Stranded with the Cyborg (Cy-Ops Sci-fi Romance Book 1)

by Cara Bristol

  “Fine!” She marched off.

  He let her go because a couple of meters of space between them seemed safer than walking next to her where her body heat and scent would distract him.

  Another miscalculation. Being presented with her backside gave him no peace either. Now he could see the curve of her waist, her surprisingly long legs, and her sexy heart-shaped ass. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Fuck, make it worse, why don’t you?

  He tore his gaze away from her swaying hips to stare over her shoulder just as two Arcanians materialized out of the crowd.

  Small and furtive, with bug-like eyes and literal and figurative sticky fingers, the Arcanians were the thieves and pickpockets of the galaxy—although it was considered undiplomatic to say so. One male bumped Pia on the left. When she turned in his direction, the other wrenched her carryall from her shoulder, and disappeared in a flash.

  “My bag!” Pia cried. “He stole my bag!”

  “Stay here!” Brock charged forward.

  Taller than most, Brock could see over the tops of heads. His gaze scoped in on the thief zigzagging among the people. “Get out of the way! Move!” he shouted in several of the more common alien languages.

  Some travelers complied, but most stopped dead, hindering rather than helping his progress. Though the Arcanian wasn’t as fast as a cyborg, his smaller, more slender build enabled him to weave through the crowd and edge away. Brock had begun to worry he would lose him, when the Arcanian slipped on a streak of exudation the janitorial droids hadn’t gotten around to cleaning up.

  The Arcanian fell. Pia’s bag went flying.

  The other Arcanian appeared out of nowhere to intercept it before it hit the ground.

  But Brock was there. He yanked the bag out of its sticky hand and grabbed the creature by the throat. Skinny legs kicked air, and all six of its eyes bulged as Brock shook it.

  Now the passengers gave him a wide berth.

  Pia ran up and grabbed his arm. “Stop, you’re going to kill him.”

  Brock’s nanocytes transmitted to his brain exactly how much pressure he was applying. “No, but I’ll make him hurt real bad.” He glared at the Arcanian and said in its language, “Think twice before robbing anyone else.” He shook the creature once more before tossing it aside. It hit the floor then jumped up and ran off. Its comrade had already fled the scene. No honor among thieves.

  Pia stared at him. “When did you learn to speak Arcanian?”

  The same time he learned French, Mandarin Chinese, Xenian, Malodonian, and every other known spoken language—when the microcomputer had been implanted in his brain. “I’ve picked up a few words over the years,” he said.

  “Here.” He thrust the carryall at her and realized he’d screwed up. An agent didn’t safeguard property—he or she protected people. In running after the pickpocket, he’d left Pia vulnerable to kidnapping or attack. He’d failed to do his job—twice. First, by permitting her to march too far ahead of him. Second, by abandoning her and charging after the Arcanian.

  If he didn’t pull his shit together, he’d be of no use to her.

  “Thank you. Everything essential is in this bag. If I lost my personal communication unit, I’d be screwed.” She narrowed her gaze. “You don’t carry a PerComm?”

  “No.” His microcomputer contained a galaxy of information. What he didn’t have stored, he could access by hacking into other systems with his wireless.

  “How do you buy stuff?” Pia tilted her head, frowning in puzzlement. “Contact people? Keep a schedule?”

  She asked too many questions he couldn’t reveal the answers to, even if he’d been inclined. Until this moment, he’d never regretted becoming a cyborg. Not when the only other options had been death or existing as a vegetable. But having this beautiful woman gaze at him caused him to wish he was what he used to be: just a man. She made him wish she was what she used to be: a rebellious, spoiled pain in the ass who’d never stirred anything inside him but irritation. He needed her to be that.

  “You ask too many questions,” he said brusquely. “Let’s catch the shuttle before something else happens.”

  HE HADN’T FORGIVEN her adolescent indiscretions—he’d communicated that much—but other things about Special Agent Brock Mann didn’t add up. Even after taking into account their history and mutual animosity, he was extraordinarily uncooperative, responding to her with the shortest possible replies, no answer at all, or what Penelope suspected were half-truths.

  She’d disembarked the moon jumper and recognized him instantly, but he was nothing like what she’d remembered. He’d always been tall, towering over her by a third of a meter, and that hadn’t changed—but everything else about him had. He’d broadened, his chest, arms, and thighs bulging with muscles the likes of which she’d never seen. He didn’t wear the travel uniform required of those entering or leaving Terra, but gray form-hugging pants and a fitted shirt that showcased his bulging musculature. He’d always had an athletic build, but the man had gotten bigger in a way that boggled the mind.

  More than his physique had hardened—so had his bearing. Special Agent Mann had always been aloof, indifferent as he’d executed his duties. Now his features were more chiseled, his gaze colder, his slash of a mouth more disapproving. Not that he’d ever been prone to smiling. Had she ever heard him laugh? Pia frowned. Not that she could recall.

  Her bag slipped off her shoulder, and she pushed it back up. To her immature teenage self, his stony detachment had been a challenge. I’ll make him notice me!

  But he never had. He still didn’t—although he managed to convey his resentment with his current assignment. Well, she didn’t want him here either! She could handle things on her own.

  Like you handled the Arcanian?

  Okay, she’d give Brock credit for that one. If not for him, she would have lost her bag and everything in it. The delay in getting her stuff replaced could have resulted in her missing the meeting with the Xenians.

  She’d stared in amazement when Brock had charged after the thief. Agile and impish, Arcanians could zig in and zag out before you realized you’d been robbed. Rarely did they do an outright snatch and run. Odd that she’d been targeted that way. Maybe they’d spotted Brock behind her and figured sleight of hand wouldn’t work in this situation.

  Grab and dash hadn’t worked for them, either. Brock had sprung into action, moving faster than she’d thought a human could.

  Hooded lids shielded his expression now, but she’d noted the sharpness of his gaze—he captured everything. Saw it. Recorded it. Filed it for later use. Under what subject heading did he put her? Assignments I wish I’d never had? Oh crap, not her again?

  The merest smirk used to curl his lips when he would address her by her code name.

  She peered up at him, studying his face. “Why did you used to call me Pia?” she asked.

  “Penelope Isabella Aaron? Your initials,” he said in his raspy voice, but there it was! The tell. His left shoulder twitched in a dismissive shrug, showing he disbelieved his own data. The movement had been almost imperceptible; she would have missed it if she hadn’t been watching for it. As part of her ambassador training, Penelope had studied body language. She didn’t know whether to be jubilant she’d discovered a tell—or pissed off at the lie.

  What other untruths had he told?

  Her heart rate increased as a horrible thought occurred to her. She had only his word that he’d been assigned as her bodyguard. Just because he’d once been one of the good guys didn’t mean he still was. He had reason to dislike her.

  He’d choked the Arcanian like it was a puppet. What if he’d taken out the real bodyguard assigned to her and replaced him? What if he’d been recruited by the terrorists? What if he wasn’t protecting her, but kidnapping her? His physique had changed so much in ten years. What if he isn’t Brock Mann at all, but an imposter pretending to be him?

  She squinted at him. “You said you freelance, is that right?”

&
nbsp; “That’s right.” His shoulder twitched again, and her heart almost stopped.

  Penelope slowed. If she was headed to her demise, she wasn’t going to race toward it. “But that means your services were contracted by somebody. So who hired you?”

  “Your mother.” No twitch.

  That didn’t necessarily clear him. She dug her PerComm out of her bag.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “None of your business.” She hunched her shoulders so he couldn’t read what she keyed in.

  Did you hire former Special Agent Brock Mann to be my bodyguard? She hit send. If her mother was in a meeting, she might not check her messages for several hours.

  She hoped it wouldn’t be that long. The diplomatic charter would leave soon. She tucked her carryall more securely over her shoulder but kept her PerComm out so she’d see the answer as soon as it came through.

  “Give me that,” Brock said.

  “What?” No way was she handing over her PerComm.

  “Your bag.” He curled his fingers. “You seem to be having trouble carrying it.”

  She clutched it tighter. “I’m all right.”

  “Give me the bag.”

  Somebody bumped into her, jostling the duffel, and it fell off her shoulder. Brock reached around and grabbed it. Short of wrestling him for it, she had no choice but to surrender it. “All right. Thank you,” she added as an afterthought.

  “You’re welcome.” He slung it over his broad shoulder. “This thing must weigh several kilos. What do you have in it? Moon rocks?”

  “Necessities. A couple of changes of clothing in case my luggage ends up in a different part of the galaxy, some nutrition rations, water, decontaminant, my hairbrush.” She paused. “And a two kilo Terran geode.”

  “What the hell are you carrying that for?”

  “It’s a gift for the Xenians,” she said tartly.

  “I wasn’t far from wrong with my guess.” His lips twitched.

  That hint of a smile threatened to melt her reserve, her dislike. She stiffened. “What did you say you did after you left the CPO?”

  A shutter snapped over his amusement. “I didn’t.”

  “If you’re going to act the part of my husband, I should at least know something about you.”

  “My name is Brock Mann. I’m thirty-seven years old. I hold advanced degrees in business administration and law. I’m vice president of operations for the Terran corporation TransWorld, Inc. I enjoy Isbetian golf, jog a minimum of 10K every day, and collect antique PeeVees.”

  “Is any of that true?”

  “My name and age.”

  Penelope’s PerComm beeped. She tapped the screen. Her mother had replied. She glanced at Brock and then opened the message.

  Yes. Brock Mann has agreed to protect you. You’re not off the hook. We’re going to have a talk when you get home. Mother.

  Brock was legit. She’d never really doubted him. The man was too much of a boor to be anything but a straight arrow. She grimaced. Upon her return, she would be subjected to one of her mother’s lectures about appropriate behavior. In the meantime, she could focus on her mission. If she succeeded in bringing the pacifist Xenians out of isolation and into the APO, her mother’s displeasure would be a small price to pay.

  She reread the message, noting her mother’s wording. Brock Mann has agreed to protect you. Agreed. Like he’d had a choice. Yet, one of the first things he’d said to her was that he wasn’t happy about this assignment. So why would he do it?

  “Did you get an answer?” Brock jerked his head at the PerComm.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Weren’t you corroborating my story?”

  The heat flooding her face told her it would do no good to lie. “I haven’t seen you in years. You obviously don’t like me, but here you are. You won’t answer my questions. Can you blame me for being suspicious?” She frowned. “And how did you know I was checking you out?” She’d accessed her PerComm in plain view, but half the people in the port were doing the same. She could have been monitoring the shuttle ETA, the weather on Xenia, or looking for a place to eat.

  “No, I don’t blame you. If something arouses your suspicions, investigating it is a smart move. You’re learning, Pia.”

  Flustered, she averted her gaze. They were boarding the tram to take them to the private charter terminal when she realized he hadn’t answered her question about how he’d known she’d checked him out.

  With a lurch, the tram took off. Penelope hooked an arm around a metal pole for balance, and Brock disconcerted her again by wrapping his arm around her waist. Her blood pressure spiked, but so did her sense of security, and she didn’t like it. She’d tolerate his presence to appease her mother, but she didn’t need him, not his protection, not his approval, not his hard body, not his masculine scent, not his little twist of a smile, and, damn sure, not his touch. She stiffened. “Don’t—”

  He brought his mouth to her ear. “Relax. We’re on a crowded tram. It’s important to send a message that if anyone is after you, they’re going to have to go through me first.”

  He was doing his job.

  She wasn’t the slightest bit disappointed.

  Chapter Four

  As they exited the tram, Brock took Pia’s hand. If his cover story—that he was her spouse—was to appear credible, she would have to tolerate his touch from time to time. For as long as this mission lasted, until he put her on a return to Terra, he intended to stick to her like Arcanian fingers to a tourist’s wallet.

  Despite security measures, shuttle ports, especially interplanetary ones, were dangerous places. Life-forms with a host of agendas congregated. The AOP couldn’t track everything, nor respond fast enough to what they did know about.

  He served as a prime example. People knew cyborgs were created by the merger of organic and mechanical parts, artificial and human intelligence, but not what they could do. Even Cyber Operations, who created them, wasn’t aware of everything. Brock hadn’t seen the need to inform Cy-Ops he’d upgraded his own programming.

  Like installing an app to decode encrypted systems.

  Hacking into Pia’s PerComm had been child’s play. He’d read her message while she typed it. Begrudgingly, he gave her points for not buying his story at face value. Maybe she was a little more security conscious than he’d thought. Maybe she had matured a little, but he couldn’t answer her questions without revealing classified information and endangering his fellow cyborgs.

  Like having his circuits fried, misleading Pia left a bitter taste in his mouth. It shouldn’t have mattered. Lying was second nature in covert operations. One did not share the whole truth with protectees nor the hiring organization. Secrecy allowed you to perform your job unshackled by rules and regulations. It offered a benefit to the client too: deniability. They didn’t want to know what went down or how the mission got accomplished. Cyberoperatives didn’t get paid to tell the truth; they got paid to save lives any way they could.

  If choking out the Arcanian had bothered Pia, she’d be shocked to discover the other things he’d done.

  She was too soft to handle the truth.

  Too soft in many ways. Her delicate hand with its fragile bones was swallowed up in his rough cyborg man paw. How long had it been since he’d touched a woman? He scanned his memory banks, and, with a jolt, realized it had been years. Hand-holding wasn’t one of the services offered on Darius 4, not that there would be any point to holding a sex droid’s hand anyway. He’d always been too focused on his career to invest the time in a real relationship, and, after the attack, his transformation, and recruitment to Cy-Ops, he’d become guarded, wary, secretive, behaviors deleterious to intimacy. All his “relationships” had been of the monetary variety, offering no risk to the Cy-Ops program or his emotions.

  “What are you doing?” Pia glared at him, and he realized he’d unconsciously squeezed her hand, brushed his thumb across the top.

  “Noth
ing.” He disengaged and flexed his fingers. “I think this is our gate.” He knew so because he’d checked it out beforehand. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling viewing windows, he could see their craft had docked. The larger and sleeker charter was better equipped and more comfortable than the commercial moon jumper Pia had arrived on. A space limo, basically.

  Walking side by side, they proceeded to the entry gate. Their ticket numbers were verified by an identity palm scan.

  The captain greeted them as they boarded. The blue tinge to his hairless body revealed he was Malodonian. “Welcome, Madam Ambassador.” He slapped his left shoulder in greeting. “I’m Captain Urgak. It’s a pleasure to have you on board, and to have you visit my planet. I understand you’ll be headed there after Xenia.”

  “That’s true,” Pia replied. “I’m looking forward to seeing Malodonus and to attending the Summit. May I introduce…my husband, Brock Mann.”

  Brock tapped his shoulder, and the captain did likewise. The Malodonian’s thick body strained his silvery uniform, and the collar fasteners had come undone, giving him a slightly unkempt look, a contrast to the neat, trim appearance of most ship personnel.

  “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the passenger lounge,” Captain Urgak offered.

  “I don’t want to distract you from your duties.” Pia glanced around. “I’m sure a steward could do it.”

  “The steward has been delayed, but it would be my honor to escort you.”

  Brock frowned. “Doesn’t the flight leave in an hour?” The doors needed to be shut and sealed and a prelaunch check conducted before much longer.

  “Yes, of course,” the captain said. “Don’t worry. We will launch on schedule. Now, if I may.” He extended his hand, indicating they should precede him down the center aisle. He pointed out the crew quarters. On the port side was the galley, and, next to it, a compact, but comfortable dining cabin.