under his breath, relenting. He couldn't remember the last time his words alone had made a woman blush. Her unexpected innocence captivated him as much as her spirit and intelligence. "Go on. Sample the liqueur."
Self-consciously, she licked her bottom lip. "It is delicious"—her eyes narrowed—"and alcoholic."
"Very much so." Rom clinked his glass to hers. "Now we empty our cups." When she finished, he asked, "What do you say we have dinner? Perhaps we can get to know each other better over a good meal." He motioned for her to follow. They paused several times to peruse the artwork adorning the walls. After explaining the history behind the Centaurian weavings in his collection, he led her to a nest of pillows surrounding the dinner table.
"No salt?" she asked warily.
"I have some if you wish to add it to the food."
"No. Thank you." She grimaced. "The crew ate a year's worth at breakfast. Do you have a doctor on board? Has he checked your"—she searched for words in a way he found surprisingly endearing—"blood pressure lately?"
He laughed. "The salt is a rare treat. I thought the crew deserved it after the months wasted in your system. By tomorrow, what I gave them will be gone, and they'll be back to normal fare. In the absence of salt, we spice our food differently." He waved at the festively set table. Dropping gracefully to the floor, she slipped off her shoes. Above her left heel was a tiny, fresh cut. A similar wound marred her ankle.
"Have you encountered sharp edges in your quarters?" he asked. "I'll call Terz for repairs."
She dropped her face into her palms and groaned.
"What is it?" he asked worriedly.
She lowered her hands. "I showered too slowly this morning. Since you do not allow more than one shower per day, I had to shave my legs with lotion." Her cheeks colored further.
"You shave the hair from your legs? The way a man removes his beard?"
"Yes, I do."
His loins tightened. He had a dozen related questions he wanted to ask her but didn't know where to begin.
As if she sensed the direction of his thoughts, she said in accented, carefully worded Basic, "I hope you do not mind if we talk about something else. Surely there are more engaging topics than my poor leg-shaving technique." With a supple flex of the muscles in her calves, she pointed her toes, then curled her legs to one side, eliciting in him a sharp, erotic image of those strong, long legs wrapped over his hips, squeezing him as he made thorough and delicious love to her.
"For instance," she said, splintering his reverie. "I want to know about your clothing. The workmanship is lovely. All the clothes I have seen here are this way. Not manufactured, like on Earth. May I?" She reached for his shirtsleeve and rubbed the material between her fingers. "So soft... I am an artist—I paint. But I often wonder if it is not the wrong medium, because I have always loved fabrics."
"This is not a surprise. As an artist your senses are tuned to a higher level. Smell and touch, sight and sound, and, of course, taste." His gaze lingered on her throat, then her mouth. "They affect you more than other people."
Jas snapped her hand back into her lap. It was new to her, this kind of deep and meaningful eye contact. Flattered, self-conscious, and despising her lack of sophistication, she studied her clasped hands. "Are your pants of the same fabric as your shirt?"
"Yes. Nandan silk."
"Nandan silk." She savored the exotic name, pictured delicate, amber-skinned women using looms on a distant tropical planet. "From plant or animal?"
"Plant. The strands are made from the sap of a willow found on the planet Nanda. The trees aren't grown anywhere else. It's forbidden to take the seeds off-planet, making the cloth rare and beyond the reach of all but the very wealthy."
"Business must be good for you to be able to afford such luxuries."
He gave a soft laugh. "Not
Self-consciously, she licked her bottom lip. "It is delicious"—her eyes narrowed—"and alcoholic."
"Very much so." Rom clinked his glass to hers. "Now we empty our cups." When she finished, he asked, "What do you say we have dinner? Perhaps we can get to know each other better over a good meal." He motioned for her to follow. They paused several times to peruse the artwork adorning the walls. After explaining the history behind the Centaurian weavings in his collection, he led her to a nest of pillows surrounding the dinner table.
"No salt?" she asked warily.
"I have some if you wish to add it to the food."
"No. Thank you." She grimaced. "The crew ate a year's worth at breakfast. Do you have a doctor on board? Has he checked your"—she searched for words in a way he found surprisingly endearing—"blood pressure lately?"
He laughed. "The salt is a rare treat. I thought the crew deserved it after the months wasted in your system. By tomorrow, what I gave them will be gone, and they'll be back to normal fare. In the absence of salt, we spice our food differently." He waved at the festively set table. Dropping gracefully to the floor, she slipped off her shoes. Above her left heel was a tiny, fresh cut. A similar wound marred her ankle.
"Have you encountered sharp edges in your quarters?" he asked. "I'll call Terz for repairs."
She dropped her face into her palms and groaned.
"What is it?" he asked worriedly.
She lowered her hands. "I showered too slowly this morning. Since you do not allow more than one shower per day, I had to shave my legs with lotion." Her cheeks colored further.
"You shave the hair from your legs? The way a man removes his beard?"
"Yes, I do."
His loins tightened. He had a dozen related questions he wanted to ask her but didn't know where to begin.
As if she sensed the direction of his thoughts, she said in accented, carefully worded Basic, "I hope you do not mind if we talk about something else. Surely there are more engaging topics than my poor leg-shaving technique." With a supple flex of the muscles in her calves, she pointed her toes, then curled her legs to one side, eliciting in him a sharp, erotic image of those strong, long legs wrapped over his hips, squeezing him as he made thorough and delicious love to her.
"For instance," she said, splintering his reverie. "I want to know about your clothing. The workmanship is lovely. All the clothes I have seen here are this way. Not manufactured, like on Earth. May I?" She reached for his shirtsleeve and rubbed the material between her fingers. "So soft... I am an artist—I paint. But I often wonder if it is not the wrong medium, because I have always loved fabrics."
"This is not a surprise. As an artist your senses are tuned to a higher level. Smell and touch, sight and sound, and, of course, taste." His gaze lingered on her throat, then her mouth. "They affect you more than other people."
Jas snapped her hand back into her lap. It was new to her, this kind of deep and meaningful eye contact. Flattered, self-conscious, and despising her lack of sophistication, she studied her clasped hands. "Are your pants of the same fabric as your shirt?"
"Yes. Nandan silk."
"Nandan silk." She savored the exotic name, pictured delicate, amber-skinned women using looms on a distant tropical planet. "From plant or animal?"
"Plant. The strands are made from the sap of a willow found on the planet Nanda. The trees aren't grown anywhere else. It's forbidden to take the seeds off-planet, making the cloth rare and beyond the reach of all but the very wealthy."
"Business must be good for you to be able to afford such luxuries."
He gave a soft laugh. "Not
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