Captive of Pleasure; the Space Pirate's Woman (The LodeStar Series) (2 page)

“What’s up, chickie?” Daanel asked, his brows flying up in his narrow, clever face.

Kiri controlled her mirth with an effort. “I’ll t-tell you what’s up,” she managed, pointing at the holovid over the middle of the bar. “I know that guy—and so do you. It’s Joran Stark, Logan and Creed’s brother. And he’s no more a simple nomad of the plains than I’m one of the lost princesses of the Phoenix Constellation.”

“Oh, goddess!” Daanel sat up straight on his bar stool. “I
knew
he looked familiar. I met him at Creed and Taara’s place last winter. He was much better groomed then. No three days worth of whiskers, no robes. Although the headdress is rather dashing. I might have to try that on one of my modelbots at the boutique. What do you think, Tony?”

His partner grinned at the huge holovid over the middle of the bar. “I agree, D. It’s a great look. Having a little fun with the Galactic Travel Channel reporter, is he?”

“Damn,” Daanel pouted at the holovid. “I s’pose that means the ménage isn’t really a thing, either. Those four are
hot
together.”

Kiri smiled crookedly. “Joran looks a lot like Logan, so yeah. He’s hot. And, he may very well be into ménage. He’s all about living wild and free.” And he did have a devilish twinkle in his gaze. Like Stark’s, only more relaxed.

“What does he do, then?” Daanel asked. “If he’s not a simple nomad? Taara’s talked about him, but she’s never really said how he earns his credit.”
 

“No idea.” Kiri peered into her glass and frowned when she found it empty. “He may work for LodeStar Enterprises, for all I know. God knows Stark owns half the galaxy.”

She turned her drink glass between her fingers, then looked up just in time to see Daanel and Tony exchange a look. Tony nodded and Daanel turned to her.
 

“Listen,” he said. “Since you and Stark aren’t seeing each other anymore—a very wise move on your part, by the way—Tony has a friend. He’s new on planet, with the AquaTerraCon explorer team. He could use a gorgeous woman to show him around F City. And he’s loaded, so you know, nice dinner and drinks—the works.”

Kiri shook her head. A hot ache pressed against the back of her eyes—a familiar pain. She grimaced impatiently at herself. Damned if she’d shed another tear for Logan Stark. She’d left him, not the other way round, and it had been the right decision. He would never change; never see people as more than assets to be manipulated.

It was just that she missed him. And seeing his brother with his sex-partners, real or faux, didn’t help. Logan was so very good at sex. She missed being held in his strong arms, missed his deep velvet voice in her ear, coaxing her to give herself over to him, and take the dark pleasure only he could give her.
 

She even missed arguing with him. Battling that formidable will of his. He always listened so intently to whatever she had to say, silver gaze focused on her as if she were the only woman in the universe.
 

Before he proceeded to tell her why he was right, of course, and did his best to finagle her into doing things his way. He was maddening, arrogant and…completely fascinating. It would take a long time for any other man to pique her interest.
 

She opened her mouth to refuse Daanel’s offer, and then stopped. She missed Logan, but damnit, she was tired of being alone.
 

“You know what?” she decided. “Yeah. Why not? As long as he’s not a Mau, or a ganger, I’d like to meet your friend.”

“Great!” Daanel leaned over to clasp Kiri’s hand in his warm one. “You’ll get over the magnate, sweetie. Just takes time.”

“Right.” She nodded. “I will. I’m tough.”

But she rubbed her free hand over her chest, behind which lay an aching hollow. She would get over Logan Stark, or learn to live with his absence, the way she lived with the absence of her family. But until then, she’d do as his brother did, and present a false facade to the galaxy—carefree and happy as a wandering Khadim.

***

On the Frontieran plains, the summer evening had settled into warm twilight. Over the tops of the spreading trees under which they’d pitched camp, the sun was just setting on the eastern horizon, the sky a clear gold, shading to dark blue in the west.
 

Two of the moons were rising, one a huge, pale ellipse sliding up the horizon, an ethereal contrast to the vibrant planet, the other a much smaller crescent up and to the right.

Against the darkening sky a holovid glowed. Ashe Targhee had just concluded his interview of Il Zhazid and his ‘concubines’.

Joran Stark and his people were watching the documentary. However, robes and headdresses were nowhere to be seen. He now wore fitted leather pants, a soft knit shirt and utility vest, high boots on his feet. His long reddish-brown hair was clubbed at the back of his neck. He held a cold bottle of ale in his hand.
 

A wave of laughter filled the area within the circle of tonts, now full of people sprawled over camp chairs and the flat rocks that hulked throughout the area.

Most of the men were garbed like their leader, although some wore sandals, and several had discarded their utility vests in favor of snug tanks or nothing but the elaborate tattoos that marked several lean, muscular upper bodies.
 

“The robes were perfect,” a woman called. “Though I thought Ilya was going to trip over hers, since she never wears a dress.” She smoothed the long skirt of her own red lii silk sundress and tossed her black hair.

“That’s because I
was
about to trip.” The small blonde, cornsilk hair in a mass of untidy braids around her gamine face, stood to pull a fake curtsy, tugging at the stretchy sides of her dark leggings as if they were a skirt. “Nera’s taller than me.”

“Everyone’s taller than you, space pebble.” The dark-haired man joined her, bowing with a flourish.
 

The redhead stayed at Joran’s side, her gaze on him. She too wore pants, boots and her utility vest bristled with weapons. Her short hair curled around her head.

He grinned at the two taking their bow. “Ilya, you did us proud. Dano, you ever lay your head in my lap that way again, I’m gonna to put that smart mouth of yours to work.”

The others roared with laughter. Dano fluttered his lashes at Joran. “Is that a promise, boss?”

Joran cast a look at the stocky, ebony-skinned man glowering from the edge of the crowd. “No, because come to think of it, Orson’s too good with that blade of his. Now go wipe that scowl off his face.”

Dano turned his sultry look on the other man, who jerked his chin in a silent command. Dano sauntered to him and Orson enfolded him in a possessive embrace, murmuring something to him that made the smaller man press a placating kiss to his lover’s throat.

“What about my performance?” the redhead asked.
 

“You were stellar,” Joran said without looking at her. “You should be on the big vids, Qala.” He rose from his seat and moved to the center of the area. With a flick of his hand, the holovid disappeared, cutting off the blond reporter in mid-phrase.

“We’re all on the big holovids now, boss,” a huge, craggy-faced man noted, his deep voice like soft thunder. “Travel Channel beams all over the galaxy. Not sure that’s a good thing.”
 

Var was a Space Forces veteran with a stoic demeanor and a dislike of uniforms and crowds in that order.

Joran nodded wryly. “You speak truth, Var. And in the filthiest dens in the galaxy, they’re mocking us as we speak. But let ‘em.”

“We mock them,” Qala said, jumping to her feet. “You watch—most of the galaxy will believe what that fool says about us. And meanwhile, we go on doing what we want, when we want—flying under the satcom.”

Joran shrugged. “My thoughts exactly. Most beings believe all they see, and most of what they hear.”

The diminutive Ilya flung herself onto Var’s lap with the abandon that said she knew he’d catch her. “Besides, lover, no one would ever believe I’d go for the Storm when I can have you.”

The stoic man’s eyes softened as his arms closed around her. “Now I know you’re blowin’ smoke, sweet face.”

Instead of answering with words, she kissed him, deep and wet as if they were alone.

“Loved the part where you said ‘Why am I known as El Zhazid, the Storm?’” mimicked a tall man with ragged light brown hair. “‘Because we just drift across the plains, moving here and there like the wind.’”

The crowd laughed again.
 

“Thank you, Haro. That was good, wasn’t it?” Joran agreed. “Always give them something that’s near enough to the truth that they can dock and think they’ve found the real bay.”

Haro rose to his feet to strike a pose, glaring fiercely at the others. “You want the truth?” he intoned. “I will give you the truth. I am called Il Zhazid, because I am like the storm, sweeping in on caravans and blowing away the best of their cargo. I leave them shaken, rattled and rolled. But I do not destroy them—no! For I am not evil, I am simply...a force of nature.”

The others roared their approval or hooted disparagingly.
 

Shaking his head, Joran gave Haro a shove that sent him reeling into Qala’s arms. He promptly wrapped a long arm around her and stole a kiss.

“Get off me, you skrog!” She shoved at him, her cheeks flushing.
 

Joran sighed inwardly. He was getting tired of their balancing act of camaraderie laced with sexual awareness, but he was not fucking his lieutenant—that would not end well. She was one of the fiercest fighters he knew, and there was no one he’d rather have at his back, but as for anything more, no.
 

Despite easy access to vaccinations for birth control and STIs for hundreds of years now, sex meant something more to women. It often left them expecting commitment. Males forgot this at their own peril.
 

He fucked camp followers, prostitutes and other women who were attractive and willing. Women who knew better than to expect anything more. He didn’t spend more than one night in a woman’s arms. He didn’t look to his warriors’ partners, because not only was that stupid, it was wrong.
 

And he absolutely did not fuck anyone in his crew. He’d learned this lesson the hard way after a Serpentian warrior whose temper rivaled her passions had objected to his moving on to another woman. She’d left the camp, but not before lasering his cruiser along both sides. It had cost him a massive amount of credit to have the ugly marks repaired.
 

He’d yet to meet a woman who made that shit worthwhile.

The reverse—a woman who was not a warrior, who was soft and vulnerable—would be even worse. She’d cling to him, expect him to support her in all ways, instead of standing strong at his side. She’d suffocate him with demands. No, his way was best.

A blonde in a tight black top and leggings smiled at him, running one hand through her long hair, and he returned her smile. Fee, now there was the perfect deterrent to Qala—free and easy, with no expectations other than the protection of the camp and a share of their credit to buy pretty things.

He opened his mouth to call her over, and his comlink chimed. As he opened the link, his heartbeat surged. Time for some real action.

“Play time is over,” Joran told Qala and Haro. “The slave auction we’ve been waiting for? Happening tomorrow afternoon, south of here in the Pinnacles.”

“Yeah,” Haro muttered. “Time to let the thunder roll and the lightning strike. The Storm is on the move.”

Joran grinned, and raised his bottle of ale. “Let it rain.”

Chapter 2

High noon the following day found Joran doing a flight check on his cruiser. From the side, the Hawk was silver. But with camouflage imbedded in the ceramcoat finish, from the air she appeared to be nothing more than a water mirage, often seen on these deserts. Wouldn’t fool the IGSF’s new tech, but then he wasn’t usually running from them, just other pirates.

Qala appeared at Joran’s side, fairly vibrating with anticipation. He returned her look with approval. This, they could share.
 

“Weapons ready?” he asked, wiping his hands on a cleansing pad.

She nodded.
 

“All right.” He looked around as Var and Ilya approached, followed by Haro and a pair of stocky Occulans, their eye-stalks waving above their mottle brown heads. “Haro, you’re pilot. Wega, Riley, you ready?”

“Ready,” one of the Occulans rasped. The other blinked rapidly.

“All right, let’s move.”
 

Despite the baking heat of the summer day, many of those remaining in camp had gathered to watch them load up. A trio of teens dashed out of the trees, and two children hopped with excitement.
 

Joran lifted his chin to the crowd. A grizzled older man grinned. “Give ‘em hells, Storm.”

“Will do, Draz. Keep the camp safe while we’re gone.”

“Where’s Mako?” Qala asked, scanning the onlookers..
 

“He’s enroute back from F City,” Var said. “With the transport. Dropped off a load of goods, bringing back supplies.”