The Star Princess (14 page)

The reporter flashed a grin. "Boyfriend?"

Ché felt his jaw stiffen. The man began scribbling something on a pad. Ché averted the potential disaster with a preemptive strike: "I am her advisor."

He could indeed function in that capacity while he was here, he thought wryly. The Earth princess could use his advice on nearly every aspect of her chaotic life. Whether she would heed his counsel was another matter entirely. "I'm advising her on Earth matters."

At that, Bohannon glanced up.

Great Mother. Earth matters? Ché sounded alien, even to his own ears. Bohannon peered at Che's golden skin and his face, clearly trying to see what color eyes he'd hidden behind the mirrored sunshaders.

"World matters," Ché clarified. "I am from… Latvia." Latvia? The impetuous alibi burst to the surface like a deep-sea jet-trawler, the small country fresh in his mind after its triumph over Sweden in soccer. Luckily, the information seemed to satisfy the exasperating interloper.

As the journalist scribbled more on his pad, a movement below caught Che's attention. The street and walkways teemed with pedestrian and vehicle traffic. From behind a hedge, a man stood, aiming a camera at both him and Bohannon.

This was preposterous! The man was walking about freely, taking photos of them? Why did the B'kahs leave Ilana so open and vulnerable? Ché straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. If the B'kahs wouldn't protect her, the Vedlas would.

Ché marched down the stairs.

"Mr. French!"

Would the man's prattle never cease? "I must return to my duties now. You are dismissed," Ché added over his shoulder as he strode across the lawn. The reporter was beginning to remind him of Hoe, his advisor. That thought made him walk all the faster.

The sun angled closer to the ocean now. A dearth of wind allowed the air to hold fast to sea scents and summer heat. But there was no time to enjoy the day. Years of dealing with the many faces of innuendo and the veiled threats of the palace court and Great Council had made him a master of intimidation, and he intended to use the talent to convince the "paparazzi" to give up their relentless hunt of Ilana.

The photographer wore a pencil-thin mustache and a bright yellow tank top far more loose fitting than Cole's had been, exposing his armpits and chest furred with dark hair, and a wealth of body art. It was difficult to determine who wore less clothing in Los Angeles, the men or the women.

Ché slapped the rolled-up newspaper Cole had given him in his open palm. Not quite a weapon, but wielded properly it could serve as reasonable intimidation. "You there! I wish to speak to you."

But the paparazzo appeared to be in no mood to talk. He shoved items into a black bag and threw it over his shoulder as he jogged into the road.

That was when Ché spied Ilana crossing the street. Passing by the photographer, she showed him the middle finger of her right hand. "Take a picture of this, you jerk."

Ground cars clogged the thoroughfare, preventing Ché from chasing after the fleeing photographer. Gasping, Ilana jogged to a stop in front of him. Hands propped on her thighs, she bent over to catch her breath. Her wild mass of hair, bound at the back of her head, flipped forward. She was barely dressed— or rather dressed barely in very short black pants and a matching shirt that left her abdomen exposed. Half of him wanted to throw a cape around her to provide her with modesty she appeared to have forgotten. The other half, quite a larger half than he would have anticipated, preferred to admire the way her pants molded her rounded bottom. Other females walked by dressed in similar attire, but Ché didn't feel the same need to protect them— or watch.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Ilana muttered. "I shouldn't have done that. My family has a tough enough time trying to keep both sides happy, you guys and Earth, without me flipping off paparazzi." She groaned unhappily. "It's like my life's not my own anymore!" She jerked her hands in the air. "You live like this all the time. Don't you resent having to consider the consequences of everything you do?"

If only she knew how much. Ilana's skin looked hot and damp. Where her hair lifted away from her neck, dark tendrils clung to glistening skin. Che's lips twitched as he thought of pressing them there. "All the time," he said, his gaze dropping to her shirt, if one could call it that. It appeared designed more to support her breasts than to hide them, leaving no doubt as to their luscious curve and shape. One would fit very well cupped in each of his hands, Ché thought with a jolt of heat in his loins. Ilana would be a spirited bedmate. He could easily imagine loving her into sated exhaustion, bringing her to fulfillment again and again until her strong body was warm and yielding beneath his—

Great Mother! He met Ilana's wide-eyed gaze, and she blushed, her lips pursing. Despite the sunshaders covering his eyes, he had the feeling that she was somehow privy to his erotic thoughts.

When she spoke, her voice sounded hoarse. "If those pictures show up in the news, I'm sunk."

"You needn't worry, Ilana." Ché scanned the crowded road. He tracked his quarry to a white vehicle parked by the curb, where traffic blocked the car's escape. "That is his vehicle— there. I am going after him. I want to confiscate the images. But first I intend to give the fellow an introductory lesson in manners."

Ilana lifted a brow, the ends of her mouth curving. "Vash manners?"

"Perhaps. But some things are universal, such as discretion and respect." He walked to the curb.

"Ché, don't."

"Do not reveal my name," he whispered loudly.

"Sorry." She rolled her eyes. "Frenchie."

"I will use French."

"It does have a manlier ring to it," she acknowledged sassily.

He refused to allow the woman to think she had a window into his motivations. "It is the name I gave the reporter before I sent him away."

"What reporter?" she blurted.

"Bohannon. Coast Chronicle."

"I don't freaking believe this. These people need a life."

He thrust the newspaper into her hands. "Await me here."

"I'm not the awaiting type."

"I know. Await me anyway."

Traffic cleared. Ché walked into the street. Ilana followed. "You're not doing this alone."

Ché let his displeasure show. She might not want his protection, but, by the heavens, he'd give it to her. "Why will you not mind me when it is so obviously for your own good?" But then, he had the feeling she obeyed no man's command. "I pity the poor fellow you will marry," he muttered.

She burst into laughter. "You're such a dinosaur!"

"I am glad I entertain you," he said with sarcasm.

"You know what a dinosaur is, then."

"An extinct reptilian creature. But you are mistaken. Honor and gallantry are never out of date."

"Then why has every guy I've met expected me to fend for myself?"

"They are not Vash Nadah."

She snorted. "I knew you were going to say that."

They reached the pedestrian path on the other side of the street. "Hold this," Ché commanded. He shoved the newspaper into Ilana's hands. Then, fists flexing, he strode toward the photographer's white car.

The windows were black, making it impossible to see inside. The passenger window was open a hand span or so, though. Through the narrow opening, the lens of a camera protruded.

In a blur of motion, Ché lunged forward and reached for the camera. Yanking it away, he tossed it to Ilana, who somehow managed not to drop it, despite holding the newspaper.

Quick reactions the woman had, Ché thought admiringly and turned back toward the vehicle. The passenger door swung open, revealing a flustered female driver and the empty-handed, clearly furious photographer.

Ché grabbed the man's flimsy shirt. Wrapping his knuckles with scraps of fabric, he yanked him out of the truck. The woman pressed her palms on the horn, shrill and loud. Pedestrians slowed down to watch.

"Get out of his face!" the driver shouted. "Or I'm calling the cops."

Ché swung the photographer around and pressed him belly-first over the hood of the vehicle. "As you wish."

The man's knees thumped against the metal siding. Ché caught his arm and pressed it behind him, pushing it upward in an arm lock. The move would not injure the man, but it would hurt.

But the photographer's yowl was louder than he expected. "Ah, Jesus! It's hot! The hood!"

Great Mother. Ché pulled him away from the hood of the vehicle. He hadn't meant to laminate the fellow to his ground car.

The fellow began swearing and blathering in unintelligible English. With icy efficiency, Ché intimidated him into silence with the infamous Vedla glare used by his family for millennia to quell their foes. "You will not cross my path again," he snarled. "You will not bother this woman."

Ilana appeared at his side. "Gah," she whispered into his ear. "Where'd you get that face?"

Ché looked at her askance. "I was born with this face."

"Yeah, well, it's scary as hell. Don't kill him, okay?"

At that, the photographer wriggled in Che's grip. "I'm just trying to make a buck," he rasped worriedly. "I didn't hurt no one."

Ilana turned on him with unexpected bitterness. "Bull. You'd love it if he hit you. You'd love it if we made a scene. Scenes make news."

"A man of my class does not lose his temper," Ché reminded Ilana.

Ilana's gaze swung back to him. "Klark did."

Ché struggled not to rise to the bait. "Klark thought out every step he made. Only, he chose absolutely the wrong steps to take."

Briefly she squeezed her eyes shut. "I know, I know."

Ché could tell by her expression that she did indeed understand. At times, Ilana seemed to open up to him, giving him a peek, intentionally or otherwise, into the inner workings of her mind. Then, without warning, she would push him away, as she'd tried to do a moment ago. It certainly left a man on insecure footing.

Perhaps that was her objective.

"I just don't want you involved in this," she explained.

Or involved with her.

What was he thinking? He couldn't get involved with her.

Why not? The dissenting opinion came from the rogue in Ché, the same voice that had spurred him into stealing those garden carts as a boy, and had recently urged him to visit Earth. He admitted it to no one, but the moments instigated by the rogue stood out starkly as the times in his life when he felt truly alive.

Speculatively he studied Ilana. If he were to pursue intimacies with her, it would be horribly uncivilized and totally politically incorrect. But it wasn't as if he'd be ruining a virginal princess. That brought his thoughts back to Cole, and he frowned.

"It's my problem," Ilana snapped at him, dragging him from his lust-induced reverie.

He took a breath. "Not so, Ilana. Those photographs are of me, as well. This oaf has invaded our privacy. He has overstepped his bounds."

"Actually, he hasn't. Unfortunately. It's the law."

"Bah! Regardless of what one can do, we cannot forget what's honorable." He tightened his grip on the wriggling man.

"Honorable. Sheesh. You make a great knight in shining armor. But you're barking up the wrong tree if you think I'm going to be your damsel-in-distress."

Why did she insist on using such incomprehensible jargon? "Speak English," he demanded.

"I am speaking English!"

The photographer swore. "Do I really need to listen to this? It's bad enough I got my wife in the car."

"Oh, shut up," Ilana yelled.

"Screw you, Ricky," the woman in the car shouted.

At the same time, Ché commanded, "You will speak only when spoken to!"

There was silence for a moment. Then the man spoke. "What do you want— the film? Take it. Eat it, for all I care. Just let me get the hell out of here." He looked peeved, henpecked, and utterly browbeaten.

It took all of Che's ingrained discipline not to chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. Obviously feeling the same, Ilana compressed her lips.

Ché released the photographer with a small push.

The man fell backward into his vehicle, landing on his rear with a bounce.

Ilana showed him a small plastic rectangle pinched between her index finger and thumb. "I'm keeping your memory stick. This"— she tossed the camera into the photographer's lap— "is yours."

Ché gave the paparazzi couple one last Vedla glare. "Where I come from, you would not have gotten away so easily."

Ilana grabbed his arm and tugged him away. They wove in and out of throngs of pedestrians— tourists and local inhabitants, he surmised.

The day was pleasant, the weather extraordinarily fine, but Ilana did not appear to share his lighthearted frame of mind. "I'll shower up," she said. "And then we'll find you a hotel."

"Yes. Of course." Che's mood sank like a sea stone in a tide pool. He'd known it from the start— he would seek out his own quarters. It was the only proper course of action. He'd nearly forgotten that fact in the exhilaration of staying afloat in the torrent of energy that was Ilana, forgotten that he'd come to Earth in pursuit of solo adventure, to do as he wished away from Hoe's nagging and the relentless coddling from a swarm of well-meaning staff and servants. He'd best get on his way.

"It will not take me long to pack my things," he replied. But he knew it would take far longer to put this exasperating, engaging, and unexpectedly enchanting Earthwoman out of his mind.

Chapter Nine

On the way back to Ilana's building, yet another car appeared to trail them. It drove off at Che's glare.

This sucks," Ilana said. She had a hunted look in her eyes. Ché knew the feeling well. He'd felt the same the day Toren showed up with grand plans for his unwanted betrothal.

He did his best to cheer the both of them. "I think that last fellow will think twice before harassing you again. We make a good team, Ilana. A very good team indeed. Who would have guessed such a thing? Certainly not your brother. I believe Ian was rather concerned about my visit here. Worried, perhaps. He took great pains to facilitate my arrival."