“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.