Shara should feel elated. Perhaps she was too tired. Right now she felt drained.
She wanted to brush her teeth, bathe, and sleep for a week in Cade’s arms. His arms. She’d shot both of them. Betrayed him. She had no right to expect him to ever hold her again. The pain in her shattered heart might never heal.
As if reading her gloomy thoughts, Cade walked beside her, strolling slowly behind the others so they had privacy. Cade kept his tone even. “You okay?”
The edge in his tone was missing. She glanced sideways at him. “I should be asking you that question.”
“I’ll heal. Without your help, I wouldn’t have succeeded.” He stopped and faced her, his eyes a clear green that bathed in sunlight. “I would have accepted you shooting ten bullets into my body to save both our peoples.”
Tight and tense, she forced a smile. “So you don’t blame me for—?”
“You didn’t want to hurt me.”
“Actually, I did when I shot you.” He arched a shocked brow. “I wanted you to hurt so badly that your Quait would kick in and save us all.”
“Is that so?”
At a twinkle in his eyes, the panic inside her eased, just a little. “You don’t agree?”
“I suppose I’ll have to, or you might shoot me again,” he teased.
“Not funny.”
There was a long, silent pause. Finally she gathered the courage to ask, “But can you forgive me for trying to destroy the spheres to save my people?”
“Thank the Stars, you didn’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It can be that simple if we let it be that simple.” The cold in his face burned away, leaving sunny warmth.
Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Why do I always hurt the people I love?”
“Shooting me was . . . the right thing to do. And perhaps from your perspective, so was trying to stop me.”
She knew exactly how much it had to have cost him to admit that. Hope flooded through her. And relief.
He was willing to forgive her as he stood there bleeding, and she adored him for it. He’d taught her so much about herself. With his help she’d found the courage to love. She snuggled against his chest, rested her cheek against his steady heartbeat. “I missed holding you. I don’t want to ever let go.”
He chuckled into her hair. “You’re strong and courageous. You did what had to be done—even when it was painful. And as angry as I was, I still couldn’t stop loving you.”
She jerked her head up to see the heat in his eyes. And she saw the truth. He did love her.
“Say it again.” She snagged her hands up behind his head. Pulled his mouth down for a kiss.
“I love you,” he murmured, gently, firmly.
“And I love you.” Jules had been right again. Bruce had been a once-in-a-lifetime love. But that didn’t mean he was her only love. Her love for Cade was different, deeper, broader, more mature, more passionate. “I want to spend the rest of our lives together.”
Cade stiffened. “What about my Quait?”
She reached up and placed her hands on his jaw, tugged his head down to kiss her. “Quait or no Quait, you’re a good man, Cade.”
She kissed him, careful not to touch his wounds. “On the mine, you trusted my judgment, so do it again. If we can find a way to get to Rama, I want to go with you, help free your people and resettle on another world. And if we can’t go, we’ll make a life here.” She kissed his neck. “As long as we’re together I’ll be content.” She kissed his collar bone. “Happy.”
“You’re sure?”
“You’re a good man, Cade,” she repeated, winked, batted her eyelashes at him outrageously, and shot him her sexy-vixen holovid smile. “And your Quait makes you even better.”
He laughed. She chuckled. “Now kiss me and prove me right.”
66
Shara lounged on a towel in the shade of her tiki hut on the beach while right beside her Cade soaked up rays.
“Has Trevor’s story hit the vidlinks?” Cade asked.
“It’s tomorrow’s headline news.” Shara enjoyed the asteroid’s isolation while they could get it. “Are you prepared for the press invasion?”
“The press isn’t exactly one of my favorite Terran occupations.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Wait until you meet our politicians.”
Shara’s vidlink buzzed. She was screening her calls because it had been chiming nonstop. But when she recognized Teresa’s holo-vid ID, she answered. “How’s it going?”
“My face should be back to normal once the bruises and swelling fade. The plastic surgeon you sent me to does great work.”
“And how are you?” Shara asked.
“Seeing a shrink and healing. And I’ve been seeing Trevor quite a bit. He’s a good guy.”
“That’s wonderful.” Shara could hear the happiness in Teresa’s voice.
“The best part is . . . I have a surprise for you.” Teresa’s voice had regained her former business-like tone. “I found Jamar’s ship stashed on a small island in the South Pacific.”
“Thanks.” Shara ended the call and grinned at Cade. “We can head to Rama whenever you like.”
Cade peered at her above his sunglasses. “Are you still certain you want to go?”
“Absolutely. By tomorrow this paradise will be ruined. Haven will be crawling with military and politicians. They’ll bring the press with them. I’m not certain you realize that billions of people will be focusing on your every word. Holovid crews will bring our story to the world.”
Cade reached over and took her hand. “If you stay by my side, they’ll all be looking at you.” His eyes sparkled with heat, reminding her this afternoon and evening might be the last alone time they’d have until they left for Rama.
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t kid yourself. Celebrities are commonplace. You are one of a kind.” She passed him a bowl of potato chips and shot him a sassy grin. “Eat up. I intend to enjoy you while I have you to myself—and you need your strength for what I have in mind.”
“Have I told you lately how much I adore your mind?” Cade turned onto his side and stroked her hair back from her face.
“And I love yours—all of it.” She chuckled at his expression. He still hadn’t fully accepted his Quait, but he no longer argued with her.
“What’s so funny?”
“Do you think our child will have Quait?”
“I don’t even know if it’s possible for us to have children together.”
“Trust me. It’s possible.”
“Are you saying . . .” He coughed, almost choked on a chip. “You and I . . .”
“We’re pregnant. I hope your spaceship works better than your birth control.”
Cade let out a whoop of joy. “The salt must have altered my body chemistry.” Then his smile faded a bit. “Is the baby—”
“I tested the baby’s DNA with a medkit and vidlink. Everything is fine. But I won’t bring our child to Rama if you’re about to start a social revolution.”
“Not a problem. I’ll arrange for us to be in the advance party that colonizes the new world.” He dug into the pocket of his shorts and shot her a sheepish smile. “I guess I should have given you this ring sooner.”
In his palm, he held out the tanzanite-and-opal ring she’d admired so long ago back on the space station. “Oh . . . Cade. When did you buy this?”
“Last week. I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to give it to you.” And then his mouth angled down and claimed hers, sealing their love with a kiss.
(Please continue reading for an excerpt of Solar Heat and more information about Susan Kearny)
Coming next from Bell Bridge Books in 2013: Susan Kearney’s Solar Heat. The Heat Series — Book 2
Chapter 1
(Excerpt)
“CAPTAIN, THE starboard stabilizers are malfunctioning,” Rak, Azsla’s second in command, reported.
As captain of her brand new crew, Azsla habitual
ly double-checked status reports. Especially critical ones. She leaned over the con, and her pulse ratcheted up a notch. Unfortunately, this time Rak was correct.
Azsla turned to Kali, her worried co-pilot and chief engineer. “Fix the stabilizer.”
“I’m on it, Captain.” The giant, gentle man narrowed his thoughtful brown eyes with uncertainty.
Azsla restrained a sigh. For the thousandth time, she reminded herself to have patience. After all, she’d volunteered for this mission, agreeing to work with this crew of ex-slaves, in order to go to Zor as a spy.
Her mission—to prevent further uprisings and retaliation from the slaves on Zor—was critical.
A loud bang, followed by the ship’s shudder shot them into a spin.
Azsla swore and fought the controls. Talk about unlucky missions.
Alarms wailed.
“We have engine failure,” Rak shouted to be heard above the sirens.
Kali’s fingers flew over his console. “Repair bots aren’t responding.”
“Reboot the bots,” Azsla ordered.
“Power is fluctuating,” Kali complained. “I can’t fix them.”
Everything that could go wrong had. One moment Azsla and her crew of four “fugitive” slaves had been on course for Zor, the next every damn system in the ship was on the fritz.
The vessel jolted. Lights flickered, and the bridge went dark except for emergency lights.
“Quark,” Azsla swore at her dead controls as she floated and hung onto her seat. Gravity was down. Life support was down. The emergency generators had failed to kick in.
In the weak yellow backup lighting, Azsla spied Kali floating by the ceiling. Rak bumped into a bulkhead. Both looked unconscious. Neither man had Azsla’s superior reflexes and had failed to grab on when the gravity had failed.
The cosmic whammy had dealt them one hell of a beating, but even as Azsla assessed their predicament, she thanked Holy Vigo that as a First of Rama, she had been entitled to all the strength-building salt she could swallow. So her reflexes were faster than the escaped slaves that made up her crew, but she didn’t have much time to save them.
With the ship currently powerless and spinning out of control toward the portal that was supposed to have transported them to Zor and freedom, Azsla snapped a toggle, cutting the blaring alarm. She didn’t need a news flash to know that unless she altered her damaged ship’s course, the forces sucking them into the black maw would squash them flatter than a neutron particle.
Why the hell hadn’t the automatic backup system fired up? With an agile spin to port, Azsla flipped open the auxiliary engine panel. Twisting the manual override, she thrust the handle to starboard.
And swore.
The reboot mechanism was fried.
Licks of alarm shot down Azsla’s back. Mother of Salt—a double cosmic whammy.
Keep it together.
She’d drilled for emergency situations. Only this was no drill. They were in trouble. Bad trouble. And fear ignited in the pit of her gut like a retrorocket on nitro.
She checked her watch, then estimated the triple threat of time, distance, and mass. At the inescapable result—certain death—her scalp broke into a sweat.
She’d always thought she’d understood the risk of covert operations. When her superiors had cooked up this mission, she’d volunteered. The decision hadn’t been a hard one. Fifteen years ago when she’d been in her early teens, a slave uprising on Rama had killed her parents and ruined her home. Some 200,000 slaves had escaped her world and resettled on the planet Zor. Eventually the Firsts had regrouped and regained control, but life as Azsla had known it was over.
After losing everything, her existence had gone from street orphan to ward of the state. When the Corps offered to train her as a weapons specialist and promised her a shot at stopping any chance of another slave rebellion, they hadn’t had to ask twice. As a First she’d understood, even as a teenager, that as long as Zor offered safe haven to slaves, all Ramans stood in peril, their way of life threatened.
It had been surprisingly easy to leave behind her regimented, friendless existence. But to become an effective spy, Azsla had been asked to accomplish what no other Raman had ever done: suppress her Quait, a First’s ability to dominate. She’d accepted she might never succeed—but after years of training she had achieved the impossible. Sort of. As long as she kept her emotions in check, her Quait didn’t take over, and Azsla could prevent herself from overpowering the will of her crew and outing herself. By reining herself in tight, she could now pass as one of them.
She’d never considered that engine failure might kill her in this tin can before she’d even landed on Zor.
If her crew ever sniffed out her real role, they’d sabotage the journey to Zor. Slaves might be weak, but they were fanatical. Dangerous. They placed little value on life, even their own. To find out what the Zorans were up to, Azsla had to be just as ruthless. Knowing any one of them would turn on a First to keep her from landing on Zor reminded her to keep up her guard. Always.
Getting to Zor, at this point, was secondary to staying alive. The air grew stale. It was already freezing cold, as if the heat hadn’t been on since liftoff three days ago.
Azsla gripped the command console to maintain her position at her station and ignored the white vapor puffing from her mouth, the prickly bumps rising over her flesh, her body-racking shivers.
Her crewmen floated still unconscious, and although she shouldn’t care about their welfare, she couldn’t squelch the sparks of sorrow over their plight.
During the long months of training for this mission, she’d come to know her crew and, to her surprise, respect them. Now, she couldn’t remember when she’d stopped thinking of them as slaves and started thinking of them as people.
“Anyone awake?”
Rak drew in choked breaths. Kali flailed on the ceiling, seeking leverage to alter his attitude.
Knowing she had mere moments to divert the ship, Azsla stayed put. If she couldn’t change their course, the wormhole would devour the ship, leaving nothing, not even scattered debris, to mark their passing.
“Report,” she insisted, her voice lowering an octave as if ashes filled her mouth, her cold-numbed fingers flicking the damaged control toggles, frantic to restart the engines.
Surely Jadlan or Micoo, her two additional crew, in the sleepers had been jarred awake? Or had they ditched protocol, abandoned their posts, and ejected in their escape pods? Azsla had no way of knowing, not with her instruments off line, but as always, she cut her crew some slack, all too aware that none of them had her superior intellect or physical strength.
Rak pulled himself toward his console. “Captain, the stabilizer damaged the hull.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she snapped, her voice firm.
“We’re spiraling end over end. If we don’t regain control, our hull’s going to be crushed within minutes.”
She knew that, too. Azsla ripped open a panel’s cover to examine the wiring. The reek of burning plastic singed her nostrils. Smoke filtered into the cabin, and fear scratched along her skin like claws, ripping and shredding, threatening to tap out her last reserve of Quait control.
Kali, her engineer, should be doing this job. But he was weak.
She vibrated with the need to use her Quait—to force Kali to wake up and help her.
Her fingers trembled, and she loathed her own weakness. With her gut doing a slow spin job, she battled fresh panic.
Easy. She could do this. She could beat the brutality of space.
Never had she missed Rama so much. She yearned for fresh air, a cool breeze, dirt under her feet.
Sweet Vigo, people were supposed to live on planets where they didn’t have to breathe recycled air, where every little mechanical failure wasn’t life threatening, where a stray piece of dust didn’t create lethal havoc with her ship’s systems.
Trying to buy herself a little relief from pounding panic, Azsla dialed down he
r emotion. She cornered it, squashed it. Beat it into submission.
Pretend it’s just another drill. Pretend no one else is here.
She could fix the ship without their help. Without using her Quait.
After ten years of keeping her cool and suppressing her Quait, her spontaneous instinct to dominate should have been under control . . . yet, as the port fuel tank exploded, her natural inclinations to overpower kicked in.
Every cell in her body ached to reach out and make the crew work as one. But if she reverted to instinct and used her Quait to save all their lives by forcing them to fix the ship, her crew would then learn that she wasn’t one of them. If they didn’t kill her, she would wind up returning home in defeat. Sure, mind scrubbers could erase her crew’s memories, but the Corps didn’t accept failure. Azsla would never get another shot at returning to Zor.
But the aching instinct to survive at any cost began to burn. Sizzle. Her blood boiled with the need to take charge . . . for the sake of self-preservation.
She was about to lose it and take over the will of every underfirst on board.
With no time to talk herself down slowly, she popped a tranq, swallowing the pill without water. Immediately, the fire eased. The seething boil cut to a manageable simmer.
Of course, later, if she lived that long, she’d pay for relying on the tranq. If her superiors ever discovered she’d resorted to artificial tactics, it would put them off—enough to shut her down, boot her from the Corps.
But with the metal hull groaning, official consequences were the least of her problems.
Rak shouted, “The portal is sucking us in.”
Praying to save the ship from annihilation, Azsla struggled to route the last remaining battery power into the bow thrusters.
Behind her, she heard Kali groan, shove off the ceiling, and buckle into his seat.
Her fingers manually keyed in instructions, and she regained her normal tone of voice. “Kali. Report.”
Kali slapped a flickering monitor. “Navigation’s a bust. Hyperdrive’s nonoperational. Engineering’s off line. Life support’s nonfunctional. Time to bail?”
Lunar Heat: 1 (The Heat Series) Page 30
