1.
At what point, Picard wondered, had he known where this would end up? It wasn't as if he hadn't played the game before. It wasn't as if he hadn't been at a thousand diplomatic functions, eaten at a thousand diplomatic meals, been seated at the table with hundreds of interesting young people, and yet. Sitting at this particular table, at this particular function, at the end of a trying but ultimately successful trade negotiation, he'd known, just by looking at her, that she'd placed herself at his table. By the way she smiled at him, by the way her eyes glittered, by the way her hand moved as she talked, by the way her fingers tapered around her champagne flute.
She wasn't perfect in her beauty, far from it, but there were interesting planes to her face, almost geometric in design, and the way the lighting touched her, creating shadows beneath her cheekbones…he wanted to run his fingers across them. Usually the people who sat with him were important, and cultural in some way, designed to keep him interested and mildly amused, after having dealt with the self-obsessed and the narcissists in the talks of the day; there was always a handsome young person, whose job it was to be mildly flirtatious; all part of the game. It was common knowledge, after all, that he was married to the captain of the Titan; he wore a ring on his finger; he was quite willing, when asked, to talk about his children. So she must have known too that he wasn't available, and yet here she was, with her conversation that he suddenly found so appealing, and the interesting shadows of her face, and the cool green of her eyes, intelligent, surely, and interested, definitely, but without – without the need that always seemed to be in Will's.
When she invited him out into the gardens he didn't even need to think. She linked her arm with his, but casually, just a friendly gesture, from one diplomat to another. She didn't have a title, but she was definitely working. The two moons were hazy overhead in the warmth and humidity of the evening, and she talked a little about the tides, and the inland sea, and where she'd grown up, along its estuaries. It was as if he'd been transported to another time, and another era, perhaps in those long-forgotten Romantic novels of his youth, when he'd discovered the rocks of Cornwall and the shifting sands of Kent. Her perfume was light and yet it filled his nostrils and he breathed it in as if he'd never smelled anything before. Oh, it was so practised, this seduction, but he'd been playing the game long before she'd even been born, and it was so pleasant, so charming, just to ride along with her, let her take the lead to where he'd known, all along, when she'd sat down, this was going.
He'd forgotten what a woman felt like. The curves of her shoulders and the softness of the nape of her neck; the wisps of hair that fell along her cheeks, which he brushed away; the sheer softness of her skin, along her belly and her thighs. When he'd taken her in his arms it had all come back to him, the physical memory of being with a woman, the give and take, the softness, the yielding. It was intoxicating; it was overwhelming, as memory returned; Beverly, and Jenice, Nella and even Phillipa seemed to all become this one woman, in his arms, beneath him, beside him. Afterwards, she slept beside him, breathing lightly against his skin, a tiny, almost fragile thing, something he could hold and protect; something rare and gentle, like a tiny bird; like a flower.
In the morning there'd been no apologies and no embarrassment; he'd made love to her again, and it was as if he were young and strong with his whole life ahead of him. They had tea and a light breakfast on the balcony, and she asked him what his plans were; and suddenly he didn't have any. No plans, he said, I have days of leave owed to me, and her delighted laugh enthralled and enchanted him. Eventually, he thought, he'd have to send a communication, but it wasn't as if these diplomatic talks didn't sometimes overstay their welcome. A few days wouldn't be unexpected; he'd send the communication if it looked as if it would turn into a week.
And the planet was so beautiful. Two glorious moons in a hazy fuchsia sky; lush vegetation and luxurious gardens; fresh air and the spicy scent of flowers everywhere. She'd been married, she told him, but her husband had been lost in a skirmish somewhere; he hadn't really paid attention to the details. She had one child, a son at university in the capital; he didn't volunteer any information at all, to her, about his four-year-old son and six-month-old daughter on the Titan. It suddenly was embarrassing, that someone his age should have young children, when here was this marvel, this wonder, who was so young, and yet her parenting days were over.
She was so different from Will. After accepting her offer to stay with her in her small cottage near the sea, he was able to reflect, as she was walking in her garden, or walking with him along the beach, just how different she was. Making love to Will, after all these years, had become routine; when, of course, they actually had the opportunity to make love, between Will's constant life on call as captain and his trips as ambassador, and the general busyness of having one youngster and one infant in the captain's quarters. And large as the captain's quarters were, it was, he realised, claustrophobic to have two adult men and two small children in what was essentially a flat not designed for family living.
What was amazing to him was that at first, he didn't even think of Will. After three days he'd sent the communication, saying that the talks had stalled and he would be away at least another week, and then he'd left it, and returned to what had become an interlude both strange and magical. She was clear-eyed and intelligent; she was an active participant in their lovemaking; she was an engaging conversationalist who knew when to be silent; she was perfectly at ease with him. And so he hadn't thought of Will. He hadn't, he realised, even thought of Sascha, or the baby Rose.
But now, as he watched her sleep, he wondered at what point he'd realised that this had become more than just a dalliance. When had his forgetting Will become deliberate? When had his communication become prevarication? When had he begun, he thought, to justify what he was doing by comparing her to Will? It was hard for him to understand why it was so exciting to be with a woman – to be with this woman. He'd always been attracted to both sexes; from his first love, Michel, when he was only seventeen and trying to gain admission to the Academy; and Jack, his first officer, on the Stargazer; to Walker; to Will. He hadn't been exclusive in any way, except perhaps in the type of man he fell for, and in the type of woman. Making love to Will – the hard muscles of his back, the hollow of his neck, the silky hair along his spine that led downwards to the curved muscles of his arse; the strength of his hands, the line of his jaw, the cleft in his chin – when had that given way to the mundane? He tried to picture Will, curled into him the way he always slept, his arm across Picard's chest, his hair in his eyes; he tried to summon some excitement, or a sense of loss, but there was nothing there. And then he felt her stretch beside him, and take him in with her appraising jade eyes, and he felt a frisson of both excitement and –
And fear. And then it was gone, and he reached for her, and he was lost once again in the softness and the sweetness and the wonder of this new and remarkable love.