So he was finished. She’d known it, even when she’d tried to tell herself she had a few more days with him. He hadn’t told her, but she thought she understood why. Cal wouldn’t want to hurt her, and he would know, would have to know, how she felt. No matter how hard she tried to treat their relationship as a single moment in time, one based on passion and affection and mutual need, he had seen through her. He was trying to be kind.

She wanted to be glad for him. She had to be glad for him.

She took a minute to adjust, then asked what she had asked once before.

“Computer.”

Working.

“Who is Caleb Hornblower?”

Hornblower, Caleb, Captain ISF, retired. Born 2 February, to Katrina Hardesty Hornblower and Byram Edward Hornblower. Place of birth Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Graduate Wilson Freemont Memorial Academy. Attended Princeton University, withdrew after sixteen months without degree. Enlisted ISF. Served six years, seven months. Military record as follows . . .

With her lips pursed, Libby listened to the readout of Cal’s military career. There was citation after citation—just as there was reprimand after reprimand. His record as a pilot was flawless. His disciplinary record was an entirely different matter. She couldn’t help but smile.

She thought of her father and his ingrained distrust of the military system. Yes, given a bit of time, she thought, he would have grown very fond of Cal.

Credit rating 5.8, the computer continued.

“Stop.” Libby heaved a sigh. She wasn’t interested in Cal’s credit rating. She’d pried far enough into his personal life as it was. Any other answers she wanted would have to come from him. And quickly.

Rising, she began to wander through the ship, looking for him.

It was the music that tipped her off. She heard it first, distant and lovely, with a vague curiosity. Something classical, with a kind of swelling passion. As she followed it, she tried to identify the composer.

She found Cal asleep in his cabin. The music filled the room, every corner of it, yet it was soft, soothing, seductive. She felt the tug, the almost irresistible urge to slip into the bed beside him, snuggling close until he woke and made slow, sweet love to her.

She shook it off. The music, she decided. Somehow it was comforting and erotic at the same time. Exactly the way his kisses could be. She wouldn’t let it influence her or let herself forget that she was angry with him.

Still, she took a picture of him as he slept, then slipped it, almost guiltily, into her pocket.

After leaning against the doorway, she lifted her chin. It was a deliberately defiant pose, and she enjoyed it.

“So this is how you work.”