“Other human women have been taken to the Jit’suku galaxy as brides?”
“Yes, and I will invite those who have had trouble with their mate’s clans to join ours. Such things have been done in the past, and since House Fedroval has suffered such great losses in the recent past, we are well able to support a few more families under our banner. It would also allow you to have friends from your home galaxy nearby.”
“Is that why you’re doing this? Are you that hard up for a wife that you’ll take any foreigner who happens along? I remember what you told me about being the last of your line. You said no proper Jit’suku woman would have you. Is that why you picked me?” She looked angry, and he had to make her understand.
“No, my love. If you were Jit’suku you would know, one cannot fake the nij’ta. I never expected to find a mate. I’d given up. And then there you were. Now I begin to understand why the Goddess led me on such a difficult path. She was leading me to you, Lisbet. Only to you. Always to you.”
“I must be crazy,” she muttered as if to herself, but he heard her. She faced him squarely and spoke in a clear voice. “I can’t get you out of my mind, Val. I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I’m crazy about you and if you think we can make a go of this, I’ll agree to be your wife.”
“Thank the Goddess!” he whispered as he dragged her into his arms for their first kiss as declared mates.
A kiss that would have led to so much more if he hadn’t had an interplanetary call standing by. He drew back and stood, holding out one hand to help her up. She accepted him eagerly, and he was amazed again by the blessing the Goddess had bestowed, finding him a mate when he’d thought all was lost.
“We have a few formalities to take care of before we can celebrate in true mate style.”
He led her out of her quarters and to the bridge, where they would stand together in front of the comm station. Their images and words would be broadcast to all within the ship, a special few on Solaris Prime, and everyone on Solaris Delta. There would be many witnesses as the Liege of House Fedroval – King of Solaris Delta – officially introduced his queen.
Space Cowboy
Donna Kauffman
One
Dani Beckett didn’t believe in aliens or UFOs. Sure, she’d cried when she’d watched E.T.: The Extra-
Terrestrial, and she’d have taken the little guy home, too. But she’d been eight years old when she’d first seen that movie. It had been the feature flick at Lake Machapunga summer camp. She remembered lying in her bunk that night, clutching Beemer, the stuffed elephant she’d hidden under her pillow so the other campers wouldn’t think she was a baby, going over in her mind exactly how she might have hidden E.T. from Aunt Teddy and Uncle Deacon while nursing him back to health.
Of course, given the three of them lived together on a hundred-acre dairy farm back then, how hard could it have been to sneak in one undersized alien dude? But the idea that she’d be the perfect care-taker, should some other poor, celestial creature lose his way and end up on her planet, had captivated her fertile little mind, and she’d spent the rest of the summer keeping a close eye on the woods around the camp. Just in case.
Twenty-three years later, she still had a fertile imagination, but, being a decidedly practical businesswoman and shop owner these days, not to mention a grown adult, she channeled any and all whimsical thoughts into the unique floral designs she created. Unlike the impressionable eight-year-old dreamer she’d once been, adult Dani knew quite well that life only handed out the fantastical to those who went out and created it for themselves.
So, when she watched – wide-eyed and slack-jawed – as a half-naked man slowly took form, particle-
by-incredibly-delectable-and-not-remotely-alien-looking-particle, right smack in the middle of her little coastal Carolina florist shop, there was only one explanation, really. Brain tumor. Possibly a stroke.
Probably both.
The instant the man finished materializing, he quickly scanned his surroundings, then swore something unintelligible under his breath. If she hadn’t been frozen to the spot in shock, she’d have considered ducking as his gaze swung her way. Or screaming. As it was, she just stood there, staring. Okay, okay, ogling. But he looked like a Greek statue, come to life. Besides, it was her stroke, after all, and the least she could do was enjoy it before her brain went completely to mush.
If he’d noticed her, he hadn’t so much as blinked in awareness, but before she could figure out whether she’d be dialing 911 to demand they send a SWAT team to capture an alien intruder . . . or an ambulance to transport her to the nearest hospital for a full neurological workup, he shifted his gaze directly to hers and demanded, “What year is this?”
“What – year?” she repeated, though it came out as more of a squeak.
He strode directly to the work table she was standing behind, his expression so . . . intense, it made her instinctively swing her hands up in front of her in defense, and back up until she banged hard into the shelving racks behind her. Vases and assorted stacked pots and trays wobbled, some crashed to the floor.
She ducked, hoping to keep anything hard and heavy from conking her on the head. Which made little sense if the stroke was going to render her permanently senseless, anyway, but instincts were instincts.
The fight or flee impulse was also kicking in, swaying heavily toward the flee side, but before she could put thought to action, in a move so fast it was more blur than clear motion, he leapt over the table in a single, Superman-like bound, knocked her hand to the side and pinned her wrist to the shelf rack.
“What the hell,” he growled, flinging her hand away as he inspected the thick, clear ooze now dripping from the base of his palm. “What is this substance you tried to shoot me with? Is it toxic? Tell me!” he commanded, pushing his face close to hers.
Her eyes were likely as big as saucers. His, on the other hand, were the most amazing mix of blue and green. “I – I didn’t shoot you with anything.”
He pinned her to the shelving unit with his body, held his goo-covered hand to the side of her head.
“Tell me,” he said again, the threat clear. Tell him or get slimed with the supposedly deadly toxic material.
“Glue gun,” she managed, her throat dry from the sudden threat, and breathless because, well, because she had a big, mostly naked guy pressed up against her very defenseless body. “I – I forgot I had it in my hand. Not dangerous. Just . . . hot. And sticky.”
Dear Lord, she knew all about hot at that moment. And sticky, come to think of it.
His hair was dark, almost black, and clung damply to a forehead and neck flecked with some kind of dirt or grime. He was deeply tanned, which made his bared teeth flash even whiter. Those eerie, laser-
like, teal-colored eyes topped features that looked like they’d been chiseled from granite, including a rather hard-looking mouth and jutting chin.
He was a good half a foot taller than her taller-than-average self, with shoulders the size and width of your average Mack truck, and a chest and set of abs that looked like he modeled as a Greek god in his spare time. He was wearing dirty black cargo-like pants, sporting tears at the knees and thighs that she doubted were a design esthetic, tucked into equally worn, calf-high laced-up military-looking black leather boots. The loose fit of the pants did next to nothing to hide a powerful looking set of thighs that any NFL coach would’ve paid top dollar for on sight. And many women might pay a whole lot of individual dollars for, should he decide to become a stripper at any point in the near future.