Dangerous Women. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин
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can I find her?” Rohan asked.
“Follow your prick. It seems to be doing a pretty good job as a dousing rod.”
The bouncer stepped aside and Rohan walked down the hall, checking each room as he came to it. Giggles and a couple of lewd invitations were received as he opened and closed doors. Hers was the fifth dressing room he checked. She was dressed in a deep-green robe and seated at a dressing table. The bottom drawer had been pulled out and she rested a bare foot on it. The robe had fallen aside, revealing the shapely leg almost up to the hip. Smoke from the stim she held languidly in one hand swirled like a halo about the tips of her pricked ears. She raked him with a long glance from those amazing green cat eyes.
“How much did you pay?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“To Dal. How much did you pay him to get back here?”
“Three hundred.”
“You got taken. He would have let you in for half that.”
“I’ll remember that next time.” Samarith lit a new stim and regarded him. Rohan shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” he finally asked.
She let her gaze drift down to his crotch. “You’re giving me a moderately sized hint.” His erection deflated. “Awww, I broke it,” she drawled.
“I wanted to invite you to supper,” Rohan said.
“Courtship first? Well, that’s a change.” She stood and stubbed out her stim. “There’s a pretty good place in Pony Town that serves late.”
“I was going to take you to the French Bakery.” It was the capital’s best restaurant. He thought it would impress her.
She laughed. “You’re such an idiot. Kind of sweet, but an idiot.” He gaped at her. “It’s better if I keep a low profile.”
“Your profile wasn’t very low tonight,” Rohan shot back.
“This is a strip joint. It may be frequented by your set, but it’s still a strip joint. Waving me around in public wouldn’t be good for either of us. And who are you, by the way? Which scion of a decaying noble house are you?”
“How do you even know I’m FFH?”
“Oh, please.” Scorn etched the words.
He thought about his job and the stress that it carried. He thought about his cold and distant wife. “Can’t I just be Rohan for tonight?”
She cocked her head to the side, an endearing sight, and considered him. Her tone was gentler as she said, “All right. I’ll call you Han, and you can call me Sammy, and tonight we’ll pretend we aren’t who and what we are.”
“And after tonight?” Rohan asked.
“That depends on how tonight turns out.”
Rohan allowed Sammy to issue directions to his Hajin chauffeur, Hobb. Neither he nor Hobb intimated by word or action that they were familiar with the area. But he knew it well. His favorite massage spa was just a few streets over. It was a place where men with his tastes could feel the touch of the exotic. He liked the way the soft play of fur and the rough pads of an Isanjo masseuse tickled his skin and kneaded his muscles.
That night the summer heat had broken and it was pleasant to be outside. Humans, Hajin, Isanjo, Tiponi Flutes, and Slunkies roamed the streets listening to musicians performing on street corners. They played games of chance or skill—everything from chess, to craps, to a swaying grove of Flutes playing their incomprehensible stick game. Diners lingered in the restaurants. Lovers cuddled on benches in a small park, while the elderly sat and contemplated the ships lifting off from the Cristóbal Colón spaceport. Hobb opened the flitter doors for them. Rohan stepped out and felt the rumble underfoot as another spaceship leaped skyward. The fire from engines was a red-orange scar ripping the darkness. For a brief moment, it almost eclipsed the light from the nebula floating overhead.
The long lines and evident elegance of the flitter drew more than a few looks. “I’ll call you when we’re ready to be picked up,” he said softly to Hobb. The Hajin bowed his long bony head, revealing his golden mane between his collar and hat. Rohan turned to Sammy. She wore slim-legged pants tucked into high boots, and a silk top of varying shades of green and blue that was tied in interesting ways to make it drape and flow. The cream and red hair tumbled over her shoulders. She drew looks. Rohan struggled for breath.
“So, where would you like to eat?” he asked.
“There.” She pointed at an Isanjo restaurant. Potted trees dotted the space with webs of rope slung between them. Isanjo, using hands, their prehensile feet, and their tails darted along the woven lines. Somehow none of the items on the trays tilted, slipped, or fell.
They settled into woven rope chairs, and a waiter slithered down the trunk of the tree next to their table. His order pad hung on his neck along with a credit deck. “Drinks?” he asked, the muzzle making him lisp the word.
“Champagne,” Rohan said.
“Actually, I don’t like champagne,” Sammy said.
“Oh. Your pardon. What would you like?”
“Tequila.”
The waiter turned dark, wide eyes to Rohan. Their blackness against the gold of his fur made them seem fathomless and terribly alien. “I’ll drink what the lady is drinking,” Rohan said, making it an act of gallantry. With a bouncing leap, the creature was up the tree, gripping the ropes and racing away.
“You just full of courtesy, aren’t you?” Sammy asked. “Do you even like tequila?”
“Well enough.”
“What do you drink at home?” she asked, fixing those emerald cat eyes on him.
“Champagne, martinis. In the summer months I’ll drink the occasional beer or gin and tonic. Wine with dinner. Why do you ask?”
“How often do you drink?”
“Every night,” he blurted before he could help himself. “And why the interrogation? You sound like my doctor.”
“Do you drink to relax or to forget? Or both?”
“You make too much of this. I drink because … I enjoy a drink in the evenings. That’s all.” Though he found himself remembering the night five weeks ago when he’d heard Juliana’s tinkling laugh as she flirted with the young officer who was currently inhabiting her bed. He had drunk himself into insensibility that night.
Another Isanjo landing next to the table caused Rohan to start and pulled him from his brooding reverie. A bowl of dipping sauce and pieces of bread were slapped down on the table. The pungent scent of the sauce set Rohan’s eyes and mouth to watering.
“You were drunk tonight,” Sammy said, and popped a piece of bread into her mouth. “Otherwise you would never have come backstage.”
“Do you rate your charms so low?”
“I rate your sense of propriety a good deal higher” was the dry reply.
“Well, you’re probably right about that,” Rohan admitted.
“So, why did you come?”
“Because you’re beautiful … And … and I’m lonely.”
“And do you think two bodies clashing in the dark will alleviate that?” she asked.
He was embarrassed to discover that his throat had gone tight. He swallowed past the lump, coughed, and said, “Are you propositioning me, young woman?” He hoped his tone was as light as the words.
“No. You have to do that. I still have some pride left. Not a lot, but some.”
“You