Gold-plated disaster.
Best legacy she’d given Bowe’s kid—awareness when he was being put upon. That, and life itself. End of her debt of conscience, end of her personal responsibility and damned generous, at that. So Tom was getting to be a human being. End report. Tom was on his own. Twenty plus years of tracking Austin Bowe, and she was here, free, owing nobody but that ship—a little before she’d wanted to be, but one couldn’t plan everything in life.
It didn’t particularly need to involve Tom. She’d acquired that small scruple. Leave Tom to annoy his uncle Mischa, if for some reason she wasn’t around to do the job.
Nice to have a clear sense about what one wanted in life. Nice to have an absolute and attainable goal.
Mischa could never claim as much. But, then, Mischa forgave and forgot. Rapidly. Conveniently—if Mischa got what he wanted, and you could spell that out in money and comfort and an easy course, in about that order.
Not her style. Thank you, brother. Thank you, Hawkinses, every one.
Sprite might have come and gone peaceably at Viking for three, maybe four long rounds of its ports, exchanging loops with Bolivar, without chancing into Corinthian’s path. That wouldn’t have kept the data out of her hands—recent data, of Corinthian’s current activities. Sprite and Corinthian never even needed to have met face to face in order for her to have what she wanted.
Watching Austin Bowe sweat? That was a bonus.
Her chief anxiety now was the surprise of the encounter—before she had enough of that most current data. The last thing she wanted was for that ship to spook out suddenly and change patterns on her. She wanted to be a far greater problem to Corinthian than that.
Still, she improvised very well.
Loosen up, Austin Bowe had told her, on a certain sleepover night. Adapt. Go with what happens. You’re too tense.
Best advice anybody had ever given her, she thought. He’d meant sex, of course. But he’d meant power, too, which—she’d known it that night—was what that encounter had been all about, a teen-aged kid’s conviction that she ran her own life, up against a thorough-going son of a bitch, not much older, used to his own satisfaction. That was the mistake in scale Austin Bowe had made. Her motives and ambitions hadn’t been that important to him… then. She’d played and replayed that forty-eight hours in her head, and after the first few weeks, the rape itself wasn’t as bad as having had to walk out that door, the physical act hadn’t been as ultimately humiliating as her damned relatives, dripping pity and so, so embarrassed she’d been a fool going off by herself, relatives so upset—it was clearer and clearer to her—that she’d damaged the reputation of the ship, humiliated her relatives, gotten them all ordered out of port—and they were all so, so disappointed when she didn’t shatter and come crawling to their damned condescending concern.
Hell, she got along fine after that, except their hovering over her and waiting for Marie to blow up. After mama died, Mischa took over the hovering, and Mischa had said to her and everybody who was interested that she’d be just fine if she ever found herself the right man.
That was funny. That was downright pathetically funny. Mischa thought if she just once got good sex she wouldn’t want to kill Austin Bowe.
Or Mischa Hawkins.
Sex good or bad hadn’t put Austin Bowe in charge of Corinthian. It might be gender, genes, family seniority, even, God help them, talent; but it sure as hell couldn’t be his performance in bed, and damned if hers that night had measured Marie Hawkins’ capacities, any more than Mischa’s self-reported staying power in a sleepover meant he was fit to captain Sprite.
—iv—
DAMN COM BEEPED. INSISTENTLY. If it wasn’t a screaming emergency, the perpetrator was dead.
Austin Bowe reached out an arm from under the covers, in a highly expensive station-side room, seeking toward the red light in the dark.
Which disturbed… whatever her name was. Who moaned and shifted and jabbed an elbow into his ribs as he punched the button.