They’d each almost been killed in the mad rush to flee the party after the zhee headman had been hit deep within the garden sanctum. She’d had no idea Jack Bowie, late of Repub Naval Intel and now a freelancer in the world of dirty deeds done not cheaply, had been the hitter.
The beautiful and highly prized Tennar courtesan had just been grateful some handsome stranger pulled her out of that party the moment heavily armed quick reaction teams swarmed the chaos to secure other high value guests and find the assassin. Bowie, smiling his devil-may-care smile and plucking up a bottle of the host’s finest out of a sterling silver urn of cracked ice, had merely arched an eyebrow at the devastatingly beautiful young alien to indicate she should come with him. Now.
She had no idea how he’d jacked a luxury sports sled with just a card swipe. She had no idea who he was, or what he’d done.
She had no idea…
Or so you think, Jack, he told himself as he lay there, almost a part of her, his mind trying to surface though the haze of her exotic beauty. Entrapped in her arms. Skin, burnt orange, and other charms…
Delicate eyelids fluttering and hiding her large otherworldly aquamarine eyes.
He was trying to think of how much she really knew. Going over next steps by recounting his plays thus far. He’d grabbed her because she was good cover to exit the area. Just two more beautiful and rich guests leaving the chaotic aftermath of a political assassination. A successful businessman and his escort.
Of course.
Because when you were a Tennar female with that highly prized orange skin the entire galaxy’s assembly of flesh peddlers held in high regard, a rare genetic variant in the species, all anyone ever saw when they looked at you was “escort.”
And a pricey one at that. So of course the man with her has to be rich. And therefore he’s one of the ones that needs to be protected, think the swarming security teams. He’s one of the sheep.
And definitely not the wolf.
So how much does she know? Bowie asked himself as he lay there thinking, and then realized his comm device was signaling him that a very important call was coming in.
He slithered away from her, tentacles caressing him as he pulled to the side of the bed, leaving small thrills of electricity in their wake across his muscled and lean body. Jack grabbed the chiming device and went into the marble homage to grand structure that was the suite’s bathroom.
Kodorian tub. Penthaar volcanic tile sauna. An array of chilled sipping liqueurs, aphrolilacs, and various scented soaps and skin oils. Nothing cheap.
Everything was on “Team Nilo” for the night, or so he’d been informed by message after the hit. So, Jack Bowie had spared no expense.
His contact indicated that the Grand Intergalactic was his “Safe House” after the audition hit. The working interview.
On the way there he’d dumped the getaway sled in the lowest end of the recently built Grand Intergalactic’s garage, paying the valet to go ahead and lose it. Then he hit the bar and finally the room. The beautiful Tennar in the party dress clung to him like she was afraid of everything in the world.
She told him she was new to Kublar. New to the escort business. Yesterday had been her first official gig. And now she thought she was in some kind of trouble.
She probably was, reasoned Bowie. And she was probably lying. Especially about the “first gig” part. They always said that. Always.
In the bathroom he sat down on the cool toilet, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the comm device. They’d drunk a lot of Arcturan ice whiskey—neat. Knowing they were heading to the same room that night. Her telling them both that she, not he, needed to be held after everything that had happened. Needing to know that she wasn’t going to die in a blaster shootout. Needing to feel alive, even if it was just a lie, for a few hours. Even if it was just with a handsome stranger who might be dangerous.
So they had.
Even here, in the marble monstrosity of a bathroom, her scent was all over him. She’d given him everything she had to offer. Desperately so.
He answered the comm.
“Lobby bar in thirty minutes.”
Before he could acknowledge he would show, the call went dead and Bowie sat there for a moment. Letting the scent of her fade from his skin and sore muscles. Forcing her from his mind.
He was back on mission. Rest time over.
This was what he was here for.
He showered and dressed, then left the suite, glancing back at her once more. She was lying on her stomach and what was visible of her perfect body was enough to make him question whether the wealth he was being promised was worth it. Staying here with her had cost some rich men upwards of small planetary economies. But those were rich men with credits to burn. And burn. And keep on burning.
And he was only an ex-naval intel officer hung out to dry in the aftermath of the collapse of the Republic.
“It’s just hormones,” Jack Bowie muttered and made for the door to the suite, leaving her to her Tennar dreams of distant warm oceans and the songs of unknown creatures down in the deeps. Calling to one another among the vibrant coral. Listening to the music of those places.
The lobby of the Grand Intergalactic is the opposite of nearly everything else on Kublar, even in Soob City. Though it is not the actual heart of the unofficial Green Zone of the New Kublar, post its battles with the Legion and civil war, it is the emotional and probably real beating heart of the new boomtown economy that’s in the making. The lobby of the Intergalactic is as grand as the suite’s bathroom. Luxury and opulence compete with
