Survivalist - 15 - Overlord Read Online Free Page B

books —called “loose.” There had been plenty of men who had tried to make her their own. She had not wanted them. She wondered if it were somehow poetic justice or divine retribution that the man she desired with all of her being was intentionally cold to her.
    But his coldness did not alter her desire.
    She closed her eyes. She could see Michael Rourke. Tall. Straight. Dark brown hair, full. The eyes — penetrating.
    Dark. His muscles rippled beneath his shirt and he moved with the grace of an animal rather than a mere man. His hands—when he touched her for whatever the reason she felt inside herself something she had never felt before.
    If she kept her eyes closed, the image of Michael might remain. And perhaps it would carry her into sleep.

Chapter Three
    There was an advantage to the dresses worn by the women of Iceland, Annie Rourke noted. Though her mother’s pregnancy was showing, the high waisted dresses Sarah Rourke wore effectively camouflaged her condition. Annie longed for the same condition, but had agreed with Paul that they would not have their first child until the thing with Karamatsov was over.
    She felt cheated, having to stay behind while Natalia and even the German girl Maria Leuden went into the field. In part it was to keep her mother company. In part that was the reason that she stayed. But in part it was to keep a Rourke presence in Iceland among the peaceful people who were its inhabitants and the New Germany allies who were its guardians.
    Madame Jokli had come to rely on her, in fact, in her dealings with the German commander, Major Volkmer, asking her —Annie —to accompany her when necessity demanded going to the German base just outside the cone of the volcano that walled Hekla against the ice and storm of the arctic environment in which it was an island of warmth and flowers and beauty.
    And Annie Rourke looked forward to it as she did now, because the meetings allowed her the opportunity to meet
    with Dr. Munchen, Munchen always arranging his appointments so they could talk without interruption, disregarding the occasional emergency.
    Annie Rourke had boarded the German helicopter following closely at Madame Jokli’s heels, the President of Lydveldid Island swathed in a woolen shawl which covered the tiny woman from the tip of her head nearly to her ankles and could have wrapped around her at least twice.
    Annie sat beside Madame Jokli, fixing her dress, slipping her own shawl down from her shoulders. It was equally as heavy as that of the Icelandic President but Annie, rather than cocooning herself inside it, had felt its warmth re-pressively heavy here inside the cone. But when she disembarked the German gunship, there would be a few moments of bitter arctic cold between the helipad and the heat lights which blanketed as much of the base exterior with warmth as could be arranged. And for that Annie knew from experience, she would need every calorie of warmth.
    It was a routine to which Annie Rourke was well used now. As the helicopter rose over the Hekla cone, she surveyed the landscape below through the swirling snow, her throat catching slightly as she spied the patch of ground which was the common cemetery, where Madison Rourke and Madison’s and Michael’s unborn child rested for all eternity. The cross could no longer be seen and she consciously lied to herself that it was merely the altitude at which the German gunship flew and the swirling snow around it which obscured the gravemarker. But it was none of these. She shivered and drew the shawl up about her shoulders and tightened her knees more closely together beneath her navy blue woolen ankle length skirt. For a moment, she had pictured herself lying cold and dead beneath ground that was forever still colder than death itself. It was not a psychic flash —she recognized those when she had them. It was no premonition of her own death. Instead, it was, she realized, her empathy with the dead girl, her
    “little