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 difficult.

She saw his pupils widen, heard his quick inhalation, and knew her touch affected him too.

“Commander Frayne,” she said. She smiled. “I’ll definitely remember your name for my return trip to the station.”

The commander pulled away and frowned. He turned to the captain. “You didn’t tell her, sir.” His voice was gravelly, deep.

Even though the older man outranked the commander, the captain reddened with embarrassment.

“The opportune time never came up.”

Something wasn’t right here. Unease chilled Mara’s spine, cooling her immediate response to the commander. “Tell me what?”

“I’m your partner.”

The scavenger’s eyes widened, and Kell couldn’t help but feel pulled toward their ice-green depths.

Extraordinary, her eyes. Filled with intelligence and heat and cunning—and anger.

“No,” she said. “Impossible.” She glared up at him. “I work alone.”

“Not on this mission,” he answered.

She scowled and folded her arms across her chest. Even furious—or maybe because she was furious—Kell had never seen a more stunning woman. He’d read her file, slim as it was. Seen her on the holovids. Those images had shown her to be attractive, and he’d gotten some ribbing from others in the squad about what a hardship it was going to be, spending many hours in close proximity to such a beautiful criminal. Kell had laughed, but said with complete confidence that it didn’t matter if Mara Skiren was the reincarnation of the love goddess Oshun—the mission was everything. Not once in his whole decorated career had he strayed from his objective, which was just another reason why he was considered the best in the squad.

He still did not doubt himself, but seeing the scavenger in the flesh made him realize he would have to call on all his discipline and training to keep his focus.

She had the tawny skin and almond shaped eyes of an Argenti, her cheekbones high, her lips ripe with erotic promise. Almost aristocratic, her features. Ivory-hued hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, and he wondered if it felt like cool white silk against bare skin. Her battered nyyrikki-skin jacket hid the shape of her upper body, but he suspected she was slim all over, as attested by her body-hugging cargo pants. But the slenderness of her body misled one to think she could be easily overpowered.

Kell had been in the 8th Wing for over fifteen years. Before that, he knew his way around a battle pit. He had learned quickly how to judge someone, how to read them and what external signs were deceptive. One look at this woman, and he knew. She was ferocious.

Never more so than when she felt herself cornered.

“Bad enough I’m being blackmailed into this.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But I draw the line at teaming up with anyone. Especially some 8th Wing puppet.”

His own temper flared. “I’m not a damned puppet. I’m a pilot, just like you.” One of the Black Wraith Squadron, which meant he was a fucking great pilot.

She stepped nearer, so that the toes of her boots nearly touched his own. The closer she got the more beautiful she became, even as angry color stained her cheeks. “Hundreds. No, thousands of missions I’ve flown. Alone. You aren’t necessary, Commander.”

“Commander Frayne is the 8th Wing’s best pilot,” Captain Esen said.

The scavenger looked unimpressed. “He’s not touching my ship.”

“It’s not your ship I’ll be touching.” Kell planted his hands on his hips.

Her eyes rounded. Her cheeks grew even more flushed.

Damn, that didn’t come out quite right. Or maybe it sounded a lot more like what he wanted to do, rather than what he had to do. “If Lieutenant Jur is too injured to fly her ship back to base, I’ll have to pilot it.”

“The Arcadia’s magnetic tow net can handle the lieutenant’s ship.”

“She flies a Wraith, just like I do. They’re too valuable to risk to a tow net and if we’re being pursued, it’ll make too good a target. The safest option is to have me fly the Wraith if Lieutenant Jur can’t.” He stared down into Mara’s eyes, willing her into subordination with just a look. He’d made ensigns and new recruits shake in their flight suits.

Not this scavenger. She just glared right back up at him. “I’ve never lost a payload. Not once. I’m not going to lose your damned ship.”

“We can’t take the chance that this will be the first time.” He didn’t back down, either.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Captain Esen cut her off before she could say something cutting.

“The Wraith ships that the Black Wraith Squad pilot are extremely valuable,” he explained, “but it’s the tech they use that makes them of incalculable worth. If that tech fell into the wrong hands—”

“PRAXIS,” she said at once.

“They’ve been trying to get their paws on a Wraith for years.” Kell’s voice was hard as he recalled the skirmishes and battles fought just to keep that crucial tech away from the PRAXIS Group.

Lives lost, many of them his friends. He hoped that Lieutenant Jur wasn’t one of them, but there would be no way of knowing until he got inside the Smoke Quadrant.

Provided, of course, that the stubborn scavenger gave in and took him on as her partner for the mission. Whether she agreed or didn’t, he was going to the Smoke Quadrant. Her compliance did not matter, especially with a mission this critical.

“Then I’ll pilot the Wraith ship,” she said, “and put the Arcadia on auto pilot for the return journey.”

“Only members of the Squadron can fly a Wraith,” he answered.

She snorted. “Please. You 8th Wing hotshots aren’t the only ones with skills. Give me fifteen minutes and I can fly any ship.”

“Not a Wraith.” He held up his left hand, revealing the square of slightly raised flesh in the center of his palm. “Biotech implants. Without this, the Wraith is an inoperable hunk of metal. But with the implant, the pilot and the ship become one. And that’s what PRAXIS wants for themselves.

They get a hold of a Wraith, they copy the tech, and the shitstorm that is the PRAXIS Group is going to get a whole lot worse. Even for scavengers.”

Her lips tightened, but she wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t yield.

He had had enough of playing nice. “One of my squad is missing. She could be injured. Or maybe whoever has Celene is torturing her.” His jaw tightened, thinking of the lieutenant, alone, hurting.

They were all trained on how to survive and endure torture, but that didn’t make it easier to contemplate one of the squad being abused. “We’re wasting time because of your temper tantrum.