But he must keep up the pretense of normality. Don't let them see him vulnerable—this he knew deep in his bones. Any sign of weakness could be exploited. He should know, he’d done so himself.
Dull despair weighed on him. He was so damn tired of the struggle between his better nature and raw instincts.
"Yes, come in," he managed.
The Aquarian nodded, her relief evident. "Yes, sir. Here you are." She glided into the room to place a holopad before him on his desk. The screen was dark, but in the center a silver space ship flew endlessly toward a bright star. A lodestar. It gleamed from the holovid, mocking his inability to follow.
The woman flicked her long fingers across the screen, and a menu of documents appeared, waiting in the virtual file display. "May I freshen your coffee, sir?"
"Yes." When she returned, he was still staring at the virtual files, their gleaming titles taunting him. What the hells was he supposed to do with them?
"So, just signatures?" he murmured as if thinking aloud.
"Yes, sir." His cup full, she set the carafe down and reached to flick her finger over the first title. "Ready for your print."
Ah, an oval at the bottom of the first page, exactly the right shape and size for a fingerprint. This he knew. Relief washed over him again, a wave so strong it nearly swamped him.
He scanned the agreement to supply and help fund the TerraCon Expedition, a joint enterprise between LodeStar Corp and Masterson Enterprises in an extensive exploration of Frontieran lands and seas, beginning with the mountains to the north and east of the settlement of Adamant, and continuing to points east on an attached holomap. Straightforward, and thank God for it, as he could scarcely concentrate through the pain in his head.
He braced his left arm on the desk, holding himself upright and steady as he pressed his right index finger to the spot.
His assistant flicked to the next page. "Next, the Aquarianus Expedition."
This was a similar agreement, to supply and help fund an expedition headed by Prince Azuran of Aquarius himself in a complete exploration, sampling and cataloging of Frontieran seas, and the life forms within.
Hells, the Aquarians could have the damned oceans and everything in them. He didn't care about any of this. He stabbed his thumb impatiently at the signature space.
She straightened. "Thank you, sir. I'll send these on to AquaTerraCon right away. Thrilling, isn't it, sir?"
With a look at his expression, she took a step back, her smile faltering. "Sorry, sir."
"It’s fine," he said with an effort. "I'm glad you're interested. Er, what is it you like about the deal?" He couldn’t bring himself to care, but if she was talking, she wasn’t asking anything of him.
"Everything, sir. With the new AquaTerra crawlers, we can learn so much about the planet—go places we couldn't otherwise. I can't wait to see all the creatures
living in the seas here. Will they be similar to those on Aquarius, or very different?" Her pale cheeks flushed with excitement.
Logan nodded, even managed a parody of a smile. "Of course. May their discoveries be everything you imagined."
"Thank you, sir."
She tipped her head to regard him with renewed concern. "Are you all right, Mr. Stark? You look very tired."
He realized he was rubbing his temple again, behind which the pain was now pounding like giants boots stomping through his head. He lowered his hand.
"I'm fine," he said brusquely. "What's next on my agenda?" There, that sounded right.
“Let’s see … oh, yes. Prince Azuran’s people linked to confirm your audience with him the day after tomorrow. He’ll be arriving late tomorrow evening, and will of course be staying on board his ship at the space port. He will receive you and members of the Frontieran delegation there at noon for luncheon.” The glow in her eyes said this was a great honor.
“Right.” This Prince Azuran could leap into the Frontieran seas he was so curious about and stay there.
She looked disappointed at this lack of enthusiasm, but rallied. "And now, Mr. Berenson is here to speak with you."
He nodded, holding his body straight to hide the cold sweat which sprang out in his armpits and down his spine. Berenson? Who the hells was he? "Fine, send him in."
"Yes, sir." She glided from the room.
The sec she was gone, he rose and strode across the room to the lav, where he rummaged through the storage units until he found the supply of gesics. He took one, then added two more, and went back to his desk.
Hearing muffled voices outside his door, he fumbled with his com until he was able to open an audio link to the outer office.
"Oh, Mr. Berenson," the Aquarian said, relief clear in her hushed voice. "I'm so glad you're here."
"Why?" rumbled a deep voice. "Something wrong?"
"Well ... I'm not sure. It's Mr. Stark. He's ... not himself, somehow. I'm afraid he's ill in some way."
There was a short silence. "I'll talk to him."
"Oh, thank you, sir. I'll announce you."
Stark broke the link as her voice sounded through another link. "Mr. Stark? Mr. Berenson to see you."
"Send him in." Waiting, he picked up his coffee to take a drink, then scowled. Why was it empty? Grabbing the carafe, he poured the last of it into his mug. He took a swig, scalded his mouth and swallowed as quickly as he could. Hells, that burned.
He looked up as a huge man moved into the room, the door sliding shut soundlessly behind him. Stark relaxed a fraction. He knew that broad, stoic face, brown hair so short the color blended with his tanned skin, and keen hazel eyes. Knew the erect carriage of an ex-soldier, the centered stance of a fighter. Bronc Berenson, his ... what? He frowned, scanning the man's attire.
He wore, not a business suit, but khaki shirt and pants tucked into leather boots. Stark knew instantly the man’s vest hid more than one weapon. But his body language said he was peaceable for now, so Stark quelled his first instinct, which was to reach for a weapon himself—only he wasn't
carrying one. He'd remedy that immediately the other man was gone.
Berenson was security of some kind—his security, probably. Which didn’t mean Stark could let down his guard, not now. He used beings, but so did everyone else. They were all as bad as he was—some worse.
The trick was to decipher who was the greatest threat. He’d been doing it most of his life.
"Bronc," he said, leaning back in his chair. His hand lifted to massage his temple again, but he laid it back on the arm of his chair, gripping the soft leather.
Berenson's gaze sharpened, but he merely nodded before walking to one of the chairs placed at an angle before the desk. He turned it to face the desk and the office door equally and sat, hands on his thighs, feet planted.
"Well?" Logan said, playing for time. Let the other being lead with information.
"Sir. As you requested, kept an eye on Kai te Nawa last night. He did as I thought he might, went out for a prowl of the area." He smiled slightly. "He's wary. He nearly caught me following him."
Te Nawa...the name vibrated deep inside Logan's consciousness, like a small light flickering in the darkness. Kiri, that was it. Kiri te Nawa.
Kiri. His mind locked on her name with a visceral certainty like his print sealing those business deals. She was his. So this Kai was his by association also, because he took care of his own. Kept them close, kept them safe, and kept them under his hand.
"What happened?" he asked, still fishing.
The man shrugged his massive shoulders. Great God, he was built like a Solar Wars surplus fighter, blunt and armored for battle. A dangerous man.
"Nothing much. He walked the beach, then returned home. I thought next time I’d introduce myself. Let him know I’ll be around, and
that he can trust me." A faint color stained his harshly angled cheeks. "Don't know that he will, but I'll work on it. Just from my observations so far, he's as your brother said—half-feral. Post-traumatic stress, and a bad case. May be a long trek back to assimilation into society for him."
Ah, the man was attracted to this Kai, whom Stark had asked him to watch over. This meant Berenson was either homo or bi-sexual. Neither of which Stark cared about in the least, except
he always knew everything possible about the people with whom he worked. Information was power, and he dealt in power. He might have the hangover to end all hangovers, but he knew himself. Who he was, and what he could do.
"Well, keep it up," he said. "Anything else? Coffee?"
This time the hazel eyes sharpened like blades, and the other man studied him in a way that
raised the hair on the back of Stark's neck. Quark, he’d made a mistake of some kind. His hand twitched again for the weapon he wasn’t carrying.
"I don't drink it, sir," Berenson said, in a tone meaning
Stark already knew this. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Sir ... what the hells is wrong?”
Chapter Three
It took some doing, but Stark finally got rid of Berenson by assuring him he only needed a few days of down time, some rest. And that, yes, he would see a doctor.
When he was alone again, the door of his office locked, he let himself relax, his head falling back, eyes closed. His chair moved with him, reforming itself to best support his body, a cradle of luxurious comfort. The room was quiet, the temperature perfect, a faint scent of fresh evergreens wafting in the air.
But the moment his body went slack, the dark tentacles exploded from their lair in the blackness of his mind, this time larger and more terrifying as they sucked at his consciousness, greedy for more. His eyes flew open, and he went rigid, his heart pounding, cold sweat enveloping him again.
He vaulted out of the chair, hands clawed as he crouched in a fighting stance. No. He was not afraid. He refused to be afraid, ever again. He was a powerful man, he was...
He was suffocating, his perfectly tailored suit constricting his throat and binding his arms and shoulders ... or perhaps he was suffocating from the inside out. No matter, he had to get free. He clawed at the fastenings of the jacket, yanking it off. He moved to toss it behind him, then paused, gaze narrowing on the door to his private lav and dressing room.
Be careful. Put things away, so they wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.
He strode into the dressing room, scanning its contents with a scowl. Three more business suits like the one he wore, as well as soft, polished leather shoes like the ones on his feet. Two sets of workout wear on the shelf.
But there in the back of his closet hung leather garments, the hue of dark coffee beans, supple with wear. Yes, those were what he wanted.
He stripped off his shirt, tailored of real linen so fine it whispered through his fingers,
toed off his shoes and dropped his pants. Kicking aside the pile of discarded clothing, he donned a long-sleeved knit shirt and leggings,
pulled on the leather pants and stepped into the soft boots waiting
on the rack.
Shrugging on the leather jacket, he sucked in a deep, quivering breath and let it out. There, this he understood. These garments were armor of a kind. He was a man who wore leathers, who lived in a state of constant vigilance, armed and ready for the worst at all times.
Not the man enclosed in this office, this cradle of luxury, who expected others to look after him, to protect him.
A leather duffle waited on the back shelf. He pulled it open. Empty, waiting to be filled with the tools of survival. A change of shirt, underwear and socks. Thin, supple leather gloves, and a soft knit cap. A pair of sun goggles.
The wall safe in his office sprang open at a touch of his palm. He ignored the ornate, decorative laser weapon in its case—a gift from some business contact—reaching instead for the weapon on a lower shelf. Plain, unadorned, the finish dull so as not to reflect light, it fit his palm like an old friend. He shoved it into his belt, a smaller one into his boot. The blades he secreted his other boot, and the back of his belt.
A velvet case caught his eye and he stilled, then reached for it. He opened it to reveal a glitter of gold and diamonds so delicate it could only be meant for a female. A necklace—a collar, really.
She had worn it, along with a gown of gold lii silk which clung to every slim curve and hollow of her supple body. A sudden memory filled his mind, of himself pressing her against a wall, barely screened by large tropical plants from the crowd of raucous dancers outside their alcove. She'd clung to him, her legs wrapped around his waist as he took her, hard and fast, drinking her cries of completion with his mouth over hers, not caring who heard or saw.
Kiri. She was his. He'd go to her now. And perhaps in her arms again, he could make sense of what was happening to him.
He dropped the jewel case into the duffel, tossed the decorative laser in after it, and left the office by way of a rear door, meeting no one on his way.
* * *
When Kiri's link chimed to announce someone at her front door, she rose without taking her gaze from the holovid she was watching. She laughed at a quip from one of the actors, and finally glanced at the security vid.
She stopped in the middle of her small sitting room, her heart lifting with shock and then joy. It wasn't Kai at her front door, back from another evening stroll on the beach. Instead, a tall, lean man stood scanning the twilight street as he waited, a duffel over one shoulder. She would know him anywhere, even though he was dressed in a way she'd never seen.
She flew to open the door. "Logan.
What are you doing here?"
He turned to her, and her breath stopped as she got a good look at his face. She reached for him, urging him inside with a hand on his arm, clad in leather despite the sultry warmth of the evening.
"Logan, what is it?" She moved closer to peer up into his face. "What on planet is wrong with you?"
He gave her an unreadable look. "What do you mean?"
She raised her brows at him. "You’re joking, right? You look exhausted. You show up at my door dressed in leathers, without your hovie and your driver, looking as if you’re headed off to the wilds to cruise with Joran’s band. Only being you, you wouldn’t just live with them, you’d take over and create a—a syndicate. The Galactic Ex-Space Pirates Ltd."
Logan didn’t appear to see the humor in this.
His duffel landed with a soft thud on the floor behind him. He reached for her, his powerful hands fitting possessively over the curve of her waist as he pulled her to him. With the ease of old habit, she let herself lean into the heat and strength of his body. His familiar scent wrapped around her, now edged with sweat and leather.
"You're right," he said, his deep voice holding her rapt as always—except that now it was rough instead of smooth, another indicator he was under extreme stress of some kind. "I am leaving. But I seem to need to be with you … before I go."
Alarm shivered through her, raising the fine hairs on her nape. "Logan." She set her hands on his broad chest under his jacket. "What's wrong? Please tell me."
"What's wrong?" His gaze riveted on her lips as he leaned closer. "Nothing is right. Only you. And this."
When he kissed her, his warm mouth took hers hard and deep. Not with the smooth sureness she was used to, of a man who knew he could make her want him and thus could afford to take his time, spin out his seduction until she was begging him to touch her, take her.
No, this felt like … raw need. And everything feminine in her responded, but she needed to remember the emotional state she'd be in if she let him do this, and then had to send him away afterward.
"Logan," she managed
breathlessly, turning her face away with an effort, "we shouldn't—I shouldn't
anyway. You know we don't work."
Watching her brother Kai struggle so bravely to adapt to his new freedom, had brought home to her a hard, cold truth. Life was short, often brutal. A being had to make something of it while they had the chance. And for her, this meant it was time to stop mooning over Logan Stark, and get on with her own life.
A life which would someday include another man with whom to spend her life, have a family. Commit fully to each other.
Giving in to her desire for Logan even one more time, wouldn’t help.
Her lips not available, he kissed her temple, her ear, then opened his mouth against her throat, biting at it with his lips.
"Kiri," he said. "I need you."
The raw undercurrent in his voice melted the last of her resistance. She turned back into his kiss, opening to him with a sigh.
She had spent weeks missing his attention, his voice, his face, and long nights longing for his touch, like an addict craving her drug. But with all he'd taught her about sensuality, all the expensive gifts he'd showered on her, Kiri had never felt Logan
truly
needed her. Wanted her,
certainly. But needed her like this, no.
She was going to regret letting this powerful, charismatic man in under her defenses again. She wanted everything from him, and he wanted her in return—but only sexually. He wanted control over her body and her fidelity … while refusing to commit himself totally to her. And she’d already discovered she couldn’t bear that imbalance.
But oh, great God beyond, how was she supposed to resist him when he was like this? A big, powerful man, trembling under her touch as if he'd shatter unless she held him together, his hands working in her hair as he drank from her mouth as she were the fountain of life.
Which was how he tasted to her as well. She'd been starving for him, the feel of his lips on hers, his tongue tangling with hers.
"I'm here, Logan," she breathed when at last he broke the kiss to suck in a deep, shaken breath. She stroked his back under his jacket, trying to soothe him with her touch. He was wild in a way he'd never been—with her at least.
Which didn't mean he'd never been this wild with other women—but his voice in her ear pushed the sharp spike of jealousy away, bringing her back to here and now, and him.
"
Yes
." He kissed his way across her cheek, and down the slope of her bare throat. Kiri shivered with delight as he found that
especially
sensitive place where her neck curved into her shoulder, and sucked, hard. His powerful hands were already tugging at her dress, working it up over her hips. "Yes, here—now."
Kiri's heavy eyes shot open, and she pushed at his hands. "No, not here. Come to my bedroom." Because Kai could return at any moment. But God help her, she needed Logan, this one last time.
He scowled as he let her go, then followed her so
closely
she felt his heat at her back, his breath stirring the hair on the nape of her neck.
Herding her like a predator ready to breed his chosen female.
Beside her bed, she turned to him. He had
already
stripped off his jacket. He dropped it on the duffel.
"Take off your pretty dress," he ordered, reaching behind his back to grab his knit shirt and yank it over his head. "Unless you want me to rip it off of you."
She unfastened the catch between her breasts, the roughness of his deep voice and the need blazing from his silvery eyes leaving no doubt. Logan always had liked to be in charge, but this was different. He was a man on the edge of control, and she was the object of his lust.
This knowledge sent liquid heat burning through her, the flames bursting into a conflagration deep in her sex, which suddenly felt empty, quaking with need. She pulled her light dress open, shivering with pleasure as the fabric raked her nipples, stiffening them to hard points for his gaze.
He watched every move as she shoved the dress down her arms and over her hips, leaving her clad only in a pair of thin, spiderlace panties in the same yellow as the dress. Kiri nearly retreated, caught between alarm and triumph at the predatory gleam in his eyes.
Triumph won. Logan Stark was the man standing here in her bedroom, his eyes heated to molten iridium with lust, every bit of his attention riveted to her body as she bared herself to him. The trembling of his powerful body was for her—all for her.
Turning her back, she crawled onto the bed, knowing he saw everything between her thighs through the thin tease of the lace. Daring him to come and take it.
He gave a deep groan, almost a growl. "Take them off—or I rip them off."
Kiri reached back with one hand and pushed down the lace on one hip, then the other. Watching him over her shoulder, she hooked a finger in the panties and pulled them over the swell of her ass.
His gaze locked on her, he stripped himself with the swiftness of desperation. His leather pants and leggings fell along with his underwear, leaving Logan
magnificently
naked. She knew he kept fit in the series of custom fitness centers he had in each home, but how could she have forgotten how gorgeous he was? Tall and lean, broad shouldered, he had the musculature of an athlete and the arrogant stance of a male in his prime.
Dark curls feathered across his chest and at his groin, a frame for his very generous genitals.
His cock prodded the air before him, long, thick and flushed, the head
already
oozing clear drops of arousal.
Instinctively, Kiri arched her back, offering herself to him as need pulsed through her.
She had to have him one more time. He was so gorgeous—the epitome of everything she found
sexually
enthralling.
"You are ... perfect," he told her, palming his cock with one hand as he looked her over from head to toe. "Now turn over, on your back. That's right—I want to see your face this time. Take the panties off and open yourself to me. Because when I touch you—I'll take you."