He stood and headed for the main tunnel.
Hope looked up from the strip of torn shirt she was using to dribble water over the raw flesh on Stev’s wrists. “Where are you going?”
“Just want to have a look around.”
He was back in moments. “I hate paperwork.” He answered Hope and Stev’s inquiring expressions with a shrug. “Rogan was in the tunnel when the horses came through. He didn’t make it out.”
Hope hesitated, then continued to dab at Stev’s wrists. “Shalla,” he said softly. “You saved us.”
She nodded. Tarik sat and hugged her against his side. “If you hadn’t scared the horses, he would have eventually killed you and made me and Stev watch.”
“I know. You’re right. It was the only thing I could think to do.”
“Killing is never easy,” Stev said. “It shouldn’t be.”
He was glad to see her brave smile lose its stiffness. Pulling away from her gentle hold, he reached for his pants. “We’d better make doubly sure these guys are tied and no trouble,” he ’pathed his bond-brother, who nodded and fished his own pants out of the pile. “Then figure out a way to comm the team from here so they can come pick up us and the rest of the gang. Betcha ten credits the horses are long gone.”
Tarik snorted softly. He righted his gear bag and took a couple of mini-blasters out of the hidden compartment. Handing one to Stev, he said, “No bet.”
* * * *
Shirrah Spencer casually went through the lobby and out onto the street. She carried no bags, no overcoat, nothing to so much as hint she wasn’t stepping down the street to keep her breakfast date with the sheriff who so enjoyed handcuffs, breathless confessions, and the judicious application of a leather belt to his plump buttocks. Her things remained unpacked in her suite, reinforcing the impression she would be back. If nothing else, she would lose her stake if she didn’t return to her table in the hotel’s grand ballroom for the next round in the poker tournament.
Shirrah strolled along the boardwalk, pausing to peer in shop windows or exchange greetings with the early-risers and hangers-on excited to meet one of the off-world gamblers. She was certain she could ditch the young Galactic Marshal trailing her with little effort. Him, she made the moment she saw him. The older woman with the hard eyes of a seasoned huntress would be more of a challenge.
Her first move was to enter the cavernous building a few blocks over from her hotel. The massive eating establishment specialized in serving inexpensive food to vast amounts of people in a short period of time. Breakfast diners thronged the aisles, picking over trays of exotic and domestic dishes before carrying their booty to the mess hall style dining area. In moments, Shirrah was through the crowd and in a hallway leading to both the washrooms and a rear exit. After a quick glance to ensure she was temporarily alone, Shirrah thumbed a recessed button on her bracelet. Her ears ached under the pressure of a sub-audible hum, and the fine hairs on her arms lifted as the gadget activated the light bending properties of the filaments woven into the material of her sleek pantsuit. The little trick meant the marshals would have to look extra hard to see her since the Chameleon suit both blurred her outline and helped her figure blend in with her surroundings.
Shirrah quickly overrode the lock on the emergency exit and went outside.
With the instincts of a starving alley cat, she wended her way through the streets and alleys of Terminal City. The buildings around her lost the sanitized look of the tony, tourist friendly part of the city that hosted the tournament. Instead of faux wood storefronts and quaint cafes that aggressively courted customer credits, the stores in this area took the defensive stance of weapon detector lintels and barred windows. It was also easier to go unnoticed when passersby worked at not noticing the people around them. She checked the time on her wristcomp and picked up her pace.
The abandoned plant could have been one of any on dozens of worlds. The low slung structure hadn’t quite succumbed to decay, but it was on the whimpering edge of it. The plas-steel windows had gone from transparent to sickly yellow opacity, yet they remained unbroken. Dodging the worst cracks in the buckled pavement, Shirrah jogged to the rusty ladder affixed partway down the side of the building. Nimbly, she jumped up and grabbed the lowest rung. Well-trained muscles and determination got her feet up, and she began scaling the rungs.
The shouted demand to stop was unwelcome, if not wholly unexpected. Shirrah sighed and glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, it was the older Galactic Marshal.
“Come down from there nice and easy,” the woman ordered, her gaze as unflinching as her voice. Shirrah glanced up at the unseen rooftop. The heat of a laser shot kissing the siding near her knee forced her attention back on the marshal, who said, “Down. Now.”
The sudden roar of an engine and the heavy thumps of cannon fire sent the marshal rolling for cover in a doorway. The Blackjack screamed by and executed a somewhat clumsy turn to give the ground around the doorway a repeat strafing. Shirrah used the distraction to scamper up the ladder and onto the roof. Rogan’s ship maneuvered around again. The passenger door irised open before the struts crunched into the ragged surface of the rooftop. Holding her hands over her ears to protect them from the noise, Shirrah ran to the ship and jumped aboard, slapping the control panel to close the portal.
“Miss Spencer,” an unfamiliar voice—definitely not Rogan—called over the intercom. “Can you come to the bridge right away, please?”
Without answering, Shirrah deactivated her Chameleon suit and made her way to the bow of the ship. Rogan’s hacker jumped up from the control chair when she walked onto the bridge. Lifting an eyebrow, she asked, “Where’s Rogan?”
“Uh.” The man swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I think the marshals got him. He didn’t respond to my hails when I tried to warn him a satellite had locked onto the Blackjack’s position.”
“I see.” Shirrah slid into Rogan’s chair. Gliding her palms over the consoles set in the armrests, she quickly assessed their position and possible pursuers. Nothing, as yet. Quickly, she lay in a course to take the ship out of atmosphere.
“I waited as long as I could,” the man fumbled on. “With the ship’s systems already partially disabled by the worm, I couldn’t depend on the master computer being able to conceal our position anymore. And you were waiting to be picked up—”
“Of course. I understand.”
He practically sagged with relief. “Then it’s okay?”
Shirrah looked around the bridge with covetous eyes. Rogan really should have listened to her. Too bad his arrogance outweighed his good sense. The key to any well-played game was knowing when to take a gamble and when to throw in the cards. “Don’t worry …”
“Jarowski.”
“… Jarowski. You did exactly the right thing.”
Smiling, Shirrah keyed in the co-ordinates of her first destination, an off-the-charts ship overhaul station. The Blackjack was too noticeable. It would take some credits, but by the time she was done, Rogan would never recognize it. She rather favored the name Lady’s Choice.
Chapter 11
Hope got out of the ridiculously expensive cab and took the three steps up to the porch before the automated grav-car began its return journey back to Terminal City. The screen door slapped closed behind her. Seated at the table, coffee mugs clutched in their hands, her brothers turned to glare at her as one.
“Now you’ve done it,” Reid said, his usually mellow voice drowned out by a squalling wail from somewhere deeper in the house. Wearily, he got to his feet and left the kitchen.
Hope realized her mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. Turning to Garrett, she demanded, “The baby’s here?” She felt a bubble of joy override the exhaustion and depression that had been weighing her down. “What is it, a nephew or a niece? When did Lannie go into labor? Did Mom and Dad make it home in time? Oh my God, why didn’t you call me?”
She’d started after Reid when Garrett shot one long arm out, blockin
g her. “Whoa, there! You think you can just pop in here without a howdy-do after that cryptic comm you sent this morning? ‘Gotta take care of something at the Galactic Marshals station. Fill you in later,’” he quoted from memory. “You don’t think the tiny little fact a couple of Galactic Marshals took down a gang of thieves within spitting distance of our ranch wouldn’t have made the newsfeeds?”
He kicked out a chair with his good leg and nodded at it with his chin. “Sit your butt down and tell me what the hell is going on.”
Hope looked into green eyes the same shade as hers and knew she wouldn’t be leaving this room until he had his answers. So she told him.
When she went silent, he looked like he knew she’d left out chunks of the story, which she had—such as the fact she’d somehow got herself metaphysically hitched to not one, but two off-worlders.
Hope helped herself to his now-cold mug of coffee and took a big gulp. “Now can I go see my nephew? Niece? Damn, which one is it?”
“Niece,” he said grudgingly. “And why don’t you let Reid bring her out when he’s ready. Lannie is exhausted, and that poor baby’s been up crying most of the night. You get drunk on shore leave?” he asked abruptly.
Hope stared at him blankly. He scowled and flicked a finger at her temple. “When’d you have time to get tattooed?”
Flustered, Hope touched her temples. She’d forgotten about the churat, though it had given her a start when she first saw the “passionate purple” designs in the mirror at the station. “Oh, ah, they’re not tattoos.”
“Hope.”
Stev’s voice startled her. Turning, she saw Stev and Tarik at the screen door, eyes fixed on her. The newly purple color of their churats was obvious even in the shadows on the porch. So was the pale film of healing synth-skin covereding the bloody design carved into Stev’s cheek.
Garrett’s lack of reaction proved at least one of them had heard their grav-car arrive in the yard.
Just the sight of Stev and Tarik stirred Hope’s arousal. For the first time, she felt her desire rise without the spur of zusha ratcheting it up. And rise it did. Hope sucked in a breath and strived for calm.
“Can we speak to you, please?” Tarik asked.
Seeing them, Hope felt the uncertainty that dogged her through the questioning at the station return. Regardless, she needed to find out where she stood with these two men. “Sure.”
Getting up, Hope joined them outside. They fell into step beside her as she instinctively headed for the horse barn.
Stev broke the silence. “Why’d you leave the station without us?”
“I didn’t know how long you’d be,” she hedged.
Tarik made a disbelieving sound. “You could have ’pathed us and asked.”
“You could have let me know,” she countered. The air inside the barn was redolent with hay and horses. Several of the big animals whickered in greeting, including the three that had found their way home from the cavern, and Hope immediately felt a little better. How could she leave the ranch?
“You’re right,” Stev said. “But that’s not what’s really bothering you, is it, shalla?”
Hope couldn’t help it—her fragile emotions crumpled. Stev held out his arms, and she went into his embrace. Tarik placed his hands on her shoulders and laid his cheek against her hair. They opened their minds to her, and she was surrounded, both physically and mentally, as they let her see for herself how much they wanted her, needed her. Instead of feeling trapped, she felt protected, loved.
“Tell us what’s wrong, Hope,” Tarik whispered. “That’s the only way we can make it better.”
“But I don’t think you can make it better,” she said, her voice just as soft.
Patiently, they waited. Stev’s hands settled on her hips while Tarik’s fingers moved in slow circles over the tense muscles of her neck.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to move to Geminus.”
“Then we won’t,” Tarik said easily.
“We’ll need to visit our families,” Stev said. “Our parents will want to meet you, shalla. But we don’t even live on Geminus.”
Tarik shifted as Hope leaned back to look at them in surprise. “Then where do you live?”
“In the barracks at the Galactic Marshals’ station in Sector Seven.”
“I don’t want to live there, either.”
Tarik laughed. “Who does? Besides, mates aren’t allowed. The barracks are strictly bachelor quarters.”
Exasperated, Hope pulled away and stalked down the aisle. Turning, she glared at them from a few feet away. “Why are you making this so damn difficult? Just give me a straight answer.”
“Then,” Tarik said reasonably, “you have to tell us what you want.”
“I don’t want to leave the Bar-K!”
“Okay,” they said.
“What? ‘Okay,’ just like that?”
“The Galactic Marshals’ office on Jokers Wild is ridiculously understaffed,” Stev said. “It likely wouldn’t take too much effort for me and Tarik to transfer here. If we can’t, we’ll resign.”
She goggled at them. “You’d quit your jobs?”
Tarik shrugged. “We always knew that someday we might have to once we found our bondmate.”
Hope bit her lip. “You mean you really wouldn’t mind living on Jokers Wild?” Tarik and Stev moved forward, slowly shaking their heads. As they advanced, Hope retreated.
“Why would we mind?” Stev said. “This is where you are.”
Hope bumped into the door of an empty stall and stopped. Tarik and Stev kept coming until they caged her against the weathered wood. Tarik dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss on her temple, right over her churat. Hope sagged against the stall door when Stev mimicked him, kissing her other temple.
Tarik’s voice floated through her mind even as his fingers began to unfasten the buttons on her shirt. “Any more worries, shalla?”
Stev slid his hand inside the parted fabric and traced one hardening nipple through the silk of her bra. “Shalla?”
“No.” The word was a drawn out moan.
Tarik flipped the latch that secured the stall door and opened it. Stev backed her into the empty box, asking, “No, what?”
He tugged her shirttails out of her pants while Tarik took a spare horse blanket draped over the stall’s low wall and used it to cover the clean straw.
Hope kissed Stev, trying to push everything she felt into the simple act. Tarik was there, waiting, when she turned to kiss him with just as much love and passion.
“No,” she ’pathed, smiling as her bondmates lowered her to the blanket and began to prove just how willing and able they were to keep her happy and satisfied. “No more worries.”
THE END
www.RainaJames.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Her father's career as a pilot in the Canadian military took Raina James' family across the country while she was growing up, eventually landing her near Ottawa, the nation's capital. A love of words and writing spurred Raina to pursue a career in journalism. It's been 20 years since she first stepped into the newsroom trenches, but every day is still a thrill.
Raina writes in a wide variety of genres, from contemporary and science fiction to fantasy (urban and traditional) and paranormal. The thread that binds them all together, though, is romance. Raina just loves a happy ending, even if her characters have to leap through fire to get there. Or rather, especially if they have to leap through fire.
When she's not writing, Raina is generally riding herd on her four kids, two girls and two boys.
Also by Raina James
Serena’s Song
Three for All
Sinful
The Family Jewel
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