stuff, everyone’s going to know you don’t belong. Then good luck trying to get any intel.”
“There’s no time for any side trips to a shopping barge.” Irritation roughened his voice.
“Wait here.” A few adjustments to put the ship on autopilot, then she hopped up from her seat in the cockpit. She spent an uncomfortable, arousing moment edging past him as she threaded through the galley where he stood. She and Frayne kept bumping into each other as she tried to get through the galley. They both breathed in sharply at the brief contact.
She finally dashed out of the galley and down the passage toward her quarters. Once inside, she opened a storage panel, then pulled out a battered trunk. The thing was a little heavy, so she dragged it back down the passage to the galley.
Frayne watched her curiously as she opened it. “There should be some things in here that will fit you.” She rifled around until she produced some shirts and pants. “Maybe these.”
“What the hell are you doing with men’s clothing?”
She shrugged. “Souvenirs and trophies.”
He glowered ferociously. “I’m supposed to wear the cast-offs of your lovers?”
“Not lovers,” she corrected. He looked almost relieved until she added, “I had sex with them, sure, but I kicked them out after a night. That doesn’t count.”
“Sounds like a lover to me.”
“A lover means sleeping with someone more than once. I never do that. Too much commitment.” She peered at him. “I can’t believe this is making you angry.”
“I’m not angry,” he snarled. Yet he seemed almost surprised by his heated reaction.
“So…” She shook a handful of clothes at him. “Find something.”
She didn’t think the words that came out of his mouth would have been approved by the 8th Wing Communication Council. For a few seconds, she almost believed he’d rather go naked than wear some of the clothes worn by her nighttime entertainment. Wouldn’t that make an interesting picture—Commander Frayne striding through her ship wearing nothing but his plasma pistol and boots. Her mouth became uncomfortably dry.
His big hand lashed out and grabbed a few shirts. “I’ll try some of these, but no goddamn way am I going to wear another man’s pants.”
Her brief hope that he wouldn’t bother wearing anything below the waist was dashed when he snatched up his civvy pants. He stalked away to her quarters. She didn’t want him in there, but room wasn’t exactly plentiful on the Arcadia, and unless she wanted him stripping right in front of her, her quarters was the only place he could change.
Not that she’d mind watching him peel off his 8th Wing uniform, the serviceable gray material sliding off his arms, down his hard torso and flat stomach, until he pushed the fabric down his hips, then lower…
Stop it. This whole forced mission was a screw job, and tangling with the commander would make a complicated situation even more difficult. She liked things an uncomplicated as possible—but she was coming to learn that, where the commander was concerned, nothing was simple.
In Mara’s quarters, Kell quickly shucked off his uniform, his movements mechanical though his mind and gut churned.
Why he was so angry? It shouldn’t matter if the clothes belonged to her one-night stands. It shouldn’t matter to him that she even had one-night stands.
But it did. It mattered.
He stared at Mara’s unmade bed. It was definitely wide enough for two. Had she brought them here, those men? Did she get these sheets twisted by writhing around with some brash space privateer? The image of her, sweaty and wild and sleek on the bed, came all too quickly into his mind, but it was him he pictured with her, not a swaggering pirate.
As he stepped into his civilian pants, he felt the strange urge to find those random men and beat them into cosmic powder. For fuck’s sake, get a hold of yourself. He didn’t even feel jealousy about the women he did take to bed, let alone a smuggler he had no intention of bedding. A smuggler with creamy hair and taunting eyes.
This is about the mission, he reminded himself. Nothing else.
Still, after picking the one shirt that wasn’t either transparent or cut down to the navel, Kell took a grim satisfaction in using his regulation blade to shred the rest of the men’s clothing. He threw the remains into a waste compartment.
Brilliant. Why don’t you just piss on them while you’re at it?
He finished dressing, and was glad there wasn’t a mirror in her quarters. He didn’t want