Angel made herself stand there, her hidden face red with shame as she waited for whatever happened next.
The sight that greeted Marchey when he opened the door stopped him cold. His eyes went wide as he saw Angel there in the tunnel, apparently being eaten by a shirt.
He almost laughed, but caught himself in time. After a moment he figured out what had probably happened. Like a child unskilled in dressing herself, she had gotten tangled up in the blouse that she was trying to either take off or put on.
Doing his best to keep a straight face, he went to her aid. “On or off?” he asked gently.
“Off!” came the muttered, muffled reply.
“Off it is.” He didn’t have any trouble getting it unbuttoned and peeled off her, even though it had been several years since he had helped a woman undress. There was something subtly erotic about it.
Or maybe not so subtle. When he stepped back it seemed like a good idea to hang on to the shirt and hold it in front of him.
Angel looked miserable, her pale face pinked with embarrassment. She stood there with her head bowed, staring at her feet as if trying to figure out how to kick herself.
Marchey’s heart went out to her. He was all too aware that she was caught somewhere between childhood and womanhood, with a stiff dose of delayed adolescence thrown in to make things even more difficult. Added to all that was her hardly knowing how to be a person.
The only way out of it was to pretend that nothing had happened, a coping mechanism that was hard to beat for all-around usefulness. So he bent down to retrieve the object on his doorstep. It was obviously a bottle, carefully wrapped in a piece of cast-off insulating foil. “For me?”
Angel nodded, refusing to look at him.
“Are you going to come in so I can unwrap it?”
She peeked shyly up at him. “Are you sure unwrapping me was not enough for you?”
Once he’d thought she didn’t have a sense of humor. But she did, which as much as any other indicator told him that she had a chance to be a whole person again. This proved she also had timing.
At last it was safe to laugh. It felt good. It felt even better when he saw a sheepish smile creep out onto her face.
Angel followed him inside, hovering near the door, her hands nervously plucking at the material of the slacks she was still wearing as if trying to get rid of them one thread at a time.
“Why don’t you sit on the couch?”
“All right,” she said, edging over and sitting down on one end, her back ramrod straight. She looked up at him, her pale face solemn.
He smiled at her. “Let’s see what we have here.” The foil peeled away, and what a surprise, it was a bottle. His eyebrows climbed his forehead when he saw the label, and he had to take a second look to be sure he was reading it right.
“This is real single-malt scotch. Bottled in Scotland,” he said softly, staring at Angel in amazement. “It’s over seventy years old!”
Angel ducked her head. “I remembered you liking to drink that on the trip here. I—I hope it is still good, being so old and all.”
Marchey chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure it is.” He hefted the bottle in his hand, trying to guess its value. A couple hundred credits would probably just buy a shot—if an open bottle could even be found. “Where did you get it? Has this place got an AlkaHall nobody’s told me about?”
“No,” she answered seriously. “Broth—uh, my old Master had boxes and boxes of different kinds of bottles stored away.” A frown appeared as she tried to remember the different kinds. “He had brandy, other kinds of whiskey, gin, vodka, bore—borebon? And wine. All kinds.” She jumped up. “I can go get you some more. Just tell me what you want. Or I can take you there.”
It was a tempting offer. If this was any example of what the old monster had stashed away, it had to be an alcoholic treasure trove, a tippler’s Shangri-La.
But this bottle was the one she had picked out for him. One diamond alone is a treasure. When you have a whole sackful no one gem can have the same value and meaning.
“That’s all right.” He patted the bottle fondly. “You brought me the best one of the whole bunch.”
“You are sure?”
“Positive.” A thought occurred to him. “You might take Jon Halen and Elias Acterelli there, though. Let them, ah, inventory the stock.” They would dole it out fairly, and if anyone deserved a stiff drink, it was the people of Ananke. He also knew that Mardi and Elias had quietly begun assembling a beer-brewing setup in a storage room just off the infirmary. It would be algae beer, since that was the only raw material they had on hand. Fist’s stock would tide them over until they got into production.
“All right.” She sat back down, perching on the edge of her seat as if ready to bolt and run. Her nervousness was painfully obvious. No doubt she was working herself up to something, and it wasn’t too hard to guess what.
Fortunately he knew how to deal with both matters at once. He had planned to keep their meeting short and formal. Somehow that hadn’t worked out, but this might work out even better.
“Well, Angel,” he said, “I think we ought to sample a little of this wonderful stuff. How does that sound to you?”
“I do not—” She made a helpless gesture, a jittery lift of her hands and shoulders. “I mean I do not know how. I have never consumed alcohol before.”
“Then it’s high time you learned.” He found two cups and put them on the table, then cracked open the bottle. “Don’t worry, you’re in the hands of a very experienced teacher.”
Half an hour later Marchey was slouched in the chair, his cup in one hand and his feet up on the table between it and the couch. He was feeling pretty good. The scotch was even better than he had thought it would be; taste and bouquet incomparably smooth, yet with a kick like a caber applied to the cerebrum.
Angel had been unsure if she really liked the taste or not, and the modest amount she had consumed had hit her hard. No surprise there; hundred-proof whiskey is not exactly an ideal drink for beginners.
Her earlier nervousness had been replaced by an almost feline abandon. She was sprawled across the couch, staring dreamily into space with a vague smile on her face.
Marchey took another sip, savoring the taste on his tongue as he contemplated his drinking partner.
Although it was not something he was particularly comfortable thinking about, he had to admit that she was attractive. Hell, she was beautiful. Who could have guessed that there had been a face so sweet under the tattooed horror?
Her filed teeth and the blank glass lens that replaced one eye did little to detract from her beauty. They were nothing more than repairable conditions his eyes automatically subtracted. In fact, he’d gotten to kind of like her teeth. As for her exo, it revealed enough of her form to make him wonder what was hidden. She’d come up with a pearl necklace from somewhere. The strand was looped around one tidy silver breast in a way that kept pulling his eye back again and again.
Her physical appearance accounted for only a small part of her allure. There was a freshness about her, a beguiling innocence. An inviting vulnerability completely at odds with the indestructible shell surrounding her body.
Then there was her eagerness to please him. The awe and yearning and yes, even the love that shone in her eyes when she looked at him. Any man would find that hard to resist. Especially one with far too many years of celibacy under his belt, so to speak. He found her so frighteningly enticing he dared not let himself be around her.
The bewildered hurt he’d seen in her face and eyes when he’d begun keeping her at arm’s length had made him feel like as big a monster as her old Master. But it had to be done. He knew she couldn’t understand why he had shut her out, and he doubted he could explain it to her. She was young and inexperienced enough to think anything was possible.