The Star Princess (15 page)

"Really." She appeared to ponder that. "And yet Ian forgot to tell me you were coming. He who never forgets anything." Her narrowed eyes broadcast her suspicion. "Did he forget on purpose, so you'd show up no-notice? At night? After it was too late to find you a place to stay? Doesn't that strike you as strange?"

Ché wasn't sure whether her displeasure was aimed at him, her twin, or both of them. But then, much about Ilana remained a mystery. Perhaps he should contact the crown prince and see if she came with a handbook. "Considering the short time in which he had to help me organize my journey, no. It does not. But if it were true, if Ian did want to surprise you, what would be the purpose?"

Ilana looked even more suspicious. "To set us up. To get us together."

"Together… ?"

"Yeah, you know— a couple. An item. One plus one. Damn it, Che— you're single and eligible, by Vash standards, and so am I. What if he wants us to get married? Not only Ian— both our families might be in on this!"

"Absurd! My family and my advisors are arranging a marriage as we speak. By the heavens, even the Great Council is in on the plan. The crown prince wouldn't involve himself in such a scheme." Would he?

Of course Ché had confided in Ian as a friend. Else, the man wouldn't have known of Che's predicament.

Suspicion seeped in where it hadn't been before.

Ilana, on the other hand, appeared inordinately relieved, as if she'd transferred her doubts to him. "You're right," she said. "It doesn't make sense. Ian wouldn't interfere like that."

Was she trying to reassure herself— or him? "This journey was my idea and mine only from the very first. As I told you last night, I wanted to escape involvement in my wedding plans. I thought it was best I do it here." He left out the fact that he'd wanted to see her again, to see why she'd remained in his thoughts all these months when he'd certainly had enough beautiful women to divert him.

"And here we are," Ilana said disgustedly,"talking about weddings and"— she shuddered— "c-commitment. The C-word."

Unlocking her front door, she let them in. "Thanks, by the way. Your help out there… I really appreciated it."

"Your gratitude magnifies our cultural differences. You do not need to thank me for what I was raised to do."

Her expression changed, almost imperceptibly, but Ché could detect such subtle cues: She acted as if he'd disappointed her in some way. "Oh, that's right. Playing protector is ingrained in you. You worship and protect women. It's part of your culture."

He folded his arms over his chest and studied her. "Did you expect that I would have run in the opposite direction if not for my upbringing?"

"Maybe."

"Who caused you to be so cynical? Who disappointed you so?" Ian was an Earth-dweller, but Ché knew he wouldn't run, especially if it meant leaving a woman undefended.

A wall fell down over Ilana's eyes. "I'm used to fending for myself, that's all. It's nice for once to have someone do the dirty work for me." Her voice softened fractionally. "Really nice. Even if it was just a knee-jerk reaction because of the way you were raised."

"What I did, I did for you. Regardless of my background."

"Well, double thanks, then." Tugging her hair from its band, she shook her tresses free. She breezed past him on the way into the kitchen. There, she filled two glasses with ice and water, offering him one. "I guess I don't make a very good damsel-in-distress."

Her vernacular baffled him. "What is this damsel… ?" He circled one hand.

"Damsel in distress. A woman in need of rescue. A knight in shining armor is… someone like you. The guy who does the rescuing."

"And this bothers you? Being a distressed damsel?"

She sipped her water. "I'm pretty independent, Ché."

"Is that a warning?"

"I'm not like the women you know."

"Thank the heavens."

Her mouth twisted as if she couldn't decide whether to grin or scowl. He'd flustered her.

"Go on with what you were saying," he coaxed indulgently. "Or do I distract you?"

Her nostrils flared. "Hardly." She took another swallow.

Liar, he thought.

She lowered her glass, searched his face. "You don't believe me?"

"No. I don't." The air between them heated. This flirtation, it was a dangerous game, but it exhilarated him. The end goal was far more tempting than hijacking a garden cart, he thought, running his gaze lazily over Ilana's sweet curves. "But I have met the sort of fellow with whom you keep company: powerless, easily chased away. I, on the other hand, am not. That intrigues you. You argue to keep your distance from me."

"You egotistical pig! I— I thought you were different from the other Vash. But you're just as full of yourself as the rest of them. You have no idea what I like in a man."

He exchanged his glass for the newspaper she had put down and handed it to her. "I know what you do not like."

Warily she took the newspaper.

The urge to bait her proved irresistible. "Cole Miller wanted you to have it," he informed her.

"Tell me he didn't come here for his dog bowl."

"Ah… "

"His Acme A-one super-duper foldable doggie water bowl."

"Perhaps it was you he wanted. He left rather quickly after coming to the conclusion that I'd taken his place."

The mild exasperation tightening Ilana's mouth told him that what feelings she'd had for the man, if any, were gone. That should have made Ché feel better. But the more he pondered Cole's appearance, and the man's easy acceptance that Ilana had already let another man into her bed, the more it irritated him. It was becoming clearer by the moment that he simply didn't like the idea of Ilana having a lover. Himself, yes. Others, no. "Cole assumed I had stayed overnight with you."

She propped her hands on her hips. "Didn't you?"

"In your bed," he corrected.

She pulled a bathing towel out of a small closet, waving it in a circle as she tipped her head. "All you had to do was ask."

Ché reared back. The inability to form an urbane comeback unbalanced him. His ensuing befuddlement left him tongue-tied, which was obviously Ilana's intent. If this were a Bajha match, at this point he'd be parrying desperately, his back to the wall, cursing himself for seriously underestimating his opponent.

Ilana was completely outside his experience. The females in his life who weren't family either performed a service, like a courtesan or maid, or were those with whom he was required by etiquette to entertain with charming and safe banter at royal functions: elderly widows, or women married or promised to other men. Ilana fell into none of those categories. She unaccountably blurred the lines between peer and object of lust, making her unlike any woman he'd met.

Smiling, she breezed past him, headed for her bedroom and, he presumed, her cleansing rituals. He watched her sweet bottom swaying and the muscles in her legs flex. He wondered if she knew what additional pleasure those strong thighs could afford her while making love. He wanted to take her to bed, just to show her.

"Perhaps I should have asked, Ilana," he called after her. "But I am Vash, through and through, as you say. As the guest in your home, I would naturally expect any hospitality offered to come from you."

She appeared in the doorway of her bedroom. She'd stripped off her clothing and now held only the towel around her. Pressing it loosely to her breasts, she stepped aside. "The bed's right here. Come on in," she dared.

He would not let her get away with it. Affecting lazy charm, he allowed his gaze to settle on her mouth before he returned his attention to her eyes. "I refuse to contribute to your moral recklessness when you are doing such a fine job on your own."

Ilana's cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. But when her voice finally emerged, it was husky with fury, not embarrassment. That she was nearly nude and ready for a fight aroused him. How many of his bedmates feigned passion? Most of them, he realized, if not all. Ilana's was real.

"Let me get this straight," she said. "If we slept to-gether, it'd be morally wrong for me but not for you? A man can have sex and remain unattached, but when a woman does the same, her morals come into question? You, with a palace full of courtesans. I can't believe you don't see the hypocrisy in that!"

Ché dismissed her judgment. "Men and women are different."

"Well, duh. I'm not arguing biology here."

He fell back on quoting the Treatise of Trade— the ultimate authority on everything was extraordinarily useful in such circumstances. " 'A woman's body is sacred. It must not be abused, or used without forethought.' "

Her eyes glinted with sudden mirth. "So. Sex with you would be abusive. If that's supposed to scare me away, it's not working."

He wouldn't let her distract him— but by the heavens, it was growing blasted difficult! "I am referring to your body! To Cole's use of it."

"Use. Use? At least I don't have to hire anyone when I want to get laid."

"You are better than that," he persisted. "You deserve more than casual relationships."

"Ah, yes. My vast scrapheap of boyfriends. The chicken bones of the slutty banquet of my life."

He shook his head at her self-deprecating irony. "You give yourself too easily, Ilana."

"I don't 'give' myself at all." She gathered her towel to her breasts. "Did you ever consider that, Mister Holier-than-thou? That I have the upper hand? That I leave them? It's not moral recklessness. It's smart!"

Pain glittered suddenly in her eyes, and he knew not the cause of it. Hurting her was not his intent, and he felt like a boor for doing so. But her distress ran deeper than the argument at hand; he was sure of it.

Before Councilman Toren called him back to Eireya to marry, Ché vowed to find out why.

Ilana clutched her towel and spun away from him. She left the door to her bedchamber ajar, the towel slipping lower as she swayed away. He heard the hiss of water falling as another door farther within the room opened.

She passed into view again. Satisfied that he was watching her— how could he not!— she let the towel fall, dragging it along the floor from the tips of one finger.

Che's loins tightened, hardened, reacting to the sight of Ilana's nude body, her purposeful disregard of his presence. Her breasts were full and high, and her bottom generous. She was curvaceous, not skinny, her legs sleekly muscled. Her smooth skin was suntanned all over, except for that incredible rear end, pale and silken. He envisioned clutching her bottom as he made love to her, pressing her closer to seat himself deeper inside her.

Great Mother. He was hard, almost painfully so. Though he was already aroused from their arguing, the intensity of his reaction shocked him. But years of discipline and sexual training kept him in control.

Ilana paused before disappearing behind the other door. Steam rose, blurring her features. She glanced over her shoulder at him, through her tangle of streaked hair, as if daring him to follow and feeling secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't. Then she flounced smugly into her bath chamber and shut the door.

Ché stood there, aching, his breath rapid. Sweat prickled his skin. Blast her! She was too confident— and dead wrong, if she thought a Vedla would allow a woman to tantalize him so and then escape unscathed. Fists clenched, he strode into her private quarters and across the room to where she'd gone. He pushed open the door, releasing a cloud of scented steam, and stepped inside. She had no idea what she'd called upon herself by dangling the invitation of her body in front of him. But she was about to find out— in one unforgettable, exquisitely administered lesson.

Ilana heard the door to her bathroom slam open. Startled, she smoothed her wet hair away from her eyes and peered through the-shower enclosure. A dark, hulking form loomed outside. Ché.

He flung open the door. Cooler air hit her skin. Her heart slammed in her chest. Water ran down her face, streamed down her exposed body.

Ché stood still, gripping the door as tendrils of mist drifted all around him. Moisture glittered on his hard, stubbly jaw. Meeting his eyes, molten gold, was a shock. She saw hunger there, raw and determined.

She felt suddenly way too naked.

Fully dressed, he stepped inside the shower. Water gushed down on them, spraying everywhere. Ché slapped his hands onto the shower wall behind her, one broad hand to each side of her head. Then he lowered his face.

"Che! " She tried to duck. "What the— "

All in one move, he closed his hands around her skull and kissed her. She was too shocked to struggle, too stunned to try. Her aborted objection left her lips parted. Ché took full advantage. His tongue swept into her mouth, not clumsy or thrusting, but with mastery. Desire scorched through her. It was the longest, most luscious kiss she'd experienced in ages. Maybe ever, but she didn't want to go there.

Ché didn't bend down to reach her; he lifted her up to him. The balls of her feet skidded over the slick tile floor of the shower enclosure. She flattened her hands on his soaked T-shirt, stretched tight over hard muscles, and tried to wrest back control of the kiss— of everything.

She'd always been the one to call the shots! But Ché held her firmly to his body, angling her head so that he could kiss her how he wanted. He was rough enough to take her breath away, gentle enough to let her know he was aware he held a woman in his arms.

Water gushed down over them, beating against her upturned face, running in rivulets past their locked mouths. Che's clothes were drenched— and he was wearing far too many of them, Ilana thought dazedly, collecting some of the wits she never usually lost. She reached for his jeans to unbutton them. Her knuckles grazed over the huge bulge straining his fly. But he stopped her, trapping her between his hard body and the cool, slick shower wall. His jeans were wet and rough; the denim abraded her skin.

She pulled her mouth from his, breathless. "Ché," she gasped.

He made a sound of smug satisfaction and nuzzled her neck. Water battered them both, hissing and spraying. Her breasts ached for his touch, his mouth; but he didn't touch her there. Instead, he slid his soapy, wet hand between her thighs. He knew exactly what he was searching for— and found it.