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Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!


Arabella Sain was quite probably one of the most attractive women in Starfleet, and she wasn't used to being ignored.

On most days she could pretty well guarantee at least a few heads turning when she walked down the corridors at Headquarters, even when she wasn't wearing anything particularly stylish. When she made an effort – and on this night she'd made even more of an effort than usual – there was hardly a pair of male eyes that didn't follow her every move.

Bar one.

Bastard.

She knew he was aware of her interest in him. Or rather, her interest in breaching the defenses that everyone said were unbreachable.

It wasn't that he didn't put it around. On the contrary, he must have bedsprings made of duranium. But he made no secret of the fact that he selected his partners with care, and if he didn't care for you, you were never going to get an invite to get horizontal in his quarters.

Those who had received and accepted that kind invitation were regarded with envy. Rumor said that he did positively amazing things in the sack, and nobody contradicted it. On the contrary, mention of it tended to be greeted with coy smiles; the sort that said we could tell you, but you'd never believe it.

She'd known he was going to be here, of course. Now that the course was over, all the graduates were letting their hair down. Getting the highest mark in the course hadn't been greeted with anything more than an offhand nod, but he had to feel something. And this was the sort of place he'd probably relax those rigid rules about alcohol.

Tonight, she was going to make her move.

So she'd dressed with particular care, taking her cue from the women he'd been seen to associate with. He didn't go for blatantly obvious sexuality. Overflowing décolletage got nothing more from him than a sardonic glance.

Her dress was the perfect combination of elegance and sensuality. The dark blue silk clung in some places, draped in others. The small sapphire pendant on a thread-fine chain around her neck emphasized its length and curve. It was infinitely more sophisticated than the glitzy rows of sparkling stones that others affected. This time he just had to notice.

Well, he'd looked. Once. As she entered the room, just as he did every time anyone came in, with that inbuilt wariness that training had not so much created as honed. She wanted to think that the measuring gaze lingered just a fraction longer, but it certainly hadn't acknowledged her the way that of virtually every other man in the room had done. Older executives' wives had frowned or sighed; girlfriends or fiancées had prodded suddenly inattentive partners; unattached males had gravitated towards her like comets towards a newborn sun; single females had looked and shrugged. It was just Arabella being Arabella.

For most of the evening she socialized, flirted, and acted like the hostess of the party. Older men turned frisky in her presence, encouraged by her demure playfulness. Pathetic. She kept the smile pinned on her face, as much a part of her disguise as the immaculate cosmetics, and all the time she was aware of him, a dark presence off to one side, saying little, eating virtually nothing and drinking less. Now and again she thought his gaze brushed across her briefly, but whenever she glanced in his direction he was always watching someone else.

When the music started she thought he might make a move. And he did, but he was leading that gauche little Deborah Devereux on to the floor. In between being charming to her own partner, whose name she didn't know and had no interest in, Arabella kept an eye on them. He didn't talk much, but Deborah was blushing. For God's sake, why her? She's got as much figure as a wooden clothes-pin and she's about as entertaining as a stuffed toy. She couldn't see him adding Devereux to the notches on his Starfleet bunk. It was odds on around the corridors that she was still a virgin, for one thing – hardly likely material for a man of his preferences. Maybe it was because of her being English too. Right on the first day of the course, when they'd been reading names off the dorm boards, his soft voice had corrected somebody's phonetic mangling of the pronunciation. It was the first time anyone had heard him speak, and a little startled silence had fallen. She remembered that now.

But it couldn't be denied that they made a pretty attractive couple. She was a better dancer than you'd have given her credit for, and he was always graceful. Arabella snatched another glance a few minutes later, as the music came to an end. He didn't release his partner immediately, but stood looking down at her with an expression on his face that was – well, unexpectedly gentle.

For some reason this was intensely irksome.

She left her partner and wandered in that direction, picking up a glass of champagne as she went.

"I don't believe I congratulated you yet on your results – Ensign Reed," she said sweetly, ignoring Devereux as though she was part of the wallpaper. "You must have spent a surprising amount of your free time studying."

"That's the way to succeed in life, Ensign Sain," he replied, his voice perfectly level. Close to, his eyes were as gray as diamonds in half-light, and as hard. "'Preparation is one of the vital steps to perfection', after all."

Damn. With that low English voice he even sounded like he was talking dirty when he was quoting Professor MacRae, who was so boring half the class fell asleep during his lectures.

"I believe that's your approach to everything. Or so I hear." She lifted the champagne glass to her lips and looked at him over the rim of it.

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear. But in this case, it's perfectly true. I've always been a believer in ... as much preparation as possible." His gaze dropped her like a cat dropping a dead mouse and returned to Deborah. "Can you bear me treading on your toes again?"

Color washed up in her face, lending it an unexpected prettiness. Her hitherto nervous look dissolved into a sudden smile that was breathtaking. "You didn't tread on them once."

"Oops. I'll try not to tread on them for this one either, then." And he led her back on to the dance floor, where once again they became absorbed in the music and in each other.

Arabella stood perfectly still, watching them.


"He's not getting away with it."

She told the mirror that much later that night, after she emerged from the shower with the muscular and not-overly-intelligent MACO who'd at least had the intelligence to recognize an offer he shouldn't turn down. Not that he'd wanted to anyway.

"Who's not gettin' away with what, sweetheart?" He trailed kisses down her wet shoulder, played with her hair.

"Someone who insulted me."

"I can't believe anyone would dare."

"He's a British asshole." She sighed and leaned back into his caresses. "He thinks he's invincible."

"You want me to prove different?"

"Yes."


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