The Pleasure Bot (Planet Desire Book 4) (6 page)

“Valet?” He’d known this subdivision harbored well-heeled residents, but he hadn’t judged her smallish house quite so wealthy.

She gave an imperious wave of her hand. “It’s a drone really. Hardly any intelligence at all. Not like my Agnes.” She walked to the cupboard and pulled two large towels from inside. One she placed on the countertop, the other she held in front of her to daub at her moist skin.

He didn’t care for the tone in which she described her help. Even the lowliest scivvy aboard his ship was treated with more respect. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I bloody well want me clothes back.”

Her chin jutted. “So do I. You need something to wear when you leave.”

“Are we back to that again, then?” Secretly, he was glad her temper had returned in spades. The trace of earlier dejection had left him feeling uneasy—and mean.

“Damn straight! I’m demanding a trade-in.”

“After you made me lose my beard? That’s heartless.” He stepped toward her. “Perhaps you need a little reminder of where we left off.”

She sidled away, clutching her towel to her chest. “That’s precisely why you won’t do. You’re too bossy.”

He didn’t even try to suppress his grin.

“Aaa—gnes!”

“Yes, boss?” Agnes said, gasping.

“Where have you been?” Priscilla cast an exasperated glance at the ceiling. “You sound out of breath.”

“Tonio was showing me his new disk pack.”

“Likely story,” she muttered. “Get Playthings back on the line. I want a trade.” She used the edge of her towel to dry the parts of her body she could reach while she carefully turned to keep his gaze off her bare flesh.

“No can do, boss.”

She straightened. “What did you just say?”

“I’m just following your order, dated March 10
^th
, 10:30 a.m.: ‘Under no circumstances—even if I beg you—unless it’s life or death—am I to permit communications with the outside’.”

“That was
incoming
calls.”

“Oh. Well, I still can’t.” Agnes made a sound as though she were clearing her throat.

Declan figured she was about to choke on another lie.

“You’re a hostage.”

“A hostage?” Priscilla blinked.

Declan stiffened. Agnes was a wily old bat who might just land him in the penitentiary for a century.

“Uh…part of his role is to keep you captive in this house all weekend long. No outside communications.”

“
He’s
going to keep me hostage?” Priscilla snorted. “Like he could stop me from leaving, if I really—” Her mouth clamped shut and her face flamed.

Declan felt like crowing. “If you really wanted to? Isn’t that what you were going to say?” He knew his grin was triumphant—gloating even. He should really feel ashamed of himself for how much enjoyment her uneasy attraction gave him. But there it was—this high-flying, blue-suited exec, whose throwaway income could keep his ship afloat for a year—wanted
him
—a scalawag, a smuggler.

A sly expression crossed Priscilla’s face, and she tilted back her head, “Agnes, what if I change my mind about taking him out this weekend?”

“It’s too late to change the scenario now. He’ll have to stop you, not violently of course, but he will keep you indoors.
By any means necessary
.”

Declan got the heavy-handed hint.

Priscilla’s expression grew alert, and her eyes narrowed with curiosity.

Declan would bet credit the minx was intrigued by the
by any means necessary
. He flexed the muscles of his chest to remind her of his might.

Her gaze followed the ripples. “Your caveman tactics won’t deter me if I decide to make a run for it.”

“Precious Priss” wanted to play a nasty little game. This could be fun. “Try me, sweetheart,” he said, pitching his voice low.

She canted her face and studied his expression. The way her teeth worried the edge of her lip told him she was tempted.

He kept his lurid thoughts hidden and stared back, hoping he wore a bland expression.

But her gaze slipped away, and she toyed with the edge of her towel. “Maybe later,” she said, her voice small. “Um, I should find us something to wear.”

He felt a moment’s disappointment that she might never have the nerve to challenge him to a rougher game. “What for?”

She already thought he was a barbarian. Maybe all she needed was another nudge toward anger to make her go for it. He braced his legs apart to pull her attention back to the part of him that bothered her most.

Her gaze flitted over his sex. “Well, we can’t just walk around naked all evening.”

“Why not?” He took a step toward her.

She backed up to the door. “I’m hungry. I haven’t had dinner yet. I’ll place an order with the cook.”

“You have a cook, too?” That set him back. He was really losing his touch; he’d somehow managed to miss three retainers when he’d cased the house. “Is he hiding out with Agnes?”

Her lips curved into a smile. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” he asked, hating the feeling that he’d missed an important clue somewhere along the line.

“My
help
are automated.”

“As in wired into the latest household technology?” he asked, suspicions raising his hackles.

“No. As in, they’re computers,” she said with a grin.

“Computers?” Relief that he hadn’t badly botched his search was quickly followed by anger. “Bloody hell!
Aaa—gnes
?”

She grinned. “Now you’re starting to sound like me.”

“Bloody, goddamned hell! You mean to tell me that witch of a personal assistant is a goddamn computer?”

“I’m an AI computer, buddy,” Agnes interrupted, her voice filled with laughter. “State of the art. More real brain cells than you have in your Cro-Magnon cranium.”

Declan felt his face heat. “And the cowboy?” he shouted to the ceiling.

“What cowboy?” Priscilla asked.

“The one who greeted me when I arrived,” he growled.
The one who threatened to drop me where I stood then inspected me ballocks!
“You conniving little—”

“I have a facility for accents and voices,” Agnes replied in a smug tone.

“So that wasn’t Tonio?” he replied through clenched teeth.

“Nope. Just little ole me,
pardner
.”

Declan bit back a curse. The mother of all motherboards had bested him.

‡

“W
hat was with
the cowboy routine, anyway?” Declan asked, feeling anger rise with bile at the back of his throat.

“Agnes is fascinated with old movies,” Priscilla said.

“What the hell are movies?”

“Plays that were recorded in two dimensional formats. She has a thing for John Wayne.”

Declan shook his head. It was too much to take in. He’d been arguing with a computer like it was a person—as if it had the true intelligence and emotions to really matter.

Agnes was simply acting on her programming—however, questionable that program was. “She’s nothing more than a bloody computer!” Declan roared.

“I’m not just any computer, boyo,” Agnes said, her words clipped and angry. “I’ll have you know, I’m an AlphaMax II. I can run a city with a tenth of my capacity.”

“If you’re so high-tech, what the hell are you doing running a house for a spoiled princess?”

Declan knew he’d gone too far when a small bony fist plowed into his belly. He caught the next blow, wrapping his hand around Priscilla’s balled fist. Stepping between her legs, he pressed her back against the bathroom door. Her glower was so hot she could have welded steel.

He hadn’t meant to say that last bit aloud, and he wasn’t usually so quick to speak in anger. But this had been a confusing, aggravating sort of day. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Priscilla’s frown reminded him “Princess Priss” hadn’t been an innocent victim. Her assistant had dished out that plate of venom for her boss’s benefit.

He stared down at Priscilla, wondering how long he could keep her pinned to the door. The damp towel separating their skin wasn’t enough to hide the evidence of his awakening desire for long.

Her eyes widened, and her legs trembled along his thighs. “She was a gift to me from my parents. They wanted me looked after.” Her face was pale and pinched. She lifted her chin, her lips pressed into a straight line.

“And she’s succeeded beyond their dreams, hasn’t she?” Declan wished he’d bitten his tongue. He didn’t know why one vulnerable yet defiant look from her spurred a need to deal an emotional blow.

Her gaze held a world of hurt. “Why did Playthings send me a bastard, Agnes?”

Declan felt lower than snail spit. He sighed and stood back. The time was now to come clean with the lass. “
You
gave her me, didn’t you, Agnes? I was your choice. Tell her.”

“What?” Priscilla’s hand clutched the top of her towel in a white-knuckle grip. “You weren’t generated by some personality-matching program?”

Declan shook his head. The woman had the oddest way of putting things.

“To my shame,” Agnes said, her voice sounding tired, “it’s true.”

Declan waited, sure the doors would burst open any moment now with Customs agents ready to haul him away. He’d broken the agreement. He felt lighter—he hadn’t realized the game had started to weigh on his conscience.

“Agnes, he’s not a result of my profile?” Priscilla’s tone sharpened.

“No boss. I thought you needed a little shaking up.”

“Thank God!” Priss gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I thought I had some deep-seated psychosis that Playthings was trying to entertain.” She glared at Declan. “I knew you couldn’t be meant for me.”

Declan waited for Agnes to tell the rest of the story, but Priscilla had only gotten her first wind.

“Looks like you screwed up, Agnes,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t recall you ever making a mistake. You’ve annoyed the hell out of me at times, but you’ve never erred.”

“Boss, I was just so doggone desperate.”

Doggone desperate?
Declan rolled his eyes. He wondered which movie she’d purloined those words from. Agnes was still playing the game—she’d just changed the script.

“I haven’t had an adventure in five years. I thought if I could get you out of your routine, you might decide to step outside this house and take me along.”

Priscilla’s jaw dropped. “Are you telling me you needed a vacation?”

“I’m not just wire and plastic, you know. I’m living cells, too,” she replied.

Drama queen that she was, he could almost see her lifting the back of her hand to her forehead.

“I need a change in scenery every once in a while to keep my sensors stimulated.”

“What’s the matter?” Declan asked, a sneer in his voice. “Is Priss here not enough of a challenge?”

“Priss, hon,” Agnes said, “you’re a good egg, but face it—your life’s boring. Apart from the occasional appliance malfunction, I’m sitting on my thumbs for entertainment.”

“I never realized,” Priscilla said, dismay in her voice. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Declan watched Priss’s expressions, fascinated. Agnes had turned the blame for this farce on Priscilla. And her boss was eating it up.

“It’s not my place,” Agnes said, her tone long-suffering.

Priss’s chin lowered, and her shoulders dropped.

He’d had enough of Agnes’s machinations. “You stretched the limitations of your employment a bit feeding me to her, didn’t you, Agnes?”

“It was a calculated risk.”

“But your ones and zeroes aren’t adding up now, are they?”

“The program hasn’t compiled yet.” Agnes sniffed. “I’m waiting to see the result of the run before I cry uncle.”

Computer or not—she was a worthy opponent. He narrowed his eyes. “A little touchy for a computer, aren’t you?”

“A little dense for a
Plaything
, aren’t you?”

“Bite me!” He smirked when she failed to respond. “Ha!”

“I managed to fool you, didn’t I?”

“Witch!”

“Well, this is interesting,” Priscilla murmured.

He caught himself before he uttered another moronic word. Agnes and her demented circuitry had managed to bluff
him
—Declan O’Hanlon! He was just glad none of his crew was around to witness his humiliation. It was bad enough Priss’s mouth was twisted in a grin.

Declan reached for the top of Priscilla’s towel and whipped it from her body. Ignoring her gasp, he rubbed the towel over his chest and down his stomach to his groin.

Her gaze followed, and then her lips tightened. She turned to grab the other towel from the countertop, giving him a delicious view of her naked ass, and then wrapped it around her body.

He turned his back and quickly blotted his hair with the towel. “The sooner I’m out of this loony bin, the better,” he muttered, dropping the towel to the floor.

“What do you say, boss? You want to send him back?” Agnes asked.

“You’re not sending me anywhere,” Declan growled. “I’m going.”

“Not so fast, smuggler. Remember your crew and ship?”

Declan raised his head. Was Agnes coming clean? He glanced at Priscilla.

She shrugged, her expression indifferent. “If he wants to go, let him.”

Declan pretended her indifference didn’t bother him a bit. And it didn’t! He leaned toward the mirror and examined his newly beardless face. He was a very handsome fellow. Plenty of women would be happy to have a man like him at their disposal for a weekend.