by Susan Grant
“You. Earth-dweller.”
Her insides quivered at the very timbre of that too-familiar voice. The rebel captain was glowering at her from the bridge. For countless heartbeats, they regarded each other in mute astonishment.
He spoke first. “It is you.”
She braced herself. Now was the ideal time to kick her habit of transferring the expectancy of her dreams onto flesh-and-blood men. “I do not know you.”
“I believe you do.” His voice was low and deceptively calm, but his eyes were as hot as glowing embers. “I see it in your face.”
The first tendrils of panic squeezed her chest. She wondered irrationally if she’d appeared in his dreams, too. “You are mistaken.”
“Am I?” Clearly he was a strapping male in the prime of life, but in that moment, his eyes were those of an old man—a man who had lived long and lost much. Inexplicably, her heart went out to him. He must have seen it in her expression, because his features hardened, and he strode past his crew and took her by the upper arm, steering her to a darkened corner. Her vivid physical awareness of every square inch of him rendered her speechless, while his gaze, reminiscent of a jungle cat’s, meandered over her, from her boots to her face, pointedly lingering on her mouth. Her cheeks heated, and self-preservation kicked in. The Vash religion is based on a feminine entity, she desperately reminded herself. In his culture, women are respected, motherhood is revered, fidelity and marriage are held in high regard. He wouldn’t hurt her—she gulped—unless, of course, he didn’t care for those dictates any more than he had Lahdo’s.
She inched backward, but the computer consoles behind her allowed no retreat.
“How did you find me?” he demanded under his breath.
“I watched Commander Lahdo’s address. I heard name of your ship, so I know where to look.”
“I see. Was that the technique you employed the first time?”
“The first time?”
“On Balkanor! Sharron’s headquarters.”
“Bal-kan-or. Sorry. New at Basic. Please repeat.”
“Cease your games, woman! Why are you here? Is it because of my provocation of the Vash Nadah? Pointless it is, but satisfying as hell. Am I to retreat to the farthest reaches of the galaxy? Is that it? Is that what you want? So no one need be reminded of my existence?”
Rom gripped the comm console behind him with unsteady hands. The old fury boiled inside him, and he heard it in his voice. Little wonder she looked as if she wanted to bolt from the ship—or knee him in the groin. In either case, his prospects of learning anything from her were disappearing faster than salt in a sieve. “Well? What have you to say?”
She lifted her chin another defiant notch. “I have no idea what you talk about.”
Rom scrutinized her. He considered himself a good judge of character; usually he could tell if a trader was lying to him, or holding something back. That was one reason he’d done so well on so little all these years. But he sensed absolutely no guile on her part. Either she was a master of deception, or she was ignorant of her fateful role in his life. But with the launch sequence well under way, there wasn’t time to ascertain which one it was.
With an effort that cost him, he encased his turbulent response to her within an iron will. “So be it. We have many days of travel ahead—more than enough time to finish this conversation.”
“Sir,” Zarra called out before she could reply. “We have received the launch clearance.”
“You may use my chair.” Rom urged her across the bridge to his contoured command chair, from where he normally oversaw planetary departures. He drew two straps over her head and buckled them at her hips, then pulled two more belts from the sides of the chair and clicked the ends into the alloy receptacle between her knees.
“I have dreamed of this all my life,” she whispered.
Startled by her candor, he met her gemlike gaze.
She spoke haltingly, as if searching for each word. “For you it is routine. But for me it is wonderful.” Her eyes shimmered.
He clenched his jaw. He must not allow her suspiciously genuine emotion to touch him. He must not let his guard down. The last time he did, it had cost him everything. “When you see me get up that means it’s safe to move around,” he said briskly. She gripped the armrests and nodded. He strode to a seat close to Gann’s and fastened his safety harnesses as the powerful plasma thrusters rumbled to life. But he could not pull his gaze from the expression of awe on her face, and tried to imagine what the launch must feel like to her. Wondrous, of course. One never forgot his first trip into space. He’d been little more than a toddler when he’d accompanied his parents on his first flight. It remained his earliest memory.
The vibration increased as the Quillie lifted off. He watched the woman clutch the armrests, the invisible force of gravity pressing her into the seat as the ship accelerated. Then the nose rose to a steeper angle. Her bright, keenly intelligent eyes sought the forward view window. The turbulence increased. Outside, clouds slapped wet fingers across the glass in a futile attempt to keep the great craft atmosphere-bound. Then the ship tore free and there were only stars, bright pinpricks against the vast backdrop of deep space. The exact color of her hair…
Rom swore under his breath.
“I see the woman has already captured your thoughts,” Gann said in Siennan. “I envy you. Other men must hunt for their treasure, but not the B’kah.” He chuckled. “To you the treasure comes willingly, a lovely, pale-skinned, black-haired Earth woman, who not only pleads to be taken as cargo—she pays you for the honor.”
Rom scowled. “She paid for passage to the Depot.”
“Ah, yes, jewels and salt. A simple act of trade.”
“Jewels? Bah! Only a petty smuggler would take such cherished personal possessions. It’s the salt I want.”
“It does seem to be of excellent quality,” Gann conceded.
“I’ll allocate a quarter of it to the galley to pacify the crew. The rest we’ll sell at the Depot, along with the documents—if they prove genuine, and if Zarra can translate them.”
“And meanwhile, you’ll enjoy her charms.”
The ship continued to accelerate, pressing him into his seat. Rom raised his face toward the air rushing down from the ceiling vents, wishing he could cool his dangerous and foolhardy attraction to the woman as easily as he did the perspiration on his brow. “Our culture places much import on dreams, so perhaps I am predisposed in this regard, but I believe she is the incarnation of the Balkanor angel.”
Gann gave a bark of laughter. “Ah, yes. Back for a visit after all these years, eager to toy with your destiny a second time? Armed with orders from the Great Mother to divert you from your chosen path?”
“I did not choose this path! She did!”
“By all the heavens, Rom, enchanting as she is, she is not your angel. You’ve stared at every black-haired woman we’ve met since coming to this system. And there are billions more you haven’t seen. How can you say she’s the one?”
“I swear to you, before the voyage is out, I will have my answer.” Rom’s attention shifted from Gann to the Earth woman. All at once he recalled his first years in exile, the loneliness, the guilt, how thoughts of the Balkanor angel had kept him from giving up entirely. “By the heavens!” he muttered, and averted his eyes. The woman whipped up painful memories like a sudden sandstorm dredged up grit. Their encounter on Balkanor had preceded the worst period of his life—and yet he was drawn to her. He had yet to understand why. If she had answers locked inside her, he wanted them. Only then might he resolve the loss of his family and his birthright.
Chapter Five
The clamor of conversation and laughter emanating from the crew dining area sounded more like a party than a morning meal, Jas thought, pausing in the corridor to work up the courage to join them. As in the other common-use areas she’d seen, the walls were adorned only with rivets and control panels. The crew sat on bench seats next to tables made for family-style
dining. Brightly colored jars decorated the tables, and the men eagerly scooped out generous helpings of their contents, spilling it onto their food. Next to trays stacked with loaves of flat bread were steaming crocks of something that smelled wonderful.
Lured by the savory aromas, Jas walked inside. The hush in conversation was immediate. Then the sounds of chair legs scraping, boot heels scuffing, and spoons clattering ricocheted off the metal walls as the entire crew, thirty of them at least, stood. They inclined their heads in an obvious show of respect, then sat just as quickly and, with gusto, resumed eating and talking.
One man remained standing: the Vash captain. Her heart skipped a beat. The heat in his intense, searching gaze made her toes curl, but she held her head high and faced him. Okay, so he had incredible eyes. And he was handsome as sin. But she’d be damned if she’d reveal her attraction to him. She had hitched a ride on his ship for one purpose only: to get to the Depot, from where she intended to taste enough adventure to knock her life back on track before heading home to the people who needed her. Anything more would be a distraction. And a mistake.
Pasting what she hoped was an expression of cool objectivity on her face, she greeted him with the Basic equivalent of “good morning.”
Equally stoic, he said, “The Quillie is a merchant cruiser, not a tourist vessel, but I trust your quarters are to your liking?”
“Yes.” Well, except for the timed three-minute application of soapy spray that passed for a shower. But he probably didn’t care that she’d had to choose between shaving her legs and shampooing her hair. “Again, I thank you for allowing me on board your ship.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak. Then he shut it, scrutinizing her. Finally he said, “I never knew your name.”
That implication again that they had met before. It unsettled her further. “Jasmine Hamilton. Jas, most call me.”
“Romlijhian B’kah.” The polite dip of his head contrasted with the wariness in his eyes. “I prefer Rom. It’s less formal. And better suited to my current state of affairs, wouldn’t you say?”
She was sure that any answer she gave him would be the wrong one. Fidgeting, she glanced past him, searching for an empty spot. “I must find a place to sit.” Preferably somewhere on the opposite side of the dining hall.
“Join us.” With a gracious sweep of his hand, he indicated an empty place opposite him and next to Gann, who was obviously entertained by their awkward exchange. Amusement crinkled the other Vash’s eyes, yet she got the feeling that he was assessing her at the same time. She’d bet that fierce loyalty was as much a part of his nature as humor.
Still in a mild state of shock from the crew’s display of homage, she settled onto the bench seat. “Rom, Gann, you are very polite”—she used her hands to fill in the gaps of her halting speech—“but it is not necessary for all to stand for me.”
Rom replied, “You are a woman, and thus deserving of such respect. Since I insist that my crew adhere to the warrior’s code, no doubt you will grow accustomed to our traditions by the end of the voyage.”
So the rebel trader valued etiquette. She hadn’t expected that, and it intrigued her.
“Lar-bread?” He reached for a tray and held it in front of her until she chose a pita-thin slice; then he continued his deferential behavior by filling her empty bowl with hot stew. There was only one utensil—half spoon, half fork—and she dipped it in the bowl, stirring gingerly, releasing steam that smelled vaguely like a grilled hamand-cheese sandwich, along with other scents that were unidentifiably exotic but not unpleasant. Rom and Gann used pieces of the flat bread rather than utensils to dig out clumps of stew. The spicy fare burned her tongue, but the only thing available to wash it down was the greenish hot beverage Rom had poured into her mug.
“Tock. It chases sleep away,” Gann supplied when she lifted the steaming mug to her lips. She grimaced. It tasted like licorice. She missed coffee already. “I see that this is one more thing I must get accustomed to. But I am happy to do it.”
Rom continued to watch her intently, as if evaluating her—or waiting for her to make a mistake. That was understandable. She was a stranger, a possible security risk. As the captain, he had a responsibility to protect his crew. “You speak Basic quite well for an Earth-dweller,” he said.
“I am lucky. Languages come easily to me. But I have nowhere near the skill of my mother. She speaks fourteen.”
Rom raised his brows and leaned forward. Lacing his fingers together, he murmured to her in a foreign tongue. The language was soft, lilting, and lyrical, the way Italian or French sounded when spoken in intimate tones. She cocked her head, concentrating. Something about the cadence sounded familiar, but she couldn’t grasp a single word. “I do not understand.” This time he spoke more slowly, but she spread her hands. “I do not know this language.”
“No,” he said quietly, “I see that you don’t. It is Siennan,” he explained. “The language of my birth. Few know it outside my homeworld. I apologize.”
She’d swear he had just put her through a test. And she’d passed.
The table tipped, then righted itself, and a blond man of gigantic proportions took a seat next to her. He was the biggest man she had ever seen, three hundred pounds, at least—and not an ounce of it fat. But his smile was friendly as he extended a paw that could easily grip a basketball. “It’s my honor to meet you, Earth-dweller.”
“Jas Hamilton.” She clasped his wrist in the Vash handshake as his powerful fingers closed around her own wrist gently, as if he thought she’d break as easily as an eggshell.
“I am the B’kah’s bodyguard,” he said.
Bodyguard? Her gaze swerved to Rom, who remained inscrutable. Why would he need protection?
“Muffin is my name,” the big man went on, releasing her arm.
“Muffin?” Jas suppressed a smile. “Please. Basic is new to me. What is your name, once more?”
“Muffin.”
She pressed her lips together. The man was at least six-foot-eight. His shoulders were as wide as a football player’s with full padding. Anywhere else he’d be named Thor…or Conan. “Muffin—” Her eyes were tearing up.
“It’s an old-fashioned name,” he insisted somewhat defensively. “But still popular on my homeworld.”
“In my language a muffin is…a little sweet cake.”
Both Gann and Muffin roared in delight. Rom’s eyes shone. Jas’s heart gave a little twist. He looked like a different man when he was happy. Inexplicably, it brought out a playful urge in her to tease him, just to see him laugh.
Gann leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “What does my name mean?”
Jas tore her bread in half. “You are lucky. There is no word that is the same.”
“And Rom’s?” he asked.
“Ah, Rom.” Their gazes met, held. “I am sorry to tell you that yours is not as interesting as Muffin’s. Rom sounds like the Earth word CD-ROM.” She mentally searched for the right translation. “A data storage disk. A receptacle for bits of information.”
He almost smiled. “I have been called worse.”
“Good morning!” The young man who had escorted her to her quarters the night before hopped into a seat vacated by another crew member. Zarra greeted her hurriedly before pouring stew into a clean bowl. Then he upended one of the brightly colored jars and shoveled several hefty spoonfuls in as well. Jas rose slightly to peek inside the jar. “Is it a seasoning?”
Gann looked appalled. “By all the heavens! Where are our manners? Jas hasn’t partaken yet, Zarra. Salt her stew.”
“No, thank you.” Jas blocked Zarra’s arm with hers, spilling half the contents onto the table. The men gasped. Within seconds, Muffin and Zarra were wiping their stew-soaked bread over the table, only to pop the revolting morsels into their mouths with relish.
Muffin patted his belly. “Haven’t enjoyed salt of this grade since we raided the stores on Parish Three, eh?”
Gann mumbled in ag
reement, his mouth full. Zarra was too busy eating to add anything at all. Rom oversaw it all with resigned, paternal amusement.
Bemused by the crew’s antics, Jas propped her chin on the heel of her palm and watched them eat. It appeared that her adventure had already started.
The corridors in the aft section of the ship were narrow and dark, and she wasn’t sure if she was headed in the right direction. After leaving Terz, the engineer who had given her a tour of the gravity generators, she’d made two right turns, then a left. Now should she go left again…or straight? The click of her boot heels hitting the floor echoed down the long passageway and joined the sound of other footfalls coming her way. She rounded the corner and collided with a warm and very solid body.
Rom grabbed her forearms to keep her from stumbling. His sensuous mouth spread into a lazy grin, and every pore, every nerve ending in her body flared to life. “Are you lost?” he inquired. “Or merely out for a stroll?”
“Lost,” she said somewhat breathlessly, and clamped down on her reaction to him. “I am trying to find the bridge.”
“I’ll escort you. We’ll be making the jump to light speed within the hour. You’ll find the procedure interesting, I’m certain.” He pointed the way and they walked side by side, boots clattering in unison, while he chatted in a comfortingly rational and professional way about what she would be observing on the bridge. Once there, he left her to confer with several crew members studying an array of monitors. Jas stepped around them, drawn to the enormous curving window at the bow of the ship. The air was cooler here, redolent with the faint tang of electricity. As a periodic clicking tapped against the soles of her boots, she stood in front of the thick glass, compelled to silence by sheer awe. Distant stars gleamed, icy and impossibly ancient. One, tinged faintly green, glowed brighter than the rest.
