Unification - Jeri Taylor [49]
She was working the quartet of arms into a lather when she saw the man walk in, and her heart suddenly pounded. He was tall and breathtakingly handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He was dressed in a well-tailored red outfit—a uniform?- and he had eyes the color of the seas on Hoalot.
There was a woman with him, and she was thin— planklike actually. Amarie knew that kind of skin-and-bones could never bounce a man like this. The woman’s hair was dark and neatly tied, her face looked drab without makeup, and she wore the same outfit as the man, only it was a brownish color.
Amarie intensified the beat of the music and swayed on her stool. She’d get that man up here and they’d make real music together. For the first time that night, Amarie smiled.
Riker’s eyes swept the murky interior of the hideaway. There were few patrons; those that were there tended to hover in the shadows toward the rear. What were clearly prostitutes lounged in a bored fashion along the bar, but there were no takers.
He was aware of Gretchen at his side, studying the room as intently as he; he wondered if he’d been wise in bringing her. She’d been determined to come, of course, and Worf had backed her up’ the Klingon lieutenant liked to know that one of his trained people was along on any away mission.
Nonetheless, this sordid little den was not, in Riker’s mind, the place for a young woman from Indiana. He knew Gretchen would be furious if she knew he was thinking that, and he would never voice it aloud; but call him old-fashioned, this was no place for a lady.
He’d spotted Amarie the moment they came in; she was notable because of her four arms, but even without those he’d have recognized her. She was blowsy and plump, with frizzy dyed black hair and too much makeup; cheap-looking artificial jewelry adorned her fingers, her hair, and her nose. Her pink sequined gown was loose and flowing, but it did not conceal her ample girth. “Take a seat here, I’ll be back in a while.” Riker gestured toward a small table and saw Gretchen’s predictable reaction—her eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in resistance.
“I think I should stay with you, Commander,” she said quietly. “After all, I am assigned to you as security.”
He smiled easily. “Understood, Ensign. But I-have sized up the situation and examined the objective. And I promise you this is one case where I will function better on my own.”
Her eyes blinked and he pulled out a chair for her. “I’d suggest you stick to the Trastor ale. It’s tasty, and it won’t put you on your ear like some other drinks they probably serve here.” There was a brief moment, and then Gretchen sat, though reluctantly.
“All right, Commander,” she said. “But I’ll be watching.”
“I hope so. That’s your job.” And he smiled down at her.
He felt, rather than heard, the music take a jump in energy, and glanced up toward the spotlighted center of the room where Amarie sat at the keyboard. Briefly touching Gretchen on the shoulder, he moved toward the light.
The woman was sucking on a salt stick as she played, seemingly oblivious to his approach, though Riker’s instincts told him she was very aware. He sat at one of the unoccupied stools that surrounded the keyboard instrument. Amarie gave him a quick, noncommittal glance. “A new face,” she drawled in a husky voice.
“Same one I’ve always had,” countered Riker, and was pleased to see a ready grin spread her lips. He liked people with humor; it made everything so much easier.
“What would you like to hear?” she asked, fingers roaming the keys. Riker was fascinated by the rippling counterpoints she could produce with her four hands.
“Know the blues?” he asked.
Another grin on her generous mouth. “Look at me, mister. What do you think?”
Riker decided he liked this woman. She was garish, but at the core she was earthy and honest. “Seven different shades of them,