Captive of Pleasure; the Space Pirate's Woman (The LodeStar Series) (20 page)

One of the brash women approached him, then another. He smiled at them and spoke, but she could see the moment he lost interest and sent them on their way, disappointment clear on their faces even through their heavy cosmetics.

He was talking to Mako now. The huge man’s plate was empty, she saw, and he held no drink in his huge hand. He had no mate beside him.

Tossing her empty wine bottle in a bin, Zaë threaded her way back to the cold bin, and pulled another ale from it, along with another wine for herself. Then, with an inward sigh, she pulled an ale for Stark. She skirted the fire and offered an ale to Mako.
 

He gave her a look from under his heavy brows, took the ale and nodded slightly.

“Thank you,” she said. “For trying to save the others. I’m sorry you were hurt.”

Then, because even though he was a hero, he was huge and fearsome, she hurried away. Stark lifted his hand and crooked a finger at her peremptorily.
 

Zaë went to him and sat. He gave her a look warm with approval. “Thanks, bunny. You did good. But no more fetching drinks for these other randy bastards. You serve me.” So saying, he took the unopened ale from her hand.

Haro, listening unashamedly, grinned. Zaë glared at Stark, sorry she’d gotten him the ale. If he expected her to wait on him, it was no longer a gift. “I was only being polite. He is a hero. You said so yourself.”

Stark laughed, the deep rollicking sound that made her want to laugh with him, except when he was laughing at her, then it made her want to kick him. He smacked her on the ass. It stung, and she nearly dropped her wine. “Polite! Hells, you’re not on Indigo, here, bunny. Manners don’t mean skrog shit out here. Now sit. Match is about to start.”

“Tyrant,” she muttered into her wine.
 

He found her braid and looped it casually around his fingers, playing with it as he talked with Haro. Zaë sipped her wine and told herself sternly that she did not like his possessive touch, or the way he rubbed her braid over his knuckles and then stroked it between his thumb and fingers. It was just nice to be touched with kindness, no matter how careless, after her ordeal.

She also enjoyed the lovely, floaty feeling that pervaded her. It was probably the wine, and for a moment she waited for someone to say firmly that she had had quite enough to drink. But no one did, so she lifted her bottle and drained it for the last delicious drops.

She gazed into the fire, focused beyond it, and found herself being watched by the woman Stark had gone to that morning. She was watching Stark and Zaë with a little smile on her lovely face. As their gazes met, she winked at Zaë.

Zaë felt this with a jolt of astonishment. This woman had Stark in her bed, but didn’t care that he sat with Zaë and played with her hair? If their situations were reversed, she would hate the other woman to the core of her being. That is, if she wanted Stark. Which she didn’t, of course.
 

She drained her wine and leaned her head against Stark’s hard thigh as she watched sparks leap into the night. But if she did want him, she would fight for him. She would scratch and bite and wrestle. She was a jealous woman, it seemed. He had better watch out. This made her giggle, as did the way Stark pulled on her braid, tipping her head back to give her a wry look.

“How many of those wines have you slugged down, my Zaë?”

She waggled two fingers at him. “I
like
wine. I like campfires, too. Everyone looks better by firelight. You look
very
handsome.” This was true. The firelight gleamed on his skin, and glittered in his eyes. ”Do I look pretty in the firelight?”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling, but whatever he said was lost in a roar of sound as a huge holovid sprang up against the night sky, a brilliantly lit arena full of thundering music. Zaë yelped with shock and hid her face against his leg.

“Galactic citizens!” an announcer trumpeted. “Welcome to Alliance Stadium, and the match you’ve all been waiting for! The two teams that have trumped all others in this galaxy now meet in a do or die battle that will determine the winner of the Quadrant Two Quasiball Championship!”

It was too loud, too bright, and the holocams moved too fast, the three dimensional holovid zoomed around a huge arena. Zaë crowded into the shelter of Stark’s body, hands over her ears. She peeped out, wincing as the holovid showed the announcer in close-up, standing on a floating stage over the arena, his brilliant costume glittering with laser light as he gestured theatrically.
 

“Team One—the Quantum Blues!”

A phalanx of aircycles shot out into the arena, their riders costumed in brilliant blue, with laser designs of moving silver. Their faces were hidden by their protective helmets, but a holovid hovered over each, showing their heads and faces. They were a handsome crew, mostly human, young and fit.

Their leader shot up into the air and flipped his cycle, blue sparks streaming behind him to erupt in midair like fireworks, before diving back to his team.
 

Many of Stark’s crew roared their approval. “The Blues!”

“Team Two—the Crimson Flash!”

Another team streaked into the arena at the opposite side from the blue team. In glittering crimson, acid green laser designs lit their protective suits. Their golden-skinned faces with sculpted cheekbones and tilted eyes proclaimed them Serpentian. Their leader suddenly shot across the arena toward the blue team, faux laser charges streaking out before him. At the last instant, he twisted up into the air and cruised back to his own team, upside down.

“Yes!” Qala hollered, jumping to her feet, fists in the air. “Crimsons rule!”

Stark hooted his disapproval, along with several others. Those who favored the Crimsons tried to shout them down. Zaë watched in astonishment, afraid some would come to blows.
 

The teams zipped back into their bunkers. The announcer beamed. “And now, our Galactic Anthem ... with the one and only Chaz Jaguari!”

Zaë sat bolt upright as a man appeared on another floating stage. He wore an extremely well-fitted gold suit with rubies winking at his throat and on one hand. His dark hair was streaked with auburn highlights and his ebony eyes brimmed with liquid sensuality in the arena lights. He was as harshly beautiful as a big, dangerous cat.

Her heart beat faster. “I know him!”

Stark snorted. “Every female alive knows Jaguari.”

Several of the males in the crew hooted, but the women shushed them loudly.

As if he knew his galactic audience well, Chaz Jaguari held up one arm in a dramatic command for silence. Drums sounded a hushed beat. He closed his eyes and began to sing, in a deep, purring voice that was an instrument of his own, a beautiful one.

‘Do you see them? By the light of a million stars, there they are.

 
Do you hear them? Let their call remain deep in your heart.

 
Will you rise up? And carry the standard now with me.

 
They are the ones who fought and died, so you may be free.’

Zaë rose, wonder and pride swelling inside her chest. She knew this song, had listened to it a hundred times. Around her in the night, Zaë heard a rustle as others rose to their feet.
 

Chaz Jaguari’s voice rolled like velvet thunder into the chorus. Some of Stark’s crew sang along, and so did Zaë, the familiar words flowing from her.

‘
We are the Alliance, and we are the free!

 
My brothers and sisters, come join with me.

 
All worlds united, enemies gone from our skies.

 
For our freedom, we’ll fight—to live free or die!’
 

The second verse went on, and Zaë swayed with the music, then sang the chorus again, holding the last note with the famous singer.

When the song ended, the crew applauded.
 

“Live free or die!” roared a man, holding his ale high.

“Live free or die!” the crowd shouted back. They all raised their drinks to this.

“Now let’s have some quasiball!” hollered another.
 

Stark was grinning at Zaë. He sat, and pulled her onto his lap. “You know,” he said in her ear, his deep voice sending shivers through her, “you can’t sing worth skrog shit.”

She couldn’t? “But that doesn’t matter. One must sing the anthem.”
 

“It’s okay,” he added, his chest quivering with laughter. “You just keep doing that little thing with your hips, and no one will care how you sound.”

“What little thing with my hips?” The holovid boomed with noise and light again, and if he answered, she’d ducked under his chin, so she she didn’t hear.
 

Chapter 13

Zaë liked sitting on Stark’s lap. She liked it very much. She took the fresh bottle of wine someone handed her and drank it as the match began.
 

The Crimsons won the flash, which meant that they got to hit the glowing ball. It was gold, with red and blue rings flashing around it so fast it was impossible to keep up visually.
 

“Caravel. Ball of electromagnetic energy,” Stark told her, his mouth against her ear, his gaze on the match. “One reason they wear protective gear. You touched it with your bare skin, could kill you.”

Each player wore a glowing racquet with a concave net strapped to their right hand. The Crimson player struck the caravel so hard it flew across the arena. The other players converged on it, but Crimson got there first, sending it farther along the arena toward the goal.

Zaë gasped when she saw the goals. They were as taller than a man and several meters wide. They appeared to be miniature black holes. Indeed, the goalies were strapped to the arena, so they could glide back and forth, but not be sucked in. Their position looked like her idea of terror. How did they find beings brave enough to pay attention while hovering before the deadly maws?

A Blue dove for the caravel. It slid into his net and disappeared. Zaë frowned. Where had the glowing ball gone?

“Go, go!” Stark hollered. “Good man! He’s got it right on the cusp of his glove and the racquet,” he explained, his arm tightening. “Dangerous for him, but a good play.”

“No! Foul,
foul
,” Haro bellowed. “He can’t do that.”

The Blues charged up the field as one, and although the Crimsons formed a living barrier before their goal, the carrier zipped past and hurled the caravel.
 

It flashed into the goal and was vacuumed into the blackness seething at the center.

Stark threw back his head and hooted. Then he pulled Zaë up against his chest and kissed her, hard. He tasted of ale, but she liked it anyway. “You’re good luck, my Zaë. The Blues never score that fast.”

Zaë grinned in delight. She was good luck? Maybe if the Blues scored again, she’d get another one of those kisses. She turned her attention to the game.

She grabbed Stark’s shirt as the Crimsons got the new caravel and forged toward their goal. When a Blue dislodged the caravel from the carrier, she bounced excitedly. “Did you see that?” she called. “Go, Blues! Get it in the—the hole!”

“Goal, baby,” Stark corrected. “Goal.”

He was laughing at her, and so was Haro. Zaë shrugged them off.

“Oh, oh! Look out!” she called, waving at the Blue carrier as he was flanked by Crimsons, who slashed the caravel from his grasp and made off with it. “Oh, no. They stole it.”

She flopped back against Stark. His arm slid around her waist, his hand spread over her belly.
 

“Sit still,” he growled in her ear.

Zaë tipped back her head to give him a look. “I can’t sit still. The Blues need to score again.” She pointed toward the holovid, where the Blues were now in pursuit of the Crimsons. “They need my help.”

“Right.” His gaze on the game, he shook his head. But his arm was warm and heavy around her. He made an extremely comfortable chair. He was so warm and firm, and she liked his hand on her belly and the hard maleness under her bottom. She wriggled a bit closer, and tipped her head back on his shoulder.
 

Stark’s hand slid down, his little finger brushing a sensitive place through her soft pants.
 

“Sit. Still,” he repeated. “Or I’ll smack your sweet ass.”

A thrill of alarm penetrating the glow of wine, Zaë sat still. A long, hard shape prodded at her through his pants and her own. It had been there when she sat on his lap, but not as big, or as hard. And while part of her wanted to leap from his lap and run, part of her wanted to arch her back and rub her bottom on him like a mawwr begging to be stroked.
 

It was very confusing. She was glad when the Blues suddenly stole the caravel back and dashed for their own goal. They scored. Stark and the other Blues fans yelled their satisfaction.
 

Zaë craned her neck and looked up at him. “Are you going to kiss me again?” she asked. “For being good luck?”