“I … I don’t know. Lots of things. I never thought …” She turned her face away, then propped her elbow on the counter and dropped her chin in her hand. How many times did Jagan go to Neadi’s? How many things did he hear? What could he possibly have gleaned from them that GGA or the ’Sko would find useful? “I don’t know,” she repeated softly. “Are you sure about this?”
“I wasn’t. Until I went to Szedcafar looking for proof.”
It took a moment for the import of his words to register. She swiveled her face around. “To Szed?” She must have misheard. Last time his story was that he’d ended up near Szed, by mistake. When dealing with the ’Sko, the difference between near and to was usually life and death.
He nodded. “I, my team and I, managed to infiltrate a Syarian depot a few months ago.”
First Szed, now Syar. “That’s Conclave space!”
He shrugged. “We were following a trail of information. That trail went from the Syar Colonies to Szed. In a roundabout way. But it went there.”
Port Rumor was in Gensiira, more than halfway across the Conclave from Syar. She couldn’t see the immediate connection. “What do the Colonies have to do with Neadi’s bar?”
“Nothing, directly. But Grantforth has significant ties to the Colonies—”
“So do lots of people. Rinnaker and GGA both have small shipyards there.” Jagan had promised her a tour. That tour, like a lot of his promises, had never materialized. “And Grantforth money—specifically Garold’s money—backs two of the mines and half a dozen other industries.”
Something hovered at the edge of Trilby’s thoughts, something deep and dark and ugly. She couldn’t quite see it, though. It was still too illusive, shadowy. “But why would GGA care about my shipping runs, or the schedules of freighters like Carina’s?”
“I don’t know. But the ’Sko do, though why is not yet clear. We have a connection, but not a reason. That’s what we were looking for in Szed.”
Where he was captured, and escaped. From what she’d heard of the ’Sko, escape from Szedcafar was a near-impossible feat. She might have to revise her opinion of Rhis Vanur and of the kind of training mere lieutenants received in the Zafharin fleet. Hero might not quite cover it.
“And the information your team found … ?”
“Pointed to a relationship between a Conclave official, a transport operation, and the ’Sko,” he said softly. He held up one hand, ticked the items off on his fingers. “GGA or Rinnaker. The ’Sko.”
Trilby stared at him, at first in disbelief. Then, as her mind sorted through the information, a chill crept up her spine. “You’re saying that Jagan’s uncle’s a traitor? Or that Rinnaker’s sold out to the ’Sko?” Carina was missing. Chaser worked for GGA. She knew others at Rinnaker. Were all her friends now at risk?
He shook his head. “I’m saying there is significant evidence that something is going on between the ’Sko and someone in the Conclave. All the data is not in yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Trilby-chenka, I think some of that data resides on your ship. Remember that transmission I snared? This is why I can’t be delayed at Port Rumor.” He hesitated a moment. “This is why we’re now heading back to Yanir, to Imperial space.”
His tone was so soft, so kindly, that his words almost slipped by her. We’re heading back to Yanir.
Then reality kicked in. Hard. The ’Sko wanted her dead. And her ship was headed for the Empire. Without her permission.
Someone other than Trilby Elliot was in control of the Careless Venture.
Anger surged through her. “Wait one damned minute!”
He caught her hand as she made a grab for his arm. “Listen to me. Please. I have risked my life for this. The ’Sko tried to kill me. They have a kill order out on you. Doesn’t this tell you that this is something beyond the profits of a one-up run?”
There was a pain in his voice, as vivid and raw as the bruises she’d seen on his body. Bruises inflicted by the ’Sko. Who had issued a kill order on a destitute freighter captain because of something someone in the Conclave told them about her.
The import of his words hit her like a battering ram. She clung to Rhis’s hand as if he were her lifeline. Her hero. And more than just hers. Either GGA or Rinnaker was involved with the ’Sko, trading dirty. That put everyone who had ever raised a beer at Neadi’s in a Tark’s targeting sights.
Uncovering that information had almost cost Rhis his life. And all she could think of was getting to Port Rumor and refilling her bank account. Shame colored her words. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Tell you of corruption in your Conclave?” He stroked her fingers reassuringly. “Would you have believed me? A Zafharin? A naked one, as I remember, who threatened to harm you?”
She recognized the little quirk of a smile under his mustache, saw how he was trying to add levity into the situation, take the sting out of his words. He had a right to chew her out. Jagan would have. But he made it sound like none of it was her fault. “Maybe not right away, but—”
“You wouldn’t have. If I were in your position, I wouldn’t believe my story. But I didn’t make up what happened to Bella’s Dream. And I didn’t invent the ’Sko by the rafts. You must see that I’m telling you the truth.”
A very disturbing truth that gave new meaning to Neadi’s rumors. The ’Sko were infiltrating the Conclave. She clearly understood Rhis’s urgency, his need for her cooperation. Or rather, her ship’s cooperation, which he’d facilitated without her assistance. Her earlier anger drained from her. “How’d you get Dezi to—”
“I showed him the transmission from the ’Sko.”
Dezi’s linguistic files on Ycskrite had to be as meager as on Zafharish. But she knew that certain key sequences, like a kill-file order, he’d be able to translate. She nodded, suddenly grateful for her ’droid’s usually aggravating overprotective tendencies.
And to Rhis. His Imperial Arrogance notwithstanding, he’d been nothing but helpful since she’d rescued him. And all she’d given him was grief, lumping him in with the likes of Jagan, thinking his only reason to get back to the Empire was because of some sloe-eyed beauty waiting for his return. “I feel like an idiot. I wish you’d told me—”
“I wanted to.” He brought her hand to his lips, brushed her fingers with a lingering kiss. “S’viek noyet. I am sorry.”
She had to remind herself to breathe. A thousand delirious sensations ran up her arm when his lips touched her fingers. And that heat that had sparked between them without warning over the past few days suddenly hung, thick and sweet, in the air.
Startled, she focused on his large, strong fingers clasped around her own. There was a faded white scar across his knuckles. A small example of his sacrifices for his Empire and, in a way, for her.
Maybe that’s all she was feeling: gratitude. She sought a distraction from the warm tingles radiating through her body. “Did your team try to rescue you?”
He hesitated. “They were under orders not to. That is one of the risks of my position. The information they had, and the ship we’d used in the mission, were more important.”
Lives were expendable. But make sure the hardware comes back in one piece. And the Zafharin—no: Tivahr. Rhis was assigned to the Razalka. Senior Captain Tivahr had taken the possibility of Rhis Vanur’s death as an acceptable loss. It fit with everything she’d heard about the man.
“So they abandoned you to the ’Sko?” Her voice shook. She had seen what the ’Sko could do when she was contracted to Herkoid. Those few that survived were little more than broken minds in misshapen bodies, now haunting the dark corners of Port Rumor.
Rhis leaned forward and framed her face with his hands. “I’m fine. I’m alive. Not even the vampire snakes,” and he traced her mouth with his thumb, “had a chance to get to me. Because of you. Everything is going to be all right, Trilby-chenka. When we get back to my—”
She launched herself against him. Her
arms locked around his neck, her right foot hooked into the rung of the stool so she didn’t topple over. Her mouth pressed hard against his. He tasted slightly salty, a little like soup. And when his mustache scraped against her face and he groaned her name, she knew she was lost.
And she didn’t give a mizzet’s ass.
She wanted him. She wanted to give in to that primal heat that erupted every time they got within a few feet of each other. She wanted to dive into the seductive looks that made his eyes glitter like an explosion in a reactor chamber. She wanted to explore every inch of him, kiss away the pain of every scar on his hard and perfect body. She wanted to show him that life was worth living, even if his infamous commanding officer, Tivahr, didn’t think it was so.
So when his hands fumbled with her T-shirt, she didn’t stop him. She nibbled on his ear instead.
And when he pulled her off the stool and into his arms, she didn’t stop him. She kissed his neck instead.
And when he carried her into his small cabin and lay her down on his small bed, murmuring things in Zafharish she didn’t understand but that sounded awfully wonderful, she didn’t stop him. But let her hands slide slowly down the front of his shirt, undoing it. And, as he kneeled over her, she unfastened his pants, ran her hands over the hard planes of his body. And let her mouth take over where her hands had been.
He rasped her name and drew her face up to his. “No,” he said. “I want …” His mouth covered hers, his tongue probing. Then he pulled back, sucking lightly on her lower lip before he slid his hand underneath her, pressing her up against him.
“I want,” he repeated. He trailed hot kisses down her neck, across her breasts until she was shivering. His other hand cupped her breast, then stroked one taut nipple, but gently, teasingly. His tongue followed.
Then, just when she thought the explosions of delight in her body could get no better, he kissed her again. Hard, this time. A molten wave of passion rolled over her.
“I want you. Yav chera.” His hoarse whisper filled her ear. “Yav chera, Trilby-chenka. Tell me you want me.”
She turned her face slightly to look at him. There was a softness in the lines of his face she’d never seen before. An openness. A vulnerability. It tugged at her heart.
“Yav chera,” she replied softly.
His thumb covered her lips. “Yav cheron. If you want me, it is yav cheron. When I want you, which is all the time, it is yav chera.”
He moved his thumb and brushed his lips against hers.
“Yav cheron,” she told him. She laced her fingers through his hair and pulled his face back to hers.
He returned her kisses with a hungry passion, pressing his hardness against her. She arched against him and wrapped one leg around his thigh. He murmured in Zafharish. She understood only her name, though his hands and his kisses spoke a language that needed no translation.
Then he was inside her. She clung to him. He was trembling, his kisses intense as he thrust into her. She felt a long ripple of passion surge through her, felt his body respond in kind. And the heat that had been building between them mushroomed into a fireball.
He held her tightly, his face buried against her neck. And whispered those damned Zafharish words of his over and over against her skin.
They sounded wonderful.
8
Trilby thrust her head through the neck of her dark-green sleeveless T-shirt, wriggled her arms through the straps. But another pair of hands pulled it snug down her body, then moved up to lightly trace the outline of her breasts underneath.
She sucked in her breath, laughed nervously.
“Hmm?” Rhis’s face was warm against her neck. His fingers had found the edge of her underpants and smoothed the lace against her hipbone. “Going somewhere?”
“I should check in with Dez on the bridge,” she said. I should’ve checked in an hour ago. She glanced at the clock inset in the wall. Two hours ago. Damnation!
Rhis snaked his arms around her waist. She could feel the heat from his bare skin against her back, through her T-shirt, and against her own bare legs.
The sensation alternately thrilled her and mortified her. What in the Seven Hells had she done?
Well, she knew exactly what she had done. And it had been delicious. She just didn’t completely understand what had prompted her to do it.
He was a stranger! A Zafharin. She knew nothing about him other than he was a lieutenant on the Razalka—her stomach clenched at the name—and he had a great body that she had unashamedly explored for the better part of two hours.
“Trilby-chenka?”
Half the time he didn’t even speak Standard! All those passionate-sounding words could be nothing more than a recitation of a navigational checklist. Or a recounting of his family’s genealogical chart. The Zafharin were famous for their pride in their families.
Families. She closed her eyes for the moment. Oh, Gods, he might even be married!
She pulled out of the steamy warmth of his embrace. Her pants were crumpled on the floor. She grabbed them. “I really have to—”
“You did not want this, with me. Did you?” His voice was soft. She thought she heard an echo of dismay.
Shit!
She turned. He sat on the edge of the bed, his dark hair mussed, the bedsheet halfway around his waist. He looked magnificent.
And confused.
“No. I wanted …” She remembered just what it was she wanted. And he wanted. And he’d taught her to say it in Zafharish.
Yav cheron.
She let her pants slip through her fingers, came and sat down next to him on the bed. “No, I wanted this. With you. I just would’ve liked it under different circumstances.”
He touched her face. “So would I. But sometimes the universe does not listen, even to me.” He offered her a small smile. “You’re afraid.”
She nodded.
“So am I.”
His admission bolstered her dwindling confidence. She had to smile back. “You don’t seem like someone who’s ever been afraid of anything.”
He stroked her cheek. “I never was. Before. But this … this …” He shook his head. “This has me dravda gera mevnahr. What you might call ‘ass over teakettle.’ ”
“Because?”
“Because if you were to talk to all the people who know me, and tell them that I have this beautiful air sprite in my bed and that I cannot stop thinking about her—or touching her—they would all not believe you.”
“Rhis?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you married?”
Dark brows slanted over startled eyes. The fingers stroking her cheek halted. “No.”
Ah, the feared M word. Gets ’em every time.
“I’m not husband hunting.” She leaned away from him, grabbed her pants again. “So don’t get jumpy.” She shoved her foot through one pants leg. “But I also don’t get involved with married men.”
She hazarded a glance at him. His hands had dropped down to his knees and his face wore a slightly sheepish expression.
She pushed her foot through the other pants leg, then stood. “Have you seen my socks?”
She peered under the chair. He lifted the blanket that had fallen to the floor. His socks were there. Hers weren’t.
He reached over and grabbed the pillows and flipped them over. Then he turned back to her. “No. They’re not in your boots?”
She had a very distinct memory of clothes flying. She didn’t think either one of them had stopped to tuck socks into boots. She tried to convey that in the look she shot him.
He chuckled.
She picked up her boots, wriggled her fingers inside just in case. “I’m not going to the bridge barefoot. I’ll meet you up there in five?”
He stood. The sheet was knotted at his waist. “In five,” he said, reaching for her. He pulled her back against him, kissed her soundly. She melted against his warmth for a moment, then with a sigh stepped back.
“You know, if you’d don
e that in my sick bay,” she said as she backed toward the door, “instead of grabbing me by the throat, the past couple of days would’ve been a whole lot nicer.”
“Recommendation logged and noted. Captain.”
She grinned as she strode toward her cabin. Captain. For the first time, he said her title with a definite note of respect. This was getting better and better.
Rhis stood in the center of his cabin and closed his eyes. The scent of perfume and powder rose off the heat of his skin. The sheet was slipping out of its knot around his waist. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled. Then just as slowly, just as deliberately, he drew in another deep breath.
When he found his heart still pounding, every muscle of his body still twitching with energy, and his thoughts still racing in an almost giddy delight, he knew it was true.
He was crazy. Unequivocally, undeniably crazy. He’d lost his mind. His control was shattered. His discipline nonexistent.
And he didn’t give a damn.
He opened his eyes, turned his face just enough to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
He didn’t look any different. Except for the wide grin plastered across his face. That was different. That was …
Trilby. His air sprite. His gutsy little fool who infuriated him and enchanted him and mesmerized him. Who delighted him.
When she haltingly said, Yav cheron, he thought his heart was going to explode.
Which would probably have shocked most of the Empire, as most of the Empire knew he didn’t have a heart.
He didn’t. He’d given it to her. Which was, he grudgingly admitted as he pulled on his clothes, one of the wisest things he’d ever done.
Now all he had to do was save civilized space from the ’Sko and life would be wonderful.
“I need to tell Neadi where I am,” Trilby said as he eased into the copilot’s seat. He clicked the straps around his chest.
“And,” she continued, “I have to get someone to pick up my Bagrond run.”
He leaned over, enfolded her hand in his. A slight blush rose on her cheeks. That pleased him. “I agree. Both must be done, but not here. The security of your communications is not …” He hesitated. She may be his lover, but this was her ship he was criticizing. Even lovers had to tread that ground carefully.
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