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WINNER TAKES ALL
By
Marie Harte
© copyright by Marie Harte, April 2005
Cover Art by Eliza Black, © copyright April 2005
ISBN 1-58608-575-1
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
"No."
"But Gren, you haven't heard--"
"No." Gren shook his head. "Not yes, not maybe, but no." Stretched out on a lounge chair by the side of the pool, the stubborn man sighed and closed his eyes, shutting out the rest of the world.
Sernal of Mardu clenched his jaw. Why had he expected the damned mercenary to hear him out? He glanced around at the tropical paradise surrounding them and grudgingly acknowledged Gren's refusal. What could Sernal offer to compare with a few weeks in paradise?
The resort overlooked Aflera's largest ocean, blushing under the noon sun. Not a cloud marred the sky, creating a scene of almost unreal perfection. Large, green leafed palms surrounded the resort, framing the ocean's beauty. From Sernal's vantage, he overlooked the lavender pool in front of him. Beyond the pool lay white sand so soft the grains felt like silk under one's feet, and the pale rose-colored ocean water teamed with finwhales, mraun fish, and a myriad of delectable marine food available on the resort's high-priced, gourmet menu.
Sernal sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "Can I at least buy you a drink?"
Gren eyed him suspiciously before nodding. They sat in silence for a moment before an extremely attractive woman joined them. Gren leaned back in the lounger, sighing under the ministrations of his personal thraia, one of the resort's legendary massage therapists.
As her many hands crept over Gren's neck, shoulders and arms, Sernal repressed a wave of envy to have those gifted hands over his body. Native to the planet, the thraia had an innate skill for pleasure. With six hands and eight digits on each hand, they made a simple massage orgasmic. And the sex, he paused and stared at the thraia's sensual eyes half-closed in concentration, the sex was rumored to be indescribably erotic.
"I'll take the drink, Sernal, but nothing else." Gren murmured something unintelligible to the thraia that had her giggling before she left. "Talk about wainu," he said with a groan as he rolled his shoulders. "I've found utter peace without sex. I wouldn't have believed it possible before now."
Sernal waved down a server and ordered them two Aflera Ambrosias. As he watched the server leave, he wondered how best to reintroduce his needs to the wary mercenary.
If he hadn't needed Gren's particular skills so badly, he would have left the overtaxed man alone. But with so many women gone missing in so little time, he needed the legendary Thesha's gifts, and the sooner the better.
Staring at Gren's form clad in swimming trousers and nothing else, he subtly approved Gren's musculature, earned from years of harsh discipline and training. Sernal's gaze wandered to Gren's only imperfection, a jagged scar that ran from his left hand up his forearm. Gren had never offered the story behind the scar, and Sernal knew it best not to pry.
Though friends with the Thesha, Sernal instinctively sensed the danger surrounding the larger man. Gren had earned his reputation as a fierce warrior and tenacious adversary, one who had never been beaten.
Gren sighed and rolled his eyes at Sernal's intense gaze. "Sernal, you're steadily becoming a royal pain in my ass. The first time in three years I'm finally able to take a break, and I find you blocking my sun just hours after my arrival. What is it with you Mardu?"
"What can I say? It's in our blood to be persistent."
"I think you mean obnoxious," Gren muttered and accepted the drink the server handed him. He took a long swallow and smiled, the action drawing the stares of several nearby women.
Sernal noticed and shook his head. "Can't you turn it off?"
"You're persistent, I'm desirable." Somehow Gren uttered the words without sounding conceited. "What can I say? It's hereditary." He guzzled his Ambrosia and set the empty glass by his side.
Sernal stared at the glass, amazed Gren had imbibed the strong liquor so quickly. "I'd say your metabolism is nothing short of amazing too."
"I'm surprised you didn't know that." Gren lowered his voice. "Alcohol doesn't affect my kind the way it does others. We have a natural tolerance for fermented fruits. Certain drugs, however," he paused, his expression darkening, "can be lethal."
Sernal saw a golden opportunity and charged forward. "You know how it feels to be powerless all too well, don't you?" It might not have been smart, but reminding Gren of his imprisonment years ago would have more of an impact than a simple entreaty for help. "Imagine helpless young women undergoing what you suffered. Except they don't escape. No one rides in to their rescue."
"I wasn't rescued," Gren said between clenched teeth. "I was two seconds from killing that bitch Cari when you entered the scene, running late as usual." Then he cursed under his breath. "I'm just not going to be rid of you until you tell me what's on your mind, am I?"
Sernal drained the rest of his glass, feeling overly warm as he did so. Unlike the Thesha, the Mardu were susceptible to alcohol. "Nope. So you might as well hear me out."
Gren stared at him for a moment before he stood abruptly, flexing his massive arms as he whipped a towel around his neck. "Fine then. Follow me."
Sernal trailed Gren to the most expensive section of the resort. Whistling as he followed Gren into a suite, Sernal stared in appreciation. "Being a mercenary must pay pretty well."
A small water fountain greeted them when they entered, and the room's soothing hues of amber and pale green blended with the tropical environment directly outside.
Through two open doors leading to an outside balcony, Sernal could clearly see a finwhale leaping in the air before it disappeared beneath the water. The wind blew, rustling the silken drapes framing the balcony doors, and the sweet smell of florantes teased his sensitive nose.
He almost felt bad for what he was about to do to Gren.
"Spill it," Gren ordered and wandered outside on the balcony.
"We have a total of fifteen missing women, all grabbed within the past month. All are from affluent families, and all from different provinces in Mardu."
Gren shrugged. "So tap system law. What do you need me for?"
"There's something about these crimes that smacks of peacemaker corruption."
Gren turned to stare at Sernal. "How so?"
Finally, a spark of interest. Sernal prayed to Flor his luck would continue. "The culprits have kidnapped five of the women from their own security. Eyewitness accounts paint our kidnappers as organized, controlled and possibly military.
"They cover all their bases a little too well. Neither Rafe nor myself has detected a trace of evidence at any of the crime scenes."
The picture Sernal drew intrigued Gren on several levels. The idea of women being misused made him itch uncomfortably to rectify the problem. And the idea that peacemakers were involved, lawmen who--with the exception of Sernal and Rafe--went out of their way to make his life miserable, made Gren's mouth water.
Yet he desperately needed a break. While he stared longingly toward the ocean, his conscience warred with his fatigue. "You say only women are being kidnapped?"
Sernal nodded. "All unusually beautiful and within child-bearing age."
Gren's eyes widened. "You don't think it's another Ebrellion Ring?"
"We don't think so. System Observation Posts report normal Ebrellion activity, all from outside system boundaries. No, these crimes point to an internal threat."
"Any evidence to support that?"
Sernal frowned. "Yes and no. Let's just say it's not enough to prove without a doubt, not yet. I've got my suspicions and a clear direction to begin the hunt, one lead peacemaker in particular. I can tell you these criminals have connections above my pay grade."
Gren stared at him. "So you come to me asking for help."
"You've got the perfect reputation for the job I need done. Your abilities with women will make getting information a cinch. And with your resources you can easily plant one of my people undercover. Don't worry. Rafe will be on hand to assist."
Gren grimaced and saw Sernal's patience thinning.
The lawman narrowed his eyes. "Gren, we're talking about saving the lives of at least fifteen women."
Gren shook his head as the wind whispered, stay. "No." His principles tugged at him while the ocean beckoned a second glance. He stared at the rippling water, imagining himself floating without a care, rebuilding his strength and peace of mind. He would never admit it aloud, but his imprisonment two years ago had taken a toll on him from which he had yet to recover. His nonstop assignments hadn't helped matters either.
"Look, Sernal," he tried, "you have resources far beyond mine. You have an entire planet of lawmen at your disposal, not to mention you're the damned head of Peacemaker Central. Order your most trusted contacts to help you."
Sernal swore. "I'm not the head of 'Peacemaker Central,' as you like to call it. And weren't you listening when I told you we've got rogue peacemakers? They could be anyone, men and women I trust," Sernal muttered with disgust and ran a hand through his hair. "You call me a pain in the ass? Hell," he growled, "it's taking what little control I have not to order you to assist us."
Gren crossed his arms over his chest and locked gazes with Sernal. All the peace he'd felt under the thraia's hands disappeared as the tension that had been building since Sernal stepped into the suite came to a head.
Sernal must have sensed the strain for he straightened, no longer at ease but now on edge, ready to spring into action if necessary. Gren had to hand it to the Mardu. He was a pain in the ass, but a dangerous pain in the ass.
Even so, Gren didn't bow to anyone, not even the Elders. "I dare you to order me to do anything," he said quietly, hoping Sernal would lose his cool so he could legitimately toss him out of the room.
Suddenly, the door to the room flew open and a woman entered in a huff, followed closely by Sernal's brother, Rafe.
"What the hell?" Gren's anger grew as more unwanted guests intruded on his vacation.
"For Narok's sake, Lead Sernal, you should just order him to assist us and be done with it," the woman said, disdain in her voice as she eyed Gren. "It's not as if we don't have enough to worry about without begging for this drun's help."
Gren had to blink at the vision standing before him. He gathered his focus, immediately wary at the strong effect she had on him. He subtly looked to Sernal, wondering if the beauty was part of some plot to snag him into helping. But Sernal didn't look pleased at the interruption. Instead he glared at his brother.
Rafe shrugged. "She distracted me and before I knew it, she was busting in."
The woman glared at Rafe over her shoulder. "If you let a little thing like breasts distract you from your mission, you need remedial training."
Rafe glared back at the icy beauty, but before he could say anything, Gren began to laugh. For the first time since he could remember, a woman responded to the Mardu brothers with scorn rather than passion.
All eyes swung to him as he continued to chuckle. Rafe swore. Sernal closed his eyes, seeming to pray for patience. The woman, however, seethed with resentment. He could almost feel her animosity as she glowered at him.
"She does have a point, Rafe." Gren grinned and fell into a plush, oversized chair. Though the woman's attitude amused him, he decided to needle her for her earlier insult. Drun, indeed. "But, honey, those breasts you're carrying are enough to drive a man crazy, even a drun like me."
The woman stiffened her spine and narrowed her eyes, like an angry she-wolf prepared to attack. The combination of long, silken blonde hair and unique purple-gray eyes drew his gaze like a magnet. And her tempting body, long, lean and full of womanly curves, made him contemplate luring her for sex, something he hadn't done in a long time. Women came to Gren of their own free will. He hadn't needed to coerce a woman to his bed since, well, since Mara two years ago. And that had been for the sake of the mission.
Sernal spoke before the prickly woman could reply. "Gren, I'd like you to meet Temis Freya. She's one of my top peacemakers. Rafe you already know."
"A peacemaker?" Gren ignored Rafe to study Temis. "She looks more like a pleasurer. Though her attitude needs work."
The first words out of Temis' mouth were obscene, yet impressive in their creativity.
Sernal shot her a sharp look that immediately stilled her clever if barbed tongue. "We've been working on her attitude. It seems we've still a long road ahead of us." Her glare subsided at Sernal's rebuke.
Interesting.
"I'm sorry Temis interrupted us," Sernal continued, "but she has a point. We're running out of time and we need your help. According to my sources, the women will be sold at a secret slave auction in little more than a week's time."
Slave auction. He inwardly flinched.
Gren glanced over his shoulder to the balcony. A raptor flew over the sea, snagging a mraun fish from the water. That reminded him he had yet to eat.
Then he wondered if the missing women were being fed. Were their captors abusing them while he lounged in his overpriced suite? And did Sernal really expect him to refuse to help when images of tortured women began appearing in his mind? The damned peacemaker knew a Thesha couldn't abide harm done to an innocent woman. Damn him.
"You're going to owe me big for this," he growled at Sernal.
The lawman visibly relaxed. "Thank Flor you've come to your senses," he praised. "I'll find us transportation to the ship while Rafe fills you in on the basic scheme of things. For the most part it's like every other undercover mission you've worked."
"For the most part?" Gren's left brow rose, in both curiosity and command.
"This mission you're not flying solo. Temis will be with you every step of the way."
SERIANA FOUND
By
Marie Harte
© copyright January 2006, Marie Harte
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright January 2006
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
As if surviving illegal piracy, scientific experiments gone awry, and the slave trade weren't enough, Seriana Blue now had to evade yet another smuggler asking too many questions.
After so much planet hopping, she thought she'd found the perfect spot here on Aflera, a vacationer's paradise at the height of tourist season. An upscale resort, a new disguise, and a new job as an independent cook--what could be more perfect? It had been an ideal spot to hide from trouble, until this past week.
Damn her father, and damn Abjon Afier!
"You look an awful lot like the woman on this vidscreen." The wiry man blinked at her from his good eye, studying the image on his palm-sized vidscreen as he compared it to her clever if fading disguise.
Looking down at the image of herself only a year ago, she felt as if she'd matured well past the age of twenty-six. Her head ached, her eyes swam with tears, and her hands, once smooth and creamy, were now cracked and dry from rinsing too many meal trays.
Yet she wouldn't trade a day of any of it.
Speaking slowly in Afleran, she angled closer to the persistent smuggler and thrust her bosomy chest toward him, hoping the sight of her padded flesh would distract him. She breathed a small sigh of relief when it did.
"Like a touch, would ya?" she asked coyly, leaning closer. Her breasts brushed his chest and she heard him swallow greedily. He drew a dirtied hand across her chest, lingering over the pert, crimson nipples peaking over the ragged neckline of the dress she wore. Grinning broadly and profoundly grateful to Racnar's synthetic prosthetics, she winked. "How can you think to compare this prized flesh," she paused to fondle her left breast, "to that scrawny thing on your vid?"
The man licked his lips and shook his head, no longer looking at his vidscreen. With a ragged laugh, she took his hand from her breasts and put it back at his side.
"I'm not sure why you're looking for this girl, but it can't be good now, can it?" What new story had Abjon concocted to justify his pursuit?
"Ah." He shifted, adjusting his trousers with a less than circumspect movement. "All I know is the girl is worth a lot of money, scrawny or no." He smiled, his teeth as black as his boots. "Not that I don't agree she could use more flesh, to look more like you."
Seriana stifled a snort. She currently looked as though she weighed twice her actual bodyweight, and in the old picture he carried she'd sported her share of curves. "Such flattery will get you a fasun pie, sure as I can swim."
He blushed with pleasure, stammered a few more compliments, then left carrying a fasun pie in one hand, his vidscreen in the other. The minute he turned the corner from her small cookery she sagged against the wall.
Hell. This made four seekers in less than a week. She would have to move again. At this rate she'd soon be facing Abjon, and nothing could penetrate his discerning, flame-filled gaze.
Her stomach tightened as she thought of him, and she frowned as she returned to her latest recipe for spiced mraun fish. She pounded the thick fillet as she recalled the mountain of muscle chasing after her for the past year. If she were honest with herself, she'd admit it had been a lot longer than a mere year.
From the first moment she'd met the stubbornly handsome Ragga native, she'd felt something in her heart sigh. A mental click, then an emotional tug of war had followed as she realized she felt something for a man as steeped in illegal activities as her father.
But his face, by Aphra's breast, what beauty. He looked as if an Eyran geneticist had created male perfection and placed it atop a body made for war. Hailing from Ragga, a planet known for its inhumanly strong inhabitants, Abjon possessed above-average strength for even one of his race. Instead of the overly muscular build one would expect, however, he was tall and lean, his body corded with muscle, not an ounce of fat to be seen.
His face should have been as hard, as unforgiving. But his brilliant, red-orange eyes gave him a warmth at odds with his frame. High cheekbones, a square chin and chiseled nose all spoke of pleasurer ancestry. Somewhere within his background, his Ragga forefathers must have dallied with the System's most striking people, the Nebites, for his lips were full, sensual and begging to be kissed.
Framing such masculine beauty, thick, lustrous black hair cut in shaggy sweeps across his shoulders shone under the bright, harsh sun. Longer than a true Ragga warrior's but shorter than the usual pirate's, Abjon's hair lay straight save for the single braid at his temple. She'd always wondered why he wore the braid but never had the courage to ask.
Courage. She huffed and turned the fish over to pound some more. It wasn't courage so much as self-preservation that made her avoid Abjon. He'd made it quite clear that he wanted her. Just thinking about his fiery sensuality caused her to shiver. Years of his casual flirting and intimate comments should have warned her he wouldn't give up until he'd bedded her.
Perhaps I would've been better off spreading my legs in welcome a year ago instead of running. Much as the thought sent a river of heat through her, she quickly dismissed the notion with a sigh. If only it could have been that easy. But she had always known intimacy with Abjon would forever change her. The very characteristics that made him a leader in the criminal underworld also made him a virtually unstoppable threat. He was too strong, too smart, too controlling.
Rover Blue, another strong, smart and controlling man, truly loved her, and for all his faults, tried to do right by her. Though rarely home and usually engaged in one illicit adventure or another, he spent as much time with her as he was able. His love, tainted by guilt, allowed her the latitude to come and go as she pleased, easing her path to escape.
Abjon would never be so lax. She knew him well, had studied him for years. Behind that sensual face, cunning intelligence and corded strength lay a barbaric warrior who protected what he thought his.
Seriana had escaped her father, but she'd never escape Abjon if he decided to keep her. And if they made love, she knew without a doubt she'd never be free again. Even if she found a chance to physically escape, the memories of his sultry possession would haunt her forever, binding her to the notorious pirate more tightly than Mornian steel.
Frowning, she pounded the fish under her hands. Her integrity made her proud to be Seriana Blue, despite her last name. In the face of her father's illegal activities, she had adhered to an honest way of life, working on the few legal ventures her father owned. But it was a constant struggle to remain firm in her convictions surrounded by criminals, men and women she thought of as family.
Were she to make love to Abjon, to be a part of a man so incredibly dominant, bound by his fiery sensuality and overwhelming power, she would never be able to preserve that core of integrity that allowed her to live with quiet dignity.
Sighing with mixed regret, that she would never know the sensual pleasures she guiltily dreamed of, she returned to the reality of her situation. Finishing her dish, she seasoned the fish and rolled it around a layer of crushed coment seed. That done, she stoked the fire of her clay oven and set the heating timer.
"Stop thinking about him," she warned herself. "Worry about your newest client. If he likes this, you've got a cool thousand beks waiting you." Not to mention the possibility of a side job, one that would take her off the main island and away from off-planet traffic. Warming to the idea, she cleaned her counters and set her cookery to rights before preparing the final dish sure to please Lord Picky, as she thought of him.
She readied his meal and would normally have programmed the tray to take it to him, were he like her other clients. Lord Picky, however, had a reputation for being difficult, and he had enough currency to ensure personalized service.
Shrugging, she ventured into the small room at the rear of the cookery that she used as a living space and straightened her appearance in the mirror.
Ah well, the nose would have to go first thing tomorrow. In the gathering dark, Lord Picky wouldn't notice the exaggerated droop of the left nostril, not that he'd venture onto the main veranda for dining. He had yet to leave his exorbitantly priced room in the resort. As such, she'd never actually seen him, only his servant Morey. And when Morey answered the door, he typically gave her no more than a disdainful glance before collecting his master's meal tray.
She grinned into the reflecting screen. She really did look nothing like herself. Her eyes were no longer lavender, but a deep murky brown. Her blue-black hair now looked brittle and sandy brown thanks to a hair falsifier. The artificial flesh coating the visible parts of her body gave her a sallow appearance. The padded bosom, buttocks and stomach ruffs she wore emphasized her bulkiness, as did the stodgy island clothing usually worn during the cooler months. Regrettably, she had to show more skin than she felt comfortable with, but wearing Racnar's false flesh, she had little worry of being discovered.
She hoped.
Finished patting herself into place, she heaved her massive breasts, tucked her pointed nipples back below her plunging neckline and assumed the slow gait that marked her current persona, that of Rabel Minatta--gourmet chef to the Colassa, planet Aflera's most popular resort.
Humming under her breath, she paused when she reached Lord Picky's suite. Of course he had the highest room with the largest bek count. Only the best for Lord Picky. For him, she'd been removed from servicing all other guests to cater to his every food craving. Whatever. So long as he liked her meals, she was happy. Now how to get Morey to nudge the man into giving her a shot on his private island…
She buzzed the door and waited for an interminably long time. Frowning, she buzzed again.
Morey opened the door looking ragged. His shirttails were untucked from wrinkled trousers, his slicked hair ruffled and his usually snotty demeanor was almost, friendly?
"Oh good, it's Rabel, my lord," he called over his shoulder. He turned back to her with a grin, and she was surprised to note Morey to be much younger than he'd earlier seemed. In fact, with his hair like that he looked almost familiar.
At her stare his mirth faded, and he resumed the cool, aloof manner she'd been dealing with for the past two weeks.
"The meal tray?" she reminded, pushing the floating cart toward him.
"Follow me."
She gaped as he turned and walked into the suite. Never before had she been invited to enter. She normally left the tray with Morey and picked it up when she delivered the next meal. Uncertain, she followed slowly, starting when the door slammed behind her.
"Morey, what's taking so long?" the voice of an elderly man whined.
Breathing a sigh of relief that all was as it should be, she continued after Morey, pausing when he stopped by a door. He turned the knob and waited by the doorframe regally, his nose in the air and his head held high.
"Boor," she said under her breath as she passed him to enter the dimly lit room. The door closed with a soft nick behind her, but she was unconcerned. She noted an old man sitting up in bed, his form hard to see since the windows were all shuttered closed. Too bad he paid such fees for the view when he didn't seem to enjoy it. Shrugging to herself, she lifted lids from the dinner plates, the smell of her creations making her mouth water, and arranged his meal. Her stomach grumbled and she tried to remember when she'd last eaten.
Despite her apparent largeness, she had actually shed weight working under the heavy disguise in Aflera's heat. Too busy to enjoy her own cooking, she'd lost even more weight this past week.
Swallowing past the hunger gnawing her belly, she brought her mind back to the task at hand. When the meal looked perfect upon his serving dish, she glanced up with a smile and politely asked, "Where would you like me to set the tray, my lord?"
"Closer, my dear," he said feebly.
Narrowing her gaze, she thought she saw him waver. There, it happened again. His body shimmered into an almost transparent state. Sudden unease shot through her, and she took a hasty step back, only to find herself caught by a large hand on her arm.
"Bring it closer, dear," a hard voice repeated, this time from behind her, and she shuddered at the menace in his tone.
The old man disappeared as bright light illuminated the opulent room. In his place was a silken bed littered with familiar clothing--clothing from home. She swallowed loudly as hot breath met her ear.
Please no, let it be anyone but him . . .
"Ah, my favorite meal," Abjon Afier growled. "Seriana Blue."
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