Starflight (Starflight, #1)(49)
He hated the thought of her stealing. The risk was too great. But since she’d refused to change her mind, he held his tongue and pushed away invading tendrils of guilt, reminding himself that this was her idea, not his.
It helped that she obviously couldn’t wait to get inside that dress. The way she admired its holographic sparkle, tipping her head to and fro with her lower lip caught between her teeth, made him wonder if she’d ever worn a proper dress before—not a hand-me-down frock for church Mass, but the kind of garment designed to turn a man’s head and leave his chin dragging on the floor. She’d kept mostly to herself at the academy and hadn’t attended any dances. With a pang of shame, he imagined how he might have reacted if she’d come to prom: the cutting looks and the thinly veiled insults he’d have used to make her feel unwelcome. He knew she would’ve touched the birthmark at the base of her throat when he called her Rattail because it jabbed at her fragile confidence, just as he’d intended.
He wanted to tell her he was sorry, and that he knew how it felt to wear a target on his back. After his mother left, some older boys had caught him crying in the bathroom, and he’d quickly learned that the first rule of academy life was Tease or be teased. And years later, when Solara had won the alumni award, he’d lost more than a trophy. He’d lost a bit of esteem in his father’s eyes, the only family Doran had left. Now he saw that picking on Solara had been a cowardly move in so many ways, but he couldn’t tell her that. Instead he said, “That’s a Belladucci design from the newest eveningwear line. Every girl who sees you in it is going to turn twenty shades of green.”
Her reaction wasn’t what he’d expected. She cringed, peering at him with regret in her eyes. “It was five thousand credits,” she whispered. But while her expression oozed repentance, her fingers reached toward the gown in a protective gesture that told him he’d only get it back if he pried it from her cold, dead hands.
Since laughter would hurt too much, he held his breath until the impulse passed, then exhaled slowly. “I want to see you in it. After all, I’m the one who’ll have to explain the charges on my expense account.”
Assuming he even had a job when this ordeal was over. He still needed to reach his ship on Obsidian and figure out the significance of the coordinates his father had given him. The more Doran thought about it, the more he suspected there was a connection between his mission and the Solar League’s false charges. Someone had gone to great lengths to ruin his reputation, and for no logical reason. He knew that should infuriate him, but at the moment he only had room for so much suffering.
Solara gathered her hair to the side and frowned as if something had just occurred to her. “It’ll take more than a gown to turn me into an heiress. I didn’t think to buy matching shoes.”
“Go barefoot,” Doran suggested. “Girls always take off their shoes to dance. You can pretend you left them at the party.”
“But what about my hair? And makeup. I’ve never—”
“Ask Cassia to fix you up. She’s a society girl.”
“What?” Solara spun to face him. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody,” he said with a shrug that sent a ripple of pain down his side. He gritted his teeth until the throbbing passed. “I know my own kind. She walks around the ship like she owns it.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Actually, it does,” he insisted. Cassia carried herself with the authority of someone accustomed to power at an early age. Doran recognized it because he’d behaved the same way, until his father busted him for using company interns to schedule hot dates. After that, Doran joined the ranks of the interns to learn a lesson in humility. But he’d noticed physical evidence of Cassia’s upbringing, too. She carried a clue right on her skin. “Have you ever smelled her?” he asked. “Really close-up?”
Solara recoiled like he’d demanded to know her bra size. “No. Have you?”
“Once.” It had happened the morning of the Pesirus hellberry festival, after he’d spent an hour hauling and stacking crates. He’d accidentally collided with Cassia in the washroom, and although sweat had soaked the front of her shirt, nothing but the scent of orchids had emanated from her skin. Only one thing suppressed natural body odor like that, and the procedure was so painful and expensive that even he’d turned it down.
“She has perfume microbes implanted in her sweat glands,” he said. “They’re rare and invasive. I’ve only met one other person who had it done, and he’s a Solar League diplomat. That means she’s not just loaded; she’s important.”
He waited for Solara to say something, but she just stood there, glaring at him.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head and slung the gown over one shoulder, then left without a word.
As Solara charged down the hall, she recalled something Doran had told her on board the Zenith: Anyone who stinks like a toolshed is safe from my advances. She’d forgotten about that, and now she wondered what she smelled like after a week with no shower.
Certainly not perfume.
It was none of her business and she didn’t know why she cared, but under what circumstances had Doran smelled Cassia really close-up? The two hadn’t spent much time together, at least not that she knew of, but then again, romantic trysts didn’t take long. Cassia had openly announced that hookups were the best way to fight transport madness. Had the pair secretly decided to help each other rev up those endorphins?