that.
Still, tiredness was not an excuse for the way he was handling this situation, this Trilby Elliot. He knew that. Her unlikely combination of sarcasm and softness rankled him and intrigued him at the same time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt his control slip through his fingers as easily as silken mist.
But then, his current situation didn’t permit him to be who he was. He was born and bred for command. He’d never had to repress his finely honed instincts before. It unsettled him—almost as much as Elliot’s presence did—and he took another mouthful of cool water while he rearranged his attitude.
His
infamous
attitude. He ran one hand over his face. Playing at being nice was draining him, tearing away at the hard-assed, arrogant son of a bitch he was supposed to be. Had been for over thirty years, until fate and the ’Sko had dumped him on the doorstep of one Captain Trilby Elliot.
He sat on the edge of the narrow bed, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and tabbed on the comp screen. The skin over his wounds no longer itched. And the pain in his body had quieted to a dull roar. He let that be his focus. That and his mission. Not her smiles or soft laughter. Or her sympathy. She didn’t know who she was offering it to. She didn’t know what it was doing to him.
Time to get back to work.
His self-proclaimed sixth-hour deadline came and went while he was flat on his back in the
Venture
’s cramped maintenance tunnel later that morning. Repairs on an erratic datafeed line weren’t going well. Sweaty and exasperated, he sent Dezi scurrying out of the tunnel in search of “a Gods damned splicer that will work at least half the Gods damned time!”
A few minutes later, a scuffling noise in the tunnel told him that Dezi had returned. It was the captain’s orders, he knew, that he not be left alone for long. But at least with the ’droid, he could be himself.
“About time!” he snapped. He reached over his head, his fingers grasping the thin cylinder of what he hoped was a more efficient crystal splicer.
The splicer wasn’t what he was used to, but it was better than the first one. It still took him five minutes to repair the hairline fractures.
He flicked off the power on the splicer with a snap and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the hard floor of the tunnel. A dull ache throbbed between his shoulder blades from working in the tunnel’s cramped quarters. But that didn’t make him half as uncomfortable as the fact that, even here, in the bowels of her ship, he was still aware of her presence. He could almost smell the sweet muskiness of that perfume she wore. It was as if she were haunting him.
“Ridiculous,” he said.
“I tried to warn you,” replied a soft female voice in his ear.
His eyes flew open. He saw the object of his troubled thoughts kneeling beside him.
“Bloody hell!” He sat up abruptly. His head made hard contact with a low ceiling tile. The large gray square teetered on rusty hinges. He reached for it just as Trilby did. Their arms collided, throwing her off balance. She collapsed onto his chest.
He heard the sharp crack of the metal hinge snapping, saw the blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively he clasped her tightly against him and rolled away, placing his body protectively over hers. The tile slammed against him, then slid to the decking with a loud clang.
He felt her rapid breathing against his chest. “You all right?”
“Umm, yes.” She tilted her head, bumping her nose on his chin. She was sandwiched between him and the tunnel’s curved wall. “You?”
His head hurt. His back ached. The crystal splicer dug an uncomfortable gouge into his left hip. But his body blithely ignored all of this discomforting physical information and chose instead to focus on the softness and the scent of the woman beneath him, in his arms.
Somehow in their grappling, her T-shirt had pulled up at her waist.
Still, tiredness was not an excuse for the way he was handling this situation, this Trilby Elliot. He knew that. Her unlikely combination of sarcasm and softness rankled him and intrigued him at the same time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt his control slip through his fingers as easily as silken mist.
But then, his current situation didn’t permit him to be who he was. He was born and bred for command. He’d never had to repress his finely honed instincts before. It unsettled him—almost as much as Elliot’s presence did—and he took another mouthful of cool water while he rearranged his attitude.
His
infamous
attitude. He ran one hand over his face. Playing at being nice was draining him, tearing away at the hard-assed, arrogant son of a bitch he was supposed to be. Had been for over thirty years, until fate and the ’Sko had dumped him on the doorstep of one Captain Trilby Elliot.
He sat on the edge of the narrow bed, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and tabbed on the comp screen. The skin over his wounds no longer itched. And the pain in his body had quieted to a dull roar. He let that be his focus. That and his mission. Not her smiles or soft laughter. Or her sympathy. She didn’t know who she was offering it to. She didn’t know what it was doing to him.
Time to get back to work.
His self-proclaimed sixth-hour deadline came and went while he was flat on his back in the
Venture
’s cramped maintenance tunnel later that morning. Repairs on an erratic datafeed line weren’t going well. Sweaty and exasperated, he sent Dezi scurrying out of the tunnel in search of “a Gods damned splicer that will work at least half the Gods damned time!”
A few minutes later, a scuffling noise in the tunnel told him that Dezi had returned. It was the captain’s orders, he knew, that he not be left alone for long. But at least with the ’droid, he could be himself.
“About time!” he snapped. He reached over his head, his fingers grasping the thin cylinder of what he hoped was a more efficient crystal splicer.
The splicer wasn’t what he was used to, but it was better than the first one. It still took him five minutes to repair the hairline fractures.
He flicked off the power on the splicer with a snap and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the hard floor of the tunnel. A dull ache throbbed between his shoulder blades from working in the tunnel’s cramped quarters. But that didn’t make him half as uncomfortable as the fact that, even here, in the bowels of her ship, he was still aware of her presence. He could almost smell the sweet muskiness of that perfume she wore. It was as if she were haunting him.
“Ridiculous,” he said.
“I tried to warn you,” replied a soft female voice in his ear.
His eyes flew open. He saw the object of his troubled thoughts kneeling beside him.
“Bloody hell!” He sat up abruptly. His head made hard contact with a low ceiling tile. The large gray square teetered on rusty hinges. He reached for it just as Trilby did. Their arms collided, throwing her off balance. She collapsed onto his chest.
He heard the sharp crack of the metal hinge snapping, saw the blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively he clasped her tightly against him and rolled away, placing his body protectively over hers. The tile slammed against him, then slid to the decking with a loud clang.
He felt her rapid breathing against his chest. “You all right?”
“Umm, yes.” She tilted her head, bumping her nose on his chin. She was sandwiched between him and the tunnel’s curved wall. “You?”
His head hurt. His back ached. The crystal splicer dug an uncomfortable gouge into his left hip. But his body blithely ignored all of this discomforting physical information and chose instead to focus on the softness and the scent of the woman beneath him, in his arms.
Somehow in their grappling, her T-shirt had pulled up at her waist.
Similar Books
