by Susan Grant
“Yes, yes,” Hoe piped up. “Where?”
Ché took a breath. “Earth.”
“Earth!” Hoe practically shouted, and Klark’s tock cup hit his saucer with a crisp clink. “Does the king know of this?”
Ché shook his head. “No. No one knows but the two of you. Tell no one, either, please. Otherwise too much will be read into my visit there when all I desire is an escape. It is a place where I can exist anonymously and in relative comfort until my wife is chosen and a wedding date set.”
Though Ché had delivered his explanation calmly, and it was one that clearly made sense, Hoe’s mouth hung open and his hand remained frozen over his palmtop screen. Ché couldn’t remember ever seeing his advisor in such a state of shock.
But Klark’s eyes twinkled, and his tone reflected amusement. “I can’t imagine you living amongst those barbarians, Brother.”
“Given the choice of hiding in the frontier or staying here to endure the tedious trivialities generated by the search for a wife, which would you choose?”
Klark’s mouth twitched. “I see your point.”
But Hoe was still sputtering. “It’s dangerous on Earth. Unstable.”
Ché stretched, flexing the finely honed muscles of his back. He worked hard to keep a fit, warrior’s body. Too bad his lifelong advisor thought him incapable of using it. “The political climate there has calmed considerably since Ian Hamilton’s engagement to the princess.”
“But many Earth-dwellers don’t like the idea of belonging to the Trade Federation.”
“And some never will, Hoe. That will change, gradually, with upcoming generations. But with no recent anti-Vash protests marring the current climate of goodwill, it is safe to say that relations are better than they’ve ever been. Not that I have any intention of visiting in full Vash Nadah regalia, or in any official capacity at all. I will disguise myself.” As an Earth-dweller. He would summon the Vedla chief tailor that very afternoon, in fact.
The more Ché thought of the idea of traveling incognito to the frontier world, the more it appealed to him.
Hoe typed furiously. “What of the language barrier, my lord? Most there don’t speak Basic.”
“I know their language.”
Basic would always remain the official language of the Federation, as it facilitated trade between the Federation and far-flung worlds that used individual dialects. Highborn Vash also learned Siennan, but that rich and ancient language was reserved for special and ceremonial purposes. Vedlas learned Eireyan, too, the much-loved tongue of their homeworld.
But Ché had made a point to learn English several standard years ago, because it was the birth language of Rom B’kah’s queen, and now of the crown prince. He figured that if he were at a party or anywhere else where English might be spoken in dark corners, he wanted to be able to interpret what was said.
Born and raised in the midst of court intrigues, such a desire was second nature. But because he didn’t have a natural ability with languages—or the interest, previously—he’d struggled to learn the strange and alien tongue “English.” Luckily, recent frequent interactions with Ian Hamilton had improved his skill, and he had no doubts that when on Earth he would be able to make his wishes known.
“I will contact the crown prince’s sister once there,” he admitted.
“Ilana Hamilton?” Klark regarded him with interest.
“I am growing weary of this constant second-guessing,” Ché snapped. “From my staff and the council, I expect it. But from you, I take exception. Don’t draw conclusions requiring knowledge to which you are not privy, Brother. This is the precise reason I am taking this trip. I am weary of my every move being examined, dissected, and analyzed, when my behavior has been nothing short of by-the-book—the Vedla book.”
Klark pursed his lips. “My, my. Quite an explosive reaction.”
Ché shook his head and sighed. “A few months’ pleasure before I return to complete my wedding arrangements—is that too much to ask before my freedom ends?”
Klark’s gaze remained speculative. “Hamilton’s sister may be a B’kah, but like the crown prince she is a commoner.”
“Great Mother. Who cares? You speak of her bloodlines as if they were contagious.”
“They can be.”
Ché ignored the insinuation. “You speak as if I plan to bed Ilana Hamilton and get her with child.”
Klark raised his eyebrows. “That would be a triumph for us Vedlas, would it not?” he proposed.
Ché growled. “No Vedla would be that irresponsible, impregnating a woman he did not plan to marry. I cannot believe you would even suggest it, Klark. It must be my willingness to associate with the Hamilton twins that offends your racialist sensibilities. Shall I remind you that seven of the original Eight were of ordinary blood? Including Romjha, the Great One himself.”
“But not the Vedlas. Ours is the blood of kings. In the Dark Years, they thought they had slaughtered us all. But we survived. When all who wanted to eradicate us from the galaxy thought they’d been successful, Queen Vedla, the youngest prince, and an unborn princess escaped the massacre and in secret continued our bloodline.”
“Under the protection of the Dar family, who were commoners,” Ché pointed out. “Our families have intermarried for thousands of years. Commoner blood runs in all our veins now.”
“Vash Nadah commoner blood.”
Ché scrubbed one hand over his face. “Why are we arguing history? Why are we arguing this issue at all?”
“Because,” Klark replied, “if one looks no deeper than the obvious, then yes, the crown prince’s sister’s value can be easily dismissed. However, one cannot ignore her lofty rank within the Federation. Her status as an unpromised woman will affect the balance of power. It warrants discussion.”
“Enough!” Rigid with displeasure, Ché stood.
Klark remained on his pillows, reclining languidly in their silken nest as he no doubt continued to ponder Ilana Hamilton and the threat he said she posed. Had his plot to assassinate Ian arisen just as casually? Ché wondered.
Ché tried to tell himself that Klark was going through a bad period, that time and maturity would eventually put all this behind them. He loved his brother and knew Klark felt the same. If only Klark would find better ways to express it!
Ché turned to Hoe, who regarded Klark with acute interest. The advisor was an intense fellow, cheerful in his outlook and wholly loyal to Ché. Hoe’s greatest value lay in his ability to remain a vigilant observer from outside the maelstrom of Vedla in-house politics, assuring Ché a reliable channel of unbiased information and guidance. There was no better reason to leave Hoe behind at the palace. If nothing else, he’d ensure that Klark’s potentially divisive musings about Ilana Hamilton and her detrimental effect on the balance of power in the Federation would not spread farther than this room.
Ché spoke, his jaw tight. “I will now inform Ian Hamilton of my plans. Here on Eireya, I’ve entrusted only you two with the knowledge of my destination. No one else is to know. Is that clear?”
Hoe and Klark nodded.
“Then, when I have recuperated from this wifehunt business, I will return and marry.” Ché turned on his heel and left his brother’s chambers, his steps growing lighter as he went.
He had weeks, hopefully months, in which to see to his pleasure and relaxation away from this scrutiny he’d known all his life. No advisors, no councilmen, no guards. No wedding arrangements to listen to or the exasperating schemes of a bored brother. He’d be free of it all.
He inhaled deeply. His cape slapped against his boots with each long stride. The farther he strode from Klark’s quarters, the lighter he felt. His last days as a bachelor would be spent well, that he vowed. While he’d do nothing to put his family’s reputation in jeopardy, his options were wide open.
Ché smiled. He could hardly wait to discover what primitive pleasures awaited him on Earth.
Chapter Four
Decadence, Ilana
mused as she left a reception at the Beverly Hills agency that represented movie star Hunter Holt. She could almost smell it on the man, the reckless, blasé hedonism embraced by only the very rich and truly powerful. Living to excess—Ilana found it part fascinating, part repulsive; it was so foreign to what she was, and what she wanted to be. “Would you consider Holt decadent?” she asked Linda, her personal assistant.
The woman followed her into an elevator and they rode it down to street level. “The chocolate cheesecake certainly was. But Holt? He tries. I don’t know if he’s ‘quality’ enough, though.”
“True. He’s self-made. He didn’t inherit anything he has. Or had, before he blew it all on drugs.”
“He’s more…used. Like an old Lamborghini. Sexy, luxurious, still a status symbol—but if you look too closely, you can see that the leather fittings are worn.”
Linda’s eyes crinkled behind her narrow, black, rectangular glasses. “I don’t think I want to know about Holt’s fittings—what they look like or where they’ve been.”
“Debauchery isn’t very hygienic,” Ilana agreed. Then she laughed and snapped her fingers. “That’s the word I’m looking for. Debauched. One step below decadent.” Holt exuded it like bad aftershave: late nights, hard partying, and too much money. “But he’s got talent, and it’s bankable.”
“If he can keep straight long enough to finish a film.”
“If he led a boring life, no one would have financed our documentary.”
Linda studied her. “I wouldn’t think Holt was your type, Ilana.”
“Are you crazy? I don’t have a type. But I do know that I don’t do decadent, and I don’t do debauched.”
The elevator let them out in a marble-floored foyer manned by a bored security guard. Outside, the July evening was tinted orange. It was nearly nine and still twilight. Glass doors swooshed open, and Ilana strode outside, high heels tapping out a staccato beat on the cement.
Linda had no trouble keeping up. Ilana wouldn’t have kept an assistant who did. Besides, Linda didn’t walk; she bounced along, as full of fire as her short, spiky orange hair. Ilana needed Linda. The woman was indispensable during the chaotic days of filming and the post-production that followed. But now that Ilana was sifting through possible projects, so far unable to decide on any, Linda would retreat on vacation to her Torrance condo and her three schnauzers until Ilana called her back to duty.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know the type of man who attracts you.”
“Available is nice. Not being possessive helps, too.”
Linda sighed.
“Don’t shake your head at my social life.”
“I’m not shaking my head. Did you see me shaking my head? I’m only stating the facts. Available isn’t a type.”
Ilana fluffed out her hair. “It works for me.”
“Because you’ve never stayed with Mr. Right-Now long enough to figure out if he’s Mr. Right.”
“Explain to me why when a man says he’s a confirmed bachelor, no one minds, but when a woman says the same thing, everyone has a problem with it.”
“I’m not talking about any woman—I’m talking about you, Ilana. I don’t see you alone for the rest of your life, and I don’t think you do, either.”
“That’s right. I don’t.” She gave Linda a sideways smile. “I have a social life. I attract men.”
“You attract them. But you never let them get close.”
Ilana’s chest tightened strangely. Maybe she did crave closeness. But she wasn’t sure it was worth the risk. Monogamy, commitment—it all might work for women like Linda, but Ilana had seen the flip side of the coin, the hurt her mother had suffered when she found out how long her first husband, Ilana’s father Jock, had been cheating on her.
From a young age, Ilana had suspected that “Daddy was seeing other ladies.” With a child’s hyperawareness, she could smell the faint perfume when he’d open his suitcase after returning home from his trips as an airline pilot, could tell that he’d been with a stranger, things her mother never seemed to notice. That innocence—or blindness—had angered Ilana.
She’d directed that fury at her mother, for not seeing, for letting herself love Jock despite what he was doing behind her back. If he was with other women, it meant he was bored with his family, tired of them. Assigning that blame had made Ilana a sullen teenager with her mother, and a needy girl with her father, showering him with love and attention so that he wouldn’t leave. Her brother Ian had reacted the opposite way, becoming the perfect, devoted son. Only in the last few years of college had Ilana grown closer to her mother. But the deep-down kernel of anger, of resentment, of fear, had never really gone away. “Giving someone that much opportunity to hurt you is crazy.”
“I think if you ever opened up, Ilana, let a man inside that stubborn, smart-assed head of yours, you might be surprised and like it.”
Ilana groaned. “I know there are decent men out there. I know many relationships truly work. But I like my life the way it is. If I didn’t like it, I would have changed it. I’m in charge. I’m in control. That’s more than I can say about most of the married women I know. If a guy loves you, he loves you. He doesn’t have to give you a wedding ring to prove it.”
“Bullcrap, Ilana. If a man really loves you, he’ll want you to be his. He won’t want to share you with other men.”
Ilana let out a heavy sigh. She’d had enough psychoanalysis for the day. Probing her mind was like peeking under the bed when you didn’t want to find dust bunnies. All it did was remind you that you needed to clean.
Her cell phone rang. “It’s Cole,” she muttered, reading the caller ID.
“I thought you weren’t seeing him anymore.”
“I’m not.” She’d broken it off with the cameraman the week before, just after her disastrous visit to Fly Without Fear for Dummies. True, he’d been a casualty of her shame over failing at that venture, but he was due to take a hike anyway. She’d been with him for a month, hadn’t yet met anyone new, but she’d grown bored. “I admire persistence in a man,” she told Linda, setting the phone to pick up the call automatically. “Only not after I’m done with them.”
“Ms. Hamilton!”
Ilana’s head jerked up. That’s when she noticed the white news van with the satellite dish on top.
“Hell. What do they want?”
“Probably a few questions answered about Holt,” Linda assured her. “Tell them how decadent you think he is.”
“Yeah, right.” Ilana lowered her voice. “I didn’t think there would be that much interest in him. Not enough to warrant a van and a news crew. A phone call, maybe.” She was an independent filmmaker. She made films on impossibly small budgets. She operated on the fringes of Hollywood, her chief purpose being to get her movies made the way she wanted to make them. The press didn’t follow that type around.
A woman in a mint-green Tahari suit, a killer manicure, and a microphone in her hand waited in front of Ilana’s car. Oh, no. It was Rose Brungard. She hosted “Rose Knows,” a small-scale version of Entertainment Tonight, focusing on hot celebrities and the parties they attended.
Ilana made sure her eyes remained mostly hidden behind a tangled curtain of curls. Whatever her opinion of Holt, she wasn’t going to feed a gossip’s curiosity. The man deserved his privacy, she thought, aiming her remote at the silver Lura she’d parked at the curb.
Rose’s perky voice startled Ilana. “With official word reaching Earth today that Prince Ian Hamilton has chosen a wedding date, Ilana Hamilton, twin sister to the man who will become ruler of the entire galaxy, remains the last of Earth’s newest royal family to remain unclaimed.”
“Un-what?” Ilana blurted.
The woman thrust her microphone in Ilana’s face. “Who might Earth’s Cinderella-heiress choose?”
Linda mercifully wedged herself between them, but the reporter leaned sideways, and pressed her attack. “The word on the street is that you’ll soon announce your engagemen
t, Ms. Hamilton. Who is your lucky guy? Or should I say, your lucky prince?”
“I’m not going to marry a pr—”
Linda reached behind her back and pinched Ilana’s thigh. “Ms. Hamilton has been instructed by her family not to comment on the subject at this time.”
To Ilana’s dismay, the reporter appeared charmed by her silence, forced as it was, and not at all put out by Linda’s intervention.
“This is such a Cinderella tale! Would you be willing to appear on the show? We’ll do an interview, tour your home.” Rose turned to her cameraman. “We’ll need a shot of her in the kitchen, cooking a romantic, alien dinner for two,” she suggested.
Ilana’s vision blurred, either from hunger or from shock. Linda was inching her toward her car door.
“We look forward to having you on the show, Ms. Hamilton,” Rose called. She winked. “And to finding out who your lucky guy is.”
“But there is no—”
Before Ilana could finish, Linda shoved her into the Lura, locking her in and scurrying around to the other side. Linda leaped into the passenger seat.
Ilana looked at her. “Aren’t you going to buckle my seatbelt, too?”
“Drive,” Linda ordered. “Before you talk yourself into trouble.”
“With you or them?”
“Drive.”
Ilana started the engine. As she pulled into the street, she tried to smile at Rose, though she suspected it looked more like a grimace.
“Why did you have to say that, Linda—that I’ve been instructed on what to say? No one has instructed me in anything. That’s only going to whet their curiosity.”
“It’s already whetted, Ilana. It has been for months. Only now that the guests have been invited to your brother’s wedding, the pressure from the press is going to heat up. You’re the only one in your family who lives on Earth. And the only one who’s single. You’re a natural target.”
Ilana felt the unfairness of it all overwhelm her. “I don’t want to be a target. I just want to live my life. And you didn’t let me tell them that.”
