Finders Keepers (12 page)

He rasped her name and drew her face up to his. “No,” he said. “I want . . .” His mouth covered hers, his tongue probing. Then he pulled back, sucking lightly on her lower lip before he slid his hand underneath her, pressing her up against him.

“I want,” he repeated. He trailed hot kisses down her neck, across her breasts until she was shivering. His other hand cupped her breast, then stroked one taut nipple, but gently, teasingly. His tongue followed.

Then, just when she thought the explosions of delight in her body could get no better, he kissed her again. Hard, this time. A molten wave of passion rolled over her.

“I want you.
Yav chera
.” His hoarse whisper filled her ear. “
Yav chera,
Trilby-
chenka.
Tell me you want me.”

She turned her face slightly to look at him. There was a softness in the lines of his face she’d never seen before. An openness. A vulnerability. It tugged at her heart.

“Yav chera,”
she replied softly.

His thumb covered her lips. “
Yav cheron.
If you want me, it is
yav cheron
. When I want you, which is all the time, it is
yav chera
.”

He moved his thumb and brushed his lips against hers.

“Yav cheron,”
she told him. She laced her fingers through his hair and pulled his face back to hers.

He returned her kisses with a hungry passion, pressing his hardness against her. She arched against him and wrapped one leg around his thigh. He murmured in Zafharish. She understood only her name, though his hands and his kisses spoke a language that needed no translation.

Then he was inside her. She clung to him. He was trembling, his kisses intense as he thrust into her. She felt a long ripple of passion surge through her, felt his body respond in kind. And the heat that had been building between them mushroomed into a fireball.

He held her tightly, his face buried against her neck. And whispered those damned Zafharish words of his over and over against her skin.

They sounded wonderful.

8

Trilby thrust her head through the neck of her dark-green sleeveless T-shirt, wriggled her arms through the straps. But another pair of hands pulled it snug down her body, then moved up to lightly trace the outline of her breasts underneath.

She sucked in her breath, laughed nervously.

“Hmm?” Rhis’s face was warm against her neck. His fingers had found the edge of her underpants and smoothed the lace against her hipbone. “Going somewhere?”

“I should check in with Dez on the bridge,” she said.
I should’ve checked in an hour ago.
She glanced at the clock inset in the wall.
Two hours ago. Damnation!

Rhis snaked his arms around her waist. She could feel the heat from his bare skin against her back, through her T-shirt, and against her own bare legs.

The sensation alternately thrilled her and mortified her. What in the Seven Hells had she done?

Well, she knew exactly what she had done. And it had been delicious. She just didn’t completely understand what had prompted her to do it.

He was a stranger! A Zafharin. She knew nothing about him other than he was a lieutenant on the
Razalka
—her stomach clenched at the name—and he had a great body that she had unashamedly explored for the better part of two hours.

“Trilby-
chenka
?”

Half the time he didn’t even speak Standard! All those passionate-sounding words could be nothing more than a recitation of a navigational checklist. Or a recounting of his family’s genealogical chart. The Zafharin were famous for their pride in their families.

Families. She closed her eyes for the moment. Oh, Gods, he might even be married!

She pulled out of the steamy warmth of his embrace. Her pants were crumpled on the floor. She grabbed them. “I really have to—”

“You did not want this, with me. Did you?” His voice was soft. She thought she heard an echo of dismay.

Shit!

She turned. He sat on the edge of the bed, his dark hair mussed, the bedsheet halfway around his waist. He looked magnificent.

And confused.

“No. I wanted . . .” She remembered just what it was she wanted. And he wanted. And he’d taught her to say it in Zafharish.

Yav cheron.

She let her pants slip through her fingers, came and sat down next to him on the bed. “No, I wanted this. With you. I just would’ve liked it under different circumstances.”

He touched her face. “So would I. But sometimes the universe does not listen, even to me.” He offered her a small smile. “You’re afraid.”

She nodded.

“So am I.”

His admission bolstered her dwindling confidence. She had to smile back. “You don’t seem like someone who’s ever been afraid of anything.”

He stroked her cheek. “I never was. Before. But this . . . this . . .” He shook his head. “This has me
dravda gera mevnahr
. What you might call ‘ass over teakettle.’ ”

“Because?”

“Because if you were to talk to all the people who know me, and tell them that I have this beautiful air sprite in my bed and that I cannot stop thinking about her—or touching her—they would all not believe you.”

“Rhis?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you married?”

Dark brows slanted over startled eyes. The fingers stroking her cheek halted. “No.”

Ah, the feared M word. Gets ’em every time.

“I’m not husband hunting.” She leaned away from him, grabbed her pants again. “So don’t get jumpy.” She shoved her foot through one pants leg. “But I also don’t get involved with married men.”

She hazarded a glance at him. His hands had dropped down to his knees and his face wore a slightly sheepish expression.

She pushed her foot through the other pants leg, then stood. “Have you seen my socks?”

She peered under the chair. He lifted the blanket that had fallen to the floor. His socks were there. Hers weren’t.

He reached over and grabbed the pillows and flipped them over. Then he turned back to her. “No. They’re not in your boots?”

She had a very distinct memory of clothes flying. She didn’t think either one of them had stopped to tuck socks into boots. She tried to convey that in the look she shot him.

He chuckled.

She picked up her boots, wriggled her fingers inside just in case. “I’m not going to the bridge barefoot. I’ll meet you up there in five?”

He stood. The sheet was knotted at his waist. “In five,” he said, reaching for her. He pulled her back against him, kissed her soundly. She melted against his warmth for a moment, then with a sigh stepped back.

“You know, if you’d done that in my sick bay,” she said as she backed toward the door, “instead of grabbing me by the throat, the past couple of days would’ve been a whole lot nicer.”

“Recommendation logged and noted. Captain.”

She grinned as she strode toward her cabin. Captain. For the first time, he said her title with a definite note of respect. This was getting better and better.

Rhis stood in the center of his cabin and closed his eyes. The scent of perfume and powder rose off the heat of his skin. The sheet was slipping out of its knot around his waist. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled. Then just as slowly, just as deliberately, he drew in another deep breath.

When he found his heart still pounding, every muscle of his body still twitching with energy, and his thoughts still racing in an almost giddy delight, he knew it was true.

He was crazy. Unequivocally, undeniably crazy. He’d lost his mind. His control was shattered. His discipline nonexistent.

And he didn’t give a damn.

He opened his eyes, turned his face just enough to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He didn’t look any different. Except for the wide grin plastered across his face. That was different. That was . . .

Trilby. His air sprite. His gutsy little fool who infuriated him and enchanted him and mesmerized him. Who delighted him.

When she haltingly said,
Yav cheron,
he thought his heart was going to explode.

Which would probably have shocked most of the Empire, as most of the Empire knew he didn’t have a heart.

He didn’t. He’d given it to her. Which was, he grudgingly admitted as he pulled on his clothes, one of the wisest things he’d ever done.

Now all he had to do was save civilized space from the ’Sko and life would be wonderful.

“I need to tell Neadi where I am,” Trilby said as he eased into the copilot’s seat. He clicked the straps around his chest.

“And,” she continued, “I have to get someone to pick up my Bagrond run.”

He leaned over, enfolded her hand in his. A slight blush rose on her cheeks. That pleased him. “I agree. Both must be done, but not here. The security of your communications is not . . .” He hesitated. She may be his lover, but this was her ship he was criticizing. Even lovers had to tread that ground carefully.

“The best?” she asked. “I’d even agree to nonexistent. This is a freighter, not a military ship.”

He squeezed her hand. “My point. And we’ve just had an encounter with the ’Sko. And are still two hours from my border at Yanir. When we get back to the
Razalka
—”

“You sound so sure we’ll find her.”

He nodded. “Of that I am, yes.” He knew standard procedure would be followed in his absence. He knew—barring an all-out war—her most likely locations, who she’d be in contact with. Finding the
Razalka
was simply a matter of going down the list.

“An Imperial patrol isn’t going to try to shoot my ass off when we cross the border?” She pulled her hand from under his and cocked her fingers at him, mimicking a gun.

“No. Dezi, did you upload the program I created?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Dezi’s metal fingers ran down a series of touchpads at his station. Data flashed on a small screen on his left. “We commence broadcasting an Imperial ID when we are forty minutes from the Yanir border.”

Lieutenant.
For a moment he thought he’d misheard. Then he remembered. He hadn’t told Dezi, wanting to tell Trilby first. And he’d never gotten around to telling Trilby.

He turned back to her. His timing couldn’t be worse. He wondered where to start and found her staring at him, her eyes wide.

“You hacked into my system!” Her tone was accusatory, but she was grinning.

This wasn’t the topic he had intended to discuss. But something in her amazement fed that part of his ego that took pride in the wogs-and-weemlies he could create. And she, the queen of wogs-and-weemlies. “Well, yes. I mean, no. But, Trilby, I have—”

“What do you mean, no? You can’t change a ship’s ident code. It’s illegal. That’s a sealed program. How in the Seven Hells did you hack—”

“I do not hack.” He let a haughty tone return to his voice. “I professionally amend system codes to perform at an optimal level.”

She reached over, playfully punched him in the arm. “You promised me no wogs-and-weemlies!”

“They’re only wogs-and-weemlies if you don’t know they’re there. You know. And I will show you how it’s done. And undone. Fair?”

She nodded. “Fair.”

He looked forward to that. Working with her, challenging her, teaching her. Learning from her. There were a few fail-safes on the
Razalka
that needed attention. He’d throw the problem at her, see how creative she could get.

He glanced at their coordinates. It was “night” by their bodies’ biological clocks, but they still had a ways to go. Freighters weren’t known for speed; an old Circura II even less so. Dragging his air sprite back down to his cabin would be a nice way to pass the time, but it would be too easy to fall asleep afterward, and there were other things to attend to. Once they got back to the
Razalka,
things would start happening quickly. He wanted to be in a position to take action.

He swiveled the comp screen up from the armrest, motioned for her to do the same. “I think you should see what we’ve learned from the ’Sko. And I want to play this against that chart we created on the missing ships. Including
Bella’s Dream
.”

And there was something else, something he needed to discuss with her. But then the data he’d entered into her ship’s memory banks flashed on his screen and everything but the ’Sko left his mind.

Trilby listened to Rhis translate the ’Sko data, watched him overlay schedules and coordinates from the missing freighters. She was alert to coincidences, spotted one he missed. But he didn’t miss many.

He was, she decided, brilliant. And dedicated. He attacked the problem before them as if he were personally responsible for saving the universe from the ’Sko. Not just an officer who, when they got to the
Razalka,
would become part of the team again.

Lieutenant Rhis Vanur. She glanced at him, her heart doing a little flip-flop. She was suddenly glad he was a mere lieutenant. He knew what it was like to be on some CO’s shit list. Knew what it was like to have his life often controlled by powers other than his own.

Rhis was someone with whom she could share her frustrations. Jagan only bragged about all the lives he controlled. How people jumped when he snapped his fingers.

Like she had.

But Rhis was different. Oh, he had that Imperial arrogance, but she understood it. It was pride. Not unlimited power. He didn’t snap his fingers. Bark orders. Change people’s lives without consulting them.

He held her hand. Worked with her by his side. A tiny hope flared in her heart. She thought of Neadi and Leonid. Would Rhis give up a military career for the freighter business?

You’re getting ahead of yourself,
she warned. But it was a tiny hope she didn’t want to let go.

The ’Sko symbols for Dark Sword blinked at her on her screen. Rhis was frowning at them. She tapped at the symbols. “You’re sure this has something to do with me?”

“I wish it were otherwise, but yes.”

“And that it’s tied in to Rinnaker, or GGA?”

He closed his eyes briefly, nodded. “Tell me again about Secretary Grantforth. How many times did you meet him?”

An image of Jagan’s lean-faced uncle flitted through her mind. The man’s reputation was impeccable. Rhis had to be wrong.

“Three times. Three different parties. One on Bagrond. That was the first time. The other two were on Quivera.”

She saw his eyebrow arch. Both worlds oozed money. “But Jagan was the reason I was there. Not Garold Grantforth.”

“Then perhaps we have to start with him. How did you meet Jagan?”

The thought that Jagan might be involved with the ’Sko made her feel equally unsettled. He might be a cad and a womanizer, but she thought he hated the ’Sko as much as she did. She couldn’t imagine anyone in the Conclave who didn’t.

“I had a three-month contract with Norvind to Crescent City on Bagrond. That was a bit over a year and a half ago. Grantforth has a depot in Crescent. One day Jagan just showed up at my loading dock.” She shrugged.

“And?”

“And we got to talking. Just little stuff. I don’t know. I think he came at me with some stupid line. What’s a nice girl like you . . .” She waved her hand. “You know.”