Page 33 of Star Prince

“... And at least the bartender seems semi-coherent, does he not?Hello,”Tee called to him after he didn’t answer. “Ian?”

He became aware of his surroundings as if surfacing from a deep dive. Tee gave him a decidedly flirtatious grin. With her smelly hair, she reminded him of the cartoon character Pèpé Le Pew, the debonair little French skunk whose amorous intent was handicapped by his total unawareness of the effect his odor had on those around him.

“You were light years away, Ian.” She smiled and tapped two perfectly formed fingertips on his knee.

His body reacted as powerfully as if she had placed her hand directly over his…

He groaned. “I need a drink.”You don’t drink.“I do now,” he argued.

Quin stared at him. “Captain?”

Tee laughed. “He’s pretending to be that bartender on Donavan’s Blunder.”

Only he hadn’t been pretending.

“Now that’s a depressing thought,” he said aloud to Tee’s obvious delight.

“That’s exactly what he was like!”

He frowned at his folded hands as she relayed the rest of the story to Gredda, Muffin, and Quin. “You should have seen it—the bartender would have conversations with himself. Sometimes in several different voices.”

Gredda shrugged. “One would never get lonely that way.”

It wasn’t a crime to think about Tee, he supposed, as long as he took it no further. And he wouldn’t. If a wife hadn’t already been chosen for him in his absence, one would be soon.Vash Nadahmarriages were alliances, not love matches—at first, anyway. The right spouse was essential for acceptance into his adopted culture.

“Here you are.” The waitress set bowls of shimmer crackers and croppers on the counter in front of them. The crew each scooped up handfuls of croppers, the crispy little question marks that tookthe place of peanuts in bars across the galaxy. They were spiced with something savory instead of salted, but were as addictive as potato chips. The shimmer crackers, on the other hand, were bland. Ian couldn’t understand why everyone liked them; they were nothing more than flashy junk food.

Tee dusted crumbs from her hands. “I need something to wash down these croppers. A glass of mog-melon wine will do.”

“Tee,” Quin and Ian chorused in warning.

She spread her hands. “What?”

Quin rolled his eyes. “Do the words Mandarian whiskey ring a bell?”

A faint blush stained her cheeks. “I’m not going to get drunk, for heaven’s sake. I’m on duty.” She glanced knowingly at where Randall’s group had been seated in the restaurant next door. “Am I not?”

No one argued with her, especially not Ian. His attention was drawn to the senator. Then a question dawned on him— How had she known who they were watching? Or had the look simply been a coincidence? Maybe one of the others had shown her a picture of Randall. He was being too paranoid.

The waitress took their orders. Ian kept silent as Tee requested her glass of wine. He wanted to be able to trust her—with alcohol and everything else. The longer she worked on his ship, the more involved she became in his mission. Unwittingly, for now. But she deserved to know the truth eventually.

Muffin chuckled. “Why not have the entire bottle, Tee? I’m sure the captain will carry you off to bed like he did on Blunder.”

Ian frowned at the bodyguard. “Figuratively speaking.”

“No kidding,” Tee said, imitating Ian’s accent. “Had I ended up in your bed, Earth-dweller, I would have remembered it.”

The crew burst into delighted laughter. Even Quin slammed his hands on the table, spilling croppers onto its faded holographic surface. Tee realized belatedly what she had said and looked as if she wanted to crawl under the table. Ian leaned toward her, his mouth close to her ear. The few locks of greenish hair that brushed over his lips were surprisingly silky. “I would have remembered it too.”

Her eyes widened. Immediately, she clutched her hands together, squeezing her fingers tightly atop the table. Warning bells sounded in his head. He was playing a dangerous game; she was on the run and he had…obligations. He had no business flirting with her. But a small, selfish part of him was glad to see she was unsettled by his remark.

“Well,” she murmured. “I am glad to hear that.” The glow-globe on the table illuminated the pulse under her jaw, spreading fingers of light across the fabric of her flightsuit, beneath which her breasts rose and fell with slow, even breaths. Those breaths would quicken as he moved inside her, her tender kisses turning passionate, her arms tighteningaround him as he brought her to an intense, drawn-out climax…

God almighty. What was he doing—torturing himself?

Fully and painfully aroused by the erotic image he had conjured, Ian jerked his attention back to the holographic tabletop. It seemed the pixie was as hazardous to him sober as she was drunk.

The waitress returned with their drinks. Then, thankfully, someone started a round of the All-Folk Chain; a galactic version of karaoke, where individual verses were made up and then sung by volunteers from the audience who came up to the stage and usually made fools of themselves.

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