The Star Princess Page 18

In Burbank, where Ilana’s place of work was located, Ché pulled up to a restaurant a little before the appointed time. Mikuni. Japanese cuisine, he thought with an eager smile. It most resembled the type of food he ate on Eireya—fresh fish and other sea delicacies, carefully prepared yet untouched by heat of any kind.

  He tossed his keys to a young man, leaving the Porsche with “valet parking,” as it was called, and strode into the restaurant. Ilana hurried up the moment he stepped inside. Her scent came to him first, floral and fresh, followed by the pleasant surge he always felt upon meeting her. Today she was the woman he’d come to know as “work Ilana.” When at home, she dressed in simple, loose-fitting clothing—unless she was off running, in which case she donned those distractingly tight “Spandex” shorts of hers—but when in the public eye, like now, she dressed confidently and well. Her sleek suit was dark, opalescent blue, reminding him of the inside of a rhea shell, with a skirt so short that it practically disappeared under her long form-fitting jacket. Good breeding and an even healthier grip on discipline were all that kept his gaze from lingering over much on those long bare legs that ended in low-heeled open-toed backless shoes.

  Women on Eireya wore gowns, but that in no way meant Ché disapproved of Ilana’s mode of dress. On the contrary—he delighted in the curvaceous body she revealed to him. No one could say he was a closed-minded Vedla, and here was the proof!

  “Everyone’s waiting to meet you.” She squeezed his hands in hers, came up on her toes, and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. She didn’t touch him at all when they were alone in her condo—they were both too afraid of the instant conflagration that would likely follow—but in public she was as physical as ever, and he enjoyed it as much as a man could who craved more.

  Ilana took him by the hand and led him from the foyer into the restaurant proper, decorated in a very masculine fashion in black granite and dark woods. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows let in a flood of sunshine, keeping shadows at bay. “Here he is,” she announced to a table seating three women and a man—Ilana’s partners and Linda, the energetic flame-haired assistant whom Ché had met a few days before.

  Introductions went around. Leslie and Slavica acted friendly but reserved, while Flash’s unabashed, distrustful stare told Ché in no uncertain terms that the man felt protective toward Ilana.

  Ché opened his menu and tried not to appear like the sexual predator Flash obviously believed him to be. He wondered if Ilana might have mentioned to Flash what she’d come to term the “shower incident,” and shifted his weight on his seat. Nonsense! Of course she wouldn’t. But Flash’s regard made him uneasy nonetheless.

  “Octopus,” Ché told the server when she asked. “A triple order. No rice. Also, I would like a dish of seaweed on the side, please.”

  Ché heard a muffled sound of dismay from Slavica. When the server left, Slavica told him, “The octopus you ordered is raw.” She glanced at Ilana, as if asking for help. “He knows that, right?”

  Ilana appeared amused by her friend’s consternation. “Yep. He doesn’t like it cooked. He tried fried calamari the other day and”—she looked at Ché—“What did you call it? The way you put it was so funny.”

  “The tragic result of overzealous preparation,” he replied with a shrug.

  Even Flash laughed at that, and the mood eased somewhat. But it would take some time for this group to accept him, if they ever did, he realized. They were Ilana’s closest associates and friends, and they obviously cared very much for her, enough to want to protect her heart. It told Ché what he already knew: Ilana Hamilton was more vulnerable than she let on.

  Ché sat back in his seat, folding his hands casually over his stomach. “I prefer seafood that is raw. Octopus especially. This particular creature of yours reminds me of Eireyan serpent.”

  “Serpent.” Slavica almost moaned.

  “Yes. In its chewy texture, and the rows of small suction cups on the limbs. I am delighted to have found here something so similar to one of my favorite dishes.”

  Ilana hid her grin by bringing a glass of water to her lips, while Slavica and Leslie stared at Ché, their eyes wide. He could tell that they’d wanted to act worldly around him, sophisticated, and had now resigned themselves to failure. Linda, on the other hand, cheerfully watched him as he explained his preferences. Nothing appeared to shock the woman. And she’d seemed to approve of him from the very start—unlike Flash, Ché thought, returning his attention to the dark-haired, blue-eyed man who continued to examine him. Ché supposed that the motivations of extremely wealthy and powerful men were easily suspect.

  After the food arrived, small talk ceased. Ilana opened the work discussion. Ché knew this wasn’t only an opportunity for him to meet her business partners, but for them to talk about bringing Hollywood to the Vash. “The Federation represents a vast market for all creative ventures, but for film especially,” she began. “We already know that. What I don’t fully get is why in the seven years since Earth has been part of the Federation, our entertainment hasn’t made more inroads into your culture.”

  “We’re used to that, you see,” Leslie put in. “At least from our viewpoint as Americans. Our culture is pervasive all over the world. Some say invasive. But it’s been the opposite with Vash culture. You export yours, and yet we can’t seem to do the same. Look at virtual-reality tech, for example. It’s consumed us. It’s everywhere. It’s changed how people see entertainment.”

  “But it hasn’t diminished the demand for films,” Ilana pointed out. “Which tells us that film as entertainment remains viable and unique.”

  Slavica joined in. “Then, why haven’t we seen our popular culture gain even one small toehold in the Federation?”

  “Their entertainment is incredibly high-tech,” Leslie said.

  Ilana nodded. “True. But I’ve been out there. The Federation has nothing that compares to Hollywood.” She turned to Ché. “You of all people know how excited I am about this.” She waved a hand at her partners, who listened raptly. “All of us are. SILF wants to be part of this. We want to get our projects, our ideas, to your market, Ché. Though I admit that we’re a little overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all. The potential is there for much more demand than what our one small studio could handle.”

  Flash spoke finally. “I’ve met with four different studio heads already. It’s amazing how a small independent like me got meetings the same day I called. Know why?” He drank some beer and set down his glass. “They’re desperate. The minute they heard that SILF might be a way in for them, they wanted to hitch a ride. And they’ve tried on their own, believe me. For years now. But you’ve completely thwarted them.”

  Ilana came to Ché’s defense. “Not Ché, Flash. He’s all for this.”

  “I mean the Federation. The big machine. All the studios have tried to get their requests heard, but none of them were able to, because it gets bogged down in the Great Council every single time.”

  “As everything does,”—Ché sniffed—”that seeks to proceed without a political patron within the Council.”

  Flash was suddenly humble. But his question was bold. “Would you be our patron?” He glanced at Ilana. “She has her family, but none of us have ever tried to make her use their influence. Yet you, Ché, you come to this from a different place. From what Ilana tells me, you’re really interested in this—in what we do.”

  “In what Ilana does, yes.”

  It was quiet for a moment as Flash absorbed that distinction. While Ché hadn’t actually gone ahead and said that he’d assist Ilana in the SILF venture because of the feelings he’d developed for her, Flash understood as only a man would. Something in the man’s gaze changed slightly. Softened, perhaps?

  “As well,” Ché went on, “I have genuine personal interest in the venture. You see, long ago, before my ancestors became kings, they were traders. Commerce. It is in the blood. I cannot resist the lure of profit any more than Ilana, or the rest of you, could turn your backs on the promise of a
chieving your life’s dreams.”

  Ilana watched him with a stunned and appreciative expression that made his chest feel tight. How much longer did he have here with her? Not long enough, he knew. Hoe had assured him only the other day that the hunt for a wife was well under way, and that within weeks a woman would be chosen. But the least he could do was lay the groundwork for a way of keeping in contact with her long after he’d gone home to the life planned for him from birth.

  “So, you’re in?” Flash asked.

  Silent for a moment, Ché stabbed at a piece of octopus with grim determination and a certain somber inevitability. “Yes,” he said at last, to the relief of those at the table. “I am ‘in.’”

  Deeper, perhaps, than he’d ever intended.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Muffin had taken to starting his day in Flew The Coop. The eating establishment was what the Earth-dwellers called a “grunge diner.” He liked the sound of the word grunge. It felt good in his mouth, like the food they served there. But why the label? He’d been coming here mornings for the better part of two Earth weeks and hadn’t seen any grime. If the Earth-dwellers wanted filth, they ought to visit some of the bars he had seen in the frontier. Now that was grunge.

  The food was good, hearty and filling, the way he liked it. It took a lot to fill him up, and in this establishment, only two breakfasts did the trick. He had a limitless amount of money to finance this mission, though in truth he didn’t like to spend it. He’d seen and done more than most men did in a lifetime, but Muffin was a simple farm boy at heart and always would be.

  He wasn’t sure why the food servers wore pink wigs and legwear that resembled fishing nets, but a smiling young female slid his second plate of breakfast onto the table, an overstuffed concoction called an omelet to go with his steak and eggs. “Heya, cutie,” she crooned. “Can I bring you something else?” She popped pink chewing gum between her teeth. It was another staple of the servers here. Muffin had tried it—he was willing to try anything once. Odd confection, gum was. He’d had to swallow it whole.

  He shook his head. “In time,” he told her.

  The girl winked at him and wiggled off to her other duties. Ravenous, Muffin bent his head to the task of cutting and eating. These Earth-dwellers, they used so many utensils, but he had managed to master them all.

  Chewing, he watched the scene outside, waiting for his quarry to arrive. Dozens of small aircraft sat parked on the landing pad—or “tarmac.” Prince Ché had been on time every morning for the last two Earth weeks, attending an aviation school at the small airport across the street. It was easy work. Ian Hamilton had gotten Muffin hired as an airport groundskeeper and refuse collector. He worked from 8:30 to 1:30, and left early if Ché did. No one seemed to care.

  He and Ian felt a bit uncomfortable about the forged identification and falsified records that won him the employment. When they’d lived in the frontier, they’d done far worse, deeds that could have gotten them jailed—and did. But this was different. This was Ian’s home planet Earth. Should the boggling number of government agencies with authority over the airport catch their wrongdoings, Ian would find himself with much explaining to do. The crown prince seemed to think his intended purpose was worth the means. Muffin wondered.

  Since arriving on Earth almost three weeks ago, he’d trailed Ilana and Ché from Disneyland to Tijuana. Though he wasn’t privy to every conversation, they seemed to argue more than they spoke civilly. On the other hand, they laughed as often as they battled each other, and sometimes he thought they enjoyed fighting. He’d never seen a friendship quite like it. And friendship it must be, for several times lovely women had come for Ché and left with him for hours, returning to Ilana’s home well after dark. Muffin puzzled at that. While Ilana always appeared happy to send the couples away together, as soon as Ché was out of sight, the truth of her feelings showed in her face: She wanted him for herself.

  Ché seemed no more enamored of the women who came for him. Muffin knew the Vash Nadah almost as well as he knew his own people. When a Vash man behaved that cordially, and held himself that stiffly, he was not interested. They were not emotionally demonstrative people, but when a man was taken with a woman, it was obvious. Muffin was an expert in nonverbal cues. He saw interest and feeling in Ché only when he was with Ilana.

  Heaven knows, it had to be why he allowed Ilana to film him. Muffin knew she’d made documentaries in her line of work. But now she seemed taken with an impromptu project—filming a Vash prince adjusting to life on Earth—with the real theme being one that neither of them appeared to see: polar opposites falling in love. (All this while Ian Hamilton stayed in the background, rubbing his hands in glee.) Muffin hadn’t yet decided if Ilana intended to market the completed effort as a comedy or tragic adventure.

  He reached for what the menu called a “bottom-less” cup of coffee, the Earth drink he’d come to most enjoy, and emptied the mug in two big gulps. Bottom-less—bah! He didn’t like it when anything ran out early, whether it be food or women.

  He left the mug at the table’s edge for the pinkhaired woman to refill. Thick arms folded on the table, he peered through his custom-made sunshaders and watched pilots ready their craft for takeoff. During his first few visits, Ché had spent hours inside a small concrete building. A classroom. In the afternoons, he would fly with an instructor. Early this week, he’d taken the plane up alone, and had continued to do so all the days since.

  Muffin had massacred an entire hedgerow with the hand trimmer while waiting for Ché to land that first day. Ché had previous flying experience, yes, but he was a prince, a valuable asset for his family, and to the Federation. No one could afford for him to throw away his life flying such flimsy little Earth craft.

  “They’re safe,” Ian had assured him. “Ché is methodical and cautious. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Maybe so. But Muffin wished the princes and princesses he knew would take better care of themselves. Ian included, he thought, and shoveled a heaping forkful of omelet into his mouth.

  The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He lifted his attention from his plate and scanned the bustling restaurant. A woman watched him from a stool by the booth where many of the airport’s employees took their meals. Her brown jumpsuit told him that she worked in aircraft maintenance. Muffin’s own was green. Her curves filled the outfit. She was a lushly built woman, sturdy, with arms and legs that looked like they could actually do some labor. He appreciated a good-sized woman. Unfortunately, most of the women he met looked as if they would blow away in the first good breeze. This one’s hair was just as lush as the rest of her. It streamed past her shoulders in flaming copper to reach the middle of her back. That was when his eyes finally made it to her round, open face.

  The woman jerked away her gaze. Standing quickly, she paid for her breakfast. Frowning over her shoulder, she gave him one last glance before she pushed open the swinging door and left.

  Through the large window, Muffin watched her go. She donned a helmet that said “Trouble,” boarded a vehicle that looked like a tiny motorcycle, and sped off toward the hangars. Earthwomen came in many different varieties, but he hadn’t seen anyone like her before. Maybe she’d come again and he could scare her off a second time, he thought, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin.

  It was 8:20. Time to go to work. He left a tip in Earth currency, and then swiped the currency card on the reader on his way out, paying for the meals.

  Running his hand through his newly shorn blond hair—Ian had said his shaggy locks would have kept him from being hired—Muffin lumbered off toward the airport. The tarmac gave off a biting petroleumbased odor, which reminded him of the frontier. This was the frontier, he reminded himself, even though Earth never thought of itself on the edge of civilization, but at the center of it.

  He slung his IDs-on-a-string over his head and swiped it on the scanner. A gate opened, allowing him inside. Cameras watched him until he’d walked out of sight on an access ro
ad that ran straight to the gardening shed.

  He showed a scanner in the shed a second ID card, logging him in and unlocking a storage room of supplies. As high-tech as some worlds could be, one thing stayed relatively the same: taking care of plants. There was only so much automation one could apply to their care. The rest required a man’s touch.

  He filled a cart with shears, pruners, fertilizer, weed killer, rake, and shovel and wheeled the tools of his supposed trade outside to await Ché’s arrival. Absently repairing the hedge he’d all but ruined the week before, he waited. But when the prince finally arrived, late for the first time, it was with Ilana at his side.

  Hell and back! Why was she here? Muffin tossed the shears into the cart and pulled his surveillance palmtop computer from his front pocket. It magnified sight and sound.

  With one thick finger, Muffin worked a wireless speaker into his ear canal. That would magnify the sound of their voices as long as he aimed the computer in the right direction.

  The hedgerow kept him hidden from the flight line. Hangars behind him cast him in shadows, soon to be gone when the sun rose higher. Holding the palmtop close, he watched the couple walk past rows of chocked and tied aircraft, while taking care to hide his face. Both had seen him before—Ché months ago on the rooftop in Los Angeles, and Ilana at her mother’s wedding to Rom B’kah, and again on the rooftop. Aside from Muffin’s shorn hair, he looked no different from before. Unlike the royal Vash Nadah, his physical characteristics didn’t stand out as much on Earth. With his light brown eyes and white-blond hair, he blended right in.

  To his disbelief, so did Prince Ché, more and more these past weeks. Today the man wore mirrored sun shaders, a T-shirt, and jeans—typical Earth attire. Muffin liked imagining what the conservative Vedlas would think of such an outfit on their prized heir. Ilana had exchanged her usual dress for a tight black shirt that barely covered her midriff and jeans. She’d covered her hair, bound at the back of her head, with a black cap that bore her company’s logo—a fairylike creature holding a camera. Of course, she wore her ever-present Canon slung over one shoulder.