Independent trader Trilby Elliot is making some not-quite-legal modifications to her starfreighter, when an unexpected visitor falls out of space. Literally. He’s crashed onto the uninhabited planet of Avanar in a crippled ’Sko fighter–the last place you’d expect to find a Zafharin military officer because the ’Sko and the Zafharin have been at war as long as Trilby can remember. Rhis Vanur is your typically arrogant Zafharin. But to Trilby’s surprise, he doesn’t look down on her or her slapdash ship. Still, Trilby’s learned the hard way that even though she found Rhis, she can’t keep him. She’s just a low-budget jump jockey as far as men like him are concerned. She’s not falling for his offer to help…until Port Rumor reports her best friend missing and Trilby learns that the ’Sko are hunting both her and Rhis. Now they’re in it together for better, for worse–or till death blasts them to oblivion.... Independent trader Trilby Elliot is making some not-quite-legal modifications to her starfreighter, when an unexpected visitor falls out of space. Literally. He's crashed onto the uninhabited planet of Avanar in a crippled 'Sko fighter-the last place you'd expect to find a Zafharin military officer because the 'Sko and the Zafharin have been at war as long as Trilby can remember. Rhis Vanur is your typically arrogant Zafharin. But to Trilby's surprise, he doesn't look down on her or her slapdash ship. Still, Trilby's learned the hard way that even though she found Rhis, she can't keep him. She's just a low-budget jump jockey as far as men like him are concerned. She's not falling for his offer to help...until Port Rumor reports her best friend missing and Trilby learns that the 'Sko are hunting both her and Rhis. Now they're in it together for better, for worse-or till death blasts them to oblivion.... Winner of the prestigious national book award, the RITA, science fiction romance author Linnea Sinclair has become a name synonymous for high-action, emotionally intense, character-driven novels. Reviewers note that Sinclair’s novels “have the wow-factor in spades,” earning her accolades from both the science fiction and romance communities. A former news reporter and retired private detective, Sinclair resides in Naples, Florida with her husband, Robert Bernadino, and their two thoroughly spoiled cats. Chapter One The Careless Venture's intruder alarm erupted through the cavern with a harsh wail. Trilby Elliot shot to her feet, knocking over the makeshift repair table. Sonic welder and integrator cables clattered against the cavern floor. She bolted for her freighter's rampway. Overhead, a nest of sleeping bloodbats burst out of the rocky crevices like small, leathery missiles. The panicked bats spiraled in front of her. Screeching, they fled through the wide mouth of the cavern into the lavender twilight. She reached her rampway just as a silver object flashed across the sky behind them. "Damn. Double damn." Another ship here meant big trouble. And even a little trouble was more than she could handle right now. She sprinted through the air lock. Coils of black conduit snaked down the freighter's corridor, humped over the hatch tread into the bridge. She sidestepped the cables and reached for the alarm, slapping it into silence. A flick of her thumb activated the intraship. "Dezi, we got incoming! Take the bridge." "On my way, Captain." A reassuring reply came from three decks below in maintenance. But then, Dezi couldn't see what she could. Lights blinked in a crazed staccato on the scanner console. Data, ominous and irritatingly incomplete, spilled down the screen. The incoming ship was small, but Trilby's malfunctioning equipment refused to pin down its origins. It could be a Conclave scout ship; it could be a pirate probe. It could also be the first of a squadron of fighters from the-Gods-only-knew-where. She grabbed her binocs and laser rifle from the utility locker, tabbed the intercom back on. "Main scanner's still not cooperating. I'm going outside for a visual." A second acknowledgment came, calm as the first. Good ol' Dezi. A wave of late-afternoon heat assailed her as she passed under the cavern's high arch. She crouched down between a nest of scrub palms and moss-covered boulders, scanned the sky with her binocs. The bright rays from the setting sun flared painfully into her eyes. "Damnation!" She flicked her thumb against the autofilter. Nothing happened. The filter was stuck--again. She smacked the binocs hard against her thigh, then brought them back up. They hazed for a moment then adjusted. She panned the horizon, looking for movement, listening for something other than the jungle's thick silence and the pounding of her own heart. Five minutes passed. Sweat stained her drab-green T-shirt in dark, uneven patches. Then a flicker, a metallic glint. She locked the binocs on it. The image came into focus and her sweat-dampened skin chilled as she recognized it. It was a Trahtark,