The Star Princess

by Susan Grant

  Ilana heard the door to her bathroom slam open. Startled, she smoothed her wet hair away from her eyes and peered through the shower enclosure. A dark, hulking form loomed outside. Ché.

  He flung open the door. Cooler air hit her skin. Her heart slammed in her chest. Water ran down her face, streamed down her exposed body.

  Ché stood still, gripping the door as tendrils of mist drifted all around him. Moisture glittered on his hard, stubbly jaw. Meeting his eyes, molten gold, was a shock. She saw hunger there, raw and determined.

  She felt suddenly way too naked.

  Fully dressed, he stepped inside the shower. Water gushed down on them, spraying everywhere. Ché slapped his hands onto the shower wall behind her, one broad hand to each side of her head. Then he lowered his face.

  “Ché!” She tried to duck. “What the—”

  All in one move, he closed his hands around her skull and kissed her. She was too shocked to struggle, too stunned to try. Her aborted objection left her lips parted. Ché took full advantage. His tongue swept into her mouth, not clumsy or thrusting, but with mastery. Desire scorched through her. It was the longest, most luscious kiss she’d experienced in ages. Maybe ever, but she didn’t want to go there.

  Ché didn’t bend down to reach her; he lifted her up to him. The balls of her feet skidded over the slick tile floor of the shower enclosure. She flattened her hands on his soaked T-shirt, stretched tight over hard muscles, and tried to wrest back control of the kiss—of everything.

  She’d always been the one to call the shots! But Ché held her firmly to his body, angling her head so that he could kiss her how he wanted. He was rough enough to take her breath away, gentle enough to let her know he was aware he held a woman in his arms.

  Water gushed down over them, beating against her upturned face, running in rivulets past their locked mouths. Ché’s clothes were drenched—and he was wearing far too many of them, Ilana thought dazedly, collecting some of the wits she never usually lost. She reached for his jeans to unbutton them. Her knuckles grazed over the huge bulge straining his fly. But he stopped her, trapping her between his hard body and the cool, slick shower wall. His jeans were wet and rough; the denim abraded her skin.

  She pulled her mouth from his, breathless. “Ché,” she gasped.

  He made a sound of smug satisfaction and nuzzled her neck. Water battered them both, hissing and spraying. Her breasts ached for his touch, his mouth; but he didn’t touch her there. Instead, he slid his soapy, wet hand between her thighs. He knew exactly what he was searching for—and found it.

  Her knees almost gave out. She had to keep control, had to keep from showing him how aroused she was. She would not get weak-kneed in front of this self-professed sexual connoisseur. Ché Vedla was just another guy. No better, no different from the rest. She could prove it. Almost angrily, she guided his mouth back to hers. And the moment he kissed her back, he made her a liar. The pressure of his lips forced her head backward, triggering a flood of desire that pooled low in her belly.

  Thick and hot, his fingers rubbed slickly between her folds. She wanted to sag to the floor and pull him down there with her. She wanted him inside her, wild like this; she wanted everything he could give her. Again she tried to unbutton his fly. But he swatted away her hand and slipped two fingers inside her.

  He caught her moan with his mouth. She could feel her inner muscles contracting, squeezing his gently thrusting fingers. And, oh, God, the things he could do with his thumb…

  A pulsing pressure began to build, deep inside her. Her belly contracted and her hips writhed. A low moan began deep in her throat. She arched into his hand, ready to come apart, and so blatantly at his command. But a fraction of a heartbeat before she climaxed, at the very worst possible moment, Ché withdrew his hand.

  Quivering and incredulous, she watched him turn his back to her and walk out, leaving her alone under the gushing shower.

  Chapter Ten

  “Ché, you are so busted,” Ilana snarled to herself as she jammed her arms one at a time into her bathrobe.

  But deep down, she knew she deserved what she’d got. She’d teased him, tempted him. Flashed him. She’d done everything but give him a handwritten invitation to join her in the shower. Only she never thought he would.

  In the first seconds after he’d left, she’d stood there, water pouring on her head. Her body strung tight in frustration, she’d cursed him for giving in to his Stone Age values. But it wasn’t prudishness that kept him from finishing what he’d started. Don’t play with me, his actions said. Or you’ll pay.

  But Ché was no more likely to play anyone’s games than she was. In a way, it made them equals. It hit her that she’d never really respected the men she dated, in part because they’d allowed her total control over the relationships. They let her walk away. Oh, some whimpered a bit, like Cole, but no one had ever really fought hard to keep her. Not the way she’d want a man to fight for her.

  Wait a second. She and Ché didn’t have a relationship. And how could they? Considering the circumstances, the best they could do was a fling.

  But if she was smart, and she liked to think that she was, she wouldn’t sleep with him at all. Better to hook him up with one of her girlfriends. And knowing what she knew now about Ché’s…abilities, her friends were going to owe her big time for the favor.

  Peering into the fogged mirror, she frowned at herself, her combed hair dripping. Sexual frustration was hell on the complexion.

  She knotted the belt on her puffy yellow chenille robe decorated with steaming cups of java and forced herself to walk into the living room. She didn’t know what she’d do when she saw him. Call him names? Kick him out of the house? Or drag him to bed, the floor—heck, the shower—and make him finish what he’d started?

  She knew the answer: She’d apologize. She owed him that.

  He’d helped her out. Rescued her. Okay, so the knight-in-shining-armor routine had nothing to do with her; playing protector was ingrained in him; it was part of his culture. So was his politeness. His courtesy. But did it really matter how he got to be a gentleman? Or only that he was one?

  But the living room was empty. Wet footprints cut a straight path to the front door. He’d left.

  She ran to the window. The Porsche was still there. She released the breath she’d been holding, not realizing until now how disappointed she’d be if Ché had left.

  The sun was lower in the sky. It must be six or seven by now, but the air was still warm. The beach was emptying out. Summer traffic clogged the street. People were coming off the beach in droves, carrying coolers, towels, and fold-up chairs. Somewhere out there was Ché, a fully clothed, soaking-wet, sexually frustrated Vash prince in squishy, squeaky shoes.

  Would he be all right out there? Of course he would. He’d proved very pointedly in the shower that he could take care of himself.

  But she worried about him anyway.

  She’d give him forty-five minutes. If he wasn’t back by then, she’d go looking for him. Man, she needed a Corn Nut fix. Bad. Frantically she rifled through her purse. Her hand closed over a crinkly foil bag. Thank God, she thought shakily, grasping the bag. Beaten down by hunger and exhaustion, she poured a handful of Corn Nuts and salt into her palm. Automatically she flipped through the newspaper, needing to read or talk when she ate.

  And there she was—swooning in Ché Vedla’s arms on the center of the front page of the “Lifestyle” section. “Bite me,” Ilana blurted out, staring down at the blaring headline.

  EARTHBOUND CINDERELLA LOOKS FOR

  PRINCE

  B’kah heiress wedding plans reportedly

  hush-hush

  LOS ANGELES—Seen leaving the lavish downtown digs of playboy and star Hunter Holt last night, Princess Ilana Hamilton was photographed in the arms of an unidentified man only hours later. However, when asked about her mystery Prince Charming, Hamilton claims, “There is none.” Despite keeping company with Holt and others, the reclusive
heiress, also part-owner of SILF Filmworks, has resisted settling on a match, despite mounting family pressure. “Ms. Hamilton has been instructed by her family not to comment on this subject at this time,” said an unidentified royal staffer, leaving only wild speculation as to when Earth’s Cinderella will find a glass slipper to fit her fickle foot.

  “Fickle foot!” As if it weren’t bad enough to have her mother or even Linda worrying about whether she’d ever find her happily-ever-after with “Mr. Right,” now the press had gotten in on it, too. They thought Ché was her Prince Charming.

  The photo sure made it look like it. She and Ché looked as if they were embracing, when she was really trying to wipe pepper-spray tears from his eyes. How romantic.

  Swearing, Ilana dropped three more Corn Nuts into her mouth and read the article again. It was like driving past the scene of an accident—you had to look even though you didn’t want to.

  The second read changed nothing. It was still tabloid trash. What was it doing in a respectable newspaper? They linked her to Ché—and Hunter Holt, of all people. They thought she was dating one or both of them.

  Rose was behind this, that TV gossip-show host. The woman was the only one she’d talked to last night. If this was what the media could concoct when given no information at all, Ilana could only imagine the stories printed if she ever did talk.

  Talk about what? Nothing had happened. She hadn’t even made it past third base with an übermasculine Vash prince in the shower. Butt naked!

  Hunched over the table, she dumped her face in her hands, feeling as if she’d been snared by an invisible lasso that stretched across the galaxy and it was pulling her, bucking and kicking, into the sphere of influence of her family.

  Speaking of which, just wait until they got wind of this. They were going to be thrilled to think she was dating anyone seriously. But they’d also ask questions. Holt, they’d know was a fabrication. But the photo of her and the “mystery Prince Charming” was more serious. She and Ché would have to put their heads together if they wanted to concoct a bullet-proof cover story.

  This was the weekend she was supposed to be revving her creative engine, sorting through some scripts that had come in and musing about some of her own ideas for a film. Unfortunately, the only inspiration she wanted was how to get the press off her back.

  She munched more Corn Nuts, counting her blessings that she’d bought a jumbo bag. A shot of tequila would have made a good chaser, but she didn’t keep hard liquor in the house and all the beer was gone. Everything was gone. Even Ché.

  It had been almost forty-five minutes since he’d left.

  Sweat tickled the back of her neck. She’d better go find him. While she hated to admit it, she wouldn’t mind his levelheaded advice. But they’d had a fight. He might not be in the mood to help. On the other hand, he was in the paper, too. Like it or not, Ché was knee-deep with her in this mess.

  In her bedroom, she zipped on a short, fitted, pale blue cotton dress and dabbed on some makeup. The front door slammed. She jumped, her heart accelerating. It had better be Ché. But if it wasn’t…

  Her pepper spray was in her purse, and her purse was in the living room. Taking a carved Aboriginal walking stick she’d bought in Sydney, she stalked out of her bedroom, holding the stick like a baseball bat.

  Ché stood by the front door, soaked, as if he’d been swimming. Confirming the swim, his T-shirt, wrung into a damp, twisted lump, hung from one hand. Like most Vash, he had no chest hair, and the lack showed off his golden skin to perfection. So this is what you’ve been hiding under that Harley T-shirt. She gave him a blatant once-over, admiring his six-pack abs and rounded biceps with the eye of an aficionado of the male species. Ché quirked a wary brow at the stick. She lowered it. It reminded her of how he took charge in the shower, then ended the encounter on his terms, leaving her high and dry.

  “You’re lucky you’re you,” she said. “If you’d had a camera in your hand, I would have whacked it with my walkabout.” She leaned her stick against the wall.

  “You should have locked the door after me.”

  “It took a while to crawl out of the shower.”

  Smoothing one hand over his hair, he regarded her with inscrutable eyes. Water dripped from the spiky strands, slipping down his neck and over his bare shoulders. Wet, his blond hair was almost brown. She remembered how it felt. The texture was different. Luxurious, like mink.

  “So, was the water cold?” she asked saucily.

  “Not cold enough.”

  “Oh. So you were affected, too?”

  “Of course I was affected, Ilana. Would you think otherwise?”

  His frank question nipped her cheekiness in the bud. A lesser woman would have stuttered. “No matter how I answer that, I can’t win.”

  “I was not aware that this was a competition, Ilana.”

  “Ouch. Are you always this direct?”

  “You are as casual with your sexuality as an unmarried man is in my culture,” he went on. “And so my automatic response was to deem your lifestyle shocking and disgraceful.”

  Here we go. She rolled her eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “When you flaunted yourself in front of me, Ilana, I didn’t know how to react. I thought to punish you, because I did not want you to have the upper hand. But once I began touching you…” He swallowed. “I did not want to stop.”

  They stared at each other. She felt the heat of sexual arousal from his words alone.

  “It was not easy to leave, Ilana.”

  “Why did you?” she asked hoarsely.

  “Because I am a Vedla.” He squared his broad shoulders. “Because I have eons of ancestors watching me, judging me. Because I am a man who follows through with decisions. The need to prove that, to them, overrode my need for you.”

  So it wasn’t prudishness that had sent him running. He’d set out to teach her a lesson, and stayed until he had.

  She wasn’t sure she liked what she’d learned.

  “Spoken like a true Vash,” she said bitingly. “I asked Tee’ah once, what it was like, living your life with generations of dead relatives looking over your shoulder. She told me that you never feel alone. Maybe I should try it. Huh, Ché? Then maybe I wouldn’t be so morally reckless.”

  Ché winced. “Ah, that. It was a vulgar remark—and invalid, I realized while swimming. You, Ilana, view the sexual act with casual partners as a physical activity. It is no different from the way I am with a pleasure server. Emotions are not involved. The soul is not engaged. But you are a woman. That you approach your sexuality the same way I do is foreign and, in true Vedla fashion, immediately suspect. I consider myself enlightened, but put to the test I react just as judgmentally as those I scorn for their closedmindedness.” Stiffly he acknowledged, “I have experienced little beyond my own world. It makes me a barbarian on yours.”

  She pushed curling strands of hair out of her eyes. “Wow. Was that an apology?”

  “Yes. And quite an insufficient one if you had to ask.”

  Surprise and satisfaction filtered through her. Ché’s pale eyes glowed.

  It was her turn. Clasping her hands, she tried to appear as contrite as she now felt. “I’m sorry I didn’t act more appreciative for your help with the paparazzi and the reporter. I was. I am. The comment I made about Klark was uncalled for. I don’t know why I said it. I guess…I guess I got scared.”

  “Having your privacy threatened by strangers is unsettling. Your fear is justified.”

  “I meant by your protecting me. Looking out for me.”

  “Why ever would that scare you?”

  Good question. What could she say? That she was afraid of losing what control she’d gained over her life? Or that she had trust issues stemming back from her childhood that made it difficult if not impossible to give her heart to a man? Her father’s infidelity and its effect on her mother was no doubt the cause of that. But the subject was still so painful that she’d rather not addre
ss it at all. Opening up wasn’t her thing. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Blame it on cultural differences.”

  Ché regarded her with suspicion. She averted her eyes, hating the way he seemed to be able to tell when she was holding back.

  “I’ve eaten enough humble pie,” she told him. “Why don’t you get changed and we’ll go out.”

  “What is humble pie?” Ché looked so eager at the prospect of food that she had to laugh.

  “You don’t eat it. It’s slang for putting aside your pride. But, here, you can eat these.” She offered him her bag of Corn Nuts. Ché had no clue how tough that was for her. “It’s a snack. They’re salty.” His golden eyes lit up. Elsewhere in the galaxy, salt was expensive to obtain. It was rare for salt to occur as naturally and plentifully as it did on Earth. Salt was expensive, valuable enough to be used as currency in some far-flung places. It was one reason Earth was such a valued trade partner in the Federation.

  Ché held a Corn Nut between two fingers, brought it to his sexy lips. He watched her as he chewed and swallowed. Only he could make an erotic show of eating Corn Nuts. Or maybe that was because she knew what else he could do with his hands and mouth.

  She practically swallowed in unison with him. “What do you think?”

  “They are quite good.” He lifted the bag as if toasting her. “May I have another?”

  “One Corn Nut? You are so freaking polite! Go—eat them all.” His charming ways made her want to give him a hug, which helped take the edge off wanting to slug him or jump in bed with him, which was how she felt the rest of the time. “You haven’t had a meal since last night. Any other guy would be ripping apart that bag, picking up the phone to order pizza, running across the street to the Thai place, or ransacking my refrigerator.”

  His tone was sardonic. “An intelligent man would already know that there is nothing of nutritional value in your refrigerator.”