Rebels and Lovers (32 page)

He lifted his chin as if he was about to say something, then nodded slowly.

It hit her again what they were discussing almost as calmly as suggested route changes: that Devin thought he was in love with her. And that she had fallen out of love with Kiler a long time ago.

But that was the Devin Guthrie she knew: restrained and in control. Not like Kiler, who was prone to sudden attacks of passion, usually in public places.

It adds to the excitement
, he used to say when she felt embarrassed.

In contrast, Devin told her he loved her in that impeccable schooled accent of his, while sitting with hands clasped, elbows on his knees. Which was probably just as well. The idea of Devin Guthrie loving her bordered on the impossible. An heir to the Guthrie fortune did not fall for the daughter of a smuggler.

But it would be far too easy for a daughter of a smuggler to fall for Devin Guthrie. It would end up in heartache—hers—but at least this time she’d be going in with eyes open.

“Maybe when this is all over,” she said carefully, “and things calm down, if you still want to, we could spend some time together.”

“If I still want to?” He unclasped his hands, then shoved himself to his feet. Something sparked in the depths of his smoky-blue eyes. She straightened, unsure of how to read his face and his tone.

“After seven years of waiting,” he said, stepping toward her, “I think I know exactly what I want.”

“Devin—”

“Same rules as yesterday, Makaiden. If you order me off this bridge, I’ll leave. I cannot—will not—ever make you do something you don’t want to. But damn it, woman, it’s been seven years.” He reached for her, his voice rasping. “If I let you go now, if I lose you now, I don’t know when I’ll ever find you again.”

No, not so in control at all.

She rose but didn’t touch him, the air between them positively alive with electricity. The restraints were off. Emotions colored Devin’s face, and there was a glistening in his eyes that had nothing to do with his glasses. His gaze searched hers, but the hand that reached for her fisted as if he was physically holding himself back. He was breathing hard. But so was she.

“Just tell me I have a chance.” His voice was a deep, pained whisper. “Tell me you’re willing to try.”

Heart pounding, she closed the small distance between them with one step. She touched his cheek with two fingers, her thumb resting on his jaw. God and stars above, this was insane. Worse than insane, because insanity was permanent and this, whatever she could have with Devin, would be at best temporary. And the parting painful.

But he leaned in to her touch, his hand covering hers, and she knew she was lost, stuck in an emotional jumpspace that made the trader gates’ slippery space feel calm by comparison.

She stood on tiptoe, brushed her lips over his, and shoved her fears—and common sense—out the airlock. “I think I’d like those dancing lessons. Now.”

Kaidee had the presence of mind—barely—to hit the palm lock on her cabin door as Devin pulled her inside. The door closed and he pinned her against it, his mouth trailing kisses down her neck, one arm snaking behind her. She arched into him. He groaned softly, then whispered, “I’ve dreamed of this.”

His words made her breath catch.

He pulled her away from the door, one arm still at her waist, almost as if they were dancing, then he
turned her gracefully, and they
were
dancing—gliding, touching, caressing.

He brushed one hand up the side of her face, his mouth following the trail as they swayed into a half turn. Then the warmth of his touch on her skin was gone. He reached for something at his waist. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his Rada light up. Music—piano, strings, a lilting reed—filled her cabin. He slid the Rada onto the small table by the door to her bedroom, then cupped her face with his hand and kissed her with small teasing kisses, turning, swaying …

“Devin,” she breathed.

He stopped, his mouth taking hers, hard, his arms almost crushing her against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with equal passion.

Calm? Restrained? Not in the slightest. There was a fire in Devin Guthrie—a fire that didn’t burn her out but made her hungry for more. Like the music he’d chosen, he could be gentle and teasing, sweet and tender, or demanding. Possessive. Needy. Giving.

She tugged at the seal seam of his shirt, then ran her hands inside, over the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders. Her fingers brushed against the med-patch and she hesitated. She’d forgotten he was injured. “Oh! Are you—”

He didn’t give her a chance to ask if the wound still pained him. He lifted her easily, sliding her up his body until his mouth found the hollow of her neck, then moved lower into the V of her uniform shirt front. She grasped his shoulders. He raised his face.

“Couch?” he asked. “Or bed?”

She knew what the question really was: trust. The couch would be toying with each other, kissing,
touching. Not that she’d never made love on a couch. Not that they couldn’t.

But the bed—
her
bedroom—meant trust.

Truth was, she didn’t trust him. But that didn’t stop her from wanting him.

“Bed.”

His breath caught in his throat. He turned slowly, his gaze on her face. At the door to her bedroom, he let her slip down until her feet touched the floor, but he still held her. And he wouldn’t stop looking at her. In the background, the notes of a piano rose, fell, and rose again.

His arms loosened around her, his hands sliding toward her wrists. He lifted her right hand to his lips, kissed each finger, then her palm. His touch was gentle yet heated. She found herself shivering with anticipation. No man had ever treated her like this, as if she was the most precious thing in the galaxy. It was as intoxicating as a bottle of Lashto brandy.

She leaned into him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt to steady herself, to bring herself closer. Her knees felt like jelly. Tingles danced over her body, pooling between her legs.

He pulled her the few steps into the bedroom, then lifted her onto her bed, kneeling over her as she lay on her back. She put her palm against his cheek and couldn’t help but smile. His glasses were crooked. She tugged them away from his face, but he grabbed them and tossed them in the direction of her nightstand. She heard a clink but didn’t bother to check where they landed. She was too busy looking at Devin Guthrie, who could no longer hide behind his glasses.

He was gorgeous, the smoky blue of his eyes even darker. The professional, reserved mien was gone. She traced his lower lip with her thumb. He groaned, eyes
closing. He had beautiful long dark lashes. She raised her mouth to his, and he collapsed on top of her, all long, hard, hot male. Then she was pulling his shirt out of the back of his pants, and he was fumbling with her uniform’s seal seam. Clothing was tossed in various directions. Boots hit the decking with mistimed thuds. None of that mattered as his mouth found her breasts, and her fingers tightened in his short, thick hair.

But he pulled away, tongue trailing down her abdomen until he nipped at the soft flesh of her inner thighs. She gasped his name, then groaned in pleasure as his tongue stroked and teased, and tingles exploded into fireworks. She couldn’t help herself; she was whimpering, panting, damned near mindless. “Dev, please. I need you!”

His mouth moved up her body in a heated rush. She grabbed for him, wanting the feel of his muscles under her hands, the hard length of his erection against her thigh, and the hot slickness of him everywhere. He rocked against her in a primal rhythm and then, as the notes of a piano sounded with increasing intensity, he entered her, claiming her with a kiss that was almost savage in its passion.

“Makaiden.” Her name was a hoarse plea as he kissed her again, thrusting deeper. Her body went molten, her release coming with the sounds of strings and flutes edging her higher, Devin’s kisses leaving her gasping for breath but wanting more. He gave her more until his control shattered, his breath stuttering, his kisses frenzied. Chords from the piano rose, the melody of the strings expanded, and, “God help me, Makaiden. I love you,” rasped harshly in her ear.

She held him tightly, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his chest against hers. The music softened, slowing to
the last wistful notes of a flute. He nuzzled her neck with his face. She stroked his hair, her heart still pounding. Or maybe it was his. She could no longer tell. Nor could she say the words she knew he wanted to hear, though it would be so very easy right now. But she didn’t know if she loved him. Or if she didn’t.

Trusting him with her body was one thing. Trusting him with her heart was another.

Devin woke to the knowledge that he was in Makaiden’s bed but that Makaiden wasn’t there. It wasn’t shipmorning; the illumination in the main cabin was on its lowest setting. He could barely make out shapes around him from the dim glow filtering through the bedroom’s open door, but then, he didn’t know where his glasses were. Two things missing from his life.

He’d settle for Makaiden. His glasses he could replace.

He sat up slowly, the sheet sliding down his bare chest. He brushed his palm over her side of the bed. It was cold.

Damn it
. He scrubbed at his face. It wasn’t that he was inept when it came to understanding women—okay, he was inept. He was male and he was a Guthrie. He should come with a warning label.

But he thought she’d wanted him as much as he wanted her. He knew she didn’t love him. But wanting was a good place to start, wasn’t it?

The soft sound of footsteps had him turning toward the doorway. A female form, backlit by the muted glow from the lav. Makaiden.

“Dev?”

Dev. She’d called him that in the heat of passion. He found himself smiling in the darkness. There were some things a Guthrie male was fairly decent at.

She stepped toward the bed. “Did I wake you?
Sorry. I usually check on ship’s status during the night.”

His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he realized she was wearing his shirt. Open. That made his smile widen.

“You didn’t wake me,” he lied. “Everything okay?”

“I want to abort out of jump in five hours.”

His smile disappeared. Then he frowned. “GGS has a strict policy against aborted jumps—”

“This isn’t a GGS yacht. And I can do it. We have to do it.”

“There’s a malfunction?” Maybe his brain, still muzzy with sleep and lovemaking, had missed that part. Aborted jumps were dangerous, even fatal. He knew that. But a malfunction in jump could be doubly fatal. In that case, even GGS regs listed it as an option, though one of last resort.

“No. Yes.” She sighed and padded over to the bed, then sat on the edge. He scooted toward her, drawing his knees up. “There’s nothing mechanically wrong with the
Rider
. But there’s something very wrong with GGS, and the Guthries, and ImpSec, Orvis, Frinks, and whoever else wants you dead.”

“I don’t think it’s as bad—”

“I do. Dev, being with you has brought back five years of piloting your ships, five years of training in your security procedures. Up until this point, I’ve been thinking like Kaid Griggs, freighter captain. But that’s not what we have here. You, Trip, Barty—you’re not freight. You’re passengers entrusted to my care—that’s the exact phrase Petra Frederick used to hammer into us at security meetings.
Entrusted to my care
. Based on everything that’s happened since Trip left his university apartment, I have to assume someone is going to be watching all traffic coming out of Dock Five and
heading to Talgarrath.” She faced him. “We filed a fight plan, remember? If ImpSec’s involved, they have the original plan
and
the amended one for Port Chalo.”

“But we had reservations on a Compass flight. No one knows we’re on the
Rider.”

“Devin Jonathan Guthrie.” She said his name with her teeth obviously clenched. “Your name is on the ownership papers. It’s public record. We’ve been gone more than two shipdays. The whole slagging Empire will know by the time we hit gate exit at Talgarrath.”

Shit. There was that.

“They didn’t need that stealth pointer in Trip’s pocket comm. You gave them a nice clean trail to follow.”

He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. He’d had, what, two, three hours of sleep? “Aborting a jump could kill us.”

“Coming out of jump at Talgarrath to find a couple of Imperial cruisers dead-eyeing us is just as fatal. This is a freighter, Mr. Guthrie. I have a standard tow beam and a pair of low-level lasers. Standard shields. They fire one torpedo and we’re slagged.”

“We could consider jettisoning some cheese casserole—ow!” He rubbed his shoulder where she smacked him.

“Five hours,” she said. “That will put us nicely in range of an old trader route that the Empire will not be expecting us to use. And it might even get us there before the
Rider’s
ownership papers filed in the name of Devin Jonathan Guthrie are on the desk of every ImpSec agent and bounty hunter in Baris sector. I already have everything plotted in. That gives you about four hours of sleep before I’ll need you, Trip, and, if he’s up to it, Barty on the bridge.”