Moonstruck (8 page)

Tango had flown fighters for his entire career. He’d seen combat time in Iraq. Then he’d gotten on with the Thunderbirds. He’d always considered himself a soldier, but looking at the hard faces of these Drakken, he knew he hadn’t seen the kind of war they had. The bloodshed. The despair. They were too young to look the way they did.

He let go of Hadley and tossed a Rubik’s Cube onto the table. It skittered across the table and stopped. “Keep it. Payment for my drink.”

They frowned at the cube and then at him. “What the freep is this?” one said.

“A Rubik’s Cube.” He demonstrated. “It’s a puzzle. Exercises the brain.”

“Children play with toys,” someone muttered, downing a shot glass of sweef.

Tango let the comment roll off. The boys would have to warm up to him. Bolivarr said quietly, “The Earthling says he’s never tried sweef.”

“Major Barr—Tango.” Hadley tried to caution him again.

One of the men pulled the stopper off a black bottle.

“Wait a second, baby. I gotta sample a little sweef.”

Hadley made a small sound of dismay. A Drakken poured him a shot glass full of the liquid. It was mostly clear with a hint of amber. It did look disturbingly like hydraulic fluid. Tango lifted the little glass, aimed it all around the somber group and tossed back the contents.

He choked, sputtering. It felt as if someone had aimed a blowtorch on the back of his throat. Eyes tearing, he managed to choke the rest down.

The Drakken were watching him, their tattoos visible, their earrings glinting.
Wuss. Sissy. Girlie man. Weakling.
It didn’t matter in what language or in what slang they were thinking, he’d just failed their test.

He tried for his best smile. “Ah, man. That hit the spot.” Like napalm. Vertigo unsteadied him. He stared at a fixed spot on the table until it passed. “I’m a Texas boy, and one is never enough. I’ll have another. Who’ll join me?”

I’
VE GOT TO GET HIM OUT
of here,
Hadley thought. Tango was irritating and arrogant, but he was also naive. He hadn’t spent a lifetime at war like the Drakken had. They, too, saw him as naive. She could see it in their faces. Except for Bolivarr. She caught his attention, controlling the shivers those dark, soulful eyes conjured in her stomach to aim an accusing glare in his direction.
Why’d you encourage him to come over here?

Hadley groaned silently when Tango sat down with the group. If he drank more sweef he’d regret it. Her only chance to help was to coax him to leave.

“Tango…” Hadley tapped him on the shoulder. “I want to watch that holo, the Lord of the Dark Reaches dons Prude.”

“The Devil Wears Prada,”
he corrected, reaching for a fresh glass of sweef. “And not holos—movies. Baby, you will have that chance. I promise you that.”

She tipped her head, canting her hip to one side as she tried her best to pout. She wasn’t any good at this, but she had to get him away from the Drakken. They were bad news. “I would like to watch the moo-vee now.”

“Now?” He blinked at her in surprise and dawning delight.

She tried to make her voice sound sultry. “Now you’re the one answering statements with questions. Yes, now. You promised.”

“And you just made my night, baby. A movie and a little private time upstairs.”

Hadley smiled. She had a date.

And, maybe, later, a kiss.
A daydream of tonight turning into more floated through her mind. She couldn’t help spinning the clock ahead. It was the way of her homeworld, known for its romantic stories and ballads. She was a daughter of that world, no matter how far she’d run from it. Smiling, she let her thoughts take her and Tango into the future. Their first date would lead to another one, and another, and eventually to the night she’d give him her virginity.

Hadley released a happy sigh.

Tango put the glass down. “I’ll catch you guys another time. I’ve got plans.” He started to push away from the table when a shout rose up from the men. “Rakkelle!” they called out.

A skinny woman with shiny, jaw-length black hair had arrived. She wore earrings like the Drakken men did, but the jewelry wasn’t confined to the lobe; it studded the entire rim. A tiny gem glinted on the side of her nose. Hadley remembered the pilot from the day Admiral Bandar commissioned her.

“That’s
Cadet
Rakkelle to you—woo!” Rakkelle held up her hands, gyrating her hips as she walked over. She was dressed in only half a uniform, having substituted the upper half for a tight black tank top. Admiral Bandar would not be pleased. “You are either in uniform or out of it,” she always said.

Someone handed Rakkelle a shot glass of sweef. She downed it as if it were plain water. Then she draped her thin body across Tango’s lap and dragged a fingertip over his chin. “I don’t care what you say, I’m a much better pilot than you, Earthling flyboy.”

“Keep dreamin’, Rocky.”

Rocky?
Hadley’s mouth dropped.

“Better, better, better, mmm…” Rakkelle looped her arms over his shoulders and planted a kiss on his lips.

Hadley stood there, rooted to the spot, even though all she wanted to do was run out. It wasn’t that he kissed the pilot cadet that hurt—it obviously wasn’t of his initiation—but that he spent a few long seconds kissing her back.

The ring he’d given her had turned black.
Stressed, tense or feeling harried,
the guide claimed. How about murderous?

Hadley didn’t stay for the rest of the show. Humiliated, she found the exit and left. Her fantasy was over and done, vaporized into so much cosmic dust. If she lost her innocence before the end of this voyage, it would be with one of her own kind. Earthlings were too…too…

“It’s just Rakkelle.”

She spun around. Bolivarr stood there, tall, dark and intense. His black hair was short and glossy; a lock fell forward over his forehead. He had a way of appearing and disappearing like cloud shadows on a summer day, sliding silently in and out of sight. He’d come after her to make amends, apparently.

Good—he ought to feel guilty. What happened was all his fault, luring Tango over to the Drakken table and setting him in Rakkelle’s path of destruction. “
Just
Rakkelle?” Hadley blurted out. “So she
usually
throws herself all over strange men?”

“And not-so-strange ones, too, like your Earthling. Rakkelle’s an equal-opportunity lover.”

“He’s not
my
Earthling.” She twisted the ring off her finger. The gem had turned a dark purplish blue. Goddess—she knew what the guide said about indigo. She had a photographic memory that never failed her.
Romantic, passionate, in love.

With
Bolivarr?

Stupid ring! It had already malfunctioned, just like the man who had given it to her. Turning on her boot heel, she walked away, her head held high, Admiral Bandar–style. She kept up the aloof facade until she’d rounded the corner; then she broke into a run and left the bar far behind. Her love life was over before it had ever begun.

F
INN HAD NEVER SEEN
anyone play lightball, but he’d heard of the sport. Bandar whirled and lunged in a glassed-in court, the ball of light whooshing between her hand and the walls. She looked like a fire goddess. Her dark blue tank top bared her stomach, and clung to every curve, her short pants revealing legs that were as gods-be-damned long as he’d imagined.

He settled in to watch her play. Aye, why not? She might outrank him, but he felt no less a male in her presence.

With each slam of the lightball, she expelled a breath, her skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. Her hair swung in a long ponytail as she spun, sending the ball of light on another arcing flight across the court. It came back at her fast, a shooting star.

While she was so in control in her job, down to every mannerism, here she seemed to hold nothing back. Finn couldn’t help but wonder what else she threw herself into as heartily and completely. His cock gave a twitch.

“Ah, no!” she choked out, missing the ball. It rolled to the edge of the court. His fire goddess noticed him and stopped, her chest heaving. A dark lock of hair was stuck to her cheek and jaw. She peeled it out of the way. “Warleader,” she greeted, breathless, seeming softer somehow here on this court.

Something about her out of uniform…

“Admiral.” He nodded, the ball glowing on the floor between their feet. “I was admiring your skill with the game.”

“Do you play?”

“We Drakken play with real balls.”

She snorted. “It takes real balls to play lightball.”

“I hope you’re interested in playing doubles, because there is no way I’ll back down from that challenge.”

“Take off your uniform,” she said.

Oh, how he’d dreamed of her telling him that. Grinning, he unbuttoned his Triad jacket, placing it on the floor. Underneath he wore a black T-shirt, part of his old Imperial Navy uniform.

“Your boots, Warleader.”

She was barefoot. He glimpsed a pair of pretty feet as she walked away, arms raised as she tightened her ponytail. Loose, her hair would reach almost to that sexy ass.

His cock protested the direction of his thoughts. Protested, aye, because they both well knew thoughts alone wouldn’t satisfy.

“The ball, Warleader,” she said, impatient.

“Aye.” He tossed his boots outside the court and scooped the ball of light into his hand, and almost let it fall. “Damn, it’s
hot!
” He tossed it from hand to hand. So much for a warning.

Her half smile was smug. “I told you it takes balls to play.” She walked around, waving a hand at the court. “All walls and the ceiling are fair impact points. A floor hit ends the round. The game is played taking turns. You can use any part of your body you choose. No double hits. One scores when the other misses.” She pointed to a visual display outside the glass. “Points are shown there. The scoring system recognizes the differences in our bodies, via ball contact, and will keep score.” She walked back to him. “Ready to play?”

“Aye, Admiral.” He was tossing the ball, one-handed. “I’m ready.”

“Serve.”

He swung his arm, sending the lightball to the back wall. It came back fast, faster than he’d expected. Bandar returned, putting it in the corner. He had to dive to keep it from hitting the floor. He’d barely gotten his feet under him when the ball whooshed, hissing, at his face. He ducked like he’d dodged bullets and thrown knives in the past, but it passed close enough to feel searing heat across his scalp.

He danced backward, breathing heavily, as the ball skittered across the floor. A glowing circle appeared in her score column.

“You have to be faster.” She’d retrieved the ball and sent it speeding toward the left wall. It ricocheted, but he was there. Again, the ball came at his head, hissing and hot.

Her eyes gleamed wickedly.

“You wouldn’t be doing that on purpose, would you?”

“Of course the hells I am!”

“Hells? I thought you weren’t a believer.” He sent the ball across the court.

She volleyed back. “I’m not.”

“You refer to the Dark Reaches yet not the gods?”

“You could say I’m better acquainted with the underside of our existence.” She served and another volley was under way.

Another point went in her favor. She had the upper hand from practice and experience, just as he used to have when she’d chase him unsuccessfully across the Borderlands, his haunt, not hers. “This court is your domain,” he acceded. “But not for long.” He sent the ball screaming across the court.

“That’s one thing I like about you, Warleader—your ability to delude yourself.”

He threw back his head and laughed—cut off mid-chuckle when the ball sped from her hand to the left wall. He sent it back with a kick that caused her to miscalculate where it would land. It skittered across the floor. She stared at the fallen lightball as if she couldn’t believe she’d missed.

“Ready to surrender?” he asked.

“You’re—” she let the ball fly “—deluding yourself again.”

“Do you know what this is beginning to remind me of?” he asked, swinging hard. “The days in the Borderlands, you trying to catch me.”

“I would have caught you, given a little more time,” she gasped, diving for the low hit. “You were far from my primary mission. Other duties called me away.”

“Now who’s being delusional?” He slammed the ball. She returned it, hard. He laughed with the exhilaration of the game. His desire for victory equaled hers. “Are you ready yet for duties to call you away again?” he teased.

“Why, have you had enough?”

“Not even close.” He used his shoulder to send the ball across the court. “You almost caught me. On Mirkuu.”

She stumbled. He thought for a moment she’d miss his volley. She didn’t. “What do you mean?”

“I was there, on Mirkuu.”

“No, you weren’t. We knew everyone who was on Mirkuu.”

“You thought you did.”

The ball zipped back and forth at lightning speed.

“That merchant,” she said on a burst of breath. “That merchant with half a brain who took our money and gave us faulty intel.” She threw her whole self into the next hit and whirled on him. “That was you!”

“Aye. That was me.”

He aimed the ball low and left. She missed the point.

Sucking in air, his fire goddess glared at him in disbelief. “You’re only one point up now,” he informed her.

With a growl, she scooped the ball off the floor and flung it across the court. She played hard, and he played even harder, anticipating her every move. He laughed with the joy of the game and his pirate’s pride at fooling one of the greatest commanders the Coalition had ever seen. And the smartest. Bandar had come uncomfortably close to snaring him one too many times. His pretending to be a merchant on Mirkuu had been a rushed, last-ditch effort as the Coalition closed in on him. Even he’d thought his luck had finally run out. To this day, he couldn’t believe that it had worked: the real merchant bound and gagged under the counter all while Finn gave Stone-Heart’s hunting party false leads with a smile and a wave, picturing Bandar waiting for his disgraced arrival on the
Vengeance,
never dreaming her team would fail.

The volley was vicious, lasting longer than the ones preceding it. It ended with them colliding and the ball going wild. He caught her to keep her from falling. The ball bounced off the back wall, came around from behind and caught him in the ass.

“Point,” she said. “My point!”

He coughed out a laugh of his own, unable to keep from staring as she laughed—a real laugh, husky and melodic. He thought she was gorgeous, aye, but with her face all soft with happiness, she was breathtakingly beautiful.

He doubted his thoughts were hard to read.

Her smile faded. She shook her head, her shoulders sagging, as if she’d given up on something. Before he realized what was happening, she pulled his head down to hers. “Damn you, Rorkken,” she said and kissed him.

He almost staggered, shocked by the feel of her lips on his mouth. The delicious, exotically floral scent of her hit him next. His instinct as a naval officer was to pull away—by the gods, she was his commanding officer—but he was a pirate first and always would be, aye, and no fool. He’d admired this woman for too long, had desired her since he set foot on this ship and realized who she was—though in truth he’d desired her even before that. She could have been plain in looks, it wouldn’t have mattered; he’d been half in love with her ever since their days of cat and mar-mouse in the Borderlands. Wrong it may be, but if she wanted him, he wanted her right back.

Gods, she tasted good. She felt even better, pressed against him like this. He slid his hand up her arm, up that long, smooth throat, and over her hair. Was that a sigh he heard? As if he required any more encouragement.

Grabbing her by the base of her ponytail, he held her where he wanted her, and that was up close and personal, very personal, aye. He wasn’t just merely hard; he was ready to explode. It was no secret what he thought of this kiss. The evidence was hers to keep or discard.