"But I don't understand how he managed it."
"He can manage anything he bloody well pleases. We're talking about the seventh-richest man in the world here, and for what it's worth, I bet he's closer to number one than anyone would guess. He doesn't have limits."
"He has legal and moral limits," Libby said, glancing at the blank screen.
"Not so's you'd notice," Alf said, following her gaze. "You want to see our ape-man?"
"She doesn't want to call him that. Not Tarzan, nor George of the Jungle," Mick said hastily. "We're to call him…what did you say?"
"The subject," Libby said. "Until we come up with something more appropriate."
"Call him what you will, love. He's George of the Jungle to me. Been dancing with a few too many trees of late." He flexed his casted arm.
"Where is he?"
"Take a gander, love." He leaned across the desk and pushed a switch, and the screen was no longer a screen, it was a huge window, illuminating a tangled overgrowth of jungle vegetation. She moved closer, staring into the tangled thicket.
"You let him run free?" she asked.
"Not usually. And he doesn't run anywhere, Doc. He's flat on his back, doped to the gills. There's nothing free about 'is little habitat. It's huge, but there are electrified fences all around the perimeter. No way he's getting out or anyone getting in without frying their bacon."
Alf Droggan sounded quite cheered by the thought, and Libby controlled an instinctive shudder. "How strong is the voltage? I don't think Mr. Hunnicutt would appreciate having his scientific discovery electrocuted."
"Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, miss. It's just strong enough to knock him out, maybe fry a few brain cells. It won't kill him. And as far as I can tell he doesn't have any brain cells to worry about."
"That's my job, isn't it?" Libby said coolly. "To figure out how many brain cells he has? I wouldn't want anything interfering with the data. I want him in his natural state—I don't want to have to take injuries into account."
"Bit too late for that, now, isn't it?" Alf said cheerfully. "The Russian hunters who captured him weren't particularly delicate with the creature. He was a right mess when he showed up, and he hasn't done much to endear himself to us in the meantime. He's a bit banged and bruised, but pretty much as they found him, I'd think."
"I thought you kept him drugged all the time. Why is he banged and bruised?" Libby demanded.
Alf shrugged, the image of innocence. "Accidents do 'appen, don't they, love?"
If he called her love one more time she was going to scream. She took a deep breath. Scientific detachment, she reminded herself. Isn't that what Richard always said she lacked? She was too passionate about things—it muddied the data.
"Could I see him, please?" she said with deceptive calm.
"Use your eyes, Doc. He's there on the table."
She moved into the room, closer to the window, staring at the oppressive greenery. And then she saw him, lying still and motionless on what looked like a hospital gurney draped in camouflage sheets.
"Nice bed, don't you think?" Alf said with a smirk. "Ed wanted it color-coordinated."
But she was no longer paying attention to the broad Cockney voice ringing in her ear. All her attention was focused on the still figure of a man.
The pictures had been astonishing enough, but they failed to prepare her for the reality of Ed Hunnicutt's wild man.
He was beautiful. There was no other word for him. Beneath the tangle of long, dark hair, beneath the deeply tanned skin and rough beard, he was absolutely stunning. She let her eyes run down the entire length of his body, his lean, muscled shoulders and chest, his long legs ending in bare, narrow feet. He was wearing some sort of ragged cutoffs and nothing else, and he looked like the male equivalent of Sleeping Beauty, perfection lost in an endless sleep.
His face had been bruised and misshapen in the photographs, but now she could see only the occasional marks of abuse, the bluish-yellow of fading bruises, the faint puffiness by one of his eyes. She stared at him in awe and fascination, silent, wondering.
"Quite the pretty boy, isn't he?" Alf said with a snicker. "That's how the Russians heard of him. The Abo's said there was a beautiful god on this island, and they came out to check and bagged him."
"Abo's?"
"Aborigines. Natives. They used to come hunt on this island, and they must have run across him at some point or another. 'Course, they don't come anywhere near here now that Old Ed owns it. He's got the place mined."
That was enough to distract her. "You're kidding!"
"Not very big mines," Mick said hastily. "They cause more noise than damage, really. And no one's stupid enough to try to come here anymore."
"Or try to leave," Alf said casually.
"Come here and look at this screen, Doc," Mick said, casting a worried glance at his partner. "You won't believe what that bed really does."
"Provide electroshock therapy?" she suggested sharply.
"That's a good one, Doc!" Alf's laughter rumbled through his big frame. "I wish I'd thought of it."
"Dr. Holden might not know you're kidding, Alf," Mick said in a warning voice.
Dr. Holden knows he's not kidding, Libby said to herself. She moved to the screen, staring down at the blinking numbers.
"It registers everything, when he's lying down there," Mick said. "His weight, blood pressure, heart rate."
"It'll even tell you when he passes gas," Alf joined in.
Libby ignored him. "His vital signs are low," she said, peering at the screen.
"Yours would be, too, if you were pumped full of drugs," Alf said. "He's lost some weight since he's been here—down to one hundred and ninety, but that's because he won't usually eat what we feed him."
"What does he eat, then?"
"Fruits, berries, stuff that's growing there. I think he's afraid we'll drug the food."
"I can't imagine why," Libby said dryly. "When's he due for his next shot?"
"Not for another couple of hours. Why?"
"Give him half the dosage."
"I don't think so," Alf said.
She turned to give him her most intimidating stare, the one that never failed to put terror into the hearts of research assistants. Unfortunately Alf Droggan was almost a foot taller than she was and probably weighed two-and-a-half times what she did, and the effort fell short.
"I'm in charge of the subject," she said sternly. "And I say you lower his dosage."
"And I'm in charge of security, little lady, and I say he gets the full dose. He wakes up enough every now and then for you to poke and prod him and see how he reacts—that's good enough."
"I can't do my work…"
"Take it up with Mr. Hunnicutt."
"And how am I expected to do that when he's left and there are no telephones on this island?" she demanded, running a hand through her short, damp hair.
"I'll mention your concerns to him," Alf said sweetly. "And I'll let you know what he has to say."
Libby took another deep, calming breath. "Fine," she said with deceptive good humor. "In the meantime, I'd like to see our subject."
"Look all you like."
"No, I mean see him. Up close and personal. If he's so drugged, he won't even know I'm there. How do we get in there?"
"I wouldn't suggest…" Alf began.
"I'm not asking for your suggestions, Mr. Droggan," Libby said crisply. "I'm here to do a job and I intend to do it. I want to go in there and check him out myself."
Alf Droggan rolled his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "You heard her, Mick," he said. "Might as well get out the guns."
Chapter Three
« ^ »
"Guns?" Libby echoed in unfeigned horror.
"Tranquilizer guns, miss," Mick said reassuringly. "Just as a precaution. Tarzan…er…the subject is a big, strong man, and it's hard to calibrate the proper dosage. We thought he was out cold when he managed to break Alf's arm, and I'd hate
to think what he could do to a little-bitty thing like you."
Libby had never been particularly fond of the fact that she was only five feet one inch tall, but she was coming to recognize Mick's essential sweetness, so she bit back her protest. "All right," she said. "But I don't want the two of you interfering unless it's an emergency. And I'll be the one to decide whether it's an emergency or not. Understood?"
"Completely," Alf said amiably, but Libby wasn't fooled for a minute.
She waited, impatient, staring at the still form of her subject, while Alf and Mick argued about tranquilizer darts. He didn't move, barely seemed to breathe, and she wondered just how drugged he was. Whether he knew he was being watched, constantly, by people who'd basically taken him prisoner. Did he long for freedom, did he hate captivity?
"Ready, miss?" Alf was standing by the door leading into the observation area, a nasty-looking gun in his meaty hand. It certainly looked like it shot bullets, not tranquilizer darts, but she had to trust that Alf would know better than to seriously damage his employer's prize trophy.
"Ready," she said.
The heat and humidity beyond the sliding metal door were a momentary assault on her senses, but Libby didn't hesitate, stepping into the jungle with Mick and Alf close behind her.
Whoever had built this place had done a masterful job. The wall was camouflaged, festooned with vines and plants, and the other side of the observation window was some sort of mesh camouflage, unnoticeable unless you were looking for it. In the dim, shadowy light she couldn't see the fences that had to surround the place, and she glanced back at Alf.
"How much room does he have?"
"Three bloody acres fenced in, which is ridiculous if you ask me. The poor sod barely moves as it is—why Hunnicutt had to have such a huge playground built for him is beyond my way of thinking. It was close enough to his natural habitat, but no, they had to bring in more trees and plants, more rocks. It's ridiculous."
"Does he realize that you've drugged the subject?"
'"Course he does. What do you think he does when he's here? He sits and stares at Tarzan like he held the answers to the secrets of the universe."
"Maybe he does."
"Yeah, and maybe my Aunt Fanny…" Alf growled. "You want to get this over with? You might still be in a different time zone, but it's the middle of the night for us."
She ignored him, moving toward the camouflage gurney with its still, silent occupant. Up close he was even more impressive—long arms and legs and torso, with the kind of subtle musculature that suggested speed and strength. He was wearing some sort of shorts instead of a fur loincloth, but that didn't lessen the hint of savagery about his still figure.
His dark hair was long, matted and probably crawling with bugs, she thought. He was very tanned, the kind of deep bronze color that comes from years, decades of sun exposure. She moved closer, looking into his face. The beard was short, scruffy, the nose sharp and strong. Neither his jaw nor his brow were protruding, though both were strong and well formed. She couldn't get a good idea of his mouth beneath the beard, but she could see the bruised swelling beside his left eye, almost hidden by the long hair. She let her gaze slide down his body. Some body hair, but not excessive amounts. There were bruises along his side, some aging and yellowed, some newer, darker blues and purples over his ribs.
"Did you kick him, Alf?" she asked in a steady voice, not bothering to look around.
"Only when he was already knocked out," Mick said earnestly. "He wouldn't have felt a thing."
Alf snorted with laughter, obviously not worried about Libby's reaction. "You tell 'er, lad," he said.
"Don't do it again." Libby's voice was as cold as ice.
"If he comes at me—"
"You might have cracked his ribs. They could puncture a vital organ, he'd bleed to death internally, and Edward J. Hunnicutt would have spent a great deal of money with absolutely nothing to show for it. I wouldn't want to be the one to explain that to him. Would you?"
She still didn't bother to look at Alf, knowing by the silence that she'd made her point. The gurney was waist-high, and she knew she had to touch the man lying there, but for some reason she was reluctant to, particularly with Hunnicutt's two minions watching her. However, they were unlikely to leave her, and she needed to see if she could tell what kind of damage Alf's boots had wrought.
The touch of his skin beneath her fingers was a shock, and it took all her concentration not to jerk her hand away. He was warm. Pliant. Resilient. What else did you expect, Libby? She mocked herself. It's simply a human being. Living flesh is pretty much the same.
And she was lying to herself. His living flesh was a far cry from the tender skin of a baby, from the burly brutality of Alf Droggan's bearlike skin, from Edward J. Hunnicutt's soft, pampered body. It was a far cry from her own smooth, sensitive flesh. It was heat and power, strength and endurance. And it wasn't "it." It was he. Male, masculine.
"Does he understand English?" she asked over her shoulder.
"He doesn't understand a blooming thing—even when he's not out of it, he just stands there staring like he's lost his wits," Alf said. "Not that I think he ever had any in the first place."
"Do you talk to him?"
"Why should I? It's a waste of time."
"He needs to learn to communicate. He needs to get used to the sound of voices, to the sound of words. That's how babies learn to talk—by listening to their mothers."
"Well, coo all you want over 'im," Alf said. "I don't think he's got the wits to learn anything, and I don't know if he could speak even if he wanted to. All he does is growl."
"And who can blame you?" Libby muttered under her breath. She touched the bruised skin on his side, trying to feel if the ribs were in place, trying to ignore the heat emanating from him. She realized she'd been holding her breath, and she let it out suddenly.
He jerked reflexively beneath her probing fingers, and she jumped back, startled, but his eyes didn't open, and he stilled again.
She pushed the hair away from the swollen bruise by his eyes. He'd have a scar there once it healed, but there were scars all over his body, most of them ancient. Scars from cuts and tears that had never been treated with stitches or butterfly bandages or any of the accoutrements of modern medicine.
"But what should I expect?" she said in a quiet undertone. "Wherever you've been, wherever you've lived your life, there's been no one around to take care of you. Can you even talk at all?"
"What are you muttering about?" Alf demanded suspiciously, moving closer.
"I'm talking to myself. And to the subject. And keep your distance, please. I don't want him opening his eyes and seeing you. I could be wrong, but I'm guessing the sight of you doesn't fill him with a sense of well-being."
"He should have learned his lesson by now, if that's what you mean," Alf said with an air of satisfaction. "Not that he has. Tarzan here doesn't surrender easily."
"Do you think he'd still be alive after years in the wild if he was the type to surrender?" she said sharply. "And don't call him Tarzan."
"What do you want me to call him, your ladyship? Bloody Prince Charming?"
It's a start, she thought, and a faint blush washed over her. Not her Prince Charming, of course. But someone's.
She ignored Alf's taunt. "You know, he's out like a light. There's no need for you to hover around with your hand on your weapon like some Western gunslinger. He's not going to wake up and he's not going to hurt me. Why don't you go back into the observation room and let me work in peace? I promise to scream if he even twitches."
"And just what kind of work were you planning on doing, Doc?" Alf laughed wheezily. "We don't mind watching as you run your hands all over him. I'm just wondering what else you're planning to touch."
"You're disgusting, Mr. Droggan," she said calmly. "And since you're so interested in being helpful, why don't you go back and bring a clipboard and take notes of my observations?"
"I'm no bloody secret
ary. There's a tape recorder for that sort of thing. Hunnicutt's got a voice recognition machine that'll type it out for you."
She turned her head to look at him. "Then go get me the tape recorder, Mr. Droggan."
There was a moment's silence as a battle of wills was fought over the unconscious body between them. "Anything you say, miss," Alf said finally. "Come along, Mick. If Dr. Holden thinks she can handle the ape-man herself, so be it."
It took her a moment to realize she was alone with him, the door sealing them in together in the steamy heat of the manufactured rain forest. She had nothing to worry about, she reminded herself. Droggan and Mick weren't that far away, and she had no doubt they were watching and listening avidly.
She looked down at the bruised face of her subject. No, not her subject. Not some alien "it" to be prodded and poked. Him. Most definitely masculine, most definitely human, most definitely him.
Richard had always said that was her worst failing as a scientist. "Your wretched identification with your test subjects. They're data, nothing more. You'll never make the top echelon if you don't learn to disassociate."
She sighed. She'd learned to disassociate from Richard, at least, which was a step in the right direction. But it was hard to be objective when the subject under her examination was a living, breathing, potent male.
"So what am I going to call you?" she said under her breath, her voice low and soothing, getting him used to it. His eyelids twitched for a moment, making her think his brain had at least registered the sound, even though the words would mean nothing for now. "There's no way you're going to be Tarzan or George of the Jungle or Ape-man. For one thing, you don't look like an ape, or any kind of prehistoric link. I don't know if Hunnicutt's hoping you'll be some sort of genetic freak, but you definitely have evolved bone structure. If anything, your face looks…" She peered down, trying to look at him beneath the bruises, the beard, the tangled hair. "I don't know what your face looks like," she said finally. "I'd like to see you without the beard, but I doubt if Laurel and Hardy are going to let me near you with a razor, and I wouldn't want either of them trying. If I know Alf he's more likely to cut your throat than your beard."