The Star Prince (14 page)

Tee'ah almost growled. She teetered at the precipice of losing her dreams, and Klark acted as if she were paying a social call.

He held the glasses to the light. "The flowers are extremely fragile and fall with the first flurries of autumn. The ripe berries must be picked immediately, else within days they'll be buried under hundreds of standard feet of snow. This makes star-berry liqueur the most precious of drinks. It is— "

"I know what it is!"

"Then you know it must be shared in the traditional way." Klark dipped a finger into his glass and rubbed his glistening fingertip along her bottom lip before she was able to block his arm. Reflexively, she licked at it, tasting the tart sweetness left behind. Star-berry liqueur was a rare and special treat to be shared by lovers. Or potential lovers. By anointing Tee'ah's lips with the precious liquid, knowing that they had no past except for her intended engagement to his brother, he'd all but called her a whore.

"You, Klark Vedla, are unforgivably rude."

"And you"— he took in her fuzzy green-brown hair, her dusty boots, and everything in between— "are an aberration. You aren't good enough for my brother. No, Che deserves better. He deserves more." His expression darkened, and his fingers squeezed her arm. "Far more than the subordinate role Romlijhian B'kah is inclined to give him."

Tee'ah plunged her hand into her pocket and pushed her laser pistol hard against the fabric. "Let me go, Vedla, or I'll put a crater between your eyes."

To her shock, he complied, immediately. Her legs trembled with adrenaline. She'd never dreamed she was capable of such audacity.

Klark's neck muscles corded, and he sucked in a deep breath. "My apologies. My temper will prove to be my undoing yet." He drew the wobbling tray between them. "Here. Finish your drink."

She fought the explosion of her own temper. "It's said that blessings sometimes come of unpleasant circumstances. Now I see why." She gritted her teeth. "We were never officially promised, Che and I. And I'm truly sorry if my leaving insulted him. But at least now I'll never have to endure having you as a brother-in-law."

She left him standing by the floating tray. Suddenly lightheaded, she ducked through the crowd, but the Bareshtis jostled her, slowing her progress. A floating sensation enveloped her body in a vague pleasantness at odds with her near panic. Star-berry liqueur was notoriously potent, but this was ridiculous.

She pushed onward.

Her knees nearly buckled at the sound of Ian's voice coming from near the front exit. The young pleasure servant Tee'ah had seen earlier was talking to him, and he was gesturing wildly. Struggling forward, Tee'ah cried, "Ian!" above the clamor of music and voices. The woman accepted some credits from Ian, then pointed him in the right direction before she melted into the crowd.

By the time Tee'ah stumbled into the Earth dweller's arms, her head was spinning. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her fece against his chest, breathing in his scent. At first she clutched him out of fear, then for comfort, and finally for pleasure.

He seemed to sense the change and caught her by the shoulders, moving her back. "Thank God." He appeared as sharply relieved as she felt. "Muffin, I've got her!" he called.

The big security chief joined them within seconds. Steadying herself, Tee'ah tried to work saliva into her mouth, but her tongue felt numb, like it had after that first glass of Mandarian whiskey. "Lesh— let's get out of here."

Disbelief and then reluctant acceptance clouded Ian's eyes. "Ah, Tee." His voice thickened with pity. "You can't keep out of the bars, can you?"

Something warm unfurled within her at his genuine concern. "I wasn't drinking." She hiccuped and pressed her hand over her mouth. "Not intentionally."

Muffin snorted.

"Denial, we call that on Earth," Ian muttered.

She tried to look over her shoulder, and it knocked her off-balance. Ian wrapped his arm around her waist. She leaned on him far more than was necessary, but he didn't seem to mind. "I know what you're thinking, but it's not what… what it seems. Someone bought me a drink I didn't want."

"Yeah. And they made you drink it, too."

She wanted to howl. Salvaging her reputation meant explaining what had really happened. But if she did, she risked having to say who Klark Vedla was and how she knew him. She didn't want Ian and the crew to view her as irresponsible; nor did she want her two lives to collide. Her ensuing indecision was almost physically painful.

They burst out of the arcade onto the street. When she saw that Klark was not waiting there, her chest ached with relief so sharp it hurt. She took his disappearance as a sign that she should keep the incident to herself. The prince was part of a life she wasn't ready to reveal, and now it looked as if she wouldn't yet have to. Perhaps all Klark had wanted to do was get her drunk, humiliating her in front of her employer and thereby avenge her jilting of his brother. That made sense, did it not? She tried to concentrate, but her speculation blurred in a liquor-induced haze.

"We'll get right to work getting you sobered up," Ian said, all business again. "Muffin, you get the tock ready, and Tee, you shower up and get something to eat. We're launching for Grüma as soon as you're able."

She gave a silent groan. Wonderful, she thought dazedly. Here we go again.

They completed the return journey to Grüma with no ship malfunctions. Ian liked Tee's reasoning that the computer was behaving itself only because it feared the consequences of further mischief. Her joking explanation was as good as any Quin had come up with so far and was one he suspected had paralleled her own outlook since she'd gotten tipsy on Baresh. Aside from remaining acutely apologetic about losing his extra pair of sunglasses, she avoided all mention of the incident. Yet here he was, bringing her to a bar on her first night back on Grüma. He needed his head examined.

"Randall's here," Muffin said as they emerged from the woods.

Anticipation buoyed Ian. Tonight he'd finally meet the man he'd chased halfway across the frontier. The local merchants had told him that Randall liked to eat dinner out and socialize in the town's pubs afterward. Ian would be waiting for him when he did.

"What is the Earth word for that… ground car?" Tee peered in fascination at the jeep Randall and his men had left parked outside a restaurant.

Ian smiled. Like the curious crowd milling around the Army-issue vehicle, sniffing at the quaint scents of fossil fuel and rubber tires, she'd probably never seen a plain old everyday automobile. "It's a jeep."

"Ah." She repeated the word as if savoring the sound. He'd long since learned that the pixie worshipped anything to do with his home planet.

The last of Grüma's three moons settled below the horizon, plunging the downtown strip of eateries and bars into shadow. The planet's major city was a lonely swath of civilization cut into a continent-sized forest, a fact made more apparent as the darkness deepened. Jumbo-sized insects with veined wings and tiny bat-like creatures crisscrossed a sky glowing with trillions of stars, but stranger still were some of the revelers in the rowdy pubs.

With Push on watch back at the Sun Devil, Ian led the remainder of his crew across the street. "We'll wait for Randall next door," he told them. As badly as he wanted to know how the U.S. senator had learned about Baresh, Ian was determined to take things slowly. He wanted to get a feel for the man and gain his trust before he revealed his identity. Diplomacy would keep the galaxy at peace. In this modern age of interstellar politics, threats and aggression were as barbaric as Roman Empire gladiator matches. He hoped the senator understood that.

A waitress clad in an ivory pantsuit and matching knee-length hair met them at the door of the pub. "A table by the window," Ian said, shipping a fair amount of credits into her palm. "That one," he said, pointing to the window closest to the adjacent restaurant, from where laughter and the scent of roasting meat drifted in the night air.

The waitress shooed away a table of drunks so Ian and the crew could sit. He thought they'd protest the incident, but money was plentiful on Grüma and bars abounded, so the revelers merely grumbled good-naturedly and stumbled out through the doors leading into the chilly night air.

Tee appeared utterly unaware of the attentive gazes she received from men at nearby tables, interest that waned the instant she swiped his ball cap off her head and combed her fingers through her freshly touched-up clumps of mud-green hair. Ian watched with misgiving as the whiskey-loving pixie settled her shapely and very distracting rear end on the stool next to him. Fortunately, Quin took the seat to her right. Ian forced himself to relax. She was surrounded. If she wanted to drink herself into oblivion, she was going to find it damned hard with her hands held behind her back.

His fingers flexed involuntarily as an image exploded in his mind… of Tee warm and eager in his arms, her mouth opening under his as he kissed her, holding her clasped hands at the small of her back.

A bolt of heat in his groin yanked him out of the vivid fantasy and back to reality in the smoky bar.

"… And at least the bartender seems semi-coherent, does he not? Hello" Tee called to him after he didn't answer. "Ian?"

He became aware of his surroundings as if surfacing from a deep dive. Tee gave him a decidedly flirtatious grin. With her smelly hair, she reminded him of the cartoon character Pepe Le Pew, the debonair little French skunk whose amorous intent was handicapped by his total unawareness of the effect his odor had on those around him.

"You were light years away, Ian." She smiled and tapped two perfectly formed fingertips on his knee.

His body reacted as powerfully as if she'd placed her hand directly over his…

He groaned. "I need a drink." You don't drink. "I do now," he argued.

Quin stared at him. "Captain?"

Tee laughed. "He's pretending to be that bartender on Donavan's Blunder."

Only he hadn't been pretending.

"Now that's a depressing thought," he said aloud to Tee's obvious delight.

"That's exactly what he was like!"

He frowned at his folded hands as she relayed the rest of the story to Gredda, Muffin, and Quin. "You should have seen it— the bartender would have conversations with himself. Sometimes in several different voices."

Gredda shrugged. "One would never get lonely that way."

It wasn't a crime to think about Tee, he supposed, as long as he took it no further. And he wouldn't. If a wife hadn't already been chosen for him in his absence, one would be soon. Vash Nadah marriages were alliances, not love matches— at first, anyway. The right spouse was essential for acceptance into his adopted culture.

"Here you are." The waitress set bowls of shimmer crackers and croppers on the counter in front of them. The crew each scooped up handfuls of croppers, the crispy little question marks that took the place of peanuts in bars across the galaxy. They were spiced with something savory instead of salted, but were as addictive as potato chips. The shimmer crackers, on the other hand, were bland. Ian couldn't understand why everyone liked them; they were nothing more than flashy junk food.

Tee dusted crumbs from her hands. "I need something to wash down these croppers. A glass of mog-melon wine will do."

"Tee," Quin and Ian chorused in warning.

She spread her hands. "What?"

Quin rolled his eyes. "Do the words Mandarian whiskey ring a bell?"

A faint blush stained her cheeks. "I'm not going to get drunk, for heaven's sake. I'm on duty." She glanced knowingly at where Randall's group had been seated in the restaurant next door. "Am I not?"

No one argued with her, especially not Ian. His attention was drawn to the senator. Then a question dawned on him: How had she known who they were watching? Or had the look simply been a coincidence? Maybe one of the others had shown her a picture of Randall. He was being too paranoid.

The waitress took their orders. Ian kept silent as Tee requested her glass of wine. He wanted to be able to trust her— with alcohol and everything else. The longer she worked on his ship, the more involved she became in his mission. Unwittingly, for now. But she deserved to know the truth eventually.

Muffin chuckled. "Why not have the entire bottle, Tee? I'm sure the captain will carry you off to bed like he did on Blunder."

Ian frowned at the bodyguard. "Figuratively speaking."

"No kidding," Tee said, imitating Ian's accent. "Had I ended up in your bed, Earth dweller, I would have remembered it."

The crew burst into delighted laughter. Even Quin slammed his hands on the table, spilling croppers onto its faded holographic surface. Tee realized belatedly what she'd said and looked as if she wanted to crawl under the table. Ian leaned toward her, his mouth close to her ear. The few locks of greenish hair that brushed over his lips were surprisingly silky. "I would have remembered it, too."

Her eyes widened. Immediately, she clutched her hands together, squeezing her fingers tightly atop the table. Warning bells sounded in his head. He was playing a dangerous game: she was on the run and he had… obligations. He had no business flirting with her. But a small, selfish part of him was glad to see she was unsettled by his remark.

"Well," she murmured. "I am glad to hear that." The glow-globe on the table illuminated the pulse under her jaw, spreading fingers of light across the fabric of her flightsuit, beneath which her breasts rose and fell with slow, even breaths. Those breaths would quicken as he moved inside her, her tender kisses turning passionate, her arms tightening around him as he brought her to an intense, drawn-out climax— — -

God almighty. What was he doing— torturing himself?

Fully and painfully aroused by the erotic image he'd conjured, Ian jerked his attention back to the holographic tabletop. It seemed the pixie was as hazardous to him sober as she was drunk.

The waitress returned with their drinks. Then, thankfully, someone started a around of the All-Folk Chain; a galactic version of karaoke, where individual verses were made up and then sung by volunteers from the audience who came up to the stage and usually made fools of themselves.