Page 37 of Warlord's Mate
What had she said to him? In the entire time she’d been there, she’d never seen the warlord smile, nor heard him laugh. Him doing both while that evil harpy sat beside him let that ole green-eyed monster jealousy, rear his ugly head.
“She’s just trying to get a rise out of you.”
Marcy glanced at Krista briefly before turning her attention back to the aliens who were sparing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She laughed. “Right.” Krista slid closer to her. “She goes out of her way to annoy you.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Yep. About as obvious as it is that she’s in love with the warlord and he only has eyes for you.”
Marcy snorted a laugh. “I don’t think I’d go that far.”
“I would. You might not notice how he looks at you but everyone else has.”
“And how does he look at me?”
“Like he wants to throw you to the nearest flat surface and doesn’t give a damn who sees him do it.”
Jityria laughed and Marcy refused to be baited. She kept her eyes straight ahead of her, even though she was dying to look back over her shoulder to see what they were doing.
“So what are you going to do?”
“About what?”
“About her trying to get under your skin because we both know that's what she’s doing.”
She sighed. “Nothing. It would be pointless, anyway.”
“No, it wouldn’t. It would piss her off.”
Marcy smiled. “There is that.”
Krista was tapping her foot to the beat of the music and Marcy looked over to where Vorta was sitting. Another alien had joined his little band and the beat, along with the high pitch of thenidialmostsounded like the Hindi music she’d used in her belly dancing classes.
Jityria laughed again and Marcy smiled as an idea came to her. If Jityria wanted to play a game of who can keep the warlord’s attention longer, then the hateful heifer was about to lose spectacularly. “You’re right.”
“About what?”
“About pissing her off.” She grinned. “Let’s see how long she’s laughing when she gets a little competition.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see. Just keep watching.”
Marcy stood and headed toward Vorta. She could only imagine the look on the warlord’s face. No one got up from the dais without his permission and that was usually only when he ordered them to bed.
Vorta never stopped playing when she stopped beside him, but the one drumming did. She told him what she wanted, the beat she wanted him to keep, and he’d given her a quizzical look before she stood back up and turned around.
Out of the light of the fire pit, Marcy headed toward the make-shift clothesline and gathered her now dry clothing, which was still nothing more than long strips of fabric, and headed to the females hut to change out of the warlord’s shirt.
The skirt was pushed down her hips further than she normally wore it and she adjusted her top to show more cleavage—and ensure her breasts wouldn’t fall out as she moved—and walked back into the light and stopped near the fire pit.
She faced the dais. The warlord’s attention was on her, his head cocked slightly to one side and as she’d guessed, Jityria looked murderous.
With a glance back at Vorta’s little band, she nodded her head. The one she’d spoken to hit the make-shit drum twice and Marcy turned her attention back to the warlord and lifted her hands above her head. She waited three beats, then moved her hips left, then right, and started to dance.
The slit in her skirt fell in such a way her leg was exposed when she bent her knee and she made sure to favor that leg just to make sure the majority of it was showing at all times. The warlord was looking right at her and when she rounded her hips, swinging them in fast succession, he sat up in his seat and leaved forward. Jityria scowled and Marcy’s smile widened.