“I suppose not,” Lorraine said, looking away from her. She edged away from the display screen.
“Are we finished?” Skillen asked. “I have to get back to The Bakery.”
“Yes, we’re done. Everything checks out well. The antibiotics are keeping you clear of infection.”
Skillen nodded slightly, as though acknowledging a point she would rather resist. She turned and reached for the door.
“Thora?”
Skillen looked back at Lorraine.
Feeling torn, uncertain, Lorraine heard herself ask, “What would you do if—if you felt that someone was, well, using you?”
“A man?”
Lorraine nodded.
“Sexually?”
She nodded again.
Skillen’s hard-bitten features relaxed into an almost tender aspect. “I’d stop seeing him,” she said gently.
“But if you’ve agreed to work with him…”
“Work is one thing,” Skillen said firmly. “Making love is something else. The two are completely separate. Or should be.”
Lorraine nodded. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“Keep your work on a professional level. Make it clear that your relationship will be strictly business and nothing else.”
“I see,” Lorraine said, uncertainly.
“If he insists on mixing sex with business…”
“Yes?”
“Kick him in the balls.”
Flashing a wide grin, Skillen yanked the door open and sailed out of the infirmary.
Carla Sue Gamble simmered silently as she rubbed blush into her big cheeks. She felt her blood boiling. She was damned mad. She was goddamned livid. Nobody treated her so shabbily and got away with it.
She had always known where to find her men. As a University of Florida freshman, she had enrolled in an introductory “Rocks for Jocks” course because it was popular with the varsity football team. She snagged the starting quarterback by wearing pastel miniskirts that climbed the length of her tanned legs during lectures. The relationship barely lasted into basketball season, mainly because—much to her own surprise—she found chemistry much more interesting than the quarterback.
As a sophomore, she took as many science courses as she could. Her sorority sisters thought she had taken leave of her senses. Even the coolest science student was still a nerd compared to a varsity athlete. But Carla Sue found herself genuinely interested in biochemistry, of all things. And not all the guys in her science classes were nerds. They clustered around her like bees seeking a flower.
Kurt Jaeckle had been her biggest catch. The mission to Mars was destined to be her biggest prize, the coup that would set her up for life. The competition for the eventual mission was fierce; being a good scientist was nowhere near enough. You had to be the best, better than the best. Or you had to have strong connections to the men who made the decisions. Carla Sue made a strong connection with Kurt Jaeckle.
But now she was in danger of losing Jaeckle. And to whom? This mousy French Canadian, this glorified nurse, this twit with the phony accent. Well, she thought as she moistened her lips with her tongue, Carla Sue Gamble doesn’t give up easily. And she still knows what makes men tick.
Carla Sue dragged herself into the wardroom. The hour was god-awful early, but she needed every minute. She selected a tray of dried peaches, sausage, scrambled eggs, corn flakes, and juice, then glided to a table that afforded her a view of the entire area. Dan Tighe was the only other person present. He nodded in solemn greeting, then returned his attention to his breakfast. His profile was attractively rugged and, at this distance, his eyes flashed like twin stars.
Carla Sue ticked through her mental file on Dan Tighe. Divorced. Embroiled in a constant battle with his ex-wife over their son. Not romantically involved with anyone on the station. More than six months away from Earth. By all outward signs he was ripe for an affair. And Kurt would go apeshit with jealousy.
But Carla Sue could not envision herself playing up to Dan Tighe; she could not imagine him snapping at her bait. Those eyes, at once so attractive and so remote, had the power to wither her with a glance.
Tighe left the wardroom. Carla Sue made herself a cup of coffee by injecting a blast of hot water into a squeeze bottle containing freeze-dried milk and coffee flakes. The wardroom filled up, then emptied as waves of people ate breakfast and moved on to their daily routines. Carla Sue, from her vantage point, assessed each of the males. She immediately discounted any of her fellow Martians. None would jeopardize his position within the Mars Project by crossing Kurt Jaeckle. The Trikon group offered some interesting possibilities. Of all the people on board, Kurt considered only Chakra Ramsanjawi and Hisashi Oyamo as his intellectual equals. Carla Sue could twist a barb poisoned with professional jealousy by openly flirting with either of them. But with Oyamo’s pimply obesity and Ramsanjawi’s odorous presence, jealousy came at too high a price. The third chief scientist for this rotation, Thora Skillen, might be interested if the rumors about her were true. But Carla Sue wasn’t prepared to go that far. Not even for Mars. Besides, that wouldn’t make Jaeckle jealous; it would only drive him further away from her.
The new Trikon scientist, Hugh O’Donnell, had a lean and unpolished sexiness about him. But he also had the look of someone who had been around the block a few times. He would see right through her ruse. Besides, she sensed something inside him so tightly wound it was ready to snap. She did not want to be near him when the moment came.
That left the crew.
Carla Sue mixed herself another squeeze bottle of coffee as the wardroom crowd dwindled for the last time. Lance Muncie and Freddy Aviles prepared their breakfasts at different galley stations, then settled at the adjacent table. Forget Freddy, thought Carla Sue. He was a freak, a cripple. No telling how much his accident had taken away from him.
Lance Muncie. The name echoed slowly in Carla Sue’s mind. She shaped it on her lips without making a sound. She had outgrown her taste for boys still wet behind the ears. But Lance seemed well suited for her plan. Physically, he was everything Kurt Jaeckle was not: young, tall, with the powerful body of a colt and the wheat-and-sunlight coloration of Middle America. He still wore the wide-eyed, slightly baffled expression of a kid seeing the world for the first time. Plus, the rumor mill said he had girlfriend trouble back home. Carla Sue patted her lips with a napkin. Lance Muncie was her man.
Carla Sue slipped her feet from the restraining loops and sailed over to the next table, her lips arranged in her Homecoming Queen’s smile. Freddy greeted her and nudged Lance to do the same. Lance obliged, though not very warmly, then turned his attention to his rehydrated scrambled eggs.
“So what’s your secret?” asked Carla Sue.
Lance was startled to realize Carla Sue was talking to him. He shot a nervous glance at Freddy, but saw only the gold canine catching a gleam from the overhead lights.
“Secret?” he asked. Halfway through a swallow, his voice was an octave higher than usual.
“For your muscle tone,” said Carla Sue.
Lance had one arm crooked around his tray. The exertion of keeping his arm flat on the table exposed long cords of well-defined sinew. Carla Sue held her hand a half inch above that arm as if tempted but not daring to stroke it. Her fingers were long and elegant. The nails were short, shorter than Becky kept hers, but neatly manicured. Lance shot another glance at Freddy. This time Freddy winked.
“It must be the eggs,” said Carla Sue.
“Eggs?” Lance guffawed. “It’s not eggs ma’am. It’s hard work.”
“I work hard, too,” said Carla Sue. She rolled up her sleeve and placed her bare arm alongside Lance’s. Lance recoiled, but could move his arm only so far before it lodged against the side of the tray. Carla Sue persisted. She laid her arm right on top of his, wrist to wrist, elbow nestling into elbow. Lance felt the warmth of her skin. A chill rolled up his arm and coursed down his spine. He wanted to move, but his arm was wedged between hers and the tray. It would take effort to extricate himself; he did not want to appear impolite.