Slave Empire III - The Shrike (2 page)

He hesitated,
then nodded. “All right.”

“My
choice?”

“Sure.”

She glanced out
of a window at the sinking sun, which bathed the dome in ruddy
light. “I’ll go and get ready.”

Rayne headed
for her apartment, mentally reviewing the contents of her wardrobe.
The dresses she had bought for their previous dinner dates were
lovely, but conservative, and she had visited a boutique the day
before and purchased a slinky, sleeveless black number with a
plunging neckline and a hemline that reached to mid-thigh, slit on
the sides to miniskirt length. Clothes had not really interested
her until they had become a tool to get his attention, and if the
black bombshell did not get a reaction from him, nothing would.

In her
apartment, she showered and donned the dress, an emerald necklace
and matching drop earrings Tarke had given her a week ago, and a
pair of high-heeled black sandals. She brushed her silver-streaked
gold hair until it shone and anointed herself with a new fragrance
the shop girl had assured her was the latest trend in temptation,
guaranteed to turn any date into an all-nighter. She used a little
mascara, lip gloss and blusher, then studied her reflection in the
full-length mirror, liking it. Her skin had regained its creamy hue
from healthy living and a little tanning, and her blue-green eyes
sparkled with excitement. The dress enhanced her athletic figure
and tiny waist, and the slits revealed plenty of thigh. She
searched the base’s vast database for the most romantic vidfilm she
could find, a new one from Atlan that reminded her of
Romeo and
Juliette
. She had already watched it, and it suited her purpose
perfectly. The prospect of trying to seduce the Shrike did give her
a few qualms, but she quelled them. Perhaps he just needed a bit of
encouragement.

When she
arrived at Tarke’s apartment, he sat on the couch, drink in hand,
gazing at the view of the sunset the floor-to-ceiling windows
afforded. The last dregs of fiery light faded from the sky, gilding
his face. As always, she marvelled at his flawless skin, fine
features and sexy mouth. His jet hair seemed to drink in light and
his level brows looked almost too well-defined, every hair in
place. So far, she had found nothing even remotely bushy or banal
about him, not even hair in his nose or ears. She assumed the
windows in his apartment were one-way glass, so he was able to
remove his mask in its privacy. He wore his usual black shirt and
trousers, without his gloves and the grey coat. His blowtorch-blue
eyes raked her outfit, and his brows rose a fraction.

She smiled and
twirled. “Like it?”

He turned back
to the view. “Very nice.”

She plonked
down on the couch beside him. “Ah, come on, it’s a bit more than
just
nice
, don’t you think?”

“Very pretty,”
he said, rising to his feet. “Drink?”

“Sure,
thanks.”

When he
returned with a fresh
drell
juice and a glass of her
favourite
munga
juice, he sat at the far end of the
couch.

Rayne slid
closer. “What’s for dinner?”

“What would you
like?” He studied his drink.

“Oh, I don’t
know. “ She considered. “How about oysters?”

“Oysters?”

“A type of
shellfish found on Earth. Maybe you have something similar?”

“There are some
seafood dishes, yes.”

“Shellfish?”

He put down his
drink and stood up, going over to the scrolling holograms at the
back of the room. “There’s Tyrenian sea mollusc in wine sauce,” he
said.

“Sounds
good.”

Tarke returned
and settled on the settee opposite, picked up his drink and made a
remark about an aspect of base maintenance that started a
conversation. Half an hour later, the partition whined across
between the lounge and dining area of the open-plan apartment,
which meant their dinner was about to be delivered. As usual, the
lights in his apartment were set too bright for her liking, so she
turned them down when Tarke visited the bathroom. The clink of
cutlery and crockery came from beyond the partition, then it opened
again to reveal the dining table laden with a seafood feast on
gold-edged plates. The routine seemed well established, so she
assumed he always ate alone in his apartment. He emerged from the
bathroom.

“Is there
something wrong with the lights?”

“They were
hurting my eyes,” she said.

“Ah. Of
course.” He smiled and sat down to dinner, and she sat opposite.
The meal passed in pleasant discourse, as always, the excellent
food accompanied by a rare wine. Afterwards, they returned to the
lounge, and the partition whined across again so their empty plates
could be cleared away. Rayne ordered the vidfilm to play on the
massive lounge screen and settled on the couch, sipping her wine.
Tarke sat at far the end of the sofa, at least a metre away. He had
hardly looked at her all evening, apart from occasional looks. He
always found something else to hold his attention; his food, his
glass of wine, his hands and even his boots.

The wine bottle
was in front of him, so she drained her glass and slid over to him
to refill it. This brought her within touching distance of him. He
shot her a quick glance and refilled his glass, which emptied the
bottle, so he rose to fetch another one. When he returned, he sat
at the other end of the couch. Rayne gazed at him in frustration,
drained her glass again and slid up to him to refill it from the
bottle in front of him. If she carried on like this, she reflected,
she would end up drunk. This time, however, she had him trapped in
the corner of the settee, with no excuse to move. The vidfilm
started, and she pretended to be engrossed in it.

After several
minutes, a thought struck her, and she turned to him, catching his
eyes resting upon her in the instant before he looked away and
sipped his wine. Her heart skipped a beat, but she berated herself
for reading anything into it. He was probably wondering at her
strange behaviour.

“We need
popcorn,” she said.

He glanced at
her, his brows rising. “Popcorn?”

“Yeah.” She
explained what it was, and its traditional use.

He appeared to
consider, watching the vidfilm. “I could ask the cooks to prepare
something similar.”

“That would be
great.”

Tarke rose and
went to the holograms at the back of the lounge again, and she
cursed herself for giving him another reason to move away. When he
returned, he sat at the other end of the couch, and this time the
wine bottle was in front of her. She wondered what he would do when
his glass became empty, but for the next half an hour its level
hardly dropped. Rayne almost jumped out of her skin when a flash of
golden Net energy dispersed on the table in front of her, leaving
behind a large bowl of what looked like popcorn.

Tarke gestured
to it and said, “Popcorn, I hope.”

Swallowing
hard, she leant forward to take a handful, her heart hammering.
Using the transfer Net to transport something like a bowl of
popcorn was unheard-of, in her experience, considering the amount
of power required to achieve it, and a transfer within the base,
without the benefit of a transfer pad, was something only Tarke
could authorise. It would have required someone to set up a
portable locator beam to map the destination area, then send the
bowl via a spaceship, either one in the hangar or in orbit, since
there were no planet-based transfer generators. It amazed her that
he would go to so much trouble simply to provide her with the snack
she wanted. Had it been anyone else, she might have thought he was
showing off, but that would have been out of character for Tarke.
This was the first time she had asked for a snack that was not
available in the apartment’s kitchen, which, she suspected, would
be stocked with the pseudo-popcorn after tonight. The warm, crunchy
white flakes tasted a lot like salty, buttered popcorn.

Rayne picked up
the bowl and scooted right up to him, holding it on her lap. “Try
some. It does taste like popcorn.”

Tarke took a
handful, shifting away from her, but now she was becoming
frustrated with his elusions, and the wine bolstered her courage.
She settled even closer to him, her thigh pressed to his, on the
pretext of sharing the bowl. He drained his wine glass and rose to
refill it from the bottle at the far end of the table, and she
cursed herself for leaving it there. When he settled at the other
end of the sofa once more, she slid across to him again, offering
him the popcorn.

“Nice, isn’t
it?”

He eyed her, a
faint smile curling his lips. “Not bad. You’re missing the
vidfilm.”

“Oh, I’ve seen
it,” she said without thinking. “It hasn’t got to the good part,
yet.”

“Why would you
want to watch it again? There are millions of vidfilms in the
database.”

“I like this
one. I wanted to see it again.” She tipped a handful of popcorn
into her mouth, several flakes escaping to vanish down her
cleavage. “Oops.”

Rayne put down
her wineglass and fished in the front of her dress, pulling the
material away to reach the little flakes nestled in the edge of her
lace bra. Tarke became utterly engrossed in the vidfilm, and she,
finding that the bowl on her lap hampered her, dumped it on his
lap. He put it on the table, refilling his wineglass, and she
sensed his deep unease as she picked popcorn out of her bra and ate
it. Her efforts jammed a few flakes into her bra, and a couple had
fallen even further. Rising to her feet, she bent and wriggled,
dislodging the remaining flakes, which dropped onto the carpet.
Sinking back beside him with a sigh, and ensuring she was even
closer to him, she picked up the bowl again.

Rayne ate two
more handfuls of popcorn without mishap, but noticed that Tarke
watched her out of the corner of his eye now. Perhaps it was
working. Then again, it could have been the steamy bedroom scene on
the vidscreen that he found stultifying. As she shovelled a third
handful into her mouth, several flakes missed the mark again.
Tarke’s hand flashed out under her chin, which would have made her
jump if she had had time to react. He opened his hand and dropped
the errant flakes of popcorn into the bowl. Evidently he had no
wish to witness her popcorn-extracting antics again. After that she
ate the popcorn one flake at a time. Her plot might still bear
fruit, however, as she had planned it carefully. Towards the end of
the vidfilm were several fairly scary scenes, which had made her
jump the first time she had seen them. She put the bowl on the
table and sat back, checking on Tarke. He was relaxed, and sipped
his wine, his empty hand resting on his thigh.

At the first
blood-curdling scream, Rayne jumped and squeaked, grabbing his
hand. This made Tarke jump, almost slopping his wine. He tensed,
trying to extract his hand from her grip, but she hung on, her eyes
on the dark scene on the vidscreen.

He cleared his
throat. “Perhaps we should brighten the lights, then it won’t be so
scary?”

“No, no, it’s
better like this. Scary is good.”

“You like being
scared?”

“Sure. It’s
fun.”

He glanced down
at her hand. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Aren’t you
scared?” She shifted closer, lacing her fingers with his.

“Not in the
least.”

Rayne returned
her attention to the vidfilm as it approached its climax, which she
knew was good. The heroically romantic finale made her eyes sting
and her throat close. She became aware that Tarke’s fingers had
tightened a little and his thumb caressed her skin, but he seemed
to be engrossed in the film. As the music rose and the final scene
of the clinched lovers faded, she turned to him, leant against his
shoulder and placed her other hand on his chest. He looked down at
her, and she smiled.

“That was good,
hey?”

“It was mildly
entertaining.”

“Right, no
bloody stupid romantic ideas for you, huh?”

Tarke averted
his gaze, rubbed his nose and tried to reach the table to put down
his empty glass, but she shifted even closer, tucking up her legs,
which exposed a great deal of thigh. He balanced the glass on the
arm of the sofa and frowned at it, clearly ill at ease. She slid
her hand up his chest, cursing the fact that his shirt was fastened
to the neck and the skin-hugging vest he wore under it even covered
the lower part of his throat. What was he hiding? Her fingers
encountered the smooth, warm metal slave collar and crept over it.
Normally she would not have gone this far, but the wine gave her
courage, and he still held her hand loosely, although he had
stopped stroking it. She raised a hand to touch his cheek, longing
to caress his face. He avoided it by turning his head to look at
her again.

“Rayne…”

“What?”

“What are you
doing?”

“Nothing.”

He tried to
extricate his hand. “It’s late. You should go to bed.”

“It’s not that
late.” She had him where she wanted him now; he could not escape
without pushing her away.

“I have to get
up early.”

“You don’t have
to do anything; you’re the boss.”

“I have work to
do.”

“It’s a break
day tomorrow, remember? End of the week.”

He shifted. “I
still have to work.”

“You really
don’t.”

“Yeah, I
do.”

Rayne wondered
what he would do if she climbed onto his lap, tempted to try it.
She wriggled closer, pinning him in the corner of the couch. He
frowned at her as she leant on his chest, almost nose to nose with
him. His eyes became distant for an instant.

The sharp,
two-tone alarm made her jump, and for a moment she thought it was
rigged to him.

“Fire in
quadrant twelve,” an artificial voice said from the back of the
room.