There was something about a cape. Superman knew it. Batman knew it. Cardinal Richlieu in that twentieth-century movie The Three Musketeers knew even evil was sexy with a cape soaring around it. And Steele Bascar knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Cesca Martin watched him stride down the hall toward her, the rich brown fabric of his trademark cape swirling around his knee-high leather boots. He didn't need it, she thought. The fluttery shirt draped over a solid chest and tucked into tight breeches screamed pirate, which was the same as screaming sex. The cape merely added drool to the panting.
Cesca rolled her eyes at the docking clerks doing the panting and drooling and stood firm as Steele approached her station.
"ID check."
"You know who I am, Cesca." His voice rippled over her spine, calling up memories of things that had never happened. One side of his mouth lifted and a knowing look came into his eyes.
"ID check." She waited, unblinking, while he grinned full out and held out his wrist. The cape fell back off his shoulder, making him look rakish. Ignoring the potency of that, she passed the palm scanner strapped across her hand over the faintly discolored patch of skin on his inner forearm. Neither of them moved as she watched the readout on the back of her hand scroll all the information she already knew.
Steele Bascar, six feet five inches, one hundred eighty standard pounds, wavy chestnut hair. Forty Earth years old, dark brown eyes, owner and pilot of a ship he'd cheekily named Blackbeard's Ride. Declared weapons included not only the usual sidearm stunner and a light-fire laser gun, but a cutlass circa 1832. Cesca glanced at the empty scabbard at his hip.
"I left it on the ship," he told her. "Needs polishing."
"Purpose on Moon Station 9?"
"Same as always, darlin'. Business."
"Which is?" She held her implacable gaze and inflectionless tone with difficulty, especially when he laughed again.
"Six Earth years I've been coming here, Cesca, and still you play the same game." He leaned forward. "When will you give in?"
A blend of scents washed over her. Most men fresh off a galaxy ship smelled like metal and recycled air. Steele smelled of vanilla and musk with a hint of mint.
Had he popped a breath mint for her? The thought was as intoxicating as the smell. She couldn't help drawing it in deep and hoped he didn't notice.
"I'll never give in, Steele." It was her standard response, but this time something unexpected made her say, "Anything you want from me, you'll have to take."
Heat flared in his eyes, but he said, "That's not what I do."
She snorted and smacked the button to generate his pass. "You're a pirate, Steele. That's all you do."
He frowned as she affixed the small round dot to his forearm next to the ID patch. "I'm a salvage captain."
"Same thing." But pirate was a more appropriate term, both sexier and more fearsome.
Steele backed away, shaking his head. "You spend far too much time in ancient history."
She snorted. As if he could talk.
"Maybe we can work with that." He winked, then turned with a swirl of the cape and stalked away, renewing the drool-and-pant routine down the line.
"Is it safe?"
Cesca waved Rallie out of the wet room behind her. Rallie turned off the light and shut the door, then pressed the button that commenced the flash sterilization.
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