by Susan Grant
Her elation faded into looming reality. “You have to call them. Your family.”
“Not tonight,” he assured her with a sexy glint in his eye. “Tomorrow. I will have them send the closest starspeeder. Then I will fly to the Wheel. My father is there. I will speak to him first.”
The Wheel was a majestic, five-thousand-year-old space station, home to the Great Council, the governing body of the Trade Federation. Kings, like Ché’s father, traveled there periodically when the council was in session to keep abreast of politics. Or when they needed to arrange marriages for jilted sons, which the man was likely doing now.
“Once my father knows, we will discuss the details with my advisor and close council members.”
“What about your mother and sisters?”
“Oh, yes.” He grinned. “I can feel their wedding fever from here.” Then his smiled faded. “In the meantime, we tell no one.”
“Not even my mother? Or Rom? What about Ian?”
“Not until I am sure it is safe.”
“Safe! I thought you said this marriage was the perfect solution. If it’s so perfect, then why are we sneaking around?”
The little hollow in his jaw was back. “I am confident all will be in favor of our joining. But there are always those who cannot see beyond their own views.”
“Like Klark?”
Ché turned somber as he played with a curling lock of her hair.
“Sheesh,” she muttered when he didn’t reply. “Does everything you Vash do have to be so complicated?”
He pressed his lips to the pulse on the side of her throat. “No, Ilana. Not everything.”
“Mmm.” She hunched her shoulders as his lips tasted their way to her temple and hairline. At the same time, his hot, dry hand found its way inside her robe, parting the fabric. Cool air hit her bare breasts. Her nipples tightened with the change in temperature and with anticipation instantly quenched when his wet mouth found one and his magical fingers the other. Toes curling in delight, Ilana arched her neck and bit back a sigh, twisting restless fingers into his thick, mink-soft hair.
Someone knocked on the door. Paused. Then knocked again. Ché lifted his head, and they exchanged a dismayed glance. “Did you order anything else from room service?” she asked.
He shook his head. “They may have arrived to collect the trays, as we have been remiss in eating our meal.”
“Very remiss,” she murmured, trying to pull him back to her. “They’ll come back.”
The knocking became pounding. Ché sighed, setting her on the bed and wrapping a towel low around his hips. “I will have them return later.”
Ilana clutched her robe closed and followed him into the living room area of the suite. Before she could warn him otherwise, Ché flung open the door without checking the peephole.
The bright light of a camera like Ilana’s Canon blinded them momentarily. When her eyes adjusted, she saw a pert, familiar woman standing in the hallway, dressed sharply in a lemon yellow suit. The woman held a microphone to her ice-pink mouth. “This week our focus on the summer’s hottest couples continues. Today we find our formerly reluctant Cinderella and her very yummy Prince Charming snug as bugs in the famed-for-secret-getaways Serenity Inn. Let’s meet the B’kah heiress Ilana Hamilton and her very eligible Vash beau, Prince Ché.” She winked at them. “Rose knows!”
Clutching a bath towel around his hips, Ché swung his disbelieving eyes to Ilana.
“She’s Rose Brungard, the talk show host,” Ilana hissed under her breath as resignation leaked out of every pore.
Everyone knows what Rose knows. Right. So much for keeping their relationship secret from the Vedlas.
Chapter Twenty
Muffin drove his car down the road fronting the building where Ilana Hamilton lived. Or used to live, he thought dismally. It was late on a weeknight, and no lights brightened her condo windows. He’d taken Copper out to dinner in Santa Monica on purpose, so he’d be able to see that Ché’s ground car had returned before he went home to his apartment at the end of the night. But the couple still hadn’t shown up. The lights were still off. “Blast,” he mumbled, and turned off the music playing in the car to see if he could catch a broadcast of the news.
Copper protested. “Hey, I like that song.”
“One moment.” Muffin concentrated on the announcer’s voice. No airplane crashes, thank the Great Mother. Then where were they? Ché had to fly in the morning. Ilana had to work. Or had they taken the night off, like Muffin had, turning his back on his charges when they may have needed him most?
“This is the third time we’ve driven past this building. You’re starting to creep me out, John.”
He winced every time she called him by that name.
“I’m beginning to think your old girlfriend lives here, and you want to see if she’s home.”
“So I can show off my new one.” He showed his teeth in a grin.
Copper preened. Then she frowned, her eyes shooting sparks. “I knew it.”
“Copper—I joked. I have no woman living here, there, or anywhere.” That much was true. But the more time he spent with her, the less he wanted to lie to her about anything else. “But the woman I’m observing has not arrived home, and I am worried about her.”
Her green eyes grew wide. “Are you a private investigator?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“What did she do? Is she dealing drugs? Is she having an affair?”
“No! No drugs. An affair? If you mean a relationship with another’s man, no.” He wondered what Copper would think if she were to find out the heir to the galaxy had all but dropped a man in Ilana’s lap, hoping he’d bounce into her bed. “She is a fine, upstanding young woman, the sister of…a good friend. But the man she is seeing, he worries me.”
“Why? Is he abusive?”
“Blazes, no. But I don’t trust his family.”
“They don’t approve of her.”
He’d been so starved for someone to talk to, so hungry for a woman like Copper, that he gave in to the temptation to share what had been troubling him. To his chagrin and shock, his words tumbled out. “Whether they do or don’t, they live too far away to interfere. But still I worry. I feel…uneasy. I should have watched her today. I should have done my job instead of…” He stopped himself.
“Instead of having dinner with me,” Copper finished.
“And lunch, and the walk on the beach, and the bowling—”
“The bowling was fun,” she said with a smile. Then she turned to look at him with those penetrating eyes of hers. “This is the couple you were watching at the airport, right?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Are you a private investigator, really? Or are you snooping for the tabloids? I like a man with principles.” Her voice softened. “And I really, really want you to have them, John. Because I’d really, really like to keep on seeing you. But I won’t if you don’t. When you’re on your own, like I am, with no family, you tend to be picky.” She lifted her chin. “I’d rather be alone than be with a guy I didn’t respect.”
Taken aback, Muffin gripped the steering wheel. He pulled over to the curb and stopped the car two blocks from Ilana’s empty condo. “My name is Muffin.”
“What?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
None of the Earth-dwellers did, Muffin thought, but he felt he had half a chance with this one, with her own unusual name. And if he wanted half a chance of continuing to “see” Copper Kaminski, as she’d put it, he’d blasted well tell her as much of the truth as he could.
“My given name is Muffin. It is not John. John Black is an alias, one I use in my work, as an investigator for…a private and very wealthy man.” There, that was close enough to the truth without risking his cover. “I thought you should know my real name.”
“Muffin. Like blueberry muffin?”
He gave a silent sigh. “A sweet little breakfast cake, yes. But on my home—where I am from—Muffin is a name of rugged masc
ulinity. It is an old name, and comes from the word for a warrior’s stamina.”
“I bet you get hell for that name here.”
He exchanged a glance of commiseration. “You may know a little of what that is like. You sounded surprised when I found your name such a lovely one.”
Smiling, she nodded. “Black isn’t your last name?”
That was a tougher question to answer, if he wanted her to believe he was from Earth. “Muffin of Thorme” was how one would introduce him. Everyone born on his homeworld Thorme had that surname, the entire population, few of whom ever left, unless recruited offworld, as Muffin was, to be someone’s bodyguard. “Thorme,” he said finally, figuring it would suffice.
“Muffin Thorme. Well, I think Muffin is adorable. I think you’re adorable, too.”
“Adorable!”
Her eyes twinkled. “Yeah. A big sweet man. That’s what you are, on the inside. On the outside…well, no one in their right mind would mess with you.”
“Except for copper-haired women named Trouble.” He made a face. “No one has ever taken me down like that. What is your secret? I would like to know, so that it never happens again.”
She lifted her hands in surrender, and he pretended to flinch. Giggling, she said, “I have no idea how I did it. And I don’t know if I ever will. It just happened.” Shyly she clasped her hands in her lap. “And I’m glad it did. We have the best ‘how we met’ story.”
Muffin’s hulking frame filled the small cab of the car. It didn’t take much to move close enough to give Copper a kiss. He moved a fraction, waited a heartbeat or two to see if she’d run, but she stayed still, as if waiting to see what he’d do. And so he did: Closing his eyes, he moved his lips over hers, hovering there long enough to taste her sweetness before he moved back. His blood roared at that brief contact. But he made himself behave, content to brush his fingertip affectionately down her freckled nose and across her plump bottom lip. He felt her mouth quiver under the thick pad of his finger. But he crushed his hand into a fist before he demanded more than she wanted to give, more than he had the right to ask for this early in the courting game, and returned his big hands to the steering wheel. “We have to work in the morning,” he said. “I had better get you home.”
“What about the girl you’re watching?”
“I think tonight I will let her enjoy the privacy that is her right.” Why deny Ché and Ilana what he hadn’t denied himself? Muffin smiled what he feared was a lovesick grin and pulled away from the curb.
Ilana took charge. If it were Ché’s palace, he’d know what to do. But this was California, and her turf.
She grabbed her Canon off the counter in the kitchenette, swung it around and up to her eye, flicking on the power at the same time. Like a six-shooter facing down her nemesis in Dodge City, Ilana turned her full attention—and her camera—on Rose and her camerawoman. Years of practice made Ilana fast; she liked to think she’d never miss a shot. Quickly she checked the viewfinder, seeing Rose’s startled expression on the other side. Good, plenty of battery life left, and enough time to shoot her way out of this mess.
“I’m no Cinderella,” she told the talk show host as she panned around to the open door. “I may be Romlijhian B’kah’s stepdaughter, but also I’m director of photography for SILF Filmworks. Our project with Hunter Holt has been received extremely well by the critics. Have you seen it?”
Rose’s microphone wobbled. “I didn’t know it had been released.”
“It hasn’t yet, but we’ve hosted several private screenings. Let’s get you to one of those. Linda!” she shouted toward the bedroom, as if her assistant were in there, working away. “Put Rose Brungard on our VIP list for the next screening.”
To Ilana’s glee, Ché jumped into her hatching plan feet first. “I do not think Linda heard you, Ilana. She is on the phone with the studio.” He turned to Rose and gave her one of his killer smiles. “Back from the Brink is a riveting work. Holt is magnificent, of course, but Miss Hamilton here, she is a creative genius.”
Ilana tried not to laugh.
“You do not want to miss it, Miss…?”
“Brungard,” the woman supplied. “Rose Knows.”
“That’s the name of her show,” Ilana explained to Ché, never letting Rose out of her viewfinder. “It’s one of the top-rated personality news shows.” Actually, she’d heard the show was struggling against heavy competition in its time slot, which would explain why Rose had gotten so aggressive in her pursuit of celebrities.
Ché spoke up before Rose did. “I am terribly sorry that I did not know sooner of your show, for in a few days I must return home, and will not have time to grant you an interview. Nor can I speak to you tonight, as we are behind schedule.” He gestured apologetically to his state of undress. “As you can plainly see. Ilana, her partners, and I are so behind in our filming schedule that we often overlook modesty in the rush to finish on location. My apologies. I opened the door thinking you were the caterer. And you, it seems, were equally mistaken as to my presence in this room. Ilana and I, lovers? Heavens.” He smirked at Ilana and then Rose, as if they all shared the world’s biggest joke. Then, holding his towel around his hips, he nodded smoothly at Ilana and disappeared into the bedroom.
She almost cried with relief when the door closed behind him. His clothes were in there. His contacts, too, though it was obviously too late for disguises. More importantly, the phone was there. She was confident Ché was picking up the receiver now to call the front desk. The sooner someone came and showed Rose Brungard the door, the better.
Ilana kept filming. “As you might have understood from the prince, I’m doing a documentary on his visit to Hollywood, which, as he said, is almost over. He’s making inquiries into the feasibility of mass distribution of Hollywood movies in the Federation. I find that so exciting.” Ilana zoomed in for a close-up shot of Rose’s face. “You’re in the industry—what do you think? Is the Federation ready for Hollywood?”
Rose dropped her arm to her side. To Ilana’s surprise and then filmmaker’s delight, the woman launched into a long and passionate answer to Ilana’s question. After a moment or two, in the corner of her eye Ilana saw the other camera turn off. Rose seemed to have made the transition from reporter to interviewee with little problem. And she had a lot to offer, with her thirty-something years in the business.
Miraculously, by the time someone from Serenity Inn’s staff trotted down the hallway to get rid of Rose, Ilana had her proof: When it came to sending Earth’s stars to the stars, most people on Earth would get as excited about it as she was.
“Watch out, galaxy, here comes Hollywood,” Rose said with a thumbs-up as she waved goodbye.
Ilana lowered her camera and grinned. She’d even stopped shaking. Well, almost. She was still shaking a little, only now it was more from excitement than from fear that the news of her relationship with Ché would break wide open before they could do damage control and tell their families first.
She’d lied about making a documentary about SILF’s and Ché’s joint venture into the galactic market—lied in a desperate, knee-jerk reaction to protect her privacy, and Ché’s. But if her gut was the indicator it usually was, that little fib had just turned into the hot new project she’d been looking for.
Prince Vedla, Hollywood’s unlikely champion and patron-of-the-arts.
She’d been filming Ché in his various Earth adventures all along. As well as others’ reactions to him, including those of her SILF partners. She had a wealth of fantastic footage already, more than enough for the beginnings of a good documentary. Now all she needed was the rest: Ché’s navigating the holy halls of the Great Council to win them the support they needed to give the film industry its toehold in a future that no one on Earth dreamed of a decade ago.
Breathless, she put the Canon back on the counter and hurried into the bedroom to find Ché. He sat on the bed, his bare back to her, the towel barely clinging to hips. “I got rid of her, Ché. She
believed me. She thinks we’re doing a documentary feature on you—”
Ché waved her into silence. She stopped midbreath and mid-step. He held his comm in his hand as he spoke in Basic, too rapidly for her to understand it all.
Her heart sank. His family. He’d said he wouldn’t contact them tonight. But after seeing Rose, he probably felt he had to.
The clock was ticking, wasn’t it? With a wife picked out and ready to go, and threat of news of their relationship beating Ché home, what choice did he have?
She hugged her bathrobe around her and sat lightly on the edge of the bed. Ché closed the comm. “That was my advisor.”
“What did he say? How did he sound?”
“Quite surprised.” He appeared to be puzzling something out. “I wished I could have given him the reason for my sudden change of heart. He has been with me since I was a boy. He deserves to know.”
“I almost wish someone did,” she admitted. “Then this engagement might feel real.”
Ché walked around the bed and sat next to her. “It is real,” he vowed, holding her close long enough to assure her that his feelings for her went beyond sexual. A man and a woman could tell each other anything they wanted, but unspoken communication like this said more about a relationship, about feelings, than words could.
After the cuddling had steadied them both, they moved apart. “You’re worried about something,” she accused. It amazed her how easily she could read his expressions now. “Klark?”
She saw his jaw stiffen. “Hoe did say a few things about my brother that disturbed me.”
Her heart sped up. “Like what?”
“That Klark is acting agitated, that he is openly obsessed with the possibility of a relationship developing between us, and that he broods about it constantly. Hoe said nothing more, probably because he doesn’t want to upset me, and seemed to be sorry he had said anything at all. Hoe overprotects me, he does. As for Klark, he has always intimidated Hoe, and I think rather enjoys it.” Ché’s mouth twisted. “It follows that I am used to Hoe exaggerating reports of my brother’s behavior. In other words, I am not worried, and I don’t want you to be, either, Ilana. Even if what Hoe says is true, and Klark wishes me to stay away from you, what more can he do about it but grumble and gnash his teeth as a prisoner in the palace?”