Rarev shook his head. He certainly couldn’t think of anything worse.
“Well…” He rose to go, offering his arm for a warrior’s clasp. “I’d better go speak to her and then get back to the Monstrum Mother Ship to talk to Captain Storn and his new bride about visiting Rigellen Five.”
“May the Goddess grant you success,” Sylvan said, reaching for Rarev’s arm and grasping his forearm as Rarev grasped his. “I hope that Minister Oxley will have some good suggestions on how to apprise the World Council of our current situation.”
“I am sure she will,” Rarev nodded and then saw himself out of the other male’s office.
As he walked down the long silver corridor, his boot heels clicking on the metal flooring, he considered what he would say when he saw the lovely Earth female.
It was going to be a formal visit, he reminded himself. A state visit. There would be no reason to discuss anything besides the Darklings, the shortage of Yillium, and their attempts to procure the valuable mineral so they could continue protecting the Earth. It probably wouldn’t take him more than ten minutes to convey that information and then he would go back to the Monstrum Mother Ship.
And yet…he couldn’t stop thinking of her lush curves or that long, luscious silver mane that she wore in a severe twist at the back of her neck. Rarev wondered what it would look like, down around her shoulders? Especially if her shoulders were bare. The nearly hairless look of the humanoids in this ‘verse was incredibly erotic when it came to the females and Minister Emilia Oxley was the most attractive female he had ever seen…
No, stop it—stop thinking like that! he lectured himself sharply. This is a business meeting—nothing more. She’ll never see you as anything but a colleague and you will never treat her with anything but professional respect. Remember your vow! You’re never going to call a bride—let alone a curvy, Mature Elite like Minister Oxley.
He had no idea how very wrong he was…
1
“Bloody thing!” Minister Emilia Oxley, the UK representative of the World Council swore under her breath as she shook the electric kettle which was practically brand new and yet refused to work. Was it too much to ask for a functioning kettle to make her morning cup of tea? Apparently so, since she’d tried every outlet in her flat and the kettle wouldn’t so much as turn on.
Giving up, she set down the electric kettle and rummaged in her cupboard for the old-fashioned kind. Thank goodness she still had a backup! The heavy old kettle she’d had forever—passed down from her mum—had a faded flower pattern on its fat, rounded sides. If memory served, it also took forever to heat up, but it would have to do.
Filling the kettle at the sink, she plunked it on the stove and turned on the burner. She would just have to hope that she could hear it whistling over the shouts of the angry mob outside her flat.
Yes, it was almost Christmastime, her electric kettle was apparently broken, and there was an angry mob picketing outside her flat. Lovely.
Well, Emilia—or Em as her friends called her—was used to that. The decisions she made as a Minister to the World Council weren’t always popular with the majority of her constituents—especially the more conservative ones. But Em was that rarest of creatures—a politician who voted her conscience—and she refused to apologize for that to anyone, no matter how many expletives they shouted at her or what nasty signs they waved outside her door.
She swept a hand through her iron gray hair and sighed, eyeing the slowly-heating kettle balefully. Her hair was quite long now—it nearly brushed her lower back since she’d been letting it grow.
Em had gone gray early, starting back in her thirties, and she was too proud to dye her hair—it was part of her and she wouldn’t try to hide it. However, she usually kept it up in a bun at the nape of her neck, in order to look more professional.
Em imagined the tabloids would have a field day if they could see her hair down like this—they always loved mentioning its color. It had even gotten her the nickname, “The Second Iron Lady” though her policies couldn’t have been more different from Thatcher’s if she’d tried.
She dug a teabag out of a box and put it in a cup, waiting impatiently for the old-fashioned kettle to boil. She really needed a cup of tea this morning and not just because of the angry, shouting crowd. She’d woken up twice last night bathed in sweat, her heart pounding and her breath coming short. Both times she’d had to get up, take a shower, and change her nightclothes and her bed sheets before she could get back to sleep. This had been happening more and more lately and she knew why.