Hope's Folly

by Linnea Sinclair

  She turned a watery gaze to him, blinking, then she angled her face, her lips seeking his, her kiss searing, demanding. Her fingers squeezed his as if she held on to him for dear life.

  A tremor rippled through his body. He answered her kiss with one equally demanding. Wanting her was his only focus. Loving her was his only goal.

  He slipped one hand from hers and fumbled for the zipper on her shirt, ready to tear the damned thing, but he found it and yanked it down. She was pulling her shirt off as quickly as he was, breaking their kiss only to toss her shirt and then her thin lace undershirt somewhere across the room.

  She pulled him down on top of her, their mouths fusing as her hands explored his body with an expert insistence. He rolled onto his side, bringing her with him, then, in the small space between their bodies, found her breast, letting its soft weight fill his hand before tracing a hard nipple with his thumb.

  Her breath hitched in his mouth. He deepened his kiss, his heart pounding, his body throbbing. She clung to him. His hand skimmed down her waist, over the swell of her hip. He tugged on her pants.

  “Off,” he rasped against her lips.

  Her answer was a breathless “Yes, sir,” and a rapid unfastening of pants, then bootstraps. She sat up to pull them off. He moved behind her, filling both hands with her breasts. He nipped the back of her neck, gently. Her boots hit the decking with a thud, then she was arching against him because his fingers slid through the moist heat between her legs, teasing her, making himself crazy with need.

  He pushed her back down on the bed, his mouth finishing what his fingers had started, until she was panting, gasping, and he was at the edge of his control. This was no slow seduction. There were no more lifetimes. This was everything. This was now.

  He moved up her body, tasting every inch of her. He had to see her face. He claimed her mouth again. Her hands clasped his shoulders as he thrust his fingers in her hair, not letting her break the kiss.

  She locked her legs around his hips. He rolled over. He wanted her straddling him, heat against heat. She rocked against him, stroking.

  He needed to be in her. Now.

  “Wait,” she whispered.

  Wait?

  A soft laugh, more than a little wicked, then a coolness where her body’s warmth had been. She nipped his abdomen. A wet tongue circled his navel, then her mouth took him all in, her tongue licking, teasing, her fingers knowing just where to caress …

  Head thrown back, Philip knotted the bedsheets into his hands, his mind praying for control, his body damned near delirious with pleasure.

  “Rya,” he pleaded finally, reaching blindly for her because control was seconds from losing the battle.

  She slid up his body, and this time, when she straddled him, he thrust into her, claiming her, branding her. Her breath stuttered, her fingers tightened on his shoulders. All coherent thought fled, replaced by passion and desire, wanting and needing. And the knowing, as the heat of pleasure roared through him, that this was the only lifetime that mattered.

  She collapsed against him, her heart pounding as hard as his, her skin slick beneath his fingers. He nuzzled her face until his lips found hers. He kissed her with a passion he knew would never be spent, a passion that went beyond words.

  He had words. He just didn’t know what she’d do if he said them. She hadn’t been overly thrilled to be his wife.

  And there was her boyfriend the barrister.

  So he kissed her because that was something she accepted, interpreted in her own way. It let him say what he wanted. It kept her in his arms, where, at least until tomorrow, she was safe.

  And she was his.

  The sound of a holster’s thumb snap snicking into place woke her. Her eyes flew open, body tensing as she took rapid inventory in the dim light filtering in from the lav: bed, cat, Philip.

  Philip. Fully dressed, fully armed, including her Norlack across his back.

  She sat up quickly, sheet falling to her waist. “Lights, half. Just where do you think you’re going?”

  He turned away from the closet, silently. He could move like she could. Obviously, because he’d managed to slip out of bed and get dressed without her knowing.

  Except for the click of a holster. That sound always drew her. Like a sea predator to blood in the water.

  He gave her a knowing half smile. “I need to check on a few things before the action starts.”

  She knew what those few things were: an escape pod. And the ones on Deck 5 that were the only ones— because of tech incompatibilities—not yet integrated into the bridge systems. Launching a pod from there set off no alarms on the bridge. “No, you don’t.”

  “Rya—”

  “I didn’t risk life, limb, career, and sanity to have you stuff yourself in an escape pod when we clear the gate. I will chase you down and trank you right on the bridge, in front of Welford and everybody, if I have to.”

  “You’re so beautiful when you’re angry. I know it’s a cheap and overused phrase. But in your case, it’s true. You really are beautiful when you’re angry.” The half smile widened. He stepped to her side of the bed. “And naked.”

  “You leave this cabin, it will take me two minutes, less, to get dressed and come after you.”

  He leaned over and kissed her, hard, making her pulse jump and her heart flutter. “You have to find your clothes first,” he whispered against her lips.

  Then, with a low chuckle, he grabbed his cane from where it rested against the bedside table and headed for the door.

  Find her clothes? “Lights, full!” She kicked off the sheet, pushing herself out of bed. Captain Folly jumped out of her way and bolted from the room. She looked left, right, everywhere. There was nothing on the decking. Nothing. “Damn you, Philip Guthrie, get back here!” She ripped the sheet off the bed. She yanked open the bedside-table drawers. Nothing. Empty.

  “Philip!” She pulled on his closet doors. Locked. Damn him!

  She strode into his main room, hands fisted. Folly-cat sat on the galley counter, lapping a bowl of cream. Philip was gone.

  Biting back a scream of rage, she lunged for the bedroom. Not only were her clothes gone, so were her weapons. She pounded on a closet door with the flat of her hand. Goddamned slagging son of a bitch!

  He’d outsmarted her.

  She’d find him, oh, she would. But those first precious minutes would be lost. He was doing something to one of the Deck 5 escape pods, and she had no way of knowing what or which one. It would take her a lot longer than two minutes to get dressed.

  She glanced at the bedside clock. 0450. Sachi Holton was going to kill her—once she stopped asking what Rya was doing, naked, in the admiral’s quarters. She trudged back to Philip’s galley and hit intraship, tapping in the code for Sachi’s cabin. “Sach? It’s Rya. Look, I’m sorry to wake you, but I have a bit of a problem ….”

  Sheet wrapped around her, Rya unlocked Philip’s door for Sachi Holton. Sachi’s braids were embellished with purple clips today. She was yawning. Her dark eyes widened as Rya stepped aside, letting her in. She craned her neck, shoving the stack of clothing in Rya’s direction.

  “He’s not here?”

  “No.”

  Sachi turned those still-wide eyes on her. “And he left you with nothing but a bedsheet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he hide your clothes?”

  Rya headed for the bedroom, trying not to trip on the edge of the sheet. “Because he’s a slag-headed overbearing sneaky bastard.”

  “Oh,” Sachi said, stopping at the galley counter to scratch Captain Folly’s ears. Rya continued on into the bedroom.

  “Is he any good?” Sachi called after her.

  Rya tossed the clothes on the mattress and let the sheet slip to the floor. Was he any good? Her body heated in spite of her nakedness.

  “For a slag-headed overbearing sneaky bastard, yes. He is.”

  She quickly pulled on her underclothes, her shirt, then her pants. She shov
ed her feet into her boots— they were her spare pair and not her favorite, damn him. And damn him, she still felt naked. She didn’t have any weapons. She couldn’t remember the last time she didn’t have at least a stunner somewhere on her body. Or a knife. At least within reach.

  Matt used to gripe that she’d shower with her Stinger in her holster if it wouldn’t ruin the leather.

  Sachi was rubbing the underside of Captain Folly’s chin and crooning nonsense at him when Rya trudged into the main room. “Thanks, Sach. I owe you.”

  “So, was this just a onetime thing?” Sachi asked, clearly curious as she followed Rya to the door. And clearly unsure how to phrase her questions about Admiral Philip Guthrie. “Or is he, like, your boyfriend?”

  Philip had to know she’d contact Sachi to bring her some clothes. And the story of her being naked in his quarters would likely get out. A fling would be a boost to his ego—or maybe, as he saw it, his legacy. Unless it was made clear that it wasn’t a fling.

  “Boyfriend? Hell, no, he’s not my boyfriend.” Rya hit the palm pad for the door and faced Sachi squarely. “He’s my husband.”

  She left Sachi standing in the corridor, eyes wide, mouth open, and headed for the lifts.

  Three hours to gate exit.

  The pods on Deck 5 were not far from the auxiliary bridge. More than a half hour had passed; Rya doubted she’d find him there. And inspecting each pod would be time-consuming—if he’d even left them open. Knowing Philip—and she felt she did—he’d lock several, keyed to a code only he knew. One would be his. The rest would be decoys.

  It was time for drastic measures. She had to see if there was a way she could prevent the pods from launching. Or launching only if her command code was entered as well. She’d hate to strand the crew if there was a real emergency.

  She took the lift all the way down to Deck 6, to the bowels of the ship, where the lower cargo bays, storage lockers, and power and purification plants were linked by crisscrossing maintenance tunnels. At the point where she’d be standing under the aux bridge, there’d be triple-plated bulkheading overhead. The pods and their launching mechanisms shouldn’t be too far aft of that.

  She had a basic expertise in things mechanical and no real background in engineering. But you didn’t grow up on a station, you didn’t work security on a station, without knowing how to wrestle with docking clamps and launching rigs. There were always manual overrides to the clamps so a ship on fire or in danger of exploding could be released from its berth at a station. And there were always manual overrides to launching rigs, so a shuttle could be jettisoned from a bay under the same circumstances.

  All she had to do, she told herself as she squeezed past the hatchway into the dimly lit and dirty tunnel, was the opposite. Keep the clamps on the pods. Lock down the launch rig.

  Easy.

  But she had to find the damned things first. Without her utility belt. Without her handbeam.

  Thank you, Philip Guthrie.

  She brought the ship’s schematics to mind and headed through the first two intersecting tunnels, confident of her destination. She wasn’t far enough aft yet. There was no triple-plating overhead. Lots of grime and lots of grimy pipes and conduits and tubing. Several broken light panels. And the delightful scent of oranges.

  But at the third intersecting tunnel she stopped. It went off at an odd angle that made no sense based on the schematics she’d seen and was narrower on her left than on her right. She kept going. The next tunnel was sealed off. And the one after that …

  She wiped her sleeve over her face. It was hot as hell down here. Sweat beaded at her hairline, trickled down her neck. And she no longer had a clear idea of where she was in relation to the deck above. She should have brought Dillon with her, though he didn’t know Strykers. Corvang wouldn’t fit. Maybe Sparks … But Philip would notice his chief engineer’s absence, and they were all supposed to be in the ready room for a meeting

  She pulled back her sleeve. Shit. She had no idea. Philip had her watch.

  She pushed on, the ship pinging and clanking and whooshing around her. She was hot, she was hungry, and she was mad as hell at Philip Guthrie. Her long-lost always-forever dream hero. Her husband.

  How absolutely insane and absolutely heartbreaking was that? He had no idea what it did to her to hear him call her “Mrs. Guthrie.” It made her ache so badly inside that she didn’t know if she wanted to punch him in the face or strip his clothes off and make wild, frantic love to him.

  She hadn’t lied to Sachi. He was incredible in bed— a tender, giving, passionate lover.

  Why did he have to be such a slag-headed bastard outside the bedroom? Why couldn’t that caring man actually care? And care about her and not just for sex.

  She ducked under a low-hanging conduit and laughed at her thoughts.

  Not just for sex. Every guy in her life up until now had been only for sex. Just For Fun Sex. Those were her rules. It’s what she wanted.

  Until now.

  And now …

  Now she’d walked too far. She somehow had missed the aux bridge. She was past engineering, the whine of the jumpdrives clearly behind her. Damn it!

  She pulled her shirt out of the waistband of her pants and wiped the bottom over her face. There was a short side tunnel on her left with a yellow-striped maintenance hatch at the end. If memory served her, it went to an enviro substation about the size of a small storage bay. Well, it would be cooler out there and she might be able to get her bearings. Or at least find a deskscreen and contact Dillon. Or Sparks.

  She lifted the handle on the hatch and pushed it open. Cooler air hit her immediately as she climbed into the room. It was dark, with only green emergency light panels glowing over the doorways.

  “Lights,” she said, not even sure the system would respond down here, but it did, though admittedly not with any great effort. Two of the six panels winked on overhead.

  Contact Sparks, definitely, she decided, looking around. He didn’t have to come with her—just tell her where the pod clamps were. Then he could be at the meeting, which—

  Shit. An intraship panel on the bulkhead read out the time: 0552. She was late. And there was no way she was going to contact Sparks in the ready room. Philip was there. Defeat and frustration washing over her, she trudged away from the bulkhead and sagged against the edge of an enviro converter.

  And realized this converter wasn’t vibrating, wasn’t giving off the typical high-pitched whooshing whine they all did. But it should be. It had to be. An enviro malfunction was a serious threat to a station or a ship. She turned and touched the ones on the left and right. Vibrating. Whining. But this one …

  She took a few steps back and stared at it. Suddenly she knew what she was looking at. A brand-new, pristine GRT-10 plasma cannon power unit.

  She blinked.

  A Gritter. A goddamned slagging Gritter, right here on the Folly, tucked in between two larger enviro converters. The base power unit was about ten feet in length and six or so wide and came up to her shoulders. It even looked like an enviro converter—the same dull metal plating and a similar row of lighted power indicators on the lower left. But it was a Gritter. If there was one thing ImpSec taught all its officers, it was how to recognize one of the most common and illegal weapons that traders and pirates used. Plus, the plasma coils on the right gave it away.

  She ran one hand over its housing, her heart pounding.

  Then it sank. Maybe it didn’t work. Maybe it wasn’t installed. This was the Folly. Maybe …

  Maybe she should stop standing here like a slag-headed idiot and contact Philip Guthrie. Before the Folly cleared the gate. Before the Imperials attacked. Before Philip died.

  Before she lost the chance to tell her long-lost always-forever dream hero that she loved him.

  She lunged for the bulkhead and slapped intraship, tapping in the code for the ready room as soon as the panel showed ready.

  The panel went out. And the overhead lights died. The
enviro converters continued to whine quietly behind her.

  Shit. She’d broken Philip’s ship. But it was probably a faulty panel. Just this room. She yanked on the door handle and shoved the door sideways.

  The corridor beyond was dark.

  Fuck.

  Maybe it was just this section, this deck. She headed for the dim green glow of the emergency lights marking the stairwell, her gut tensing when she passed the lifts and saw their lights out too.

  It was six long flights to the ready room.

  She hit the stairs running.

  Rya was late. She was likely also extremely angry, and that, Philip knew, might cause her to want to keep him waiting. It wasn’t that she didn’t have clothes. He’d stopped in his quarters on the way to the ready room. She was gone, sheets and blanket on the floor with Captain Folly snoozing in the middle of them.

  With fair certainty, he knew who’d fetched her clothes. Sachi Holton was giving him odd looks—admiration with a tinge of conspiracy. At least, he hoped it was admiration.

  But now Rya was late, fifteen minutes late. That went beyond the personal and now bordered on the professional. Unless she thought he still intended to transfer her. Then she might no longer care about her career.

  Unless …

  “Constantine, hit intraship and see if Lieutenant Bennton is scheming down in engineering.”

  Con stood and tapped at the panel.

  The lights went out, plunging the ready room into green-tinged darkness.

  Philip’s pulse rate spiked. His hand flew to the Carver on his hip. Exclamations sounded through the open door to the bridge behind him. Lights from handbeams crisscrossed bulkheads.

  Sparks was already rising. “On it, Skipper.”

  Philip swiveled in his chair. “Welford, go with him. Martoni, secure the bridge.” He grabbed his cane, looping the Norlack over his shoulder as he stood. “I don’t like this, gentlemen,” he called out. And if Rya had anything to do with this, if this was some kind of game or scheme, he would bust her down to ensign, put her on galley duty and any other thing he could think of. Rebel, indeed.