Devin thumbed his Rada off and put it down on the table as his mind—tired, frustrated—strayed from the Baris–Agri deal. Was Jonathan’s choice to send the Triumph deliberate? It had been her ship—or, rather, Makaiden had been the first pilot, though on longer trips she’d share that command with her husband, Kiler. But, to Devin, it was always her ship. He couldn’t separate Makaiden from the Triumph, and when he’d first seen the ship’s distinctive slant-nosed outline through the spaceport terminal’s windows, all thoughts of Baris–Agri vanished. He couldn’t stop his heart from racing, his breath from catching, and his hopes—illogically, stupidly—from rising.
His hopes where Makaiden Griggs was concerned were not only illogical, they were impossible. And not just because she’d left Guthrie employ almost two years ago, after her husband was fired.
Her husband had been one of the reasons behind the impossibility of Devin’s hopes. Though a little thing like a husband wasn’t known to stop Devin’s brother Ethan from his conquests, adultery wasn’t something Devin would do. Even if Makaiden had been interested.
He told himself that repeatedly.
The larger reason was that Devin was a Guthrie, and Makaiden Griggs was not the kind of woman a Guthrie admitted to having feelings for. She was a working-class woman, a jump-rated pilot whose family was out of the wrong end of Calth sector, whose education wasn’t from a prestigious university like Montgomery or Valhaldan but at the hands of whatever freighter operator would take her on. She drank her ale straight from the bottle and probably couldn’t name one decent vintage wine. Or even a marginal one.
She and her husband, Kiler, flew Guthrie yachts for more than five years. Devin found himself—not in love, he would never admit that—irrevocably intrigued by her within the first three months of meeting her. He was twenty-eight at the time, and she was—according to personnel records he memorized—a year younger. But Makaiden Malloy Griggs had a presence beyond her years—a light that sparkled in her eyes and a brassiness that hinted at an inner strength. A confidence. A dedication. She loved being at a stellar helm and made no apologies for it.
And she wasn’t the least bit impressed by the Guthrie name. Around Makaiden, Devin felt like a real person. Not a Guthrie heir.
In that way, she reminded him of Philip’s ex-wife, Captain Chaz Bergren. But in all other ways, she was different. She was short where Chaz was taller, her hair a pale tousled crop where Chaz’s was a rich auburn that curled past her waist. And she laughed a lot more than he ever remembered Chaz laughing.
Even now, the memory of her infectious laughter made Devin Jonathan Guthrie feel things he didn’t want to—couldn’t afford to—feel.
But then, for Makaiden Griggs, life was good. She loved her husband, even leaving her career with GGS for him. And for all that Devin as a Guthrie could offer, he was sure she would have wanted none of it. She didn’t need him.
Not that he ever tried to be anything other than a friend, a colleague—her employer’s youngest son.
It was that friendship that drew his father’s notice. And because J.M. suspected, Jonathan suspected. Which again made Devin wonder—as Aldan’s stars flickered in the blackness outside his viewport—if that’s why the Triumph was sent. A final, irrevocable reminder that his life would proceed according to the greater Guthrie plan.
“Dinner, Mr. Devin?”
He pushed himself out of the soft chair by the viewport and followed Nel’s beckoning hand to the small dining table on the opposite side of the salon. He and Makaiden had played cards here many times as he was shuttled between GGS offices in Aldan and Baris sectors. There wasn’t a lot for a pilot to do in jumpspace, and Devin always made sure he had a deck or three tucked into his briefcase. She’d taught him to play Zentauri, and, even though he was a natural card-counter and could memorize five decks, she beat him now and then, her thought processes craftier and more creative than his.
Stop doing the expected. Surprise me! she’d challenged.
He’d wanted to. God and stars, how he’d wanted to. But—
Don’t think about that now.
The sliced roast smelled good. The cream linen tablecloth and napkin were smooth to the touch. Nel poured a ruby-red wine into an etched crystal glass, then waited for him to taste the roast, in case adjustments needed to be made. Cooked a little more or some spices added.
He knew the routine. He was a Guthrie. “It’s all lovely, Nel. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Devin.”
He cut another piece of the fragrant roast. The last meal of a condemned man. Devin Jonathan Guthrie, thirty-five years old and sentenced to marriage, without parole.
“Seven more days. That’s all I can give you, Captain Griggs.” The thin-faced man in the cheap, shiny brown three-piece suit grabbed the railing of the Void Rider’s rampway and stared up at her with narrowed eyes. “You either pay what you owe or we’ll settle it the hard way.”
Kaidee Griggs leaned on that same railing and stared down at Horatio Frinks with equally narrowed eyes, ignoring the tall, wide-shouldered Takan bodyguard hulking threateningly behind. “What about the two thousand I gave you last week?”
“That leaves thirteen—”
“Which you will get, Frinks, when I get paid. You know that. We discussed that. It’s not my fault the Empire’s dumped more slagging restrictions on cross-border trade. I’m not the only free-trader caught up in this.”
“But this ain’t no trader debt, and it’s over a year old now. I don’t like it. Orvis don’t like it.”
The Taka nodded slowly. He wasn’t Orvis but, like Frinks, was hired muscle.
“And I don’t like it, but damn it, I can’t pay you if I can’t haul goods. You have an issue? Go to slagging Aldan Prime and talk to His High-Whatever Tage. I would have paid that debt off four months ago if it wasn’t for him.” Well, maybe not paid off, but she’d be a lot less in debt if restrictions, fines, taxes, and penalties hadn’t been slathered on to free-trader operations by His High Asshole Darius Tage. For the betterment of the Empire. Of course. And at the command of Emperor Prewitt III. Of course.
It was always the emperor who commanded these things. Tage was just his obedient servant.
In a crigblarg’s eyes.
Sheldon Blaine’s claim to the throne was starting to sound more and more attractive—the terrorist tactics of his Farosian Justice Wardens notwithstanding. At least Blaine—who even from prison still claimed to be the real heir to the royal Prewitt line—would want traders going to and from Tos Faros and other points in Dafir sector.
Now it was damned near an impossible task to get across the B–C border into Calth. And even traffic in the commercial space lanes in Baris was subject to “unannounced inspections.” As if she had Philip Guthrie tucked in her cargo hold?
She knew Philip Guthrie—though she doubted many on Dock Five would believe her if she said so. And if she did have the man on her ship, she’d not waste his talents by stuffing him in a cargo hold. He’d flown right seat with her and Kiler a few times. The man was impressive. She could almost forgive him for being a Guthrie.
Frinks made a disgusted noise and turned away. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She shoved herself back from the railing and headed for the Rider’s airlock, fear warring with frustration. Seven days. She couldn’t get to Calth and back in seven days even if the Empire didn’t have a destroyer sitting out there with Dock Five in its sights, inspecting and impeding traffic.
The best she could do in seven days was to get off Dock Five the minute the restrictions were lifted and never return. Let Orvis hunt her down. That could buy her a month, maybe three.
But it would also put her in a serious financial bind. One of the few intelligent things Kiler had ever done was to prepay the Rider’s docking-bay fees on a two-year contract and sign the ship on as part of the CalRis Free-Trader Collective. The CFTC, its contacts, and its contracts—for all the annoying rules and restrictions—were the only thin
gs keeping her and her ship alive. Leaving Dock Five meant leaving all that behind and starting from scratch again.
Just like they did when they left Guthrie Global.
Another thing to thank Kiler for.
That and a twenty-five-thousand-credit gambling debt—with the Rider as collateral.
She’d always worried that it would be her heritage, her family history, that would derail her life. How damnably odd that the handsome, respectable—well, respectable back then—pilot she had married turned out to be the source of all her troubles.
And that the very family history she was so afraid of was the main reason he was interested in her. So much for true love or forever after.
She closed the airlock behind her and leaned on the bulkhead’s hard edge, her back against the wall in more ways than the obvious.
Thank you, Kiler Griggs. What in hell am I going to do now?
It was almost dawn in Port Palmero when Devin’s limo glided silently over the long, tree-lined drive leading to his parents’ estate. Lights in the main house—an imposing four-story brick-and-streamstone mansion—glowed golden, as they would when a guest was expected; lights in the family and guest wings were more muted. Lights in the servants’ quarters were bright, as always. One never knew when a Guthrie might want something.
No, to be fair, his parents were exceedingly good employers, but one never knew when a Guthrie Global Systems executive might arrive from the far reaches of the Empire, body clock and local clock out of sync.
Devin’s body clock was definitely out of sync. He was no night crawler, and his wristwatch and body clock told him he’d been traveling for eighteen hours. The local time was a quarter after five.
Another forty-five minutes and he could join his father for coffee in the informal dining salon adjacent to the patio that overlooked the eastern gardens. J.M. had his coffee promptly at six every morning. An hour later, his wife, Valerie, would bring her bowl of seasonal fruits and light cream to the table, and they would start another day with soft, companionable conversation.
J.M. never raised his voice before breakfast.
Devin wondered if today was the day the old man would break that rule.
“Welcome home, Mr. Devin.” Barthol, the house’s chief steward, met Devin on the southern patio, where the limo driver—knowing Devin’s preference for unobtrusiveness—had pulled the vehicle up the rear garden drive. Devin made no move toward the suitcase the driver deposited on the brick walkway. Barthol, unlike J.M., would argue before breakfast.
A Guthrie did not lift luggage.
Neither, actually, did the balding, pale-skinned Barthol. At least, not any farther than the few inches from the walkway to the antigrav pallet humming by his black-clad legs.
“Thanks, Barthol. How’s your wrist?” He fell into step with the man who’d been the Guthrie steward since Devin was a child.
“All healed. Thank you kindly for asking.”
“No more basketball with Trippy and Max, I take it?”
Barthol’s wide mouth stretched into a grin. “Your nephews keep me young, just as you and your brothers did. But my jump shot isn’t what it used to be.”
Barthol was somewhere between seventy and eighty—at least, that was the best Devin and Philip had been able to deduce. He never talked about his age, and to see his rangy form lunging around the estate’s basketball court, it would be easy to shave ten or fifteen years off that total.
Or more. Barthol had seemed old to Devin when Devin was in grade school, as Max was now. He must seem ancient to twelve-year-old Max and his nineteen-year-old brother, Trippy.
Shame Trippy wasn’t here. Of all his nieces and nephews—and there were currently seven—Jonathan Macy Guthrie III was his favorite. “Triple trouble,” Valerie Lang Guthrie had intoned when her first grandchild was born. So Trip, or Trippy, he became.
Devin had been sixteen when Trip was born. He was almost as close in age to Trip as he was to Trip’s father, Jonathan.
The patio’s glass-paneled doors, sensing human presences with accepted biopatterns, slid open silently.
“Do you wish to retire to your suite for a few hours?” Barthol asked as they headed for the rear elevators. “Your father should be at the east patio shortly.”
“I caught a couple hours’ sleep on the ship.” If lying on the soft bed and staring at the cabin’s ceiling could be called sleep—and it wasn’t just Baris–Agri keeping him awake. “I’ll freshen up, then join him. Do you know if Jonathan’s coming over this morning?”
Barthol glanced at the silver wristwatch edging out from beneath his white cuff. “He alerted security to his and Miz Marguerite’s arrival in fifteen minutes.”
So it would be J.M. and Jonathan over coffee. Devin loved his family, but not when they double-teamed him. Devin stepped into the carpeted elevator, Barthol on his left and his luggage in front. His suite was third floor, south.
“We’ve been informed that Miss Tavia will be in around nine this evening,” Barthol told him as they exited into the hallway. “Your father requested the Blue Lily Suite for her.”
Right down the hall from his. How convenient.
Devin touched the palm pad at his door, which read his biopattern and opened immediately. The browns, gray-blues, and greens of his living room were familiar—his mother often threatened to redecorate to something brighter, more cheery, but somehow he was still winning that battle.
“I know it’s a bit early, but the staff and I would like to offer our congratulations, Mr. Devin,” Barthol said, as Devin tossed his jacket over the back of the dark-green three-cushioned couch.
Not condolences? Devin never had the feeling Barthol truly approved of Tavia Emberson. He wasn’t even sure he did—other than that Tavia was one damned good handball player and didn’t try too hard to reform his unsociable tendencies. And wasn’t averse to a long engagement; neither was in a hurry to wed. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”
“Shall I unpack for you, sir?”
“I don’t have much.” He’d packed only what he needed for the flight. Anything else he could find in his closets, which held a smattering of things he’d left behind from recent visits but more so from his university and postgraduate days—the last time the Guthries’ Port Palmero estate had been his home. Fashion—much to Tavia Delaris Emberson’s dismay—never concerned him.
Barthol retreated, AG pallet in tow, the door closing behind him. Devin left his suitcase where the pallet had deposited it and trudged through his bedroom—his bed still sported the comfortably worn gray-and-blue quilt—then through his dressing room and into his bathroom. Lights came on around him as the rooms monitored his presence. He leaned over the expansive pale-green marble double sink and examined his reflection in the mirrored wall, then took off his glasses and rinsed them under the faucet. There were shadows under his eyes—which were a murky blue, not bright blue like his mother’s and Philip’s—but the shadows were to be expected from one who’d been traveling all night and part of the next day. He put his glasses on the marble countertop, then rubbed one hand over his chin. He should shave. He should probably even shower, because then, at least for a few hours, his short-cropped hair wouldn’t stick up quite so haphazardly in spikes. But a warm shower would relax him too much, make him sleepy.
He needed to be awake to face J.M. and Jonathan.
He settled for shaving and changing from his cream-colored business shirt to a round-necked, somewhat misshapen soft sweater almost the same brown as his hair. It was his favorite sweater, and he’d annoyed himself by accidentally leaving it behind a few months ago.
The fact that Makaiden Griggs, working double duty as his bodyguard, had helped him pick it out at a spaceport mall on Aldan Prime three years ago had nothing to do with it. It was a comfortable sweater. He liked it. He’d bought it.
Makaiden was the one who told him the sweater matched his hair.
He always thought it matched her eyes.
He shut the closet
door with more force than was necessary, the hard crack of wood against wood spearing the silence of his suite.
Anger vibrated through his body, surprising him with its appearance and intensity. It had to be because he was overtired; the Baris–Agri and Galenth projects weren’t his only duties. There were also several ventures tied to the recent restructuring of the Empire that had kept him working late hours the past few weeks, and now this last-minute summons and the all-night travel … He was tired, that’s all. Not angry. Devin Jonathan Guthrie never permitted himself to get angry. It was a useless emotion that interfered with rational, analytical thought. It let others know they could get to you, manipulate you, hurt you.
Anger was a waste of time.
Moreover, he had nothing to be angry about.
Not even being told you’re getting married?
He’d been in a relationship with Tavia for almost a year now. It had started on the handball court, had progressed to occasional dates at the symphony or dinner with other GGS executives, and had eventually ended up in bed. She was an Emberson—not old money like the Guthries, Petroskis, Tages, or Sullivans, but respected money, especially on Garno.
Tavia Emberson was, as his sister-in-law Marguerite would say, “a good match.” Devin was, after all, the youngest Guthrie son. Marguerite, a Petroski, had landed the eldest Guthrie, a marriage the society vids deemed “an excellent match.”
So yours is only good. That doesn’t make you angry?
No, that made him a realist. But even a realist had rights. Yes, he would agree to a public announcement of his engagement to Tavia. He was Devin, not Philip. He wouldn’t rebel outright. But if and when he married would be on his terms, on his schedule.
Not, as Jonathan had informed him through the deskscreen of his Garno office, before their mother’s next birthday several months from now.
J.M. and Valerie Guthrie wanted Devin settled and a grandchild on the way before Valerie turned seventy-seven.
Devin would give them engaged. The rest he was withdrawing from negotiation.
Rebels and Lovers Page 2
