Resisting Tamaki
Shelley Munro
Resistance is futile.
Cimmaron Zhaan refuses to follow the traditional path of a Dlog woman. Instead she dreams of traveling through space and flying spaceships for the Coalition. Years of hard work bring her goal within grasp, until her superior seeks sexual favors and leaves her stranded on the isolated planet of Marchant.
Enter sexy club manager Tamaki Grierson. Cimmaron’s not looking for a mate, but there’s no denying that sparks fly between them. Desperate to leave Marchant, all she wants is to keep her head down and work—no romance for her.
But there’s something strange about the club and curiosity leads Cimmaron into trouble. Before she knows it, she’s naked with Tamaki and his best friend. Kisses. Heated embraces and torrid sex. Their loving is breathtaking. Her resistance is at low ebb, her heart and mind battling her overwhelming attraction for Tamaki. If she isn’t careful, her Dlog hormones will tie her to him for life and her struggle to fly spaceships will be for naught.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Resisting Tamaki
ISBN 9781419930201
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Resisting Tamaki Copyright © 2010 Shelley Munro
Edited by Mary Moran
Cover art by Dar Albert
Electronic book publication October 2010
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Resisting Tamaki
Shelley Munro
Chapter One
The bastard had left!
Cimmaron Zhaan stared around the empty transport bay, shock kicking her in the gut. She strode a tight circle to survey her surrounds—just to make sure. Her footsteps resounded in the cavernous spaceport. A worker droid scooted in front of her, and she snarled under her breath, sidestepping to dodge it. Empty. The echo of her boots mocked her, underlining her stupidity in trusting anything the captain said. The phrullin’ male had taken off early, leaving her stranded with minimum possessions and even fewer credits to her name.
Stranded.
Anger burned through her and her hands fisted then squeezed as she imagined wringing the captain’s beefy neck. The weight of stares from the maintenance crew jerked her from pissed to controlled and inscrutable. Yeah, she’d known the arrogant bastard had expected her to act grateful when he’d suggested they while away the long voyage from Risches to Stavek by sharing a cabin. She’d turned him down flat, and he’d transferred his attentions to one of the lesser crew. But Campbell hadn’t forgotten her slight. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to make life difficult for her. Leaving her stranded on isolated Marchant was the latest in a long line of Campbell-created annoyances.
Cimmaron stalked past the maintenance men and their droid workers with her nose in the air. Inside she seethed. What the hell was she gonna do now? Campbell had told her to wear mufti while on leave, so she didn’t even have a uniform to prove she was a pilot. All her papers were on the Intrepid. She stormed down a long corridor to the communication center. One hour later, the telecommunications tech put her through to command on the Intrepid.
“Ah, Officer Zhaan.” Campbell sat at ease in the pilot’s chair, his tunic blindingly white while his dark eyes bore a trace of smugness.
Bastard. “Captain Campbell.” Cimmaron jammed the tip of her tongue behind her teeth instead of blurting the obscenities she wanted to level at him.
“You were late. We had our allocated time slot to depart.”
Cimmaron’s eyes narrowed, but she refused to react any further, giving him the leverage to land her in even deeper crap.
“This will go on your record, Officer Zhaan.”
Too late. It seemed the situation was already beyond mere apologies and groveling. “You told me we were leaving at second moonrise.”
“First moonrise,” he countered. “Officer Zhaan, I have noted on your record you are AWOL.”
“You lied. You told me second moonrise.”
The tinge of red on his prominent brow warned her she should’ve held her tongue. His pointy ears twitched—a sure sign of impending displeasure. “None of the other crew was late back from leave.”
Cimmaron’s nails dug into her thighs, and the heat of temper crawled across her cheekbones. Phrull, she was probably flashing gold with her emotions, sparkling like the backside of a glow bug—an unfortunate side effect of being a Dlog. “Are you going to come back for me?”
“Return for one female. I don’t think so. Officer Zhaan, I’d say you’re officially screwed.” A smirk formed on his lips, echoing in his sly eyes. “Over and out.”
The phrullin’ bastard. The need to scream swelled inside her. She wanted to punch and kick and exert bodily harm on the slimy male. He might have screwed her chances of flying with the Coalition again, but she’d exact her revenge. One day, when he was least expecting it. She exited the communications room with precise steps, her back stiff with pride. The five staff manning communications had heard everything. It was obvious by the silence that even now spilled out of the room after her, taunting and full of ridicule.
Desperate to outrun her fears, the panic threatening to overwhelm her, Cimmaron stormed from the spaceport and pushed into the crowd thronging the narrow alleys outside. Market day. Locals shopped and hustled. Visitors purchased supplies to fill dwindling reserves on their short stopovers between destinations. Traders and hawkers shouted at the tops of their voices, trying to attract customers and extract credits. No doubt thieves trolled the alleyways, looking for the green and unwary who carried purses full of gold for the taking. She had no idea where she was going or what to do. Blindly, she attempted to control her blooming panic, the knowledge that the captain’s petty revenge had left her vulnerable and in big trouble. Her record would reflect the transgression unless she could prove her innocence. She’d have to travel to Coalition headquarters on Bezant. Somehow. It wasn’t going to be easy with no currency to pay for her passage. The rumors of space pirates and abductions in this galaxy meant people were wary of giving strangers rides.
Deep in thought, she bumped into a short, blue female, almost knocking her to the ground.
“Sorry,” Cimmaron said.
“Hoy, watch it.” The female struggled to maintain her footing on the slick cobblestones.
Cimmaron grabbed the female’s upper arm, holding her upright when the crush of humanity behind threatened to push her over. “My apologies,” she said in a formal tone when the danger was past.
The female righted the white cowl covering her shiny, pale blue head and glanced at the splotches of mud decorating the hem of her ro
be. “I look like a low-caste.” A trace of alarm flickered over her face. “Phrull, I need this job.”
“Job?”
“They’re hiring at the club. I must go. They’ll close the doors when they have enough applicants.” The female darted through a gap in the crowd before Cimmaron could question her further.
The female’s words kept reverberating through her mind. A job. A job. A job. A rumbling sound punctuated her thoughts, and she bolted after the female, elbowing her way through the alley crowded with market goers as she tried to follow. No currency. She would starve, and she had to eat. A job was the solution—the only alternative she had if she wanted to leave this goddess-forsaken planet and exact revenge from that phrullin’ bastard Campbell.
In desperation, Cimmaron increased her pace, managing to keep the female in sight, despite the throng in the marketplace. The woman turned a corner, disappearing from sight. Cimmaron sprinted around the bend in the street. Where was she? Ah! She caught a flash of white as the female entered a nondescript stone building. With an extra burst of speed, Cimmaron raced toward the building, fear dogging her heels when she noticed the door closing. In desperation, she shoved at it, muscling her way inside even though the bulky Maxiom security guard attempted to slam the door in her face.
“Just a phrullin’ second. Let me in.” Cimmaron kicked his shins, gaining precious inches when he stepped out of range. “I want to come in.”
The door opened a fraction more, and the Maxiom sneered at her, his forehead caste mark glowing and underlining his contempt. Cimmaron stiffened, knowing what he saw—mud-speckled trews and a unisex tunic that hid every hint of feminine curves. If she’d worn her uniform, he would have treated her with respect, but his doubt was clear as his gaze traveled down her body and back up again. “You? Behind a bar.” His single brow rose halfway up his bald head to emphasize his skepticism.
Phrull, this job was bar work? Crummy bar work. Having her ass pinched and her breasts grabbed was not Cimmaron’s idea of a good time. But it was better than the alternative.
She inhaled, trying to drag life force into her lungs after her sprint through the marketplace. Her chest heaved under her brown tunic, each breath coming with a wheeze.
“Take a number,” the security guard said, his tone off-putting as if he thought she was wasting her time. Cimmaron scanned the room, her breath squeezing halfway up her throat in sudden consternation. Maybe she was wasting her time. For a start, the rest of the applicants were clean. Well-groomed. Cimmaron eyed the nearest one, trying to quell her tension. And they were little—compared to her at any rate. Feeling conspicuous, even more than she had earlier, she accepted a white card bearing a number from the security guard and slinked away to find a wall to lean against in the hope of appearing smaller. In her work as a pilot, she downplayed the natural good looks of the Dlog as much as possible. It made things easier on the job, although it hadn’t stopped Campbell from propositioning her and taking enough offense at her refusal to leave her stranded.
Cimmaron scowled, guessing the captain’s next move would be to pronounce her transgression officially. Everything she’d worked and striven for ripped from her grasp because one bloody male couldn’t keep his gonads under control. She had to get to headquarters first before the Intrepid finished its voyage and returned to base.
The rest of the females and the couple of males in the group took a collective breath and straightened. Cimmaron slouched lower against the wall, hoping she wouldn’t stick out like pustules on an underling’s face.
All for naught.
The man was tall. He prowled into the bar like a sleek tigoth beast from the planet Dalcon. His piercing blue eyes scanned the faces in the room, taking his time, before they came to rest on her. And lingered. A frisson of awareness shot through her body and gathered on her lips. They tingled insistently until she broke down and moistened them with her tongue. The expression in the male’s eyes intensified, making them darker, more compelling. Finally, his gaze moved on, leaving Cimmaron weak and panting. What the phrull had that been about? In confusion, she stared, trying to analyze the sheer need coursing through her body, tugging at places that hadn’t seen light for a long time, let alone reacted to a male in this way before.
He was tall, maybe a fraction taller than her. That was unusual in itself. Cimmaron towered above all of her shipmates and only felt at home on her planet of Risches. His hair was the color of deep space—black. But it didn’t hold the nothingness of the uncharted territories. It glowed under the lights, the black blue sheen making her want to touch to discover if it felt as soft as it appeared.
He turned to speak to the male at his side. Cimmaron hadn’t noticed him at first, but she saw he was much the same height. His look was more familiar, that of a local Marchant, which was why he hadn’t stood out as much. The deep rumble of the first male’s voice tugged at her. Cimmaron shook, wondering what the phrull was wrong with her. She was in the worst situation, stranded with no hope of rescue, yet suddenly all she could think about was the male. The need to touch was a siren song in her blood. Her fingers prickled, her lips still tingled and the rest of her body was…aware.
The male spoke. “I’ll see you in number order. Please form a line. Rico will show you into my office when your number is called.”
Cimmaron scowled down at her number. Last in, she had the final interview. Knowing her luck, the jobs would be gone by the time they called her number.
The line moved rapidly. They asked some of the applicants to go behind the bar and mix specific drinks. If she managed to get that far, she’d gain a job. Years of saving to purchase her way into the pilot program had made her more than competent behind a bar, not that this looked like a classy joint. The outside appeared uninspiring—a building she’d have walked past if she hadn’t been following the blue female. The inside didn’t look much better, although it was clean. She’d worked in better and in far worse. Bottles of alcohol from the far reaches of the galaxy lined the wall. The bar gleamed, but it had none of the ornate carving of some of the clubs and high-class joints. There was a dance floor. Tables. Maybe the place would look better at night when people and music filled the empty spaces. Two spiral staircases led to a mezzanine floor above. What was up there? She craned her neck in her attempt to see. It seemed as if a being standing up there would have a good view of the bar and dance floor. It was probably another bar or maybe private rooms for the rich or those who could afford to pay for privacy.
Time trickled past. Cimmaron fidgeted, trying to ignore the flitting looks she received from the other applicants. Her stomach contracted, and it wasn’t just hunger pains. Nerves danced inside her belly as she came closer to the front of the line. Desperation. Maybe. No, it wasn’t. She hadn’t felt really rattled until she’d seen the male conducting the interviews. The casual line shuffled forward.
“Next!” Cimmaron jerked to attention when the security guard nudged her in the middle of her back. “You. Move it. Don’t have all moon cycle for you to dawdle!”
Cimmaron turned to glare at the large male. She’d met his like before—lots of roar to scare everyone but not necessarily the guts to back it up when things became tough. Her gaze crawled across his broad face. She could take him with no problem, if she wanted. A soft chuckle had her whirling around, lightly balanced on her toes in a defensive stance.
“Come in and take a seat. I’ll be back in a couple of microts.”
He held the door open for her then disappeared, leaving her staring after him. His scent—fresh, crisp and green—reminded her of the wide-open savannah country and towering forests on her home planet of Risches. The alluring scent brought a shaft of homesickness. Despair. She’d never see home again unless she managed to get this job. Not that she liked to stay on Risches for too long, not with her stepfather harping on about a female’s proper place. Mating and procreation. Not if she had her way. She generally only stayed two or three moon cycles at most. Despite their differences regarding
the way a female should act, she did love her mother.
Cimmaron sank onto an upright alloy chair, desperately pushing aside the rising panic and anxiety tangling inside and writhing through her heart. Campbell had not only left her stranded—he’d left her vulnerable. Vulnerable was bad. Vulnerable was a stepfather who hated her and made no secret of the fact while he drove a wedge between her and her mother. A scowl distorted her lips at the thought. She shouldn’t have wanted to go home, but she hadn’t seen her mother for over twenty moon cycles. Before, she’d had the freedom and luxury of being able to return home when she wanted, on her terms. Now a dark cloud hovered above her head. AWOL. Phrull the captain for leaving her on this isolated planet.
A soft click behind made her spine hit the back of the chair.
“So you want to work here.” His voice sounded deep. Husky. It sent a shiver of pure longing pulsing through Cimmaron. Her stomach sucked in while blood pooled low with zing-like pleasure. What was wrong with her today? This male—he wasn’t her type. If she wanted a male, she’d look to her own race, not an otherlander. And wanting a male was about as likely as Campbell returning and telling her the stranding was all a bad joke. There was more to life than mating. And so much more than spending life as a slave to a mate.
“Yes, I’m good at my job.” True. She was a good pilot. Also a reasonable bartender.
He nodded, his expression not giving anything away. He glanced through the open door. “Sorry, I’ll be back in a few microts.”
Tamaki made an excuse to leave the office. He had to. It was a matter of gathering his wits before he did something stupid. Like grabbing the golden woman, forcing her sexy mouth open and shoving his tongue halfway down her throat. Hell, he wanted to do more than that. Confusion lay beneath the desperate need coursing through his body. In his job as manager of the club, he’d seen lots of beautiful women. He’d spent time with some of them on the upper level, fucking their brains out for mutual pleasure. He’d only dated, never felt the need to have any woman three times. Twice a date, thrice a mate. Now there was the kicker. He’d never wanted that before because no woman had tempted him. He ambled out to the bar, deep in thought.
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