The Star Princess (10 page)

"I notified Ian," he corrected.

"But he didn't notify me!"

They glared at each other. Her heart hammered in her chest. How quickly the atmosphere had chilled. "I want the truth, Ché."

His face turned hard. He wore the veneer of good manners very well, but she saw how formidable he could be if he ever loosed the outrage he checked so well. "I am not lying to you."

He told the truth. She heard it in his voice. She saw it in his eyes.

She pushed loose hair off her face. "Ian told me that you had nothing to do with Klark's plot. I believed him. I believe you, too," she added grudgingly.

His hackles went down somewhat, but a powerful heartbeat pulsed in his throat.

"Still, this 'of a sort' crap won't fly, Ché. If your visit is some kind of palace plot, I don't want any part of it."

"Neither do I, Princess."

She bristled. "Don't call me that."

Ché appeared stumped. "Call you what?"

"Princess." Her chin came up.

"But it is what you are. A princess."

Technically, yes. But I have my own life. I have a career. Here, no one thinks of me as a princess." She jerked a finger at the window behind him. That's why I didn't expect that photographer, and all those reporters, calling. That's why I didn't expect you?

She pressed her fingertips to her temples. The stress of the last few weeks had caught up to her. Burning the candle at both ends, that's what she'd been doing. Sometimes she wondered where it would all lead, and if working like a dog was worth the effort. She needed a break, a rest. A vacation. Ché had the right idea. But with her brother's wedding looming and thoughts of traveling to Sienna eating at her, how would she be able to relax?

She felt suddenly tired and drained, creatively if not physically. For the first time in memory, she couldn't bear the thought of searching for new material for SILF. She wanted to lurch into her bedroom, slam the door, and shut out the world.

At least for the rest of the weekend.

Oh, that sounded too good. She'd take off all her makeup, slip on her grungiest sweats, order in food when she was awake, which wouldn't be very often. Mascara, hairbrushes, and shoes would not enter her reality. She'd be a slug, a total, worthless slug.

She almost sighed out loud.

Ché crossed his muscular arms over his chest. Silent, he regarded her. Was that commiseration she saw in his eyes? Quietly he said, "It is not easy to escape the influence of our families."

"No," she agreed softly. "It's not."

Whatever tension lingered seemed to drain away. She remembered his remark about palaces being tedious. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To escape from them."

His relief at her statement was obvious. "Yes."

"No plots."

"No."

"No quests for vengeance."

"None," he insisted. "Escape is my only goal."

"Good. I have no stomach for intrigue. That's why I'm a filmmaker and not a spy." She lifted her chin. "And why I don't go around calling myself a princess."

He bowed gallantly. "The word will not cross my lips again."

"Thank you."

"If," he continued, "during my stay on your world you do not remind me that I am a prince." A hint of rebelliousness flared in his eyes.

That unexpected spark of defiance only added to Ilana's curiosity about him. "Okay. You've got a deal."

A car door slammed outside. "Is that him?" she asked. She'd memorized the photographer's vehicle; if he ever came sniffing around again, she'd know who he was. He'd driven an old, non-electric Toyota pickup. You had to either love the old trucks to still drive them, or be well off, because the yearly penalty charged by the state of California for driving fossil-fueled cars made them a luxury.

Ché leaned over the windowsill, scanning the front lawn with narrowed eyes. "No. The… jerk with the camera is gone."

She laughed in surprise. The slang humanized Ché, made him somehow less forbidding. "Fifteen minutes with me, and look what's happened to your language."

Che's eyes warmed. "Earth colloquial speech is essential to my fluency."

"Yeah. And by tomorrow, you'll be talking like a truck driver." She translated, using a nasal tone. "A barbarian driver of large ground cars. I vowed I'd never use the b-word, but after driving to Bakersfield last week, I'll have to make an exception for truck drivers."

"Slow. I do not know all your words," Ché pleaded.

Too much local lingo— sorry. And I'm probably talking too fast. I'm trying to slow down, really I am." But hell if she was going to repeat it all again.

She sighed cheerily. "Amazing how much better I feel now that I know no one's trying to kill me." She walked over, grabbed Ché by the wrist, and pulled him away from the window. "I'll find us a couple of cold beers," she explained as she positioned him in front of the couch. "Which— even if you don't— I need. But first you need to relax."

She reached up and pushed on his shoulders. Ché went down hard, almost taking her with him. She almost wished he were badly behaved enough to do it; she would have liked to know how he kissed.

He had a great mouth, just the way she liked them: wide with a friendly tilt at each end, with lips thin enough to be masculine, yet luscious enough for long, deep, wet kisses. Of course, she was assuming he knew how to use that mouth. If not, she'd be happy to show him— in the name of galactic understanding and peace, an exchange of culture, so to speak. Who said she wouldn't do her part for inter-galactic diplomacy?

She grinned. "Are you hungry?"

"I do not wish to impose."

"Okay. You're hungry. So am I. I'll make us something to eat."

"Considering the circumstances of my arrival, you are an impeccable hostess," he said, resting one hand on his thigh.

"I'll tell my mother you said that." Ilana found the remote on the coffee table and turned on ESPN. "Soccer," she said. "Live from Europe, too. That's one advantage of being up in the middle of the night."

She thrust the remote at Ché. He took it. Her hands on her hips, she gazed down at him with pride. "Look at you now. On the couch, sports on the tube, the remote in your hand. Once I get you a beer, you'll be Earth-dwelling like a pro."

Again it looked like he missed half of what she'd said. Oh, well. Body language would fill in the blanks.

Feeling his eyes on her, she sashayed from the living room to the kitchen, threw open the refrigerator door— and faced the reality of her lack of grocery shopping the last week.

Her shoulders sagged. The refrigerator was empty but for a quart of milk, four bottles of beer, an apple, a stick of butter, something that looked like leftover lasagna from Tony's, and three white cardboard takeout containers from Ming's.

"Gah, what a bonehead," she mumbled. Who bought flowers and no food? But then, she hadn't been expecting any guests.

"We'll have Chinese food." Microwaved, leftover Chinese food.

Welcome to Earth, bud.

She carried the containers to the microwave. "Beef chow fun and Kung Po chicken," she called. "And rice. Watch out for dried red peppers. But Vash like spicy food, right? Or at least on Sienna they do. Some of the dishes there about burned a hole in my tongue."

She found her serving spoons and matching bowls, then her best dishes. Cloth napkins, too, which was as formal as she ever got. Crisscrossing several times to the cafe table with its four mismatched antique chairs, she made two place settings.

The microwave beeped. She reached in, stirred the food. Then she sagged against the island to wipe her hands on a kitchen towel. Blowing her hair out of her eyes, she found Ché watching her with a mix of amusement and amazement. "What?" she demanded.

"I have never seen anyone who can do so much at once."

He appeared so fascinated that it made her blush.

Her hands twisted the dishtowel. She realized what she was doing, threw the towel on the counter, and smoothed her dress, just to have something to do with her empty hands. Rarely was she awkward. More rarely still was she awkward around men.

Men like Ché Vedla are out of your area of expertise, though. Yeah? Maybe. But hell would freeze before she'd admit that he flustered her.

"I'm multi-tasking," she explained. Let him figure that one out.

"Multi-tasking." He sounded out the phrase. "Doing many things at once. Why, are the cooks not on duty? The serving staff?"

She almost collided with the island in the center of the kitchen. "Serving staff?" Then she saw the mischief lighting up his gaze.

He was teasing her. She narrowed her eyes. "God, you are a beast."

"Perhaps." He smiled lazily.

Her stomach did a little flip-flop.

She heard cheers coming from the television. To her relief, the commotion drew Che's attention. By the time she returned to the living room, a cold bottle of Red Rocket Ale in each hand, the soccer match had engrossed him. "Here you go," she sang out.

Immediately he pushed himself off the couch. He stood, dipping his head in a gesture of respect.

She sighed silently. "Don't do that."

"You are a woman, and thus deserving of such respect, as directed in the warrior's code."

More Vash mumbo jumbo. He'd recited it from memory. "Ché." She sighed. "I appreciate a man with manners, but if you're going to jump to attention every time I show up in my own house, I'll go nuts. You're on Earth now. You're not in the palace, not in the spotlight. You don't have to act the way they want you to. Sit down and relax. I command you."

He complied, but with reluctance, taking the beer she offered. "I will seek to adapt to the rules of your culture, Ilana."

"The rule in my house is that there are no rules."

Exhaling, he smiled up at her and loosened his tie. Then he unbuttoned his collar, revealing a nice throat. Vash men didn't have hair on their chests, or much body hair, period, other than the expected places. Just smooth, firm, bronzed skin. Six feet, three inches of firm bronzed skin.

She pretended she didn't know that.

"So. Who's playing?" she asked.

"Sweden. And Latvia." His accent made the names of the countries sound truly exotic. "The score is"— he rotated his hand— "together."

She smiled. "Tied?"

"Yes. Tied."

An exciting game on TV, and yet he didn't try to peer around her to watch. Wow. A point for the prince, she thought.

She sat on the opposite end of the couch. She wasn't sure if it was to keep her hormones from self-combusting, or out of respect for Che's fear that they needed a chaperone. "Go on, try the beer. You've tasted it before, right?"

"No, I have not."

"Not on your trip to LA?"

His mouth thinned. "That visit was to bring Klark home. I returned to Eireya immediately afterward."

"You'll have to make up for that on your holiday."

"I plan to, yes." He sniffed the vapor swirling out of the mouth of the bottle. Then he took a swallow, and his eyes lit up. "Beer," he murmured, studying the label before he took another drink. "Ah. It is quite good."

"Quite good?" She rolled her eyes. "Admit it, Ché. It's fantastic. You have nothing else like it in the galaxy. The Federation loves it. I know the man who brews Red Rocket Ale. Dan Brady. Purveyor to the king. He can't keep up with demand. I can't believe you missed out."

"I am afraid my family has never ordered beer for the kitchens."