The Star Princess

by Susan Grant

  Three boys played below, not quite children and not yet adults. They rode flat boards with four wheels apiece. He searched his memory for the name of the recreational vehicles. Something…boards. Surfboards, perhaps?

  The angle of the sun told him it was well past midday, perhaps nearing late afternoon. He’d slept far later than even his late night with Ilana would explain. It was due to his out-of-adjustment body clock: Earth used twenty-four-hour days, and Eireya used closer to twenty-eight, in standard hours. It made for shorter nights than what he was used to.

  Cool ocean air whooshed around his torso and thighs, reminding him that these quarters were not private, as were his at the palace. Nor did the averted eyes of palace servers surround him. While the balcony shielded Ché from the waist down, he realized that perhaps he should not be standing there without clothing.

  He rummaged through the supplies he had packed and donned faded blue pants over boxers, Earth’s version of an undergarment. An emblem decorated a black short-sleeved shirt he pulled over his head: “Harley-Davidson.” The T-shirt and blue jeans guaranteed that he’d blend in, according to Ian, who had so kindly sent him the images necessary for the Vedla tailor to fashion the items and a number of other pieces comprising a small wardrobe. The rest Ché would acquire once he was more familiar with the attire of the local inhabitants.

  He caught a reflection of himself in a narrow wall mirror, stopped and stared. Great Mother. Look at him—barefoot, trousers hugging his hips, the snug black shirt tucked into the jeans, his short hair fingercombed. And he could use a shave, he thought, rubbing his jaw. But he wasn’t bothered in the least. No, indeed. With his vision-enhancing shaders covering his telltale Vash eyes, he looked like an Earth-dweller.

  At that, he winced at the cries of protest emanating from his conscience. Usually, he had to enter meditation in order to connect with his ancestors, but he could hear their howls of collective dismay without trying, the entire, long traditionalist line of them, Vedlas all, stretching back eons before the Eight Great Warriors joined together and took back the galaxy. Barbarian! they accused.

  Ché tried to soothe them. I am here for you, and because of you, he said silently in the ancient Eireyan tongue that no one outside his family and people knew. I traveled here only because I would not wish to impede the Great Council’s efforts to find me a wife.

  That was mostly true, he thought. But he heard nothing but ominous silence in response.

  Ian Hamilton had once laughingly told him that Vash Nadah and Catholics shared one indisputable characteristic: guilt. But Ché was not going to let that ubiquitous trait dampen his enjoyment of his visit here.

  The main room was empty. The wood floor felt cool beneath his feet. While he didn’t expect that a prepared bath awaited him, he hoped that Ilana had set out breakfast. Instead, displayed on the table were last night’s dirty dishes and four drained bottles of beer. The only thing that looked fresh was the water in the clear, globular vase holding the flowers.

  Ché noted that fact well. Ilana had seen to the flowers, prolonging their freshness, while she let the other chores slide or ignored them altogether. The woman’s priorities were intriguing. Perhaps he should take a lesson from her while on Earth: Savor the pleasures of life without the encumbrance of conventional expectations.

  He wasn’t sure if he knew how.

  Ché smelled something fresh and nutty. The Earth beverage, coffee. Ilana was awake. But where was she?

  “Ilana?” He flattened his hand on his stomach and glanced around. A radio played music and a man’s voice: “Don’t forget the sun block if you’re headed to the beach. We’re looking at sunny skies today, temperatures in the mid eighties…”

  The exotic and tempting smell led him into the kitchen. He picked up the note he found on the counter. You’re finally up! I went out running, she’d written. Take coffee. We’ll find us something to eat when I get back.

  Find something, eh? He already knew it would not be in this abode. They would have to find an eating establishment. He had Earth currency. He’d pay for the venture!

  He eyed the pot of hot, brewed liquid suspiciously. He recognized the apparatus from the Earth programs he’d studied. He’d tried coffee once, years ago when a Federation merchant had attempted to convince the Vedlas to import the product; Ché hadn’t cared for it, giving his family another reason besides a disinclination to stock Earth products to decline the shipment. Coffee tasted bitter to him. Harsh. He preferred tock. Tock had a mellow, sweet-spicy taste that was so much more pleasant than this Earth-dweller brew. But the result was the same—both beverages stimulated the central nervous system, and his needed some stimulating, with his body still insisting that it was the middle of the night.

  He poured a cup and took the mug with him, intending to sit outside on the balcony, where he’d spied two simple chairs and a tiny round table.

  But the sound of a chime stopped him. Not a moment later, the front door swung open, revealing a tall man with shaggy black hair.

  The man stomped in. “Ilana?” He wore battered tan ankle-high boots and shorts of the same fabric of Ché’s pants. Jeans. His shirt was flimsy with wide armholes and had no sleeves, revealing muscled arms bronzed from sunlight. His dark eyes grew blacker the more disappointed they became.

  How presumptuous, Ché thought, to enter unannounced and expect Ilana to be there, waiting. He took another sip of coffee. “Ilana is not here.”

  At the sound of Ché’s voice, the man froze. His black eyes swerved to the kitchen, where Ché stood. “Who the hell are you?”

  Before Ché could reply, the man’s gaze dropped to the cup of coffee in Ché’s hands, and then to Ché’s bare feet. His face crumpled. “Aw, hell.” He lowered his head and blew out a few gusts of hair, as if he were trying to compose himself. Then he sized up Ché. “She didn’t waste any time, did she?”

  Ché lifted a brow. “Waste time?”

  “Two weeks ago she was with me. Now she’s with you. And she let you stay the night? I tried. She told me no one stayed. Consider yourself lucky, dude.”

  The man assumed Ché was Ilana’s lover. He must have shared such a relationship with Ilana or he wouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion. Earthwomen could take lovers, Ché reminded himself. But the thought of Ilana making love with this oaf irritated him. Acutely.

  But show it he would not. He would not descend to the same level of barbarism as this uncouth intruder. He extended his hand in Earth-dweller fashion. “Greetings. I am”—he caught himself—”French,” he said, taking the moniker Sam had given him and making it a bit…stronger.

  “French.” The man made a face. “That explains it.”

  “Ilana and I, we—”

  The man’s hand shot up. “That’s okay. I don’t need details.”

  Details? Did he expect Ché would share them, had there been any? It would be coarse and crude to do so. Intimate relations between a man and a woman were to be celebrated and kept private out of respect. To do otherwise countered everything his people believed. “Allow me to clarify. Ilana and I, we are not—”

  “And you won’t be, just in case you’re hoping.” The man raised his voice to make it sound like Ilana’s. “ ‘An exclusive relationship is so confining. It’s more fun being friends’.” He shook Ché’s hand in a sinewy, callused grip. “Cole Miller. The one she told you about.”

  Ché covered his distaste for the man’s boorish presumption with a polite smile and said nothing.

  “I’m a cameraman,” Cole explained with increasing gloom. “I worked with SILF on the Holt film.” He tried to peer past Ché’s eyeshaders. “So, what are you—an actor?”

  “Of a sort,” Ché replied smoothly.

  “Of a sort.” Cole rolled his eyes. “The accent may not get you work, buddy, but it’ll get you laid—I guarantee that.” He stopped himself, his cheeks turning red as if he’d realized what he’d said. Swearing, he handed Ché a thick roll of paper he’d carried wedged betwe
en his arm and ribs. “The Times.”

  Shoulders hunched, he marched into the kitchen. “I’ll get my dog bowl and go.” He grabbed a shapeless blue item off the counter, crushing it in his fist. “She can’t stand them, you know. Dogs.”

  Ché shrugged. “I do not care for the creatures myself.”

  Cole appeared to search for something else. “And she’s commitment-phobic, too. Here’s some more advice, French—attachment is futile. Enjoy what you got with her while it lasts, because it won’t last long.”

  Triumphant, Cole stomped away and down the stairs, where another man arrived. They eyed each other suspiciously, walking past each other without saying a word.

  Ché shook his head. Was this newcomer yet another disillusioned discard in Ilana’s parade of lovers? How many more would he have to endure before she returned?

  Exhaling, Ché donned his shoes and walked outside to greet the man. The newcomer was balding and slender, and he appeared to be in better spirits than Cole.

  “Hello,” the man called out cheerily. He carried a palm computer and a comm—cell phone, as the Earth-dwellers called them—and wore the same eager, slightly furtive look as the jerk-with-the-camera from the night before. “Jim Bohannon. Coastal Chronicle. Is Ms. Hamilton in? I’d like to ask her a few questions about the wedding.”

  The wedding. Ché growled silently. This was no rebuffed lover. No, he represented something far more troublesome. “She is not here.”

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “No. I do not.”

  The man’s curiosity homed in on Ché. “And you are…?”

  “French.”

  “That explains the accent.”

  “French is my name.”

  “Ah,” Bohannon said. “Are you a member of the family, Mr. French?”

  “No.”

  “A friend.”

  Ché hesitated. “Yes.”

  The reporter flashed a grin. “Boyfriend?”

  Ché felt his jaw stiffen. The man began scribbling something on a pad. Ché averted the potential disaster with a preemptive strike: “I am her advisor.”

  He could indeed function in that capacity while he was here, he thought wryly. The Earth princess could use his advice on nearly every aspect of her chaotic life. Whether she would heed his counsel was another matter entirely. “I’m advising her on Earth matters.”

  At that, Bohannon glanced up.

  Great Mother. Earth matters? Ché sounded alien, even to his own ears. Bohannon peered at Ché’s golden skin and his face, clearly trying to see what color eyes he’d hidden behind the mirrored sunshaders.

  “World matters,” Ché clarified. “I am from…Latvia.” Latvia? The impetuous alibi burst to the surface like a deep-sea jet-trawler, the small country fresh in his mind after its triumph over Sweden in soccer. Luckily, the information seemed to satisfy the exasperating interloper.

  As the journalist scribbled more on his pad, a movement below caught Ché’s attention. The street and walkways teemed with pedestrian and vehicle traffic. From behind a hedge, a man stood, aiming a camera at both him and Bohannon.

  This was preposterous! The man was walking about freely, taking photos of them? Why did the B’kahs leave Ilana so open and vulnerable? Ché straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. If the B’kahs wouldn’t protect her, the Vedlas would.

  Ché marched down the stairs.

  “Mr. French!”

  Would the man’s prattle never cease? “I must return to my duties now. You are dismissed,” Ché added over his shoulder as he strode across the lawn. The reporter was beginning to remind him of Hoe, his advisor. That thought made him walk all the faster.

  The sun angled closer to the ocean now. A dearth of wind allowed the air to hold fast to sea scents and summer heat. But there was no time to enjoy the day. Years of dealing with the many faces of innuendo and the veiled threats of the palace court and Great Council had made him a master of intimidation, and he intended to use the talent to convince the “paparazzi” to give up their relentless hunt of Ilana.

  The photographer wore a pencil-thin mustache and a bright yellow tank top far more loose fitting than Cole’s had been, exposing his armpits and chest furred with dark hair, and a wealth of body art. It was difficult to determine who wore less clothing in Los Angeles, the men or the women.

  Ché slapped the rolled-up newspaper Cole had given him in his open palm. Not quite a weapon, but wielded properly it could serve as reasonable intimidation. “You there! I wish to speak to you.”

  But the paparazzo appeared to be in no mood to talk. He shoved items into a black bag and threw it over his shoulder as he jogged into the road.

  That was when Ché spied Ilana crossing the street. Passing by the photographer, she showed him the middle finger of her right hand. “Take a picture of this, you jerk.”

  Ground cars clogged the thoroughfare, preventing Ché from chasing after the fleeing photographer. Gasping, Ilana jogged to a stop in front of him. Hands propped on her thighs, she bent over to catch her breath. Her wild mass of hair, bound at the back of her head, flipped forward. She was barely dressed—or rather dressed barely in very short black pants and a matching shirt that left her abdomen exposed. Half of him wanted to throw a cape around her to provide her with modesty she appeared to have forgotten. The other half, quite a larger half than he would have anticipated, preferred to admire the way her pants molded her rounded bottom. Other females walked by dressed in similar attire, but Ché didn’t feel the same need to protect them—or watch.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Ilana muttered. “I shouldn’t have done that. My family has a tough enough time trying to keep both sides happy, you guys and Earth, without me flipping off paparazzi.” She groaned unhappily. “It’s like my life’s not my own anymore!” She jerked her hands in the air. “You live like this all the time. Don’t you resent having to consider the consequences of everything you do?”

  If only she knew how much. Ilana’s skin looked hot and damp. Where her hair lifted away from her neck, dark tendrils clung to glistening skin. Ché’s lips twitched as he thought of pressing them there. “All the time,” he said, his gaze dropping to her shirt, if one could call it that. It appeared designed more to support her breasts than to hide them, leaving no doubt as to their luscious curve and shape. One would fit very well cupped in each of his hands, Ché thought with a jolt of heat in his loins. Ilana would be a spirited bedmate. He could easily imagine loving her into sated exhaustion, bringing her to fulfillment again and again until her strong body was warm and yielding beneath his—

  Great Mother! He met Ilana’s wide-eyed gaze, and she blushed, her lips pursing. Despite the sunshaders covering his eyes, he had the feeling that she was somehow privy to his erotic thoughts.

  When she spoke, her voice sounded hoarse. “If those pictures show up in the news, I’m sunk.”

  “You needn’t worry, Ilana.” Ché scanned the crowded road. He tracked his quarry to a white vehicle parked by the curb, where traffic blocked the car’s escape. “That is his vehicle—there. I am going after him. I want to confiscate the images. But first I intend to give the fellow an introductory lesson in manners.”

  Ilana lifted a brow, the ends of her mouth curving. “Vash manners?”

  “Perhaps. But some things are universal, such as discretion and respect.” He walked to the curb.

  “Ché, don’t.”

  “Do not reveal my name,” he whispered loudly.

  “Sorry.” She rolled her eyes. “Frenchie.”

  “I will use French.”

  “It does have a manlier ring to it,” she acknowledged sassily.

  He refused to allow the woman to think she had a window into his motivations. “It is the name I gave the reporter before I sent him away.”

  “What reporter?” she blurted.

  “Bohannon. Coast Chronicle.”

  “I don’t freaking believe this. These people need a life.”

&nb
sp; He thrust the newspaper into her hands. “Await me here.”

  “I’m not the awaiting type.”

  “I know. Await me anyway.”

  Traffic cleared. Ché walked into the street. Ilana followed. “You’re not doing this alone.”

  Ché let his displeasure show. She might not want his protection, but, by the heavens, he’d give it to her. “Why will you not mind me when it is so obviously for your own good?” But then, he had the feeling she obeyed no man’s command. “I pity the poor fellow you will marry,” he muttered.

  She burst into laughter. “You’re such a dinosaur!”

  “I am glad I entertain you,” he said with sarcasm.

  “You know what a dinosaur is, then.”

  “An extinct reptilian creature. But you are mistaken. Honor and gallantry are never out of date.”

  “Then why has every guy I’ve met expected me to fend for myself?”

  “They are not Vash Nadah.”

  She snorted. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  They reached the pedestrian path on the other side of the street. “Hold this,” Ché commanded. He shoved the newspaper into Ilana’s hands. Then, fists flexing, he strode toward the photographer’s white car.

  The windows were black, making it impossible to see inside. The passenger window was open a hand span or so, though. Through the narrow opening, the lens of a camera protruded.

  In a blur of motion, Ché lunged forward and reached for the camera. Yanking it away, he tossed it to Ilana, who somehow managed not to drop it, despite holding the newspaper.

  Quick reactions the woman had, Ché thought admiringly and turned back toward the vehicle. The passenger door swung open, revealing a flustered female driver and the empty-handed, clearly furious photographer.

  Ché grabbed the man’s flimsy shirt. Wrapping his knuckles with scraps of fabric, he yanked him out of the truck. The woman pressed her palms on the horn, shrill and loud. Pedestrians slowed down to watch.