He unlatched one chair and carried it back to the cockpit. She did turn around then, watching as he latched the chair down to the metal grid on the floor of the cockpit. Right beside her. He gave it an experimental shake and was glad to see that it didn’t budge.

“Now you have a copilot.” He dropped into the seat and fought his smile when she scowled at him.

Swiveling back to the control panel, she punched in the launch sequence. The ship hummed to life. The bay doors retracted, revealing the darkness of space, the multitudes of star systems and the gleaming lights of 8th Wing ships on patrol. His pulse kicked a little just to see it. Didn’t matter how many times he launched for his own patrol or on a mission. In some ways, he was still that dirty-faced kid staring up at the night sky, wishing himself among the stars.

This wasn’t a routine mission, not by a long shot. He had a difficult task ahead of him, and an even more difficult woman beside him.

The lights from the control panel illuminated her face, and again he was struck by how incongruously aristocratic she looked, how coolly beautiful. The sidelong glance she gave him,

though, revealed that she was profoundly unnerved by his presence.

Well, she rattled him too. They were even.

“Launching,” she murmured, “in five, four, three, two, one. Hang on to your balls, Commander.”

They blasted off.

Chapter Two

The ship was too small. It never had been before. There had always been plenty of room for her. Mara knew that technically, the Arcadia hadn’t actually shrunk. But now the bulkheads felt too close, the passageways too narrow, and the cockpit felt like a Meruvian snuffbox.

Not very difficult to find the culprit behind the Arcadia’s sudden loss of size.

As she piloted toward the Smoke Quadrant, she sent another wary glance out of the corner of her eye. The 8th Wing flyboy was studying the control panel intently, his dark brows drawn down in concentration. His presence beside her was large, warm, masculine. Foreign. Unwanted.

“Planning a mutiny?”

Frayne didn’t look up from his scrutiny of the controls. “If I jettison you, I can’t get to the Smoke Quadrant.”

Nice. “Why the inspection?”

“I always learn whatever ship I’m on. Never know when I’ll need to take the controls.”

Mara bristled. “You aren’t getting your hands on my ship. I promise you that.”

He turned to her, and even this slight adjustment of his posture made her feel hemmed in,

overwhelmed. She told herself it was because he was 8th Wing, a representative of everything she avoided—order, discipline, regulations. Obligations. Yet she knew, deep down, that his gray uniform accounted for only a very small part of what unsettled her.

His eyes, darker than the depths of space, held hers. “Tell me what I can get my hands on.”

“Keep them to yourself,” she snapped, but a pulse of heat worked through her.

He lifted his broad shoulders in a negligent shrug. Yet he wasn’t as indifferent as he tried to look.

Mara felt his gaze on her as she slid out of her seat to make some adjustments to the ship’s climate controls. Felt his gaze all over her body. It was too damned hot in here.

“How long until the Smoke Quadrant’s outer perimeter?”

“About twenty solar hours.”

With a muttered curse, he surged to his feet to stand in the galley space behind the cockpit. He prowled like a caged beast, all sinewy, supple motion. Even though she stayed in the cockpit while he paced in the galley, she was still able to sense the power of his body. His large hands clenched and unclenched reflexively.

“We need to talk strategy. Part of me just wants to go in with guns blazing—but I know that can’t happen.”

“It’s got to be on the quiet.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he moved. A man his size shouldn’t be so graceful, yet he was, and the contrast between his masculinity and the sleek motion felt unexpectedly potent.

“Any sign of trouble, and our leads dry up.”

“Exactly.” She managed to pry her gaze away to study the chart on the control panel. “The best intel about moving black market goods is on Ryge. I should start there.”

“We,” he said. “We should start there.”

She blew out an impatient breath. “I don’t work with we, just me.”

“Until Lieutenant Jur and her ship are safe, it’s we.” He crossed his arms over his wide chest.

“And in order for us to function properly as a team, you will tell me everything about this Ryge.”

“Here’s a communication for you, Commander,” she said. “I’m not one of your Black Ghost—”

“Black Wraith.”

She waved a hand, dismissing this. “I’m not part of your squad, and I’m not 8th Wing. The Arcadia is my ship. So you can’t order me around. If you want to know something, you ask. Got it?”

His jaw tightened. It took several moments before he spoke. “Agreed.” His voice was a hard growl. “Tell me about Ryge. Please.”

Mara bit back a smile. There was something distinctly arousing about a strong, attractive man saying “please.” Even if she couldn’t stand the man on principle.

She tapped a few keys on the control panel, and a small holo of the planet Ryge appeared,

flickering in the half light of the cockpit. “Most of the wheeling and dealing in the Smoke is done on Ryge. If someone wants to move merch or do some trading, they come here.”

“Any cities?”

“A few, but if you really want the best goods, you go to Beskidt By.” She tapped the controls again, and the holo zoomed in on the city, sprawling like a gaudy fungus on the face of Ryge. “Once I — we,” she corrected quickly, “get there, we’ll have a better idea as to where the lieutenant and her ship might be.” She glanced at the commander. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to stay with the Arcadia while I do recon.”

“No.”

Right. She should have figured. Commander Frayne liked to be in control at all times. Made her wonder what might happen if he ever lost it. Made her wonder what could force him to lose that precious control.

“You’re going to have to lose the uniform.” She eyed the garment in question. Frayne in his 8th Wing flight suit gave her lots of unwanted ideas. “There’s no way anyone is going to give us any information about black market deals with you dressed like that.”

“Taken care of. I brought civvies.”

“Show me.”

“Now who’s giving orders?” But he actually smiled, and Mara was totally unprepared at how it transformed his face from tough and austere to flat-out gorgeous. His smile revealed a tiny dimple near the corner of his mouth, as though some hidden scoundrel lurked beneath the surface of the hard warrior.

She had a weakness for scoundrels.

“Get the damned bag,” she muttered.

Surprisingly, he did. She remained in the cockpit, but as he bent and rummaged through his gear she was treated to the sight of his tight, firm ass. By Oshun, she wanted to bite him on one taut cheek.

He straightened and caught her ogling his behind. She had seen some of the infamous fertility rites on Ruva Nu without batting an eye, but now she blushed. The look he gave her was questioning, faintly mocking. And yet…she wasn’t mistaken. His gaze met hers, gleaming with an answering interest.

Without speaking, he tossed a bundle of clothing toward her. She snagged the clothes from midair before examining them.

“Those better meet with your approval.” He nodded toward the garments. “Because they’re all I’ve got.”

She held them up for inspection. The shirt was huge—if she wore it, the thing would come down to her knees—and perfectly ordinary. A little plain, actually. Same with the pants. Everything felt a little stiff in her hands, as if they were seldom worn. He wasn’t out of uniform often.

Her tongue clicked in disapproval. “Terrible.” She threw the clothes back at him.

He grabbed them and scowled. “What? They’re fine.”

“Those clothes make me sleepy.”

“So I’m not a fashion vid. That shouldn’t matter.”

She snorted. “Where smugglers are concerned, appearance counts for a lot. It’s all about flash.

I’m going to change when we get to Ryge, but if you stroll into Beskidt By wearing that stuff,

everyone’s going to know you don’t belong. Then good luck trying to get any intel.”

“There’s no time for any side trips to a shopping barge.” Irritation roughened his voice.

“Wait here.” A few adjustments to put the ship on autopilot, then she hopped up from her seat in the cockpit. She spent an uncomfortable, arousing moment edging past him as she threaded through the galley where he stood. She and Frayne kept bumping into each other as she tried to get through the galley. They both breathed in sharply at the brief contact.

She finally dashed out of the galley and down the passage toward her quarters. Once inside, she opened a storage panel, then pulled out a battered trunk. The thing was a little heavy, so she dragged it back down the passage to the galley.

Frayne watched her curiously as she opened it. “There should be some things in here that will fit you.” She rifled around until she produced some shirts and pants. “Maybe these.”

“What the hell are you doing with men’s clothing?”

She shrugged. “Souvenirs and trophies.”

He glowered ferociously. “I’m supposed to wear the cast-offs of your lovers?”

“Not lovers,” she corrected. He looked almost relieved until she added, “I had sex with them,