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Authors: Susan Grant
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to the cluster of prettily curled ribbons he'd tied on his—
She gave her head a shake. The neighbors had loved it.
But, delivering a dark stranger to scare her late at night when he knew she was alone? Flash wouldn't do that.
"Flash… ?" The stranger brought his hand to his chin.
It was a suave, almost aristocratic-looking gesture. There was something vaguely familiar about it. Maybe she had dated this guy. No, he exuded sophistication, confidence. And sex. She would have remembered him.
He dropped his hand slowly. His mirrored glasses glinted. "My apologies. I don't have all my English yet."
"Well, good luck in finding it," she called cheerily and clicked the digital keypad on her keychain. Her front door unlocked with a sharp click. Her escape route was ready.
"Wait. Please."
Breathless, she turned back to the man who stood too few steps below her. She'd bolt into her condo if he made any attempt to charge up the stairs, but he didn't.
A porchlight made a circle of brighter illumination near the base of the stairs, and the stranger stepped slowly into it. Ilana squinted at him, trying to discern features, scats, tattoos— any identifying characteristics that she could pass along to the police when they asked.
He had an angular jaw and sculpted cheekbones. His smooth skin reminded her of the color one turned when one overdid sunless tanning cream. But there were no streaks. His was the real thing. In contrast to his bronzed skin, his hair was blond, but warm and dark like cinnamon sticks.
Exactly the color of her stepfather Rom's hair.
Her heart rate picked up. With those glasses covering his eyes, he could pass for a Vash Nadah.
She almost snorted. Right. Vash Nadah didn't bebop around Santa Monica on a Friday night. Or any night.
Despite the ridiculousness of the idea, Ilana took a closer look at him.
He was dressed expensively and well— Armani, if she wasn't mistaken— in a black, conservatively cut suit. But it was more than the clothing that unnerved her; the stranger carried himself with the aloof arrogance characteristic of galactic royal men.
Or rich sheiks from Arabia. Hmm. Good point. That he was a wealthy foreigner was more likely, though no less bizarre. No Vash Nadah would chase her down at night, alone, unless his intent was to assassinate her— a theory too far-fetched for even her worst-case-scenario mind to consider. She wasn't a threat to the Vash Nadah; she wasn't even a blip on their xenophobic radar. Unlike the rest of her family, she stayed out of politics and galactic affairs. She lived anonymously on Earth, and intended to continue doing so. The Vash would have figured that out by now.
Oblivious to the fact that she'd just processed five hours of mental information in 3.0 seconds— "thought warp," her brother Ian called it— the rich sheik/highly paid assassin/garden-variety creep wrapped his hand around the banister.
Ilana aimed her pepper spray. "Talk to me from down there."
He obeyed with the utmost deference. "Ilana Hamilton." He sounded less sure now. "She lives here, yes?"
"Why?"
"She is to assist me."
"I am? "You have fifteen seconds to tell me why you're here and what you want, and then I'm shutting the door."
He hesitated long enough to worry her. "You are Ilana. Ian did not tell you?"
Tell me what?" She gripped the pepper spray so tightly that she briefly wondered if she'd explode the can. Women had been known to lift cars off injured children. It could happen.
The man rubbed his face as if he were exhausted. Well, that made two of them. If it weren't for him, she'd be in bed by now.
"Ah. I see this problem now," he said.
"What freaking problem?" Her patience was shot.
"You did not expect me. My apologies."
Off came the glasses, revealing a pair of startlingly pale gold eyes. She wanted to suck in a breath, but her diaphragm didn't seem to be working.
Pressing one fist over his chest, the man bowed his head. "Ché, firstborn prince of the Vedlas," he
She gave her head a shake. The neighbors had loved it.
But, delivering a dark stranger to scare her late at night when he knew she was alone? Flash wouldn't do that.
"Flash… ?" The stranger brought his hand to his chin.
It was a suave, almost aristocratic-looking gesture. There was something vaguely familiar about it. Maybe she had dated this guy. No, he exuded sophistication, confidence. And sex. She would have remembered him.
He dropped his hand slowly. His mirrored glasses glinted. "My apologies. I don't have all my English yet."
"Well, good luck in finding it," she called cheerily and clicked the digital keypad on her keychain. Her front door unlocked with a sharp click. Her escape route was ready.
"Wait. Please."
Breathless, she turned back to the man who stood too few steps below her. She'd bolt into her condo if he made any attempt to charge up the stairs, but he didn't.
A porchlight made a circle of brighter illumination near the base of the stairs, and the stranger stepped slowly into it. Ilana squinted at him, trying to discern features, scats, tattoos— any identifying characteristics that she could pass along to the police when they asked.
He had an angular jaw and sculpted cheekbones. His smooth skin reminded her of the color one turned when one overdid sunless tanning cream. But there were no streaks. His was the real thing. In contrast to his bronzed skin, his hair was blond, but warm and dark like cinnamon sticks.
Exactly the color of her stepfather Rom's hair.
Her heart rate picked up. With those glasses covering his eyes, he could pass for a Vash Nadah.
She almost snorted. Right. Vash Nadah didn't bebop around Santa Monica on a Friday night. Or any night.
Despite the ridiculousness of the idea, Ilana took a closer look at him.
He was dressed expensively and well— Armani, if she wasn't mistaken— in a black, conservatively cut suit. But it was more than the clothing that unnerved her; the stranger carried himself with the aloof arrogance characteristic of galactic royal men.
Or rich sheiks from Arabia. Hmm. Good point. That he was a wealthy foreigner was more likely, though no less bizarre. No Vash Nadah would chase her down at night, alone, unless his intent was to assassinate her— a theory too far-fetched for even her worst-case-scenario mind to consider. She wasn't a threat to the Vash Nadah; she wasn't even a blip on their xenophobic radar. Unlike the rest of her family, she stayed out of politics and galactic affairs. She lived anonymously on Earth, and intended to continue doing so. The Vash would have figured that out by now.
Oblivious to the fact that she'd just processed five hours of mental information in 3.0 seconds— "thought warp," her brother Ian called it— the rich sheik/highly paid assassin/garden-variety creep wrapped his hand around the banister.
Ilana aimed her pepper spray. "Talk to me from down there."
He obeyed with the utmost deference. "Ilana Hamilton." He sounded less sure now. "She lives here, yes?"
"Why?"
"She is to assist me."
"I am? "You have fifteen seconds to tell me why you're here and what you want, and then I'm shutting the door."
He hesitated long enough to worry her. "You are Ilana. Ian did not tell you?"
Tell me what?" She gripped the pepper spray so tightly that she briefly wondered if she'd explode the can. Women had been known to lift cars off injured children. It could happen.
The man rubbed his face as if he were exhausted. Well, that made two of them. If it weren't for him, she'd be in bed by now.
"Ah. I see this problem now," he said.
"What freaking problem?" Her patience was shot.
"You did not expect me. My apologies."
Off came the glasses, revealing a pair of startlingly pale gold eyes. She wanted to suck in a breath, but her diaphragm didn't seem to be working.
Pressing one fist over his chest, the man bowed his head. "Ché, firstborn prince of the Vedlas," he
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