at the station, and she swam laps once a week at the local gym. She liked what she saw in the mirror, or at least she used to.

She never thought of herself as fat--big boned maybe, but definitely not fat.

Was she fat? Well, maybe her thighs were a little large, and her ass.

In one short comment, Timothy made her feel inadequate, and all she could do was stare at the ground.

A series of bleeping sounds interrupted them.

Dusty checked her beeper, turned away from Timothy and walked to her jeep. Reaching over the driver’s side door, she picked up the microphone to her HAM radio, turning to lean against the vehicle door as she lifted it to her mouth. Timothy was right behind her. He propped one hand over the crossbar, the other on the frame of her windshield, pinning Dusty in between his outstretched arms, staring at her and listening as she spoke.

"Monroe here. Yes, Lieutenant." Dusty looked up at Timothy and pursed her lips. His brow was twisted in an angry scowl.

He pressed his body closer to hers. Dusty arched backward away from him, nearly toppling over the vehicle’s door and into the front seat of her Wrangler. His gesture wasn’t an affectionate one. The glare in his eyes told Dusty he meant to intimidate her.

It was working.

When had she become so frightened of him? There were few things that ever frightened Dusty before.

"I’m on my way." Dusty replaced the microphone and looked at Timothy. "I have to go."

"Now what!"

"There’s a fire on the North ridge, and campers need to be evacuated."

Timothy’s nostril’s flared. But Dusty knew he would refrain from hitting her, out in the open, where others might witness it. She would be in for it later though, unless something calmed him down.

Lately it seemed there was nothing that calmed him down.

"I’m on call, Timothy. I have to go to work."

"When we’re married you’re going to quit that damn job."

Dusty flashed a disgusted look at him. He responded with a crooked, disdainful grin, grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her body against his.

"Now Dusty, don’t give me that face." Timothy cranked his neck to bring his head within inches of hers. "You’ll quit the job and there will be no more discussion."

Dusty blew out an exasperated breath of air. She would concede for now. This wasn’t the time or the place to argue about it. Thank god she hadn’t moved in with him when he suggested it.

Think before you speak. Her mother always told her. A wave of sadness washed over her.

Oh mom, if only you were still here to help me.

"I have to go."

Timothy dug his fingers into her flesh and brushed his lips against hers. Dusty flinched and tried to jerk away. Regret filled her. He didn’t turn her on anymore, and she wasn’t even married to him yet.

"I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear your red dress."

"I can’t wear that dress!" Dusty shook her head from side to side as she grimaced. She hated that dress--the one that Timothy had bought her. With its much too short hem line and much too plunging neckline, it made her look like a bimbo.

Timothy snickered when she tried to explain this. "You’ll wear the dress, and you’ll wear your hair down." He fingered the ends of her blonde hair hanging from the bun she twisted at the top of her head. His face held an expression of disgust. "You look like a schoolmarm with your hair like this. It’s completely unattractive."

He grabbed her under the chin with one hand and squeezed her face, causing her lips to pucker, smiling at her wryly.

"You’re hurting me, Timothy," Dusty slurred through her puckered up mouth. Her eyes drifted beyond him to the sidewalk. Mrs. Reynolds was standing there, prim and proper with one eyebrow crooked, looking at Timothy with pompous disapproval. Her well-groomed, prissy little poodle skittered about on the cement, yapping and tangling in his leash.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Reynolds." Dusty jerked away from Timothy’s clutch and blushed profusely. How much of their exchange had she seen ... or heard?

Mrs. Reynolds nodded and strolled away without saying a word--the snob.

Great, Dusty thought. That’s all she needed was to be the center of gossip. And there would be gossip. Mrs. Reynolds was notorious for running her mouth.

Dusty turned her attention back to Timothy. "I have to go."

"So go." He held out his upturned palms. "Who’s stopping you?"

"I’ll see you tonight." Dusty got into her jeep and buckled in. She unclipped her sunglasses from the visor and pushed them onto her face. As Dusty pulled away from the curb, her eyes shifted to the rearview mirror and she watched Timothy’s image grow smaller until he became just a speck on the sidewalk.

Like a pesky bug, Dusty imagined herself flicking him away with her fingers.

She groaned inwardly. He was not pleased that the nosy Mrs. Reynolds witnessed their argument. His reputation in the area was impeccable and he would blame her if anyone ever suggested otherwise.

Because it was always her fault.

She would pay for this later--to what degree was anyone’s guess. Timothy’s moods were so unpredictable.

How on earth had she gotten herself into such a mess? Dusty thought, as her vehicle passed the sign at the side of the road thanking her for visiting Alexandria Bay.

Thankful that her beeper had gone off, Dusty was glad for the excuse to escape from Timothy.

Pushing her problems with Timothy to the back of her mind, Dusty popped in a CD, and turned up the volume. She headed east toward the ranger’s stations, which was located just five miles past Butterfield Lake and twelve miles east from Alexandria. It would take her about thirty minutes to get there, if she drove the speed limit.

She never drove the speed limit.

Speeding along the highway was one of her greatest enjoyments. With the wind whipping in her hair, and the humming noise of the engine, Dusty felt free--like she was flying--like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Dusty smiled, relishing the sensation as her eyes flicked to the sign just up ahead.

Welcome to Splintered Post ... Population five hundred and forty-one.

At her rate of speed it only took her ten minutes to get there. Next time she’d shoot for eight.

Splintered Post was the little town she grew up in, and pedestrians were notorious for stepping off curbs without looking. She’d crossed the streets herself many times without a second glance to see if a vehicle was coming. The town was just too quiet, too laid back. People didn’t worry about a passing car or two. She liked it that way.

Dusty eased up on the accelerator.

As she cruised through the town’s business section, she slowed her jeep to a crawl and then stopped at the red light that was just on the edge of town.

"Hey, Dusty! How are ya?" She was greeted with a few waves and shouts from some of the locals who were out and going about their daily business--her neighbors.

Dusty smiled and waved back. "I’m just fine, Mr. Pope."

"Going to the fire on Candace Hill, Dusty?"

"Yep. Heading there now, Mrs. Anderson."

"Careful up there today, Smokey Bear." Dusty turned to the voice that came from her right and saw Chuck Anderson. He stopped sweeping the walk in front of his grocery store, to give Dusty a proud grin.

"I will, Papa Bear." Dusty beamed fondly at the man she’d known all of her life. Chuck was her father’s best friend and had become a paternal figure to Dusty. He and his wife, Margie had taken her into their household and under their wings, giving her a place to stay after her parents died. She was only seventeen at the time.

There was much to be said for growing up in a small town with the long time residents who lived there all or most of their lives. They were like one big happy family--or feuding family sometimes, as the story goes, but most arguments between the townspeople were usually simple ones, such as whose property ended where or who made the best pie entered at the county fair. Mostly, disputes were incited more by boredom than any real heartfelt anger, and often resolved quickly with few residual grudges remaining.

Dusty released a sigh, thinking about how contented she felt living in a small town.

Looking up, she saw that the light had turned green and she gave Chuck a quick wave, lifting her foot from the break. Her jeep started rolling forward.

"Take care, Papa Bear!" she yelled, pressing on the gas pedal. "I’ll see you on Sunday for dinner!"

She headed out of Splintered Post, passing by several of the residential homes dotting the road. Just before she hit the open highway she spied Rupert and Sparky sitting side by side on the walk in front of Sparky’s home.

Dusty laughed. Rupert was a West Highlander White Terrier with an irritating, yapping bark. Sparky was the tortoise shell cat that lived next door. On any given day, it wasn’t unusual to see the temperamental cat hissing and clawing at the little pooch, but today Rupert was lapping Sparky beneath the chin like they were old-time, bosom buddies. Sparky’s head was tipped back in an ecstatic pose, her feline nose pointing skyward and her eyes were closed. No doubt the cat was purring.

Yep, one big happy family.

Her smile instantly turned into a frown as her thoughts strayed back to Timothy. If only her issues with him could be resolved with an affectionate stroking. But it was much more complex than that.

Dusty scratched the side of her head and then her fingertips moved to touch the heated flesh on her cheek where Timothy had hit her. He forewarned her that a promotion would mean moving to The Big Apple or possibly as far away as Los Angeles. Dusty didn’t like the prospect of moving to a big, noisy city. She snapped her head to one side, tossing a wayward strand of hair from her face and puffing out a frustrated breath.

"I’m not going to think about it right now," she mumbled to herself, stowing the feelings for the time being.

Dusty promised herself that she would figure it all out later.

Her foot pressed harder on the accelerator and she flipped the switch on the halogen light that sat on top of her dashboard. The blue beam began spinning and flashing. The darn strobe was bright enough to cause a seizure, but at least Jeff, the cranky state trooper, wouldn’t stop her this time. She had a good excuse for flying down the road. Giving her a speeding ticket would not only be useless, it would earn Jeff a reprimand for halting a ranger on emergency call.

"Slow it up, Dusty." Jeff’s voice crackled from the intercom on her short-wave. She could see the trooper’s car sitting at the center median just up ahead.

She picked up the microphone. "Don’t ask me where the fire is, Jeff."

"You’re going ninety, Missy. I can stop you for that."

To appease him, she slowed to a snail’s pace of seventy-five, catching just a glimpse of Jeff, but enough see his authoritative posturing as he stood by his squad car. His head was poised in its usual irritated tilt, his feet spread and his hands akimbo. Nevertheless, Dusty flashed a broad smile and waved to him, her head bobbing to the beat of the blasting music, when her jeep sped by.

When Dusty’s head snapped forward again, the smoke rising in the distance caught her attention. It was coming from the north end of Candace Mountain. She took a deep breath, the slight, but distinct smell of a forest fire tickling her nose. She blew the breath out, feeling relief at the fire’s location. It was in a less popular section of the state campgrounds. Hopefully there wouldn’t be too many campers still needing evacuation. Most of them were probably already moved to the safety zones by now.

She shook her head. During dry summers, these fires coupled with gusty winds, had a tendency to spread quickly. Unfortunately, the present weather conditions made that a distinct possibility. It would be essential to get the fire quickly contained or many more campers would need to be vacated.

The faint sound of an engine rumbled overhead drawing Dusty’s attention upward. A tanker plane was crossing the horizon over the mountains and she could see the thick mist falling as it spilled its flame-smothering contents.

"Shit!" Her head jerked back to the road and Dusty jammed her foot on the brakes. She yanked on the steering wheel, making a sharp right turn on the road she nearly missed. The back tires screeched. Her jeep fishtailed several times, and she felt her left two wheels leave the ground. Dusty struggled to regain control of her vehicle, her heart pounding wildly, as her jeep finally righted itself. She drew in a number of quick breaths, her eyes simultaneously snapping to the rear view mirror to see if Jeff was following, but the road was deserted. Dusty let out a quick laugh and whistled, getting more of a thrill from her body’s fight or flight reaction, than fear.

You’re an excellent driver, Dusty thought wryly as her foot pressed the accelerator again, and she headed up the cat tail. It was the nickname the locals gave to Route Nine, not just because of the number assigned to the road, but also because of the way it curved around Knob Hill, ending in the town of Calico--a mere hop, skip and a jump from Splintered Post. The cat tail was the only paved road connecting the two towns, though there were many cobbled back-routes that the locals used to get around. Dusty usually preferred these roads even though it took longer to get from point A to point B. The tranquillity and sense of well-being that traveling through unmarred forest regions gave her, was unmatched by anything else she’d ever experienced. It was particularly cathartic during the cold, winter months, when the forests were covered by a blanket of snow, mantling any signs of life. Dusty would often take these roads, stopping her vehicle for a quick reprieve from civilization and pretend her life was different. It was there that Dusty could wrap herself in the solitude of mother nature, listening to the sounds of silence piercing the atmosphere so profoundly that if she was still enough, she could hear a pin drop.

Today however, Dusty couldn’t spare a moment to indulge in quiet ruminations. She needed to get to the ranger station, and this was the quickest way to get there. Her foot depressed the accelerator, and she watched as the speedometer hit eighty-five, her eyes instinctively flicking to the rear view mirror for signs of Jeff. She smiled with satisfaction when she saw only the empty road, thinking that some men were much easier to dodge than others.