Blow Me Down Read online

  I scooted down to grab the man’s mud-encrusted tattered boots, intending to swing them around to a stack of grain bags, but was more than a little disconcerted when one of his legs separated from the rest of his body.

  “Aieeeeeeeee,” I screamed, staring in horror at the limb that hung stiffly from my hands.

  Just as it was dawning on me that the leg was a crudely fashioned wooden prosthetic and not the ghoulish severed limb I had first imagined, a whoosh of air behind me accompanied the loud slam of a wooden door being thrown open. Before I could do so much as flail the false leg, a steel-like arm wrapped around my waist and hauled me backward into the inn.

  Air, warm and thick and scented heavily with beer and unwashed male bodies, folded me in its embrace as I was dragged into a murky open-beamed room.

  “Found me a wench, Cap’n,” a voice rumbled behind me. “Toothsome one, too, ain’t she? Don’t look like she’s been used overly much. Can I keep her?”

  Now, this was taking virtual realism a bit too far. I pushed aside the issue of how a game could make me smell things and feel the touch of another person, and beat the hand that clutched me with the booted end of my fake leg. “Hey! I am not a wench, and I am not a puppy to be kept, and how dare you invade my personal space in such a manner! Do it again, and I’ll have you up on charges of sexual harassment and physical assault so fast, your . . . er . . . hook will spin.”

  The man whom I’d surprised into releasing me stood frowning at me for a second before glancing to the right, where tables—some broken into kindling, others rickety but mostly whole—lurked in a shadowed corner. The dull rumble of masculine voices broke off as the man asked loudly, “I don’t have no hook, do I, Cap’n?”

  “Nay, lad, ye don’t,” a deep voice answered. One of the darker shadows separated itself from the others and stepped into the faint sunlight that bullied its way through two tiny, begrimed windows. The man who swaggered forward was an arrogant-looking devil, with thick shoulder-length blond hair, a short-cropped goatee and mustache, and dark eyes that even across the dimly lit room I could see were cast with a roguish light.

  He was a charmer through and through—I knew his kind. I’d married one.

  “I believe the lass was being facetious, Barn. As for yer request—we’ve no need for a female on the Squirrel. Grab yer things and we’ll be off, mates. We’ve pillagin’ to do.”

  The man who’d grabbed me—a blocky giant with black hair and a huge beard—frowned even harder. “What be facetious, then?”

  “Later, Barn.”

  The behemoth named Barn looked back at me, disappointment written all over his unlovely face. “But the wench—she’s mine. I found her. Ye’ve said we could keep what we pillaged.”

  “She’s probably got the French pox,” the arrogant blond said as he started for the door, giving me nothing more than a disinterested glance. “We’ll find ye a woman a little less tartish at Mongoose.”

  “Oh!” I gasped, outraged at the slur. I wasn’t going to stand around and let some cyber-gigolo insult me. “I will repeat myself for those of you with hearing problems or general mental incapacity—I am not a wench, nor am I a tart. I do not have the pox, French or any other sort. And I would rather go without my PDA for an entire year than be with that man.”

  The blond captain paused in the act of following Barn out the door, slowly turning to face me. “What did you say?”

  “I said that I am not a wench nor do I have any sexually transmitted diseases. And I’m not, in case you’re interested, and I know you are because I know your sort, looking to acquire any. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a leg to reattach to a dead man. If you will please stand aside, I will go and take care of that.”

  “PDA?” the pirate asked, an odd look of speculation on his face. “You said PDA?”

  “Yes, I did. And that’s a very big sacrifice, considering.”

  “You’re a player,” he said, starting toward me in a long-legged stride that I refused to notice on the grounds that I would not allow myself to respond to another love-’em-and-leave-’em charmer.

  “I most certainly am not! I’m a woman, in case it escaped your attention, and even if I was a man, I’m not at all the sort to cruise the meat market for a little companionship. I enjoy meaningful relationships with men, not one-night stands.”

  “Are you?” he asked, a slight smile quirking one side of his mouth.

  “Am I what?”

  “Are you enjoying a meaningful relationship with a man right now?”

  “No, not that it’s any of your business. And don’t you come any nearer,” I answered, backing up a couple of paces and leveling my wooden leg at him. “I have a leg, and I’m not afraid to use it!”

  “My sort?” he drawled, interest dawning in those dark eyes as he continued to stroll toward me. “You know my sort? I am a sort?”

  I backed up a couple of steps more until I bumped into the rough wall of the inn. I could have kicked myself with the fake leg. Everyone knew the thing a charmer loved most was a challenge, and I’d just presented myself as one. Still, he was a virtual lothario, not a real one, so I could handle him. I’d just do a little defusing and be on my way.

  “Yes, you are a sort. You’re a charmer, a man who thinks he can sweet-talk the pants off a nun. Well, I’m immune to your brand of charm, buster. So you can just take your sexy walk and those tight leather pants and the really cool pirate boots of yours—wow, is that a rapier? Very nice. I used to fence in college—and trot off to harass some other unpoxed, tartless non-wench, because I’m not buying any of it.”

  “Unless you belong to the Sisters of Harlotry, you’re not a nun,” he said, stopping just beyond reach of my fake leg. “And you’re not wearing pants.”

  I looked down to protest that I was so wearing pants, but the gauzy wisps of cloth that clung to my body in a very revealing fashion could be termed anything but sensible clothing. They were literally rags, exposing far more of me than I was comfortable with—although, really, what did it matter? These were computer people, not living, breathing human beings. Tara had said no one but the developers and occasional press representatives had access to the beta virtual version.

  “If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” I answered, deciding to go with the flow.

  “You certainly do it well,” the pirate said, giving me a leer that I could swear was almost human. The lascivious way his gaze caressed my scantily clad breasts clearly indicated the origins of a male, rather than female, software developer.

  “Just because I’m flaunting doesn’t mean you can stare for hours on end. A polite ogle is appreciated and suitable for a flaunt. Slobbering is not. Eyes up here,” I said, using the leg’s foot to indicate my face. “Look, Mr. Pirate—”

  “Corbin,” he said, interrupting me before I could get into a really quality lecture.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My name is Corbin. Captain Corbin, at your service, ma’am.”

  “Hello,” I said politely, wondering whether the program gave out bonus points for adroit handling of a lecher. “I’m . . . er . . . drat, I’ve forgotten. Earless someone. Um . . . Erika! That’s it.”

  Corbin the pirate considered me. “You don’t look like an Erika.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  “My real name?”

  “Yes, your real name as opposed to your user name. Is Erika your real name?”

  I frowned. Were computer-generated people supposed to be so nosy? “Maybe. Is Corbin your real name?”

  “Yes, it is. What are you doing here?”

  “What is this, twenty questions?” I gave him a quelling glare, but he totally disregarded it.

  “No, just a simple question. Answer it. What are you doing here?”

  He stood just beyond reach of the leg, his hands on his hips, the loose white pirate shirt open to his waist, exposing almost the whole of his six-pack abs and manly chest dusted with golden hair. For
some reason it irritated me that his character was nicer to look at than mine. Clearly the game designer had issues.

  “That, sir, is none of your business. Now, kindly take your seductive self off and let me go achieve whatever goal I’m supposed to do to get to the next level. I think it has something to do with collecting prosthetic legs, but I’m not quite sure. Are yours real?”

  He laughed. I gritted my teeth. He even laughed nicer than me. “Yes, they are. I’d be happy to show them to you if you want to verify that.”

  “Think I’ll pass. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”

  He didn’t move despite my “please get out of the way” shooing gesture. “You think I’m seductive?”

  “Of course I do,” I answered before I realized what I was saying. I clamped down for a moment on the rest of my thoughts, then figured, what the hell. It was just a game. Maybe chitchatty interaction with the natives was part of the scoring process.

  That didn’t mean my chitchat couldn’t be of the speak-your-mind variety, however. “You’re clearly the fulfillment of the game designer’s most fervent fantasy—the dashing pirate lord handsome enough to sweep any woman off her feet.”

  He smirked. “Shall I sweep you, then?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve never been one for men who are prettier than me.”

  I tried to brush past him, but he stopped me, his hand on my arm keeping me from leaving. “I’m confused—you think I’m handsome and seductive and sweepish, but you don’t want me?”

  “Surprised?” I smiled. “This game has a logging function, doesn’t it? Something so the programming types can look at the beta tests and see what’s happening?”

  He looked startled for a moment before nodding. “It does.”

  “Good. Then let me clue you and the issue-laden programmers in on a few things, Corbin the Arrogant—when it comes to men, women don’t want lotharios. Handsome looks are fleeting; women like me prefer substance over appearance. A romantic nature is good—a tomcat personality isn’t.”

  “We’ve only just met. How can you make any judgments about my personality?”

  I waved the leg at him. “Just look at you! Tom Jones shirt, tight leather pants, that long gorgeous hair, not to mention the hip action in your swagger . . . you just reek studly sex machine.”

  “So it’s my appearance you object to?” he asked, frowning. Behind him a couple of men emerged from the shadows. Both of them were dressed in blue and white striped pants that ended just below the knee, striped shirts, and leather jerkins over which swords and pistols had been strapped to their waists.

  “Look, I don’t object to anything. I’m just saying that, no, I don’t care for a little virtual nookie with a man ten times prettier than me.”

  “How about if I looked like this?”

  Corbin’s image flickered for a moment, then melted into that of a man only slightly taller than me, a man with short, dark curly hair. He was clean-shaven and bore little resemblance to his previous self. His face was rounder, his eyes were warmer, and he wasn’t built along the lines of a male underwear model. He looked . . . nice.

  “What do you think? Would you consider virtual nookie with someone who looked like this?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him I wasn’t looking for nookie with anyone, but a brief flash of insecurity in this Corbin’s dark gray eyes had me blurting out, “Yeah, I would.”

  “Cap’n? We leavin’ now?” one of the two men asked, giving me a less than curious glance. The man didn’t seem to notice the change in Corbin’s appearance. Assumedly the other computer players knew who he was regardless of his appearance.

  “You would?” Corbin ignored his men, his brow furrowed as he watched me. I got the impression he was searching my face for signs I was lying to him. I wondered whether this form—which I honestly did prefer—was based on a programmer’s real self rather than his fantasies.

  “Well . . . yes. I mean, I don’t want to wrestle you to the ground and have my wicked way with you, but if I was looking to have a virtual . . . er . . . boyfriend, then, yes, I’d prefer someone who looks like you do now to the previous incarnation. You look real. He looked fake.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Cap’n? Bart and his men’ll be sure to be returnin’ any time now. Be we leavin’ or be we stayin’ to fight?”

  “Bart?” Hadn’t Tara mentioned something about a Bart?

  “Bartholomew Portuguese,” Corbin answered, moving a step closer. “He and his motley crew are currently running this island into the ocean.”

  “Har-har,” the pirate behind Corbin laughed, nudging his boss with his elbow. “We be takin’ care of that problem soon, eh, Cap’n?”

  “Aye, we will. These are two of my crew—Bald Bob,” Corbin answered by way of an introduction, gesturing toward a man with waist-length black hair, “and Leeward Tom. Loo is my bosun.”

  “Looward?” I asked, wondering why that word sounded familiar.

  “Aye. It’s spelled leeward. It means the side of the ship protected from the weather,” Corbin answered.

  Leeward Tom pulled a ragged kerchief off and ducked his head at me before turning back to Corbin. “Be we leavin’ or stayin’?”

  The new and (to my mind) improved Corbin waved a dismissive hand. “We’ll leave in a moment. I want to talk to this charming lady another minute or two.”

  “Flattered as I am to be promoted from tartish, pox-riddled wench to charming lady, I must insist that you let me pass. I promised my daughter I’d try out this game and advance a level or two. I’ll start by hunting down some extra legs.”

  Tom looked confused. “What be the wench talkin’ about?” he asked Corbin in a loud whisper. “What game? Think ye she has the fever?”

  “No,” Corbin answered, a smile curling his lips as Tom unobtrusively crossed himself. “So you’d like to advance beyond newbie level, would you, Erika? There’s one sure-fire way to do that.”

  “Really? Something beyond collecting wooden limbs?”

  His smile turned into an outright grin, a grin that had me responding with a smile of my own despite my better intentions. The blond Corbin was a devilishly handsome rogue, but this one was a hundred times more dangerous with his playful smile and warm, humor-filled eyes. “Swordplay advances your skills. You said you fenced?”

  “Yes, for three years. I was on my college’s fencing team. Er . . . you want me to fight you?”

  “Afraid?” he asked, offering me his rapier with a fancy scrollwork hilt.

  “Me?” I wondered whether I remembered anything from my fencing days. I set down my spare leg and took the rapier, trying my best to summon up a sneer. “Never Letting Them See You’re Insecure Is the Key to Staying in Control” had always been my motto. “Ha. I am Earless Erika! I laugh in the face of danger. Or . . . er . . . in the face of deranged pirates.”

  His grin got even bigger as he accepted a rapier handed to him by Leeward Tom. “So I’ve moved down from seductive to deranged, eh?”

  “That’s actually an upward move,” I pointed out, testing the weight of the rapier. It was nicely balanced. Although I was more proficient with a foil, I had used a rapier once or twice. “Shall we go with the first one who makes a fatal touch the winner? Jugular or heart?”

  “Oh, jugular, don’t you think?” he said. “No blood, just a touch.”

  “Good enough. Prepare to be humiliated. En garde.”

  Both of his men snickered to themselves at my false bravado.

  “Eh . . .” Corbin dropped the point of his sword, his eyes speculative as they swept my rag-clad self. “Why don’t we make this a bit more interesting?”

  “Interesting? Interesting how? That’s the same lascivious look the blond you was making. I objected to it then, too.”

  His teeth flashed in a grin that made something in my stomach flutter. “Interesting as in a wager. If I beat you, you have to give me something.”

  “Like what?” I asked, waggling the tip of my sword in a meaningful
way at him.

  “Yourself,” he answered, his eyebrows bobbing up and down. I raised the rapier so it was pointed at his throat. “Er . . . all right; how about dinner, then?”

  “Dinner?” My sword point fell as I gawked at him. Was he asking me out on a date? A computer character? He wanted to date me? How pathetic was that? And worse, why was I even considering it?

  “Yes, dinner. It’s the meal that comes just after lunch.” I gave him a look. He smiled. “If I beat you, you agree to have dinner with me.”

  “Just dinner?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Just dinner . . . unless there is something else you’d like to do.”

  “Not likely, computer boy.”

  “We will see. Shall we get on with the duel? I have dinner to order and a ship full of mates to clean up.”

  He raised his sword in the traditional starting position, but it was my turn to stop him. “Not so fast—what do I get if I beat you?”

  His two crewmates laughed, unnecessarily long and hard, to my mind. I wasn’t a total idiot with a sword.

  “That won’t be likely, lass,” Leeward Tom said. “Our captain, here, he be the best swordsman in all of the Seventh Sea.”

  “Be he?” I said, entering into the whole pirate-spirit thing. “Then he shouldn’t mind at all putting his money where his mouth is. What will you give me if I win?”

  Corbin looked thoughtful, but I could see a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “Dinner with me?”

  I raised my eyebrows. He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “What would you like?”

  “Well . . . I don’t know. What do you have? No, wait, let me rephrase that—what tangible things other than yourself do you have to offer?”

  “Ships, money, fine jewels, rare cloths—”

  “Ships, that sounds good,” I said, picking the biggest-sounding item from his list. “If I win, you give me ships.”

  “Ship,” he countered, his eyes narrowing speculatively. “A ship. A sloop.”