Chapter 1 – Blackheart
He had some idea what to look for. He knew she would be on Coruscant, and he had a rough physical description. Getting in had been the bigger problem. Finally, after a lot of sighing and unnecessary warnings, Senator Organa had talked Mon Mothma into letting him bring Cassian as his attaché, which was convenient for everybody, since it meant Alderaan would also foot the bill.
He wasn't used to this sort of work. Spying was one thing, but the clothes they had him in were uncomfortable. Most of his informants weren't the sort one found in Imperial palaces. He ran a hand across his chin for the hundredth time, wincing at the smoothness of it. It didn't feel like his face.
And shouldn't, he remembered. Tonight, he wasn't Captain Cassian Andor, he was Cass Atreides, temporary support staff to Senator Bail Organa, the usual assistant being on leave. Why? He hadn't been told. Family emergency, he'd gathered, but then it fell out of the realm of his need-to-know, and he was here at Senator Organa's disposal, after all, not the absent assistant's.
Bail Organa was one of those quirky senators who didn't require a lot of attending to, and just now "Cass" was free to wander. He scanned the crowd, hoping his eyes betrayed only the mild fascination of a junior administrator with a sudden promotion.
When a droid approached with a tray of drinks, he accepted in the name of camouflage. He'd learned a long time ago how to make one drink last the night and look like it hadn't. He tipped the glass to his lips, its fiz bubbling against the smooth skin, and when he'd lowered this rim out of his line of vision, he saw her.
She wore white. A clinging, less adorned piece than those favored by most of the assembled crowd, it nonetheless drew the eye. The high neck clasped with silver, and the fabric fell from there to hug along her modest, but nevertheless graceful, curves, until it cinched again at her waist. The skirt fell from a silver belt in two long panels, leaving her long legs bare at the sides.
She wore bracelets, and earrings, and her hair was tied back in ripples of luxurious auburn curls, all knotted together at the base of her skull. A second glance at her jewelry, particularly the band which encircled one forearm, gave Cassian the distinct impression that none of it was merely decorative.
Her drink was, though. After several minutes of careful observation, he realized she was employing the same trick he was. All thoughts of waiting until her guard was down would have to be abandoned.
He left his drink on a passing tray and moved her way, and didn't pretend to be idle about it. The best lies were cloaked in truth, after all, and she would see through his ruse even if no one else did. He approached her head on, letting his intentions, for that night at least, smolder, and she, meeting the challenge, set down her drink on a nearby cart and held his eye.
She waited for him, and he enjoyed the confidence this showed. Now, mere centimeters from her porcelain face, he found he wasn't quite sure how to begin.
But she had no business knowing that. "Cass," he introduced himself, bending to kiss her hand.
"Mara," she said as he rose. "You are with Organa's troop?"
He thought about reciting the story of the sad assistant with the family emergency, but thought better of it. She didn't care. He smiled instead, just out of one corner of his mouth. "For today. And you?"
She raised on eyebrow, but offered him a smile as well. "I enjoy good parties."
It was a lie, or at least, it wasn't as much of a truth as she would have him believe. A moment's closer study told him two things: that he was a welcome distraction, and that it was not the parties she enjoyed so much as her place at them. This was a woman who enjoyed having a purpose in life. A purpose and a home.
Cassian noted the first piece of information with satisfaction, and filed the second away for later.
"Do you dance?" he asked.
She laughed, as if he'd just told a joke, and at his frown, explained, "You've never been to Coruscant, have you? Only the Emperor's personal dancers wear this uniform." She indicated her dress. "What about you?"
He titled his head to the side. "I confess I'm out of practice."
"Then I won't call your bluff." She reached for his hand. "In this crowd, no one will notice if you stumble."
He accepted her hand and led her out into the throng. As his hand glided perfectly into the small of her back, he said, "With you as my partner, I very much doubt that."
As it turned out, Cassian could dance. This wasn't his first undercover ball, and he was a fast learner. He was grateful for the lull in conversation it afforded as well. Mara seemed disinclined to further small talk, and he silently confessed he liked that about her. This was not his favorite form of interrogation, with all its corners. The other way, the bloodier way, was at least more direct.
As Mara bent and turned in time with him, her concentration split between coordinating her own graceful movements (it wasn't a thoughtless grace, he noted; she was aware of exactly where she was putting every millimeter of herself at every moment), Cassian noted a rise in his heart rate that couldn't be put down to either the exertion or the danger he was putting himself in. He had a moment of near panic (during which he nearly dropped her) at the thought that she might be seducing him. It was too late to back out now, however, and when, later, they were in her quarters, and she had jumped up into his arms to straddle him where he stood, he was not at all unwilling to hold her there, strong hands clasped around her slim thighs, the folds of her gown having made way for him. Her eyes darkened to evergreen, and her lips descended down on him, and both were lost to the darkness they made for some time after.
