Collision Course

Chapter Two

The ship was too small. It never had been before. There had always been plenty of room for her. Mara knew that technically, the Arcadia hadn’t actually shrunk. But now the bulkheads felt too close, the passageways too narrow, and the cockpit felt like a Meruvian snuffbox.

Not very difficult to find the culprit behind the Arcadia’s sudden loss of size.

As she piloted toward the Smoke Quadrant, she sent another wary glance out of the corner of her eye. The 8th Wing flyboy was studying the control panel intently, his dark brows drawn down in concentration. His presence beside her was large, warm, masculine. Foreign. Unwanted.

“Planning a mutiny?”

Frayne didn’t look up from his scrutiny of the controls. “If I jettison you, I can’t get to the Smoke Quadrant.”

Nice. “Why the inspection?”

“I always learn whatever ship I’m on. Never know when I’ll need to take the controls.”

Mara bristled. “You aren’t getting your hands on my ship. I promise you that.”

He turned to her, and even this slight adjustment of his posture made her feel hemmed in,

overwhelmed. She told herself it was because he was 8th Wing, a representative of everything she avoided—order, discipline, regulations. Obligations. Yet she knew, deep down, that his gray uniform accounted for only a very small part of what unsettled her.

His eyes, darker than the depths of space, held hers. “Tell me what I can get my hands on.”

“Keep them to yourself,” she snapped, but a pulse of heat worked through her.

He lifted his broad shoulders in a negligent shrug. Yet he wasn’t as indifferent as he tried to look.

Mara felt his gaze on her as she slid out of her seat to make some adjustments to the ship’s climate controls. Felt his gaze all over her body. It was too damned hot in here.

“How long until the Smoke Quadrant’s outer perimeter?”

“About twenty solar hours.”

With a muttered curse, he surged to his feet to stand in the galley space behind the cockpit. He prowled like a caged beast, all sinewy, supple motion. Even though she stayed in the cockpit while he paced in the galley, she was still able to sense the power of his body. His large hands clenched and unclenched reflexively.

“We need to talk strategy. Part of me just wants to go in with guns blazing—but I know that can’t happen.”

“It’s got to be on the quiet.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he moved. A man his size shouldn’t be so graceful, yet he was, and the contrast between his masculinity and the sleek motion felt unexpectedly potent.

“Any sign of trouble, and our leads dry up.”

“Exactly.” She managed to pry her gaze away to study the chart on the control panel. “The best intel about moving black market goods is on Ryge. I should start there.”

“We,” he said. “We should start there.”

She blew out an impatient breath. “I don’t work with we, just me.”

“Until Lieutenant Jur and her ship are safe, it’s we.” He crossed his arms over his wide chest.

“And in order for us to function properly as a team, you will tell me everything about this Ryge.”

“Here’s a communication for you, Commander,” she said. “I’m not one of your Black Ghost—”

“Black Wraith.”

She waved a hand, dismissing this. “I’m not part of your squad, and I’m not 8th Wing. The Arcadia is my ship. So you can’t order me around. If you want to know something, you ask. Got it?”

His jaw tightened. It took several moments before he spoke. “Agreed.” His voice was a hard growl. “Tell me about Ryge. Please.”

Mara bit back a smile. There was something distinctly arousing about a strong, attractive man saying “please.” Even if she couldn’t stand the man on principle.

She tapped a few keys on the control panel, and a small holo of the planet Ryge appeared,

flickering in the half light of the cockpit. “Most of the wheeling and dealing in the Smoke is done on Ryge. If someone wants to move merch or do some trading, they come here.”

“Any cities?”

“A few, but if you really want the best goods, you go to Beskidt By.” She tapped the controls again, and the holo zoomed in on the city, sprawling like a gaudy fungus on the face of Ryge. “Once I — we,” she corrected quickly, “get there, we’ll have a better idea as to where the lieutenant and her ship might be.” She glanced at the commander. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to stay with the Arcadia while I do recon.”

“No.”

Right. She should have figured. Commander Frayne liked to be in control at all times. Made her wonder what might happen if he ever lost it. Made her wonder what could force him to lose that precious control.

“You’re going to have to lose the uniform.” She eyed the garment in question. Frayne in his 8th Wing flight suit gave her lots of unwanted ideas. “There’s no way anyone is going to give us any information about black market deals with you dressed like that.”

“Taken care of. I brought civvies.”

“Show me.”

“Now who’s giving orders?” But he actually smiled, and Mara was totally unprepared at how it transformed his face from tough and austere to flat-out gorgeous. His smile revealed a tiny dimple near the corner of his mouth, as though some hidden scoundrel lurked beneath the surface of the hard warrior.

She had a weakness for scoundrels.

“Get the damned bag,” she muttered.

Surprisingly, he did. She remained in the cockpit, but as he bent and rummaged through his gear she was treated to the sight of his tight, firm ass. By Oshun, she wanted to bite him on one taut cheek.

He straightened and caught her ogling his behind. She had seen some of the infamous fertility rites on Ruva Nu without batting an eye, but now she blushed. The look he gave her was questioning, faintly mocking. And yet…she wasn’t mistaken. His gaze met hers, gleaming with an answering interest.

Without speaking, he tossed a bundle of clothing toward her. She snagged the clothes from midair before examining them.

“Those better meet with your approval.” He nodded toward the garments. “Because they’re all I’ve got.”

She held them up for inspection. The shirt was huge—if she wore it, the thing would come down to her knees—and perfectly ordinary. A little plain, actually. Same with the pants. Everything felt a little stiff in her hands, as if they were seldom worn. He wasn’t out of uniform often.

Her tongue clicked in disapproval. “Terrible.” She threw the clothes back at him.

He grabbed them and scowled. “What? They’re fine.”

“Those clothes make me sleepy.”

“So I’m not a fashion vid. That shouldn’t matter.”

She snorted. “Where smugglers are concerned, appearance counts for a lot. It’s all about flash.

I’m going to change when we get to Ryge, but if you stroll into Beskidt By wearing that stuff,

everyone’s going to know you don’t belong. Then good luck trying to get any intel.”

“There’s no time for any side trips to a shopping barge.” Irritation roughened his voice.

“Wait here.” A few adjustments to put the ship on autopilot, then she hopped up from her seat in the cockpit. She spent an uncomfortable, arousing moment edging past him as she threaded through the galley where he stood. She and Frayne kept bumping into each other as she tried to get through the galley. They both breathed in sharply at the brief contact.

She finally dashed out of the galley and down the passage toward her quarters. Once inside, she opened a storage panel, then pulled out a battered trunk. The thing was a little heavy, so she dragged it back down the passage to the galley.

Frayne watched her curiously as she opened it. “There should be some things in here that will fit you.” She rifled around until she produced some shirts and pants. “Maybe these.”

“What the hell are you doing with men’s clothing?”

She shrugged. “Souvenirs and trophies.”

He glowered ferociously. “I’m supposed to wear the cast-offs of your lovers?”

“Not lovers,” she corrected. He looked almost relieved until she added, “I had sex with them,

sure, but I kicked them out after a night. That doesn’t count.”

“Sounds like a lover to me.”

“A lover means sleeping with someone more than once. I never do that. Too much commitment.”

She peered at him. “I can’t believe this is making you angry.”

“I’m not angry,” he snarled. Yet he seemed almost surprised by his heated reaction.

“So…” She shook a handful of clothes at him. “Find something.”

She didn’t think the words that came out of his mouth would have been approved by the 8th Wing Communication Council. For a few seconds, she almost believed he’d rather go naked than wear some of the clothes worn by her nighttime entertainment. Wouldn’t that make an interesting picture—

Commander Frayne striding through her ship wearing nothing but his plasma pistol and boots. Her mouth became uncomfortably dry.

His big hand lashed out and grabbed a few shirts. “I’ll try some of these, but no goddamn way am I going to wear another man’s pants.”

Her brief hope that he wouldn’t bother wearing anything below the waist was dashed when he snatched up his civvy pants. He stalked away to her quarters. She didn’t want him in there, but room wasn’t exactly plentiful on the Arcadia, and unless she wanted him stripping right in front of her, her quarters was the only place he could change.

Not that she’d mind watching him peel off his 8th Wing uniform, the serviceable gray material sliding off his arms, down his hard torso and flat stomach, until he pushed the fabric down his hips, then lower…

Stop it. This whole forced mission was a screw job, and tangling with the commander would make a complicated situation even more difficult. She liked things an uncomplicated as possible—but she was coming to learn that, where the commander was concerned, nothing was simple.

In Mara’s quarters, Kell quickly shucked off his uniform, his movements mechanical though his mind and gut churned.

Why he was so angry? It shouldn’t matter if the clothes belonged to her one-night stands. It shouldn’t matter to him that she even had one-night stands.

But it did. It mattered.

He stared at Mara’s unmade bed. It was definitely wide enough for two. Had she brought them here, those men? Did she get these sheets twisted by writhing around with some brash space privateer?

The image of her, sweaty and wild and sleek on the bed, came all too quickly into his mind, but it was him he pictured with her, not a swaggering pirate.

As he stepped into his civilian pants, he felt the strange urge to find those random men and beat them into cosmic powder. For fuck’s sake, get a hold of yourself. He didn’t even feel jealousy about the women he did take to bed, let alone a smuggler he had no intention of bedding. A smuggler with creamy hair and taunting eyes.

This is about the mission, he reminded himself. Nothing else.

Still, after picking the one shirt that wasn’t either transparent or cut down to the navel, Kell took a grim satisfaction in using his regulation blade to shred the rest of the men’s clothing. He threw the remains into a waste compartment.

Brilliant. Why don’t you just piss on them while you’re at it?

He finished dressing, and was glad there wasn’t a mirror in her quarters. He didn’t want to know what he looked like.

If the expression on Mara’s face was any indicator, he looked damn good. He ambled back to the galley, dressed in his closest approximation of a smuggler. She sat in the cockpit with her seat swiveled around to face him. Her eyes went wide, and he waited for her to laugh. Instead, a flush crept across her cheeks and she slowly licked her lips.

“That’ll…work.”

He glanced down. His pants were standard black cargos, and he’d strapped his blaster back onto his thigh. The shirt was also black, sleeveless, and cut for a smaller man. It fit Kell a little snugly, revealing every ridge and contour of muscle. Judging by Mara’s glazed eyes, she didn’t mind at all.

Her gaze lingered over his exposed arms. He had to check the impulse to flex for her.

“What’s that?” She pointed to his shoulder.

He absently touched his fingers to the tattoo, an image of a serpent and a hawk locked in combat.

“Something to remind me of home.”

“Home.” She repeated the word as if she didn’t understand its meaning. “Where’s home for you?”

“With the 8th Wing, now.” Her question robbed him of any bravado he might have felt from her approving gaze. Coldness swept through his body, reminding him not just of the mission, but the reasons why he’d enlisted with the 8th Wing in the first place. “You?”

“This is it, now.” She waved a slim hand to indicate the ship.

Neither of them asked where home had once been. Before the 8th Wing, before the Arcadia. Yet the answer was there, just the same. A darker place. The kind of place that made them both find new homes for themselves, new lives. He wondered where she was truly from, what had driven her away.

It didn’t really matter what had happened. She was a scavenger and smuggler, and she had made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with the ongoing war between the 8th Wing and PRAXIS. Profit was her motivation, and that was all.

Yet as they stared at one another, he felt the edge of desire cut through him. Desire, and the uncharted map of a life he might have lived if he hadn’t found the 8th Wing. A kid with dreams of something more, something better in the sky—he could have wound up just like her, another scavenger stealing a living. Stealing freedom.

Is that what made her who she was now? Is that what he saw when he looked at her, what drew him to her?

A warning beep suddenly filled the cockpit, breaking the moment. Mara spun to the control panel and softly cursed.

He slid into the cockpit and took his seat. “Trouble?”

“PRAXIS.” She tapped a few keys, and a PRAXIS patrol-class cutter appeared on the display. It wasn’t the biggest or most dangerous PRAXIS ship, but it had a goodly compliment of weapons that could blast a little towing ship like the Arcadia out of the sky.

He tensed. “Tell me your ship is armed.”

“She is, but it won’t be necessary.”

The comm line shrilled. “Scavenger ship, prepare to be boarded.”

“Affirmative.” She cut the comm line.

He braced a hand on the control panel. “Don’t let them on the ship.”

They both watched as a shuttle detached from the PRAXIS cutter and headed toward them. One shuttle could hold at least six PRAXIS troops. He wondered how many were on the shuttle now, and if he could take them all down. His plasma pistol was charged. He eyed the narrow passages of the Arcadia. They didn’t offer much room for combat, but he was trained.

“Either I let them board peacefully, or they force their way on.”

“I’ll pilot. Use evasive maneuvers.”

But she shook her head. “Forget it.”

The ship shook slightly as the PRAXIS shuttle came alongside and linked. He rose to his feet and drew his plasma pistol.

“Holster that, flyboy.”

As she started to rise from her seat, his grip on her arm stopped her. “Going to turn me over to PRAXIS?” It made sense. She could rid herself of her 8th Wing escort, forget the mission, and possibly earn herself some leniency from PRAXIS.

She stared up at him, eyes burning cold. “Just keep your mouth shut, and I’ll get us both out alive.” When he still wouldn’t release her arm, she said, “Trust me.”

“Why should I?”

Their eyes locked. “No reason. But you should.”

Trust her? The woman was a scavenger, a smuggler. She lived only for herself. Yet, as their gazes held, he looked deep. His instincts had kept him alive his whole life, from his home world to the space battles in far-away solar systems, and they were the only thing he’d been able to count on when even technology failed. They told him that, yes, he could trust Mara Skiren.

His fingers slowly unclasped from around her arm. He nodded tightly.

Something shifted in her expression, a momentary hint of surprise that he would trust her,

followed by a flutter of…gratitude. His trust was an unexpected gift—they both understood this at the same time.

They turned when they heard the sound of the bay door open, and footsteps on the metal floor of the galley.

“Don’t say anything,” she warned.

He nodded again, and together, they moved into the galley. Kell kept himself loose, ready for anything. Mara asked for his trust, and he gave it, but he never trusted PRAXIS. They’d broken too many treaties, overtaken too many worlds, destroyed too many lives.

A PRAXIS officer and two armed troops stepped into the galley. Kell fought down the demand to just take the fuckers out. If anything happened to the officer, the clipper would open fire, and then everything would be over.

Unlike the 8th Wing’s gray uniforms, the PRAXIS Group’s uniforms were a spotless, gleaming white, as if they still believed themselves to be an influence for positive change and progress in the galaxy. Once, long ago, they had been, but greed had superseded the impulse toward advancement and worlds fell underneath the unstoppable force of PRAXIS’s demand for more. More wealth. More planets. More power. Any who disagreed or wanted their own governance were crushed.

Only the 8th Wing stood between PRAXIS and their complete domination of the galaxy.

The officer—a captain, judging by the bars on his collar—stepped into the passageway as if he owned it. He stared insolently at Mara and then Kell. Kell tensed, half expecting the captain to recognize him as the enemy. But the 8th Wing was always careful about keeping the identities of personnel hidden, especially his squadron.

Mara greeted the PRAXIS officer calmly, despite the weapons that were likely trained on her ship at that very moment and the presence of the two armed troops. Her composure reminded Kell of top fighter pilots, level-headed in even the most dangerous situations.

His admiration for her struck him unexpectedly, like an elbow between the shoulder blades.

Mara kept her focus on the PRAXIS officer. “This day gets better by the minute.”

The officer’s eyes lingered on Mara, liking what he saw. Kell’s fists curled and tightened. If that bastard so much as breathed on her, he would tear the captain’s limbs off.

“What brings you to this part of the galaxy, scavenger?” the captain drawled.

“Business.”

The captain smirked. “Of course. Bottom feeding, as usual.”

She didn’t respond to the taunt, even though Kell had the strangest need to punch the smirk off the captain’s face—not because he was PRAXIS, but because of his rudeness to Mara.

“Can we make this quick?” She gazed toward the cockpit. “I’ve got a schedule.”

Annoyed that she wasn’t going to rise to the bait, the captain frowned. “You know why I’m here.”

She did? Kell resisted the urge to shoot Mara a glance. Instead, he stared impassively at the captain.

Mara sighed. “Give me a minute.” She turned and left the galley, but not before sending Kell a quick look that very clearly said, Do not beat the captain into unconsciousness.

Easier to make the request than to obey, especially when the captain openly leered at Mara’s ass as she walked away. His leer faded when he caught the murderous look on Kell’s face.

“Do I know you?” the PRAXIS bastard asked.

“You don’t want to know me.”

For a moment, the captain blanched, then he puffed out his chest as his hand rested meaningfully on the blaster at his waist. “Careful, scavenger. I could have that disrespectful mouth of yours welded shut.”

“Please try,” Kell said.

“Please don’t,” said Mara, returning. She gave the captain a vaguely apologetic shrug. “He’s new.

Doesn’t know how things operate.”

“Make sure he learns, and soon.” The captain’s voice dripped with derision. “Before he gets himself and you into trouble.”

“He’ll learn,” Mara answered. She glared at Kell.

I’m standing right here, damn it. But he clenched his teeth until they ached to keep from speaking aloud.

“The tribute?” the captain asked.

Wordlessly, Mara handed him a small metal container. The captain opened it and smiled, then his smile faded. “These had better be real Ingvarian emeralds.”

“I’m not stupid.”

The captain held up one of the stones, light catching in the deep green facets. The container was full of the gems, each the color of forest shadows, each worth more than an Ingvarian miner could earn in five solar years.

Satisfied, the captain returned the emerald to its container. He tucked the box under his arm.

“This will suffice. PRAXIS appreciates your tribute.”

“Are we done here?” Mara asked.

“For now.” The implicit threat was obvious. “You can proceed. See you again soon, scavenger.”

Mara’s lips tightened into a flat line. She clearly wanted to fire back a cutting retort. All she could do was nod, then watch as the PRAXIS captain and troops exited her ship.

Neither of them spoke until the shuttle disengaged from the Arcadia and returned to the PRAXIS cutter. They watched as the cutter flew off, presumably to collect more graft.

She sat in the cockpit and busied herself at the control panel, but Kell was still too tightly wound to just sit. He stood in the galley, staring at her back.

“I don’t want to hear it.” She hunched over the controls. “And I’m putting the cost of those emeralds on the 8th Wing’s tab.”

He couldn’t stop himself from pacing, which was the only way he could work off even a fraction of the anger and energy surging through him. He wished this ship had an exercise bay. What he wouldn’t give to go up against a combat holo, punch out his frustration.

“This is why the 8th Wing and their allies fight against PRAXIS. To stop them from taking whatever they want.” As he paced, he ricocheted like a plasma shot. “They take from everyone. Even you. But you don’t have to accept it. You can join the fight.”

She turned and stared at him. A war was waged behind those eyes of hers. Beneath the carefully wielded cynicism he saw apprehension.

“Join the fight.” Doubt weighted her words.

He battled against his own frustration. How could anyone pretend to be neutral when PRAXIS ran roughshod over everything? They would devour the galaxy unless more people took a stand.

Something shimmered through her expression, the barest hint of uncertainty, as if questioning the course she had plotted. Such a contrast from the brash scavenger.

She returned her attention to the control panel before he could be sure. “I’m just a bottom feeder.

What I do doesn’t matter.”

“Mara—”

“Drop it.” She punched buttons on the panel with unnecessary force. “The only reason I’m on this mission is because the 8th Wing blackmailed me into it, not for some greater good.”

A strange double sensation of both remorse and righteous anger pierced him. He didn’t like the fact that the 8th Wing had coerced her into cooperating. It made them little better than PRAXIS. But how could anyone insist on neutrality in a war that affected everybody?

“Your allegiances are clear.” He started pacing again, because that was all he could do.

“And if we’re drawing lines in the sand,” she added, “you’d better stay on your side.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I don’t need you getting into a dick-measuring contest when PRAXIS comes calling.”

He felt the blade of her words between his ribs. “Right. Better to just play Nitikkan checkers while that PRAXIS jackass assaults you.”

“I was assaulted?” She batted her lashes with mock astonishment. “It must have happened without me noticing. Not a very good assault, then.”

He glowered at her. “Lesson learned. Next time I feel like protecting you, I’ll punch myself in the face as a reminder not to.”

The anger in her expression slowly dissolved, giving way to uncertainty. “Protecting me? Is that…Is that what you were doing?”

He didn’t answer her, but the look he shot her was answer enough.

“Protecting your way into the Smoke Quadrant,” she said. “Right?”

She saw only what she wanted to see. Nothing he said made a difference. Frustrated, he turned and kicked the little table in the galley, denting it. “No wonder you work alone.”

He stalked off, but wasn’t going to get very far. From a porthole, he saw the retreating lights of the PRAXIS ship. For now, it wasn’t a threat. PRAXIS wasn’t crazy enough to follow them into the wilds of the Smoke Quadrant.

As Mara guided them toward their destination, he looked through a front-facing porthole and saw the faintest trace of red in the distance. Before anyone could enter the Smoke, they had to breach Ilden’s Lash.

He didn’t know what was going to be more dangerous—the ring of fire encircling the quadrant,

the murderous thieves and scoundrels who lived there, or the woman piloting this ship.