Page 51 of Star Champion

He left her under the gigantic runes, walking away so swiftly that it generated a breeze. He had used a different soap this morning, and she liked it. It was spicy, a mix of ingredients she would never be able to guess but that she liked with her first sniff. Heated by his warm skin, it left a faint scent trail behind him as his long, athletic strides carried him away.

“I have summoned a female tailor to fit you for your team uniforms as well as new clothing,” he said when she caught up. “It may be temperate here now, but not this winter. You’ll need warmer clothing.”

“My measurements won’t add up as a man’s. Won’t the tailor be suspicious?”

“She is bound by confidentiality, as are all the retreat center staff. None of them know the real reason you are here, anyway. They live and work at the center. Their lives are dedicated to looking after it and the warriors who visit, and have been for countless generations.”

“So, they’ll probably assume I’m your paramour.” That was the word aVashroyal might use, wasn’t it? The Baréshti term “bed warmer” did not sound quite as glamorous.

Hearing the word, he broke stride, the slightest hitch in his step, before he resumed his pace. “They are not paid to assume, Jemm. They are paid to serve.”

True, that in the short time since arriving she had noticed the staff flitting in and out of sight like shadows. They had laid out a welcoming snack of beverages and fruit, but unlike the staff on the starship, they did not linger or interact.

Prince Klark allowed her to precede him into a round room with windows made of thick, curved glass, open to more stunning scenery. Jemm turned in a slow circle to take in the views around her. An intricate woven round rug provided a luxurious cushion for her boots.

A very tall, very slender and angular woman withVashcoloring entered after them on silent feet and seemingly out of nowhere. “I am Saffrenn. May I take your measurements now?” She set a basket on the rug.

“Aye, of course.”

“Raise your arms.” Instead of using flexible fabric tapes to measure like Ma did, the tailor aimed a hand-sized rectangular box at Jemm. She lifted the hem of Jemm’s shirt, exposing her stomach, sliding the device over her bare skin until it beeped twice. She slid the device higher, underneath her shirt and over her bra with a tailor’s indifference, measuring her breasts, her rib cage, her waist. “Turn around please.”

Jemm rotated, and locked gazes with Prince Klark, whose pale eyes seemed to drink in the sight of her standing there, her hands over her head, her shirt askew, her bare skin visible to him. She sucked in a breath. His penetrating gaze made her feel as if she wore far less. “Say something in Eireyan,” she said on impulse, her voice a little thicker.

The sudden heat in his intense, searching gaze made her toes curl. “Enajhe a’nai.”

She felt the barrier they had erected crumbling. “What does that mean?”

He snapped his attention away, and she sensed him reeling in his emotions like a poorly cast fishing net. “Eireyan can be learned after you master Basic.” His words were clipped and brusque. He turned his back to her, his hands clasped just so at the small of his back as he appeared to admire the scenery he had shown so little interest in observing earlier.

Master Basic? What was that supposed to mean? She was itching for the tailor to finish so she could ask him. Aristo cog.

Then it hit her why she was so mad—not at him but with herself. It was not the comment so much as what led up to it. Before he learned the truth about her, she could gawk at him or tease him from behind the barrier of her disguise. Things were different now. Ever since that night in Nico’s club, they had been dancing around an underlying attraction that transcended any mutual interest in bajha. Flirting with each other had as much explosive potential as a tank of fuel left out in the sun too long.

Saffrenn ran the measuring box down one of Jemm’s long legs then the other. Then she bowed to Prince Klark and retreated with her device and basket.

Prince Klark wasted no time exiting the room. Jemm wasted even less time catching up to him. “What do ya mean—when I’ve mastered Basic? I know Basic, through and through.”

“Baréshti Basic, perhaps. But the dialect, the swearing, have you ever heard a pro on the news vids who sounds like you?”

Taken aback by his candor when she was expecting to bicker, she frowned. “No. But I’ve never seen anyone who looked like me, either.”

He winced. “True. However, being a pro-player is more than just good moves. You’ll need to be the whole package. Galactic League pros are expected to be ambassadors of the sport, to be able to hobnob with the lords and ladies of the realm and also chat with a starpilot’s little children. You’ll travel everywhere, representing the Trade Federation wherever you go. It’s best not to swear at all when in the public eye, but if you must—as we all do at times—say blast instead of crat. Or some such term.”

“Blast…” The word sat so strangely on her tongue that she made a face. “No matter how much I practice fancy speech no one’s ever gonna believe I’m a noble-born lass.” She winced. “A noble-bornlad.” Or maybe a lad at all. She had escaped the burden of having to fool Prince Klark only to be reminded she would have to dupe the entire Trade Federation while touring countless worlds and meeting untold numbers of people. How was she ever going to pull that off? Expectation bias could only go so far.

“No, Jemm. My intent isn’t to pass you off as a noble. I’ll be working hard enough as it is passing you off as a male.”

Reminded once again of the enormity,the insanity, of their scheme, they both cringed.

“Besides, everyone loves an underdog. I don’t want to see all of your dialect scrubbed away, only some of the rougher edges.”

“Aye, I have a few of those.”

“We’ll work on that while we’re here. By the time I present you to the public, you’ll be ready.” He glanced over at her silence. “I hope you know I’m not criticizing.”

“I know. You’re crattin’ right, though. I mean—blastedright.” He did not want to change the essence of who she was, but he had come to Barésh looking for more than a back-alley fight-club entertainer. He expected her to be able hold her own in any arena, while trusting her not to embarrass him outside of it. She owed him that and more—a lot more.

They walked fast, too fast, past more endless views. Prince Klark did not seem to notice any of it. He was as hell-bent on reaching the arena as a tug driver speeding to the city at dome-set. It was his reaction to their flirting in front of the tailor. She forgave him his single-minded focus.

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