"Slipping?" He knew the word, knew its meaning, but with him sitting firmly on the shelf, it made no sense.

"You must be... letting your standards relax."

"Ah." He smiled. "Thank you for tutoring me." He thought of the other words she'd taught him. Erotic words. Words that had excited her. Perhaps she thought of them, too. Perhaps she blushed, even now, naked in his arms, sated with pleasure. Lifting his head to look at her seemed a great effort. He stroked her back instead, then slid his hand up to cup her neck under the veil of her hair. A gentle caress. She sighed. "Thank you for teaching me how to shower." He grinned. "Next time, perhaps you'll even get clean." She laughed. Only a brief burst of amusement, a sound he felt as much as heard. His limp cock, still deep inside her body, vibrated with her laughter... and felt as happy as she sounded. He'd made this sad, brave, winsome woman laugh. Somehow that seemed a great achievement.

Chapter Four.

Gray lay on the bed and watched, amused, as Daria searched his quarters. She made thorough work of the task, exploring with the tenacity of an archaeologist. She'd already hunted through his drawers, ostensibly to find a garment for herself to sleep in. And she'd commented on his utilitarian clothing before dropping a large, lightweight shirt over her head. Gold suited her, made her dark hair shimmer. And best of all, the shirt was short enough to reveal most of her legs.

After she was dressed, she prowled through the main chamber. Nothing of interest there -a table and chairs, a few of his rations for the week, tiny cooking facilities for when he didn't want to go to the main dining hall. She returned to the sleeping chamber, and now she hunted over the narrow shelves, examining the few souvenirs he'd brought with him.

She looked at the delicately carved, expensive mistira figurine, but seemed afraid to touch it. "Do you mind?"

He shook his head. Her curiosity made him smile. After six months spent in these rooms, he knew them all too well. To Daria, they must seem brand new. Interesting.

She gingerly lifted the intricate vial. "What is this?"

"It's called a mistira. A good luck token." A gift from the Premier Leader, his gracious Aunt Rigah -- a constant reminder of her faith in him. A constant reminder that he could not disappoint her. And he would not. He would succeed, no matter the cost. Even if success meant sacrificing his hopes for the election.

Prefect of Earth.

Gods, how he wanted that title. The election would prove he was more than Rigah's nephew -- if he won, it would prove that he was capable in his own right.

"Hmm," Daria said, tilting the mistira. "Prendara must be really arid, if a sealed tube of water is considered a good luck charm."

She set the vial down and picked up his baseball carefully, as if it was more delicate than the costly mistira. Then she tossed the scuffed ball between her shuffling hands, back and forth, spinning it rapidly as it leapt from palm to palm. His precious baseball -- the only item that had gone to Prendara with him when he'd been taken there as a child. But she asked no questions, so he volunteered no information. The ball was returned gently to the shelf.

She seemed fascinated by the hand-held reading panel, pressing her fingers to the screen. Was she searching for something? Her tongue made a small annoyed sound, a kind of tsk noise, and she set the panel down.

He had to know. "Something troubles you?"

"Yes," she said, her voice sharp with annoyance. "That word you said earlier... it's not in the dictionary."

"Which word?"

"Dahsh...dahsh'kara."

Her pronunciation was off; she'd probably spelled it wrong. Certainly the dictionary would include it. The endearment was common, even though he'd never used it in the past.

Why with her? Perhaps because she'd seemed so fragile. She'd needed tenderness. All the tenderness he could muster.

But she disliked Prendarian words. He should find an English endearment for her. What did his uncle sometimes call his aunt in quiet moments? Something similar to Daria's own name. Daria. Dar... Darling?

She reached for the holo-projector he kept on the uppermost shelf. Her shirt --his shirt -rode high with the lift of her arms, giving him a perfect view of her legs and the lower portion of her rounded ass.

Even those lovely legs couldn't make his cock rise, sated as he was. No matter. The view was still quite spectacular.

She turned to him with the holo-projector in her hand. "Who are they?"

He had to prop his head up on his hand to see the shimmering three-dimensional image. Four happy young people smiled at him. Praise the gods, she hadn't seen the one of his aunt and uncle. Perhaps she didn't know how to change images on this advanced projector. "My..." What was the English word? No point in struggling. "My uncle's children."

"Your cousins."

Of course. He'd spoken English for the first six years of his life; sometimes he only needed to be reminded of the words. "Thank you."

She closed the holo-projector and put it back. No comment on his cousins? On the fact that they were obviously half Prendarian? She must have noticed, as closely as she'd studied the image.

She came to the bed and sat cross-legged next to him on the pallet. "Tell me what you're doing here, Gray. About the people we'll be meeting."

He didn't want to think about his mission. He'd thought of little else for nearly a year. "They're diplomats. Rather boring diplomats. Like myself."

"Boring like you?" She smiled. "Well, I would never dream of contradicting my boss."

Her teasing manner had him returning the smile, despite his fatigue. "A wise practice."

"When will we meet them? Tomorrow?"

So earnest. He little needed her help, but having her with him would be a joy. "Yes. In the..." The word came to him in a flash. "In the afternoon."

"Are they Prendarians?"

"Some are. Some are of Earth. But we will all speak English."

Her eyebrows rose. "Even the Prendarians?"

No need to tell her they'd speak English at his insistence. He didn't want to appear to be seeking her favor. "Yes."

She shifted on the pallet, stretching her legs out in front of her. What a vision. "What will you talk about? What do you want from them?"

So many questions. He felt too tired to explain. He just wanted to look at her legs, to feel them stretched out alongside his, and to sleep next to her warmth. And he wanted a few more hours of having her see him as a man. Tomorrow she'd see him among jaded, fawning politicians. Tomorrow she'd know him for what he was. Sanwar, would she try to coax favors from him? No. No, she seemed too proud.

Proud but shy. She might be intimidated once she knew his station. He'd have to reassure her. Perhaps with sex. His gaze slid up her legs. Mmm. Assuredly, with sex.

But now she looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. "Let's speak of it tomorrow."

She opened her mouth, then closed it and shrugged. "As you will."

Her tone mimicked his. He very nearly grinned. "Now you mock me?"

She smiled, then pressed her lips into a thin line. "I would never mock my boss."

Amazing, that she could tease him. Despite the violence on the dock, a disrupter blast, and sex that had left him drained, she looked completely at ease. As if this night had been one among many. And she'd indulged in only one bout of tears. Perhaps she restrained her emotions to spare his.

"Are you hiding what you truly feel?"

She looked startled. Oddly frightened. Then she smiled. Ironically, the smile made her look even more apprehensive. "What do you mean?"

He laid a hand on her knee. "You seem very calm... considering you were attacked so recently."

Her smile faded a bit, then reappeared. "I'm not thinking about it. You've been a good distraction."

Brave words. Was she so used to harsh treatment at the hands of men? How could he ask?

"What almost happened to you... it's unheard of on Prendara."

She took a long moment to answer. "Quite the little utopia you have up there."

She sounded odd. Cold. If he knew that word, he might understand why. "Utopia?"

"Paradise."

Ah. "It's not paradise. It's merely... different." It's a world where a man would never dream of taking pleasure from a woman by force.

"Obviously." She looked sad suddenly. Her eyes shifted to focus on the wall behind his head.

"Has it happened to you before?"

"Has what happened before?"

Forced to speak plainly, he kept his voice gentle, kept a yoke on his anger. "Have you been attacked for sex before?"

"No." Her voice was equally soft. She reached out and took his hand. Her eyes looked deep into his. He'd never seen such velvety eyes. Like... chocolate. Smooth, hot chocolate. One of the few things he remembered from his early childhood on Earth. "I haven't thanked you."

If he hadn't been there... no, by the gods, the thought was not bearable. "Don't thank me." He squeezed her fingers. "I count it a privilege to have helped you."

Before she could answer, a giant yawn consumed him.

She smiled. "I guess it's bedtime."

He slid under the covers, settling on his side to face her, and Daria joined him. She lay close, though her body did not touch his. He reached out and rested his hand on the curve of her thigh. Her shirt was a barrier. He nudged it upward so his flesh could meet her own. "Lights off."

She put her hand on his. "Can you turn them up just a little? I don't like sleeping in total darkness."

She sounded worried. Timid. Fearful that he'd refuse such a simple request? No -- fearful of the darkness. He sensed it in the trembling of her voice. One day he'd learn the secret of her fear. But not tonight. "Lights on ten percent." The room filled with a dim glow. "Enough?"

"Yes. Gray?"

"Hmm?"

"Why does your command center recognize English?"

His pupils had adjusted to the low lighting; her eyes were closed, and she muffled a yawn behind one hand. She must need sleep, after the night she'd been through. "Because I had it programmed for English. Every command center on this ship will recognize any of the remaining Earth languages. And Prendarian, of course."

"Seems like a lot of trouble, programming them so extensively."

He shrugged. "It's practical. I wanted the crew to practice speaking in Earth languages." And they'd had a long voyage, with plenty of time to fill.

"I'm surprised the Prendarians allowed it. They force us to use their alien language whenever they can."

He frowned. "Not all Prendarians are... certain their own culture is best."

"Ethnocentric," she supplied. "The ones I've met are. Not that I've met many. I avoid them like the plague."

She said these harsh words, knowing his own cousins were half Prendarian. Perhaps she hadn't noticed after all. How would she feel to learn that his beloved aunt was not just any Prendarian, but the Premier Leader? With her prejudice, she must hate Rigah, even though they had never met.

By the gods, she should be grateful to his aunt -- she'd been brave enough to emancipate all Earthers. Including Daria's own parents. But not Daria herself -- she looked far too young to have been born into enslavement.

Easy enough to find out. "How old are you?"

Her eyes went wide with shock. Then she suddenly grinned at him. "OK, you need a lesson in Earth culture. It's considered rude -- extremely rude -- to ask a woman her age."

"Rude? Why? Age is merely a fact."

"Because Earth women like to pretend they're younger than they actually are."

She must jest with him. "That makes little sense. Why pretend youth? With experience comes wisdom."

"I agree with you. Just trust me, don't ask any other women. OK?"

"OK." The word sounded strange; how many years had it been since he'd said something so colloquial? She was helping him sound more natural. And that would help him win the election. But first he must see the constitution ratified. Only then could the election take place.

She took a deep breath, as if confessing a great secret. "I'm twenty-seven."

He'd have guessed younger, with her shy blushes. He took a moment to convert his Prendarian age into shorter Earth years. "I'm thirty-six."

"Any other rude questions you'd like answered?"

Her tone was light. His question was not. "Do your parents still live?"

Her mouth thinned to a harsh line, and sudden coldness filled her eyes. If only he could retract the words.

"No." From the coldness in her eyes, he knew she would say no more.

Maybe telling her a bit of his own history would help her overcome the bitterness of her own. "Neither do mine. My father died before I was born. My mother when I was four. I barely remember her."

"Prendarians?"

"The invasion," he corrected. "I don't know which side caused their deaths. I never will. It matters not. They're gone. That's all that matters."

"It matters." She said nothing else.

Inexplicably, he wanted to share more with her. "My uncle married a Prendarian woman."