The clamor of conversation and laughter emanating from the crew dining area sounded more like a party than a morning meal, Jas thought, pausing in the corridor to work up the courage to join them. As in the other common-use areas she’d seen, the walls were adorned only with rivets and control panels. The crew sat on bench seats next to tables made for family-style dining. Brightly colored jars decorated the tables, and the men eagerly scooped out generous helpings of their contents, spilling it onto their food. Next to trays stacked with loaves of flat bread were steaming crocks of something that smelled wonderful.
Lured by the savory aromas, Jas walked inside. The hush in conversation was immediate. Then the sounds of chair legs scraping, boot heels scuffing, and spoons clattering ricocheted off the metal walls as the entire crew, thirty of them at least, stood. They inclined their heads in an obvious show of respect, then sat just as quickly and, with gusto, resumed eating and talking.
One man remained standing: the Vash captain. Her heart skipped a beat. The heat in his intense, searching gaze made her toes curl, but she held her head high and faced him. Okay, so he had incredible eyes. And he was handsome as sin. But she’d be damned if she’d reveal her attraction to him. She had hitched a ride on his ship for one purpose only: to get to the Depot, from where she intended to taste enough adventure to knock her life back on track before heading home to the people who needed her. Anything more would be a distraction. And a mistake.
Pasting what she hoped was an expression of cool objectivity on her face, she greeted him with the Basic equivalent of “good morning.”
Equally stoic, he said, “The Quillie is a merchant cruiser, not a tourist vessel, but I trust your quarters are to your liking?”
“Yes.” Well, except for the timed three-minute application of soapy spray that passed for a shower. But he probably didn’t care that she’d had to choose between shaving her legs and shampooing her hair. “Again, I thank you for allowing me on board your ship.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak. Then he shut it, scrutinizing her. Finally he said, “I never knew your name.”
That implication again that they had met before. It unsettled her further. “Jasmine Hamilton. Jas, most call me.”
“Romlijhian B’kah.” The polite dip of his head contrasted with the wariness in his eyes. “I prefer Rom. It’s less formal. And better suited to my current state of affairs, wouldn’t you say?”
She was sure that any answer she gave him would be the wrong one. Fidgeting, she glanced past him, searching for an empty spot. “I must find a place to sit.” Preferably somewhere on the opposite side of the dining hall.
“Join us.” With a gracious sweep of his hand, he indicated an empty place opposite him and next to Gann, who was obviously entertained by their awkward exchange. Amusement crinkled the other Vash’s eyes, yet she got the feeling that he was assessing her at the same time. She’d bet that fierce loyalty was as much a part of his nature as humor.
Still in a mild state of shock from the crew’s display of homage, she settled onto the bench seat. “Rom, Gann, you are very polite”—she used her hands to fill in the gaps of her halting speech—“but it is not necessary for all to stand for me.”
Rom replied, “You are a woman, and thus deserving of such respect. Since I insist that my crew adhere to the warrior’s code, no doubt you will grow accustomed to our traditions by the end of the voyage.”
So the rebel trader valued etiquette. She hadn’t expected that, and it intrigued her.
“Lar-bread?” He reached for a tray and held it in front of her until she chose a pita-thin slice; then he continued his deferential behavior by filling her empty bowl with hot stew. There was only one utensil—half spoon, half fork—and she dipped it in the bowl, stirring gingerly, releasing steam that smelled vaguely like a grilled hamand-cheese sandwich, along with other scents that were unidentifiably exotic but not unpleasant. Rom and Gann used pieces of the flat bread rather than utensils to dig out clumps of stew. The spicy fare burned her tongue, but the only thing available to wash it down was the greenish hot beverage Rom had poured into her mug.
“Tock. It chases sleep away,” Gann supplied when she lifted the steaming mug to her lips. She grimaced. It tasted like licorice. She missed coffee already. “I see that this is one more thing I must get accustomed to. But I am happy to do it.”
Rom continued to watch her intently, as if evaluating her—or waiting for her to make a mistake. That was understandable. She was a stranger, a possible security risk. As the captain, he had a responsibility to protect his crew. “You speak Basic quite well for an Earth-dweller,” he said.
“I am lucky. Languages come easily to me. But I have nowhere near the skill of my mother. She speaks fourteen.”
Rom raised his brows and leaned forward. Lacing his fingers together, he murmured to her in a foreign tongue. The language was soft, lilting, and lyrical, the way Italian or French sounded when spoken in intimate tones. She cocked her head, concentrating. Something about the cadence sounded familiar, but she couldn’t grasp a single word. “I do not understand.” This time he spoke more slowly, but she spread her hands. “I do not know this language.”
“No,” he said quietly, “I see that you don’t. It is Siennan,” he explained. “The language of my birth. Few know it outside my homeworld. I apologize.”
She’d swear he had just put her through a test. And she’d passed.
The table tipped, then righted itself, and a blond man of gigantic proportions took a seat next to her. He was the biggest man she had ever seen, three hundred pounds, at least—and not an ounce of it fat. But his smile was friendly as he extended a paw that could easily grip a basketball. “It’s my honor to meet you, Earth-dweller.”
“Jas Hamilton.” She clasped his wrist in the Vash handshake as his powerful fingers closed around her own wrist gently, as if he thought she’d break as easily as an eggshell.
“I am the B’kah’s bodyguard,” he said.
Bodyguard? Her gaze swerved to Rom, who remained inscrutable. Why would he need protection?
“Muffin is my name,” the big man went on, releasing her arm.
“Muffin?” Jas suppressed a smile. “Please. Basic is new to me. What is your name, once more?”
“Muffin.”
She pressed her lips together. The man was at least six-foot-eight. His shoulders were as wide as a football player’s with full padding. Anywhere else he’d be named Thor…or Conan. “Muffin—” Her eyes were tearing up.
“It’s an old-fashioned name,” he insisted somewhat defensively. “But still popular on my homeworld.”
“In my language a muffin is…a little sweet cake.”
Both Gann and Muffin roared in delight. Rom’s eyes shone. Jas’s heart gave a little twist. He looked like a different man when he was happy. Inexplicably, it brought out a playful urge in her to tease him, just to see him laugh.
Gann leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “What does my name mean?”
Jas tore her bread in half. “You are lucky. There is no word that is the same.”
“And Rom’s?” he asked.
“Ah, Rom.” Their gazes met, held. “I am sorry to tell you that yours is not as interesting as Muffin’s. Rom sounds like the Earth word CD-ROM.” She mentally searched for the right translation. “A data storage disk. A receptacle for bits of information.”
He almost smiled. “I have been called worse.”
“Good morning!” The young man who had escorted her to her quarters the night before hopped into a seat vacated by another crew member. Zarra greeted her hurriedly before pouring stew into a clean bowl. Then he upended one of the brightly colored jars and shoveled several hefty spoonfuls in as well. Jas rose slightly to peek inside the jar. “Is it a seasoning?”
Gann looked appalled. “By all the heavens! Where are our manners? Jas hasn’t partaken yet, Zarra. Salt her stew.”
“No, thank you.” Jas blocked Zarra’s arm with hers, spilling half the contents onto the table. The men gasped. Within seconds, Muffin and Zarra were wiping their stew-soaked bread over the table, only to pop the revolting morsels into their mouths with relish.
Muffin patted his belly. “Haven’t enjoyed salt of this grade since we raided the stores on Parish Three, eh?”
Gann mumbled in agreement, his mouth full. Zarra was too busy eating to add anything at all. Rom oversaw it all with resigned, paternal amusement.
Bemused by the crew’s antics, Jas propped her chin on the heel of her palm and watched them eat. It appeared that her adventure had already started.
The corridors in the aft section of the ship were narrow and dark, and she wasn’t sure if she was headed in the right direction. After leaving Terz, the engineer who had given her a tour of the gravity generators, she’d made two right turns, then a left. Now should she go left again…or straight? The click of her boot heels hitting the floor echoed down the long passageway and joined the sound of other footfalls coming her way. She rounded the corner and collided with a warm and very solid body.
Rom grabbed her forearms to keep her from stumbling. His sensuous mouth spread into a lazy grin, and every pore, every nerve ending in her body flared to life. “Are you lost?” he inquired. “Or merely out for a stroll?”
“Lost,” she said somewhat breathlessly, and clamped down on her reaction to him. “I am trying to find the bridge.”
“I’ll escort you. We’ll be making the jump to light speed within the hour. You’ll find the procedure interesting, I’m certain.” He pointed the way and they walked side by side, boots clattering in unison, while he chatted in a comfortingly rational and professional way about what she would be observing on the bridge. Once there, he left her to confer with several crew members studying an array of monitors. Jas stepped around them, drawn to the enormous curving window at the bow of the ship. The air was cooler here, redolent with the faint tang of electricity. As a periodic clicking tapped against the soles of her boots, she stood in front of the thick glass, compelled to silence by sheer awe. Distant stars gleamed, icy and impossibly ancient. One, tinged faintly green, glowed brighter than the rest.
Rom joined her. Eyes narrowed, he folded his arms over his chest, his demeanor reminiscent of an experienced sea captain. The places he must have seen, she thought. The adventures he must have had…
He followed her gaze to the ocean-hued star. “It is the eighth planet from this sun, I believe.”
“Neptune,” she whispered. Gooseflesh pebbled her arms. Images of the people she’d left far behind squeezed her heart. You’re indispensable; everyone needs you. She braced herself against the onslaught of guilt. Six months away from home wasn’t forever.
Rom was regarding her strangely, as if he sensed her pensive mood. “Would you like to sit in the pilot’s chair while we await the jump?”
“I would like that very much.” The chair sat behind a bank of what she surmised were flight computers. In front of the glittering, alien equipment was a hearteningly familiar-looking control yoke. Yearning swept through her. “I used to be a pilot,” she said wistfully. “Many years ago.” She strapped in and rested her hands on the controls.
Rom climbed the six stairs to the engineer’s console, where Gann was overseeing Terz as the engineer prepared for the transition to light speed. From there he took advantage of Jas’s captivation with his ship to study the woman. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in silken waves that reached to the small of her back. She had the curves of a mature woman, with limbs sleekly muscled from physical activity. But it was the vivid expectation in her eyes, as if she believed something wonderful was about to occur, that would have drawn him to her in any setting.
Hope.
Surprise sparked inside him. Yes, her luminous gaze radiated hope. He had become so damned jaded that he’d forgotten what it looked like.
“You two are getting along better, I see,” Gann said.
Rom thoughtfully stroked his chin. “She informed me that she was once a pilot.”
“Hmm. A rather odd vocation for a heavenly being.”
Rom ignored the amused lilt in his friend’s voice. “Perhaps.” Yet he couldn’t resist the urge to catch Jas Hamilton in a lie, any lie. “I say we test your theory. Of course,” he said glibly, “a more diplomatic man might warn her before handing over full manual control of the ship.”
“B’kah—”
Rom ignored his friend’s warning and switched off the automated flier. Jas yelped, then launched into a muttered stream of Earth epithets. Both men grabbed hold of whatever they could as the ship pitched. It was a stomach-wrenching ride for a moment or two, but Jas gained control and maintained a straight course for the Quillie with nary a ripple. Stunned by this newest unexpected dimension to the woman, Rom turned the automated flier back on.
Gann grinned smugly.
Rom set his jaw. “Point made; she told the truth—with regards to the flying, at any rate.” Arms folded over his chest, he paced along his usual path in front of his command chair. Jas’s obvious truthfulness may have cooled his anger, but not his determination to decipher her role in his long-ago vision—and in his life. “From this point forward, I will proceed assuming she’s simply forgotten our meeting.” Slowly he began to walk away, then turned and headed back. “The obvious course of action is to make her remember.”
Gann appeared doubtful. “How?”
“I’ll seduce her.”
His friend slapped his hands on his thighs. “An ambitious and daring undertaking, B’kah. The sign of a true warrior.”
Rom refused to allow Gann to bait him. “On Balkanor, she and I never finished what we started. This time we will.” He climbed down the gangway to where Jas was unstrapping herself from the pilot’s chair.
As Rom approached, Jas smiled. “I did not expect what you did. Thank you for the chance to pilot your ship.”
“You fly like a seasoned space jockey.”
His compliment brought her an unexpected jolt of pleasure. “Thank you.”
“You continue to astound me,” he said with candor. “I would like to learn more about you. Perhaps we can chat further over dinner this evening.” His voice dropped to what seemed a meant-for-her-ears-only pitch. “A private meal. My quarters.”
Awkward and out of practice in the spotlight of his flirtation, she twisted her bangles around her wrist, desperate to come up with a witty response before the silence became too awkward. She hadn’t gone out on a single real “date” since being divorced. She hadn’t wanted to—hadn’t felt ready. Was she ready now? Dinner for two with the Vash hunk? “We can discuss the commerce agreement,” she ventured lamely.
“Ah, yes, the list of merchants who wish to trade with us,” he said as if it were the last thing on his mind.
Tell him. Warn him that you’re not like other women, that he ought not to get his hopes up. She gave her head a quick shake. She’d come here seeking adventure, hadn’t she? Besides, it wasn’t like she was intending to jump into bed with him.
Flustered, she spoke quickly. “I do not know why I did not make the contract in Basic. But I translated it after the morning meal. It should be transparent now”—she tapped the heel of her palm against her forehead—“no, clear. The agreement will not expire—ever—if you have that concern. But everything we can review tonight.”
The ends of his mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile. His voice was low and earnest. “Yes, we have much business to discuss. Both finished and unfinished.”
“Right.” And then she’d be able to get him out of her system and finish this voyage without worrying that she’d do something she’d regret.
To her relief, she heard Gann call out, “Thrusters to max.”
They were diving into hyperspace, a place beyond the relentless passage of time, achieved only by speed. The sheer physics of it baffled her, despite her technical inclinations.
“Thrusters to max,” repeated Terz. “Three…two…one.”
The ship shuddered, and distant metallic components moaned. A fleeting magenta-orange glow suffused the bow of the ship. “Light speed,” Gann confirmed. Ordinary stars elongated into cometlike objects, trailing threads of light behind them. Excitement danced with her accelerating pulse. “Look at the stars,” she said to Rom.
“A temporary distortion,” he explained. “They’ll appear this way until the end of the voyage. When we slow approaching the Depot, the stars will look just as you remembered.”
Thoughtful, she gazed out the forward window as the Quillie streaked farther away from Earth and all she’d ever known. Rom said that the stars would be unchanged at the end of this journey. But she doubted she’d be able to say the same about herself.
Rom prepared his quarters for dinner with the same meticulous attention to detail he’d use readying a starfighter for battle. The laser-candles were lit, bathing the room in a warm, romantic glow. Incense gently sweetened the air. The ancient music of Sienna—cymbals and cascading bells—floated down from the sound vents. The table was set in the traditional Vash Nadah way. Bowls of every size held the few delicacies left on the ship. Some vessels were covered, with steam wafting from beneath the ornate lids; others contained morsels that were iced, salted and dried, or preserved with liqueurs gathered from around the galaxy—some acquired through legally recognized means, most not. It had been years since he’d enjoyed a meal presented entirely in the old way, and he found he was looking forward to the evening.
If only you weren’t as apprehensive as a young man on the night of his marriage rites.
He cinched the tie on his robe and poured himself a tiny glass of rare and quite illegally obtained star-berry liqueur. Eyes closed, he let the sweetness glide over his tongue. Fleetingly, it numbed his throat before warming his belly, leaving behind the barest hint of its notorious intoxicating power. Tonight he would partake sparingly, so he could apply the time-tested erotic skills he’d been taught at the palace in his youth, along with the more subtle techniques he’d gleaned as a man, to give Jasmine the most exquisite pleasure imaginable—if she allowed him to make love to her. Heat pooled in his groin as he pictured ways to arouse her before bringing her to fulfillment, and he chose several that he was certain would inspire her to give up her secrets as easily as star-berry blossoms fell in the first snow.
“Open.” The doors to his personal-items repository slid apart and he chose his attire prudently, skillfully, as a warrior might select his weapons. Lifting his best shirt from a protective wrapper, he fastened the coppery Nandan silk tunic from left to right across his chest, and then tugged his dress boots over a soft pair of Nandan trousers—procured years ago, and worn but once. In texture, and in feel against bare skin, the luxurious fabric had no equal. He poured a few drops from a golden flask into his hand, rubbed his palms together, and massaged the oil into his scalp. Peering into the mirror, he combed his freshly trimmed hair back from his face. This was not preening, he assured himself, but a hunter’s meticulous attention to setting his snare.
His viewscreen chimed. He flicked it on. Jas was standing in the corridor outside his door, her arms wrapped around a packet that looked suspiciously full of paperwork. The soles of her shoes sported cylindrical protrusions that raised her heels off the ground. With surprised pleasure he noted that her skirt, decorated with blossoms of some sort, reached only to her knees. It was not the custom for women—other than the pleasure servants who advertised their wares in the sex markets—to wear short dresses, so Rom treated himself to a leisurely perusal of her bare calves. “One moment,” he said into the comm. The doors swished open. She cast an admiring but nervous gaze around his quarters. Bowing, he beckoned her inside with a sweep of his hand. “I’m pleased that you came.”
“I look forward to this. We have much to talk about.” Her tone was purposeful but pleasant. “I can tell you more about the agreement now.”
“Care for a drink?”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes. Thank you.”
He filled two thimble-sized glasses with star-berry liqueur and touched his glass to hers. “To adventures not yet taken.”
Her mouth curved. “Perfect.”
He waited until she’d almost lifted the glass to her mouth before he stopped her. “Wait. This is star-berry liqueur, a very special drink. It is to be shared in the traditional way.” He dipped his finger into his glass and dragged his moistened fingertip along her warm, pliant lower lip.
She stiffened, her nostrils flaring. They maintained eye contact long enough for him to see her alarm. Then, glancing away, she said dryly, “That is some tradition.”
“Thousands of years old. Now you anoint my lips with star-berry liqueur. Methods vary. Be as inventive as you please.”
She gave him a long look, color rising in her cheeks.
“Perhaps another time,” he said under his breath, relenting. He couldn’t remember the last time his words alone had made a woman blush. Her unexpected innocence captivated him as much as her spirit and intelligence. “Go on. Sample the liqueur.”
Self-consciously, she licked her bottom lip. “It is delicious”—her eyes narrowed—“and alcoholic.”
“Very much so.” Rom clinked his glass to hers. “Now we empty our cups.” When she finished, he asked, “What do you say we have dinner? Perhaps we can get to know each other better over a good meal.” He motioned for her to follow. They paused several times to peruse the artwork adorning the walls. After explaining the history behind the Centaurian weavings in his collection, he led her to a nest of pillows surrounding the dinner table.
“No salt?” she asked warily.
“I have some if you wish to add it to the food.”
“No. Thank you.” She grimaced. “The crew ate a year’s worth at breakfast. Do you have a doctor on board? Has he checked your”—she searched for words in a way he found surprisingly endearing—“blood pressure lately?”
He laughed. “The salt is a rare treat. I thought the crew deserved it after the months wasted in your system. By tomorrow, what I gave them will be gone, and they’ll be back to normal fare. In the absence of salt, we spice our food differently.” He waved at the festively set table. Dropping gracefully to the floor, she slipped off her shoes. Above her left heel was a tiny, fresh cut. A similar wound marred her ankle.
“Have you encountered sharp edges in your quarters?” he asked. “I’ll call Terz for repairs.”
She dropped her face into her palms and groaned.
“What is it?” he asked worriedly.
She lowered her hands. “I showered too slowly this morning. Since you do not allow more than one shower per day, I had to shave my legs with lotion.” Her cheeks colored further.
“You shave the hair from your legs? The way a man removes his beard?”
“Yes, I do.”
His loins tightened. He had a dozen related questions he wanted to ask her but didn’t know where to begin.
As if she sensed the direction of his thoughts, she said in accented, carefully worded Basic, “I hope you do not mind if we talk about something else. Surely there are more engaging topics than my poor leg-shaving technique.” With a supple flex of the muscles in her calves, she pointed her toes, then curled her legs to one side, eliciting in him a sharp, erotic image of those strong, long legs wrapped over his hips, squeezing him as he made thorough and delicious love to her.
“For instance,” she said, splintering his reverie. “I want to know about your clothing. The workmanship is lovely. All the clothes I have seen here are this way. Not manufactured, like on Earth. May I?” She reached for his shirtsleeve and rubbed the material between her fingers. “So soft…I am an artist—I paint. But I often wonder if it is not the wrong medium, because I have always loved fabrics.”
“This is not a surprise. As an artist your senses are tuned to a higher level. Smell and touch, sight and sound, and, of course, taste.” His gaze lingered on her throat, then her mouth. “They affect you more than other people.”
Jas snapped her hand back into her lap. It was new to her, this kind of deep and meaningful eye contact. Flattered, self-conscious, and despising her lack of sophistication, she studied her clasped hands. “Are your pants of the same fabric as your shirt?”
“Yes. Nandan silk.”
“Nandan silk.” She savored the exotic name, pictured delicate, amber-skinned women using looms on a distant tropical planet. “From plant or animal?”
“Plant. The strands are made from the sap of a willow found on the planet Nanda. The trees aren’t grown anywhere else. It’s forbidden to take the seeds off-planet, making the cloth rare and beyond the reach of all but the very wealthy.”
“Business must be good for you to be able to afford such luxuries.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Not that good.” Plucking at his trousers, he told her, “The clothes were a gift from a grateful seed-stealing smuggler sentenced to death by the Nandans. Since Drandon and I had a nice little business supplying non-Vash plantations in the frontier, I facilitated his escape from a rather dismal dungeon.”
At the end of his explanation, Jas caught herself leaning forward, thoroughly fascinated. In those few moments, she had lived the adventure right along with him. “You have more stories,” she prompted.
“A few.”
“I want to hear them all.”
He appeared pleased. “I’ll bore you.”
“No,” she said with a sigh, “you won’t.”
“Very well. Then you will tell me your tales afterward.”
She waved her hands rapidly. “Which will take all of five minutes.”
“That I doubt,” he said, a grin transforming his profile. His nose was too long to be perfect, but she loved the way it came that extra, sexy fraction of an inch closer to his mouth, giving him the look of an ancient Greek statue. His long, lean athlete’s body was muscled just enough to keep him from being lanky. The candlelight warmed his hair to a honeyed cinnamon, a shade or two darker than his skin, and she wondered whether the strands were as soft as they looked.
If he was aware of her fascination with him, he didn’t show it, and busied himself preparing the meal. Steaming savory aromas rose and mingled in the air as Rom uncovered various crocks, choosing from among the dishes to adorn a plate with a colorful array of food. Jas’s stomach rumbled.
“Let us begin the meal.” Rom settled onto the pillows. From across a corner of the triangular table separating him from her, he selected a morsel from his plate. Holding it carefully between his thumb and index finger, he offered it to her. “Tromjha beef,” he explained. When she reached for it, he drew his hand back. “In my culture, on occasions such as these, we feed each other.”
“Oh.” The thought made her dizzy—and not only because of the liqueur’s subtle effects on her brain. The act screamed of intimacy. Oh, just do it. It was one reason she took this trip, wasn’t it? To embrace new experiences, to remember what was like to feel alive.
She parted her lips.
His three lower fingers, those not touching the meat, brushed against her jaw. Whether it was by accident or design, she couldn’t tell, and didn’t care, because the feel of his warm, dry fingertips was as delicious as the tender beef he fed her. Blotting his thumb and forefinger on a napkin, he watched her intently as she chewed, savoring the delicate citruslike flavoring. And then it was her turn.
Her heart slammed against her chest as she raised a piece of meat to his mouth, holding the food the way he had, between two fingers, leaving the others clean and free…to touch. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft.
When he had finished chewing, he murmured the name of the next delicacy, then fed it to her, his fingertips sliding along her jaw as he withdrew his hand. Goose bumps rose on her arms. As he watched her, she crushed the tart-sweet marinated fruit with her teeth, then selected one for him, lifting it to his parted lips. This time she dared to let the heel of her hand linger on his cheek, and his whiskers, too pale to be seen, pricked the tender inside of her palm. The temperature inside the room skyrocketed, but she suspected it wasn’t due to a faulty environmental-control system.
“I could get used to this,” she confessed.
His mouth curved as she paused to clean and dry her fingers. She glowed inside with his smile, and felt her belly contract when she entertained the insane thought of kissing him. Not that he would waste his time with a rookie like her. He was a man of galactic experience. If she were a male guest, he’d be regaling her with tales of conquests and sexual prowess. “I think you must have had adventures to fill ten lifetimes,” she said.
“Twenty.”
She laughed softly. “Tell me some.” She lifted her glass of liqueur. “Like this. Why is it so special?”
He settled onto his side and balanced one arm across his upright knee, a move steeped in lazy, graceful sensuality. “Star-berries grow in only the most inhospitable locations. The berries in this bottle came from a planet that sits between two red-giant stars. It knows only eternal sunset and freezing temperatures, except for a very brief summer. When the snow melts, the star-berry bushes bloom. Magenta flowers stretch to the horizon. And the fragrance”—his pale eyes glazed over with the recollection—“some say it’s as intoxicating as the liqueur itself.”
Without a second thought, Jas dipped her fingertip into her glass of pink-tinged fluid and stroked the essence of that frigid, faraway land across his lips. His eyes darkened. Seeing his response elicited a shivery, long-forgotten yearning. A tiny alarm sounded inside her, a warning, but she chose to ignore it.
“The flowers are extremely fragile,” he began again, watching her intently. “They fall with the first flurries. The ripe berries must be picked shortly thereafter, because within days they’ll be buried under hundreds of feet of snow.”
Basic feet measured longer than Earth feet, making it even harder to picture so much snow. “Does anyone live there?” Jas asked.
“Butterflies. And the harvesters who fly in for the summer. All vanish with the first snow. But it gets cold long before that.” He glanced away. “You can’t imagine how cold.”
She thought she saw him shudder, but she couldn’t be sure. Astonished, she spread her palms flat on the table, leaning forward to scrutinize him. “You were a harvester?”
“For a time.” His eyes flashed with something she couldn’t define. Secrets. She would bet he was full of them. And contrasts. His self-assured, aristocratic grace implied good breeding, yet he was a trader and part-time smuggler. His crew clearly worshiped him—his mere presence commanded a room—but his cocky attitude and disregard for Vash rules gave the impression that he didn’t give a damn what others thought. “You are not what you seem, Rom B’kah.”
His voice was quiet, frank. “Nor are you.”
They offered each other more food. Jas found that the ever-changing tastes, the nuance of textures, the heightening of the senses, made every touch and smell and murmured bit of conversation incredibly erotic. Warm fingertips lingered. Hands caressed. It seemed so natural when, at last, their lips came together. She didn’t know who reached for whom first, but she was in his arms and he was kissing her, almost lovingly, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Honeyed warmth spread through her. She wrapped her arms over his shoulders and angled her head, allowing him to deepen the kiss. His tongue was velvet, stroking hers in an endless caress. Desire coursed through her with an intensity she’d felt only in her dreams.
She never imagined that a kiss alone could be this blissful…this arousing. Fingers skimmed across her throat and collarbone, and she longed for them to reach lower.
He lifted his mouth from hers and kissed his way to the hollow under her earlobe, lingering there. She hunched her shoulders. No man had ever lavished such attention on that spot, one she never knew was so sensitive. Toes curling in delight, she arched her neck and bit back a sigh, twisting restless fingers into his thick, mink-soft hair.
Again his mouth found hers. This time his kiss was hotter, and hard with passion. Distantly she sensed that his ardor was intensifying. Unease flickered through her as he expertly maneuvered her onto her back, his lean, powerful body molding to hers, his muscular thighs holding her in place. Only now did he begin to explore below her neck and shoulders. His fingers glided up her thigh, slipping past the elastic band of her panties, kindling a breathless carnal urgency. Suddenly she understood that his technique of limiting his touches had been a cleverly erotic way of teasing, of intensifying her need for more intimate caresses. “Oh, Jas…my sweet angel,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “Now we will make love.”