Chapter 10 #3
Hornblower, Caleb, Captain ISF, retired.
Born 2 February, to Katrina Hardesty Hornblower and Byram Edward Hornblower.
Place of birth Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Graduate Wilson Freemont Memorial Academy.
Attended Princeton University, withdrew after sixteen months without degree.
Enlisted ISF. Served six years, seven months. Military record as follows . . .
With her lips pursed, Libby listened to the readout of Cal’s military career. There was citation after citation—just as there was reprimand after reprimand. His record as a pilot was flawless. His disciplinary record was an entirely different matter. She couldn’t help but smile.
She thought of her father and his ingrained distrust of the military system. Yes, given a bit of time, she thought, he would have grown very fond of Cal.
Credit rating 5.8, the computer continued.
“Stop.” Libby heaved a sigh. She wasn’t interested in Cal’s credit rating. She’d pried far enough into his personal life as it was. Any other answers she wanted would have to come from him. And quickly.
Rising, she began to wander through the ship, looking for him.
It was the music that tipped her off. She heard it first, distant and lovely, with a vague curiosity. Something classical, with a kind of swelling passion. As she followed it, she tried to identify the composer.
She found Cal asleep in his cabin. The music filled the room, every corner of it, yet it was soft, soothing, seductive. She felt the tug, the almost irresistible urge to slip into the bed beside him, snuggling close until he woke and made slow, sweet love to her.
She shook it off. The music, she decided. Somehow it was comforting and erotic at the same time. Exactly the way his kisses could be. She wouldn’t let it influence her or let herself forget that she was angry with him.
Still, she took a picture of him as he slept, then slipped it, almost guiltily, into her pocket.
After leaning against the doorway, she lifted her chin. It was a deliberately defiant pose, and she enjoyed it.
“So this is how you work.”
Though she’d pitched her voice above the music, he went on sleeping. She considered going over and giving his shoulder a shove, then came up with a better idea. She slipped two fingers of her left hand into her mouth, inhaled, then blew out a sharp, shrill whistle, just as Sunny had taught her.
He came up in the bed like a rocket. “Red alert!” he shouted before he saw her smirking at him from the doorway. After leaning back against the cushioned headboard, he ran a hand over his eyes.
He’d been dreaming. Out in space, whipping through the galaxy, with the controls at his fingertips and worlds racing by hundreds of thousands of miles beneath him. She’d been there, right beside him, an arm wrapped around his waist, all the fascination, all the thrill of flying glowing on her face.
Until something had gone wrong. And the ship had shaken, the gauges had blinked, the bells had sounded. He’d heard her scream as they’d gone into a dive. He hadn’t known what to do. Quite suddenly his mind had gone blank. He hadn’t been able to save her.
Here she was now, while his heart was still sprinting from the dream, looking cocky and ready to spar.
“What the hell was that for?”
He looked as though he’d had a scare. She certainly hoped so. “It seemed the most efficient way to wake you up. I tell you, Hornblower, you keep working like this, you’ll wear yourself right out.”
“I was taking a break.” He wished he’d taken a good long slug of potent, electric-blue Antellis liquor. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Too bad.” As sympathy went, it left a lot to be desired. Still studying him, she dug for a cookie.
“That couch is lumpy.”
“I’ll make a note of it. Maybe that’s why you woke up on the wrong side of it.” She took her time, nipping off tiny bite after tiny bite. It was an attempt to make him hungry, and she succeeded, though not in the way she’d intended.
He could feel his muscles tightening, each separate one. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s an expression.”
“I’ve heard it.” He knew he snapped the words out, but he couldn’t help it. She flicked out her tongue to catch a crumb at the corner of her mouth. He nearly groaned. “I didn’t wake up on the wrong side of anything.”
“Well, I suppose it could be your nature to be surly and you’ve managed to repress it lately.”
“I’m not surly.” He all but growled it.
“No? Arrogant, then. Is that better?” Her slow half smile was meant to annoy, but it provoked a different emotion.
Trying to ignore her and what was going on inside his own rebellious body, he looked at his watch. “You took a long time in town.”
“My time’s my own, Hornblower.”
His brows arched. If she hadn’t been so smug about her own control, she might have noticed that the eyes beneath them had darkened. “You want to fight?”
“Me?” Her lips turned up again. She was the very picture of innocence. “Why, Caleb, after meeting my parents you should know I’m a born pacifist. I was rocked to sleep with folk songs.”
He muttered an opinion, a single two-syllable word that Libby had always thought belonged to the slang of the twentieth century. Intrigued, she cocked her head.
“So, that’s still the response when someone doesn’t have a clever or intelligent answer. It’s such a comfort to know some traditions survive.”
He threw his legs off the edge of the bed and, his eyes on hers, slowly unfolded himself.
He didn’t step toward her, not yet. Not until he could trust himself not to plant a good clean jab on her outthrust chin.
Strange, he’d never noticed the stubborn set of it before. Or that I-dare-you look in her eyes.
The worst of it was, the arrogance was every bit as arousing as the warmth.
“You’re pushing, babe. I figure it’s only fair to warn you that I don’t come from a particularly peaceful family.”
“Well . . .” Carefully she chose another cookie.
“That certainly puts the fear of God into me.” After rolling up the bag, she tossed it at him so that his defensive catch crumbled half the contents.
“I don’t know what’s gotten under your skin, Hornblower, but I’ve got better things to do than worry about it.
You can stay here and sulk if you like, but I’m going back to work. ”
She barely managed to turn around. He grabbed her arms and had her pressed into the wall, his fingers digging in. Later she would wonder why she had been surprised that he could move that quickly, or that beneath the easy disposition there lurked a fierce, raw-edged temper.
“You want to know what’s wrong with me?” His eyes, so close to hers, were the color that edged lightning bolts. “Is that what all this button-pushing’s about, Libby?”
“I don’t care what’s wrong with you.” She kept her chin up, though her mouth had gone dry.
Libby knew that for her offering an apology would always be easier than sticking with a fight.
Sometimes it wasn’t pacifism but cowardice.
She straightened her spine and drew in a deep breath. She was sticking.
“I don’t give a damn what’s wrong with you. Now let me go.”
“You should.” He wrapped her hair around his hand to pull her head back, slowly exposing her throat. “Do you think that every emotion a man has toward a woman is gentle, kind, loving?”
“I’m not a fool.” She began to struggle, and she was more annoyed than afraid when he didn’t release her.
“No, you’re not.” Her eyes were on his, fury matching fury. He thought he felt something break inside him, the last bolt that had caged the uncivilized. “Maybe it’s time I taught you the rest.”
“I don’t need you to teach me anything.”
“That’s right, there’ll be others to teach you, won’t there?” Jealousy clawed deep, drawing thick, hot blood. “Damn you. And damn them, every one of them. Think of this. Whenever anyone else touches you, tomorrow, ten years from tomorrow, you’ll wish it was me. I’ll see to it.”
With his words still hanging in the air, he pulled her to the bed.