The Cold Between (3 page)

After a few seconds the bar's interior was lit with a bank of portable lamps mounted high on the walls; the room was nearly as bright as before, but the light was cooler, and everything was faded to monochrome. Her companion was painted with light and shadow, lending drama to the strong angles of his face. He looked pale in the blue-white glow, and strangely unreal; she found she wanted to reach out just to see if he was really there.

And then she was startled by a man lurching between the two of them, his hands slapping into the bar as he kept himself from stumbling to the ground. He had bright blue eyes and hair as jet-black as her companion's, but his eyes were rheumy and unfocused, and he wore a deep scowl. She did not recognize him—he was not part of the entourage that had coalesced around Jessica—but he must have been in the pub for a long time. He was very, very drunk.

He straightened himself up against the edge of the bar, and turned to look at her. “You do realize what you're talking to,” he slurred, his voice overloud.

This one she was less inclined to be nice to. Beyond his attitude, his timing was abysmal. “You do realize
who
I'm talking to is none of your business,” she snapped.

It was a tone that had effectively driven away many men over the years. This one was too drunk to listen. “You
military
types,” he spat bitterly. “You come here and you flood our city and you talk to us because we're
quaint.
I'll bet you think pirates are
quaint.
But he's nothing but a thief and a murderer.”

Her companion cleared his throat. “I believe what she means is that this conversation does not concern you.” His words were polite, but there was ice in his tone. “Perhaps you'd like to return to your table.”

“Fuck off,” the man shot over his shoulder; and then he took a step closer to Elena, millimeters from touching her. “You like bad boys, little girl? I can be as bad as you want.”

And at that, her temper flared. “What I like,” she said deliberately, holding her ground, “are people with the brains to
get lost
when they're not wanted.”

At her words his face grew ugly, his brows drawing together, his lips pressing into a thin line. “If you think I'm going to let you walk out of here with this”—he spat out a word in the local dialect that she didn't understand—“you must be a bigger whore than he is.”

None of which made any sense, she realized, but then he clamped a hand over her arm, and she got a sense of his strength, even inebriated. He moved toward her, and she felt the heat of his body and smelled the liquor on his breath, and she had just enough time to think
Oh, hell, I'm going to have to hit him,
before she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and his hand was wrenched off of her, and then he was on the floor.

Her companion stood over him, arms and legs relaxed, his hands tightened into fists. “This woman,” he said clearly, as the drunk stared up at him, “has made her wishes very clear.” His eyes, so light and amused when talking with her, were full of a dangerous calm. “If you ignore them again, I swear to you, you will not see the sun rise.”

She took in the two men, saw the drunk shift against the wood floor, and then drop his eyes. He rolled, with more dignity than she would have thought possible, and climbed to his feet; then he brushed past, not looking at either of them, heading toward the exit with some haste. Her companion's eyes followed him, deadly and dangerous, until he had disappeared.

The room, which had gone quiet when the drunk had fallen, began to buzz with conversation again, the confrontation already old news. Elena felt heat rising to her face.
Holy shit.

The man watched the door for a moment. “You are unhurt?” he asked.

She made a small affirmative sound, and he turned, meeting her eyes. The danger in his expression had been replaced by ordinary annoyance—and a shadow of regret. “You believe I have overstepped.”

He was standing closer to her than he had been. He smelled of spices—cardamom, she thought, and maybe rosemary—and something sweet she could not identify. “Um,” she managed, then took a breath. “No, actually. I would have had to break his arm. Your way, at least he goes home in one piece.”

“Hm.” He turned back to the door, still frowning. “Now you are making me wish I had let you deal with him.”

Minutes ago she would have laughed at this, and resumed their light flirting. Now she could do nothing but stare at him, distracted by the way he shifted as he stood, by wondering what his hair felt like or whether he needed to shave. After a moment he looked back at her, his expression still dark. It should have made her shrink away, but she found she could no longer move.

He seemed to realize then how he looked, because he shook himself, and the last of the irritation fell away. He studied her face, absorbed. “But there is still something wrong,” he observed, and she nodded.

“It's just—” This was all so odd, and yet it felt so familiar, as if she had been here before, would be here again. “I came here,” she explained, “thinking I knew what I wanted. I'm not sure I know anymore.”

He kept studying her, and she felt herself blush more deeply; but she wanted to look back at him, wanted him to see what she was thinking. Something flickered momentarily over his face, fierce and hungry, and it was all she could do not to reach out to him, to fall toward him, just to see what he would do.

“Perhaps we should discuss it somewhere else,” he suggested.

She could have left then. She could have told him, honestly, that she was not brave enough. That was true, for a part of her. But that part of her was being shouted down, and she did not want to listen to it anymore.

She nodded.

He turned to the bartender and paid his tab, efficiently but not hurriedly. Then he met her eyes again and waited.

Elena pushed away from the bar and headed for the door. The man in black followed her out.

I
t was foolishness, of course. Trey was clear on that. Even as he followed her out of the bar, distracted by the easy sway of her hips, he knew he should walk her back to the spaceport and send her home.

He also knew he wouldn't.

He had watched her since she arrived at the pub, trailing behind her boisterous friend like a silent and elegant shadow, uncomfortable and out of place and simply breathtakingly lovely. It was her beauty he had dwelled on, at first: her tall, slim figure, elegant and regal in her telltale gray and black uniform; the curve of her jaw; the dark hair tumbling in curls into her wide, expressive brown eyes. It took him longer to recognize the depth of her discomfort, and longer still to detect the intensity of her desire to escape. She was laughing and joking with the others, but she was not drinking liquor, and he realized she was deflecting more than making conversation. When she had come up to the bar he had admired her walk, but he had noticed how careful she was not to touch anyone as she worked her way through the crowd.

He had not planned on talking to her—during his years with PSI he had learned not to socialize with Central Corps soldiers—but watching her, he had become curious. Listening to her gentle dismissal of the flirtatious young man, intrigued. And upon speaking to her . . . She was so refreshingly direct, and, much to his astonishment,
interested.
He tended to dismiss romantic attention as a by-product of his past, but she had said nothing of his former profession, and had not even reacted when that jackass Luvidovich had brought it up.

Damn
the man. Trey would have to kill him someday, he was certain. He could not bring himself to view that eventuality with much regret.

The evening was cool, and felt cooler lit only by the faint glow of the bricks edging the sidewalk. “Are you cold?” he asked, looking down at her. In the dim light she looked exotic and alien, a strange creature from another world.

She shook her head and smiled, glancing at him with that odd mix of shyness and desire he had noticed in the pub. “I grew up outside of Juneau,” she explained. He must have looked confused, because she laughed. “It's in Alaska. On Earth. Very far north. This would be a warm summer night.”

“I have never been to Earth,” he told her. “Is it all so cold?”

“No. In fact, most of it isn't. A lot of it's hot, even uninhabitable. But I lived in a nice place.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Never.”

He stopped, and turned to her, and watched the wind tug at her hair. “May I kiss you?” he asked.

Even in the dark he could see her blushing, the color warming her cheeks and her jaw and her throat, and he wondered how much of her that blush was covering. Her eyes were still shy, but she nodded anyway.

He took a step toward her. A lock of hair blew across her cheek; before she could brush it aside he caught it, rubbing the silky curl between his fingers, then tucking it carefully behind her ear. He looked into her eyes, letting his fingers trail across her jaw. Her skin was cool and smooth, and he traced the line of her cheekbone, then reached up to smooth her hair from her forehead. She moved toward him, first a small step, then leaning into his touch, almost imperceptibly. Her lips parted slightly, and he heard her breath quicken.

He lifted his other hand, placing his palms on either side of her face, tangling his fingers in her soft, dark hair. Her eyes drifted closed, and he studied her long lashes, shadowing her moonlit skin. He took a breath, inhaling the scent of her: clean, feminine skin, something floral in her hair. His own eyes closed as he brushed her lips with his own.

Her mouth was warm and soft, and she made a small sound, kissing him back. Their exploration was gentle at first; but when she pulled his lower lip between her own, tasting him with a feather-light touch, the electricity within him flared bright and sharp. His hands tightened in her hair and he kissed her harder, parting her lips with his, tangling his tongue with hers. She leaned into him, pulling his tongue deeper into her mouth, passionate and hungry. He felt her hands running over his shoulders, felt her palms on the nape of his neck, running up over his hair, pulling his head closer. Unable to resist any longer, he reached around her waist and pulled her against him, and he felt
the warmth of her all along his body. She pressed herself closer, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he knew she could feel how much he wanted her.

What seemed remarkable was how much she wanted him in return.

It was so easy, kissing her here on the street, with the moonlight and the luminous sidewalk and the cool breeze, lost in the heat of her. It would be easy, as well, to pull her into the shadows, to shove their clothes aside and take her, fast and hard, in the alley just meters away. As she kissed him and touched him and pulled at him, he even thought she would be willing.

But he knew it would not be enough.

He pulled away from her, keeping his arms around her, and they swayed together, disoriented. He opened his eyes to look at her, and found all of the shyness gone.

“My flat is a block away,” he told her, surprised at the unsteadiness of his voice. “Will you come home with me?”

“Yes,” she said, breathless, and she let her fingers wander over his eyebrows and across his temples. He closed his eyes, savoring her touch, and after a moment he reached up to take her hands in his.

“If you do not stop that,” he told her, smiling, “we will not make it that far.”

She laughed, delighted. She was so open, and so lovely, and he wanted his hands on her more than he had wanted anything in a long time. He kept her right hand in his left and turned, and they walked down the sidewalk together. They did not speak again, but somehow he felt lighter and more comfortable than he had with anyone in the six months since he had returned to Volhynia.

When they reached his building he led her up the front stairs. She looked around, curious, eyes darting from the steps to the window to the fingerprint lock on the door.

“Old technology,” he said, following her eyes.

“Still harder to hack than a voice lock,” she remarked, “and a lot cheaper.”

She was right, but it was not a fact he would have expected her to have at her fingertips. He realized, then, that he did not know what she did on this ship of hers.

He did not even know her name.

He opened the door, finding the entryway lit by the moon shining through the skylight. The stairs did not bother her at all; she was not even winded when they reached the top. Instead she was looking up through the window in the ceiling. The moon lit her face in the dark, and she smiled. “It's so beautiful,” she said softly. “I never miss the sun. But moonlight . . .”

“This does not surprise me,” he said to her. “It suits you, the moonlight.”

He stood aside for her and she moved into the flat, leaning against the wall by the alcove. The light of the moon turned the room blue-gray, casting cool shadows against the planes of her face. The door closed behind him and he stood opposite her, the kitchen at his back. He felt strangely formal, like he was missing part of a ritual. Like it would have been so much easier if they had stayed outside.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No,” she said, and it crossed his mind that now she, having made up her mind, was more at ease than he was. “But you could come here. If you like.”

She held out her hands, and he took them. “What is that scent in your hair?” he asked, longing to bury his hands in it again.

“Lilac,” she told him. She let his hands go and laid her fingers at his waist, and he felt suddenly how thin his shirt was, how much he wanted to feel her fingers against his skin. “It's Jessica's,” she admitted, and looked briefly embarrassed.

“It is lovely,” he told her. He pressed his lips to her forehead, then nuzzled her hair, inhaling the scent. “But what you are doing to me has nothing to do with flowers.” He moved his lips down her cheek, along her jaw, to the pulse on her neck. He heard her inhale sharply, and her head fell back, baring her throat to him. He kissed her smooth skin, then nipped at her; she moaned, just a little, at the touch of his teeth, and that was enough.

He moved to kiss her lips, but this time there was no preamble of gentleness, no feeling each other out. The kiss was fierce, devouring, and he leaned against her, pushing her hard against the wall. Her arms reached around him, and her hands went to his head; she pulled the leather tie from his braid and let his heavy hair fall around her fingers. One of her hands trailed down, and he felt her pulling the tail of his shirt from his trousers. When her fingers touched the skin of his back, all reason disappeared. He unzipped her shirt, and she managed to let go of him long enough to shrug it off and toss it to the ground; he dispensed quickly with her undershirt, and then he had her breasts in his hands, and he kissed her over and over, pressing his hips against her, so hard his clothes were hopelessly uncomfortable.

She moaned as he touched her, his thumbs brushing over her stiff nipples as she arched against him. On impulse he released
her mouth long enough to drop his head and pull one nipple between his lips, tugging on it with his teeth. She held on to his head and pressed her breast to his mouth, and whispered
harder,
and he sucked as hard as he dared, biting down enough he would have thought it was painful. But she did not object. She said
God, yes
and
please
and
anything you want
and he could not wait any longer.

Somehow they rid themselves of the rest of their clothes, and he took a breath, feeling the heat of her skin against his, painfully aware of his raging erection brushing against the cleft in her skin. She was wet and slick, and, he noticed, just the right height.

“Here?” he asked her, and she beamed at him, a gorgeous, bright-eyed smile.

“Oh, yes,” she said.

He slid one hand over her ass and down one toned thigh, and pulled her knee up alongside his hip. She wrapped her leg around him, pulling him closer; and with little maneuvering, he pushed himself inside of her.

She cried out, an unmistakable sound of pleasure, and he felt her muscles tighten around him. He found himself groaning as well. She was tight and warm and so lovely, so soft, and he drove into her again and again, grateful for the wall holding her up, riding the wave of pleasure higher and higher, and every moment he thought it was going to break, she pulled him in deeper, devoured his mouth, ran her hands over his back, into his hair . . .
Good God, I would drown in her if I could,
and that was his last coherent thought. When she finally gasped and called out, over and over, her body convulsing, clutching at him, inside and out, surrendered completely to pleasure, he went over
the edge with her, pounding again and again, oblivious to everything else, letting the waves wash over him as she moved with him, hanging on for dear life, until all was spent into stillness.

They stood, unmoving, wrapped around each other, for several minutes. Trey was not entirely sure he could do anything else. As he came back to himself he found her stroking his hair and nuzzling the inside of his neck. He glanced down at her and she smiled, her eyes light and contented.

“I may fall down,” she confessed.

He laughed. “Let us see what we can do about that.” He pushed away from her a little, testing his legs; they seemed to be willing, for the moment, to hold him up. He reached for her again, and she put her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her; she wrapped her legs around him, linking her ankles behind his knees. It seemed as practical a way as any to travel.

He carried her past the bathroom door into the bedroom, enjoying the weight of her in his arms, her limbs so unself-consciously embracing him. Gently he deposited her on the blanket-covered bed, and managed to lie down next to her without letting her go.

He closed his eyes, pleasure still warming his blood. It was not as if his recent life had been without women, he reflected. It had just been so long since he had been with one who had given herself over so completely. Since Valeria, perhaps. More than a year.

He had no inclination to linger on the past.

He pulled her closer, and she draped a long leg over him, tucking her head under his chin. “If I had known you were coming,” he told her, one hand skimming her waist to come to rest on her hip, “I would have ordered a skylight in here as well.”

She laughed, and he felt the vibration of it against his chest. “You should have one anyway,” she said. “It's easier to sleep if you can see the stars.”

“I will tell you,” he admitted, wondering at his newfound gregariousness, “I have never had trouble sleeping. Out there, I was well-known for it. I could sleep on my feet if there was a need. But I did know a few, like you, who needed windows.”

She shifted against him, and he was surprised to feel a twinge of desire returning. “I used to fall asleep in the engine room,” she told him. “There's this catwalk there, with these big floor-to-ceiling windows. They take them out for maintenance sometimes, when she's docked, but the rest of the time, it's the best view on the ship. A few months in, the captain heard about me sleeping there, and he found this little unused storeroom with one windowed wall and had it converted for my quarters.”

“He is thoughtful, then? Your captain.”

She was quiet a moment. “In some ways,” she said. He was not surprised she found it a complicated question. Command required separation, and often callousness, and even those who understood were not always comfortable with being on the receiving end. “Mostly . . . he is observant, and he is good at knowing what keeps us efficient.” She looked up at him. “I used to think, sometimes . . . There are these moments, in life, when you just stop and realize that everything is just as it should be. Everything. I had that, a little. For a while. But even now—I try to remember that life doesn't have to be perfect to be valuable.”