She attempted to pull her hand back. He refused to let go.
“What?” She yanked her hand away.
In a flash, he captured her wrist and pulled her hand close so he could inspect her palm. As he did, she could smell the enticing citrus and pine of him.
“You have very strong hands.”
“I actually work for a living.” He must be used to women with soft hands and long, painted fingernails.
He leaned close and took a deep breath, as if tasting the air around her. “You never rest.” His concerned gaze found hers.
Confused by his abrupt and naked tenderness, she repeated by rote, “Idle hands are the devil’s playground.”
“I doubt he finds much play with you.”
“Can I have my hand back now?” She found his genuine concern alarming and knew she’d made a foolish deal. It would be easier to keep him at arm’s length if he acted like the playboy she expected, and she could freely point out his foibles.
Didn’t I tell him I wouldn’t make another deal with the devil, and isn’t that exactly what he’s just lured me into?
In a sweeping, courtly gesture, he bowed and placed a kiss on the back of her hand. When his lips pressed to her flesh, she felt the heat of his breath as he murmured, “You are a remarkable woman.”
Hurt, she extracted her hand from his grasp. “I thought you weren’t going to tease me anymore?”
Looking perplexed, he straightened. “I am not teasing you. You are a remarkable woman, Mary.”
Unsure of his motive, frightened by the melting in her heart, she changed the subject. “Yeah-huh. Teach me about books.”
Chapter Eight
Unable to conceal his pleasure, Michael led Mary through House to the outside compound. Showing her the way out of base command went beyond foolish, but he wanted to share with her his greatest passion. Smuggling books comprised a negligible percentage of his empire, but the very nature of forbidden books thrilled him more than anything else he did.
Eyes wide, Mary noted every turn and each pass by security. He hoped she realized the futility of trying to escape. Not that she shouldn’t notice. She wouldn’t be the elusive Bandit of Taiga if she didn’t take note of her surroundings, and he wouldn’t be sane if he didn’t observe her quick and calculating glances. She noticed everything, and her expression remained grim but determined.
He wanted her to accept that she could not elude him. Security on Windmere clamped down like a fist. Any intelligent person wouldn’t even try to escape.
He looked at her again. Intelligent. Far more so than he thought at first because of her ill-bestowed nickname. He imagined she hated hers as much as he did his.
“Your attention is focused on the ship at the end of the tarmac.”
“That is an unusual ship.” She shrugged, trying to appear uninterested, but her darting glances revealed her curiosity.
Custom-made, gleaming in the afternoon light, Whisper was a long, thin silver cylinder, almost like a needle, horizontal across the last slot on the tarmac. For two years, he’d kept everything inside exactly as he’d found it, except for the infirmary—Duster and his paranoia.
Michael had bought Whisper for an exorbitant price after thinking Kraft dead from a Random attack. As if magically resurrected, Kraft appeared on his doorstep as a cook-whore to Captain Jace Lawless of the rust-bucket Mutiny. What Michael thought was a second chance became a funeral. Love, the wicked emotional scent, billowed around Kraft in a compelling cloud, but her fathomless black eyes focused on Jace Lawless, not him.
Enraged when he couldn’t entice her, induce her, compel her, or even buy her to stay with him, he’d resorted to emotional blackmail. Kraft caved. She’d been willing to sacrifice herself so that Jace and his crew could leave with their lives. Kraft said honor compelled her, but love had driven her actions, and Michael still couldn’t shake the maddening scent from his mind.
He’d let them all go, thinking Kraft would realize he could give her far more than Captain Jace Lawless ever could. A month later, Kraft and the entire crew of Mutiny died in a freak accident with an IWOG attack ship. When Michael realized all hope was irrevocably lost, something inside him died. He knew he would never find love like that again. In his grief, he tested the limits of Duster’s patience and the security of his entire planet. Had Duster’s accusation been correct, that Michael was using Mary as a stand-in for Kraft?
Michael turned his attention to Mary. She still wore the ill-fitting green dress, but over it she wore one of his old black leather jackets that hung to her mid-thigh. When he’d tried to give her one that matched the dress, she refused, holding out the lace-covered velvet. “Yeah-huh. Would you wear this?”
She’d insisted on wearing her own brown boots, even though they didn’t match, either. Mary looked liked she just emerged from a rummage sale, but she was determined to win by small points.
Her face glowed and her blunt-cut chestnut hair spilled across her shoulders in casual wisps. Without a single female trapping, she compelled him more than any woman he’d ever known, even Kraft. Her ragtag outfit, her utter lack of vanity, echoed a complicated woman. One he wanted to unravel for a whole host of reasons.
He leaned close to read her scent but pulled back when she looked up and leveled her gaze at him. Her intelligent eyes hit him solid, as if they stood eye-to-eye and equally matched.
“That ship got a name?”
“Her name is Whisper.” He said it automatically, then startled at his admission, like she’d magically compelled the truth from him against his will.
“Kraft’s ship.” Mary didn’t bother to look at him for confirmation. “Kraft is a serious ass-kicker, isn’t she?”
Truce fresh in his mind, he strode away and said over his shoulder, “I don’t wish to discuss her with you.”
Mary caught up. “Is she dead?”
He stopped and faced her. “That is one sore spot you’d best not poke.”
“Okay.” Mary shrugged. “Which ship are we gonna take?”
“The shuttle, there.” He lifted his finger to his personal transport. At the last moment, he pointed to Duster’s. He thought Mary would appreciate what Duster called “funky character”. When he’d offered to upgrade the battered shuttle, Duster insisted, “I like her the way she is. Just leave her alone. You don’t fly Scuttlebutt, I do.”
Michael moved a jumble of random garbage off the passenger seat and showed Mary how to strap on the restraints. He couldn’t help but notice a shift in her scent when he touched her. He grinned, pleased to discover that minuscule brushes of his fingertips elicited her citrus floral desire.
Once settled, she set the fuzzy green dice swinging. “What’s this for?”
“From Earth. Traditional decoration for motorized transport.” The oversize dice hung from the center light of the cramped shuttle.
“Were they all gamblers or something?”
“I believe it’s whimsical, not representational.” Frankly, Michael didn’t know. Customs from ancient Earth were things Duster was into, not him. His shuttle didn’t have anything dangling from the center light.
She looked around at the battered interior of the tiny craft and he followed her gaze. Wadded-up paper cups littered the floor along with the scattered remains of crackleseeds. Fingerprints and smears covered the dusty windows. A subtle scent of dirt and stale sweat emanated from the cloth seats and ratty carpet. All of it indicated this was a well lived-in space.
“I haven’t cleaned it in a while.” He flashed her an embarrassed grimace.
“You mean you haven’t ordered—I mean, I like it.” She set the dice swinging again.
He realized she struggled to curb her nasty tongue, but she did for their truce. “I like it too.” He offered her a tentative smile that she echoed.
As he took off from base command, she leaned back and looked out the window to her right. “’Sides, Duster likes the crackleseeds, not you.”
“Explain yourself.”
Impressed by her powers of observation, he began to regret taking her out of House at all. What else had her sharp eyes noticed?
She nudged the dice. They twirled together, then swung around in a lazy circle. “Why does that I noticed surprise you?”
“Because I didn’t think you would notice.”
“Why?”
“Whoever dubbed you Remarkably Average Mary needs to have his head examined.” He glanced across at her in time to watch delicate pink wash her cheeks. She seemed unaccustomed to compliments, and he had a burning desire to give her about a hundred more.
“Most folks outside of Pine Glenn only call me that once. If they live, they don’t make the same mistake twice.”
He took a deep breath, trying to read her scent.
“Why do you do that?” She scowled. “Sniff like that, I mean. You’re not a Push addict, are you?”
“No.” He almost laughed at the idea his unique ability made her think he sniffed the stimulant Push. Better her to think that than to know the truth.
He landed Scuttlebutt next to the plant where the books were printed, bound, battered and then exported. He showed her around, using the catwalks above the pounding, clanking machines.
“That’s where they come out.” He pointed. He yelled so she could hear him over the cacophony.
“They look new.”
“Right. Markus there is going to start feeding them into the batterer.”
“The what?” She stuck her fingers in her ears and pulled them out again.
“The machine I invented to batter the covers.” He raised his voice even higher.
“Why?”
He led her away from the main floor to the much quieter offices in the back before he answered. “Because they sell better.” After he closed the door, he sat on the edge of a cluttered desk.
“I don’t get it.” She looked out the window, seemingly disappointed to find nothing but miles of desolate high desert. “Why would someone want a book that looked like it’d been through a war zone?”
“Cachet.” He shrugged. “Battered paperbacks have a feel of contraband, feel like they have a history. Fringe folk seem to like the idea that the books have passed through many hands. Used books sell three times better than new ones. Twenty times better than electronic ones.”
Over her shoulder, she smiled and arched her brow. “You’re not a bandit, you’re a book smuggler.”
“Surprised?” He wanted her to be impressed and intrigued. From his reports, he knew she loved books as much as he did, and finding common ground between them would be the first step in seducing her.
“Well, yeah. I just figured you’d be into something a little more dangerous, like weapons, or maybe drugs.” She scowled at the floor. “You sure do seem to sniff a lot.”
“I assure you, I’m not on drugs, nor do I sell them. Contrary to what you think, books are far more dangerous to deal in than weapons or drugs.”
“I don’t see how. I know books are illegal and the IWOG—”
“Do you know what they do if they catch a book smuggler?”
She frowned and shook her head. “No.”
“They pile up the books, toss the bound smuggler on top and set the pile ablaze.”
Velvet-brown eyes went round. “While he’s still alive?”
He nodded. “A horrible way to die, I imagine.”
“Yeah-huh. Well, I can’t think of a good way to die.” She looked out the window. “Death sucks all the way around.”
“Indeed.”
When he stood, she took a wary step back from the window and closer to the door. He tried to look smaller by leaning against the wall, but Mary wasn’t having it and took another sidestep to the exit.
“On the flipside, if the IWOG catches a drug smuggler, they take the drugs for their own use and incarcerate the smuggler in pay prison. All things considered, it’s far safer to deal drugs than books.”
“Then why do you deal in books?”
“I like danger.” He flashed her a wicked smile, which she echoed.
“It’s more than that.”
“I like tweaking the IWOG. I also enjoy providing a cheap pleasure to the Fringe folk. Funny that books are considered more dangerous than drugs to the IWOG. I guess it’s because drugs generally keep the teeming masses complacent, but books have the power to educate and even incite.”
“You don’t just sell pleasure books?” She attempted to flip open one of the books on the cluttered desk.
He pressed the book closed. If she read the publishing information, his deception would be over. “I produce and sell all kinds. Contrary to what you might think of me, I know what it’s like out there. If what I do brings even a few moments of escape to Fringe life, I’m happy to do it.”
“I’ll bet the script doesn’t hurt either.” She softened her tone. “I mean I’m sure it’s profitable as well as pleasurable.”
“Win-win.” His wrist com let out three short beeps. Not now. He turned away from her. “Yes?”
“It’s that Jones business again.” Duster sounded frustrated. “Can you meet me over at R and D?”
“Give me half an hour.”
“Sooner would be better, Mi—”
“I’m at the printers and need to get Mary back to base.” He opened the door and stalked toward the production area, hoping he’d cut Duster off before Mary heard his slip.
“Yes, Commander.” Duster’s voice dripped with snide annoyance.
Mary looked at his wrist com. “Jones business?”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about.” Michael wished he didn’t have to worry about it, either. Jones, his newest scientist in research and development, had turned out to be a major pain in the ass. Smart as three Einsteins, Jones also postured as fussy as a ship full of divas.
Pounding and clanking prevented any further conversation as Mary followed him back into the shuttle. He watched with amusement as she set the fuzzy green dice swinging again.
“You do a lot more than smuggle books, don’t you?”
“I am a man of many interests.”
“A man whose name starts with my.”
“What?” He tried to pitch his voice to a distracted air as he flew back to base command.
“Nice try, but I’m not deaf. I heard Duster say ‘my’ before you cut him off. Your name starts with M-I or M-Y, maybe M-A or M-E.” Humming, she touched her tongue to the corner of her grin. “Is your name something really horrible, like Maurice? Myron? Oh, I know, it’s Marion, isn’t it?” She practically jumped up and down in her seat. “That’s why you don’t want to tell me your name. You have a girl’s name!” Her eyes sparkled with genuine delight and a strange, playful malice. She exuded a scent reminiscent of whisky and bubblegum.
“And you wonder why I won’t tell you?” His glare settled her. “Besides, I thought we had a truce. No more teasing.”
“I wouldn’t tease you if your name was Marion.” She appraised him from head to toe. “Is it?”
“Yes, you would, and no, it isn’t. Not even close.”
She played with the dice as she hummed. “Your name does start with M though, doesn’t it?”
Michael vowed to fire Harper, the operative who filed the report that said Mary had average intelligence. I’ll fire him after I put him in a locked room with her for an hour.
“Maybe it’s Mary, like yours.”
“A man named Mary?” She laughed with a delightful, skipping sound. “Sounds like a song lyric, but I vote no. You don’t look much like a Mary.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should—Martin.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. It didn’t take her long to find a new way to annoy him. He had to nip this game in the bud. “My name isn’t Martin. Call me—”
“Ishm
ael,” she tossed off with a challenging grin.
Smart and quick. “I’m not a book by Herman Melville. Although you referring to me as Moby Dick could be rather compelling, I think it best if you call me—”
“Commander.” She stuck her tongue out. “I know. ’Sides, even if I guessed right, you wouldn’t admit the truth anyway. You couldn’t bear to give up one iota of your power.”
Her snide comment hurt, and he wished they weren’t trapped in the roles of captor and captive. Softly he reminded, “A truce isn’t any good if you repeatedly violate the terms.”
“Okay, okay.” She sighed. “Christ, you’re touchy. You don’t play much, do you?”
“Depends what you mean by play.” He winked.
“Now who’s violating the truce?” she shot back, all false indignation, then laughed. “Are we a pair or what?” She set the dice swinging again.
He couldn’t help but laugh. She nailed the truth dead-on. He didn’t play much. Five years of fighting off the IWOG made him a rather sour, dour bore who drank more than he laughed.
“I guess we’re going to have to get used to this. You not being a smart-ass, and me not being an irrepressible flirt.”
“Difficult to curb one’s nature, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
He landed the shuttle and ushered her back into the center of his fortified base. Surrounded by House, Mary had access to her bedroom and the main portion of the inner sanctum.
“I’m sorry our outing was cut short.” He wanted to touch her but couldn’t find one acceptable reason to.
“Well, running a huge smuggling empire demands a lot of time, I imagine.” She shook her head. “I mean I understand that you have work to do.”
He realized how hard she struggled to be civil. Nasty comments popped unbidden from her mouth, but she softened them in the next breath. He imagined it would take a while for her to act with any semblance of manners.
“Make yourself at home. If you need anything, ask House.”
“What if I need my freedom?” She switched gears so fast her words damn near caused his head to spin. The playful gleam in her eyes vanished, in its place, a focused demand.
Overlord: The Fringe, Book 2 Page 7
