Hope's Folly (44 page)

“Relax, Mrs. Guthrie,” he ordered through gritted teeth, because the thought of various places on her body wasn't relaxing his at all.

“My right shoulder is about to explode. Admiral Guthrie. Sir.”

He imagined it was. She'd been shot twice. Yesterday. Being cruel wasn't like him. But being cautious definitely was, though it meant hurting her a bit longer. He yanked her wrists tightly together, locking them with one hand as he plucked the hypo from her right. He tossed it into the bedroom hallway. Even left-handed, his aim was good. He heard it
clink
against the tile in the lav.

Then he reached for the Carver at her side, pulling the weapon from her holster while he kept his gaze on hers. He knew she was in pain, but she didn't flinch. Nor did she struggle, although if she intended to fight back, this was her best chance to do so.

But she was ImpSec-trained. ImpSec agents didn't use the best chance, the most obvious chances. They just made sure the chance they took was the one that worked.

He considered holding her at gunpoint, but keeping her immobile seemed the wiser option. He tossed the Carver onto his nightstand—ostensibly within her reach, but he'd get to it first. And part of him wanted to see if she'd try. Then he shoved his hand under her waist and down the back of her pants, leaning closer to her as he felt for her L7 stunner.

“Having fun?” Her voice was definitely breathy. She tilted her face back slightly and watched him through slitted eyes.

“You have no idea.” No, the way his body pressed against hers, likely she did. He felt the outlines of the small stunner but took a moment to let his fingers travel farther and caress a handful of her magnificent ass. Then he reluctantly retrieved the stunner. It, too, went on his nightstand.

He reclaimed her left wrist, separating her hands just enough to relieve the worst of the pressure on her injured shoulder. He felt some of the stiffness leach from her body. Shame he couldn't say the same for his.

“What else?” he asked her.

“Knife in my boot.”

“Left, inside?”

“We read the same training manual.”

They had, and he'd given her several chances to make a move. She hadn't. He was beginning to suspect that if—
when
—he had that hypo tested, it would be exactly what she said it was. Generic trank, enough to make him sleep for a few hours. The motive, then, was not killing him. Not that he ever thought it was. ImpSec doesn't bother tranking you if they want you dead. “I guess I'll just have to trust you not to slit my throat. Anything else?”

She thought, brows lowering. “I could bite you.”

“You did, several times last night. It was memorable.”

Her lashes dipped briefly. “Yes, it was.” Her voice went soft.

He sighed and, still clasping her wrists, drew her arms down even with her shoulders. That should cause her no pain at all. His heart held enough for both of them. Last night had been more than memorable.

“Better, Mrs. Guthrie?”

“Much.”

“So who put you up to this? Constantine?”

She sputtered. “The Tin Man? He'd have you tranking
me
out until I could be dumped on the
Nowicki.
He thinks I'm dangerous.”

Philip couldn't argue with that.

“Sparks, then.” Chaz's ire was something to be reckoned with. And neither Sparks nor Con was happy with his plan to act as decoy with the Imperials.

She gave him a disbelieving look, mouth pursed. “No.”

“Who wants me out of commission?”

“I don't want you out of commission, Guthrie.” Some of the fire flickered back into her eyes. “I want you alive, scowling and limping all over the goddamned Alliance. I want you hunting down Tage and kicking his pompous ass to hell and back. And I want you to dead-eye Olefar in the
Masling and
tell him he has no right”—she stopped, her voice catching, her lower lip suddenly trembling—“no
right
to sit his unworthy carcass in my father's command chair!” She turned her face away, her left cheek against his blanket, a tear sliding down her right. “Damn you,” she whispered. Then, even softer: “I can't lose you both.”

His heart constricted, her pain washing over him. He never really thought she was trying to kill him. She was trying to save his life—and would try again, through her tears, through her pain.

She wouldn't be his rebel if she didn't.

He released her hands, then laced his fingers through hers. Leaning on his elbows, he touched his lips to the tears on her face, tasting the salt that was there because of him. “I'm always making you cry, beautiful. I'm sorry.”

She turned a watery gaze to him, blinking, then she angled her face, her lips seeking his, her kiss searing, demanding. Her fingers squeezed his as if she held on to him for dear life.

A tremor rippled through his body. He answered her kiss with one equally demanding. Wanting her was his only focus. Loving her was his only goal.

He slipped one hand from hers and fumbled for the zipper on her shirt, ready to tear the damned thing, but he found it and yanked it down. She was pulling her shirt off as quickly as he was, breaking their kiss only to toss her shirt and then her thin lace undershirt somewhere across the room.

She pulled him down on top of her, their mouths fusing as her hands explored his body with an expert insistence. He rolled onto his side, bringing her with him, then, in the small space between their bodies, found her breast, letting its soft weight fill his hand before tracing a hard nipple with his thumb.

Her breath hitched in his mouth. He deepened his kiss, his heart pounding, his body throbbing. She clung to him. His hand skimmed down her waist, over the swell of her hip. He tugged on her pants.

“Off,” he rasped against her lips.

Her answer was a breathless “Yes, sir,” and a rapid unfastening of pants, then bootstraps. She sat up to pull them off. He moved behind her, filling both hands with her breasts. He nipped the back of her neck, gently. Her boots hit the decking with a thud, then she was arching against him because his fingers slid through the moist heat between her legs, teasing her, making himself crazy with need.

He pushed her back down on the bed, his mouth finishing what his fingers had started, until she was panting, gasping, and he was at the edge of his control. This was no slow seduction. There were no more lifetimes. This was everything. This was now.

He moved up her body, tasting every inch of her. He had to see her face. He claimed her mouth again. Her hands clasped his shoulders as he thrust his fingers in her hair, not letting her break the kiss.

She locked her legs around his hips. He rolled over. He wanted her straddling him, heat against heat. She rocked against him, stroking.

He needed to be in her. Now.

“Wait,” she whispered.

Wait?

A soft laugh, more than a little wicked, then a coolness where her body's warmth had been. She nipped his abdomen. A wet tongue circled his navel, then her mouth took him all in, her tongue licking, teasing, her fingers knowing just where to caress …

Head thrown back, Philip knotted the bedsheets into his hands, his mind praying for control, his body damned near delirious with pleasure.

“Rya,” he pleaded finally, reaching blindly for her because control was seconds from losing the battle.

She slid up his body, and this time, when she straddled him, he thrust into her, claiming her, branding her. Her breath stuttered, her fingers tightened on his shoulders. All coherent thought fled, replaced by passion and desire, wanting and needing. And the knowing, as the heat of pleasure roared through him, that this was the only lifetime that mattered.

She collapsed against him, her heart pounding as hard as his, her skin slick beneath his fingers. He nuzzled her face until his lips found hers. He kissed her with a passion he knew would never be spent, a passion that went beyond words.

He had words. He just didn't know what she'd do if he said them. She hadn't been overly thrilled to be his wife.

And there was her boyfriend the barrister.

So he kissed her because that was something she accepted, interpreted in her own way. It let him say what he wanted. It kept her in his arms, where, at least until tomorrow, she was safe.

And she was his.

The sound of a holster's thumb snap snicking into place woke her. Her eyes flew open, body tensing as she took rapid inventory in the dim light filtering in from the lav: bed, cat, Philip.

Philip. Fully dressed, fully armed, including her Norlack across his back.

She sat up quickly, sheet falling to her waist. “Lights, half. Just where do you think you're going?”

He turned away from the closet, silently. He could move like she could. Obviously, because he'd managed to slip out of bed and get dressed without her knowing.

Except for the click of a holster. That sound always drew her. Like a sea predator to blood in the water.

He gave her a knowing half smile. “I need to check on a few things before the action starts.”

She knew what those few things were: an escape pod. And the ones on Deck 5 that were the only ones— because of tech incompatibilities—not yet integrated into the bridge systems. Launching a pod from there set off no alarms on the bridge. “No, you don't.”

“Rya—”

“I didn't risk life, limb, career, and sanity to have you stuff yourself in an escape pod when we clear the gate. I will chase you down and trank you right on the bridge, in front of Welford and everybody, if I have to.”

“You're so beautiful when you're angry. I know it's a cheap and overused phrase. But in your case, it's true. You really
are
beautiful when you're angry.” The half smile widened. He stepped to her side of the bed. “And naked.”

“You leave this cabin, it will take me two minutes, less, to get dressed and come after you.”

He leaned over and kissed her, hard, making her pulse jump and her heart flutter. “You have to find your clothes first,” he whispered against her lips.

Then, with a low chuckle, he grabbed his cane from where it rested against the bedside table and headed for the door.

Find her clothes? “Lights, full!” She kicked off the sheet, pushing herself out of bed. Captain Folly jumped out of her way and bolted from the room. She looked left, right, everywhere. There was nothing on the decking. Nothing. “Damn you, Philip Guthrie, get back here!” She ripped the sheet off the bed. She yanked open the bedside-table drawers. Nothing. Empty.

“Philip!” She pulled on his closet doors. Locked. Damn him!

She strode into his main room, hands fisted. Folly-cat sat on the galley counter, lapping a bowl of cream. Philip was gone.

Biting back a scream of rage, she lunged for the bedroom. Not only were her clothes gone, so were her weapons. She pounded on a closet door with the flat of her hand. Goddamned slagging son of a bitch!

He'd outsmarted her.

She'd find him, oh, she would. But those first precious minutes would be lost. He was doing something to one of the Deck 5 escape pods, and she had no way of knowing what or which one. It would take her a lot longer than two minutes to get dressed.

She glanced at the bedside clock. 0450. Sachi Holton was going to kill her—once she stopped asking what Rya was doing, naked, in the admiral's quarters. She trudged back to Philip's galley and hit intraship, tapping in the code for Sachi's cabin. “Sach? It's Rya. Look, I'm sorry to wake you, but I have a bit of a problem ….”

Sheet wrapped around her, Rya unlocked Philip's door for Sachi Holton. Sachi's braids were embellished with purple clips today. She was yawning. Her dark eyes widened as Rya stepped aside, letting her in. She craned her neck, shoving the stack of clothing in Rya's direction.

“He's not here?”

“No.”

Sachi turned those still-wide eyes on her. “And he left you with nothing but a bedsheet?”

“Yes.”

“Why did he hide your clothes?”

Rya headed for the bedroom, trying not to trip on the edge of the sheet. “Because he's a slag-headed overbearing sneaky bastard.”

“Oh,” Sachi said, stopping at the galley counter to scratch Captain Folly's ears. Rya continued on into the bedroom.

“Is he any good?” Sachi called after her.

Rya tossed the clothes on the mattress and let the sheet slip to the floor. Was he any good? Her body heated in spite of her nakedness.

“For a slag-headed overbearing sneaky bastard, yes. He is.”

She quickly pulled on her underclothes, her shirt, then her pants. She shoved her feet into her boots— they were her spare pair and not her favorite, damn him. And damn him, she still felt naked. She didn't have any weapons. She couldn't remember the last time she didn't have at least a stunner somewhere on her body. Or a knife. At least within reach.

Matt used to gripe that she'd shower with her Stinger in her holster if it wouldn't ruin the leather.

Sachi was rubbing the underside of Captain Folly's chin and crooning nonsense at him when Rya trudged into the main room. “Thanks, Sach. I owe you.”

“So, was this just a onetime thing?” Sachi asked, clearly curious as she followed Rya to the door. And clearly unsure how to phrase her questions about Admiral Philip Guthrie. “Or is he, like, your boyfriend?”