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.”