I came up with a defensive scenario before he got too close. A ducking spin as he came at me, his own weight hopefully throwing him off-balance as I slid out of the way. A quick, hard kick to the back of a knee to get him lower than me. A sleeper hold from behind with my arm in a tight V around his neck, cutting off the blood flow through his arteries. With any luck, I could knock him out without ever touching his windpipe.
Unfortunately, looking at him, I estimated my chances of success with any of that at about eight percent, which made me glad there was no reason to think he was unfriendly.
He watched me, too, his brown eyes like lasers. I’d rarely been subjected to such a steady stare, especially from a gaze that held definite hints of interest and appreciation. My body started to heat from more than just the sunlight filtering down from the high windows. The light hit him at an angle, turning his eyes a tawny amber, like those of a jungle predator.
No. A jungle animal would scare me, and this man didn’t, despite his obvious physical advantage. His eyes were more the color of dark honey, appealing, all warm and tempting in the sun.
My taste buds seemed to burst to life with the memory of sweetness on my tongue. Starway 8 was one of the few places left in the galaxy with an actual apiary, and the liquid gold the director sold to the wealthy elite in Sector 12 was the main source of revenue for the orphanage. This man’s eyes looked just like honey number seven—my favorite. Almost the darkest. The darker honeys had more flavor.
He stopped a few feet from me, and those honey-brown eyes dipped, taking me in from my head to my toes. My clothing was skintight, and I felt a blush flare under his slow inspection.
Finally, he looked up. “Just checking for weapons.”
I snorted. “Really? Weapons? I haven’t heard that one before.”
He winked at me like the scoundrel I highly suspected he was. “We’re inventive out here in 2. Where’re you from?”
“What makes you think I’m not from here?”
“You’re a 12-er. I can hear it in your posh voice.”
Time seemed to slow down as my mind processed his words one by one, even though it only took a second. I hardly spoke to anyone besides my crew, and they didn’t care what I sounded like. Blurring my trail outside of theEndeavormeant it was time to work on a new accent, though. It was too bad. The precise, cut-glass diction was one of the only things I liked about Sector 12.
I crossed my arms, one hip jutting out as I shifted my balance. “If you already knew, then why did you ask?”
He shook his head as though dismayed, his close-cropped brown hair glinting in the slanting, mote-filled rays. His hair spiked a little haphazardly in front where some cowlicks seemed to have minds of their own. My fingers twitched with the sudden urge to reach out and smooth them down.
Strange. I usually resisted all forms of uniformity in conscious protest of the oppressive galactic order. And wanting to touch a total stranger was weird in itself.
“Why. Did. You. Ask.” He enunciated each word pointedly, although even that didn’t mask the slight drawl in his voice or the humor underlying it. “Hear that? You’ve got to slide it all together, fancy pants. Like this: why’d’ya’ask?”
Fancy pants?I arched one brow—high—and then dutifully parroted, “Why’d’ya’ask?”
“Good.” He gave a quick nod of approval. “Now lose the imperious look, and you might fit in around the docks.”
I gaped—inwardly, at least. On the outside, I just stood there.What the hell?How had he pegged me so fast, and so freaking well?
“I haven’t been to Sector 12 in a long time. I’m from 8, if you really want to know.”
“Reallywannaknow,” he corrected.
I didn’t parrot this time. He was exaggerating. Except for a few prolonged vowels and slightly sloppy articulation, his speech sounded perfectly neutral to me.
He pursed his lips, looking deep in thought. “You can’t be full 8. I know what the rats out there sound like.”
So he’d been around the galaxy. So had I.
I took a deep breath and uncrossed my arms. “You Ganavan?” I asked.
“Might be. Who’s asking?”
I had the strongest impulse to say Quintessa Novalight and blow his fucking world to bits because he was ticking me off, but I wasn’t stupid enough for that. “Tess Bailey,” I answered, resurrecting her from the dead.
“And what are you looking for in my shop, Tess Bailey?”
His gaze dipped as he said my name, as though he were stamping the letters onto my body, or somehow imprinting them right into both of us. I got the feeling this guy never forgot a thing, and I suddenly wished I’d made up something else. Why didn’t I ever just blurt out Jane Smith?
“Do you have more of a name than just Ganavan?” I asked, ignoring the heat tingling up my spine. Part of it was habitual nervousness, but there was also something else. Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
