by Kris Delake
Maybe he found such places stuffy because he found dancing unnecessary. It was one of those activities he would never pursue if it hadn’t been for his job.
But, weirdly, he had to dance a lot for his job. He had become a spectacular dancer. He had become good at a lot of things he never liked or expected to like. He had rather thought he would like dancing, but then he did it, and he loathed it.
It was a complete waste of time.
Tonight, he wouldn’t be able to avoid dancing. In fact, he needed to dance.
He wanted to talk to Rikki. He also wanted to touch her, but he didn’t want to think about that.
He had set up the tracking program on a small screen he wore on his wrist. The screen was black and the band itself was black flecked with gold. It went with his amber jewelry and his black clothing. Still, he kept his wrist covered so no one realized how much hardware he wore.
Just like no one would know he carried two weapons, one—a small nearly weightless laser pistol—in a pouch built into the seam of his waistband, and the other a knife made of bone that he kept in a specially built part of his boot.
Whenever he wore the boots, he carried the knife.
It was the laser pistol that was unusual, and he wasn’t sure why he was carrying it. Apparently he trusted Rikki even less than he had just twenty-four hours ago.
He arrived at the ballroom and stepped into a world of light and shadows, swirling colors, and rich sound. The music overwhelmed in here, as if it was alive. Dancers covered the floor, their clothing whirling with their perfect movements. The air didn’t smell stale; it smelled faintly of sweat and perfume and alcohol. It provoked a heady excitement that seemed almost palpable.
Perhaps it was. Some of these ships did put intoxicants into the air, things that enhanced an experience. Usually, those intoxicants were limited to small doses, and placed in areas like a dance floor so that people would think they had enjoyed themselves a bit more than they actually had.
He adjusted his collar, then brought his hand down. That movement was a nervous tick, and he shouldn’t be nervous. He was a man on a mission, a man who came to this ship to travel from one sector to another, true enough, but also a man who had come to have a good time.
He took a second step inside, passed the place that the ship’s designers had set up as the hesitation point, and listened as an androgynous voice announced his arrival: “Mister Rafael De Brovnik.” The voice sounded official, but it barely carried over the music. Only the closest dancers even looked at him. Everyone else continued twirling—one, two, three; one, two, three.
There had to be two hundred couples on the dance floor. The music came from an actual orchestra, with real human players. He hadn’t realized this ship actually invested in musicians, not androids, not elaborate reality constructs.
He scanned the room, and didn’t see her. He knew that a few moments ago, she had been standing to his left, but he didn’t see her there. But “to his left” encompassed a lot of room. The ballroom was too big to take in all at once. He took another step inside.
The main part of the room was given over to dancing. The floor had a permanent shine that no shoe could scuff. Wide, curving staircases rose on each side, leading to a balcony that bridged across the middle. Some couples stood up there, looking down at the dancers, enjoying the music and some champagne from above.
Beneath the stairs were private areas that could opaque. If the air had the kind of aphrodisiac that he had worried about from the night before, the area under those stairs would be crowded with mismatched couples, unable to keep their hands off each other.
But he saw no untoward groping on the dance floor, and even though the air had the faint tang of sweat, it didn’t carry the starchy, unmistakable smell of semen.
He was greatly relieved. Because he didn’t need a mood enhancer to augment his barely controllable lust for Rikki Bastogne. Time to stop fooling himself. It had been a mistake to come here. He wouldn’t be able to control his response to her, and he didn’t dare risk touching her.
He turned, and as he did, a hand brushed his arm.
“Leaving so soon?”
She stood next to him. Only this wasn’t the somewhat disheveled, angry woman who had left his suite that morning. This was a goddess.
She wore a black and silver dress that covered every part of her and yet left nothing to the imagination. The silver shoes peeking out from the frothy hem added several inches to her height. That, plus the way that she had swept up her hair, made her taller than he was.
He had to look up at her, which was even more disconcerting.
“I’m not fond of dancing,” he managed to say.
“Then what are you doing here?” she asked.
“Looking for you,” he said.
“To apologize?” she asked with a slightly wicked smile.
He almost said Apologize for what? Then realized that no woman would respond well to that question.
He made himself answer her smile with a smile of his own. Then he extended his right hand. “Dance with me,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. One of them glittered. She had pasted some kind of jewel at the very tip.
“I thought you’re not fond of dancing,” she said.
“I’m making an exception,” he said.
She looked down at his hand. He could feel her reluctance. Then she raised her eyes. Her gaze met his, and he felt a bolt of heat run through him. He wondered if, in this slight darkness, she could see the flush coloring his cheeks.
“I’m mad at you, you know,” she said in a pleasant tone. Anyone listening would have thought they were flirting.
They weren’t flirting, were they? It felt like flirting. But it also felt more serious than that.
“I figured that out,” he said dryly. He felt stupid with his hand extended, but he didn’t move it, and he wouldn’t move it. Not yet, anyway.
“I shouldn’t ever touch you again,” she said.
“Wouldn’t that be a crime,” he said and just barely stopped himself from looking panicked. He hadn’t meant to say that.
She laughed and slid her hand into his. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think in some sectors half of what we did last night was a crime.”
Besides killing Elio Testrial and shoving his body out an airlock? Misha wanted to ask, but didn’t.
Instead, he focused on the feel of her hand in his, the way that such a small touch made his skin tingle with anticipation.
The waltz music continued, and she tilted her head toward him. “Well?”
He slipped his hand behind her back and pulled her against him. She put her hand on his shoulder and tried to add some distance between them.
He wouldn’t let her. He liked the added height her shoes gave her. Her body rubbed against his in an entirely different way than it had the night before.
He led her onto the dance floor, and they whirled through the couples, moving in concert, as if they had practiced this dance every day of their lives. The brush of her thighs against his through the thin material of her gown, the pressure of her breasts against his torso, made it hard to think.
“I want to make a deal with you,” he said, forcing himself to concentrate on his words and not the soft scent of her.
“I figured as much.” She didn’t look directly at him. Instead, she was watching the other dancers, as if she was looking for someone.
“Join the Guild,” he said, “and I won’t turn you in.”
She swiveled her head toward him. “Turn me in for what?”
“You know what,” he said. He wasn’t going to say it on the dance floor. Too many people brushed too close to them. Their conversation felt private, but it wasn’t, and he wasn’t going to risk anything by being explicit out here.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said. “Although you have. You’re the one who has no obvious ties to the man we discussed last night. You’re the one who has no justification for all you’ve done.”
>
He didn’t feel cold—he couldn’t, not with her so close—but her words did have a chilling effect. It was suddenly much easier to separate himself from his arousal.
He continued to lead her in the dance, but he no longer let himself enjoy it, no longer let himself acknowledge the feel of her body against his.
“You investigated me?” he asked.
She smiled prettily at him. She looked stunning, but her eyes were cold. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing to me?”
“You’re going to blame me for what happened last night?” He couldn’t keep the incredulousness from his voice.
“If you blame me,” she said. Then she caressed his cheek. The touch felt like a lover’s, but her gaze, so hard and distant, belied that touch.
The music shifted without pause to another waltz. Some dancers left the floor. The rest remained, bright swirls of red and blue and green against the darkness of the room itself.
He felt a little dizzy. He wasn’t breathing properly.
“I want you to join us,” he said and hoped he didn’t sound desperate. He hadn’t felt desperate until the words came out.
Those eyebrows went up again. Her face was mobile but the expression in her eyes never changed.
He wondered if she hated him.
He was beginning to think that she did.
“You want me to join the Guild?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“So that I follow your rules?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Hm.” The sound was soft, timed to the music. She moved with him. They hadn’t missed a step, and their bodies were still pressed against each other. Only he didn’t feel the desire anymore.
Until he thought about it. Then the desire was so powerful, it took his breath away.
He forced himself to breathe, and to think about how cold her words were.
He willed the desire away.
“How do I know you’re a member of the Guild?” she asked.
“I told you I am,” he said.
“Rafael De Brovnik is not,” she said.
He tilted his head just a little, chastising her without saying a word. Of course Rafael De Brovnik wasn’t a member. All Guild members used false names. That way, assassins didn’t become famous. It allowed them to work in anonymity, where they belonged.
But if he ever got in trouble, all law enforcement had to do was run his DNA and they would discover that he was a member of the Guild. Yes, that might keep him in custody until matters got straightened out (like he had been on those occasions when Rikki had left her mess behind), but it was a small price to pay for the right to work freely.
She shrugged. That pretty smile was back for a moment. He realized then that it was her patronizing smile, one that most people probably never even realized she had in her repertoire.
“How do I know that you’re who you say you are?” she asked. “How do I know you’re not law enforcement—”
He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “I’m not,” he said.
“—or someone who works for Elio Testrial. How do I know you’re not a bounty hunter or someone who is after me for another reason?”
“You have a bounty on your head?” he asked.
It was her turn to tilt her head and silently chastise him.
Of course she did. Somewhere. He did too. It was part of the job.
“I belong to the Guild,” he said.
She shook her head. “And I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What do you get,” she asked, “a commission for every person you recruit?”
He felt offended but he wasn’t sure why. He continued to move with her as they danced, his hand clutching hers, probably a bit too tightly. “I’m not recruiting you,” he said. “I’m trying to control you.”
As soon as the words came out, he knew he had said the wrong thing.
She stopped dancing so suddenly he almost tripped over her. Of course she stopped dancing, he realized, because a waltz was all about control—he had to control her every movement. He had been leading, after all.
“So now we have the truth of it,” she said softly.
The other dancers had to dance around them. A few nearly collided with the two of them, standing still in the middle of the dance floor, his hand still on her back, her hand still on his shoulder, their other hands clasped as if they were going to start dancing again.
She leaned into him. “Am I working your territory, then? Am I undercutting the market? Since I got here, are you now hurting for work?”
Her words cut. Just like they were supposed to.
“No,” he said.
“Then back off.” She let go of his shoulder and his hand, but he kept his hand firmly against her spine, holding her in place.
“What if I don’t want to back off?” he asked. He wasn’t sure if he was talking about his desire to get her into the Guild or his desire to get her back into his bed.
“Back off,” she said quietly, “or I’ll scream so loud that the orchestra won’t be able to drown me out.”
He held her for one moment longer, testing her. She raised her chin, looked toward the stage, and took a deep breath.
Then he let go.
“You should join us,” he said.
“I don’t join things,” she said.
“Your mistake,” he said.
“Is that a threat?” she asked.
“Should it be?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You have no idea who I am.”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s really not true.”
He thought he saw something—a flash of fear, a bit of concern? He couldn’t quite tell. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
“Stay away from me,” she said. Then she turned and walked off the dance floor, her long skirt swaying around her feet.
Wow, she was beautiful. And boy, did he mishandle that.
He was going to have to keep track of her in a different way. He would have to keep his distance again. And then, when they arrived at their destination, he would make certain the authorities knew about Elio Testrial, so that she would go to jail.
He would get her out. And use that moment to convince her that she needed him.
Or, actually, needed the Guild.
He had meant the Guild.
Even though he knew, deep down, that he hadn’t. He wanted her to need him—or, at least, to want him as much as he wanted her.
Chapter 12
She walked away from him, her heart pounding. She had never felt like this. She was furious at him—had been furious at him throughout the entire waltz—and yet she wanted to kiss him, to go under the stairs and pull off that delicious coat he wore, and find the muscles underneath.
The desire between them was rich and fine, as if they hadn’t slaked it at all several times the night before.
He had been aroused as well, and hadn’t tried to hide it from her. That had made her task even more difficult.
She had used every trick she knew to keep her features impassive, her voice calm, her body under control. She had to concentrate on every word, feel that anger, and separate herself from the situation as if she was watching it from above.
She had to act like she didn’t care.
More than that, she had to act like she had on her very first job, when she had realized she was in over her head, that she really and truly had had no idea what she was doing, and it was too late to stop.
After that, she had gotten training. After that, she had learned how to do her job. But that one assignment had been torture—and not exquisite torture like this dance had been.
She shook the memory from her head, and made her way through the crowd of dancers. Some of them flitted by her, almost too fast for her to see. She was amazed no one had crashed into her.
The music seemed louder than it had a moment ago, but she knew that had more to do with her than with the musicians themselves
. The orchestra played on a stage in the center of the dance floor. They sat with their backs to each other, facing outward. The director stood behind them, but appeared on the monitors on their music stands. The instruments were old, and probably valuable, without the technical garbage that so many had.
She shook that thought away too. Too much learning for too many jobs, jobs she worked hard at, jobs she spent time thinking about before she did them.
Jobs whose targets often haunted her in her sleep.
She would never tell anyone that, particularly since the targets were such horrible people. Why should she feel guilty about her role in ending their miserable lives?
Dancers continued to move around her. Most of the couples were older, some built solidly. None were as glamorous as this ballroom deserved.
Or as glamorous as she had felt in his arms, moving to the music, wishing circumstances were different.
She made her way off the dance floor, heading for one of the side doors. As she passed part of the stage, one of the male violinists smiled at her. She did not smile back.
They continued to play waltzes, one right after the other without a break. Apparently no one had to stop dancing if they didn’t want to.
Part of her hadn’t wanted to. But she had been losing her grip on her emotions, so she had to stop.
She had already gotten the DNA. She had caressed Misha’s cheek with her hand, making certain to get skin cells. She probably had gotten them from his hand, but she wanted to be precise.
She needed to be precise for what she was going to do next.
Even if what she was going to do next wasn’t ethical. As if she needed to worry about ethical. She killed people for a living. But only people who deserved it.
Misha didn’t really deserve what she was going to do.
But she couldn’t think of any other way to get the information.
Once she got it—the next day or the day after—she would claim she made a mistake. But right now, she would use what she had.
She was just mad enough to do it. I’m not recruiting you, he had said. I’m trying to control you. Like that was a good thing. Like that was better than recruiting her.
