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  Besides, she needed to focus on placing a patch and escaping. The patch had to be positioned on bare skin, and required a full minute to take effect, which meant she had to place it without Travers being aware of it. She'd have to time it carefully.

  "I trust you slept well?" he broke into her thoughts, his intense perusal of her edging her pulse upward again.

  "Like a baby kerani," she assured him, willing her heart rate to slow.

  He paused, looking right above her shoulders. "You put it up." He sounded disappointed.

  She stared at him, uncomprehending. "Put what up?"

  "Never mind. Ready for the morning meal?" He stood back, and she led the way to the galley. She wondered if she should try to place the patch in the galley or wait until later.

  "What would you like?" he asked as they stepped inside. "Amargrain or protein sticks?"

  "We had that last night."

  "I like protein sticks and amargrain."

  Noting the overly nonchalant look on his face, Moriah placed her hands on her hips. "I'll bet that's all you know how to replicate."

  He shrugged. "So what if it is? You don't know how to replicate anything."

  She had refused to learn. During the nightmarish time she'd been in Pax's clutches, he had tried to force her, but she had been pushed enough. She'd been determined to defy him in this one thing, even if it was small. As if it really mattered. Pax had already taken everything else.

  But now she was condemned to a diet of protein sticks and amargrain. She threw up her hands. "Got any prepackaged foods?"

  "If that's what you want. Look behind that panel there."

  So he wasn't going to turn his back to her for any reason. His caution would make planting a patch difficult. But she had learned the value of patience. She'd wait for the right opportunity.

  After they ate, Sabin took her into the cockpit, so he could check and send messages, and conduct his business, whatever that was. He set his secondary computer on read-only access to IAR— Information and Retrieval—so Moriah would have something to do while he worked.

  She half-heartedly scanned through data, covertly observing her captor. He downloaded a very large file and read it intently. She'd have liked to know what the file contained. But for the time being, she simply watched him. Strange, but now that she was reasonably certain Sabin wouldn't kill her or force his attentions upon her, she felt more relaxed around him. She began to wonder what made him tick. "So, what do you do?" she asked casually.

  He looked up, shaking away an expression of deep concentration. "You mean, when I'm not dealing with troublesome stowaways?" Clicking off his screen, he leaned back in his chair. "That's a good question." He steepled his fingers together thoughtfully. "I guess you could say I'm a trader—a merchant of sorts."

  She looked around the cockpit incredulously. "With this refuse crate? Where is your cargo?"

  "I unloaded the cargo just before I discovered you stowed away on my ship. I have to pick up more goods—after I deal with you. Those five cycles are really going to cost me, lady."

  More than you think, Moriah thought. Although she didn't see how he could consider his ship being confiscated such a great loss. She might even be doing him a favor. Not only that, Shielders certainly couldn't afford to pay him much for delivering supplies. Most of them were reputed to be destitute. Sabin must have other sources of income.

  "If you only deliver cargo to—to people like we just left, then I don't see how you can survive," she pointed out.

  His dark eyebrows arched. "People like we just left, eh? What sort of people are those?"

  Back to the lanrax-and-krat game again. "I certainly have no idea. But delivering supplies to small colonies can't be very profitable."

  "I do well enough."

  Which meant his activities were probably as illegal as hers were. "What kind of supplies do you deliver?"

  "Not supplies, necessarily. Merchandise is more like it. I deliver…certain goods. Naturally, I get paid for those goods."

  "Always on the proper side of the Ordinances, of course."

  "Absolutely. As a matter of fact, the Controllers approve heartily of the merchandise I deliver."

  A shudder ran through Moriah at the mention of the Controllers. A more heinous group of beings had never existed. For some strange reason, it bothered her that Sabin might have sold his soul in a pact with the evil rulers of the quadrant. Especially since he was a Shielder, which meant he dealt with the same beings who wanted to destroy his entire race.

  "I should have guessed you'd be in cahoots with them," she said.

  He stiffened, his relaxed demeanor changing to one of cold anger, his eyes icing over like one of Atara's glaciers. "I'm not. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking that. As I said, I deliver certain goods to them, but that's as far as it goes. We've discussed this enough."

  He clicked his screen back on, signaling the end of the conversation. She still didn't know much about the man. Not that she needed to know anything except how to get a lethean patch on him without his knowledge.

  She studied him as he read, trying to decide where to place the patch. He'd pulled his hair behind his neck, securing it with a leather strap, so she couldn't use the back of his neck. He'd also zipped his flightsuit up fully. Only his face, the front of his neck, and his hands offered any bare areas of skin. Not very good odds of succeeding, since she needed a full minute without him realizing the patch was there. Frustrated, she knew she had to bide her time a while longer.

  After Sabin finished reading his downloads, they returned to the galley for lunch—more protein sticks and amargrain. Then they went back to the cockpit, where he worked more until the evening meal. Used to long forays into space, Moriah didn't find anything unusual about his routine. Outside of exercising and performing basic ship maintenance, there wasn't much to occupy the time. Every space traveler relied heavily on computers to fill the long hours—for navigation, communications, information, and entertainment.

  As she and Sabin finished the evening meal, she wondered how he filled what most spacers considered the loneliest hours of all, the evening shift. She got an idea when he settled into his chair in the cockpit and reached beneath the console to produce a bottle of liquor and two glasses.

  "Care to join me?" he asked, opening the bottle.

  She stared at the liquor. "I don't think so."

  He cocked his head, his dark eyes inquisitive. "What's the matter? You drank in Giza's."

  She could govern her own reaction to alcohol, but she couldn't predict the results of it in Sabin or any other male. She knew from bitter experience how drink had a way of changing a man's behavior. Sometimes to the point where he got out of control, like her father, or Pax.

  A shudder ran through her, but then she realized that this could be an opportunity to place a patch, especially if Sabin drank too much. He might drink more if he had company. "All right. I'll join you."

  He poured two modest portions and handed her one. Then, much to her surprise, he put the bottle away. He took a swig and leaned back with a sigh. She sipped her drink. Warmth immediately spread from her throat into her abdomen. It was good liquor, and very strong. She'd have to drink sparingly.

  They sat in silence for a time, staring toward the large portal. Lulled by the mesmerizing spacescape, Moriah felt herself relaxing, but only for the moment. Her precarious situation as Sabin's hostage was never far from her thoughts.

  She took another sip. "What will it take to convince you to disclose our destination?"

  He lounged back in his chair. Her heart lurched as she belatedly realized the potential innuendo he might have read in her request. How could she keep forgetting the inherent danger all men posed?

  "Tell you what," he finally answered. "I'll let you see the destination screen if you'll take down your hair."

  He'd surprised her again. His request raised her suspicions. It sounded innocuous, but there could always be hidden intention. "Take down my hair? That's
all?"

  "If I were asking for more, I would have said so." He shrugged. "Of course, if you don't care to know where we're going…"

  Part of her wanted to demand why he would make such a request; at the same time, she didn't want to know. Didn't want to see Sabin's darker side. He knew she'd do as he asked, damn him. Slowly, she raised her hands and released the pins holding her hair. It fell against her shoulders in soft tangles.

  "Shake it out," he ordered, his voice smooth and dark as ebony Saija silk.

  Surprised to find her fingers trembling, she combed them through the tangles. Curious little tremors ran through her body. She shook her head, and strangely, for the first time, the weight of her hair against her chest felt almost sensuous. No more liquor for her, she decided. The small amount she had sipped was affecting her more than she had realized.

  "Very nice," he murmured.

  Oddly disconcerted, she tried to ignore the way he stared at her. Pax used to look at her like that, just before he—she clenched the arms of her chair, forcing away the memory.

  Sabin reached over, entering a sequence that turned on the navigational screen. She rose and leaned across the console to see the screen, which read: Destination: Elysia.

  "Elysia? Surely you can find someplace closer to have my memory altered."

  He turned off the screen. "I suppose. But I'd rather take you to someone I trust. Darya is a good healer. She knows how to do a memory procedure safely."

  Safely? Was he really concerned about her welfare? Or was it more likely Darya wouldn't ask any questions? Baffled, Moriah retreated to the portal. Sabin confused her. Honorable behavior was not something she'd witnessed in many men. She felt a twinge of regret about her plans for drugging him. The least she could do was express gratitude for his leniency. She turned from the portal. "Thank you for sparing my life."

  He rose and joined her. He stood so close, she could smell his scent—clean, woodsy, male. His near proximity unsettled her, but she resisted the urge to move away. She would not retreat.

  He stared out the portal. "A life," he murmured. "Just a life. So fragile, so temporary. So dispensable, it seems. At least, in this quadrant." Idly, he reached out and captured a strand of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. "So much ugliness, yet so much beauty."

  Moriah's heart skittered into a rapid beat. The cockpit suddenly seemed much smaller, and a sizzling energy charged the air. She stared at Sabin's fingers tangled in her hair and tried to draw air into her lungs. Looking up, she found his gaze, burning hotter than a nova, fixed on her.

  "So much beauty," he repeated hoarsely. He moved closer, cupping her shoulders. She couldn't move, couldn't think of anything but the feel of his hands, warm, possessive. Not sure whether to fight or flee, she froze, like a creature caught in a snare. Unconsciously, she chewed her bottom lip. His attention shifted there. "Damn," he muttered. "Curse me for a fool, but I've wanted to do this again."

  His fingers tunneled up through her hair, cradling the sides of her head. He tilted her face up. Belatedly, she realized his intent. Before she could react, his mouth claimed hers. His lips settled over hers, gentle persuasion edged with inexorable determination. His tongue teased her lips, demanding entry. The strong need for self-preservation spurred her resistance, but she forced herself to stand still.

  He slid one hand down the side of her face. Drawing back, he hovered an atom's breadth from her mouth. "Open for me," he commanded huskily.

  When she didn’t, he placed his thumb against her chin, using it as leverage to coax open her mouth. His tongue slipped inside, stroking slowly, thoroughly. Electricity arched between them. Shocking, unfamiliar sensations stampeded through her body

  Stunned, she grabbed his shoulders to steady her reeling equilibrium. She thought briefly of retreating, but he moved one hand to her waist and pressed her against him, while the other hand captured the back of her head.

  He tasted like liquor, the texture of his lips and tongue oddly stimulating. Heightened awareness imprinted the sensation of his body against hers—the feel of hard muscles molded to her softer curves, the heat of a thousand suns scorching her through the flightsuit.

  The warmth spiraled through her, into her chest, and pooled much lower. She felt weak, pliant…What was happening to her? Sudden dread surfaced through the lethargy, washing over her in cold waves of reason. Forcing her hands between them, she pushed hard. Sabin released her. Gasping, she backed away.

  He stared at her, chest heaving, his face harsh with the familiar, inflamed expression she had learned brought only pain. "So what's wrong with me?" he demanded.

  Moriah pressed her fingers against her mouth, taking another step back. She was no virgin, yet Sabin was the first man who had ever kissed her. She'd refused to let Pax do that, turning her face away from his foul breath, even as he had forced himself on her. She knew such contact with Pax would only have been repulsive, while with Sabin, it was overwhelming, intense.

  Damn him. She'd never let him know how a simple kiss had thrown her off kilter. Nor would it happen again. "I've had better," she countered. "A lot better."

  He stiffened as if she'd stunned him. "Great. Just great. Now you're a judge of technique." Looking for all the universe like a sulking child, he stalked to the console and began switching the systems to auto mode. "Time to call it a night."

  The shrill beep of the subspace transceiver invaded the tension. "Who the hell is that?" He turned and punched the pad. "Travers here."

  "Hello friend," drawled a male voice. "Somehow I knew I'd find you there."

  Sabin went deathly still. "Who is this?"

  "Don't you recognize me, Travers? I'm devastated. After all we've been through together. At least, all you have been through. I've found your pathetic efforts to catch me a mere inconvenience."

  Sabin's face hardened. "Galen," he gritted out.

  "Oh, you do know me. That's better."

  Sinking into his chair, Sabin turned on the viewscreen. Curious, Moriah moved closer. The screen remained blank. "Show yourself, damn you!" he hissed.

  "Always so impatient. Always wanting your way. Time you learned respect, boy."

  Sabin's eyes narrowed to slits. "How did you get this frequency?"

  "I got it from a friend of yours. Actually, I came into possession of his ship, and I got it from his communications log. What was his name? Oh, yes. Aron, I believe. Too bad about his run in with the controllers."

  "You sorry son of an Antek! You're lying."

  "Why would I do that, Travers? Besides, I'm contacting you. How could I know this frequency if Aron hadn't…bequeathed it to me?"

  Sabin rapidly entered commands on his keyboard, apparently trying to lock onto Galen's location. "So why are you contacting me, you bastard?"

  "Now is that any way to talk to an old acquaintance? After all, I'm going out of my way to tell you about Aron and offer my condolences. Besides, I thought you might like to meet my new partner."

  The viewscreen flashed on, showing two figures. Moriah gasped in surprise. She'd never seen the gray-haired, bearded man with pale, malevolent eyes before, but she would know Turlock anywhere.

  Half-Antek, he had a large head with a partial snout and greedy, beaded eyes. She stepped back quickly so he wouldn't see her. They might even be calling from her ship that Turlock had stolen on Calt.

  "Greetings, Travers," Turlock snorted. "Sorry about your buddy. I heard he died like a coward."

  "You know you'll never get away with this, Galen," Sabin growled. "You'll pay for your crimes. You'll die a slow, torturous death."

  "My, my. You're as bloodthirsty as my new partner here. You won't ever catch me, Travers. Now I've added two more ships to my fleet—Aron's long-range cruiser and another newly acquired spacecraft, which is a real beauty. How will you ever know what ship I'm using? And you can't track what you don't recognize. Even if you could, you'd never catch up with me. Not with that junk heap of yours," Galen leered. "Anyway, I just wanted say hello.
Enjoy your evening."

  The viewscreen went blank. "Damn!" Sabin roared, pounding the console. "I couldn't get a fix." Moriah held her silence, inwardly seething. Those two cretins had her ship. If she ever got her hands on

  Turlock, he'd pay. And Galen…the man radiated evil, so very much like Pax. She shuddered.

  Gripping the edges of the console, Sabin stared at the blank screen. "Blazing hells." He dropped his head, his shoulders sagging. "Aron was a good man."

  "I'm sorry," she offered, moved by his obvious misery. "Did you know him well?"

  "I've known him since I was a boy. We learned to fly together. He was a good friend." He pushed to his feet. "Never know when your time will be up. Galen's time is a lot shorter than the bastard realizes." He gestured toward the entry. "Come on. Let's call it a night."

  As she walked down the corridor ahead of him, Moriah realized she'd let not one, but two, golden opportunities to place a lethean patch, pass her by. If she'd had her wits about her when Sabin kissed her, she could have positioned the patch then. Or while Galen had his attention. But both times, she'd been distracted.

  What was wrong with her? It was unlike her to lose focus. Sabin Travers seemed to have the ability to shake her up and cloud her reason. She couldn't allow that to happen again. She had to grab the next opportunity that presented itself.

  Unfortunately, finding the right opportunity might prove difficult. She needed two conditions to succeed. Sabin would have to bare more skin, and his attention would have to be diverted. With startling clarity, the solution leaped into her mind—the one sure way to create the necessary scenario.

  Seduce him.

  Almost stumbling, she pressed a hand against the wall to steady herself. No. The very idea sent panic through her body. Her heart pounded, her breathing grew ragged. After Pax, she had sworn she would never again barter her body. She couldn't do it. Could not do it.

  Stop it! she told herself. She had to do it, pride be damned and nightmare memories cast aside. Because if she didn't, if she failed, everything she'd worked so hard for could be lost. The others were depending on her. She had survived such degradation before. She could again.