Page 8 of Ren: Warlord Brides
She really hated being the mouse in this scenario.
The back door swung open.
“This guy causing problems?” Gemma emerged from the back, wiping her hands on a towel. Tossing it over her shoulder, she glared at the lilac alien. The bruising on her face gave her a certain air of badassery, like she was the foul-tempered pastry chef your momma warned you about.
Okay, no one’s momma warned them about foul-tempered pastry chefs, but they should have. Pastry chefs slung around huge sacks of flour like they were nothing, and dough was tough to work. They had serious upper-body strength.
Emry groaned. She felt safer just having Gemma at her side, but that safety was an illusion. Fronting to an alien warrior like she was a badass was the fastest way for Gemma to get herself hurt.
“No problems. I merely convey a message from her long-lost mate,” the alien said, continuing to lounge casually on the steps.
A message?Damn her for being curious.
Gemma put the pieces together faster than Emry did. “Is that the guy? Tell me that’s the guy.”
She tried to push past Emry. A hand on her chest kept her in place.
“That’s not him.”
Gemma narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying that to avoid a scene?”
“The guy,” she said, stressing the words with sarcasm, “was red like a devil with a tail. Does he look red to you?”
“He’s got horns.”
“Wrong alien.”
“Bet he’s got a pitchfork too.”
A laugh burst out of Emry. When she returned to Earth, she gave Gemma a quick and dirty rundown on what happened. Her skimpy details did paint Ren to be a cartoon devil. “That’s not Ren.”
Gemma searched her face, then nodded. “Well, I don’t like that one. You can’t trust him.”
She nodded in agreement. “Do you really have a message, or are you screwing with us?”
“I have a proposition.”
Right,nowit was a proposition. Emry did not appreciate the way his story kept changing. Nailing down hard facts with this guy was probably as easy as catching a greased pig.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“Enough money to pay off your blackmailers and then some.”
“Yeah, right.” Money did not fall from the sky, and blackmailers did not go away once they caught the scent of cash.
“I have a friend. Pashaal. Good head for business, but not much else. She likes novelties. Toys. And she recently expressed an interest in a Terran chef.”
“You want me to be some sort of pet trotted out for dinner parties?” Emry had worked in worse conditions.
“Consider the credits to pay off your… associates as a signing bonus.”
Gemma cocked an eyebrow. “When you say enough to pay off our associates, how much is enough?”
The alien quotes a figure large enough to make her gasp.
More than enough.
“What’s the catch?” Emry said, because there was always a catch.
