Collision Course - By Zoe Archer Page 0,1

her chin jutted forward aggressively.

“Once you, Lieutenant Jur and her ship return, you will have an amnesty certificate inscribed in your ship’s spec imprint.”

That was something, at least. She just wanted to lead a nice, quiet life of scavenging and smuggling.

She and the captain reached the bay. After he punched in his security code, the doors slid open and Mara let out a little sigh of relief. There she was. Her baby. The Arcadia.

She wasn’t the prettiest ship—Mara had repaired her too many times, and the old girl showed her age now. But Mara was older too. Older didn’t mean less useful, less capable. The Arcadia was still sleek, still fast, and could still tow payloads ten times her size, and that’s all that truly mattered. The ship belonged to Mara, and Mara alone, and for simply that reason, she loved the scruffy thing.

“You didn’t do anything to her?” she demanded. “Tear her open or put a tracking pod on her?”

“Your ship is exactly as it was when you last saw it.”

Mara planned to run a scan later, just to be sure. She’d configured some black market tech so it could detect even the most hidden tracking devices. Her hatred of being monitored or tethered—like a Pabu dog on a leash—was another relic of her old life.

She began to walk toward the Arcadia, drawn by the irresistible pull of everything the ship represented. Her steps faltered and then stopped when a man walked around from the other side of the ship.

Sweet meteor candy. Mara had been back and forth through the galaxy more times than most people changed their socks. She’d seen everything from the Fire Caverns on Tawhiri Rho to the Ice Ghosts haunting the cliffs of Janxa. She’d been to every inhabitable planet and done business with their natives. Seen species both hideous and beautiful, miserable and sublime. Nothing’s appearance shocked her.

This man amazed her.

No way around it. He was one of the most physically attractive men she had ever seen, including the famed Halu pleasure slaves bred specifically to be the most aesthetically appealing creatures in the galaxy. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, long legs. His immaculate 8th Wing uniform brought into gorgeous display his lean, tight muscles. A plasma pistol was strapped to his thigh. Even simply walking, his movements radiated power and strength. His body was hard, lethal. A warrior, this one.

And his face. Far too rough to be considered handsome. He had the face of a man who had lived tough—and nothing appealed to Mara more. The clean delineation of his jaw contrasted the curves of his mouth. Thick, dark hair cut very short. Dark brows, dark eyes. Dark all over. And gazing intently at her as he strode toward her.

Her life danced along the edges of respectability, often straying into outright dishonesty. When she took a man to her bed, she picked him specifically because he was equally shady, the kind of man who wanted nothing more complicated than a night of physical pleasure before they went their separate, nefarious ways. Then she could go back to her happy solitude until her body’s demands for release had her searching out a new, very temporary partner.

She avoided men in uniform. Too much stability, too many expectations of reliability.

Looking at this man in uniform, Mara began to seriously reconsider her policy.

Yes, please.

Whoever he was, he stopped just a few feet from her, and the two of them stared at each other as if the captain, the bay, the station and the entire galaxy didn’t exist. The heat of his gaze went through her like a solar flare, lighting up parts of her that had been cold for eons. Dimly, she was aware of the commander’s bars on his uniform’s shoulders, and beneath that, the patch indicating he was a member of the 8th Wing’s elite flying squadron. Up close she saw the tiny crescent of a scar at the corner of his eyebrow, and she suddenly wanted to lick it.

Maybe when she returned from her mission, she would find this man. They could share a bottle of Raijin whiskey and lock themselves in his quarters for a week. With that kind of incentive, she would be sure the mission went well, and quickly.

The forgotten captain cleared his throat. “Mara Skiren, this is Commander Kell Frayne, of the 8th’s Black Wraith Squadron.”

Automatically, she stuck out her hand. She was a scavenger, but she still had manners.

The commander’s warm hand enfolded hers. At his touch, breathing became suddenly