A few stopped to ask Michaela questions and then filed out, leaving her alone with Kalico.

“What do you think?” the Director asked.

“I think they’ll stick,” Kalico told her. “Your job is to give them a direction and keep them focused. Once they sink their teeth into solving the problem, half of your troubles will vanish. Rotations to PA will help. Rubbing elbows with Donovanians tends to scuff off any romantic illusions about the bush.”

“I sure hope you’re wrong about losing more of my people.”

“Wish I was, too.”

26

Her name was Sharascina, one of the most coveted and desired talents in the Hetaira guild of courtesans on Transluna. Some said she was the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. To have Sharascina perched on one’s arm for the evening brought a man instant notice—made as much a statement about his position, wealth, and power as any clothing, accoutrements, or number of personal retainers.

Sharascina usually restricted her companionship to Boardmembers like Pierre Terblanch, Vioil Radcek, or Xian Chan. That she arrived at the Tiboronne on Derek Taglioni’s arm made an even more powerful statement. As Dek stepped from the limousine and Sharascina unfolded from the vehicle like some elegant flower, every eye was centered on the two of them.

Walking through the great platinum double doors and into the restaurant’s elegance, they were the definition of a spectacle. Dek could hear the stilling in the room, the hush of conversation, and the cessation of clinking silverware on fine china. And as quickly, the pause faded, people whispering, “Of course, he is a Taglioni” and, “Perhaps his star is rising?” But more importantly each and every one of them were asking themselves if they should rethink who and what Derek Taglioni was.

For the evening, Sharascina wore a semi-translucent gown of laser-fiber and microneon that shifted in glowing shades of sunset red, gold, vermillion, and cadmium yellow; the colors flowed with each step of her overly long legs. The exquisite angles of her face reflected the stunning hues projected by the dress’s high and flaring collar, while the wealth of her golden, silvered, and glacial-blue hair shimmered with its own radiance.

God alone knew, she was costing him enough. But then, what good was a family fortune if not to squander it in the name of personal advancement?

Besides, trolling Sharascina through the Tiboronne to one of the exclusive elevated tables in the upper level was about as flagrant a statement of wealth and prestige as a human could make.