which these polished turds belonged. He wasn’t anticipating the rush of relief he felt when he understood that Mara hadn’t slept with any of them. He could not condemn her for having a sexual history, having one of his own, but knowing she never had sex with anyone in the club made his impulse to kill a little less demanding.
Again, Mara shrugged. “I like things uncomplicated.”
“And I keep her well satisfied.” Kell draped an arm around her shoulders.
Only he heard her stifled laugh. Then, turning imperious, she said, “Kell, get me a drink.”
His teeth ground together. She knew very well he couldn’t refuse or be riled by her haughty tone—not in public, at least. “Yes.” He started to slide from the booth.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes…Mistress.”
A flare of heat in her eyes, then she waved him off. “Make it a good one too. None of that cheap Hanako liquor like last time.”
“Yes, Mistress.” He stood and forcibly shouldered his way past the two smugglers. He felt a mild satisfaction when they stumbled a little, but it wasn’t quite enough as he stalked toward the bar.
As he approached the bar, people scattered out of his path. He scowled at anyone who had the misfortune of meeting his gaze. Mutterings and murmurings congealed around him as word already spread that not only did he take out that thug Jorgo, but he was Mara Skiren’s pleasure slave—the lucky bastard.
He reached the bar and ordered two Deianeiran whiskeys. While the bartender hurried to fill his order, he glanced back at the booth. The smugglers Leyon and Bern had made themselves pretty damned comfortable, sandwiching Mara between their large bodies, and the three of them laughed at some story. She was so beautiful in her laughter, everyone in the club turned to look at her, as if drawn by the gravity of a pearlescent moon.
He was no different. His gaze stayed firmly on her the entire time the drinks were being prepared. He hadn’t felt this tightly wound, his control at the breaking point, for a long, long time. The mission was always in his mind, but he knew the real source of his tension, and she was sitting between two overly-friendly smugglers, gleaming brightly.
The price of the whiskeys amounted to nothing less than extortion, but he paid it and walked the drinks back to the booth. When he returned, he sent Leyon a look so cutting, the smuggler leapt up and made room for him next to Mara.
“Your Deianeiran whiskey, Mistress.” He set it down in front of her before sliding in close enough so their legs pressed against each other. Just for good measure, he put a proprietary hand on her bare thigh, well in view of the smugglers. Partly it was for show, but mostly it was for himself, and he felt no shame—only pleasure—in stroking her silky, warm flesh.
She started to speak, but her voice came out a husky rasp, so she took a sip of her drink. “Let’s cut past the gossip, boys. I’m here for profit, not friendship.”
“There’s a shipment of stolen plasma rifles that needs a pilot for transport,” Bern offered.
Kell could only wonder from whom the rifles had been stolen.
Mara, however, looked unimpressed. “What else?”
“Three tons of sherica looking for a buyer,” said Leyron.
That amount of sherica could power a fleet of PRAXIS patrol cutters—and Kell couldn’t do anything to keep it out of their hands if someone wanted to provide it to them.
“That’s all small shit.” Mara sighed. “I’m looking for genuine profit. Really top-of-the-line tech to move.” She glanced over at Kell, her expression sultry. “Had my eye on a lunar villa for a while. Someplace nice and private.”
He slid his hand further up her thigh until it brushed the hem of her very short skirt. She trembled slightly beneath his fingers. He rationalized that a pleasure slave wouldn’t be very interested in black market tech, but would certainly care about keeping his mistress physically gratified.
If Mara’s accelerated breathing was any indicator, she was indeed physically gratified.
“You want a big score then you can’t do better than what Gavra’s offering,” said Leyron.
“Make it interesting,” Mara drawled.
“Listen to this.” Bern started to edge closer to Mara, but a warning glance from Kell kept the smuggler from getting too close. “Gavra got hold of a genuine 8th Wing Wraith ship. And the pilot.”
Mara winced slightly, and Kell belatedly realized he’d gripped her thigh too tight. After he loosened his hold, he gave her an apologetic caress, all the while forcing