The bastard had left!

Cimmaron Zhaan stared around the empty transport bay, shock kicking her in the gut. She strode a tight circle to survey her surrounds--just to make sure. Her footsteps resounded in the cavernous spaceport. A worker droid scooted in front of her, and she snarled under her breath, sidestepping to dodge it. Empty. The echo of her boots mocked, underlining her stupidity in trusting anything the captain had said. The phrullin' male had taken off early, leaving her stranded with minimum possessions and even fewer credits to her name.

Stranded.

Anger burned her gut, and her hands fisted then squeezed as she imagined wringing the captain's beefy neck. The weight of the stares from the maintenance crew jerked her from pissed to controlled and inscrutable. Yeah, she'd known the arrogant bastard had expected her to act grateful when he'd suggested they while away the long voyage from Risches to Stavek by sharing a cabin. Cimmaron had turned him down flat, and he'd transferred his attentions to one of the lesser crew. But Campbell hadn't forgotten her slight. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to make life difficult for Cimmaron. Leaving her stranded on isolated Marchant was the latest in a long line of Campbell-created annoyances.

Cimmaron stalked past the maintenance men and their droid workers with her nose in the air. Inside she seethed. What the hell was she gonna do now? Campbell had told her to wear mufti while on leave, so she didn't even have a uniform to prove she was a pilot. All her papers were on the Intrepid. She stormed down a long corridor to the communication center. One hour later, the telecommunications tech put her through to the command of the Intrepid.

"Ah, Officer Zhaan," Campbell said gravely. He sat at ease in the pilot's chair, his tunic blindingly white while his dark eyes bore a trace of smugness.

Bastard. "Captain Campbell." Cimmaron jammed the tip of her tongue behind her teeth instead of blurting the obscenities she wanted to level at him.

"You were late. We had our allocated time slot to depart."

Cimmaron's eyes narrowed, but she refused to react any further, giving him the leverage to get her in even deeper crap.

"This will go on your record, Officer Zhaan."

Too late. Seemed the situation was already beyond mere apologies and groveling. "You told me we were leaving at second moonrise."

"First moonrise," he countered. "Officer Zhaan, I have noted on your record you are AWOL."

"You lied. You told me second moonrise."

The tinge of red on his prominent brow told her she should have held her tongue. His pointy ears twitched--a sure sign of impending displeasure. "None of the other crew was late back from leave."

Cimmaron's hands fisted, and she felt the heat of temper crawl across her cheekbones. Phrull, she was probably flashing gold with her emotions, sparkling like the backside of a glow-bug--an unfortunate side effect of being a Dlog. "Are you going to come back for me?"

"Return for one female. I don't think so. Officer Zhaan, I'd say you're officially screwed." A smirk formed on his lips, echoing in his sly eyes. "Over and out."

The phrullin' bastard. The need to scream swelled inside Cimmaron. She wanted to punch and kick and exert bodily harm on the slimy male. He might have screwed her chances of flying with the Coalition again, but she would get revenge. One day, when he was least expecting it. Cimmaron stood slowly and exited the communications room with precise steps, her back stiff with pride. The five staff manning communications had heard. It was obvious by the silence that even now spilled out of the room after her, taunting and full of ridicule.

Desperate to outrun her fears, the panic that threatened, Cimmaron stormed from the spaceport and pushed into the crowd of beings thronging the narrow alleys outside. Market day. Crowds of beings shopped for supplies to fill dwindling reserves on their short stopovers between destinations. Traders and hawkers shouted at the tops of their voices, trying to attract customers and extract credits. No doubt thieves trolled the alleyways looking for the green and the unwary with purses full of gold and currency to lift. She had no idea where she was going or what to do. Blindly, Cimmaron attempted to control the blooming panic, the knowledge that the captain's petty revenge had left her vulnerable. And in trouble. Her record would reflect the transgression unless she could prove her innocence. She'd have to travel to Coalition headquarters on Bezant. Somehow. It wasn't going to be easy with no currency to pay for her passage. The rumors of space pirates and abductions in this galaxy meant people were wary of giving strangers rides.

Deep in thought, she bumped into a short, blue female, almost knocking her to the ground.

"Sorry," Cimmaron said.

"Hoy, watch it," the female said, struggling to maintain her footing on the slick cobblestones.

Cimmaron grabbed the female, holding her upright when the crush of humanity behind threatened to push her over. "My apologies," she murmured in a formal tone when the danger was past.

The female righted the white cowl that covered her shiny, pale-blue head and glanced at the splotches of mud decorating the hem of her robe. "I look like a low-caste." A trace of alarm flickered over her face. "Phrull, I need this job."

"Job?"

"They're hiring at the club. I must go. They'll close the doors when they have enough applicants." The female darted through a gap in the crowds before Cimmaron could question her further.

The female's words kept reverberating through Cimmaron's mind. A job. A job. A job. A rumbling sound punctuated her thoughts, and she bolted after the female, elbowing her way through the alley crowded with market-goers as she tried to follow. No currency. She was starving. She had to eat. A job was the solution--the only alternative she had, if she wanted to get off this Goddess forsaken planet and exact revenge from that phrullin' bastard, Campbell.

In desperation, Cimmaron increased her pace, managing to keep the female in sight despite the crowds in the marketplace. The woman turned a corner, disappearing from sight. Cimmaron sprinted around the bend in the street. Where was she? Ah! Cimmaron caught a flash of white as the female entered a nondescript stone building. She ran, fear dogging her heels, when she noticed the door closing. In desperation, Cimmaron shoved through the door, muscling her way inside even though the bulky Maxiom security guard attempted to close it in her face.

"Just a phrullin' second. Let me in." Cimmaron kicked his shins, gaining precious inches when he stepped back out of range. "I want to come in."

The door opened a fraction more, and the Maxiom sneered at her. Cimmaron stiffened, knowing what he saw--mud-speckled trews and a unisex tunic that hid every single hint of a feminine curve. If she'd had her uniform on he would have treated her with respect, but his doubt was clear as his gaze traveled down her body and back up again. "You? Behind a bar." His single brow rose halfway up his bald head to emphasize his doubt.

Phrull, this job was bar work? Crummy bar work. Having her ass pinched and her tits grabbed was not Cimmaron's idea of a good time. But it was better than the alternative.

Cimmaron inhaled deeply, trying to force oxygen into her brain after her sprint through the market place. Her chest heaved under her brown tunic, each breath coming with a wheeze.

"Take a number," the security guard said, his tone off-putting as though he thought she was wasting her time. Cimmaron scanned the room, her breath squeezing halfway up her throat in sudden consternation. Maybe she was wasting her time. The rest of the applicants were clean, for a start. Well-groomed. Cimmaron eyed the nearest one. And they were little--compared to her at any rate. Feeling conspicuous, even more than she had earlier, Cimmaron accepted a white card bearing a number from the security guard and slunk away to find a wall to lean against in the hope of appearing smaller. In her work as a pilot she downplayed the natural good looks of the Dlog. It made things easier on the job, although it hadn't stopped Campbell from propositioning her and taking enough offence at her refusal to leave her stranded.

Cimmaron scowled, guessing the captain's next move would be to pronounce her AWOL officially. Everything she'd worked and strove for ripped from her grasp because one bloody male couldn't keep his gonads under control. She had to get to headquarters first before the Intrepid finished its voyage and returned to base.

The rest of the females and the couple of males in the group took a collective breath and straightened. Cimmaron slouched lower against the wall hoping she wouldn't stick out like pustules on an underling's face.

All for naught.

The man was tall. He prowled into the reception room like a sleek tigoth beast from the planet Dalcon. His piercing blue eyes studied the faces in the room slowly, taking his time, before they came to rest on her. And lingered. A frisson of awareness shot through her body and gathered on her lips. They tingled insistently until finally she broke down and moistened them with her tongue. The expression in the male's eyes intensified, making them darker, more compelling. Finally, his gaze moved on, leaving Cimmaron weak and panting. What the phrull had that been about? In confusion, she stared, trying to analyze the sheer need that coursed through her body, tugging at places that hadn't seen light, let alone reacted to a male in this way before.

He was tall, maybe a fraction taller than her. Unusual. Cimmaron towered above all of her shipmates and only felt at home on her home planet. His hair was the color of deep space. Black. But it didn't hold the nothingness of the uncharted territories. It glowed under the lights, the black-blue sheen making her want to touch to see if it felt as soft as it looked.

He turned to speak to the male at his side. Cimmaron hadn't noticed him at first but she saw he was much the same height. His look was more familiar, that of a local Marchant, which was why he hadn't stood out. The deep rumble of the male's voice tugged at her. Cimmaron shook, wondering what the phrull was wrong with her. She was in the worst situation, stranded with no hope of rescue, yet all she could think about was the male. The need to touch was a siren song in her blood. Her fingers prickled, her lips still tingled and the rest of her body was ... aware.

The male spoke. "I will see you in number order. Please form a line. Rico will show you in when your number is called."

Cimmaron scowled down at her number. Last in, she had the last one. Knowing her luck, the jobs would be gone by the time she was called.

The line moved rapidly. Some of the applicants were taken behind the bar and asked to mix drinks. Cimmaron knew if she managed to get that far, she'd gain a job. Years of saving to purchase her way into the pilot program had made her more than competent behind the bar. Not that this looked like a classy joint. The outside had appeared uninspiring--a building she would have walked past if she hadn't been following the female. The inside didn't look much better, although it was clean. She'd worked in better. And worse. Bottles of alcohol from the far reaches of the galaxy lined the wall behind the bar. A gleaming bar, but it had none of the ornate carving of some of the clubs and high-class joints. A dance floor. Tables. Maybe the place would look better when it was full of people and music. Two spiral staircases led to a mezzanine floor above. Cimmaron wondered what was up there, craning her neck to see. It seemed as though a being standing up there would have a good view of the bar and dance floor below. Probably another bar. Maybe private rooms for the rich or those who could afford to pay for privacy.

Time trickled past. Cimmaron fidgeted, trying to ignore the flitting looks she received. Her stomach contracted, and it wasn't just hunger pains. Nerves danced inside as she came closer to her number being called. Desperation. Maybe. No, it wasn't. She hadn't felt really rattled until she'd seen the male conducting the interviews. The casual line that had formed shuffled forward.

"Next!" Cimmaron jerked to attention when the security guard behind nudged her in the middle of her back. "You. Move it. Don't have all moon-cycle for you to dawdle!"

Cimmaron glared at the large male. She'd met his like before--all roar but no guts to back it up when things got tough. Her gaze crawled across his beefy face. She could take him with no problem, if she wanted. A soft chuckle had her whirling around.

"Come on in and take a seat. I'll be back in a couple of microts."

He held the door open for her, then disappeared, leaving Cimmaron staring after him. His scent--fresh, crisp. Green. It reminded Cimmaron of the wide-open savannah country and towering forests on her home planet of Risches. The alluring scent brought a shaft of homesickness. Despair. She would never see home again unless she managed to get this job. Not that she liked to stay on Risches for too long, not with her stepfather harping on about a female's proper place. Mating and procreating. Not if she had her way. Cimmaron generally only stayed two or three moon-cycles at most. Despite their differences regarding the way a female should act, she did love her mother.

Cimmaron sank onto an upright alloy chair, desperately pushing aside the rising panic and anxiety that tangled in her gut and writhed through her heart. Campbell had not only left her stranded--he'd left her vulnerable. Vulnerable was bad. Vulnerable was a stepfather who hated her and made no secret of the fact while he drove a wedge between her and her mother. Cimmaron scowled. She shouldn't have wanted to go home, but she did since she hadn't seen her mother for over one hundred moon-cycles. Before, she'd had the freedom and luxury of being able to return home when she wanted. On her terms. Now a dark cloud hovered above her head. AWOL. Phrull the captain for leaving her stranded.

A soft click behind made her backbone hit the back of the chair.

"So you want to work here." His voice was deep. Husky. It sent a shiver of pure longing pulsing through Cimmaron. Her gut sucked in while blood seemed to pool low. What was wrong with her today? This male--he wasn't her type. If she wanted a male she'd look to her own race, not an otherlander. And that was about as likely as Campbell returning and telling her it was all a joke. There was more to life than mating. And so much more than spending life as a slave to a mate.

"Yes, I am good at my job." True. She was a good pilot. Also a reasonable bar tender.

He nodded, his expression not giving anything away. He glanced through the open door. "Sorry, I'll be back in a few microts."

Tamaki made an excuse to leave the office. He had to. It was a matter of gathering his wits before he did something stupid. Like grabbing the golden woman, forcing her sexy mouth open and shoving his tongue half way down her throat. Hell, he wanted to do more than that. Confusion lay beneath the desperate need coursing through his body. In his job as manager of the club, he'd seen lots of beautiful women. He'd spent time with some of them on the upper level, fucking their brains out for mutual pleasure. He'd only dated, never felt the need to have the woman three times. Twice a date, thrice a mate. Now there was the kicker. He'd never wanted that before. He ambled out to the bar deep in thought.

"Problem?" Rico asked.

"Yeah." Tamaki jerked his head toward his office. "You could say that."

"You want me to get rid of her?"

"No!" Tamaki's reply was instant. No, he didn't want that. He had rather more sensual plans in mind. First he'd strip the ugly tunic from her body. It made her appear sexless. Instinct told him that beneath the brown cloth she bore a pleasing shape. It was the way she held herself, the proud bearing, the flash of vulnerability in her eyes that disappeared the instant she noticed she was being watched, replaced by a tough, no-nonsense attitude. Tamaki imagined sliding his hands under the brown tunic, fanning his fingers out to measure the width of her waist. And slowly moving them up to cup her breasts. He wondered about size. Shape. His palms tingled, and his cock woke abruptly, pushing against the placket of his trews with enough vigor to make Tamaki uncomfortable.

"Earth to Tamaki."

"Huh?"

Rico grinned at him. "I said, Earth to Tamaki."

Tamaki moved so the glossy hi-tech bar was between him and his friend. "We're on Marchant. Remember? Light years away from the blue planet."

"What's up?" Rico stared at Tamaki before his gaze moved down his body. "Ah. I get it. Wee Willie Winkie is exerting his say in the interview process."

"Get fucked," Tamaki muttered.

"Oh, yeah. And I'd sure like that. The microt I can talk my way into Marianna's pants I'll be sure to let you know. Hell, I might even take out an ad in the Marchant Communicator. Hire a market crier or something. Marianna's surrender will be worth celebrating."

Slightly diverted, Tamaki studied his friend and co-worker. Rico had taken one look at Marianna, a local female, and declared this was the woman for him. Yet he hadn't been able to talk the female into a date. Not within the club or a casual meeting in the city. Tamaki hadn't been able to understand why Rico wouldn't go with any other female. He glanced toward his office. Suddenly, it all seemed to make sense.

"I want her, but I can't fuck the hired help. It's against the rules since the company was sued for the Martian scandal."

"Don't hire her, then the rules won't apply," Rico said. "Go and interview the female and tell her she isn't what you're looking for."

"Lie, you mean."

Rico snorted. "Come on, Tamaki. You've done it before."

"Yeah, when I was young and stupid. Lies have a way of coming back to bite you in the arse."

"Hire her then, and keep your hands off. You're the boss."

Tamaki gave a clipped nod and strode back into his office. "Sorry about that. I needed to have a word with my assistant manager. I am Tamaki Grierson, the club manager."

"Where are you from?"

Tamaki found himself grinning. "Who's conducting this interview here?"

"Sorry. I was curious. I don't recognize your accent. The other male, too. He looks like he's from Marchant but his voice gives him away as an otherlander."

"We're from Earth," Tamaki said. "We grew up together in a land mass called New Zealand. We've both worked in several of the nightclubs in the chain."

The woman nodded. "I have visited the blue planet."

Curiosity crept through Tamaki. He wanted to know more about her, but bearing Rico's words in mind, he changed the subject. "Tell me what experience you have. Why should I hire you?"

She looked him straight in the eye, her golden irises surrounded by dark lashes that curled upward in a delicate arch. Her eyes were more elongated than his, reminding him of a cat. Man, he'd sure like to stroke her fur and make her purr. Tamaki strode behind his desk and sat, not wanting her to see his growing erection. Damn, he couldn't get his mind off having sex with this female. And despite knowing he was making a big mistake, he was going to hire her. Even if she didn't know a fiery beer from a guardian's kiss cocktail. Letting her walk out of his life would be an even bigger mistake. Aware he was skirting the rules but unwilling to let her leave he continued the interview.

"I worked as a bar tender at the Lingam Towers on the planet Dalcon. I worked there for forty cycles. Once I began my training, I worked evenings and week breaks only at the Gallant Dragon on Bezant.

Tamaki was impressed. She'd worked at some high-class joints. She had experience so at least Rico couldn't call him on that. "Why did you go to part-time? What training did you do?"

"I am a pilot. I work for Coalition Shipping."

Tamaki straightened abruptly. "You're seriously over-qualified for working in my club."

Her golden eyes narrowed, emphasizing their shape. Her tongue darted out to dampen her bottom lip. Tamaki followed the move with fascination, lust jolting his cock to even greater prominence. His gut hollowed. She looked defeated yet anger pumped off her in waves. There was a story here.

"I had a personality conflict with my superior officer. The ship left while I was in the city. The schedule does not permit them to return for me."

The bastard had left her stranded. Her calm demeanor impressed Tamaki. Only the tightness of her body gave her away and the way she appeared to glow when her emotions were heightened. Not a shred of emotion showed in her voice.

"The job is yours if you want it. Can you work tonight?"

Cimmaron let out a slow breath. He'd given her a job. Relief made her giddy. "Yes. I can work as many hours as you need me."

"Good. See Rico about a uniform on the way out. The position is worth two hundred credits per week plus a meal while you're on the job."

Cimmaron nodded. At least if she worked tonight, she'd get a meal. Now all she needed to worry about was finding somewhere to live. "Do you know if there are any rooms to hire around here?"

Tamaki frowned, and Cimmaron watched closely, seeing his scowl disappear magically. He was a beautiful male. He tugged at hungry emotions she hadn't realized she had. The thought brought a soft, choked sound. Her pills. They were in her cell on the ship along with the rest of her possessions. Phrull, this day just kept getting worse. She didn't want to mate with any male, but without the pills to deaden the urge.... Maybe she could find an apothecary here on Marchant. The goddesses must be laughing. Her mother had told her she was silly trying to outrun her destiny, all because she wished to travel and command her own starship. Prestige and power before mating and offspring. Cimmaron thought it was a good trade off. She refused to live the way her mother did, slave to that male--her stepfather.

No, there had to be a way.

"I have a friend who might be able to help."

Tamaki Grierson scrawled a name on a piece of parchment and handed it to her.

"I will see you later this eventide. Don't forget to see Rico about your uniform."

Cimmaron stood, heeding the dismissal. She'd get through her problems one by one, the way she always did. She had a job and maybe accommodation. She'd find an apothecary next and take things from there. Even if she had to steal to do it, she'd fight the Dlog female instinct to mate and procreate.

She'd fight for freedom and personal choice.

And she'd win.