Free Assassins in Love by Kris DeLake Page B

arrived at the ballroom and stepped into a world of light and shadows, swirling colors, and rich sound. The music overwhelmed in here, as if it was alive. Dancers covered the floor, their clothing whirling with their perfect movements. The air didn’t smell stale; it smelled faintly of sweat and perfume and alcohol. It provoked a heady excitement that seemed almost palpable.
    Perhaps it was. Some of these ships did put intoxicants into the air, things that enhanced an experience. Usually, those intoxicants were limited to small doses, and placed in areas like a dance floor so that people would think they had enjoyed themselves a bit more than they actually had.
    He adjusted his collar, then brought his hand down. That movement was a nervous tick, and he shouldn’t be nervous. He was a man on a mission, a man who came to this ship to travel from one sector to another, true enough, but also a man who had come to have a good time.
    He took a second step inside, passed the place that the ship’s designers had set up as the hesitation point, and listened as an androgynous voice announced his arrival: “Mister Rafael De Brovnik.” The voice sounded official, but it barely carried over the music. Only the closest dancers even looked at him. Everyone else continued twirling— one , two, three; one , two, three.
    There had to be two hundred couples on the dance floor. The music came from an actual orchestra, with real human players. He hadn’t realized this ship actually invested in musicians, not androids, not elaborate reality constructs.
    He scanned the room, and didn’t see her. He knew that a few moments ago, she had been standing to his left, but he didn’t see her there. But “to his left” encompassed a lot of room. The ballroom was too big to take in all at once. He took another step inside.
    The main part of the room was given over to dancing. The floor had a permanent shine that no shoe could scuff. Wide, curving staircases rose on each side, leading to a balcony that bridged across the middle. Some couples stood up there, looking down at the dancers, enjoying the music and some champagne from above.
    Beneath the stairs were private areas that could opaque. If the air had the kind of aphrodisiac that he had worried about from the night before, the area under those stairs would be crowded with mismatched couples, unable to keep their hands off each other.
    But he saw no untoward groping on the dance floor, and even though the air had the faint tang of sweat, it didn’t carry the starchy, unmistakable smell of semen.
    He was greatly relieved. Because he didn’t need a mood enhancer to augment his barely controllable lust for Rikki Bastogne. Time to stop fooling himself. It had been a mistake to come here. He wouldn’t be able to control his response to her, and he didn’t dare risk touching her.
    He turned, and as he did, a hand brushed his arm.
    “Leaving so soon?”
    She stood next to him. Only this wasn’t the somewhat disheveled, angry woman who had left his suite that morning. This was a goddess.
    She wore a black and silver dress that covered every part of her and yet left nothing to the imagination. The silver shoes peeking out from the frothy hem added several inches to her height. That, plus the way that she had swept up her hair, made her taller than he was.
    He had to look up at her, which was even more disconcerting.
    “I’m not fond of dancing,” he managed to say.
    “Then what are you doing here?” she asked.
    “Looking for you,” he said.
    “To apologize?” she asked with a slightly wicked smile.
    He almost said Apologize for what? Then realized that no woman would respond well to that question.
    He made himself answer her smile with a smile of his own. Then he extended his right hand. “Dance with me,” he said.
    She raised her eyebrows. One of them glittered. She had pasted some kind of jewel at the very tip.
    “I thought you’re not fond of dancing,” she said.
    “I’m making