The Star Princess

by Susan Grant

  “He has to marry a princess. Or if not a princess, a woman of high rank in the Federation.”

  “Who says he’s going to get hitched? My aim is to provide him with a distraction. A good time. If, after my best efforts, he still caves in and marries”—she placed her hand over her heart—“at least I’ll know that he spent his last days as a single man having fun.”

  “It’s not a question of caving in. Ché will marry as instructed. I have no doubt of that. He’s a model Vash Nadah prince.”

  Ilana lifted a brow. “Tee’ah didn’t cave in to an arranged marriage, or she wouldn’t be marrying you. What makes you think Ché will toe the line?”

  “He will.”

  “Overconfidence killed the cat,” she retorted.

  “That was curiosity.”

  “Overconfidence got him there. It’s irritating, how you assume he’ll do what you say.”

  “He will.” Ian’s grin broadened, heightening Muffin’s puzzlement. It was almost as if he were pushing Ilana to take a stand.

  “Wanna bet?” she shot back.

  There. Ian had gone and done it. But there was still the chance to repair his tactical blunder with a strategic retreat.

  “Ilana, Ilana.” Ian shook his head. “When have you ever won a bet we’ve made?”

  Muffin slapped his hand over his face and groaned.

  Ilana’s smile was sweet. Too sweet. “There’s always a first time, bucko. Ché marries on schedule, you win. He doesn’t, and I win. We’ll work out the terms later.”

  “You’re on.” Ian relaxed in his chair.

  Muffin scratched his head, trying to figure out what he’d just witnessed.

  “Where will Ché be staying?” Ian asked. “Your place?”

  “Hell, no. Tomorrow, he’s out. A hotel, a resort, whatever he wants. But we’ll be in touch. I guarantee that.”

  Ian leaned forward. This time, his expression was that of the man Muffin knew. His voice had gentled, too. “I know this isn’t your thing, Ilana, getting involved with palace affairs. I appreciate it. I appreciate your helping me out.”

  “I didn’t think I was helping.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Her voice softened. “I know.”

  They exchanged a look of affection. “Ché needs to stay anonymous,” Ian warned. “For security reasons. Promise me that.”

  “I’ll promise anything except keeping him out of trouble.”

  What did Ian expect, Muffin thought peevishly, after encouraging Ilana so?

  The image of Ilana lifted its miniature arm. “Give my love to Tee’ah.”

  “I will.”

  Ilana’s face shimmered. “Love you.”

  Ian drew his index finger through the projected image with clear affection. “Love you, too.”

  The image faded. Ian slapped his hands on the console and let out a whoop. “Excellent! This couldn’t have gone better in my dreams.”

  He stretched his arms over his head, his fingers laced together. Releasing a gust of air, he turned to Muffin and sobered. “What’s that face for?”

  Muffin dipped his head to peer into the prince’s eyes. “What’s going on, sir?”

  “You play poker, right? The Earth card game.”

  “The king taught me.”

  “Do you recall the term bluffing?”

  “When you make the other player think you have different cards.”

  Ian nodded.

  “You want Ilana to corrupt the prince?” Muffin asked, incredulous.

  Ian groaned. “No. I want them to fall in love.”

  Muffin stared at his ward. No words came to him.

  “I think they’re halfway there already,” Ian explained. “I can sense it. She gave him a look that day in Los Angeles that I’ve never seen before. And Ché—he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. We’ve all heard of love at first sight, but I don’t think I even believed it until I watched Ché and my sister. Neither of them would ever admit it, though.”

  Muffin folded thick arms over his chest and awaited the words that would release him from his confusion.

  Ian leaned back in his chair. “What I’m going to tell you is totally off the record. It goes against the spirit of the Treatise of Trade, as well as the wishes of the Vash kings. I’m playing matchmaker with Ché and my sister. I want them to get married.”

  “To each other?”

  Ian laughed. “Yes, to each other.” He pushed himself to his feet.

  Muffin watched him stroll across the room. “But, sir, would you breed a ketta-cat to one of your Earth dogs?”

  “Opposites attract. And often make the best matches. Look at Princess Tee’ah and me.”

  “You two are more alike than not,” Muffin pointed out.

  Ian’s face gentled. “We know that now. We didn’t then, when we met. I think Ilana and Ché have even more in common. They just don’t see it yet.”

  Muffin shook his head. “I don’t know…”

  “Have some faith, Muff. Worst case, Ché returns home to marry and my sister stays single. Status quo. Nothing changes.” Ian’s mouth tipped. “Of course, I’m hoping that won’t happen. Looking at Ilana just now, looking in her eyes, I can see he’s already growing on her.”

  Muffin’s frown deepened. Had they observed the same woman? All he’d seen in Ilana’s eyes was trouble. But it wasn’t respectful to disagree with your boss.

  Ian withdrew his palmtop from his breast pocket and walked away, pacing slowly as he studied something on the computer. The prince spoke without glancing up from his typing. “How does a trip to Earth sound?”

  Muffin’s head snapped up. “When?”

  Ian grinned. “That’s the spirit. I need you to leave as soon as possible.”

  Muffin rubbed the back of his neck, remembering the tingles he’d felt there, heralding this new adventure. Ah, his neck hadn’t led him wrong yet.

  “Ché Vedla’s there alone,” Ian explained. “Without guards, without staff. He’s incognito, yes, but it could get sticky. And not only because of my interference. Ché’s father doesn’t know where he is. Rom doesn’t, either. But I do. If anything were to happen, there’d be hell to pay. We don’t need that controversy. I don’t need that controversy.”

  “No, sir.” Muffin shook his head briskly.

  “Officially, everyone here will think I’m sending you to Earth on a matter of diplomacy. No one will question it.” Ian held his gaze. “On Earth, you’ll have to be equally covert. We’ll come up with a convenient cover story.”

  Muffin grinned. “My specialty.”

  “Also, you’ll need to refresh yourself with handling a car—an automobile. You’re going to be driving in L.A.”

  Muffin’s grin wobbled. Downtown Los Angeles. That was where Ian had driven him for his one experience traveling by ground car on Earth. A clear image came back to him, of hanging on to the meager safety harness in the rear seat as Ian crossed lanes thick with other travelers only to accelerate onto a high-speed lane reserved for electric vehicles. He remembered, too, Ian’s amused attitude toward his Vash passengers’ protests. Traveling at such high velocities while so close to other primitive vehicles, all under individual control, seemed to Muffin a suicidal venture. “On an electric speedway,” Ian had assured him, “this is perfectly legal, trust me.”

  Muffin swallowed, buried the memory, and managed a smile. “What’s a mission without a little danger, sir?”

  “In the meantime, I’ll get you the documents you’ll need, cash, a bank account, and an apartment and car for Earth—the usual. I don’t want you distracted with details when you get there. I need you to be my eyes and ears, to warn me if anything goes wrong.”

  Muffin understood Ian’s concern. Huppnuts don’t fall far from the tree, his mother always said. And neither did Vedlas. Ché, after all, was that blasted Klark’s brother, scud-sucker that he was.

  Muffin drew himself up to his full height, bringing his fist over his chest with a hearty thump.
“Never fear, sir. I’ll keep your sister safe from the Vedla heir.”

  “Ilana?” Ian laughed, shaking his head. “You don’t know my sister.” Holding his stomach, he regarded Muffin with mirth-filled eyes. “If you’ve got to worry about someone, Muffin, you’d better save it for Ché.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ilana shut the bedroom door quietly. Ché sat on the couch, his back to her. Engrossed in the soccer game, he didn’t hear her tread into the kitchen.

  He was on a forced march to the altar. A decision that Ilana’s own brother supported!

  Angrily she punched the reheat button on the microwave. A week ago, she would have saved her pity for Ché’s soon-to-be wife. But based on what she’d just learned, her feelings had done a complete oneeighty. She’d put the word out tomorrow that a guy she knew was in town, an incredibly good-looking and rich man who just happened to need a little cheering up after being dumped by his girlfriend.

  She stole a glance at Ché. How perfectly at home he looked. He’d draped one arm languidly over the armrest. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. The lamplight turned his hair amber-gold and softened his sculpted features. She liked the way his long, straight nose came that extra, delicious fraction of an inch closer to his upper lip, giving him the look of an ancient Greek statue.

  Poor, poor sexy beast. Her mouth tipped. Oh, yeah. There’d be no shortage of volunteers to help out. Ché Vedla had “challenge” stamped right across his forehead.

  Too bad she couldn’t save him for herself. But, besides the obvious problems, it smacked of a conflict of interest after the bet she’d made with Ian. Not that they’d set any rules as to just how she’d keep Ché off the marriage market, but she liked to think she had principles. Well, one or two, anyway.

  She returned to the microwave and pulled out the heated food containers, scooping steaming rice into a bowl, which she then hefted into her arms to carry to the table. It would be better to gather the players, sit back, and watch the games begin.

  “The game is over,” said an accented man’s voice.

  The blood drained from her head. She straightened abruptly and spun around. Her knuckles banged into a tall, warm, and very solid body.

  Ché grabbed the bowl to keep her from dropping it. She watched his lovely mouth form words of apology. Then he stated, “Latvia won. Three to two.”

  She exhaled, squeezing her eyes shut. “Oh. That game.” He hadn’t overheard her conversation with Ian. Or mind-read her newest bad habit: fantasizing about what he looked like naked.

  Leaving him looking a bit lost, as usual, she breezed back and forth in front of him until she’d brought the remaining bowls to the table.

  He waited until she sat, and then joined her. “Ian told me about your wedding,” she said.

  Ché kept his expression neutral. “Yes. I assumed he would.”

  “That explains the timing of your little holiday.”

  Ché’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “I would have been more of a hindrance to their plans than a help.”

  She spread her hands on the table and leaned toward him. “Hey, you don’t have to explain it to me. I understand.” She pointed to her left hand. “You don’t see any wedding ring here, do you?” She shook her head. “I can’t stand it. The planning, the preparation, the anxiety. The minute details people will obsess over! Not how much food, but what shape it needs to be, and what color. Even the drinks. Would you care if the wine didn’t match the flowers?”

  She could tell by his expression that he understood exactly what she meant—and had suffered through it, too. “Your weddings last only a day,” he pointed out. “Imagine ours, lasting six days.”

  “I don’t have to imagine it. I experienced it.” Ilana dropped her chin onto her hands, joining with him in misery.

  “Ah, yes. When your mother married King Romlijhian B’kah.”

  “The feasts, the parties, the ceremonies,” she began.

  “All day, every day,” he added.

  “Until you can barely drag yourself out of bed for the next round,” she finished. “Ugh! And those receiving lines!”

  “They last the entire day.”

  “I felt so sorry for my mother and Rom, having to stand there and smile through the whole thing.”

  “The worst sort of torture,” he agreed. “More thought goes into the order of who passes through those lines than some of the most critical issues our Great Council has had to consider.”

  She laughed. “I can see why you wait a year to marry after making promise vows. How else would you have time to practice everything, to memorize everything?”

  His mouth twisted. “I suppose that’s what I should be doing. Practicing. My promise period will be greatly abbreviated.”

  “No.” The word came out more forcefully than she intended. “You’re not doing homework while you’re here.”

  “Homework? I do not know the word.”

  “Practicing, preparation,” she explained. “If your family wants to rush you into this, then it’s their problem if you’re not ready.”

  His jaw hardened. “I will be ready.”

  “Oops,” she said. “I pushed a button, didn’t I? You’re Vash Nadah; you’re better prepared than the Boy Scouts.” Her slang likely went over his head, but the feelings behind her words came through loud and clear.

  His eyes went dark. “I do as my family commands. It is our way. It is the way it has always been done.”

  “I know. No matter how many corners your family pushes you into.” She shook her head. “These are your last weeks as a single man. You ought to enjoy them. Without guilt.”

  She herself had had enough guilt to last a lifetime, namely left over from her parents’ divorce, and she didn’t care to accumulate any more. So she’d simply exorcised the emotion completely. Whatever she did, she refused to feel guilt over it.

  She watched steam twirl up from the bowl of rice. “Guilt sucks,” she repeated, more softly.

  Ché gave her a curious and yet intrigued look, his brow lifting.

  Ilana took a long drink from her bottle of beer. Plunking the bottle onto the table, she leveled her gaze at him. “‘The good of the people outweighs that of the individual.’ It’s the Vash Nadah mantra. Hey, it’s worked for eleven thousand years, so who am I to argue?” She leaned forward. “All I’m saying is that having fun is not a crime. That’s why you came here, and that’s what you’re going to do. I’ve come up with a few ideas to kick things off. Just let me handle it.”

  He sat back in his seat, fingers steepled under his cleft chin as he observed her. She tried to appear as innocent as possible. Finally, he said, “What is the word you use—okay?”

  “Yes. Okay.” Her smile returned. “So. It’s okay, then?”

  “Yes. I am grateful for your help in this matter.”

  Her chuckle veered a little close to an evil cackle. “Ah, Ché. Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t even started.”

  Ché wasn’t sure what woke him, but the moment he opened his eyes, he was instantly alert. He was in Ilana’s home, in her spare bedroom. Judging by the amount of sunlight flooding the small bedchamber, it was well past dawn, his usual waking hour.

  He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Well past dawn? Of course. He hadn’t retired until after sunrise; he’d been too busy conversing—or rather, arguing—about a dizzying variety of subjects over a meal that finally ended hours after they’d started, long after the beer and food had run out.

  He scrubbed his palm over his stubbly jaw. Responsible for a good deal of his vertigo was Ilana’s reaction to his upcoming wedding. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected from her, but outrage overlaid with pity wasn’t it. If only on that matter alone, he’d found an unexpected ally in the Earth princess.

  Wedding fever. Yes, that was the derisive term she’d used to describe those who displayed an overabundance of enthusiasm and meticulousness in planning a wedding ceremon
y. Ché could think of no better description, and would certainly use the term when he returned home—to amuse himself as his wedding loomed. How would Councilman Toren react upon hearing he suffered from the exasperating malady? Or Hoe?

  Chuckling, Ché rose from bed. As he stretched sleep from his limbs, he realized that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d risen from bed with a smile. Perhaps Earth agreed with him, and his decision to vacation here wasn’t as symptomatic of folly as Hoe had accused.

  He glanced about the bedchamber. The room was small, like the rest of Ilana’s abode, but colorful and charming—in a disorderly way, much like the woman herself.

  But the desk…it did not seem to belong amongst the chaos. The surface was polished and clear. Ché’s father, the king, tended toward exacting standards of organization, but Ilana’s workspace would have put even him to shame. Along the wall were neat and ordered stacks of printed periodicals, data storage discs, and paper of various sizes covered with neatly handwritten notes. A camera Ché recognized as one that created moving images sat to the right of a computer and next to a metal cup containing writing implements of every description. The only frivolity on the entire desk was a cluster of frames containing images of Ilana’s family.

  The organized desk opened a window to the inner workings of the woman’s mind that Ché didn’t know, or expect. He stored away the information, wondering what else he’d underestimated about her—like her focus on her career, her creativity, her drive.

  Vash women didn’t carry on a trade. It would drain time and energy away from their obligations. Not only that; there was the issue of propriety to consider regarding princesses and careers…

  Propriety. Bah. Had he not come here to escape such boundaries? Today, he’d not let decorum govern his actions. Here, on Earth, he was far from the watching eyes of his household, far from the requirement for respectability. As long as he didn’t look Vash, there was no need to act Vash.

  From outside, he heard shouts and laughter. That was what had woken him, he realized. He slipped on a pair of eyeshaders his jeweler had fashioned for him for the purposes of this trip, combed his fingers through his hair instead of styling it more precisely, and walked to the window, open to let in the sounds of the street and shore.