Egg-cerpt from Roarke

Roarke
From: Devine Destinies
by Frances Pauli
Science Fiction Romance




Blurb:





They have to be lying when they tell her she was dead. With no memoryof her past, and no idea who she actually is, Nora has little options.Alone, and at the mercy of the Mercenary Defense Conglomerate, shesearches for clues into her past, and the truth about her supposeddemise.

If she is a prisoner, robbed of memory and held against her will, thenshe must trust no one. If she has, in fact, returned from the dead,then who could possibly help her? Armed with only her wits and herinexplicably sharpened senses, she is forced to play along, to searchfor the holes in their story and to piece together the flashes ofmemory that serve only to taunt her.

But the visions seem to confirm the impossible. The man who issupposed to be her fiancé seems bent on confusing her, and the oneperson she is desperate to be near may very well be responsible forher death. If the silent Roarke is her enemy, why do her visions drawher closer to him? And why, when nothing else seems remotely familiar,does Nora find herself remembering, or wanting to remember only him?



Excerpt:

“I’m afraid we’ll have to brave a small crowd on the way out. Newsof your…return has been hard to keep quiet.”

“I should imagine.” I smile congenially at him and allow myself tobe led from the room. The crowd doesn’t surprise me, though small isan understatement. I’ve sensed them building outside all along. I brace myself, grateful for the doctor’s arm, and we emerge onto a longwalkway. The floor drops away on both sides, and the spaces are filled with craning faces. I’m torn between scanning the assembly for some shred of recognition and shying from any contact with the eager expressions. In the end, I dart sparing glances at random people. Nothing stirs any memory.

Halfway across the space I give up and choose to focus on the longstrips of blue-tinted lights that line the walls. I think that nothingseems familiar here because this isn’t where I belong. Perhaps, Ithink, this is a prison after all.

I hate to consider the doctor as a participant in my capture,perhaps even directly responsible for removing my memory, but thepossibility can’t be ignored. It is, given the unbelievable alternative that is their story, quite likely closer to the truth. YetI allow myself to be led toward another curving doorway. I have fewoptions, few options for now.

I concentrate, instead, on how playfully the blue light interacts with the metal of my dress. The fabric flashes and shoots refractedfire as I move in it. I let myself be mesmerized by the effect. Thedoor is near, and Doctor Williams slows as we approach it. Myirritation surges again. Another foreign hallway beyond this one?Another unfamiliar room? Suddenly, I have no wish to continuepeaceably. I have no interest in allowing myself to be led to anydestination they’ve selected. I scan sideways from the door, searchingfor a pathway of my own choosing, wherever it may lead.

I’m struck dumb by a familiar face. He stands back from the others,aside from them, but near the door. Where I’m most likely to see him,I decide. He leans against the gray wall and looks at the ceiling. Thestrong muscle of his jaw tenses. Lines etch across his rugged face. Mychest lurches at the sight of him. I search for a name to assign tothe single familiar person in this crowded hall. The set shoulders and staggered legs ring through my mind looking for something to cling to.

Exact memories, like the name I want to put to him, shy from my grip.The feeling sweeps through me of something just on the tip of mytongue, too elusive to pin down. I’m frantic to snare it, but itdances out of reach. I realize that I’ve stopped walking.

His red hair crowns a complexion nowhere near pale. He shifts hisgaze downward slowly, with great intention, and meets my gaze. The intensity in his eyes belies his casual pose. He knows me.

In an instant, I’m lifted from the room, my mind trapped in darknesswithout a body to attach to. I drift without direction or purpose in asea of warmth. Softly, the singing whispers, return, return to me. Thepersistent voice hovers near desperate, saturated with emotion. Thewords pull me down.

I come back to myself. The doctor tugs gently at my arm. Concern scrawls across his face. I see the question there. “I’m fine,” I say, stepping in line with him once more. “Get me out of here, okay?” And we pass through the second doorway together.



To learn more about Frances Pauli visit her website: http://francespauli.com/

Thanks for the egg-cerpt Frances,

Anita