The Star Princess (23 page)

Muffin had massacred an entire hedgerow with the hand trimmer while waiting for Ché to land that first day. Ché had previous flying experience, yes, but he was a prince, a valuable asset for his family, and to the Federation. No one could afford for him to throw away his life frying such flimsy little Earth craft.

They're safe," Ian had assured him. "Ché is methodical and cautious. He knows what he's doing."

Maybe so. But Muffin wished the princes and princesses he knew would take better care of themselves. Ian included, he thought, and shoveled a heaping forkful of omelet into his mouth.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He lifted his attention from his plate and scanned the bustling restaurant. A woman watched him from a stool by the booth where many of the airport's employees took their meals. Her brown jumpsuit told him that she worked in aircraft maintenance. Muffin's own was green. Her curves filled the outfit. She was a lushly built woman, sturdy, with arms and legs that looked like they could actually do some labor. He appreciated a good-sized woman. Unfortunately, most of the women he met looked as if they would blow away in the first good breeze. This one's hair was just as lush as the rest of her. It streamed past her shoulders in flaming copper to reach the middle of her back. That was when his eyes finally made it to her round, open face.

The woman jerked away her gaze. Standing quickly, she paid for her breakfast. Frowning over her shoulder, she gave him one last glance before she pushed open the swinging door and left.

Through the large window, Muffin watched her go. She donned a helmet that said "Trouble," boarded a vehicle that looked like a tiny motorcycle, and sped off toward the hangars. Earthwomen came in many different varieties, but he hadn't seen anyone like her before. Maybe she'd come again and he could scare her off a second time, he thought, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin.

It was 8:20. Time to go to work. He left a tip in Earth currency, and then swiped the currency card on the reader on his way out, paying for the meals.

Running his hand through his newly shorn blond hair— Ian had said his shaggy locks would have kept him from being hired— Muffin lumbered off toward the airport. The tarmac gave off a biting petroleum-based odor, which reminded him of the frontier. This was the frontier, he reminded himself, even though Earth never thought of itself on the edge of civilization, but at the center of it.

He slung his IDs-on-a-string over his head and swiped it on the scanner. A gate opened, allowing him inside. Cameras watched him until he'd walked out of sight on an access road that ran straight to the gardening shed.

He showed a scanner in the shed a second ID card, logging him in and unlocking a storage room of supplies. As high-tech as some worlds could be, one thing stayed relatively the same: taking care of plants. There was only so much automation one could apply to their care. The rest required a man's touch.

He filled a cart with shears, primers, fertilizer, weed killer, rake, and shovel and wheeled the tools of his supposed trade outside to await Che's arrival. Absently repairing the hedge he'd all but ruined the week before, he waited. But when the prince finally arrived, late for the first time, it was with Ilana at his side.

Hell and back! Why was she here? Muffin tossed the shears into the cart and pulled his surveillance palmtop computer from his front pocket. It magnified sight and sound.

With one thick finger, Muffin worked a wireless speaker into his ear canal. That would magnify the sound of their voices as long as he aimed the computer in the right direction.

The hedgerow kept him hidden from the flight line. Hangars behind him cast him in shadows, soon to be gone when the sun rose higher. Holding the palmtop close, he watched the couple walk past rows of chocked and tied aircraft, while taking care to hide his face. Both had seen him before— Ché months ago on the rooftop in Los Angeles, and Ilana at her mother's wedding to Rom B'kah, and again on the rooftop. Aside from Muffin's shorn hair, he looked no different from before. Unlike the royal Vash Nadah, his physical characteristics didn't stand out as much on Earth. With his light brown eyes and white-blond hair, he blended right in.

To his disbelief, so did Prince Ché, more and more these past weeks. Today the man wore mirrored sun shaders, a T-shirt, and jeans— typical Earth attire. Muffin liked imagining what the conservative Vedlas would think of such an outfit on their prized heir, Ilana had exchanged her usual dress for a tight black shirt that barely covered her midriff and jeans. She'd covered her hair, bound at the back of her head, with a black cap that bore her company's logo— a fairy-like creature holding a camera. Of course, she wore her ever-present Canon slung over one shoulder.

Was she here to fly? Blast it all— he hoped not. Ian had assigned him this mission with minimum instructions: "Tell me if they spend time together, and how much." But in Muffin's mind, his job was to protect Ilana from Ché, and he didn't like the idea of the Vedla prince forcing her up into one of those flimsy flying contraptions. Should he break cover to save her?

Not without earning the wrath of the crown prince, it was a dilemma indeed.

Ilana and Ché stopped at a blue-and-white two-seat airplane. The plug in Muffin's right ear brought the sounds of their voices to him: "We're just going to sit in it today," Ilana confirmed. She sounded nervous, unhappy.

"Yes. You on the left side, me on the right."

"Cool," she said. "The position of power."

"No. I will be on the copilot side."

"I meant me."

Ilana gave Ché a cheeky smile and walked over to the door on the left side of the plane. "I can't believe I'm doing this," She put her foot on the step-up and reiterated. "We're not going anywhere, right? We're not flying?"

Ché groaned. "Ilana, I will not trick you. If you take this plane into the sky, it will be by your own hand, and by your own decision. Did you not say the same to me on the teacup ride in Disneyland?"

"That's different. You weren't scared. You were embarrassed."

"And for good reason."

Muffin heard Ilana giggle. Then there were clanking and shuffling noises as the pair climbed into the craft.

Muffin inched forward, as close to the tarmac as he dared without being in full sight of the plane. But a man his size was hard to hide.

Ilana's voice sounded muffled. "Well. This is… okay."

"Then let go of the yoke," Ché told her.

There was some rustling. Then a nervous laugh. "Ouch."

Muffin's neck prickled. He looked over his shoulder, but no one was there. To be safe, he slid the computer into his pocket. In his earpiece, Ché continued to describe the instrumentation and the design of the plane. But when he got to the altitudes and air speeds, Ilana stopped him. "Stop! I'm breaking into a cold sweat. I don't mind the tech stuff— just don't tell me how far I'll fall before I hit the ground."

"You will not fall, Ilana."

"I know that. But the brain doesn't."

There was more conversation. And laughter. Muffin noticed the easy banter between them. There was tension, too, but not the unpleasant kind. It was the anticipation of two people who were attracted to each other but who were not yet sleeping together. He'd add that to his report when he next contacted Ian.

Again Muffin sensed something. The prickling on the back of his neck came with a rush of sweet-scented wind. Before he could turn around, a foot hooked his ankle and threw him off balance. An arm came over his chest and finished the job.

Muffin landed hard on his back. It knocked the air from his lungs. He lay there like a landed fish, eyes watering and gulping for air.

"Don't move!" a woman's voice ordered. "Show me your ID."

Hell and back! A female. He couldn't believe it. In all his missions, no one had ever made such easy work of him. The bright flashes of light in his eyes faded. Blinking, he stayed where he was, taking a moment to ascertain his foe.

A shadow moved over him. His eyes traveled up a pair of sturdy, brown-clad legs. The copper hair he recognized at once.

She appeared as startled as he was.

"Trouble," he muttered. She lived up to her name.

He started to sit up. "Wait!" she yelled. "I need to see your ID first."

"Must I lie down to do that?"

Her eyes narrowed, and he saw that they were green— angry green. "You're not a gardener."

"I am so."

She made a derisive sound that rivaled any of Ilana's. "Tell me another story."

"I can tell you, Miss Trouble, that you do not have a weapon, and that you are not a member of this airport security. You give me no reason to believe you are anything but a maintenance worker here."

"You were aiming something at that Cessna. We're taught to challenge any suspicious characters."

"Challenge means'— Great Mother, he couldn't say it; it was blasted embarrassing— "knocking a man to the ground?"

She appeared so chagrined, he couldn't resist adding, "Interfering with a gardener— it is a capital offense."

She recovered. "It is not! But a terrorist act toward a civilian aircraft will get you life in prison."

"I am not a terrorist. Look at my ID. My name is there." His assumed name.

"Take it off your neck and throw it to me." Her work boots crunched past his ear as he lay there, waiting for her to make a mistake and come too close. His hand shot out and snatched her ankle. Before she could utter any sound at all, he had her pinned beneath him on the ground. He caught the back of her head in his open palm to cushion her from the pebbly cement. Then he smiled. "Gotcha."

He'd been dying to use that particular bit of Earth slang he'd learned from Ian.

She squirmed beneath him, trying to get her knee into his groin and her hands free. She didn't have a chance. That he'd overpowered her so easily made it even more humiliating to admit she'd knocked him flat on his back. That, he decided, was not going in the crown prince's report.

He kept one of her hands pressed to the ground above her head, the other pinned between their bodies. Her breasts strained against the bodice of her jumpsuit, and her body beneath him was equally ample and soft. It was nice to have a bit of flesh to lie on rather than what, in his opinion, amounted to a bag of bones. Why thin women were attractive to so many men, he'd never know.

"Let me up," she said.

"Aha. You see? It is no fun lying on the ground."

"Okay! I get the point, big guy." She wriggled. Arousal flared, he felt himself harden. He was not a small man. She'd feel him swell. But he wouldn't intentionally force himself on a woman or intimidate one sexually. His size was usually daunting enough. He released her and pushed away before, he hoped, she realized why.

She sat up and pushed dirt off her jumpsuit. Her skin was pale, dotted with faint coppery freckles. She had a heart-shaped face with the slightest of double chins and lips that tempted a man for a kiss. "You are true to your name," he told her. "Trouble."

Her mouth twisted. "Yeah. I can't seem to escape it lately. I just got this job washing planes. I need the money." She glanced sideways. "You're not going to turn me in, are you?"

"Not when you thought you were defending the airport." That's what he liked— a woman who stood up for what was right.

"Let me see your pass, anyway. I gotta be sure who you are before I let you go."

Let him go? He smiled to himself and showed her his airport pass. He didn't want to cause "Trouble" any trouble, lest she complain to the authorities. He was certain his background could withstand a cursory check, but why invite the risk?

She studied his airport pass. "John Black."

It was strange hearing his assumed name on the woman's lips. Then she stuck out her hand, and he took it. "Copper Kaminski." She took her hand back and waved it over her head. "The hair," she explained in a way that told Muffin she'd been doing it all her life. He'd been explaining "Muffin" to the Earth-dwellers for far less than that, but it still tired.

" 'Bright as a newly minted penny on the day I was born,' "my mother said. "I don't see why she just didn't name me Penny."

"I like Copper."

She lifted her eyes. "Really?"

Nodding, he smiled. This one was easy to please. And all he was doing was telling the truth.

"Taxi? Ché, I'd love it. Can we?" Ilana's voice.

Muffin jumped to his feet. Whipping the computer out of his pocket, he aimed it at the plane and listened to the princess's voice coming out of his earpiece. Ché spoke next: I have a flight plan on file. I need to add your name to it before we move."

They were going to move the aircraft? With Ilana in it?

Ché hopped down from the craft and strode into the operations building where pilots checked the weather, maps, and completed their flight preparations.

Copper peeked past his arm. "What is that thing for?"

"Solitaire." It was not so much of a lie. He'd become addicted to the Earth game during his long hours alone in his room.

"That's not true. You're using it to listen to that plane."

"Yes, it's a voice amplifier." No use lying about everything. The more you did, the deeper you got, and he was in too deep as it was.

"Is that legal?"

Muffin heaved a great sigh. "As much as I like to look at you, Copper, I wish you would go away."

Her eyes opened wide. If it were possible to appear wounded and flattered at the same time, she'd managed it.

"I have work to do," he explained, weakening somewhat.

"So, you are a spy."

"I'm not a spy."

"Hmm. I guess if you were, you wouldn't have gone down so easily. I never knocked anyone down in my life!"

Muffin winced. If she didn't have such a sweet, innocent face, he'd… he'd… "I'm the gardener."

"Sure you are." She looked him up and down. "If Dolph Lundgren and Arnold Schwarzenegger had a lovechild, it'd be you."

Muffin shook his head. "I do not know this couple."

She gave him a disbelieving look. "The actors. You know. Those old action movies. And, by the way, you have a weird accent. German?"