by Susan Grant
His lips slid into a wry smile. “That one, yes. Queen Keira. In fact, I suspect it was one reason behind my promotion to Prime-major at only thirty-five of your Earth years. The queen is nearing thirty and in the royal view of things, overdue to produce an heir to the throne. They thought a military man would make a good consort.”
“And you were the man. The queen’s stud.”
“Her proposed stud. I never met her. However, she was said to be…ah, in favor of the idea. The idea of me.” Cavin shrugged. He seemed somewhat embarrassed by the whole thing. “Perhaps she’d have changed her mind once we met in person.”
“No,” Jana said with conviction. “She wouldn’t have. Trust me.” The queen would want Cavin even more. What woman wouldn’t? It was irrational, but Jana felt a flicker of jealousy. How could a lowly state senator compete with the queen of the galaxy? A gorgeous vixen who whacked off offending male parts while she, nerd-to-the-max, got woozy over a paper cut. Jana might have Cavin’s heart, but the queen without a doubt had a better wardrobe, a better hairstyle and unlimited facials. And she’d bet her bottom dollar the queen wore jeweled tiaras, not baseball caps. “Would you have considered it? If she asked and you didn’t have me?”
“If I didn’t have you, Jana, I wouldn’t be in the position to be chosen as the queen’s consort. I’d be an unknown scientist’s son who was quite content being an anonymous, low-ranking soldier. But if I hadn’t disappeared when I did, and the royal summons was made…” Tiredly he rubbed his face. “I don’t know what I would have done, quite frankly. Likely, I wouldn’t have had much choice in the matter. Duty would have required me to comply. You don’t turn down the queen.”
“Especially that queen. Not if you don’t want your voice a few octaves higher, that is. At least you vanished before wedding plans began.”
“Unfortunately, it means more people looking for me. Fortunately, only a few want to actually kill me. Everyone else simply wants to locate me.”
“Oh, well that’s heartening.”
“Better than having to face a squadron of Drakken Imperial troopers.”
“I’ll take your word on that.”
“Do,” he said. “It is my goal in life to make sure you never come within a hundred light-years of a Drakken.”
The tension in the room ran high. Not only was the most-feared assassin on Cavin’s trail, the entire galaxy was looking for him. Suddenly, the physical distance between them was too much. Unbearable. She needed to hold him. “Come to bed,” she said, pulling down the blanket. He’d gotten no sleep the night before and she’d managed only a few hours. They were exhausted. “Come, sleep with me. Just sleep.”
He nodded in silence and turned off the room light. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, draping it over the back of a chair. His broad shoulders and biceps were rounded, well developed, hinting at time spent lifting weights. He unfastened the wrist gauntlet and set it aside. His waist was narrow, his stomach hard with muscle. Other than a shadowing of hair across his chest and the bandage on his stomach, his golden skin gleamed. No scars accounted for a life spent as a soldier. And not because he’d held desk jobs, either. In fact, the opposite was true; he’d been out on the field most of his career. No, the perfection of his skin was due to advanced technology, healing using microscopic computers, what he sorely needed now to heal his injury and didn’t have.
Last, he withdrew his gun from his pants and placed it within easy reach under a pillow. She tried not to think of why. He stretched out next to her. She molded the length of her body to his. They fit together without trying, her leg draped over his hip, his knee between her thighs. She ran her hands over his bare back, feeling the ripple of hard muscle under smooth, silken skin. Linking her arms around his waist, she inhaled his scent. “Sorry it didn’t work out tonight,” she murmured against his warm skin. “You know, in bed.” Even though he couldn’t see her face, she felt her cheeks warm. “We got only halfway done.”
“Halfway? Bah. An eighth, if that. Closer to a sixteenth.”
She giggled. “If you’d been my math instructor and with those kinds of word problems when I was in school, I might have paid more attention.”
He pressed his lips to her hair. “We will make love fully, and thoroughly. But for now, you are right. Sleep is more important.”
Sleep was important because he’d need all his wits about him. At this very moment, his government was combing the stars, looking for him, and an assassin was in the shadows here on Earth doing the same thing. And now she and Cavin were about to go public with the greatest story in human history, which put him at the mercy of the people of Earth, too. Prime-major Far Star was a wanted man with a capital W.
And a hero with a capital H. Her hero.
At least now she understood why he’d wanted her to know everything before they grew closer. There was a real risk of losing him, and he needed her to understand that, to be prepared for the worst. “I’m scared,” she whispered in the dark, embarrassed by how small her voice sounded. “I’m scared I’ll close my eyes and you’ll be gone.”
He sighed deeply and gathered her close. His arms were strong, his body was solid. “I’ll be here when you wake up, Squee. I swear on the gods.”
“My God, too.” She sensed rather than saw him smile.
“Yes. As always, your god, too. Close your eyes,” he whispered in her ear.
“How am I supposed to sleep?”
“Try.” He slipped his hand under the strands of hair at the nape of her neck, massaging her there. “You’re not alone in this. I’m with you.”
“You’re not alone in this, either. Or in anything you do for the rest of your life. After what you told me tonight, I never want to be apart from you again.”
He crushed her close in a profound embrace. She could tell by the way he paused, his lips pressed to her jaw, his breaths quickening slightly, that he, too, felt the heat simmering between them flare to life. It was also obvious in the reluctance with which he ended the passionate hug that to continue would mean tumbling into more. Only because they were both essentially disciplined people did they somehow back away from the edge.
So, he held her, quiet and still. Despite the worry boiling inside her, exhaustion and the security of Cavin’s warm body pulled her under fast. She didn’t recall falling asleep, or for how long she was out, but she stirred awake when Cavin eased her to his side. Groggily, she was aware of him pulling the sheets and blanket over them. Then he stretched out alongside her and wrapped her in his arms.
His heart thumped under her ear, reminding her of his courage with every beat. Reminding her of the heart she’d have to find within herself tomorrow when despite the attacks against her and her family, she’d take the first steps to bring Cavin’s warning to the rest of Earth.
Chapter Sixteen
“TWO TRIPLE VENTI vanilla lattes, please,” Jana told the barista early the next morning at a Starbucks outside the light-rail station. “And a newspaper.” She was impatient to see what, if any news from the explosion last night had made it into the paper. If it had, she hoped there was no mention of the Jasper name. Keeping scandal-free the next couple of days was critical. All she had to do was make it to the end of the week, and she’d be able to disappear with Cavin and try to do what he needed her to do to help rescue Earth. Discreetly, of course. It would be the epitome of Jasper efficiency: saving the world over spring break, averting an alien invasion without missing any time at work.
Cavin looked as exhausted as she felt as he warily scanned the patrons inside the coffee shop, the order-taker, the cars outside. The Starbucks experience seemed to overwhelm him as much as clothes shopping the night before had. The only explanation she had was that it was so far removed from any of his life experiences. It would be like her going back to the thirteenth century and shopping for bread and mead outside the castle walls. Yet, when the assassin was shooting at Cavin, or cars were exploding, he was icy-cool, the epitome of calm. They filled in each o
ther’s gaps, complemented each other’s weaknesses and strengths, something she had the feeling would come in handy, and sooner than she’d have liked.
“That’ll be eight twenty-seven,” the order-taker said.
Cavin thrust the rolled wad of hundreds at him. “Cavin, no,” she said under her breath.
Too late, judging by the order-taker’s rounded eyes. “I can’t break a hundred,” he said.
Jana rooted through her purse for spare change to add to her last five bucks. She didn’t want to give up those lattes. Or the paper. But she needed to come up with two dollars and—she counted change—eighty-six more cents. “Make that seventy-six.” She added a dime to the pile of spare change on the counter.
Cavin seemed insulted on her behalf. “Is our money not good enough at this establishment?”
“The problem is that it’s too much. He can’t make change. They don’t have enough.”
He huffed. “Paper money. A primitive system.”
Jana dug through her purse. There were pockets and zippered compartments she hadn’t opened in months. “Ooh, more change. A whole dollar!”
The order-taker heaved an impatient sigh. “Sorry,” Jana said, turning. “Sorry!” she called to the people waiting behind her. Then she dumped the last handful of change on the counter. She put the paper under her arm and waited with Cavin for the coffees.
“Primitive?” She made a face at him. “I’ll have you know I could have paid with my ATM, electronically, but in light of everything that’s happened I want to keep as many transactions as I can anonymous.”
“I don’t fault your logic, only your monetary system. We will find a place to tear the hundreds so we can use them.”
“That’s break them. And, yes, we will.”
They took their coffees and walked to the train. As Cavin wheeled her suitcase for her, his new clothing now packed inside, he took a sip of coffee. He made a gurgling noise, cast a panicked glance around. Then he spat a mouthful of coffee into the bushes. “What is this, Jana?” he demanded.
“A latte. Coffee mixed with steamed milk and some vanilla syrup. You don’t like it?”
He wrinkled his nose. “It tastes like swamp water. Sweetened swamp water.”
She tasted his coffee. “It tastes fine.” She narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t one of those Cavin-kidding moments, is it?”
He shuddered. He held up a hand, stopping her from returning the cup to him. “With all due respect to your Earth customs and cuisine, Jana, but I cannot bear to even smell it.”
She threw the coffee away. She couldn’t believe he’d hated it. “What do you drink in the mornings to wake up?”
“I don’t have the words to translate, but it’s hot, thick and salty. Made from a root. A little bitter if aged.” He made a soft sound. “I have missed it these past few days.”
Chinese hot and sour soup only thicker and stronger was the first thing that jumped into her mind. But for breakfast? “Ugh!”
He smiled. “Now you see my problem with your coffee.”
He gave one last shudder and led her onto the train. His soldier’s eyes did a complete scan of the compartment before he let her take a seat.
As the train pulled out of the station, Jana juggled her attaché case, napkins and her coffee as she unfolded the rolled-up paper. May there be no mention of Evie and her exploding Honda. She held her breath and looked down. The headline blared: California’s Fragile Environment: Jasper And Other Key State Legislators, Do Personal Interests Influence Policy? Right under the headline was a huge photo of her in Ice, wearing a nervous smile as she cradled a titanic bottle of vodka.
Jana spewed coffee over the page, over a smaller photo of Viktor, grinning as he gave her the bottle, and the caption: Jasper: Conservationist, Czarina. Policies May Keep Caviar Prices High.
Czarina? Viktor, she thought, growling. Was he responsible for this? Was it revenge for the disastrous lunch yesterday? But the article was massive; it had been some time in the making. This was no overnight exposé.
Frantic, she rubbed off drops of coffee, smearing the ink. Then she jammed on her reading glasses. The photos were grainy and dark, as if snapped in the back room of a shady business when in fact they were probably taken from across the street from Ice with a telephoto lens. The last photo was of her at the sturgeon farm, not making the speech or cutting the ribbon, but waiting for champagne to be poured into her glass, of which she’d had one freaking sip. One!
Jana raced through the article. No one had accused her of anything directly; it merely showed her in ways that suggested she took bribes and favors. There was one direct quote, an old one, where when asked if rising caviar prices had boosted Viktor’s profits, she’d denied knowledge, stating she was not privy to the details nor involved in any way with her cousin’s private business. But in this context, it raised the question of whether her allocation of environmental spending served to pad the pockets of family members.
It’s what people think that counts, not what you actually do—or not do. She remembered Grandpa’s words well. It mattered not what she’d actually done, that she’d refused the gift of vodka. The mere fact she was seen holding it was a character-assassination bull’s eye.
“Cavin, I’m in fucking deep shit.” It wasn’t too long ago that swearing would make her blush. Now look at her. Then again, she wasn’t exactly living the life of a Girl Scout anymore, was she? Her language had to come down to match her criminal existence. “Look,” she whispered so the other riders wouldn’t overhear. “The photos make it look like I accept bribes, or maybe thank-you gifts for favors rendered.”
Cavin took the paper from her shaking hands. He might not be able to read, but he sure as hell could see the pictures. “If they say you accept enticements and you do not, won’t the newspaper be held accountable?”
It was an incredibly shrewd observation for a man from a different culture, let alone a different planet. “Yes. If the Sun accused me of something and they were wrong, they’d be looking at a libel suit. An ethical journalist wouldn’t publish photos and make a statement regarding them, because photos offer just a glimpse. Nothing they depict is shown in context. But these…” She worked to keep her voice steady and low. “I campaigned on the platform that special interest groups can’t sway me. And yet here I appear to be cheerfully accepting gifts and favors. Worse, from family members. That’s nepotism.”
“Lies,” he hissed back. “What was done to your father was done to you.”
She knew that, but nothing prepared her for the boom being lowered on her. She thought she’d understood what her father must have felt being accused of campaign funds fraud, but now she knew she hadn’t come close to realizing the sickening frustration of this unwarranted, unprovoked attack.
Heart thumping, she glanced around the train, where some of the commuters reading the paper, too, cast discreet and some not-so discreet glances at her. Dressed in a navy-blue suit with baby-blue pinstripes and a killer pair of Coach pumps, her hair swept back in a French twist with Tahitian pearls adorning her ears and neck, she actually looked like Senator Jana Jasper today. There would be no mistaking her identity this time.
Normal face. She used every bit of training from her upbringing to get hold of herself. She smoothed her skirt, crossed her legs at the ankle, tried to act composed.
Her cell phone vibrated in her hand. “Nona,” Jana said into the phone, recognizing the office number.
“It’s Steve. Did you see the Sun?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Where are you?”
“On light-rail, heading in. My, um, car broke down,” she told him before he could ask the question.
“Everything happens at once,” he sympathized.
She glanced at Cavin, aka Mr. War of the Worlds, and then the newspaper. “You could say that.”
“Rob Nixon from the Sun called.”
“And what did he have to say for himself?” While he hadn’t penned today’s article, th
e journalist had covered most of the Jasper stories over the past decade. Jana considered him a friend. A sense of betrayal stung her realizing he’d known the incriminating pictures were going in, and maybe even who’d given them to the paper.
“He tried to stop the feature,” Steve said. “Because the reporter who received the photos of you with the vodka won’t reveal his source, which is making it all stickier. Says the source fears for his life.”
Jana growled. “And for good reason, too. If I get my hands on his so-called source…” She stopped herself before her fantasies of torture and mutilation hit the cell phone airwaves or the ears of anyone who might be eavesdropping. She wasn’t quite ready to add conspiracy to murder to her lengthening list of committed crimes.
“Nixon did say he’d be writing a follow-up of his own, to showcase your record. We’re meeting later over lunch.”
Jana hoped it wasn’t too little, too late. “Excellent.” It felt good to have a friend remain a friend during the difficult times. In politics, it was too often not the case. “Thank him for me. Please do that.”
“Roger. And I’m working up a press release,” he said. “Press conference on the west steps later?”
“Green light, Steve. Meanwhile, get Nona on finding out who supplied those pictures. And the one from the fish farm.” A burst of memory illuminated an image of a man in a hat and trench coat, taking photos at the fish farm. “Have her look into the identity of that reporter from the Russian paper yesterday. Let’s find out who he really works for.”
With her staff busy working on countermeasures, Jana told Cavin, “I’d better warn my mother.” She dialed the ranch. On the very last ring before the answering machine would have picked up, her mother answered.
“If I woke you, Mom, I’m sorry. It’s early, but it’s important.”
“I know.”
Jana’s heartbeat skittered. “You do?”
A dramatic sigh. “Mothers know these things. Janushka, what is it?”