“Miss Katherinessen has made himself quite at home,” she said, and the grin turned into a wink. “One of the senior males is seeing to him. He’s in good hands.”
Kusanagi‑Jones snorted. He let a little jealousy show. It couldn’t hurt, and it was easy enough to feel jealous of Vincent. He had a way of getting what he wanted, after all. “The question is, is your male safe at Vincent’s hands?”
“Robert’s my sire,” she said. “He’s safe most places. He’s a three‑time Trial champion, all city, and before he retired he was third overall.”
A gleam of pride reflected through her voice. He wasn’t likely to forget the Trials quickly. And he remembered Robert from the docks, and Robert had had scars. And had been beautiful and dark.
Just to Vincent’s taste.
But interesting, that pride. My sire. A young woman proud of her father, even here. He supposed just because you kept someone as chattel, it didn’t mean you didn’t care for him. Especially if you thought it was for his own good. “Well, I hope he’s not driven to defend his honor at Vincent’s expense,” he joked, waiting for her response.
Which was a chuckle. “Don’t you envy him that? That sense of…entitlement?”
She’d picked that up on a moment’s acquaintance, had she? Kusanagi‑Jones snorted hard enough that it stung. “Envy Vincent? Not the entitlement. Sometimes maybe the privilege that produced it. Trying to drive a wedge between us, Miss Pretoria?”
“Of course not,” she said, maintaining a perfect deadpan. “That’s what they hired my mother for.”
11
AFTER THE SHOWER, VINCENT LET ROBERT SMEAR HIS BACK with a gelatinous yellow substance that stung and soothed, and smelled of cucumbers and mint. He could have pulled up a license, but there was no reason to give away more of the capabilities of his wardrobe than he needed to. Robert worked steadily and quickly, and when he was done and Vincent summoned a new outfit from his wardrobe, he made sure he programmed it not to absorb the gel. It slid and stuck, but it did help. He turned back and offered his hand to Robert for yet another of the endless New Amazonian handshakes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Robert answered. His clasp was firm.
Vincent was unsurprised to feel the edged corners of a chip pressed into his palm as he dropped his hand, and he cupped his fingers slightly to hold it. The outfit he’d chosen had pockets suitable for the nonchalant shoving of hands, so he did.
“Your partner’s arrived,” Robert said. “Shall we meet him?”
Vincent’s wardrobe dried the water from his braids and tidied his hair. He took a breath and drew himself up, the carpetplant cool under the soles of his feet.
He’d erred, and taken chances. And he didn’t have anything to show for it, in terms of his public mission or either of his private ones. Angelo was going to kill him. Slowly. Probably by ripping strips off his slow‑roasted back.
He might as well get it over with. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Have you heard from Miss Pretoria and Miss Delhi?”
Robert nodded. Vincent had known the answer before he asked. While he was in the shower, Robert’s affect had changed, from controlled concern to concealed relief. There was something else under it, though–a sidelong glance, an even breath. Vincent honestly couldn’t say howhe knew–it was a complex of cues too subtle to verbalize–but there it was. Robert was withholding information.
And he was concerned for Vincent, too. Not in quite the same way as he was concerned for Miss Pretoria. Of course, he wouldn’t be, if Vincent understood the relationship. This would be the man Lesa intended to marry, when she established her own household and become an Elder in her own right. He had special status in Pretoria house, the way, historically, a…a house dog would have had more status than a hunting dog.
He wasn’t livestock. He was a pet.
And he was also the one passing Vincent data chips. Which meant that he could either be operating as an agent on behalf of someone in the household who wished her identity concealed…or be doing it on his own.
It would be awfully easy for somebody who shared Lesa’s bed to get a tracking device on her, and the assailants in the street had known where to find them. The chip in Vincent’s pocket swung against his thigh as he followed Robert across the cool floors. The pieces might be falling together after all.
They passed through a heavy, old‑fashioned door that swung on apparent brass hinges. Given House’s ability to reinvent itself, Vincent assumed they were a cunning approximation. On the other side was a tiled, pleasant porch whose sides lay open on a balmy afternoon, a courtyard in which four or five children played with a pair of khir. The feathered quadrupeds were nimble and agile, coordinated in their movements as they raced after whooping and tumbling children.
Inside the balustrade, a group of adults sat at ease. Obviously dominating the group, Elena Pretoria wore cool cream and peach, her bare feet callused along the edges though the toenails were painted. Beside her, Lesa sat on a wicker stool, her feet hooked over the bottom rung, Katya sprawled on bolsters at her feet. Michelangelo had arranged himself cross‑legged on a cushion on the other side of a low glass table suitable for resting mugs and feet upon. It was the lowest vantage in the room, but it had the advantage of putting his back to an angle of wall so the only one behind him was his security officer, a wiry berry‑eyed young woman with a golden‑brown fox’s face.
Shafaqat leaned beside the door. She gave Vincent the right half of a smile as he came in, and didn’t acknowledge Robert at all. Robert patted Vincent’s elbow and kept walking down the stairs, out among the children and pets. “Please, Miss Katherinessen,” Elena said without rising. “Join us.”
Vincent took the gesture at face value and crossed the tile to a cushion beside Michelangelo’s, wincing as he lowered himself. Michelangelo raised an eyebrow. “A Colonial would forget that UV radiation is dangerous.”
“It doesn’t hurt until later,” Vincent answered.
“That’s why it’s dangerous.” Michelangelo might have said something more–he had that tension around his mouth–but apparently Vincent’s discomfort was showing in his face. Instead, Angelo reached out lightly, without seeming to shift, and brushed the back of his knuckles against Vincent’s knee. A slight curve lifted one corner of his mouth, and he spoke even more softly. “The big brute at least take good care of you?”
Vincent sighed. Forgiven. Or at least Angelo was willing to pretend he was. “Not his type,” he mouthed, and was rewarded by a slightly broader smile. “How was your day?”
“Edifying.” Michelangelo raised his voice, reincluding the rest. “The warden was telling us about your admirers.”
“They must have been tailing us for some time,” Vincent said. “Waiting a break in the crowds. And we gave them one.” He shrugged, then regretted it. “I’m relieved to see Lesa and Shafaqat made it out all right.”
There was an unspoken question in the words. Lesa fielded a glance from the security agent and took on the question. “They were carrying nonlethal weapons. And I don’t think they expected Vincent to shrug off two tanglers quite so nonchalantly. If he hadn’t, they would have concentrated harder on entangling Shafaqat and me, to slow us while they made their escape with Vincent.”
Shafaqat’s eyebrow asked a question. Vincent nodded, as a shadow entered the door and a cool drink appeared at his hand, already sweating beads of condensation onto the rippled glass tabletop. The servant placed a pitcher of amber fluid flecked with herby green on the table, removed an exhausted one, and withdrew. Vincent noticed that the others already had glasses, picked his up, and sipped.