Seducing Anne (3 page)

“Still sound like a local, I see,” she observed.

“Yeah—you know me . . . It’s harder for me to turn it off than turn it on.” His mind was already going over what he’d need to acquire as soon as he was in King Henry VIII’s court.

A good destrier first thing and some soft, flexible rope. Hopefully this Nick fellow could set him up.

* * *

The week was spent with a rigorous therapy of vitamins, chiropractic adjustments, acupuncture and setting up for an extended absence.

This time he told them to rent his house out. There was no way he’d be done with this one in two months.

Today he was on a detox diet, and tomorrow he’d leave.

He’d be nauseated, but it would probably help, rather than make things worse.

Bzzzz . . . Bzzzz . . . Bzzz . . .

His phone danced around on the coffee table.

He stopped mindlessly flipping channels on the TV for a moment to check the caller ID.

John. Smith.

Fabulous.

He groaned, slumped forward and answered with a, “Tell me what I need to know.”

“She’s beautiful,” John began.

“I’m sure she is.” Guy scratched his nose and picked the remote back up. He had all sorts of shows he could catch up on, but what was the point?

“I’m not messing around, here—I mean stunning. It’s hard to look at her, she’s that breathtaking. She has these black eyes that are so luminous and deep—it’s like looking at a black pearl.”

“Sounds odd to me.” Guy turned the TV off, got up and poured himself some vodka—screw the detox diet. He needed this.

“But even if she wasn’t so goddamned stunning physically, it was impossible to keep from having feelings for her. She’s smart—and I’m telling you, Harry does
not
deserve her.”

“Harry? Who are you talking about?” Guy stretched his neck to the side to work out a small kink, took a sip of his drink and then set it down. He switched the phone to his other ear.

“The king!” John huffed. “I thought you were debriefed!”

“I was, you ass, but I’d just gotten back a week before, so it’s not like I was all there.” Guy sighed and rolled his shoulders now. Why was he so stiff?

“Well, you better not mess around. Anne won’t put up with any shit. She’s a really hard sell—the most difficult target ever, but she’s important. And you need to at least know she calls him Harry.”

“I’ll bet he likes that shit,” Guy said, chuckling.

“God, you’re kidding, right? She’s gonna eat your nuts for lunch.” John grumbled something about this slick bastard not having a clue.

“So, why couldn’t you get the job done? Everyone else does. It’s easy—you drug her, artificially inseminate her by putting that plunger up her cunt. Easy. She doesn’t even have to pretend to say no to you.”

“You’re a fucking joke, and it’s obvious they’ve given you cush jobs. Everyone thinks you’re the king of this place because you’re hitting your fiftieth mission, but who gives a fuck when you act like these people are nothing?” John snorted.

He could imagine John turning red.

“You’re not seeing anything straight because you broke rule number one, and now you’re paying for it. Don’t blame me that you got sloppy,” Guy said, his voice escalating and his hands shaking as he grabbed his drink. He took a sip and set it back down before he dropped it.

“Fuck you! You probably don’t even know why you’re doing this job,” John gritted.

“The king has weak progeny and a low sperm count. Mary wasn’t even his—another agent knocked up Catherine, his first wife—and although the agency will allow him to get Jane pregnant with their assistance and another syringe thingy, which I refuse to use since it’s cheating, they need me to—”

“Forget it. You don’t even know what I’m talking about,” John said. There was the sound of fabric rustling. “I meant why you personally want to take her on. You saw the pictures of what they did to me, right?”

“Why do you care, John? You’re being paid for the rest of your life, retired early and will live like the
king
here in
our
time, where you don’t have to shit in a hole, pick lice out of your hair and deal with fat fucks named Harry who treats his women poorly and has a temper tantrum every five seconds.” Guy roamed over to his window.

He’d miss this place. It was nice and quiet here, living by the beach. He always loved going out in the morning and getting his feet wet. It reminded him this was real—that this was where he really belonged, though he rarely lived here.

“Because I love her. She deserves to be treated fairly, and if they hadn’t taken me back . . .” he exhaled in a whoosh “. . . I would’ve done my damnedest to find a way to save her.”

The call ended, and Guy stood motionless, his breath trapped in his throat.

He’d have to report this.

Fuck—he hated doing that.

Chapter 2

Guy dragged his ass out of the parking lot and headed toward the office.

Maybe he could talk them into one more day?

“Mr. Moore! A minute?” His enthusiastic driver from a week ago approached him.

Guy managed to keep from rolling his eyes and sighing—but just barely. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Can you sign something for a friend of mine?” The man actually batted his lashes.

“Here, I’m in a hurry, so just take these. They’re worth fifty-thousand credits each when you sell them online,” Guy said, handing him five business cards signed, dated and stamped on the back.

“I would never!” the driver said, appearing shocked, but it was pretty obvious he was pretending.

“You would, and you do. You think I give a shit?” Guy dropped the polite tone and waved. “I’ve got work to do. See you around when I get back in a few months.”

“Good luck on your trip,” the pain-in-the-ass driver said.

“Thanks, but I don’t need luck. I’m trained for this shit,” Guy said, and he walked straight inside and headed for the office.

When he rounded the corner, there stood Kara, smiling with a big bag opened next to her on the table.

As usual, he wasn’t allowed to peek inside. It would ruin the procedure.

“Ready?” she asked with a sparkle in her eyes.

“Jesus, you could at least pretend you don’t get off on this shit,” he said, rolling his right shoulder and then stretching his arms.

It helped if he was relaxed—less residual lag after.

“You got a massage yesterday, right?” she asked, patting the chair so he’d sit in it.

“No time.”

“
Guy
!” She looked away like she was disgusted with his reply. “And you wonder why you’re so beat up this time?”

“Look—I was being chased when you took me back. I didn’t have time to go see a fucking masseuse, and it’s not like I had the money in the circumstances you put me in.” He stretched his back.

“Well, when you get there, have Nick help you out. You’ll need to rest for a day or two, drink plenty of fluids, and for God’s sake, get a massage. It’s rule number thirty-two and—”

“I know the fucking rules,” he groaned. “I wrote over half of them.” He hooked a thumb and jammed it into his chest. “I’ve written the fucking rules because this is my life. I’ve done more than twice the SHROAGs of all the other assholes here. I don’t need vials with my come in it. I get a woman to spread her legs for me and do it willingly. It’s more pleasant for them—more pleasant for me. And rarely if ever do my fetuses not take. I’ve never had a subject abort on purpose or by act of God—because these women fall in love with me and they want my bastard child in their belly. They’ll protect our child with all they have in them. My system works, so don’t quote rules at me!” He dropped his arm and fisted his hands.

“Whatever. You never listen, but before you go—the agency wants to know if you do decide to retire when you get back, if you want to instruct. Those who can’t get it done, teach. They want you for the Dom course.” She ran her hand over the pad on the back of the seat, and her right eyebrow popped up expectantly.

“You know I’m the only one that actually uses what I learned in that class, right?”

“Exactly why they want you,” she replied.

“Great—so they want me to waste my time, talking to a bunch of clowns that aren’t going to listen and don’t care anyway because they drug and plunge. They don’t need these skills. They need Robber 101 classes. Or Ninja Pregnancy 102.” He snorted.

“Haha, so funny—as always.” She rolled her eyes. “Will you, for the love of God, remove your shirt, shoes and socks, then sit your ass down? They want you out of here by seven.”

“Because your horns extend all the way at that point and Satan comes by to shine them for you?” He sauntered over, removed the articles of clothing she specified and then plopped his butt down.

“Provoking me never works. It’s gonna be as painful as I see fit.”

“Spoken like a true sadist,” he remarked and settled into the chair.

“You know that’s how this works. You can’t travel without the shock of the pain.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He sighed with a grating sound.

“Okay, so there’ve been some changes due to what happened to John. The proctor has to be here,” she said, waving someone in.

A big burly dude, looking like he ate cars for lunch, stepped in. He was graying at the temples, but other than that, he had dark hair, even darker eyes and legs bigger than massive tree trunks.

He pulled out his phone and started reading Guy the decree—“Mr. Guy Moore, this is the contract and the rules. Please listen carefully to my instructions, and only speak to ask questions or answer when I’ve presented one to you. Such as now—do you understand these instructions?” the proctor asked.

“Jesus—this is ridiculous. I’m still a little time lagged, but not bad enough to warrant this shit,” Guy said, staring at this behemoth of a man.

“It doesn’t matter. We have to do it,” Kara told Guy.

“Fine,” Guy said through gritted teeth, then turned back to the proctor. “Yeah, I get the rules. Continue, sir.”

The proctor cleared his throat and resumed his reading. “This is a contract between yourself, known as agent SHROAG seven, and the SHROAG protective agency. You have already signed a contract and as such are bound to adhere to the following rules. Please listen attentively.” He stopped to take a breath.

And Guy stopped to yawn—bored as shit already.

“You, Guy Moore, so agree to submit yourself as a time agent and be sent back to the time period of May, 1532, and deposited near the residence of Nicholas Carew in Surrey, England.”

Guy exhaled, and his eyes glazed over. Was there a reason this man was dragging this out and reading so slowly?

“Do you submit yourself, Guy Moore, as a SHROAG specialist, meaning you are a Specialized, Heredity, Reassurance as an Operative for Artificial insemination and a Gate-turner to the trade industry?” The proctor stared at Guy.

Guy blinked and his expression was blank. “You know I do, or I wouldn’t be sitting here, ready to be tortured.”

“A simple yes or no,” the proctor said.

“Yes.”

“Agent SHROAG seven, do you submit yourself to this mission by swearing an oath that you will refrain from becoming addicted to any substances, including street drugs, unnecessary alcohol consumption, caffeine, tobacco products or medicine of their day? And that you will also keep from becoming addicted to specific things to this time period, such as clothing, food, drink, customs and language? Part of your agreement also entails that you will do your utmost to impregnate your targeted subject in the time allotted, which is by January of 1533, and you will use any and all means possible to attain this goal. Once you are done, you will assimilate yourself back into your current time period, 2023, as soon as possible once returned home.”

“Yes. I agree to all those terms and can achieve them all without any impediment or issue,” Guy answered with his British accent now in place. He shifted in his seat.

“You are also to refrain from having any sexual relations with anyone other than Anne Boleyn, male or female. If you fail to adhere to this rule, it will result in your immediate expulsion from the SHROAG agency, and your employment will be terminated. You are to remain for four weeks’ time after impregnation occurs, so that you may be there to witness when your subject finds that they are pregnant. Once she has told others, and may or may not contact you about it, you will be required to leave. We will send signals back to retrieve you.”

Guy nodded, his expression somber.

“Do you also agree to abide by the code of conduct, wherein you are not to have any real emotional attachments with the subjects you will be interacting with, most notably Mistress Anne Boleyn, with whom you have agreed to have sexual relations in order to impregnate her with Elizabeth the first?” the proctor asked.

“Yes, all right—yes. I’m not John. I don’t get attached,” Guy said. “Christ—enough already. This is overkill.” He ran his hands down his face, wishing at this point Kara was doing her physical torture, rather than sitting through this idiotic shit.