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Aklan retreated to the rooms reserved for him and him alone, wishing he could meet with his fellow warlords in person. When Zoran Kerus, the Warlord Council’s leader, had landed his spaceship on Earth the first time, they’d vowed to do so again only when needed. The warlords had agreed unanimously to remain hidden from the majority of Earth’s population until negotiations had been resolved.

And, having the spacecraft hovering over this exact spot served as a deterrent. No one would harm Aklan so long as the ship had a weapons lock on this facility, not after he’d explained, patiently and in excruciating detail, how easily Zoran’s ship could destroy every major city on Earth.

They weren’t here for destruction, but for peace, for trade, for aid from a foreign race. To find suitable breeding partners among the human females.

Females, Aklan now knew, who could possibly become the warlords’ mates in every way.

He was as shocked by that discovery as much as anything. How could Xeruvians be so compatible with another race, one not born on their own world, one not of their own culture?

And yet, it must be so, for the knowledge that the human female was his mate had locked into place with the certain surety of the coming night. Just as a planet revolved around its sun, creating predictable intervals of light and darkness, so too did a warlord know his mate. The knowing thrummed through him still an hour later, urging him to seek her out, to claim her, to seal their bonding in the most time-honored ritual of his kind.

But she was human and had human ways, ways so dissimilar from his own they were baffling.

How could a human male not know his own mate on sight?

Yet this was how humans lived, stumbling through life uncertain of their own destiny.

He could not be so uncertain of his. Even now, desire hummed through his blood, an ebullient flame he could feel in every part of his body. His skin felt alive, and he was aware of his surroundings as he had only rarely been before, when battle had demanded it of him. This electric awareness had settled into his cock, hardening it to the point of pain. Delicious pain, a pain welcomed because of what it signified, but pain nonetheless. The erection would fade, given enough time, but the pain would linger until his mate welcomed him to her, soothing his savage need as nothing else could.

As he would, in turn, protect and nurture her. Love her. Cherish her.

Aklan shrugged off his outer robe and laid it across a chair. Though he’d had no hope of finding a suitable partner among the humans, he had nonetheless come prepared to court one. He knelt in front of a large, black satchel placed to one side of his temporary quarters, pressed the pad of his forefinger against the print-lock securing the fastening, and when the lock released, unfastened it and delved inside.

Inside, beneath carefully folded clothing and various sundries, lay the items he’d brought as courting gifts. Reverently, he drew out a robe fashioned in the style common among Xeruvian women of the warrior caste and studied it critically. The fabric’s jewel-toned blue shimmered in the room’s harsh lighting as he turned it this way and that. Perhaps he should start with a smaller gift, one not quite so rich in detail, cost, or meaning?

Would a human female recognize the gift’s significance as a Xeruvian female would? Would she understand that wearing such a gift signaled interest and perhaps acceptance?

A knock rapped sharply against the door, interrupting his contemplation.

He laid the robe aside, secured his stachel, and stood. “Enter.”

The door opened, and Mike Nicholson, the United States clan’s diplomat, appeared in the doorway. Beyond him, Aklan spotted the two military guards supposedly assigned to his own security. His upper lip curled in a silent snarl. Such diplomatic subterfuge was unnecessary. He knew their job was to contain him should such be necessary. It would not, unless he wished it, but he could appreciate the humans’ caution. His own people had endured first contact before. Aklan had spent many years studying those histories and the follies contained within them.

Nicholson stepped fully inside and shut the door behind himself. “You wanted a meeting with my assistant.”

Aklan waited a bare moment for the translation to be fed into his ear before replying. “Are you here to arrange such?”

“Depends on what kind of meeting you want.”

“The kind where a male is introduced to a female with whom he is unacquainted, one he wishes to woo according to the strictest rules of propriety and custom. Have you come as a stand in for her family?”

An inscrutable expression flashed over the other man’s face. “To negotiate on her behalf? No. She’ll make her own decisions.”

Aklan gestured to one end of the room, where two cushioned chairs, each upholstered in a garish orange fabric, were arranged on opposite sides of a low wooden table. “Then we should make ourselves comfortable while you explain your purpose in being here.”

They seated themselves, Aklan facing the door, his back to the far wall.

The diplomat unbuttoned his suit jacket as he sat, then crossed one ankle over the opposite knee and studied Aklan, much as Aklan had studied the robe. “As a condition of the meeting, I’d like for it to take place in a public area.”

“One where she and I may speak privately, without being overheard?”

“That can be arranged.”

Aklan spread his hands wide, palms up in a gesture of peace. “Then it shall be so.”

Nicholson’s mouth twitched. “No counteroffer?”

“No. As your underling, she is under your protection. I commend you for seeing to her safety and well-being.” He offered the diplomat a tight-lipped smile. “As I said, propriety must be observed.”

“And if I said she doesn’t want to meet with you?”

Aklan considered the possibility, his gaze as cool as the other male’s. While his mating instinct had been aroused, the reverse could not be said for the mate fate had chosen to be his and his alone. As a human, there existed a real chance she would reject his suit.

Such could not happen. He would not allow it, not only for his sake, but for hers and her people’s. Too much was at stake. A rejected mate too often became incapable of feeling anything outside the rage consuming him, right down to his kii , rejecting internal and external controls, like a feral beast. Untamed, uncontrollable, dangerous to himself and everyone around him. For these negotiations to work, for his people to receive the concessions necessary for their very survival, humans could never witness a Xeruvian’s devolution into such a creature.

Therefore, his mate must accept him, or all was lost.

Aklan steepled his fingertips together and tilted them toward Nicholson, acknowledging the possibility, and rejecting it. “I would expect you to persuade her.”

The diplomat sat forward, leaned his elbows against his thighs, and clasped his hands together between his knees. “Why her? She has to be the first human woman you’ve met in person.”

“Sometimes, Mr. Nicholson, it takes only one.”

“The way you say that…” Nicholson shook his head. “You’re strangers to us, completely alien in so many ways.”

“For now,” Aklan acknowledged. “But soon, you will know our mettle, and we shall know yours. Meeting your assistant is only one step along that path.”

“I agree.”

“Then we are in accord and the meeting can proceed apace.”

“Assuming she’ll agree to one.”

Aklan could not help the triumph coloring his tight smile. “She already has, or you would not be here assuring yourself of my good intentions.”

The diplomat sat back in his chair, his expression yet again cool and flat. After a moment, he said, “Tonight in the cafeteria, nineteen hundred hours local time.”

“A meal as a first meeting?”

“Coffee.” Nicholson’s mouth twisted into a faint smile. “A popular first date.”

Aklan hadn’t yet acquired a taste for the local beverage, but for his mate, he would make do. “Thank you, Mr. Nicholson. I look forward to seeing both of you there.”

“I’m not her chaperone.”

“Nonetheless, someone must make introductions.”

“Propriety.” Nicholson stood and tugged his suit jacket into place. “Nineteen hundred hours. Come as you are.”

Aklan stood and bowed his head in acknowledgment, then watched as the other male pivoted and left. A former warrior, by his bearing and regard, but that was to be expected. Aklan himself was a skilled warrior, the only reason he’d been willing to negotiate without the company of a formal guard.

That and the weapons pointed on this site.

He allowed his expression to relax into a pleased smile and strode across the room to the robe he’d chosen as his first courting gift. Tonight, he would meet his mate, but first he would relay a message to the warlords waiting patiently in orbit.

Humans could rouse the mating instinct, hinting at the promise of a deeper bond. Of course, each warlord must test that potential for himself, to make absolutely certain it held true across the species.

But if it did, what promise such matings held, including his own mating with the female he would officially meet that evening.

As soon as Mike relayed the time and place of the meeting, Sonja handed her duties off to a junior attaché and retreated to her quarters to prepare.

She grimaced at the miniscule closet where she’d hung the few clothes she’d brought with her. Clothes for work, clothes to workout. One pair of jeans tucked into a rickety chest of drawers from the 1970s. She’d brought a light sweater, a cardigan, and three dressy t-shirts with her, and one fancier dress for parties. Not a robust selection, though when she’d packed, she’d thought it more than adequate for the assignment.

Of course, she never imagined she’d be invited on a date then either.

Dating on the job was strictly verboten, a personal rule she’d ruthlessly enforced since day one. Work and pleasure did not mix well, especially in her line of work. Blurring those boundaries tended to lead to diplomatic incidents and accusations of sedition. And since ninety five percent of her waking time was spent at work, that left little time for meeting someone outside her sphere of coworkers.

The last time she’d gone on a date was…

She tilted her head, trying to remember. Back in college maybe?

No, the year after graduation, when she’d settled into her first post and started working on her Master’s. It took a moment for the memory to swirl to the surface, for the man’s face to sharpen in her mind. Ian, a musician several years her senior. Lanky, quirky Ian with his dopey grin and hands that could coax magic out of any instrument he held.

She mustered a smile at the faint nostalgic happiness the memory stirred. He hadn’t gotten a chance to coax magic out of her with those long, slender fingers and soul-piercing brown eyes. Two weeks after they met, Mike had borrowed her from her post for a diplomatic emergency. By the time she returned, Ian had moved on.

Sonja hadn’t known him long enough for regrets, and since then hadn’t done more than allow herself to be chatted up in bars. Who had time?

Still, five years was a long dry spell for a twenty-eight-year-old woman. A healthy woman who hadn’t had regular sex since college. She swore under her breath as she yanked out the cardigan and jeans, and chose a dressy t-shirt at random. After this gig was over, when she returned to her life in the Beltway, she would definitely put more time into dating.

Fifteen minutes later, she’d showered, changed, slashed on mascara and lipstick, and pulled her hair into a jaunty ponytail. She opted for comfortable runners, the only pair of shoes she’d brought that wasn’t dress heels, and at five minutes ‘til eighteen hundred hours, left her quarters for the cafeteria.

She met Missy Carter coming out of her room down the hallway and hailed her with a casual wave. Missy was petite and blonde, cheerleader cute in a dimpled, cheery sort of way. Her lazy Southern drawl hid one of the sharpest strategic minds Sonja had ever known, a mind honed, if the rumors were true, by a deep experience in cover operations. Mike had borrowed her from one of the alphabet agencies to serve as an intelligence analyst, borrowed her or had her forced on him by her superiors. While Mike and the other diplomats negotiated with their extraterrestrial guest, Missy cuddled up to her computer, collating and analyzing data from the talks to the nth degree.

As soon as Missy saw her, a wicked gleam glinted in her baby blues. She threaded her arm through Sonja’s and leaned in. “I heard a certain lucky lady has a date with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Alien after supper.”

Sonja shot her an exasperated glare. “What happened to Top Secret?”

“Went out the window the minute somebody said date .”

“You can take the office out of the gossip,” Sonja muttered.

Missy grinned. “You must be rattled. That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You try having a coffee date with a guy born several light years away, a guy with horns and claws and…”

“Oh, I’ve seen the pictures, darlin’. Anytime you want to trade, you just let me know.”

Sonja barked out a short laugh. “If only.”

Once in the cafeteria, they joined the line and loaded up their trays with that night’s special, created by the company Mike had hired to cater the event, not an easy feat considering all the background checks they’d had to push through for the staff. Beef stroganoff, a nod to the Russians, she supposed.

Her stomach shriveled into a queasy mass of nerves, and she sighed. Nothing to do with the food. She was sure it would taste excellent to anyone who didn’t have a quasi-date with an alien diplomat in an hour.

Missy guided her to a table at the edge of the dining room, her charming smile luring the rest of their team to settle nearby.

Thank God, Sonja thought as she pushed her fork through the creamy noodles. As a distraction, Missy worked wonders. Not quite like Scarlett O’Hara transforming curtains into a party dress, but close enough. Her coworker’s bubbly laughter coaxed Sonja’s nerves into remission, where they stayed until the room fell quiet at nineteen hundred hours on the dot.

Sonja had deliberately put her back to the door. When Missy’s jaw dropped open midsentence and a hush fell over the diners, Sonja steeled her spine and turned around. There at the entrance stood the alien ambassador, towering over the two Marines flanking him. His nostrils flared, then he turned his head, and his gaze locked onto hers as if he’d known beforehand exactly where she sat.

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and her fingers trembled in her lap. That look . Ravenous, intense, like he wanted to devour her then and there. No mercy, no concessions, just hot, mind-blowing sex all night long.

Maybe all day long, too.

“Whoo, boy,” Missy murmured. “I want me one of them.”

The only response Sonja could manage was a strangled grunt. Her body had come alive the minute he’d turned that hot look on her, and she hadn’t quite caught her breath yet.

Mike broke away from his table and met the alien at the door. They spoke briefly, then Mike pivoted and headed her way, the alien and his security detail close behind.

Missy scooted her chair back and stood. “Looks like I’ve worn out my welcome. I’ll just get your tray for you. Good luck, darlin’. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Sonja barely heard her over the roar of her pulse. Her cardigan felt like sandpaper on her skin and a slow, delicious heat had settled at the juncture of her thighs. She hid her visceral reaction to him behind a well-honed mask of cool indifference. Inside, she might be a nervous, horny wreck, but on the outside, she appeared poised and composed.

She hoped so anyway.

As Mike and his motley entourage approached, she checked her peripherals as she stood and walked to the other side. The tables around them had cleared. Sonja swallowed a rueful smile. Abandoned on her first foray into alien territory. What a crew.

Mike reached her then, extending a welcoming hand to the alien. “Aklan of Clan Phyrz, may I introduce Sonja Mathis, my right hand?”

Sonja stood and tilted her head back until her gaze met the alien’s. Up close, he seemed bigger somehow, his broad, muscled shoulders seeming to fill the cavernous cafeteria. His mouth was an uncompromising slash, his eyes a lovely teal color, like the purest ocean waters, and almost human-like in their shape. She forced herself to absorb the details for later debriefing: the silky fabric of his thigh-length robe, the same shimmery teal as the fabric held in his hands; lethal black claws tipping elegant fingers, the fingers of an artist; the glimpse of a device strapped to his left wrist, nearly covered by the robe’s loose sleeve; the gray-brown toughness of his exposed skin; the faint earthy masculinity of his scent; and the way he observed her in return, as if he noticed every detail of her appearance and found it pleasing.

Why had she not taken the time to apply more makeup?