Amorous Overnight

by Robin L. Rotham

  The field dissolved at the White House flare point in the cavernous Entrance Hall. Immediately, Secret Service agents swarmed across the pink and white marble floor tiles.

  “Good morning, Minister,” the senior agent drawled.

  Cecine tipped his head. “Wilson.”

  “You know the drill, sir.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  Raising his arms out to the sides for their electronic weapons scan—which was a ridiculous formality since he could disable every Terran in the building with a single thought—Cecine stifled a sigh. Keeping Shelley in ignorance grew more challenging with each passing day. If she didn’t change her mind about accompanying them soon, he’d be forced to inform her of their mating before she was ready to hear it.

  Peserin knew, he’d done his best to lure her to Garathan rather than force her. To put her at ease with them, he’d taken his meals with her and Hastion whenever possible, and “invited” Kellen and Shauss and their mates to dine at his table as well. Hosting two or three meals a day had turned out to be surprisingly relaxing, and Cecine actually looked forward to listening to the females chatter.

  He’d also made a tour of duty on Garathan the most attractive option available to Shelley by shortening the mandatory length of service, increasing the salary and bonuses, and including childcare in the compensation package—all of which was necessary anyway since more than half the nursing staff they’d hired had backed out of their contracts after a few weeks of being trapped aboard the Heptoral. And when the Alliance representatives deliberated over her contract violations, he and the other high council members had said little, allowing them to order repayment of her bonuses and wages based on what she’d confessed during her interrogation. The debt, though meaningless to him, would make remaining on Earth more difficult for Shelley.

  Meanwhile, he’d done everything he could to impede the Alien Affairs agents’ efforts to place her on Earth. Fortunately the Terran media had done most of that job for him. Within hours of being informed of the Narthani presence on Earth, news crews had descended like a wake of buzzards upon the only connection to the Narthani spies anyone had been able to track down—Shelley’s family. Press vehicles had clogged the street outside their Colorado Springs home for several weeks, and reporters were continuously shoving microphones at them, shouting questions and taking enough photographs to accompany several years’ worth of such sensational headlines as “Alien Outlaws, Terran In-laws!” and “My Grandbabies Are Aliens!”

  On the day her parents and younger brother were escorted out of their home for questioning by federal agents, a pair of enterprising reporters had broken in and made copies of every photograph and video they could find. The video of her short wedding to Mark Bonham, which they’d titled “Narthani Nurse’s Nuptials”, went viral overnight, and thus Shelley, much to her chagrin, had become infamous as the Narthani Nurse.

  Although that made relocating her more difficult, Alien Affairs agents had still managed to arrange three advantageous placements using falsified identification. She’d worn a short, dark wig for the photographs, and with the additional body fat she carried, even her own mother hadn’t been able to pick her out of a photo array. Cecine’s contacts on the surface had had to scramble to ensure she was recognized before the placements could be finalized.

  And yet, despite all his efforts to finesse her, the exasperating little nurse remained adamant about returning to Earth.

  “Minister…” Agent Wilson finally beckoned, “…this way, please.”

  Cecine glanced around to verify all his party were free to accompany him, and as usual, Ensign Hastion met his gaze with the same impassive stare the Secret Service agents had perfected. It was a look he’d come to know all too well in the last four months, and one he was rapidly tiring of.

  Deliberately setting aside his frustrations with his mates, he turned and followed the agent onto the red carpet adorning Cross Hall and then left to the Green Room, where a long conference table had been set up specifically for their use. He hadn’t prevaricated when he told Shelley he didn’t know when he’d return from the surface. He had several appointments scheduled one atop another, not the least of which was the GaraTer Alliance Summit convening in just moments, a crucial step toward reviving the interspecies mating program.

  The greater portion of the morning was spent debating which country should host the new mate-recruitment compound. Although the council still favored the US for logistical reasons, they wouldn’t forget how quickly the Americans had turned on them, and the Scandinavian delegation had advanced a formidable argument for locating in one of their countries. If Cecine hadn’t already had more than his fill of frigid weather, he might have been tempted to accept their offer.

  At noon they broke for luncheon and removed to the larger Blue Room, which he found much more restful. Not only was the color scheme pleasing to the eye, but it was a soothing oval shape and significantly less cluttered with paintings and tiny, fragile furniture. In fact, it was the only Terran room he’d ever felt remotely comfortable in. He’d have to remember to request it for future meetings.

  “My staff has put together several sites for your consideration, Minister Cecine,” Ambassador Delvey informed him as leafy green salads were served. Unlike the more reticent President Landon, she was openly anxious to remove any barriers to their return.

  Picking up a yeast roll from the small basket before him, he asked, “Is one of them Rayfield Memorial Hospital?”

  She digested that in silence for a moment. “In Falls Church?”

  “Is there another?” He spread butter on the roll without looking at her.

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “But that’s right in the heart of a populated area.”

  “Yes, and quite close to the seat of your national government.” He glanced at President Landon, who was embroiled in conversation with the Norwegian ambassador. With the Garathani in their backyard, Landon and his successors would think twice before ordering another unprovoked air strike against them. “There’s also a home on an adjacent estate that would make us an ideal embassy.”

  The ambassador frowned. “As I recall, that hospital is in poor condition.”

  “Any existing facility would have to be remodeled to suit our needs. The Rayfield building has ten-foot ceilings in all diagnostic, administrative and hospitality areas and the adjacent property has fifteen-foot ceilings and eight-foot doors on the above-ground levels. Both could accommodate us with very little in the way of structural modifications.”

  She gave a curt nod. “I’ll see that it’s added to the list.”

  Cecine didn’t bother telling her Rayfield was the only site they’d consider. She would find out soon enough that his Terran representatives had already purchased both properties and renovations were well underway.

  Hastion, who’d been standing guard behind him, leaned down to murmur, “Pardon me, sir, but Mikal reports that Director Thorpe is in the corridor. He claims to have urgent business with you.”

  Suppressing a shudder at the ensign’s warm breath against his ear, he said, “Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pushing back his chair, he rose and shook out his robe. “Ambassador Delvey, please excuse me for a few moments.”

  “Of course,” she assured him with a hard smile.

  He bowed and then walked out into Cross Hall, with Hastion barely a pace behind him. Roland Thorpe, director of the Alien Affairs Department, rose from a spindly red couch Cecine wouldn’t have dared sit on.

  “Sorry to interrupt your meal, Minister,” Thorpe said, holding out an electronic tablet, “but we’ve finally worked out a placement for Shelley Bonham.”

  Cecine took it, noting that once again the director had managed not to shake his hand. “That’s very good news indeed.”

  “It’s in rural Alaska and the rental house is a bit run-down, but beggars can’t be choosers. She’s too easily recognized in all the places sh
e requested and every time we get a placement set up in one of them, someone recognizes her before we can even get her moved in. It’s been damn frustrating, if you want the truth,” he finished, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and polishing them with a handkerchief.

  “I can see where that would be trying,” Cecine agreed mildly, looking over the details of the placement. Mooseback, Alaska, population 924. The tiny house in the photograph looked as if it had been abandoned decades earlier. Shelley would count herself fortunate to be mated to them if she was likely to wind up in such a ramshackle dwelling.

  “The salary isn’t much,” Thorpe continued, “but we’ll work on a better placement once the coverage of the Narthani spies dies down.”

  Cecine handed the tablet back to him. “Excellent work, Director Thorpe. I’m sure Ms. Bonham will be thrilled to return to Earth. Why don’t you flare up to the ship now and give her the happy news.”

  For once, Hastion’s impassive face gave way to surprise as his brows winged up.

  “Never fear, Ensign, there’s no way she’ll agree to this placement.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  His dubious look made Cecine’s jaw tighten. The irritation he felt was no doubt out of proportion to the offense, but it had been two weeks since he demanded sexual service and his mood was less than forgiving.

  “You want me to go up to the ship?” Thorpe said, his dismay evident as he returned his glasses to the bridge of his nose and his handkerchief to his pocket.

  “Certainly,” Cecine said curtly. “You’re here, after all, and my schedule today doesn’t allow me to go.”

  The director glanced at his watch. “I don’t—”

  “Ensign Mikal will accompany you to the flare point,” Cecine nodded toward the warrior standing guard outside the Blue Room, “and I’ll have Ms. Bonham waiting. You can be there and back in less than ten minutes.”

  Mikal stepped up beside them, and after hesitating, Thorpe nodded, beads of nervous perspiration appearing on his narrow bald forehead. “All right, Minister. We may as well get her squared away before something else goes wrong.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “I just need to check in with my office first.”

  Cecine tipped his head. “By all means.”

  Without looking at Mikal, the director pulled out his cell phone and walked slowly toward the flare point.

  “Ensign Holligan,” Cecine sent.

  “Holligan here, sir.”

  “Director Thorpe of the Alien Affairs Department will be flaring up within the next few minutes. Arrange for him to meet with Shelley Bonham in Tactical One as soon as he arrives.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  When Mikal and Thorpe reached the flare point, Cecine turned back to his second, who once again regarded him with an aloof expression. He didn’t know whom he was more annoyed with, Hastion for remaining so distant or himself for being so annoyed by it. It felt as though he’d fallen prey to a manipulation—a tease—which was probably unfair. Strictly speaking, Hastion had upheld his end of their bargain by providing sexual service whenever it was required.

  But what in the name of all the Powers had happened to the provocative young male he’d seen in the probe demonstration? If all he required were mechanical fucking, the probe would have sufficed. He required more, and after four months of being denied it, he was once again nearing the point of having to vent his spleen in the sparring arena.

  Cecine very nearly thumped himself on the forehead in a distinctly Terran gesture. Peserin’s hell, of course—the sparring arena. It was the one place he could put his hands all over the ensign with impunity. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? He couldn’t humiliate his own second in a public challenge, and didn’t care to, but there was nothing forbidding a bout of friendly sparring between bondmates.

  Knowing he’d be unable to return to the ship until late in the evening, he asked, “When is your rotation tomorrow?”

  The ensign’s expression didn’t change. “I have first shift at the Command Core.”

  “Good. Meet me in the sparring center directly afterward.”

  That did it—Hastion went wide-eyed. “The sparring center, sir?”

  “The sparring center, Ensign,” he replied with the faintest of smiles. “I believe it’s time we tested our skills.”

  Composure slid over the ensign’s features. “Yes, sir.”

  Grimly satisfied with whatever havoc he might have wreaked on his second’s concentration, Cecine returned to the table to enjoy his luncheon. With anticipation now humming pleasantly under his skin, he had more than enough patience for the afternoon’s negotiations.

  “There’s got to be something wrong with me,” Shelley said, staring in worried fascination at the sterilizing block Monica was preparing to plunge her hands into. It would be a long time before she stopped dreaming about the horror of Dr. Ketrok’s shredded hands when Monica and Tiber managed to yank them free. It would be even longer before she could forget it was her own husband who’d infected the block with a biologically engineered flesh-eating virus.

  She noticed Monica hesitated for just a second, too, before shoving her hands into the spongy aqua block. The infirmaries were still stocked to the gills with hand sanitizer and all the human nurses still used it, but, as always, Monica the Intrepid refused to be ruled by fear.

  “You’ve got to cut yourself some slack,” Monica said. “It’s only four months since you gave birth to twins via C-section.”

  “Monica, I exercise ’til I drop and I’ve cut my calorie intake to the point where I’m starving all the time, and yet look at me.” Shelley gestured down her body. “I’m the Michelin Man in drag.”

  Monica snorted with laughter. “You are not. Although that’s funny as hell.”

  “Try looking at all these rolls of fat in the mirror every day.”

  “Oh stop.”

  “It’s true. And sometimes I get so pissed off—I mean, just out of the blue, I want to go total Bitchzilla on the nearest innocent bystander.”

  “What’s new about that?”

  “Ha-ha,” Shelley said sourly. “And I’m getting zits! My God, do you know how many years it’s been since I had a zit?”

  Monica tipped Shelley’s face up to the light and had a look. “I see worse in my own mirror every morning. And you know your hormones won’t start getting back to normal until you stop breast-feeding.”

  “Oh, I forgot—you’ve been so busy lately I never got a chance to tell you that the twin-powers united to boycott the boob last week.” Shelley grimaced. “For the record, I don’t recommend the insta-wean method.”

  “I’ll make a note of that,” Monica told her with a grin. “Still, it’ll take time for your hormone levels to return to normal.”

  “I know.” Shelley sighed. “I just don’t understand why this is happening. I didn’t get this psycho or gain this much weight while I was pregnant.”

  “You’re under a lot of stress, Shel, but otherwise you’re incredibly healthy. In fact, Tysan says you’re more physically fit than ninety-five percent of the recruits.”

  “And how would he know that?”

  Rolling her eyes, Monica said, “Quit being so damn paranoid. He was your surgeon. Of course he’s going to monitor your fitness level. He’s probably watching to make sure you don’t kill yourself on one of those cardio platforms from hell.”

  “Hey, those things are great. I wish I could take one home with me.” The platforms generated exercise flare fields that made it look, and to a certain extent feel, like she was running along whatever scenic route she programmed in. Usually she used the beach and high-altitude programs that really worked her legs and lungs, but once in a while she liked to do something totally off the wall, like bounce across the surface of the moon or water-walk through some cartoon location like Bikini Bottom and wave at SpongeBob and Patrick. Once she’d even trekked across the surface of a Milky Way bar magnified thousands of times, wishing every step
of the way that she could throw herself down face-first and eat the whole damn thing. Talk about death by chocolate…

  Monica gave her another eye-roll. “Of course you do. What you really need to do is relax. Why don’t you go beat the stuffing out of one of the sparring dummies in the training center then have a glass of wine and get a massage from one of the trainers?”

  Shelley gave her the stink eye in return. “I’d rather beat the stuffing out of one of the trainers and get a massage from the sparring dummy.”

  “Whatever turns you on,” Monica said with a shrug. “You realize the Garathani aren’t the bad guys here, though, right? That they’re—that we’re doing everything we can to help you and everyone else the Narthani fucked over.”

  “I know. Sorry,” Shelley added. “Slamming the Garathani is a hard habit to break, but I know I need to. They’ve been nothing but kind, especially your father and Hastion.”

  In point of fact, they’d treated her like one of the family. Right after the twins were born, the minister had moved her to a three-bedroom suite on the Command Deck, converted the dining room to a nursery and given her two nannies so she could get some sleep on a regular basis. Then he’d insisted she and the nannies take meals in his dining room with Monica and Jasmine and their mates, as well as him and Hastion.

  Shelley was a little uncomfortable with it at first, but he’d programmed the door between the corridor and the dining room to open upon their approach, so really it was almost like going to a cafeteria. Certainly it was a lot less lonely and depressing than eating in her room all the time, as she had with Mark.

  “So why not come to Garathan with us?” Monica asked.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Come on, Shelley. Just think, you’d get to experience a whole new world—a blue sun, two moons in the same night sky…”

  “Forget it. I’m happy with the old world.”

  “It’s always warm on Garathan. Like Hawaii,” she added, “only planet-sized, and without all the lava and tidal waves.”