Emerald Flight: Diplomatic Relations (continued)

Devereux checked the chronometer mounted on the bulkhead near the kitchen area. Daniel was nearly ten minutes late.

She sipped at her water, wondering how long she should wait. If he failed to show up at all, she had no intention of returning to her quarters and dining alone there.

Like hell am I giving up this view just because he can’t tear himself away . . .

Her eyes spied him in the hatchway. He appeared to be in no hurry, as if arriving late for a dinner date was nothing worthy of any haste on his part. Pausing in the hatchway, his eyes swept the interior, quickly settling on her. He smiled and strode to her, his pace increasing just slightly as he closed the distance between them.

He was dressed more formally than she was, Devereux noticed. It was not his dress blues, but a very finely tailored belted tunic and pants. On its breast, right above his heart, was pinned the crest of the Fleet Diplomatic Service.

Devereux shook her head ever so slightly before returning his smile.

“My apologies, Capt—Christine, for being tardy. Something came up that I needed to deal with tonight—so that our evening would not be interrupted.”

His tone oozed sincerity. Devereux did not buy it for a moment. Still, she nodded in understanding anyway.

Daniel seated himself and she immediately saw his eyes appraise her. Small movements in his expression suggested to her his assessment of her features as his gaze traveled along her face and down to the neckline of her dress. He seemed to find her acceptable, but not particularly exceptional.

Devereux took no offense at this, stifling a slight smile behind another sip from her water glass. She had not dressed to impress, nor for possible seduction. Her dress had been chosen first for comfort and second to provide clear evidence that she was female.

“May I?” Daniel asked, holding up the bottle of wine.

Devereux nodded her acceptance.

“I’d hoped they’d have an ’06,” he said. “But this ’08 will have to do.”

Pursing her lips into a slight smile, Devereux dipped her head slightly as if she had understood a thing he had just said.

She had many friends who were wine connoisseurs, but it was not an avocation that she had picked up—at least not with any degree of real interest. She did know that wine production in her native Quebec was far younger than it had been for most other regions on Earth. Other than for that fact, though, she chiefly knew what she liked and disliked by tasting it. There were a small handful of vintages she recognized, chiefly because they were associated with some particular memory.

This particular wine appealed to her, although she doubted that she would have noticed any significant difference between the ’06, this ’08—or a ’07 or ’09, for that matter.

She let it linger along her tongue, trying to guess at its various hints of flavors.

Citrus? And . . . pecans?

Realizing that Daniel was studying her curiously, Devereux swallowed the wine and set the glass down.

“It’s quite good.”

Daniel regarded her doubtfully, taking another sip from his own glass before returning it to the table.