Hope's Folly (26 page)

Not the time to think of that now. This was business. Shortly, the
Folly
would be on its way. Step one, as far as Rya was concerned, in the downfall of the Empire.

“I have to assume we could face a challenge before we reach the gate,” she said without any preliminaries, because there was no time for them. “I have my Stinger and an L7. I know you carry an L7 and your Carver. But if we have enemy operatives on board or if another ship gains access, I don't want to have them between me up there,” she pointed to the bridge deck above, “and that Norlack down here.”

For the briefest of moments, the narrowed blue eyes widened, and for the briefest of moments, the mouth that was a tight line quirked slightly. She wondered if Adney had spoken to him, warning him about Lieutenant Bennton's overzealous ImpSec tendencies. But then he nodded. “Agreed,” he said, much to her relief. “Come.”

She followed him through his quarters’ main salon and into his bedroom, forcing herself to halt in the doorway of the small room. It
was
small. Philip was a big man and she was no lightweight. And then there was the bed …

She stepped back while he tapped open a locked cabinet.

“Just so you know,” he said, hefting the Norlack in one hand, “there's more to me than an L7, the Carver, and this Norlack.” He lowered the rifle, thumping the tip of the barrel against his right ankle. “Sonic knife here. Mini-pulser on the other.” He was grinning now. Commander Adney and Welford would probably be appalled. “And—”

“Core pulser or a Ninety-seven?”

“Slasher Five. And—”

“Damn!” A Slasher 5 pulser was fine, totally apex. Way beyond her budget. She'd fired one only a few times during a special training session in the academy.

“And … ” He tossed the Norlack on his bed, then twisted slightly, turning his back to her as he tugged at his shirt. Something thin and silvery glinted at her from above the edge of his belt and waistband. She moved toward him, curious, drawn by the object she couldn't quite recognize, but it just might be—

“Hot holy damn!”

He palmed the octagonal-shaped weapon with a practiced ease, swiveling back to her. She could have sworn his eyes twinkled. “You've seen one before?”

“A plasma star? Only in vids and tech demos.” The star had multiple firing ports segued through a sophisticated targeting sensor. It could be tossed into a room or launched into a crowd of attackers with silent but deadly consequences. And without puncturing ship bulkheads—something a Norlack was prone to do. Hot holy damn, indeed.

“If we ever get a spare moment, I'll train you on the other one. Sparks brought me two.” Philip returned the star to the back of his pants and was tucking his shirt in, so he missed the mixture of joy and incredulity that flashed over Rya's face. She felt her cheeks heat and her breath catch in her throat. If they had time, he would, he would …

“Oh, God, I'd love that,” she managed to choke out.

He faced her. They were inches apart, very small inches in a very small bedroom that was suddenly getting smaller. His grin softened to a smile, and his smile softened to something she couldn't read. The twinkle in his eyes faded, his gaze becoming focused yet searching, almost as if …

She closed the short distance between them with a step because the ache in her body told her it was the only answer to the sweet pain that started whenever he was near. She breathed in the warm clean scent of him, a mix of soap and cotton and male tinged with the sharp, familiar tang of gunmetal and the muskier odor of leather from his holster and weapons belt. All this was Philip Guthrie, and she'd known it from the moment he'd leaned on her in the shuttle's rampway and rested against her in the shuttle's passageway. Then on the
Folly
they'd become distant, except for their brief shared captivity in the ready room. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed him. How much she craved him.

Something between a sigh and a groan rumbled in his throat. She knew they had only minutes, if not mere moments, before they were part of a mission on which they all could die far too easily. His gaze seemed to search her face. She wanted to be the answer he was seeking.

“Philip.” His name came out on the breath of a whisper.

Surprise flickered over his face, his lips parting, and Rya didn't know which one of them closed that last inch, but someone did. She tilted her face to meet his, felt the warmth of his breath against her skin, then the strong yet gentle pressure of his fingers against her jaw. His touch sent her pulse racing. She leaned into his hand, then edged her body against his, splaying her fingers across his shirtfront. Through half-lowered lashes she watched the most incredible blue eyes darken.

His voice was hoarse. “Rya—”

Footsteps sounded behind her. Then a man called out: “Admiral Guthrie?”

Philip jerked back, leaving Rya chilled and confused, until the fact the Con Welford was coming toward them—
her and Philip, together, in his bedroom
—registered with alarm in the part of her brain that still worked.

She had to make it look like she and Philip were doing anything but what they'd been about to do. She snatched the Norlack from the bed and spun toward the door just as a dark shadow filled the short hallway beyond. Then she was staring at Welford, and Welford was staring at her. Hard. His gaze traveled over her shoulder, his eyes narrowing.

“You looking to raid my weapons stash too, Welford?” Philip's light drawl held none of the breathless excitement it had seconds before. Her own heart still pounded, and she hoped Welford's focus on Philip missed that fact, as well as the flush she still could feel on her face.

“Sorry. Your office door was open. I thought … that is … ” Welford's voice trailed off. He cleared his throat.

“My office door's always open,” Philip said easily. “And if this damned bucket had a damned weapons locker in the ready room like it should, I wouldn't be forced to arm this ship's chief of security in my own quarters. Now, if you'll give me a minute to lock this, I'll meet you back in my office so we can deal with the latest crisis at hand before we have to face the Farosians.”

Welford nodded stiffly. “Yes, sir.” He disappeared back into the hallway, his heavy footsteps quicker this time.

Rya heard the snick of a lock latching into place. She turned, still gripping the Norlack with sweaty hands, her heart still pounding, and found nothing of the man who'd so tenderly touched her face—almost kissed her—in the demeanor of the officer standing stiffly, his right hand resting on his cane.

“Lieutenant Bennton.” His voice low and devoid of emotion. “That cannot—
will not
—ever happen again. You have my abject apologies. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a crisis that demands my attention.”

She stepped back as he strode past her, his uneven footsteps fading as Welford's had. Only when her arms started to tremble did she realize that she clutched the Norlack against her chest and that she stood alone in a cold and small bedroom, feeling confused and bereft.

And rejected.

Damn you, don't apologize for wanting me the way I want you!
She fought the urge to scream at him, but he was no longer there. Only—

Sweet holy God. Her brain replayed his earlier words.

He'd named her as the
Folly's
chief of security.

That took some of the sting out of his rejection, but not quite. Especially as she couldn't discount his reasons behind it. Placating her? She could almost hear Matt's voice chiding her:
You're a nice kid, Rya, but not remotely worthy of a man like Admiral Philip Guthrie.

She looped the Norlack's strap over one shoulder and marched out of his quarters and into the corridor. She might be too tall, too curvy, and have hair that definitely had a mind of its own, but she
was
Rya Taylor Bennton. She would be the best damned chief of security he ever had. And that, she hoped, would count for something with a man like Admiral Philip Guthrie.

It might even allow her a small inroad into his heart.

Philip Guthrie, you are a galactic-class ass.
That litany kept surfacing in Philip's mind as he listened to Con outline how he'd worked up a glitch that would temporarily take the bridge's navigational screens off line while he altered the
Folly's
course for the C-6 jump-gate. That would keep their actions secret and secure— for about four and a half minutes. But only on the bridge.

“I can't get the bridge's computers to accept the glitch program as long as the auxiliary bridge is on standby,” Con said. “Since the screens are mirrored to us, it will show nav's controls working off my station. And they shouldn't be.”

You are really, really a galactic-class ass. You lost Chaz because every time she breached your emotional wall, you shut down. It was always business, always duty—

“No one should be in auxiliary,” Philip replied.

“Unless he's an Imperial or Farosian agent, which is exactly where he'd be if he got wind this ship's on the move. And he or she would know we're not heading to a new berth.”

Philip—the galactic-class ass—had no argument for that. Nor could he forgot the hurt that flared in Rya's eyes when he made his brusque apology for wanting to kiss her so badly he was barely able to think straight. He had no idea how he was able to deflect Con's suspicion about what was going on—or was about to go on. From some of the glances his officer had leveled at him since coming into the office, Philip wasn't fully sure he had. “Deck Five's a long way down with the lifts inoperative. To be safe, include it in the blast-door tests. Lock the auxiliary bridge in.”

“You're locking Sparks in too if you do that.”

Damn, damn!
Philip pursed his lips and fought the urge to massage the growing ache between his eyes.

“The only thing I can do,” Con continued, “is take the auxiliary bridge completely off line, but that will put us in a world of hurt if we lose the main bridge. We'd have to get someone down there to physically bring systems back up. But I can't control the nav screens any other way.”

Philip glanced at the time stamp on his deskscreen. Less than ten minutes until Delainey shut off power to the ship's docking clamps. “Do it. I'll take responsibility if things go wrong.”

“Aye, sir.” Con rose, glanced over his shoulder as if to turn for the door, then stopped. “One more thing, sir. Lieutenant Bennton.”

Rya. Con had seen or heard something or just had known Philip long enough to recognize when his CO was rattled. And rattled Philip was, not only by his reaction to Rya but by what had caught him fully off guard—her response to him. She'd leaned into his touch, every inch of her pressing against him, sending a message that he didn't have the strength to say no to, that he didn't want to say no to.
She's Cory's daughter
warred in his mind with
but she's also a grown woman.
Definitely grown up in all the right places.

Power down, Guthrie.
He blanked his face of any expression. “Yes?”

Con hesitated, choosing his words carefully, Philip guessed. He was still the Old Man, the Great Guthrie.
The galactic-class ass.

“I didn't know you and Commander Adney had decided to promote her to chief of security.”

“It wasn't Adney's decision. It was mine.”

Con studied him, something shifting across his features, causing his mouth to tighten ever so slightly. “I understand, sir. But I've been going over personnel assignments with Commander Adney, and she has reservations about Bennton.”

“I know she's young. But she's ImpSec trained, Constantine. ImpSec Special Protection Service.”

“They're trained as bodyguards and assassins, sir, not ship security.”

He knew ImpSec's reputation as well as Con did. In his opinion, it was partly deserved and partly overrated. “In our current situation, that might come in handy. She's also worked undercover and as a cop. She can think on her feet and make decisions under pressure. She can handle just about any weapon you throw at her. And she's a Bennton. She may not have logged a lot of time in the lanes, but it's in her blood.” He paused. “I trust her.”

“I'm sure you do, sir.”

Too many “sirs” now, even from Constantine Welford. “Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I'll see you on the bridge in five.”

Con saluted, then ducked through the open door and into the corridor.

Philip stared at his blank deskscreen for a moment, then shoved himself to his feet, grabbing for his cane. If he lived through this—a confrontation with a Farosian Star-Ripper on a ship with limited defenses, the possibility of sabotage by Farosian and Imperial agents on a ship with limited security, and a desperate flight through a jumpgate on a ship with a plethora of non-working systems—if he lived through all this, he might just use his damned cane to beat himself senseless.

But until that time, he had a job to do. And he'd be damned if Adney's fears or Con's suspicions were going to stop him from doing it.

“ Blast-door tests commencing in one minute.” Lieutenant Burnaby Mather's voice rang out over intraship. “All personnel on Decks Three and Four, stand clear. Repeat, stand clear. Forty seconds to—”

A screech and a hiss sounded through the overheads.

“What the—” Mather rose partly out of his seat at communications on Philip's left and jabbed angrily at his console. “I swear I fixed this. This isn't supposed to … Wait. Got something.”

He cupped one hand over the comm set ringing his right ear. “Seth Shipyards for you, Admiral. Yardmas-ter Delainey. I'll put her through on … Damn it. The only thing working is private channel. I'll put her through to you via that, Admiral.”

Philip nodded absently and hooked the small transmitter around his ear. “The yard reports we have power surges coming through the docking clamps,” he announced to the bridge after a few moments during which he and Delainey went through their rehearsed ruse. “Seth Yard apologizes, but they've had the same problems with this berth before. They're clearing us to move to”—he hesitated, listening for Delainey's confirmation. Everything appeared to be a go—“Seven Five One C.”