Chapter Four
brICE ARRIVED AT THE OFFICE much later than usual. Only, as a great section of the ship was nursing hangovers, or recovering from the late night, no one found his late arrival out of the ordinary. Even Bronson’s office was still empty. Brice moved into his office without raising brows.
He propped the cane in its holder on the edge of the desk and rested both hands on the flat, cool surface. The three screen emitters were mute calls to get down to business.
He grew aware of his heart thudding in his chest. Racing. He pushed against his breastbone.
What had happened, last night? Had he just made a huge mistake?
His body said an emphatic “no.” Even his leg had been silent this morning, despite taxing it beyond normal tolerance.
Brice reached for the emitters and slowly got to work.
His concentration was zapped, and he had to keep refocusing.
Thoughts of Luciana intruded. Moments and flashes of sensory memory.
The scent of her. The softness of her skin.
How she fit against him; she was not at all petite, which was surprisingly agreeable.
Her lips on his chest. The purring sound of her laughter.
He had stood and looked down at her as the sunlights had started their morning cycle up to full strength.
She laid on her stomach, her head turned so that the glorious spill of white-blonde hair spread upon the pillow.
It was longer than he had realized. Dark brows that, in sleep, lifted in a natural arch.
Then instead of reaching for her again, as he had wanted to, he instead left the house.
He walked through the edges of the Capitol, back to the Artery.
Few people were up and about, which he was thankful for.
He needed to think about the night that had just passed before he could meet people in the eye.
It felt like a much longer walk than usual to reach the elevator up to the Palatine hub.
He’d stopped at the house long enough to wash and change, then headed all the way back to the Aventine and the Tankball Association offices, which were in the last building before the Collinas Gate that lead into the Bridge area. This time, he took a pod.
Brice realized that he was sitting and staring through his monitors, his mind miles away in both time and space. Again.
He swore and looked at the center screen. Did he have any appointments this morning? Something that he had to prepare for? “Eden, do I have any appointments today?”
“No, Brice,” the computer told him. “Bronson asked me to reschedule all of them.”
“Because of last night?”
“I also rescheduled Bronson’s appointments, and the appointments of anyone holding tickets to the soiree last night, or who were required to attend, or do work there.”
Brice looked out his window. He could see many people flitting around the open area outside the arena, pulling down the ballroom area, dismantling screens and tables. Most of it would be recycled for the credits, because next year, the décor had to be different.
What will she wear, next year? The question slid into his mind unbidden.
He tried to dismiss it, yet the memory of the red and black dress came zinging back.
This time, when she turned in a circle, showing off her dress, as she had last night, he pulled her to him and kissed her, his hands running over the soft fabric and the softer skin beneath…
Brice shook off the provocative thoughts with a low growl and pushed back from the desk. This was ridiculous. It had been an evening. Forget it and move on. He’d had plenty of practice at it.
He could hear Eden in the front suite, talking to someone.
A feminine voice replied. Low timbre. Often followed by a throaty laugh. Just the sound of it sent invisible fingers walking up his spine.
He realized he was sitting motionless, straining to confirm that she was here and it wasn’t just his fraught imagination.
It occurred to him that he should be annoyed that she was not playing by the rules. Today was supposed to be back to business as usual. Everyone understood that. You move on. No regrets. No entanglements.
Bronson would bounce her out of the office and send her home.
Then he remembered that Bronson wasn’t here. Only Cathi was out there. She was great at collating data, but a five-year-old could intimidate her.
Cathi cracked open his door. “Um…Brice…there’s a Luciana Hume out here. She wants to speak to you about stalls in the Capitol?” She looked nervous and apologetic.
It wasn’t her fault, Brice reminded himself.
“I’ll see her,” he told Cathi.
She looked deeply relieved and opened the door fully. Over her shoulder, she said, “Please go through.”
Brice watched Luciana walk through the door, and his heart squeezed.
She was wearing…he didn’t know what she was wearing, exactly.
Trousers that seemed to have too much material in them, yet wrapped around her ankles.
She had both hands thrust in the pockets of her trousers.
The jacket she wore was full in the shoulders, and the sleeves were pushed up her arms.
Beneath the jacket she wore a little top that stopped where the trousers began, so that he could actually glimpse gleaming skin between the two garments.
All the clothes were the same color as her hair, which rippled and waved over her shoulders in a thick mass.
No woman with a grown son should look so fetching. No one he did business with did.
His body tightened. He put his hands together and squeezed. “If you’re here to discuss the stalls, you should turn around and leave,” he told her. “If you’re here for anything else, you shouldn’t be.”
“I’m here to talk about the stalls,” she said. Her voice stroked his spine. “At least, that is what I told your AI and Cathi.”
He got to his feet. Carefully. “It doesn’t matter. You should go.”
“I don’t know why I’m here.”
He moved around the desk. He didn’t recall making the decision to do so. His body was moving on its own. He’d left the cane behind, which meant he was rolling like a drunkard, but right then, he didn’t care. “You have to leave. Now.”
She looked up at him. “Are you sure, Brice?”
He swallowed. “Yes.” It was a whisper. His hands settled on her waist. Beneath the jacket. The touch of her flesh against his fingertips was scalding.
“Very well…” As she spoke her lips nearly brushed his. He didn’t have to lean far at all to take the kiss he wanted.
·
Afterward, while he sprawled in the big armchair, his body lax and quiet once more, Luciana dressed. Then she bent and kissed him. Silently, she slipped out of the office. The door locked behind her.
No demands. No questions.
He put his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. This had to stop here. Now. Right now, this instant. This was it. It was over.
·
It had been two of the longest days of her life.
Luciana had moved through them feeling as though she was slightly drunk.
Concentrating on anything took effort. Her motivation to do anything had evaporated.
She worked only because it was a habit. She moved around the marketplace, checking on her stalls, talking to the artisans and managers, giving suggestions and advice and sometimes flat orders.
Yet none of it thrilled her the way it usually did. She was moving and speaking by rote.
And when she passed the five stalls that Brice Falcon owned, she looked the other way. She didn’t need the reminder. She didn’t want her gut to tighten. She didn’t want to resent him.
She did not spend all day walking around the market as she sometimes did.
She instead went back to her office, which was under the pavilion that had once been the headquarters for the Skinwalkers, when they had existed.
She had outbid everyone else who wanted the space for its reputation and status, when the area had come up for sale.
She had owned the long and narrow pavilion for three years now, and she loved working here. It was right in the heart of the Capitol, right on the edge of the marketplace, which was the perfect position for her business and for her.
Even the open sides of the pavilion suited her.
There were rails that kept people from accidentally walking into her office, or walking through.
Yet those same rails seemed to invite people to lean against them and chat with her.
She knew everyone in the Capitol, for she had grown up in a letterbox on the first wall, and she had never lived anywhere else, even though she could easily afford a house in the Palatine if she chose to.
Staying here suited her. Her business was here. The people she knew were here…well, some of them at least. Many people she had known, growing up, had moved away from the Capitol as their lives and careers were established.
Even when Devar had been given to her and Rayen, Rayen had agreed to live in the Capitol, too. “What is twenty years, in our lifetimes?” she had said dismissively. “If you want to stay here, we’ll stay here.”
And so Rayen had bought the house on the edge of the Capitol, where they could hear the pods on the Artery whispering by. That is where Devar had grown up and Luciana lived there still.
She had cut short her walk about the market today and returned to the office, to try and work on some of the administrative tasks that were so deadly boring, but essential.
Many people passing by would greet her and some would stop to linger and chat for a few minutes.
Luciana learned a lot from those conversations, including what made the stalls she managed popular.
If more than one person mentioned something they didn’t like about the stalls, she would find a way to adjust the stalls so it was no longer a problem.
If it was something the artisans who rented the stalls from her were making or not making, she would stop by and find a way to suggest they discontinue or consider adding to their product line.
The interruptions were almost welcome today, for she could barely focus on anything she was doing. So when yet another Capitolino stopped by the railing on her left, she looked up with a smile.
It was Brice Falcon.
Her first reaction was to look behind him, to see who was paying any attention to the fact that Brice Falcon himself was standing by her office.
No, not her first reaction. Her first reaction was a little jump in her middle. Surprise, she told herself. That was all it was.
Her gaze had not flicked over him from boots to head.
She had not taken in the details of his jacket, which was one of the new, long ones that ended at the knee.
Everyone was making a fuss about them on the Forum, while Luciana knew that the design was actually a throwback to ancient Earth.
The excess folds around the neckline were called lapels. The back collar was raised.
He looked good in it. And she knew, now, that the shoulders of the jacket were not padded or extended to exaggerate the width. His shoulders really were that wide.
She hid her reaction and slid off the high stool to face him. “The only reason I can think of that explains why you are here is that you’ve come to negotiate a deal over the stalls.”
His hand tightened on the cane, which he held close by his leg, as if he didn’t want anyone to notice it was there. “I will never sell those stalls.” His voice was low.
“I see.” Luciana gave him her brightest smile. “Well, have a good day.” She settled herself back on the stool.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him grip the waist-high railing with his spare hand. “Do you know where I live?”
“The Palatine,” she said flatly. She kept her gaze on the screen in front of her. “We make jokes about the Palatine, here.”
“I’m sure.” His tone was dry. “Come to dinner tonight. The taxiboat will know where to take you.”
Luciana froze. All except for her heart, which she could feel throbbing in her neck. She turned slowly, the stool swiveling. “I’m sorry. The noise of the marketplace muffled my hearing. It sounded as though you said, ‘come to dinner tonight’.”
His eyes were narrowed, as if he was concentrating. Perhaps he was. He was out in public, a rare thing for Falcon. And the Capitol marketplace was noisy and full of people, most of whom probably knew who he was.
“That is what I said,” he said evenly. He glanced around, looking for anyone within hearing range.
“Capitolinos are good at minding their own business,” she said, using the same monotone he had.
“I know that,” he replied, with a tiny touch of irritation. “Tankball fans can be persistent.”
“Then you’d better state your business and go.”
“I have stated my business. Dinner. Tonight. My house.”
“Okay. No. No. And no.”
He was still gripping the railing, only now he stepped closer to it and lowered his voice. “I have no agenda other than I want to talk to you. That’s it. I could have called, or left you a message on the Forum, but I thought you would react this way.”
“And now you know you are right.” She turned back to her monitor.
“Tell me, have you slept much, the last two days?” His voice was still low. Low enough that she could hear the deeper registers. She had heard them before, when her head had been on his chest.
She shook off the intruding memory. “I’ve slept just fine,” she said airily.
“I, too, have slept like a baby.”
Her heart was jumping about again. Luciana gave up pretending she was working. She swiveled the stool once more and looked at him. “There is no need for dinner. Not even to talk.” She gave him a brittle smile. “We’re both adults, Brice. Leave it at that.”
“No. We don’t end it here. We do it the way adults do. A conversation where it is private and we can say what we need to.”
She gripped her hands together. “I can guess what you will say. I don’t need to hear it.”
“You have no idea what I will say.” He let go of the railing. “It’s just dinner. I’ve never invited anyone to dinner. You should say yes, or I will be psychologically scarred for life and be unable to invite anyone ever again.”
“You would be mentally maimed over ‘just dinner’?” she shot back. Then her gaze fell to the cane. He was maimed. He wasn’t the unmoving wall he liked to project. “Yes, I’ll come to dinner,” she added, surprising even herself.
He straightened, as if she had shocked him, too. “As soon as you’re done for the day.”
Luciana tried to regroup. “Should I bring anything? Wine? And don’t say roses. They’re off the menu.”
“There won’t be a rose or a candle in sight,” he promised, walking away.