Dragon Lord (8 page)

That had been unwise, he thought, studying them wryly. It was going to be hell working out now, until they healed.

He frowned as his stomach growled and he realized he was starving.

He couldn’t remember the last time
that
had happened either. Mostly he ate because he knew he needed to, not because he had any enthusiasm for it. His ‘enthusiasm’ was back with a vengeance, however. He discovered he couldn’t ignore the grumbling as he generally did and finally yielded to the demands of his belly and left the basement gym.

He paused when he reached the first floor and heard the tone that announced that dinner was served. He’d broken a sweat and he hadn’t changed since that morning. Ordinarily, he would never have considered sitting down to eat as he was--unshaven, unwashed, completely disheveled. Resentment filled him, though, when he realized a part of his reluctance now--the biggest part of it--was a disinclination for ‘that woman’ to see him as he was.

“To hell with her,” he muttered to himself. He was not likely to see her, or she him. She would eat with Mrs. Higgenbottom in the kitchen.

And, in any case, he didn’t give a flying fuck what she thought about him.

He probably smelled like a
naybst
--the furry beasts they rode into battle on Schalome--that had been run into the ground, but if
he
didn’t mind his stench he saw no reason why
she
should. Setting his jaw, he slipped his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and left it hanging open. He was too damned hot to fasten it up and tuck it in. He combed his fingers through his hair to bring some order to it and then abandoned his unconscious efforts at grooming abruptly, leaving his hair hanging about his shoulders.

The glasses were another matter. Removing them from his pocket, he put them on.

Just one more reason to resent the woman’s presence! He could not go about without the damned things because
she
was human and was liable to faint at the sight of his alien eyes … and then run screaming to the authorities that aliens were in residence on Milton Island.

Audric looked him over disapprovingly when he had sprawled in his chair at the head of the table. Simon regarded his half-brother broodingly, almost hoping he would make some snide remark so that he could feel justified in knocking his teeth down his throat.

“I would not worry about the glasses,” Audric finally said mildly, refusing to take the bait he saw in Simon’s eyes. “She has seen my eyes … and yours. If she has not fainted, screamed, or taken off running by now, she is not likely to.”

Simon snatched his glasses off and pitched them across the room.

It was unfortunate that that little fit of temper happened to coincide with Raina’s entrance into the dining room. She jumped as the glasses hit the wall next to her, rattling the dishes on the tray she was carrying.

Simon felt dull color creep into his cheeks as she flashed wide, startled eyes in his direction. Clearing his throat, he glared pointedly at Jorell, who was sitting next to him. Jorell stared back at him blankly and then whirled his head abruptly to look at Riana guiltily.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

Simon dropped his elbow to the arm of his chair, cupping his chin in his hand and pressing his index finger along his lips to curb the urge to smile.

“It was not I!” Jorell snapped.

Simon chuckled. “She can not understand Draconian. And I do not think she would believe you if you could think of the words to say in her language. You looked far too guilty when you looked at her.”

Jorell sent him a resentful glare. “You did that on purpose!” he said accusingly.

Simon shrugged. “I did,” he responded coolly. “It was an
un
princely thing to do. You did not expect
me
to take the blame, surely?” he added provokingly.

Letting out a huff of irritation, Jorell focused on Raina as she carefully balanced the tray on one hip and tried to lift one bowl of soup from the tray without spilling everything else.

“Pardon, lady,” Jorell said in his best English, pointing at Simon. “He did!”

Raina frowned in concentration until she’d managed to settle the bowl of soup and successfully redistribute the weight on the tray. She flicked a look at Mr. Black--she thought he was the one Mrs. Higgenbottom had told her was Mr. Black--and then looked at Simon Draken. His gaze was focused on the plate in front of him, but she thought she detected a faint smile hovering around his hard mouth.

She wished the man hadn’t directed her attention to Simon. She was already having heart palpitations just being this close and dreading having to serve him. She was going to pitch the tray and run like hell if she spilled soup in his lap.

It was just as well she hadn’t gotten the full impact of the man when she’d first met him or she would’ve passed out and rolled down the stairs. She’d had the impression, then, that he was gorgeous. Now, with all that long, black silky hair hanging around his head in disarray, the hint of a five o’clock shadow on his hard jaw and chin, and the opened shirt that displayed the most beautiful chest she’d ever gotten the chance to look at, she could feel her kegel muscles clenching frantically and she had the horrible suspicion that her panties were damp.

She could
feel
the man’s pheromones bouncing off of her in waves.

Ignoring Mr. Black’s juvenile excuse for throwing
something
at her, like an--undisciplined juvenile delinquent--she sucked in a sustaining breath and moved around to Simon. The dishes on the tray were rattling from the shakes running through her. Color climbed into her cheeks as he very casually shifted in his chair to put some distance between them as she leaned to set his bowl on the table. She didn’t know if it was because he was afraid she was going to spill the soup in his lap, or if it was a conscious or unconscious dislike of her close proximity, but she felt snubbed anyway. Moving around to Mr. Black, she gave him a narrow eyed look and plunked his bowl down in front of him hard enough to slosh soup over the edge.

Someone at the table chuckled and then tried to make it sound like a cough. She wasn’t sure which one of them it was, but she suspected Mr. Smith. He was grinning at her when she flicked a glance in his direction. Turning her nose up at him, she stalked down the table and settled the last bowl of soup and then marched out of the dining room.

Mrs. Higgenbottom was glaring at her when she returned to the kitchen, her lips pursed. “You are to serve Mr. Draken first,” she said coldly. “The others in order of their station.”

Raina gaped at her. “Station?”

Raina wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Mrs. Higgenbottom’s expression turned even more sour. “Mr. Draken first. And then Mr. Smith, Mr. Black, Mr. Jones, Mr. Green, and finally Mr. White.”

Raina stared at her in disbelief. She was already irritated that the woman had told her she was ‘off’ for the day and
then
, when she’d come down to eat, had informed her that she had to serve first. Then
someone
, one of them, had pitched something at her when she’d gone in to serve their soup, almost making her drop the damned tray. And on top of that, she didn’t know the first thing about serving and, if the woman hadn’t noticed, she was clumsy, especially when she was nervous, and she
knew
she was going to make a mess before the dinner was over.

Especially since she couldn’t come within ten feet of Simon Draken without turning to jelly.

“Look, lady! I can’t tell one of the
Quints
from the other!”

Mrs. Higgenbottom’s eyes narrowed. “You know Mr. Draken, do you not?” she demanded testily.

Raina realized abruptly that she was thoroughly pissing the woman off and also that she didn’t give a damn if she was. “Tall guy? Boobs bigger than mine?--
Wait
! They’re
all
tall and they
all
have boobs bigger than mine! Dark hair? No that isn’t going to work either!”

“They do not look anything alike!”

“Well! You
told
me not to look at them at all! Especially Mr. Draken! I’d have to actually see their faces to tell them apart, damn it! Otherwise I can’t tell the forest from the trees because all I can tell is that they’re all really, really tall--really, really big, and they all have long dark hair, and they all wear those damned sunglasses, which cover half their face anyway!
Maybe
I should examine their damned belly buttons and see if I can tell them apart!”

“
Mayhap
you could try being a little more observant? They are not
wearing
their sunglasses now!”

“No, because one of them threw their damned glasses at me when I went in with the soup and I’m
not
taking anything else in there if they’re going to be throwing things at me because I’m slow in bringing on the chow!”

“I did not throw my glasses at you.”

Riana’s knees turned to pure water as the deep, masculine voice rolled over her. Her head whipped around so quickly at the sound that she felt a bone in her neck pop.

‘The god’ was standing at the door between the kitchen and dining room, leaning negligently against the door frame, his arms folded over his broad chest, making all those lovely muscles bulge. Her mouth watered. He reddened faintly when she gaped at him.

“It was a churlish thing to do--and I beg pardon--but you were never an intended target.”

Riana averted her gaze, struggling to regain her equilibrium, feeling so weak she thought for several moments that she was going to do something really embarrassing--like faint. “Oh,” she mumbled, resisting the urge to fan herself.

Mrs. Higgenbottom stepped into the breach, and although Riana didn’t delude herself that it was intended for her benefit, she could’ve kissed the woman for distracting him from his intent study of her. She thought he’d been looking at her. She felt like he had been.

“Are you ready for the next course, my lor…Mr. Draken?”

Apparently he nodded and returned to the dining room. He didn’t say anything else, thankfully. Riana might have embarrassed herself by coming at the sound of his voice.

She was
that
close.

It ought to be illegal, she thought resentfully, for a man like that to be allowed anywhere in the vicinity of a starving woman. She was surprised women weren’t attached to the man all over like limpets.

On the other hand, that might be why he never went anywhere. He was afraid of being mobbed.

“
You
carry the tray and follow me,” Mrs. Higgenbottom announced when she’d arranged the plates with the next course. “And pay attention so that you’ll know the proper order to serve.”

Raina made a face at the woman as she followed her through the dining room door. Unfortunately, she didn’t discover until she’d done it that, although Ms. Hatchet-face couldn’t see her, the men at the table could and they were looking right at her when she did it. Embarrassed and completely unable to keep her color from fluctuating, she compensated by turning her nose up at them as she stalked behind Ms. Higgenbottom to the table.

Mrs. Higgenbottom gave her a stern look as she removed the soup bowl and carefully settled a plate in front of Mr. Draken.

“What?” Riana asked, all at sea.

The woman actually rolled her eyes. “Observe!” she hissed.

“Oh!”

She removed Mr. Smith’s soup bowl next and set his plate in front of him. “Mr.
Smith
,” she said in an undertone, “likes his meat rare.”

Raina looked at Mr. Smith doubtfully.

He smiled at her and winked. She bit her lip to keep from smiling back at him. Diverted by his flirtatious interest, she almost ran into Ms. Hatchet face as she moved around the table and stopped abruptly because she was still looking at him when the woman stopped. The housekeeper glared at her. “Mr. Black likes his meat medium.”

Raina frowned, abruptly uneasy about where all this careful instruction seemed to be leading. “Does this mean I’m going to have to cook, too?” she demanded in a loud whisper when the woman turned her back on her and moved to other end of the table. “Because I have to tell you I’m not worth a shit at cooking. They’re
all
going to get it rare in the middle and black on both sides, because I really don’t have the patience for cooking. I did say that when I applied. I distinctly remember telling you I couldn’t cook ….”

The last word was muffled by Ms. Higgenbottom’s hand as she clapped it over Raina’s mouth. Raina glared at her over the hand and then stuck her tongue out before she thought better of it. Ms. Higgenbottom snatched her hand back and gritted her teeth at her. Raina wiped her tongue on the shoulder of her shirt, wrinkling her nose. “Don’t tell me where you’ve had that hand because I do
not
want to know!”

Mr. White snorted his wine and fell into a fit of coughing. Mr. Black spat a mouthful of wine into his plate and then stared down at it in disgust for a moment. Finally, he shrugged and picked up his knife and fork.

Raina sent him a commiserating look. “That’s nearly as bad as dropping it on the floor. It’s
your
germs, after all. And they
do
cook them in wine sometimes. It’s supposed to enhance the flavor,” she whispered.

Ms. Hatchet-face grabbed her arm and practically hauled her out of the dining room.

“Exactly what was that all about?” the woman had the nerve to demand.

Raina slammed the tray full of bowls down on the closest counter and glared at her. “That’s what I’d like to know! Lady! I’ve got a lot of patience, but if you manhandle me again you’re going to draw back a nub!”

It was at that point that Hatchet-face lost her contacts and breathed fire.

Smoke, anyway.

Raina observed the twin streams of smoke that emerged from her nostrils with more than a little surprise. “Hey! I didn’t know you smoked!”

Someone grabbed her from behind and swung her in a dizzying circle. She didn’t stop until she slammed into a chest that felt like a brick wall. A hand settled on each side of her head even as she began to tip her head back to see who’d grabbed her. She met Mr. Smith’s mouth in descent.