Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [87]
“Appreciation, even without agreement, is certainly better than a poke in the eye. Would you allow me to buy you a drink?”
“Thanks, but no. I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Me, neither, really. I’d rather be in my cube studying technical journals.”
“Really?”
He grinned again. “Actually, no. But I’m hoping that if you believe I’m the serious sort, maybe you’ll think better of me.”
His smile was infectious. Teela couldn’t help smiling in return. “Does that work for you often?”
“Pretending to be studious?”
“No, pretending to give away your pickup line that way.”
Now he laughed. “Oh, I like a smart and funny fem.” He dimmed the smile a little. “Let me buy you a caf or sucosa. Water, even. Sit and visit with me for a little while.”
“I don’t know …” Which was a lie; she knew very well what she wanted to do. In her mind’s eye, the small mental projection of her conscience and common sense gaped in disbelief. I can’t believe you’re seriously contemplating this, it scolded.
“Come on. It’s war, I’m a pilot, my number could be up any moment. Wouldn’t you feel better knowing I went out to meet my end smiling at the memory of you?”
You just barely escaped a dangerous situation with one man, her conscience avatar said, and here you are letting yourself be sugar-talked by another.
Teela laughed at Dance’s line. “You pilots and your platinum tongues. All right. I suppose it won’t hurt anything.”
Her conscience threw up its hands in resignation and stalked off into the gray corridors of her brain.
As they approached the table, she saw the other pilots look at them. More than a few looked twice, or closer, and all were blatantly impressed. They stood. “Hey, Vil,” one of them said. “We have to shove off. See you back at the barracks.”
Dance eyed him. “You’re sure about that?”
“Oh, right. Um …” The flier was obviously uncomfortable, and the concealed smiles of the others, not to mention the glare he was getting from Dance, weren’t making things any easier for him. “Right. We have to, uh … go over our technical specs. Down in the hangar.”
The five pilots left. Teela gave Dance a measured look. “You had a bet going with your friends,” she said. It was not a question.
He shrugged. “Of course. First man back with a woman wins the table. They’ll go see if the odds in the pub on Level Six are better. One doesn’t need a bunch of comrades cramping his run if one gets lucky.”
“You aren’t going to get that lucky, Lieutenant. Not tonight, anyway.”
He flashed that high-wattage smile at her again. “You’re too sharp for me, Teela Kaarz. I really like a woman who makes me have to stretch.”
She sighed. No way was she getting into anything remotely serious with a navy pilot. No way.
But a cup of caf couldn’t hurt …
40
THE HARD HEART CANTINA, DECK 69, DEATH STAR
Memah Roothes was aware that she was—well, not to put too fine a point on it—primping. That was a bad sign, she knew, when she started to care what a new male thought of her appearance. The actions themselves didn’t look like much: a slight adjustment of her posture, a little brush over the brow to smooth out a bit of makeup, a quick glance at her reflection when she passed a mirror to check her lekku positions. Nothing major. But she knew. She wanted to look good, and she wanted Ratua to notice that she did.
She wasn’t too old, ugly, or fat, and she wasn’t stupid. He already did like her—you didn’t run cantinas for as long as she had without being able to feel the heat come off a male when he looked at you. Still, the fluttery sensation she felt, the quickening of her heartbeat and breath—those were all bad signs. She didn’t need a new complication in her life right now.
And Green-Eyes was definitely that. For one thing, he didn’t exist, according to what Rodo had found—or hadn’t found—in his HoloNet search, and that meant he was a bad boy of some kind. Could be a legal bad boy—a sub-rosa agent for the Empire, say. Or he could be a Rebel spy. Or some kind of criminal …
But he made her laugh, he was quick and clever, and those eyes