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  She moaned as he eased her arm out of the sleeve, letting the fabric rest against her chest. The shoulder looked bad, puffy and black, but the bleeding had stopped. He cleaned the wound with water and soap first. She stirred and protested, unconsciously trying to knock his hand away. He hoped she didn't wake up too soon.

  Sliding a folded towel under her shoulder, he opened the flask of sulfomagtrite. "Here goes," he muttered, and poured it on the wound.

  She didn't react for a few milliseconds, then the sulfo hit home. With a shriek, she came off the bunk. Prepared for that, Sabin pushed her back down. He wasn't prepared, however, for the right hook that smashed into his cheek.

  "Blazing hells!" He stumbled back, and she rolled to her feet. She was halfway through the entry before he regained his senses and caught her, looping his arm around her waist and snagging her.

  Her dash had apparently sapped her strength, because he pulled her back to the bunk easily enough, evading her feeble kicks. As a precaution, though, he leaned over her, capturing and trapping her hands against the mat.

  She twisted and heaved beneath him, her golden eyes burning with fury. "Spirit, that hurts! Are you trying to kill me?"

  "I would say it was the other way around," he responded, resisting the strong urge to rub his throbbing cheek. "You have a pretty bad Jaccian wound on your shoulder, and I had to put sulfomagtrite on it. I know it stings. Let me blow on it and—"

  "I don't want your breath on me. Don't do another thing," she gritted out between clenched teeth. She tossed her head to the side, her shimmering hair fanning out like Saija silk over her injured shoulder and across her chest. Feeling the tension in her arms, her fingers digging into the mat, he knew the sulfo must sting like crazy.

  "This will help, I promise." He released one hand and drew her hair away from her shoulder. He froze at the sight of her breast poised on the verge of overflowing her flightsuit, which had slipped perilously low. Abundantly rounded and firm, it swelled temptingly above the torn fabric. His body reacted immediately, the blood pounding to his lower extremities. By the Fires!

  He was no untried, inexperienced youth, and he'd long ago learned to control his desires. Yet the overwhelming urge to feel the weight of that fullness in his hand, to explore its texture and taste, battled with reason. Somehow, this woman had managed to have this unwelcome effect on his libido not once, but twice, even though she had obviously despised him on sight.

  Under different circumstances, he might have shown her what she was capable of really feeling, at least physically. But the ugly shoulder wound reminded him now was not the time to satisfy ego or physical lust. He willed his overheated body to cool. He did have to do one thing, though—remove temptation.

  He reached toward her.

  * * * *

  The man's fingers brushed against her breast, and Moriah tensed, forgetting the burning agony in her shoulder. She squeezed her eyes shut. A band of darkness tightened around her heart, as dread surged through her body. She'd seen the expression on his face; she knew what would happen now. She was far too weak to fight it. Deep inside, a wrenching keening sliced upward, but she refused to utter a sound.

  It took her a moment to realize she was shaking uncontrollably, then another to comprehend he'd tugged her flightsuit higher over her breast. She felt his hand gently lifting her hair as the cadence of his deep voice washed over her. "It's okay. It will stop hurting soon, I promise. See if this makes it better."

  Then his warm breath wafted over her shoulder, and the stinging receded. Dazed, she perceived his actions held no direct threat, only an odd sort of comfort. He blew on the wound again, and she allowed herself to relax, while she tried to gather her wits. She felt the loss of heat when he moved back.

  "How does it feel now?"

  She opened her eyes to find him sitting on the edge of the bunk, watching her. The sight of his bare, powerful chest rekindled her apprehensions, and she looked at his face. He had the darkest eyes she'd ever seen, bottomless ebony pits. But she saw nothing threatening in their depths—for now. Finding her hands free, she flexed her fingers.

  He held up a hand in warning. "No more right hooks."

  Moriah scrutinized the small room. "Where am I?"

  "My cabin. I brought you here after you passed out."

  His cabin? She struggled to clear the fog from her brain. How long had she been here? "What time is it?"

  He glanced as his chronometer. "2300 hours standard."

  Panic evaporated the fog. She was supposed to have met Fletch an hour ago. She pushed herself up and tried to swing her legs off the bunk. "I have to get out of here."

  Planted dead center on the edge of the bunk, he didn't budge. She tried to scoot around him, but she was as shaky as a loose solar tile. He pushed her back against the pillow. "You're not going anywhere for a while. You're still disoriented and weak. You will be for a few more hours."

  She didn't have a few more hours. It might already be too late. Besides, who did this man think he was, telling her what to do? "I didn't ask for your help, or to be carried aboard your ship. I can take care of myself."

  "Yeah, just like you did in Giza's."

  His comment rankled Moriah. She had lost control of that situation, and she hated not being in control at all times. She could take care of herself perfectly well; she'd been doing so since she was eight seasons old. She'd taken care of Celie, too. Celie! By the Spirit! She had to get to Fletch.

  She took more deep breaths. Her mind was clearer now, although her body was still weak. She knew this arrogant male probably wouldn't let her off his ship until he thought she was recovered. She didn't know where her weapon was, and she couldn't overpower him in her current condition. She'd have to outsmart him.

  She smiled at him, something she knew motivated most men to do her bidding. "Perhaps you're right. I am really tired. If I can just rest awhile, I'm sure I'll be able to function again."

  He stared at her as if he could see right through her ploy. "You're welcome to stay here as long as necessary. Besides, I need to bandage your shoulder."

  She didn’t want him touching her again. Her fingers slid beneath her hair, moving protectively to her breast and tugging the flightsuit up again. "I can do that myself."

  "No, you can't. It requires two steady hands, and mine are perfectly capable, I assure you."

  She looked at his hands, resting against his muscular thighs. Strong, lean, bronzed from the sun, with long, square fingers. She'd long ago learned what men's hands were capable of: pain and killing.

  But she'd survived by being able to read people, and she knew this man would have his way. The sooner she let him tend her shoulder, the sooner she could make her escape. Anxiety twisted inside her. She could only hope Fletch would wait. Five hundred miterons was a strong incentive. Reluctantly, she nodded.

  "I need you to sit up," he instructed. "Here, let me help you." He slid one arm beneath Moriah's upper back, ignoring her protests that she could do it by herself, and eased her up, propping the pillow behind her. The dizziness her upright position produced warned she needed this extra time to recuperate before she went in search of her ride off this Spiritforsaken rock.

  She didn't realize she was still clutching the top of her flightsuit until the man placed his hand over hers, flattening it against her chest. "Just keep that right there, and we won't have to worry about show-and-tell."

  She supposed that some women would find the deep timbre of his voice, along with his impressive chest, appealing, but it only spurred her determination to leave him behind as quickly as possible.

  As he folded a piece of gauze, her attention shifted to the bandage angled haphazardly over his powerful right bicep. She'd forgotten about his injury, incurred on her behalf. She wondered if it hurt as badly as her shoulder did. An unwelcome twinge of guilt nagged her conscience. He had gotten her out of a bad situation. Damn him! She hated being obligated to any man. Yet her resentment couldn't override the fact he had put his life
on the line for her.

  Reaching out, she lightly touched the swell of muscle just below his bandage. His arm was as hard as magnasteel and his skin incredibly warm. She jerked back, feeling singed all the way to her boots. "Does it hurt very much?"

  He shrugged. "Not too bad, as laser burns go. I've had my share of them." An impish glint danced into his eyes. "But if you'd like to kiss it and make it better, sweetheart, you're more than welcome."

  A hot rush, which she chose to believe was anger, heated her face. She'd forgotten how obnoxious he was. "No thanks," she muttered. "I'd rather take on a regiment of Jaccians."

  "Testy. If you don't want to play healer, then I guess we'd better take care of your shoulder."

  Moriah steeled herself for the procedure to be painful. He was infinitely gentle, however, as he gathered her hair into his hand and brushed it behind her neck, draping it over her uninjured shoulder.

  Your hair is beautiful," he commented. When she didn't reply, he grasped her chin, bringing her face up and forcing eye contact. "We definitely have to do something about your manners. And I'd like to know your name, considering I saved your life and all."

  Her manners? He was absolutely boorish. "You didn't save my life, and my manners are a lot better than yours."

  His mouth quirked into a smile. "My manners are flawless, and I did save your life. In some cultures, you'd be indebted to me for life. That's an intriguing thought. I always collect on my debts— sooner or later."

  Disappointment cut through her. He was like every other male she'd ever met. Out for what he could get, regardless of the pain or cost to others. She twisted her face away.

  "I still don't know your name."

  Her name. She had lots of names, one for every occasion, one for every role she chose to play. She started to give him the alias on the identification she had with her, but for some reason, her real birth name slipped out. "Moriah."

  "Moriah. Nice. I don't suppose you have a last name."

  “No.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, his black hair whipping between his shoulder blades. "I suspected as much. Moriah probably isn't even your real name."

  She noticed for the second time the white flash of his teeth, the gleam of amusement in his black-as-sin eyes. "So, what's your name?" Her question slipped out impulsively, surprising her.

  "My real and full name is Sabin Travers. At your service, Moriah No-Last-Name."

  She looked away again, and he placed some gauze over her shoulder. She gritted her teeth to keep from reacting to the spears of pain shooting down her arm.

  He paused. "Does that hurt?"

  Not trusting her voice, she shook her head.

  "That's odd. Never heard of a Jaccian wound that didn't hurt. I'm sorry I don't have any deadening spray. I'll try to make this as painless as possible." He proceeded to bandage her shoulder quite efficiently. When he finished, he said, "Here, let me help you get your arm back in the sleeve of your flightsuit."

  He'd touched her enough. "I can do that myself." She stared at him pointedly. "If you don't mind, I'd like some privacy."

  "That can be arranged." He rose and strode to a recessed dresser to retrieve a shirt. Shrugging into it, he moved to the entry. The door slid open and he paused, turning back. "Just remember, nothing has changed. It's far too dangerous for you to be wandering around Calt. When you feel recovered, I'll escort you to your ship and personally supervise your departure." He stood in a nonchalant slouch, but the hard expression in his eyes warned her he fully meant what he said.

  Over your dead body. She smiled sweetly. "Of course."

  His eyebrows arched, and he started to say something, but a sandy-haired young man leaned around the frame and cleared his throat. "Uh, Sabin, I need your help with the diagnostic scan."

  Sabin's intense gaze never left her. "Be right there. But I'll be checking on you, Moriah."

  She got the implied message, loud and clear. He didn't believe her compliant act for one millisecond, and he planned to keep a watchful eye on her. She'd have to move fast. She nodded and sighed, closing her eyes as if she were going to sleep. She heard him leave and the panel close behind him.

  She looked to be sure he was gone, and then scooted to the edge of the bunk. Her movement sent the cabin spinning, and pain ricocheted down her arm. Wincing, she grasped the edge of the bunk with her good hand and dragged air into her lungs. The spinning slowed, and she gingerly tried to work her arm into her flightsuit. Spirit! Her shoulder hurt worse than a gun wound.

  Apprehension that Sabin would return seemed to make her even more inept. It took several agonizing moments to get the suit on, then another few while she clumsily closed the front seam. Obviously, she couldn't count on much use from that arm for several cycles. Since she was right handed, it was a good thing her left arm had been the one injured.

  She stood on unsteady legs, balancing herself against the wall until the renewed spinning slowed. Seeing her cape at the foot of the bunk, she snatched it up and checked it, heaving a sigh of relief. The miterons were still there, thank Spirit. She draped the cape around her shoulders. Then she worked her way to the only cabinets in the room, embracing the wall for support. By the Abyss, she was weak. No wonder Sabin seemed unconcerned that she might slip away.

  Only the urgency of her situation, the knowledge that other lives depended on her, lent her the strength to push forward. She searched the cabinets, cursing her feeble movements. No sign of her gun, or anything else that could be a useful weapon. She'd have to return to Giza's without protection, but there was no help for it. She struggled to the panel and it whispered open.

  She peeked into the corridor, finding it empty. To her left was a hatch. She started that direction, but then realized the cockpit was just beyond it. Odds were that Sabin would be there. Great! Why couldn’t the hatch be at the rear of this stupid ship? She looked to the right and saw an airlock near the aft end of the ship. Choosing that option, she headed right.

  But as she approached the airlock, she saw a panel open dead ahead, into what appeared to be an engineering bay. And she heard voices. Sabin and the other man must be in there, but she needed to be sure before she changed course and went too close to the cockpit. She flattened herself against the wall and edged closer.

  "So where ya going after you leave Calt?" a youthful male voice asked.

  "I'm making a stop at Star Base Intrepid," came Sabin's deeper voice. "Hoping to find some space scum there."

  Reassured of the whereabouts of both men, Moriah changed direction and moved quietly to the hatch at the ship’s fore. Praying that the control panel wouldn't send a signal when she opened the hatch, she activated the mechanism, waited for the panel to slide up, and stepped out onto the hard sand. So far, so good.

  She staggered quickly away from the ship, taking cover behind a nearby outcropping of rock. Sagging against the rough surface, she rested, trying to recover some strength. The heavy, humid air made it difficult to breathe, but after a few moments, she felt stronger. Even better, she saw no signs of anyone leaving the ship. Encouraged, knowing the Jaccian poison would work its way out of her system as time passed, she left the shelter of the rocks.

  Nightfall lent much-needed cover. The twin full moons guided her. She remained in the shadows of ships and then buildings, stopping to rest and gather her hair into a bun. Her luck held, as no one came after her, and she finally made it back to Giza's without running into any lowlifes on the way.

  Once there, luck abandoned her. Rather than risk going back inside, she went to the bar's rear entrance. Since Thorne never gave information freely, she pulled out some miterons. It was then that she discovered her ID disc was gone. She knew who had it. Sabin Travers—if that was his real name, which she seriously doubted. Well, no matter. She had other IDs on Risa.

  When the agitated little Thorne popped his oversized head out the back door, she enticed information from him with some miterons. But the news was devastating. "Fletch wa-s-ss here
er-er-earlier," Thorne stammered. "But he s-s-seemed real nervous and l-left."

  Moriah’s heart sank. "He left? How long ago?"

  "About an h-hour." Thorne scampered back inside.

  Her thoughts spun through several possibilities. Fletch often had money lenders after him; plus there was a bounty on his head, so he had to avoid shadowers. He was probably lying low. Hopefully, he'd be waiting for her at his ship. She'd go to his landing pad. She would be all too glad to leave Calt, which ought to make Sabin Travers very happy.

  Unbidden memories of his kiss slid into her thoughts. No man had ever kissed her like that. The kiss blazed in her mind, as if it had been branded there by its very intensity. She could still feel Sabin's hard body dominating hers, feel the heat and texture and taste of him. And most shocking of all, how she had responded to him, at least momentarily, before the familiar feelings of disgust interceded.

  She wouldn't have allowed it if she hadn't been weakened by that damn Jaccian wound, she told herself. Absolutely not allowed it. Curse Sabin Travers anyway. If he hadn't dragged her out of Giza's, she might have found Fletch before she'd passed out.

  Shaking away the memory, Moriah headed toward the landing strip. Her progress was slow, for by now, she was physically depleted. She again stayed in the shadows to avoid running into trouble. Relief pumped through her as she neared the landing pad. She couldn't get off this planet fast enough. When she did, she would—she stopped dead in her tracks.

  Fletch's ship was gone.

  She stared at the empty pad, hoping against hope she'd taken a wrong turn in the shadows, that it was the wrong landing pad. But she knew it wasn't. The odd cryptic figures someone had scratched in the sand were still there, and Fletch's pad number was etched into her memory.