Finders Keepers (4 page)

“And yes, when I’m allowed to finish the repairs on my communications system, I’m headed for Port Rumor, where I have a one-up to Bagrond waiting for me. You’re welcome to come along. Or you’re welcome to stay here with the remains of your prize ’Sko fighter and play tiddlywinks with the bloodbats. Frankly, I don’t give a mizzet’s ass what you choose to do.”

He started to reply, but she raised her hand, stilling his words.

“As for right now,” she said, standing, “I’m going back down to my sick bay and releasing Dezi.” She slung the rifle strap over her shoulder. “And then I’m going to pour myself the biggest glass of iced gin I can find. Because I have a splitter going and my eyes are refusing to focus. And I haven’t even had breakfast yet. So if you’ll excuse me . . .”

He stopped her progress at the hatchway with a hand on her arm.

“Elliot—” His voice sounded harsher than he wanted it to be. He didn’t even know why he’d stopped her, only that he’d reached for her before he was aware of doing so.

She glared up at him. “Look, if you’re going to try to kill me again, would you please just be done with it? Because if you’re not, you’re keeping me from a much-needed drink.”

“Go pour yourself a drink. I’ll release the ’droid.”

She thought over his offer for a moment, then shrugged.

“Be nice to him,” she said as he followed her into the corridor. “He’s terrified of you.”

He nodded tersely, his face again impassive. “I will explain everything.” He watched her disappear down the circular ladderway and ignored an illogical desire to trail after her.

The ’droid’s head jerked in Rhis’s direction as he stepped into the sick bay. Dezi was still locked in the regen bed. His limbs twitched as if someone had poured antifreeze in his circuitry.

“Oh, no. Please, sir, tell me you didn’t kill her. Tell me she still lives. She’s a good girl, truly she is. A bit wild at times, but—”

“Captain Elliot is pouring herself a drink,” he said over Dezi’s pained pleadings. He flipped the latch off the cylinder and slid it back. “It was just a misunderstanding,” he added as the ’droid scrambled awkwardly to his feet.

Dezi clanked down loudly to the floor and looked up at Rhis. “A misunderstanding. Yes, of course. It had to be. But the captain—Captain Elliot is fine?”

“She’s fine.” He spied his shirt still hanging in the utility closet and grabbed it. A sharp pain shot down his shoulder. He ignored it. “She said something about pouring herself an iced gin—”

“Ah, yes. In the lounge. It really isn’t a lounge, not a true ship’s lounge.”

“Belowdecks?” he asked, trying to stem the tide of what appeared to be an unending dialogue.

“Belowdecks. Next to the captain’s quarters. More exactly, it once was part of the captain’s quarters. She—”

“Dezi. Lead the way, I’ll follow.”

“You want me to . . . ? Oh, yes, of course. This is my ship. That is, it’s Captain Elliot’s ship. But you are the guest. And . . .” Dezi shuffled quickly out of sick bay, his voice echoing in the empty corridor of the ship.

Rhis followed a pace behind, shaking his head.

3

Trilby braced her arms against the countertop flanking her small galley and sucked in large gulps of air. She’d almost died. That son of a bitch had almost killed her, all because he’d mistaken her for some Conclave-kissing bounty hunter. She knew that when she stopped shaking she’d find something hilarious in that misidentification, but at the moment nothing seemed funny.

Least of all that she might jeopardize the Techplat contract because of the repair time she’d wasted while arguing with that lunatic.

That naked lunatic. Who’d pressed his admittedly gorgeous body against hers in sick bay, leaving little doubt as to his masculine charms.

Good thing she hadn’t made a quip about the proverbial pistol in his pocket. A hysterical giggle rose in her throat but she choked it back. It would be too easy for her laughter to change to tears, for the tension of the past few hours to underscore once again that she was stupid and trusting of all the wrong people.

Like shipping agents who promised her business, then canceled contracts.

Like a man she thought was in love with her. Who married someone else.

Like a Zafharin she thought was harmless, who tried to kill her.

Three for three?
She hoisted herself onto one of the two stools bolted to the lounge decking, pulled the laser pistol from its uncomfortable position in her belt, and laid it on the counter. Well, maybe not quite three for three. At least with the Zafharin, she’d obtained ’Sko parts for salvage. A gift from the Gods, that one! She might be able to make a payment on her ship. It would be nice not to have to worry about the repossessors for a while.

She drew the rifle strap over her head, propped the weapon against the bulkhead. Her fingers massaged small circles over the ache in her temples. It would be nice not to worry about anything for a while. Not dwindling business and empty bank accounts. Malfunctioning equipment. Lying bastards of ex-boyfriends. ’Sko pirates. Half-crazed Zafharins—

—wandering around her ship doing the-Gods-knew-what while she sat here in the middle of a pity party. Damnation!

She jerked upright, twisted around, and slammed against something tall and unyielding.

Strong hands caught her firmly by the waist as she tumbled off the bar stool. She lurched forward, grabbed a handful of heavy black fabric with one hand and the ridge of a wide shoulder with the other.

She jerked back, releasing Vanur’s jacket as if the fabric were on fire. “Son of a Pillorian bitch! What do you mean by sneaking up on me like that?”

“I didn’t realize you didn’t hear us come in. You are all right?”

“I’m fine.” Exhausted. Overworked. Jumpy as hell. And no doubt overreacting. But fine. Or at least getting there. Her momentary flare of anger dissolved under the concerned expression on his face. And the fact that she didn’t have to go looking for him or Dezi. She saw the ’droid amble through the hatchway, her utility belt in his hand.

She splayed her hands against the front of his jacket and pushed. “I said I’m fine. You can let go now.”

His only response was a narrowing of his eyes, as if she were a specimen under scrutiny. An unknown and unexpected specimen.

She hoped he wasn’t having flashbacks, thinking she was some kind of Conclave spy. She didn’t have the energy or the patience to go through the whole routine again. “Let go, Vanur.”

He released her so abruptly that she tottered unsteadily and grabbed the countertop just as he reached for her again.

“Sorry.” He seemed as startled as she was.

She brushed away his offered hand. “Dezi?” He looked none the worse for being locked in the regen bed.

The ’droid handed her the belt. “Would you like me to resume the sensor calibrations?”

Calibrations that should have been completed hours ago. “Please. And put this back in the weapons locker.” She gave him the rifle. Good ol’ Dezi. Her last link to sanity. She strapped the belt around her waist and shoved the pistol back into its holster.

“Thanks, Dez. Be sure you shut down at 0900, for at least a half hour. There’ll be more than just this ship to repair if you don’t get some downtime soon.”

She hazarded a glance at Vanur as Dezi left. He’d retrieved his shirt and put it on. It hung open, his bruises looking dark and ugly. “And I should probably send you back to sick bay.”

“There’s no need.” He squared his shoulders, but his mouth was a tight line, his dark eyes shadowed. Whatever painkillers the regen bed had pumped into him were probably out of his system by now.

“Well then, sit.” She motioned to one of the stools. “I still need a drink.”

And better control of her emotions. She had no real cause to be angry at him, she decided as she stepped behind the counter. After all, how would she feel if she woke, disoriented, on a Zafharin ship?

She knew she’d keep a smile on her face, and the safety off her pistol.

His smiles might be a bit strained, but he
had
handed her weapons back to her. She gave him a bonus point for that one. Yet something about the Zafharin unsettled her. He was too damnably good-looking, with his dark eyes and thick black hair. Which could also account for the underlying arrogance she sensed.

Of course, the quadrant was full of good-looking arrogant men. Like Jagan. Good-looking and arrogant, but also wealthy and powerful, holding himself up before the rest of the universe like some little plasti-weight God . . .

But Vanur was only a mere lieutenant, a flyboy, she reminded herself. She thumbed the latch on the utensil rack and pulled out a squat hard-plastic tumbler. His kind were used to taking orders, not giving them. Still, her head pounded again, like two discordant drumbeats that said,
Grantforth. Vanur. Grantforth. Vanur.

The sooner she got back to Port Rumor, the sooner she could request some compensation for her troubles. And be rid of him.

Her headache she could handle right now. She unlatched a second cabinet, reached up, and took out her last bottle of gin. When she turned, he was leaning against the countertop, peering up at the open cabinet behind her.

Time to play hostess. “Want something?”

He stepped around the counter, reached easily over her head for a bottle of Bagrondian whiskey.

“I can make coffee, if you’d rather,” she offered. “Or do you need something to eat?” But he was shaking his head.

“Glasses are here.” Their arms collided at the cabinet door. His fingers slipped around her wrist as he pulled her against him, and for a crazy, totally insane moment she thought he was going to kiss her.

His face tilted down toward hers, his other arm slid around her back . . .

And then he was gently nudging her out of the narrow galley. “I can do this for myself.” He gave her a slightly quirky smile.

She backed away slowly, eased herself onto the stool, and uncapped the bottle of gin. He poured a short drink of whiskey, recapped the bottle, and secured it in the galley rack.

By the Gods, a man who cleaned up after himself! She awarded him another bonus point. Jagan would’ve left the bottle out for either her or Dezi to secure.

She sipped the gin, let the fire burn down her throat.

He sat on the stool next to her, turned his glass in his hands. “You said something about Port Rumor?”

“It’s about a trike from here.” She leaned her elbows against the countertop and tried to assemble her features into her best “professional captain” demeanor. Better he learn the bad news now. “I’ve still got about ten hours’ worth of hard work ahead of me before we can leave, though.”

“Ten hours? I can be of assistance, cut your time down on those repairs.”

His offer was tempting but not totally feasible. “Only if we worked separately.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“No offense, Vanur, but I’m not sure I’d trust whatever you’d do to my ship when I wasn’t looking.”

“Your ship is also my only means back. I would not be so foolhardy as that.” There was a slight hint of disdain in his voice, made even more pronounced by his Zafharish accent.

“Oh, I’m not worried about your sabotaging the
Venture,
” she said smoothly. “At least not while you’re still on board. It’s what you’ll have her do
after
you leave that I don’t trust. It’d take me days just to ferret out whatever wogs-and-weemlies you’d be able to set in place.”

“Wogs-and-weemlies?” That small, quirky smile was back. “I do not do wogs-and-weemlies, Trilby Elliot. Especially now, when I’m hard-pressed to return. I don’t even have time for you to go to Port Rumor.”

She was about to remind him that the decision wasn’t his to make when he continued: “What we do have time for is perhaps ten hours’ worth of work, which, with my help, can be reduced to six. Then we head for the border, where I can contact an Imperial patrol ship. And that is the
only
thing we have time for.” He raised his glass as if to punctuate his words.

“No way.” She shook her head emphatically as he downed the contents of his glass in one mouthful. “I’ve got a good-size one-up run waiting for me on Rumor. I’m not about to let that slide just because whatever games you were playing out there by Szed went sour.”

“You do not understand. Three days is a delay I cannot afford.”

“No, you don’t understand. This is my ship. We’re going to Port Rumor. You don’t like that?” She motioned toward the viewport and the long gash of broken palms. “Go back to your Tark. I’m sure the ’Sko will come looking for it, sooner or later. Or you can work under my supervision and in three days pick up a freighter headed for the border and be on your way home. Understand now?”

It took a moment before he answered. “Understood.”

“Wonderful.” She secured the gin bottle, tucked their empty glasses into the sani-rack. The gin had kicked in. Her headache was starting to recede. “In that case, Rhis-my-boy, let’s get you settled. Then I suggest you allow me to acquaint you with the problems you’re going to face in this pet project of yours. If you think you can get it done in less than ten hours, then the Gods be praised. Because that is the
only
way you’re going to get this ship fully functional in that time—with divine intervention.”

She stomped off toward the corridor but stopped in the doorway when she didn’t hear accompanying footsteps. “Well?” she asked with undisguised impatience as she turned.

Something sparked in the short distance between them. It was like a small explosion of the emotional energy that had been building since she’d fallen off the stool and into his arms. An almost primal magnetism. She didn’t know if he felt it, or saw it, but she did. She inhaled quickly as anger and nervousness mixed together inside her with something else she didn’t want to identify.

Rhis’s breathing seemed to match hers. He took a step toward her. His gaze moved over her in a possessive, almost predatory way.

Then his expression blanked out, his mouth suddenly a thin line. “Move it, Elliot! We’ve work to do. I do not have time to waste with your games.”

“My—?” She gave him a look of incredulity before she turned and, swearing softly under her breath, marched down the
Venture
’s narrow corridor.

So much for Lieutenant Nice Guy. She rescinded one of his bonus points.

Rhis followed her down the corridor, damning his infamous temper. And damning the dull throb of pain in his side that had made him forget that he needed her cooperation, not her enmity.

He also needed her ship. But his plans to take it by force quickly changed when he realized they weren’t in the space lanes. And that she was in the middle of repairs.

A fully functioning ship in the lanes was easy. All he had to do was override her primaries and change course. But dirtside repairs hinted at something more involved than a course change. And he didn’t like surprises. They always meant unexpected problems. He had a feeling an old Circura II would be replete with problems that might slow even him down.

Control would be gained, but through deception. He had to appear harmless, amiable, sympathetic. Everything he wasn’t. Or everything he’d risked his life for would be threatened.

He saw the distrust in her eyes when she turned to him in front of a closed cabin doorway. “Your cabin code is four-seven-eight.” She tapped at the entry pad.

“You can’t palm-code it?” he asked as the door slid open.

“If you’re worried about your privacy, it’s only Dez and me. Neither of us has the time to disturb you. But if I need to know where you are, I don’t want to waste time decoding a locked door.”

So her ship had no Crew Locator System, no internal sensor grid. That was good. But her lack of trust in him wasn’t. Time to do some damage control.

He stepped inside, took a cursory glance at his cabin. Small. Basic. But clean. “I’m still a bit unsettled from everything. I didn’t mean to sound so angry.”

“Apology accepted, if that was one.” She gave him a wry smile. “But I’m still not letting you lock this cabin.”

She brushed by him. A scent of powder and flowers lingered, stirred something within him, lightly. Not like the unexpected sparks that had flown ten minutes ago in the lounge, flooding his body with a long-forgotten heat. That was a totally irrational reaction, startling him. He’d turned his anger at himself into anger at her. A clumsy move, yet effective. There was too much at stake here for him to be distracted.