Unworthy - Kirsten Beyer [68]
B’Elanna hurried in from the bedroom. At some point during the day she’d obviously replicated the fitted, midnight-blue dress she was wearing. It accentuated her perfectly proportioned neck and toned shoulders, as well as her tiny waist, then flowed softly into a wide skirt, which ended just below her knees.
The “Hi, honey” and tender kiss with which she greeted him made him wonder if he had somehow entered a temporal anomaly wherein his passionate Klingon wife had been replaced by the equally voluptuous and vapid housewives who populated the television serials from Earth’s mid–twentieth century.
“You look stunning,” he said sincerely. “Now what have you done with my wife?”
B’Elanna smiled. “I hope you don’t mind, but I invited a couple of friends to join us for dinner.”
He understood that after more than a year spent in the solitude of her shuttle, B’Elanna probably craved social activities. But part of Tom couldn’t help wondering how quickly they could finish dinner so he could enjoy helping her out of that dress.
“Where’s Miral?” he asked.
“She’s already asleep. The anti-viral makes her really sleepy. She had a long nap this afternoon and then went down again right after dinner and her bath.”
“But she’s better?”
“Oh, yes. The Doc assures me she’ll be running both of us ragged again in a couple of days.”
“I can’t wait,” Tom said with a smile.
“That’s because you’ve never actually experienced it,” B’Elanna reminded him gently. “Kula’s watching over her, but you could take a peek and give her a kiss before our guests arrive.”
“Didn’t we just do this last night?” Tom demanded with mock annoyance.
B’Elanna turned on him with a withering glance, hands planted on her hips. “And you’ve been where for the last two hours?”
Tom took her hands in his and replied, “Missing you desperately.”
“Oh, good answer, fly-boy,” B’Elanna said, stepping close enough for him to begin nuzzling her neck.
At which point, of course, the door chime sounded.
“Make them go away,” he whispered.
“Soon, I promise,” she replied as she pulled away and crossed to the door.
Tom turned to see Nancy Conlon enter, she and B’Elanna falling effortlessly into shop talk. He stepped into the bedroom and spent a few moments gazing at his sleeping daughter in what had once been the suite’s private office. Kneeling down he lovingly caressed her forehead, pleased to find it neither too hot nor too cold. After pulling her blanket up he noted the holographic nanny standing guard in the shadows of the room.
“Hi, there,” he said amiably.
“Good evening, Commander,” Kula said gruffly.
Tom shed his uniform jacket in favor of a soft, turquoise tunic and returned to the living area to find B’Elanna pouring red wine for both Nancy and Harry.
Tom paused, the muscles in his neck tensing. He and Harry hadn’t exchanged a word off-duty since B’Elanna had arrived. They kept their on-duty conversations to a minimum as the ice that had formed between them had yet to begin to thaw. Obviously B’Elanna had sensed this. Still, Tom wished she’d mentioned her plan to him before inviting Harry over. They needed to talk but it wasn’t going to happen this way.
He allowed himself to hope that his best friend might be coming around until Harry looked up sharply and met his gaze with hard eyes.
“Nancy,” Tom said as he moved toward the table, “it’s good to see you.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied. “It’s very nice of you to invite me to dinner.”
“Not at all,” Tom assured her. He actually liked Conlon and appreciated how she was warming to B’Elanna.
“Harry,” he then said with a nod.
“Tom.”
B’Elanna’s eyes darted quickly between them before she said, a little too brightly, “Why don’t we all take our seats?”
“Sounds good,” Nancy said, seemingly unaware of the tension around her. “I’m starved.”
Harry took the seat opposite her in silence as B’Elanna retrieved four bowls of a hearty beef stew from the replicator, along with a loaf of warm bread.
“So, Starfleet,” B’Elanna teased Harry, once everyone had begun