Timely Defense Read online

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Timely Defense

  ISBN # 1-4199-0690-9

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Timely Defense Copyright© 2006 Nathalie Gray

  Edited by Mary Moran.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Electronic book Publication: November 2006

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Content Advisory:

  S – ENSUOUS

  E – ROTIC

  X - TREME

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated S-ensuous.

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. E-rated titles might contain material that some readers find objectionable—in other words, almost anything goes, sexually. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry in terms of both sexual language and descriptiveness in these works of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Stories designated with the letter X tend to contain difficult or controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  TIMELY DEFENSE

  Nathalie Gray

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Alfa Romeo: Fiat Auto S.p.A.

  Bambi: Disney Enterprises Inc.

  Botox: Allergan Inc.

  Conan the Barbarian: Conan Properties Inc.

  Datsun: Nissan Jidosha Kabushiki Kaisha Corporation

  Frankenstein’s Monster: Universal City Studio Inc.

  Gillette: Gillette Company

  Gucci: Gucci America Inc.

  Learjet: Learjet Inc.

  Mercedes Benz: DaimlerChrysler AG Corporation

  MP3: Thomson Multimedia Inc.

  Sherlock Holmes: Estate of Dame Jean Conan Doyle

  Startrek: Paramount Pictures Corporation

  The Three Stooges: C3 Entertainment Inc.

  The Time Machine: H.G. Wells, Bartleby.com Inc.

  The Twilight Zone: CBS Broadcasting Inc.

  Tic Tac: Ferrero S.p.A. Corporation

  Zorro: Zorro Productions Inc.

  Chapter One

  The first sign of trouble was ice cubes tinkling in his glass.

  A.J. slid the crystal tumbler farther on the teak ledge, clear of the stack of legal files he’d been going through, but the tinkling continued. After putting a stick of gum in his mouth, he returned the pack to his breast pocket and craned his neck over the leather backrest to catch the pilots exchanging nervous glances. Being six three was nice for that. It gave him a clear view. Even when he wished it didn’t…as in how he’d just seen the pilots looking as worried as he felt.

  The private jet—his client’s, a Swiss pharmaceutical giant—suddenly pitched down before leveling off. His migraine accentuated. They always did in times of stress, although they had begun to worry him of late. Sometimes, his head hurt so much he had to sit and take a breather. During his last yearly, the doc had remarked casually how at thirty-four stress was slowly killing him one neuron at a time. A.J. had always found her sense of humor a tad dry.

  Another bout of turbulence made him squeeze his eyes shut. The feeling his stomach was plugged directly in his throat forced A.J. to take a sip of ginger ale, hoping it’d help. Barely. Despite the day’s success, the flight to Geneva was proving to be very unpleasant. Still, what a day it’d been!

  He loved winning big court cases, especially when the triumph involved more money than even he could spend—and he could spend—drama, TV crews and cute jurors. The crown prosecutor had even refused to shake his hand after the verdict had been rendered. Jealous prick! That he’d charmed his way through jury selection and performed the worst case of character assassination in Toronto’s legal history only reinforced his view nice guys finished last. Alexandre-Jean Bernier never finished last. They didn’t call him The Shark for nothing.

  Another quiver rattled the ice cubes in his ginger ale. A.J. stood but a violent lurch slammed him back in his seat.

  “We’re going to experience some moderate to strong turbulence, sir, please fasten your seat belt,” said one of the pilots on the intercom. The German accent made the word “turbulence” sound like “toor-boo-lanssew”.

  “You think,” A.J. grumbled, chewing his gum with frantic energy. After patting his chest for the MP3 player, he hurriedly buckled his seat belt and tried to focus on the game of golf he’d been invited to play at a select club near Geneva. Yeah, focus on golf.

  He’d visited Europe several times but had never been to Switzerland. Winning such a high-profile pharmaceutical case had put a nice shine on his already glowing CV, which had garnered very profitable attention in return. Judging from the private jet, his newest client must have had a fat expense account. Great, because A.J. was as good as he was expensive.

  When a furious tremor shook the entire jet, bright yellow masks popped out of the overhead panels and dangled in his face. The same cheap plastic as economy class. Ha. Somewhere at the rear of the jet, he heard his luggage thudding around. He didn’t care for the clothes—although they were designer pieces, each of them, right down to his underwear—but as long as his golf set was fine, he wouldn’t sue. This set had cost more than his first car. He couldn’t believe how in the span of a decade he’d gone from driving a battered Datsun to the silver monster of an Alfa Romeo parked at home.

  Violent turbulence and blinding lightning strikes forced his eyes closed, and for a second A.J. swore he was going to faint. Actually faint like a woman! It’d happened to him once in high school when he’d tried to impress a girl and taken on Steve Jarvis, hockey captain and neighborhood brute. A.J. had ended up flat on his back, bleeding from the nose and going blind—or so he’d thought though he’d woken to discover he’d only fainted, to his undying shame. Back in prepuberty years, he’d been a scrawny little thing with a too-big head and gangly limbs. At six three and two twenty-four, he was scrawny no more. But he still couldn’t fight and instead relied on his killer smile to charm his way out of trouble. Or sue the shit out of it, whichever worked. He wasn’t a scrupulous sort of man.

  He checked his watch just to give himself something to do. Four o’clock. Barely an hour left. Not quick enough. A.J. leaned sideways so he could take a peek through the window and wished he hadn’t.

  “What the hell…?”

  The rest of his sentence died in his throat as bright blue flashes illuminated ash-gray clouds from within. He was just a lawyer, but shouldn’t they be flying over a storm instead of right through it? A.J. was about to voice his concern when everything inside the cabin went black. Shaking like a lone Tic Tac in its box, he braced his hands on the elbow rests, clutching at them until his knuckles burned. Damn. This wasn’t good. Not good.

  Someone is so getting sued for this.

  With a gasp he watched as everything turned a blinding white that seared through his brain, triggering tiny bursting suns at the edge of his vision. His cheeks
felt numb, his ears buzzed. Then nothing.

  * * * * *

  A.J. dreamed he was peeing.

  He knew it was a dream because he was doing it standing. Only armchair sports fans and bikers peed standing. His mom had taught him to sit as a civilized man. Thinking of her made him feel better. She’d died while he was still a good lawyer. An honest one. Even if he didn’t believe in anything divine, he hoped heaven existed and she was finally having some well-deserved rest. It hadn’t been easy rearing a headstrong and popular boy all by herself, putting him in all the “right” schools, the “right” sports, exposing him to the “right” people. Despite their humble background and financial vulnerability, he’d landed in a top-drawer legal firm and been made partner within a couple of years. Her cancer had won not long afterward but, dammit, he’d showered her with gifts and attention for the short time he’d been able to. In a sense, it was better to have lost her before the nickname and the high-profile cases. A.J. didn’t think he could’ve lived with the disappointment in her eyes.

  A.J. could almost hear her… Her only child, a bright boy, a popular boy, turned into the worst kind of cynical, coldhearted lawyer. The courtroom equivalent of a hit man.

  The urge to pee woke him fully.

  A.J. jerked to a sitting position and blinked several times. Where the hell was he? He’d never believed in hallucinations. Those were for the feeble-minded, over-medicated quacks who populated courtrooms—on either side of the aisle too.

  There were no burgundy drapes tied around the four-poster bed in which he lay.

  No giant fireplace occupied a stone wall on which hung tapestries depicting quaint hunting scenes.

  And there certainly could not be a cute girl with a bonnet and medieval dress squeaking in fright and dashing out the door.

  Okay, I’m seeing things. We obviously crashed and I bonked my head really hard against the genuine teak armrests of the ultra-expensive Learjet. Yep. That’s it. Concussion. I’m so suing the cretins.

  Auditory hallucinations joined those of the visual variety when several voices rose beyond the door—cleated too—and two men wearing dresses and swords barged into the room and started yelling at him in a language he didn’t understand. Bonnet Girl returned, a woman with the palest blonde hair he’d ever seen in tow. Everyone started talking at once until the woman said a single harsh word and everyone shut right up. Much better. She had the Prosecutor from Hell thing going for her, right down to the Stare of Impending Annihilation.

  She took a tentative step toward him, said something he couldn’t understand and waited. Clearly, she’d asked him a question.

  A.J. snapped his chin in her general direction. “Who the hell are you?”

  One of the men, a large fellow with reddish-blond hair and beard, slid his sword halfway out its sheath and looked at the woman as if asking, “Can I bash his head in since we don’t understand what he’s saying? Can I, huh, can I?”

  Before checking his dress code, A.J. flipped the sheets over his legs, swung them over the edge and cursed when he realized he was butt naked. Both the Boss Lady and Bonnet Girl squealed the way only women could and flinched while he hurriedly yanked the sheet around his waist. Standing, he bunched the sheet in front of him and advanced on Boss Lady.

  “What happened? Did we crash? Where are the other two guys, the pilots? And, Christ, would you tell Conan the Barbarian to put the prop back before he pokes someone in the eye?”

  With each question, Boss Lady took a small step back from him and A.J. only noticed then how cute she was. Cute in a blonde, blue-eyed, pleasantly plump and curvy way. Too bad he was too busy being a crash-landing victim about to take legal action to properly introduce himself and ask her out for dinner. He noticed too late the pewter pot at his feet and kicked it. Yellow liquid—damn let it not be what I think it is—sloshed all over his feet and what portion of sheet that dragged on the floor. It was still warm.

  “Arghhhhhhh, Jesus fucking Christ!”

  With a leap, he cleared the disgusting mess and leaned against the stone wall, panting and shaking his foot. Drops of…PISS landed on the immaculate wooden floor. “Okay, tell me what the hell is going on before I start suing everything that fucking moves!”

  Conan took a threatening step forward, clearly not impressed with the tone. A.J. stared guns at him while Bonnet Girl rushed out of the room. Scowling, Boss Lady cocked her head at him while her gaze traveled down his denuded chest and belly to the fist he kept over the sheet around his waist then lower. Talk about taking advantage of the situation!

  On the floor, a rivulet of piss was crawling dangerously near. He backed away against the wall, realizing fully how much of an under-medicated mental patient it made him look while he kept the sheet up over his ankles. A corner—warm but rapidly cooling—had stuck to his ankle. Dis-gus-ting.

  It dawned on him he might be in France or Switzerland since the plane had only been an hour or so from Geneva when the storm had struck. English would be getting him nowhere fast. Good thing he’d been born and raised in bilingual Montreal, home of The Best Smoked Meat Sandwiches in the world and some hockey team he couldn’t name.

  “Where am I?” he asked in French.

  Finally, a light bulb seemed to have gone on in everyone’s eyes.

  “You are in my home, in Sargans,” Boss Lady replied.

  Her peculiar and heavily accented French required some mental interpreting but he thought he got most of it. “What happened? Did we crash? Where are the others?”

  “We found you by the lake, late the day before yesterday. You were hurt. There was no one else but you, Sir…”

  “The name’s A.J. That’s impossible. There were two other men—the pilots—and the not-so-small Learjet we were traveling in. You know, a plane? Big metal white thing with wings?”

  She raised her hand, which silenced him and stopped Conan and his colleague from coming around the bed toward A.J. He didn’t like the look on the large man’s face. Neither did he like the sword in his hand. Judging by the holster-scabbard thing, the blade must have been as long as a hockey stick!

  “There was no one else but you, Sir Ayjay,” she snapped. “You should lie back down before you undo all the hard work we put into you. You have lost blood.”

  It occurred to him he might be walking around with a horrible head wound or broken back and hurriedly checked for injuries. Boss Lady was right, he’d been injured…in the face too, dammit. With tentative fingers he touched his eyebrow, felt sharp little points sticking out…

  Noooo.

  Someone had stitched him back up. To judge by the rest of the surroundings, these folks must have used yarn. Great. Now he’d look like Frankenstein’s Monster.

  “You stitched me back up?! Are you a doctor? A nurse? Or do you go around and suture head wounds in your spare time? What else do you do, vasectomy, open-heart?” He pointed to his face. “No one but a qualified doctor gets to touch this, is that clear? You’re already—”

  “My stitching,” she cut in, her cheeks flushing beet red, “is the finest in the region, Sir Ayjay, and I assure you—”

  “Yeah, yeah, and I can staple sheets of paper together but it doesn’t make me an engineer, now does it?”

  A look of confusion and fury crossed her face.

  He threw his hands up, or meant to anyway, but it’d mean giving up on the sheet, which he wasn’t about to do in front of three people—two of them guys. “Mirror. Got any of those?”

  Boss Lady indicated something behind him. A.J. turned, spotted nothing but a dresser with a small earthenware mug and something resembling a caveman’s idea of a CD. “Am I supposed to see something? What am I looking for?”

  “You asked for a mirror. Here is one,” the blonde replied. By her side, both men wore that macho expression—oh look, girlie wants a mirror—A.J. particularly disliked.

  Neolithic CD in hand, A.J. angled it to his face. “You’re kidding me, right? I wouldn’t even know it was me in there. I cou
ld have a cowlick like a horn right on the top of my head and not see a damn thing. Do you have a real mirror?”

  “This is a real mirror.”

  A.J. put gentle fingers to his stitches again. Sharp but pliable at the same time. Strange. “What did you use to sew me back together?”

  “Sheep gut, of course.”

  “Arghhhh! Sheep gut?” A.J. thought he was going to start hyperventilating. In the name of everything that’s holy… “Sheep gut? As in, stomach and…and…oh fuck. Intestines? Ever heard of bacteria? Germs, you know, little things that crawl around IN YOUR GUT?!”

  Boss Lady only cocked her head as though he made little sense but was entertaining as hell.

  Bonnet Girl came rushing back, a basin and a folded cloth in hand. She was getting down to her knees, clearly intending to wash his feet, when A.J. grabbed her sleeve and pulled her up.

  “No, no. I don’t think so. I’ll—”

  Everyone froze as he reached for the cloth in the girl’s hand. He looked up at Boss Lady’s face, an expression of intense embarrassment making her even cuter while both men looked as if he’d just gutted a baby rabbit with a wooden spoon. Horrified didn’t begin to express the look on their faces.

  What?

  Realizing he must have done something remarkably stupid and strange for these folks, A.J. pulled his hand away, looked down at Bonnet Girl and offered what he hoped was an apologetic grimace. She just stared as if he’d sprouted another head in the middle of his chest. He tried to ignore the fact a girl was washing his own urine off his feet before thanking her and walking around to stand by Boss Lady.

  “I want to see that lake. There has to be something left and you’re going to take me right now.”

  Conan snarled something to his boss, who shook her blonde head. A.J. had made it his specialty to read people. It’d proven invaluable when it came time to push their buttons. So he interpreted what had just happened as Conan asking his boss if he could hurt him, at least just a little. Boss replied, no, just look at him, the poor bugger, he’s standing in piss with his face bashed in and reconstructed using sheep intestine and bits of bark. Let him be.