obvious, then yes, the crown prince's sister's value can be easily dismissed. However, one cannot ignore her lofty rank within the Federation. Her status as an unpromised woman will affect the balance of power. It warrants discussion."
"Enough!" Rigid with displeasure, Ché stood.
Klark remained on his pillows, reclining languidly in their silken nest as he no doubt continued to ponder Ilana Hamilton and the threat he said she posed. Had his plot to assassinate Ian arisen just as casually? Ché wondered.
Ché tried to tell himself that Klark was going through a bad period, that time and maturity would eventually put all this behind them. He loved his brother and knew Klark felt the same. If only Klark would find better ways to express it!
Ché turned to Hoe, who regarded Klark with acute interest. The advisor was an intense fellow, cheerful in his outlook and wholly loyal to Ché. Hoe's greatest value lay in his ability to remain a vigilant observer from outside the maelstrom of Vedla in-house politics, assuring Ché a reliable channel of unbiased information and guidance. There was no better reason to leave Hoe behind at the palace. If nothing else, he'd ensure that Klark's potentially divisive musings about Ilana Hamilton and her detrimental effect on the balance of power in the Federation would not spread farther than this room.
Ché spoke, his jaw tight. "I will now inform Ian Hamilton of my plans. Here on Eireya, I've entrusted only you two with the knowledge of my destination. No one else is to know. Is that clear?"
Hoe and Klark nodded.
"Then, when I have recuperated from this wife-hunt business, I will return and marry." Ché turned on his heel and left his brother's chambers, his steps growing lighter as he went.
He had weeks, hopefully months, in which to see to his pleasure and relaxation away from this scrutiny he'd known all his life. No advisors, no councilmen, no guards. No wedding arrangements to listen to or the exasperating schemes of a bored brother. He'd be free of it all.
He inhaled deeply. His cape slapped against his boots with each long stride. The farther he strode from Klark's quarters, the lighter he felt. His last days as a bachelor would be spent well, that he vowed. While he'd do nothing to put his family's reputation in jeopardy, his options were wide open.
Ché smiled. He could hardly wait to discover what primitive pleasures awaited him on Earth.
Chapter Four
Decadence, Ilana mused as she left a reception at the Beverly Hills agency that represented movie star Hunter Holt. She could almost smell it on the man, the reckless, blase hedonism embraced by only the very rich and truly powerful, living to excess— Ilana found it part fascinating, part repulsive; it was so foreign to what she was, and what she wanted to be. "Would you consider Holt decadent?" she asked Linda, her personal assistant.
The woman followed her into an elevator and they rode it down to street level. "The chocolate cheesecake certainly was. But Holt? He tries. I don't know if he's 'quality' enough, though."
"True. He's self-made. He didn't inherit anything he has. Or had, before he blew it all on drugs."
"He's more… used. Like an old Lamborghini. Sexy, luxurious, still a status symbol— but if you look too closely, you can see that the leather fittings are worn."
Linda's eyes crinkled behind her narrow, black, rectangular glasses. "I don't think I want to know about Holt's fittings— what they look like or where they've been."
"Debauchery isn't very hygienic," Ilana agreed. Then she laughed and snapped her fingers. That's the word I'm looking for. Debauched. One step below decadent." Holt exuded it like bad aftershave: late nights, hard partying, and too much money. "But he's got talent, and it's bankable."
"If he can keep straight long enough to finish a film."
"If he led a boring life, no one would have financed our documentary."
Linda studied her. "I wouldn't think Holt was your type,
"Enough!" Rigid with displeasure, Ché stood.
Klark remained on his pillows, reclining languidly in their silken nest as he no doubt continued to ponder Ilana Hamilton and the threat he said she posed. Had his plot to assassinate Ian arisen just as casually? Ché wondered.
Ché tried to tell himself that Klark was going through a bad period, that time and maturity would eventually put all this behind them. He loved his brother and knew Klark felt the same. If only Klark would find better ways to express it!
Ché turned to Hoe, who regarded Klark with acute interest. The advisor was an intense fellow, cheerful in his outlook and wholly loyal to Ché. Hoe's greatest value lay in his ability to remain a vigilant observer from outside the maelstrom of Vedla in-house politics, assuring Ché a reliable channel of unbiased information and guidance. There was no better reason to leave Hoe behind at the palace. If nothing else, he'd ensure that Klark's potentially divisive musings about Ilana Hamilton and her detrimental effect on the balance of power in the Federation would not spread farther than this room.
Ché spoke, his jaw tight. "I will now inform Ian Hamilton of my plans. Here on Eireya, I've entrusted only you two with the knowledge of my destination. No one else is to know. Is that clear?"
Hoe and Klark nodded.
"Then, when I have recuperated from this wife-hunt business, I will return and marry." Ché turned on his heel and left his brother's chambers, his steps growing lighter as he went.
He had weeks, hopefully months, in which to see to his pleasure and relaxation away from this scrutiny he'd known all his life. No advisors, no councilmen, no guards. No wedding arrangements to listen to or the exasperating schemes of a bored brother. He'd be free of it all.
He inhaled deeply. His cape slapped against his boots with each long stride. The farther he strode from Klark's quarters, the lighter he felt. His last days as a bachelor would be spent well, that he vowed. While he'd do nothing to put his family's reputation in jeopardy, his options were wide open.
Ché smiled. He could hardly wait to discover what primitive pleasures awaited him on Earth.
Chapter Four
Decadence, Ilana mused as she left a reception at the Beverly Hills agency that represented movie star Hunter Holt. She could almost smell it on the man, the reckless, blase hedonism embraced by only the very rich and truly powerful, living to excess— Ilana found it part fascinating, part repulsive; it was so foreign to what she was, and what she wanted to be. "Would you consider Holt decadent?" she asked Linda, her personal assistant.
The woman followed her into an elevator and they rode it down to street level. "The chocolate cheesecake certainly was. But Holt? He tries. I don't know if he's 'quality' enough, though."
"True. He's self-made. He didn't inherit anything he has. Or had, before he blew it all on drugs."
"He's more… used. Like an old Lamborghini. Sexy, luxurious, still a status symbol— but if you look too closely, you can see that the leather fittings are worn."
Linda's eyes crinkled behind her narrow, black, rectangular glasses. "I don't think I want to know about Holt's fittings— what they look like or where they've been."
"Debauchery isn't very hygienic," Ilana agreed. Then she laughed and snapped her fingers. That's the word I'm looking for. Debauched. One step below decadent." Holt exuded it like bad aftershave: late nights, hard partying, and too much money. "But he's got talent, and it's bankable."
"If he can keep straight long enough to finish a film."
"If he led a boring life, no one would have financed our documentary."
Linda studied her. "I wouldn't think Holt was your type,
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