“It’s got to be on the quiet.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he moved. A man his size shouldn’t be so graceful, yet he was, and the contrast between his masculinity and the sleek motion felt unexpectedly potent.
“Any sign of trouble, and our leads dry up.”
“Exactly.” She managed to pry her gaze away to study the chart on the control panel. “The best intel about moving black market goods is on Ryge. I should start there.”
“We,” he said. “We should start there.”
She blew out an impatient breath. “I don’t work with we, just me.”
“Until Lieutenant Jur and her ship are safe, it’s we.” He crossed his arms over his wide chest.
“And in order for us to function properly as a team, you will tell me everything about this Ryge.”
“Here’s a communication for you, Commander,” she said. “I’m not one of your Black Ghost—”
“Black Wraith.”
She waved a hand, dismissing this. “I’m not part of your squad, and I’m not 8th Wing. The Arcadia is my ship. So you can’t order me around. If you want to know something, you ask. Got it?”
His jaw tightened. It took several moments before he spoke. “Agreed.” His voice was a hard growl. “Tell me about Ryge. Please.”
Mara bit back a smile. There was something distinctly arousing about a strong, attractive man saying “please.” Even if she couldn’t stand the man on principle.
She tapped a few keys on the control panel, and a small holo of the planet Ryge appeared,
flickering in the half light of the cockpit. “Most of the wheeling and dealing in the Smoke is done on Ryge. If someone wants to move merch or do some trading, they come here.”
“Any cities?”
“A few, but if you really want the best goods, you go to Beskidt By.” She tapped the controls again, and the holo zoomed in on the city, sprawling like a gaudy fungus on the face of Ryge. “Once I — we,” she corrected quickly, “get there, we’ll have a better idea as to where the lieutenant and her ship might be.” She glanced at the commander. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to stay with the Arcadia while I do recon.”
“No.”
Right. She should have figured. Commander Frayne liked to be in control at all times. Made her wonder what might happen if he ever lost it. Made her wonder what could force him to lose that precious control.
“You’re going to have to lose the uniform.” She eyed the garment in question. Frayne in his 8th Wing flight suit gave her lots of unwanted ideas. “There’s no way anyone is going to give us any information about black market deals with you dressed like that.”
“Taken care of. I brought civvies.”
“Show me.”
“Now who’s giving orders?” But he actually smiled, and Mara was totally unprepared at how it transformed his face from tough and austere to flat-out gorgeous. His smile revealed a tiny dimple near the corner of his mouth, as though some hidden scoundrel lurked beneath the surface of the hard warrior.
She had a weakness for scoundrels.
“Get the damned bag,” she muttered.
Surprisingly, he did. She remained in the cockpit, but as he bent and rummaged through his gear she was treated to the sight of his tight, firm ass. By Oshun, she wanted to bite him on one taut cheek.
He straightened and caught her ogling his behind. She had seen some of the infamous fertility rites on Ruva Nu without batting an eye, but now she blushed. The look he gave her was questioning, faintly mocking. And yet…she wasn’t mistaken. His gaze met hers, gleaming with an answering interest.
Without speaking, he tossed a bundle of clothing toward her. She snagged the clothes from midair before examining them.
“Those better meet with your approval.” He nodded toward the garments. “Because they’re all I’ve got.”
She held them up for inspection. The shirt was huge—if she wore it, the thing would come down to her knees—and perfectly ordinary. A little plain, actually. Same with the pants. Everything felt a little stiff in her hands, as if they were seldom worn. He wasn’t out of uniform often.
Her tongue clicked in disapproval. “Terrible.” She threw the clothes back at him.
He grabbed them and scowled. “What? They’re fine.”
“Those clothes make me sleepy.”
“So I’m not a fashion vid. That shouldn’t matter.”
She snorted. “Where smugglers are concerned, appearance counts for a lot. It’s all about flash.
I’m going to change when we get to Ryge, but if you stroll into Beskidt By wearing that stuff,
everyone’s going to know you don’t belong. Then good luck trying to get any intel.”
“There’s no time for any side trips to a shopping barge.” Irritation roughened his voice.
“Wait here.” A few adjustments to put the ship on autopilot, then she hopped up from her seat in the cockpit. She spent an uncomfortable, arousing moment edging past him as she threaded through the galley where he stood. She and Frayne kept bumping into each other as she tried to get through the galley. They both breathed in sharply at the brief contact.
She finally dashed out of the galley and down the passage toward her quarters. Once inside, she opened a storage panel, then pulled out a battered trunk. The thing was a little heavy, so she dragged it back down the passage to the galley.
Frayne watched her curiously as she opened it. “There should be some things in here that will fit you.” She rifled around until she produced some shirts and pants. “Maybe these.”
“What the hell are you doing with men’s clothing?”
She shrugged. “Souvenirs and trophies.”
He glowered ferociously. “I’m supposed to wear the cast-offs of your lovers?”
“Not lovers,” she corrected. He looked almost relieved until she added, “I had sex with them,
sure, but I kicked them out after a night. That doesn’t count.”
“Sounds like a lover to me.”
“A lover means sleeping with someone more than once. I never do that. Too much commitment.”
She peered at him. “I can’t believe this is making you angry.”
“I’m not angry,” he snarled. Yet he seemed almost surprised by his heated reaction.
“So…” She shook a handful of clothes at him. “Find something.”
She didn’t think the words that came out of his mouth would have been approved by the 8th Wing Communication Council. For a few seconds, she almost believed he’d rather go naked than wear some of the clothes worn by her nighttime entertainment. Wouldn’t that make an interesting picture—
Commander Frayne striding through her ship wearing nothing but his plasma pistol and boots. Her mouth became uncomfortably dry.
His big hand lashed out and grabbed a few shirts. “I’ll try some of these, but no goddamn way am I going to wear another man’s pants.”
Her brief hope that he wouldn’t bother wearing anything below the waist was dashed when he snatched up his civvy pants. He stalked away to her quarters. She didn’t want him in there, but room wasn’t exactly plentiful on the Arcadia, and unless she wanted him stripping right in front of her, her quarters was the only place he could change.
Not that she’d mind watching him peel off his 8th Wing uniform, the serviceable gray material sliding off his arms, down his hard torso and flat stomach, until he pushed the fabric down his hips, then lower…
Stop it. This whole forced mission was a screw job, and tangling with the commander would make a complicated situation even more difficult. She liked things an uncomplicated as possible—but she was coming to learn that, where the commander was concerned, nothing was simple.