by Zoë Archer
“Then I’ll pilot the Wraith ship,” she said, “and put the Arcadia on auto pilot for the return journey.”
“Only members of the Squadron can fly a Wraith,” he answered.
She snorted. “Please. You 8th Wing hotshots aren’t the only ones with skills. Give me fifteen minutes and I can fly any ship.”
“Not a Wraith.” He held up his left hand, revealing the square of slightly raised flesh in the center of his palm. “Biotech implants. Without this, the Wraith is an inoperable hunk of metal. But with the implant, the pilot and the ship become one. And that’s what PRAXIS wants for themselves. They get a hold of a Wraith, they copy the tech, and the shitstorm that is the PRAXIS Group is going to get a whole lot worse. Even for scavengers.”
Her lips tightened, but she wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t yield.
He had had enough of playing nice. “One of my squad is missing. She could be injured. Or maybe whoever has Celene is torturing her.” His jaw tightened, thinking of the lieutenant, alone, hurting. They were all trained on how to survive and endure torture, but that didn’t make it easier to contemplate one of the squad being abused. “We’re wasting time because of your temper tantrum. You don’t work with a partner? Tough. Now you do.”
For a moment, he and Mara simply glared at each other. He saw the calculation in her gaze, saw her mind working to find some way out. But there wasn’t one. Kell had a mission, Mara Skiren was part of that mission, and there was nothing further to discuss. He’d get the job done. He always did. And if he could hurt the PRAXIS Group in the process, so much the better. World-eating bastards.
Suddenly, Mara turned and stalked toward her ship. She punched in the entry code, and the hatch opened with a hiss.
She said over her shoulder, “If you’re not on the Arcadia in five minutes, I’m leaving without you.” Then she marched into the ship, muttering.
Captain Esen looked at the space where Mara Skiren had stood, and he did the same. He expected her to leave an afterimage, like a solar flare burned into the eye.
“Her file doesn’t do her justice,” the captain murmured.
“Not much would, sir.”
“It’s not going to be an easy mission.”
“That is an understatement, sir.” Breaching the natural barriers surrounding the Smoke Quadrant, infiltrating the region of the galaxy known for its ruthless criminals, finding Lieutenant Jur, getting both her and her ship to safety. A challenge, yes, but Kell had undertaken missions just as perilous. When it came to himself or other members of the Black Wraith Squad, he had complete confidence.
Throw a wild card like Mara into the situation, and all of his carefully planned stratagems became lunar dust. She unbalanced everything. Including him.
“I’ll bring Lieutenant Jur back, sir.”
Captain Esen nodded as if this had never been in doubt. “Her Wraith, too, Commander.”
“And if the Wraith is too damaged to fly…” He knew the 8th Wing’s protocol for such situations but wanted direct confirmation from the captain.
“Destroy it.”
Which meant that there was a possibility he might be stranded, or consigning himself to capture or death.
“Of course, sir.” He knew without consulting the chrono on his wrist brace that his five minutes were almost up, just as he knew Mara would leave without him if he didn’t get his ass on to her ship. “Time to go.” He gave the captain a salute, which was returned.
“Good luck, Commander.” Captain Esen glanced meaningfully at the scavenger ship.
Kell grabbed the duffel bag he’d stowed nearby. “Black Wraith Squad doesn’t need luck.”
“This mission, you just might.”
Taking a deep breath, he boarded the scavenger ship. He had already familiarized himself with the ship’s specs. The cockpit at the front connected to a galley, and sleeping quarters lay just beyond that. For one person, the ship would be small but comfortable. For two, however, the situation would be less accommodating. Extremely uncomfortable, actually.
He navigated quickly through the narrow passages to stand just outside the cockpit. Mara sat in the captain’s chair, running a diagnostic and plotting a course. Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of his boots on the floor. She didn’t turn around.
“I’d tell you to grab a seat for take off,” she said, “but there isn’t one.”
“Incorrect.” He dropped his bag and strode toward the galley. There, at a tiny table, were two seats, the only grudging acknowledgment that someone other than Mara Skiren might be on her ship.
He unlatched one chair and carried it back to the cockpit. She did turn around then, watching as he latched the chair down to the metal grid on the floor of the cockpit. Right beside her. He gave it an experimental shake and was glad to see that it didn’t budge.
“Now you have a copilot.” He dropped into the seat and fought his smile when she scowled at him.
Swiveling back to the control panel, she punched in the launch sequence. The ship hummed to life. The bay doors retracted, revealing the darkness of space, the multitudes of star systems and the gleaming lights of 8th Wing ships on patrol. His pulse kicked a little just to see it. Didn’t matter how many times he launched for his own patrol or on a mission. In some ways, he was still that dirty-faced kid staring up at the night sky, wishing himself among the stars.
This wasn’t a routine mission, not by a long shot. He had a difficult task ahead of him, and an even more difficult woman beside him.
The lights from the control panel illuminated her face, and again he was struck by how incongruously aristocratic she looked, how coolly beautiful. The sidelong glance she gave him, though, revealed that she was profoundly unnerved by his presence.
Well, she rattled him too. They were even.
“Launching,” she murmured, “in five, four, three, two, one. Hang on to your balls, Commander.”
They blasted off.
Chapter Two
The ship was too small. It never had been before. There had always been plenty of room for her. Mara knew that technically, the Arcadia hadn’t actually shrunk. But now the bulkheads felt too close, the passageways too narrow, and the cockpit felt like a Meruvian snuffbox.
Not very difficult to find the culprit behind the Arcadia’s sudden loss of size.
As she piloted toward the Smoke Quadrant, she sent another wary glance out of the corner of her eye. The 8th Wing flyboy was studying the control panel intently, his dark brows drawn down in concentration. His presence beside her was large, warm, masculine. Foreign. Unwanted.
“Planning a mutiny?”
Frayne didn’t look up from his scrutiny of the controls. “If I jettison you, I can’t get to the Smoke Quadrant.”
Nice. “Why the inspection?”
“I always learn whatever ship I’m on. Never know when I’ll need to take the controls.”
Mara bristled. “You aren’t getting your hands on my ship. I promise you that.”
He turned to her, and even this slight adjustment of his posture made her feel hemmed in, overwhelmed. She told herself it was because he was 8th Wing, a representative of everything she avoided—order, discipline, regulations. Obligations. Yet she knew, deep down, that his gray uniform accounted for only a very small part of what unsettled her.
His eyes, darker than the depths of space, held hers. “Tell me what I can get my hands on.”
“Keep them to yourself,” she snapped, but a pulse of heat worked through her.
He lifted his broad shoulders in a negligent shrug. Yet he wasn’t as indifferent as he tried to look. Mara felt his gaze on her as she slid out of her seat to make some adjustments to the ship’s climate controls. Felt his gaze all over her body. It was too damned hot in here.
“How long until the Smoke Quadrant’s outer perimeter?”
“About twenty solar hours.”
With a muttered curse, he surged to his feet to stand in the galley space behind the cockpit. He prowled like a caged beas
t, all sinewy, supple motion. Even though she stayed in the cockpit while he paced in the galley, she was still able to sense the power of his body. His large hands clenched and unclenched reflexively.
“We need to talk strategy. Part of me just wants to go in with guns blazing—but I know that can’t happen.”
“It’s got to be on the quiet.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he moved. A man his size shouldn’t be so graceful, yet he was, and the contrast between his masculinity and the sleek motion felt unexpectedly potent.
“Any sign of trouble, and our leads dry up.”
“Exactly.” She managed to pry her gaze away to study the chart on the control panel. “The best intel about moving black market goods is on Ryge. I should start there.”
“We,” he said. “We should start there.”
She blew out an impatient breath. “I don’t work with we, just me.”
“Until Lieutenant Jur and her ship are safe, it’s we.” He crossed his arms over his wide chest. “And in order for us to function properly as a team, you will tell me everything about this Ryge.”
“Here’s a communication for you, Commander,” she said. “I’m not one of your Black Ghost—”
“Black Wraith.”
She waved a hand, dismissing this. “I’m not part of your squad, and I’m not 8th Wing. The Arcadia is my ship. So you can’t order me around. If you want to know something, you ask. Got it?”
His jaw tightened. It took several moments before he spoke. “Agreed.” His voice was a hard growl. “Tell me about Ryge. Please.”
Mara bit back a smile. There was something distinctly arousing about a strong, attractive man saying “please.” Even if she couldn’t stand the man on principle.
She tapped a few keys on the control panel, and a small holo of the planet Ryge appeared, flickering in the half light of the cockpit. “Most of the wheeling and dealing in the Smoke is done on Ryge. If someone wants to move merch or do some trading, they come here.”
“Any cities?”
“A few, but if you really want the best goods, you go to Beskidt By.” She tapped the controls again, and the holo zoomed in on the city, sprawling like a gaudy fungus on the face of Ryge. “Once I—we,” she corrected quickly, “get there, we’ll have a better idea as to where the lieutenant and her ship might be.” She glanced at the commander. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to stay with the Arcadia while I do recon.”
“No.”
Right. She should have figured. Commander Frayne liked to be in control at all times. Made her wonder what might happen if he ever lost it. Made her wonder what could force him to lose that precious control.
“You’re going to have to lose the uniform.” She eyed the garment in question. Frayne in his 8th Wing flight suit gave her lots of unwanted ideas. “There’s no way anyone is going to give us any information about black market deals with you dressed like that.”
“Taken care of. I brought civvies.”
“Show me.”
“Now who’s giving orders?” But he actually smiled, and Mara was totally unprepared at how it transformed his face from tough and austere to flat-out gorgeous. His smile revealed a tiny dimple near the corner of his mouth, as though some hidden scoundrel lurked beneath the surface of the hard warrior.
She had a weakness for scoundrels.
“Get the damned bag,” she muttered.
Surprisingly, he did. She remained in the cockpit, but as he bent and rummaged through his gear she was treated to the sight of his tight, firm ass. By Oshun, she wanted to bite him on one taut cheek.
He straightened and caught her ogling his behind. She had seen some of the infamous fertility rites on Ruva Nu without batting an eye, but now she blushed. The look he gave her was questioning, faintly mocking. And yet…she wasn’t mistaken. His gaze met hers, gleaming with an answering interest.
Without speaking, he tossed a bundle of clothing toward her. She snagged the clothes from midair before examining them.
“Those better meet with your approval.” He nodded toward the garments. “Because they’re all I’ve got.”
She held them up for inspection. The shirt was huge—if she wore it, the thing would come down to her knees—and perfectly ordinary. A little plain, actually. Same with the pants. Everything felt a little stiff in her hands, as if they were seldom worn. He wasn’t out of uniform often.
Her tongue clicked in disapproval. “Terrible.” She threw the clothes back at him.
He grabbed them and scowled. “What? They’re fine.”
“Those clothes make me sleepy.”
“So I’m not a fashion vid. That shouldn’t matter.”
She snorted. “Where smugglers are concerned, appearance counts for a lot. It’s all about flash. I’m going to change when we get to Ryge, but if you stroll into Beskidt By wearing that stuff, everyone’s going to know you don’t belong. Then good luck trying to get any intel.”
“There’s no time for any side trips to a shopping barge.” Irritation roughened his voice.
“Wait here.” A few adjustments to put the ship on autopilot, then she hopped up from her seat in the cockpit. She spent an uncomfortable, arousing moment edging past him as she threaded through the galley where he stood. She and Frayne kept bumping into each other as she tried to get through the galley. They both breathed in sharply at the brief contact.
She finally dashed out of the galley and down the passage toward her quarters. Once inside, she opened a storage panel, then pulled out a battered trunk. The thing was a little heavy, so she dragged it back down the passage to the galley.
Frayne watched her curiously as she opened it. “There should be some things in here that will fit you.” She rifled around until she produced some shirts and pants. “Maybe these.”
“What the hell are you doing with men’s clothing?”
She shrugged. “Souvenirs and trophies.”
He glowered ferociously. “I’m supposed to wear the cast-offs of your lovers?”
“Not lovers,” she corrected. He looked almost relieved until she added, “I had sex with them, sure, but I kicked them out after a night. That doesn’t count.”
“Sounds like a lover to me.”
“A lover means sleeping with someone more than once. I never do that. Too much commitment.” She peered at him. “I can’t believe this is making you angry.”
“I’m not angry,” he snarled. Yet he seemed almost surprised by his heated reaction.
“So…” She shook a handful of clothes at him. “Find something.”
She didn’t think the words that came out of his mouth would have been approved by the 8th Wing Communication Council. For a few seconds, she almost believed he’d rather go naked than wear some of the clothes worn by her nighttime entertainment. Wouldn’t that make an interesting picture—Commander Frayne striding through her ship wearing nothing but his plasma pistol and boots. Her mouth became uncomfortably dry.
His big hand lashed out and grabbed a few shirts. “I’ll try some of these, but no goddamn way am I going to wear another man’s pants.”
Her brief hope that he wouldn’t bother wearing anything below the waist was dashed when he snatched up his civvy pants. He stalked away to her quarters. She didn’t want him in there, but room wasn’t exactly plentiful on the Arcadia, and unless she wanted him stripping right in front of her, her quarters was the only place he could change.
Not that she’d mind watching him peel off his 8th Wing uniform, the serviceable gray material sliding off his arms, down his hard torso and flat stomach, until he pushed the fabric down his hips, then lower…
Stop it. This whole forced mission was a screw job, and tangling with the commander would make a complicated situation even more difficult. She liked things an uncomplicated as possible—but she was coming to learn that, where the commander was concerned, nothing was simple.
In Mara’s quarters, Kell quickly shucked off his uniform, his movements mechanical though his mi
nd and gut churned.
Why he was so angry? It shouldn’t matter if the clothes belonged to her one-night stands. It shouldn’t matter to him that she even had one-night stands.
But it did. It mattered.
He stared at Mara’s unmade bed. It was definitely wide enough for two. Had she brought them here, those men? Did she get these sheets twisted by writhing around with some brash space privateer? The image of her, sweaty and wild and sleek on the bed, came all too quickly into his mind, but it was him he pictured with her, not a swaggering pirate.
As he stepped into his civilian pants, he felt the strange urge to find those random men and beat them into cosmic powder. For fuck’s sake, get a hold of yourself. He didn’t even feel jealousy about the women he did take to bed, let alone a smuggler he had no intention of bedding. A smuggler with creamy hair and taunting eyes.
This is about the mission, he reminded himself. Nothing else.
Still, after picking the one shirt that wasn’t either transparent or cut down to the navel, Kell took a grim satisfaction in using his regulation blade to shred the rest of the men’s clothing. He threw the remains into a waste compartment.
Brilliant. Why don’t you just piss on them while you’re at it?
He finished dressing, and was glad there wasn’t a mirror in her quarters. He didn’t want to know what he looked like.
If the expression on Mara’s face was any indicator, he looked damn good. He ambled back to the galley, dressed in his closest approximation of a smuggler. She sat in the cockpit with her seat swiveled around to face him. Her eyes went wide, and he waited for her to laugh. Instead, a flush crept across her cheeks and she slowly licked her lips.
“That’ll…work.”
He glanced down. His pants were standard black cargos, and he’d strapped his blaster back onto his thigh. The shirt was also black, sleeveless, and cut for a smaller man. It fit Kell a little snugly, revealing every ridge and contour of muscle. Judging by Mara’s glazed eyes, she didn’t mind at all. Her gaze lingered over his exposed arms. He had to check the impulse to flex for her.
