Love and Rockets Part 24

She wouldn't have to pretend queasy, she was getting queasy. He ordered food and told her to eat some, and it helped the queasy, but not the sickly swirly feeling in her head.

She never drank on the job. She never drank off the job. She hated enhancers, hated this out-of-control feeling but, she had to admit, she'd had the out-of-control feeling since she met the son of a b.i.t.c.h who, she realized halfway through the evening, hadn't told her his name.

They were on the dance floor when she mentioned it, whispered it actually, in his right ear, and he pulled her even closer, then he slid his hands down to her a.s.s, and kissed her. Kissed her as hard as he had earlier, maybe even harder, kissed her so hard that she couldn't breathe, and wasn't sure she wanted to.

Still, she tried to pull away, but he brought one hand up and placed it on the back of her head. "Not so fast," he whispered in his not-drunk voice. "Information has a price. You want my name? You buy it, one kiss at a time."

Then he kissed her again, and she didn't fight, she really didn't want to fight if she told herself the truth. He was a good kisser, the best she'd ever kissed on the job or off, and she decided it wouldn't be a hardship to back him against the wall, peel off his clothes, and take him right here in the lounge, the exclusive lounge, here on B-Deck.

But part of her brain told her-the rational, always in-control part-she really was drunk or at least tipsy (h.e.l.l, no, drunk) and the desire to screw him brainless probably came from the alcohol. Still, he was handsome, he tasted good, he smelled good, and he was as aroused as she was, so she reached inside his shirt, and he said, "Room. Need to go to the room."

And the voice sounded drunk again. He'd been sober before, telling her-what? Something about information. He put his hand around her again, only this time reached inside her shirt, and tweaked her nipple and it felt d.a.m.n good, and someone said something about leaving and he said they were and could they have one for the road? And the bartender gave them an amber bottle.

They staggered out into the corridor-and she really was staggering this time-and the door closed, the air was cooler, smelling fresher, and she felt-oh, still dizzy, but she didn't care-and he took her hand, pulling her along, much better this way, she thought, not being forced to move with him, but moving because she wanted to, through all the corridors down to the end of the hall and big double doors that opened as he approached into one of the largest suites she'd ever seen. The living room alone was four times the size of her room.

The doors closed, he held up a hand, and took out something-some kind of zapit that disrupted audio-and set it down, then said something about names.

She didn't give a good G.o.dd.a.m.n about names and said so, muttered, "Bed," and he laughed, taking her up a curving flight of stairs (stairs! On a ship!) into a room with a bed the size of her first apartment, and she was the one who pulled him on it, she was the one who tore off his clothes, she was the one who was finally, finally in control.

She woke up the next morning, sprawled, naked and sore, on the bed of a man she didn't know, in a room that had to cost as much as she earned in an entire year.

He wasn't in bed next to her, although the sheets were mussed. He was standing near the door, wearing pants, a shirt half b.u.t.toned, barefoot, holding a gla.s.s of something foamy, which reminded her of the beer, and made her stomach lurch.

"Misha," he said.

"What?" Her head ached too. G.o.d, how much had she had to drink? Her mouth tasted like dirty socks.

"My name," he said. "It's Misha. I figured you earned that much."

Earned it. She didn't like the idea of earned, as if she'd paid for it with s.e.x. A lot of s.e.x. d.a.m.n. How many times had they- "And yes, we met," he said, "but I doubt you remember."

It was as if they were having a conversation she didn't remember either. Her head hurt, and she brought a hand to her eyes. They felt gummy and sore. Everything was sore. And she had bruises on her wrist. Had he done that?

She could remember parts, but not all of it.

What she remembered confirmed why her inner thighs felt sticky.

"Here," he said, and handed her the foamy liquid. "Drink it fast and try not to taste it."

She glanced at him through her splayed fingers. He looked serious, and younger than she remembered. Hadn't she thought him mid-thirties? His body was midthirties-flat abdomen, visible muscles, and at least half a dozen scars-but his face was maybe fifteen, at least at the moment, without the feral smile. He had shadows under his eyes, and his mouth turned downward, as if a frown were his natural expression.

She had no idea who he was. Misha? She didn't remember a Misha, even though he said they had met before.

She shouldn't take the drink. But if he were going to hurt her, he would have done it last night, while she slept.

She sat up, the sheet falling away. Bruising on her skin-finger marks, love bites. She even remembered some of them, and the memories aroused her all over again, despite the headache and queasy stomach.

He leaned forward, handing her the gla.s.s as if he didn't want their fingers to touch. She took it, and following instructions, downed it.

It tasted like carbonated bile with a touch of dog hair, but she managed to swallow it all without getting sick.

Her stomach settled the minute the c.r.a.p touched it, and slowly her headache eased.

"What was that?" she asked.

"A couple of alcohol antidotes mixed with an emergency scrubber that I always carry," he said. "Works, even if it tastes like day-old vomit."

She grimaced, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She no longer felt hung-over, although she did feel wrung out.

"What happened last night?" she asked.

He smiled and looked pointedly at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "If you don't remember-"

"I mean," she said, not wanting him to continue. "What were you doing, following me?"

"Of course I was following you," he said.

She sat rigidly, her fingers still cupped around the gla.s.s. Her heart rate increased.

"Who trained you?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

"C'mon," he said. "We're past games. You've been killing your way through this part of the sector, and you've managed to eliminate some primo targets. Somehow."

A sarcastic emphasis on the word "somehow" made her glare.

"Someone trained you," he said. "I'm just wondering who."

"No one trained me," she said, and couldn't quite keep the pride out of her voice. She had stumbled into this profession, literally. She'd accidentally killed a man in a bar, and another man handed her a small fortune in thanks. Then asked her if she'd do it again, if he protected her from the consequences.

She liked to think she had qualms about it, but she didn't. Not really. She quickly figured out that people who had a price on their head deserved that price, and sometimes deserved a much larger one.

"No one trained you." Misha's mobile mouth pursed for a brief second. "That explains a lot."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?" she asked.

He stared at her, his expression flat. Now he looked ageless, maybe twenty, maybe fifty. But deadly.

She was, for the first time, truly conscious of her nakedness, and how vulnerable it made her. But she also knew better than to draw attention to it by getting up and getting dressed. She'd do that, but slowly, and not as a reaction to his expression, no matter how hard her heart was pounding.

"It means," he said, "you get noticed."

"I do not." She used that bit of sharpness to throw the covers back, step out of bed. He didn't stop her. She grabbed her blouse. It was ripped on one side. Dammit. "No one is looking for me."

"True enough," he said. "But your deaths look like kills. They don't look natural."

"So?"

"So, the authorities know someone's operating in their territories," he said.

She slipped the blouse on, and picked up her pants. The stain down one leg was brown. She didn't want to think about that.

He grabbed a package from the chair beside the bed. "Here," he said. "Try these." And tossed the package at her.

She caught it. It was soft. She opened it. Tan pants, a faded pink blouse, underclothes. Took her a minute to realize they were all hers.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Your room," he said.

"I thought we weren't going to leave this room," she said, remembering that much of their conversation the night before.

"No one knows I left," he said, and for the first time, she believed him.

She took off the ruined blouse, left the stained pants crumpled on the floor, and carried the package toward the bathroom. Clean clothes meant she needed a clean body.

He followed.

"Privacy," she said.

"No," he said. "Besides, we're not done talking."

"I am," she said.

He caught her arm, fingers tight around her elbow. She had the stray thought that he could twist his hand slightly and break her arm.

"You're bungling your way through my territory," he said.

"Your territory?" she asked.

"My territory," he said. "Because of you, I've been questioned and arrested and denied pa.s.sage on more than one ship."

"So they know who you are and they don't know me." She shrugged. "Guess I'm more successful."

He pulled her close, that flat look in his eyes still there. Her heart rate increased again, and she knew he felt it.

"They know me because I'm registered."

"How quaint," she said. "I didn't know anyone registered any more."

He was so close that his arm brushed against her stomach. "My mother was legal," he said. "She worked for a variety of governments, then went out on her own. She trained me."

"Goody for you," Rikki said.

He pulled her against him, her skin against his shirt-less torso. His skin was hot. He slid his free hand on her b.u.t.tocks and it took everything she had not to lean in closer.

"Three times I've had to prove I have nothing to do with you," he said, "and that's three times too many."

"So?"

"So I could have shoved you through that airlock last night, claiming I was saving Testrail. I didn't. I saved you."

She froze. He not only knew her name; he knew Testrail's too. "What is this?"

"This is me, improvising," he said.

"Improvising what?" she asked.

"I hired you," he said.

"You did?"

"How better to get you on board this ship?" he said. "I've been following you too long, cleaning up after you, getting blamed for you. I figured I'd watch Testrail until you came for him, and then I'd get you."

Her eyes narrowed. Her breathing was rapid, even though she didn't want it to be. "I thought that was a legitimate job."

"There's money in your account," he said.

"Why would you want Testrail dead?" she asked. What little she knew of the man-and she knew very little, preferring to keep her victims as anonymous as possible-was that he was some kind of corporate mucky-muck whose mismanagement had cost billions, and sent entire communities into financial disarray, with all that entailed, resulting in heart attacks, suicides, and a few murders, none of which could be pinned on him, and all caused by him.

His death didn't solve anything, but it made the other victims feel better. She had always liked those jobs. She felt constructive then.

"I wanted Testrail dead because I was hired to kill him," Misha said.

"So you had me do your dirty work," she said.

He shook his head. "I would have made sure he died in a way that threw suspicion on no one."

"How would that satisfy the client?" she asked.

"I am the client," he said.

"I mean your client," she said.

He gave her a sideways look. "I'd've let him know in advance that on this date at that time, Testrail would commit suicide. Then Testrail, for all intents and purposes, would have committed suicide at that instant. My client and I would know he had help dying, but no one else would."

"Aren't you efficient?" Rikki said.

"I am," Misha said. "That's why I get hired."

"But this wasn't the kind of job a registered a.s.sa.s.sin would do," she said.

"How do you know what a registered a.s.sa.s.sin would do?" he asked.

"I know what they won't do," she said. "That's why I get hired. Is that why you hired me?"

"No," he said. "I take off-the-books jobs. Most of us do."