The Star King

by Susan Grant

  Unaware of his presence, Jas was cross-legged on the floor across from the hatch to the generator room, vigorously sketching something on the pad of paper in her lap. The sight of her, so serious, so absorbed in her artwork while sitting in the middle of the floor of a cold and impersonal hunk of trillidium, kindled something inside him, something fundamentally warm and needed, and not unlike the yearning he experienced upon recalling his childhood. The zippers of her baggy black coverall and her silver bracelets glinted in the meager overhead light. Each time she leaned over her drawing, her long, unbound hair spilled forward like a veil. Only when she flipped it back behind her shoulders did she allow him a glimpse of her profile—a soft, expressive mouth nestled perfectly between a strong, straight nose and that stubborn chin. Her face was a study in contrasts, like everything else he’d discovered about her so far.

  Carefully he crouched in front of her, and she dropped her pencil. With her flushed cheeks, darkened eyes, and lips parted in astonishment, she resembled a woman who had been interrupted in the middle of lovemaking. The imagined sight of her beneath him, their bodies intimately joined, conjured a dull, hot throb in his groin. He tried his damnedest to ignore it, and scooped up the pencil rolling across the floor. “What, may I ask, lures you to the coldest, darkest part of the ship?”

  “You.” Her smile was infused with warmth and welcome, and her eyes held none of the wariness of the days before his injury. “Muffin told me the drugs would wear off today, but I didn’t expect you to be up so soon. I want to show you something, but I need a few more minutes.” Her Basic had become remarkably smooth and colloquial. “Do you mind?” she asked. “I’m almost finished.”

  She searched through a pouch, chose another stubby, soft-pointed pencil, and went back to work with an intensity that awed him. Her left hand whisked over the page, two fingers hugging the pencil, while the others were engaged in making shadows and smudges.

  This was passion in its purest form, he thought. Not patently rehearsed, as he’d suspected of the skilled palace courtesans of his pre-Balkanor days, or modified to suit a partner, as one expected from a pleasure servant. No, this passion arose from her soul, and it humbled him.

  Jas’s hand slowed, then ceased moving. She scrutinized her work, then him, massaging the small of her back. “You look better,” she said. “How do you feel?”

  “Like the morning after a long night of overindulgence. Only without the benefit of having had a good time.”

  She laughed. “If anyone deserves a good time, it’s you. You dove through that hatch without a thought to your own safety. It’s all the crew’s been talking about.” Her face glowed with unmistakable admiration.

  He recoiled, and a rush of dismal memories plowed into him—his father’s fury the day he discovered that his only remaining son couldn’t sire a child, his mother’s anguished weeping, and the feel of his sister’s frantic embrace moments before the doors were slammed behind him upon his expulsion from the palace—the only such episode in eleven thousand years.

  He’d failed his family, his people. He was not a man deserving of such esteem.

  “Makes me wish I had the paints I left at home,” she went on. “Not that I have the skill to truly capture what happened.” Almost shyly, she placed the pad in his lap. “A rather inadequate representation of the single greatest act of bravery and selflessness I have ever witnessed.”

  Rom’s mouth went dry. It was an illustration of two men joined in a life-or-death struggle. One man, sprawled on his stomach, had a face that looked like his—Great Mother, it was him. He was gripping Zarra’s hand as if he refused to let go, the strain evident in the sinewy muscles rippling the skin of his forearm. His teeth were bared, his eyes dark with pain and purpose. Whirling debris framed the entire scene, one that held all the emotion and drama of life.

  Except that it depicted a lie.

  “You do exquisite work.” He set the portrait on the floor. His weariness had returned, and he settled onto the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him as he supported his weight with his hands. His pulse battered his temples, threatening to turn the pressure there into pain. “However, a more accurate representation would show me releasing him.” She cocked her head, as if she wasn’t certain she’d heard him right. “I let go of Zarra’s hand,” he clarified.

  “But you held him for those critical seconds. It delayed his slide across the generator room floor. That gave Terz the chance shut the hatch. The only reason he’s alive is because you held him as long as you did.”

  “Don’t make me into a hero.” You left him; you should have stayed. “I let the boy go.”

  “Irrelevant.”

  “Unforgivable,” he answered.

  Jas stared in disbelief as one end of Rom’s mouth tipped into a smirk. Gone was the man she’d begun to know. In his place was the cocky smuggler, a man who smiled while his eyes held an unknowable grief. “This isn’t a simple case of modesty, is it?” she asked. Shaking, her heart racing, she crouched next to him. “You’re a hero, Rom. And no matter how hard you try to convince me otherwise, that’s how I see you. And that’s how your men see you. Why don’t you see it, too?”

  A tiny scar above his upper lip stretched as he drew his mouth into a tight line. “Almost twenty standard years ago, I fought in a war—the first true conflict in eleven thousand years. My younger brother joined me…without my father’s permission. But he was a good fighter, a superb pilot, and so I let him come. Balkanor was the crucial battle, one we planned for a full year. It was a full-scale invasion, the culmination of much courage and hard work.” Quietly, he finished, “We won the war that day. But I lost Lijhan.”

  Her heart twisted. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But he followed you into battle because he wanted to. He was a soldier. Soldiers die.”

  “You don’t understand! His ship took damage during the space battle. He survived the crash, but he was trapped inside. I chose to go on, intending to return for him. But—Great Mother—his starfighter exploded. I should have freed him while I had the chance! I shouldn’t have left him alone—”

  “You’re a warrior, Rom. You did what you had to do.”

  His gaze went cold. “I had a choice, Jas. I made the wrong one.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Now, if you’re quite through with your inquiries—”

  “I’m not.”

  Surprise flickered over his handsome features, and he lifted one brow. Folding his arms over his chest, he drummed his fingers against his biceps in an agitated rhythm. But she refused to let him intimidate her; she knew what it was like to feel desolate inside and not know why. “I figured out why you and Gann are so different from the rest of the crew. Why your skin and hair are darker, and your eyes are lighter.”

  His fingers stopped drumming.

  “You’re Vash Nadah, a member of the ruling class. You were raised with a rigid code of ethics only a god could follow perfectly. I know how strict they are…I’ve read them!”

  At her words, Rom jammed his fingers through his hair. Then he strode to the ladder leading to the upper deck. There he stopped, head bowed, shoulders hunched, his fingers curled over one of the rungs.

  Jas followed him, praying her instincts were right. “But maybe you are a god. After all, you don’t make mistakes.”

  He turned around, his honey-colored eyes flooded with anguish. Her own eyes burned in response. The depth of empathy she felt for this man she’d so recently met overwhelmed her.

  Ruefully, he said, “I’ve made many.”

  “Aha! You are a mere mortal, just like the rest of us. But instead of accepting that, you punish yourself over and over. It’s been years! You have more than paid your penance for Lijhan’s death! Let it go,” she beseeched him.

  Could he? Rom wondered. Could he let it go? He’d been running, choosing the most dangerous, the most frenetic pastimes, avoiding anything that smacked of contentment and stability. He thumped two fingers on his chest. “I fear that if I let this void
close up, I’ll forget all I’ve lost. And I will not make a waste of my brother’s sacrifice.”

  She spread her hands. “I’m not asking you to. But maybe there are other ways, better ways, to honor his memory, than by carrying the pain of his death to your grave.”

  They stared at each other until the very air resonated with emotion. Rom felt bruised inside as well as out. “Perhaps,” he answered at last.

  That seemed to please her. Depleted, he instinctively sought the tenderness she so generously imparted, and drew her close. Brushing his lips over hers, he stroked her hair with his palms. “Why do you trouble yourself with my concerns?” he murmured.

  “Because I care about you,” she whispered, and lifted up on her toes to kiss him—lightly, and with obvious restraint. Her body was another matter entirely. It played traitor to her lips, pressing against him, the lush feel of her full, soft breasts and gently swaying hips making him instantly hard. The kiss melted into a breathless hug before they moved apart.

  Gently gripping her upper arms, Rom felt the heat of her skin through the fabric. Her faintly floral scent drifted in the air between them. She said she cared about him. Hadn’t his father once said the same? He succumbed to the irrational urge to test her, for when she found out who he was—“Do you have any idea who I am?”

  In that sometimes unsettling, sometimes exhilarating, intuitive way of hers, she studied his face. “Yes. I do.”

  He plowed one hand through his hair.

  “You’re Romlijhian B’kah—”

  Great Mother.

  “—and you’re the only son of the richest, most powerful man in the galaxy.”

  Chapter Nine

  Rom took a step backward. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and his hands shook, but he drew on years of discipline to maintain his composure.

  She shrugged. “No wonder you need a bodyguard.”

  He jerked his hands in the air. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? No wonder I need a bodyguard?”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Surely you can find something. I’m the biggest stain in an eleven-thousand-year family history. By all the heavens, the only stain!”

  “Don’t believe it. I’d bet my last grain of salt your esteemed family founder was considered a troublemaker, too, when he and the other warriors stood up to that crazy warlord.”

  “The eight original warriors—troublemakers!” he roared, incredulous. A giddy sense of freedom flooded him, and he laughed, actually laughed, shaking his head. “Jas, only you could take something as vain and ponderous as Trade History and make it thoroughly entertaining.”

  She stared at him, perplexed. She did not understand the humor of it all, he guessed. But then she hadn’t the fortune—or was it misfortune?—to have been raised as he was. He sagged against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. His temples pounded, but he ignored the pain. “Who told you about me?”

  “The ship’s computer.”

  “Hell and back. What led you there?”

  “I was using it to plan my trip—and to study galactic art and history. But I didn’t find out about your family until I figured out how to read your signet ring.”

  His left hand closed involuntarily, causing the ring to bite into his flesh.

  “I took it off after you were hurt because I was afraid your finger might swell,” she explained. “I tried to read your family crest, but I couldn’t. So I looked it up in the language-translation data bank and matched the symbols: ‘fealty, fidelity, family,’ the warrior’s code. That directed me to the history of Sienna, and that’s where I found the list with every firstborn B’kah son. At the bottom was yours. I figured out the rest.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Almost one standard week.”

  “And yet you said nothing?” he almost shouted.

  Her chin jutted forward. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you. If anything, I respect you more. You sacrificed everything for a cause you truly believed in. I find that incredibly heroic.”

  He stared at her. She admired him for the very things others disdained in him. A strange sense of wonder filled him, and more. He searched for the right words to express his appreciation for the unaccustomed lightness of spirit she’d evoked, but found none. “Thank you,” he said, knowing the statement was wholly inadequate. “I am in your debt.”

  She waved away his gratitude.

  He caught her hands, smiling gently. “Commerce lesson number one: an honest trader always repays his debts.” He curled his hand behind her head and brushed a lingering kiss across her lips.

  Her chin remained tilted upward after he pulled back. She said, “Hmm. And lesson number two?”

  “Recognize the talents in others.” He touched his finger to the tip of her nose. “You, for instance, are a woman of many. Flying, to name but one.”

  “Who told you?”

  “The captain is all-seeing, all-knowing.”

  She laughed. “Right. Who turned me in?”

  “Muffin. When I woke.”

  “Don’t blame Gann for letting me fly,” she said quickly. “I harassed him until he gave in.”

  “Blame him? By all that is holy, I’ll thank him. This brings me to lesson number three—take said talents and profit by them. I’d be a fool not to, Jas. Good pilots are hard to find. Now that I have, I must take advantage of my good fortune.”

  “Oh?” she asked, skeptical. “How?”

  “You’re hired.”

  Jas blinked. “I’m what?”

  “Hired.” Rom’s catlike eyes watched her intently. “I’m offering you a position on the Quillie. Apprentice pilot. Gann will train you. With your skills, you’ll be awarded regular status within the year.”

  “You’re serious.”

  He grinned.

  “Thank you, but I can’t—”

  “Full benefits. A good salary.”

  She chuckled. “Retirement plan?”

  “Ah, no. Unfortunately no one has lasted long enough in my employ to require one.”

  “Oh, that’s encouraging. No wonder you’re desperate to hire a pilot who hasn’t flown in almost twenty years.” She smiled at his enthusiasm.

  “Come work for me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” Because I’ll fall in love with you. Her cheeks heated, and she clamped her jaw shut, thanking her lucky stars that she hadn’t blurted that bombshell aloud. If she let her heart steer her away from her goals, she’d be repeating the biggest mistake of her life. “Rom, I came here for adventure. To see and do things as far removed from my Earth life as possible.”

  “Ah, of course. Your vacation has barely begun. We’ll travel first, then.”

  “We?”

  His eyes sparkled. “I assure you that the travels we will experience together will be far more thrilling than those you’d complete alone.”

  Her skin prickled with excitement, the same feeling she had when facing a clean canvas, wet paintbrush in hand. She steeled herself against the sensation; she mustn’t let her untrustworthy emotions chip away at her stone-cold logic.

  Yet maybe a little craziness, a little impetuousness might help her come to terms with the frustrating emptiness inside her. From somewhere deep within, Jas scraped together a lump of resolve; she certainly hadn’t achieved all she had in her life by taking the easy route.

  “What about the Quillie?” she asked, eyeing him speculatively.

  “I’ll give my crew the choice of taking shore leave or continuing onto the Quibba System, our next stopover after Skull’s Doom. Should they opt for profit over pleasure—which I suspect they might—Gann will take over in my absence. I see this as a perfect opportunity to test your theory that I ought to enjoy myself more. What better way than by showing you the galaxy?”

  She met Rom’s strangely perceptive gaze. Her heart leaped, and she felt vividly and utterly alive. Weren’t the feelings cours
ing through her the very reason she’d left her home and family in the first place? Yes, a few months spent with Rom would be exactly the kind of adventure she needed.

  She balled her hands into fists and blurted, “Yes,” before she lost her nerve. “I accept both offers. Travel and the flying job—but not permanently,” she reminded him—and herself, “because I promised my children I’d be home in six Earth months.”

  “I understand.” Suddenly looking tired, Rom sifted his fingers through his hair, causing a few shiny locks to flop forward over his bruised forehead. Much of the color had leached from his skin. “Certainly there are more hospitable locations on this ship to plan our itinerary.” Fatigue made his voice raspy and deep.

  Her caregiver instincts roared to life. She grabbed his arm and propelled him toward the ladder. “You shouldn’t be down here. You belong in bed.”

  “Yes. We do.”

  Hands on the middle rung, she looked at him askance. “Lack of persistence is not one of your faults.”

  Grinning, he climbed up after her.

  “So what’s Skull’s Doom?” she prompted as they walked through the midlevel corridors to his quarters. “Sounds forbidding.”

  “It is, for the uninitiated. Doom is a nearly lawless outpost—two-days’ round-trip from the Depot at sub–light speed. The Trade Police have mostly washed their hands of it, which conveniently makes it the only decent place to trade outside the frontier. I promised I’d run some goods out to a quirky little merchant there who says he’ll negotiate only with me. Because of the risk, I’d much rather you waited for me at the Depot.”

  After punching in the code to the door of the room that had become more familiar to Jas over the past week than her own, Rom pressed his palm to the small of her back, guiding her inside. The gorgeous carpet covering much of the floor immediately muffled their footsteps. The rug resembled a Turkish kilim, dyed in rich tones and soft as sin. Rom lowered the lighting to a comfortable glow, then lit a laser-candle under a clear, shellshaped bowl of scented oil. The heat released the fragrance she’d come to love. It smelled like early mornings at Betty’s house in Sedona, where she used to bring her coffee outside to sip it on the deck as the sun rose. Jas had been told the scent was therapeutic, and she could believe it—spending the nights on a nest of pillows by Rom’s bed, she’d never slept better.