Rescuing Prince Charming

By Edward Hoornaert

Dusty Johnson, a self-styled ordinary, everyday woman, responds with extraordinary heroism to saboteurs trying to bomb the prototype of Earth's first starship. She wants to return to anonymity, but her moment of courage propels her ever deeper into danger that tears the scabs off her dark past—and thrusts her into the arms of the unattainable man of her dreams.

Reese Eaglesbrood, an alien prince, yearns to restore his tattered reputation by guiding the starship project to completion, but his fascination with the unassuming heroine threatens to undermine his fragile authority. Shunning Dusty is necessary, yet unthinkable—and when the saboteurs strike again, she may be his only ally against Earth's darkest enemies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Hoornaert
• Release date: Dec 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370661985

Edward Hoornaert

Edward Hoornaert is not only a science fiction and romance writer, he's also a certifiable Harlequin Hero, having inspired NYT best-selling author Vicki Lewis Thompson to write Mr. Valentine, which was dedicated to him. From this comes his online alter ego, "Mr. Valentine."These days, Hoornaert mostly writes science fiction—either sf romances, or sf with elements of romance. After living at 26 different addresses in his first 27 years, the rolling stone slowed in the Canadian Rockies and finally came to rest in Tucson, Arizona. Amongst other things, he has been a teacher, technical writer, and symphonic oboist. He married his high school sweetheart a week after graduation and is still in love ... which is probably why he can write romance.

Book preview

Rescuing Prince Charming

by

Edward Hoornaert

http://eahoornaert.com/

Dusty Johnson, a self-styled ordinary, everyday woman, responds with extraordinary heroism when saboteurs try to bomb the prototype of Earth's first starship. Although she yearns to return to anonymity, that moment of courage propels her ever deeper into dangers that tear the scabs off her dark secrets—and thrust her into the arms of the unattainable man of her dreams.

Reese Eaglesbrood, an alien prince, yearns to restore his tattered reputation by guiding the starship project to completion, but his fascination with the unassuming heroine threatens to undermine his fragile authority. Shunning Dusty is necessary, yet unthinkable—and when the saboteurs strike again, she is his only ally against Earth's most elusive enemies.

Copyright December, 2017 by Edward Hoornaert

All rights reserved

This novel is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents are either

the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Editing and cover design by Danielle Fine: http://www.daniellefine.com/

ISBN: 9781370661985

Dedication

I dedicate this book to you, the reader. Without you, why would I bother to write and publish?

And to Judi, my wife of many years, who gave me a bigger thrill than she realizes when she said this is her favorite book that I’ve written.

The map of the future

CHAPTER ONE

Time: Four years from tomorrow.

Place: A top-secret, underground facility on a Pacific Northwest island that doesn’t exist…yet.

Dusty Johnson really didn’t want to do this.

She took a deep breath, trying without success to dispel the dread clogging her belly. Some women daydreamed of rescuing princes from dragons. Not her.

Yet here she was, all alone, creeping through the dark guts of the half-built starship, searching for a time bomb about to explode. If the siren ordering evacuation of the research facility had summoned the expected herd of guards, she would’ve offered advice then fled with the rest of the staff. Having come this far, though, she couldn't leave without branding herself a coward in her own eyes.

And so Dusty wove her way timidly around machinery that smelled of oil and ozone. Nothing was neat and tidy down here; in a prototype, speed and ingenuity trumped meticulous design. Everything was makeshift, a giant kludge sprawling through three-thousand cubic yards. That meant a lot of places for saboteurs to hide a bomb, but only two where technicians wouldn’t discover it in the course of a workday.

The first hiding place was a niche behind the backup life support nexus. Staring into its shadows, she paused. A heroine wouldn’t hesitate, but an ordinary, everyday woman would think twice about squeezing into a dirty cranny while wearing a new, cream-colored chambray skirt with filigree trim.

Maybe she should just walk away.

Or run.

But there was no one else around to save the ship, and reaching the stars was her dream…

Imagining she was watching a movie heroine who’d never had a second thought in her life, Dusty slipped between a girder and the grease-streaked life support housing. When her skirt survived unscathed, she felt an instant’s relief—

Until she spied a cheap plastic lunch kit. Oh, God. The bomb?

Blood thumped in her ears. Hoping it wasn’t the last thing she ever did, she opened the lid with shaky hands.

Two empty wrappers smelled of fish and chips. No bomb.

She jerked her hand away and pressed it to her chest as though to keep her heart from leaping out to freedom. She’d been plenty brave. She could, in good conscience, leave. Right?

No, she moaned.

To reach the second hiding place, she zigzagged to the very back of the mechanical deck and climbed a ladder to the top of Lontreau Engine number one. The alien-designed engine would hop the ship instantaneously across the galaxy—if everything worked perfectly. Its metal casing, as big as a room, hummed and vibrated as though filled with demons impatient to claw her soul to perdition.

Ducking her head because of the low ceiling, she headed toward the engine’s far end. Unexpectedly large equipment had turned a passage into a tunnel just big enough to crawl through; the tunnel led to a closet-sized opening walled with massive wire harnesses. That was where she’d plant a bomb, if she were a saboteur.

She rounded a bank of gauges and saw the tunnel. But a man—or rather, a man’s legs—filled it like a cork in a champagne bottle. Apparently one guard valued duty over death.

Her legs wobbled with relief. Am I ever glad to see you.

The tunnel muffled a baritone yelp of surprise. Then: Take my pants off.

Dusty blinked. As pickup lines go, that one’s really bad.

An American female, the guard groaned. Spirits save me.

A Kwadran male with an attitude problem. God save me.

My pants are hooked on something, and I can’t reach back to remove them. Pull them down, and hurry. That’s an order.

You’re ordering me to strip you? If she laughed, she’d tumble head-first into hysteria. She held herself to a nervous chuckle, instead.

I am in no mood for American truculence, he said impatiently. I’m staring at an Adidas shoe box jammed between wire harnesses.

Her chuckle died a gasping death. The bomb?

Pull down my pants!

Yes, darling.

She couldn’t reach in cleanly—not enough room—so she slid her palms up his legs and hips. His pants were velvety twag cotton, an alien fabric from the alternate Earth. She’d never touched a Kwadran this intimately before. Never wanted to. Hoped never to do so, ever again.

She reached his waist, bent her fingers into claws, and pulled. He edged forward. Between the two of them, his slacks edged downward.

"Leave my underpants on, klootch."

"I’m a respectable woman, not a klootch. Hysterical laughter threatened to return. This is an awkward reach, and we haven’t even been introduced."

Although she knew all three-hundred-and-ten scientists, technicians, and support staff sequestered in this isolated cavern, his voice wasn’t familiar. This confirmed the rumor that the project was changing leaders, and if the new boss belonged to a different clan, he’d bring his own clan’s security people. That was how the aliens’ alternate Earth worked; it didn’t matter how good you were at your job, only what clan you belonged to.

This guy must be a bomb disposal expert. Who else, besides her, would be fool enough to search for a bomb set to go off in a few minutes?

Grunting, she dragged the pants down to his knees. She tried not to notice that he had great muscle tone and that his butt was wow-level firm.

After this, she said, panting, you’ll have to make an honest woman of me.

You are dishonest?

I didn’t mean— Despite the sexy body, this jerk typified alien arrogance and lack of humor. Look, do you want me to help you or not?

The rest I can do myself.

Creeping forward, he left his slacks behind. A jagged shard of metal had snared them, an inexcusable design flaw even for a prototype. Unreasonable deadlines might literally be the death of them all.

Dusty pointed her flashlight to help him see, and was rewarded with tight buttocks in typical Kwadran underwear, resembling a thong. She turned her flashlight aside a moment later than she should have.

And then regretted it. She’d never have such a chance again—might never have a chance to do anything—so what did it matter if she peeked?

But when she looked again, the tunnel was empty. He’d reached the closet-sized room at the other end. After a moment he shouted, I have the box.

Figuring she was small enough to avoid the depantsing shard, Dusty crawled into the tunnel. She bunched his pants around the sharp metal to pad the tip.

Removing the lid, he said.

She squirmed to the end of the tunnel and poked her head into the closet. Harsh shadows from his flashlight moved like snapping wolves as he turned to her. Are you insane? he demanded. Or the saboteur?

Yes and no, respectively. Is that the bomb?

I think so.

"You think so? What kind of bomb disposal expert are you?"

Shaking his head, he stared at the box and scowled. Expert?

Oh, God. Dusty’s eyes went wide. You don’t know bomb disposal, yet you removed the lid? That could’ve set it off, you stupid idiot. She’d done the same thing when she opened the lunch-pail lid, but that was different…somehow. Give it to me.

He shined the flashlight her way and looked up for the first time. It is too dangerous.

Like I’m so far away it won’t kill me? Since you can’t disarm it, I’ll have to carry it to someone who can. Hurry.

Can I trust you?

Fine. Her voice grew sharp from anxiety. Just hold onto it until it explodes.

He took a deep breath and held out the shoebox. This goes against my sense of chivalry.

Screw chivalry. She reached for the box—but he pulled it away from her grasp.

I’ll have you know I’m a gentleman.

"And the School for Chivalrous Gentlemen taught you that Take off my pants is a polite greeting?"

"Is Please take this bomb, with my compliments an improvement? He gave a tight-lipped sigh. I don’t like handing this to a woman."

But he did it anyway. Holding the box reassured her…for a moment. Just an everyday shoebox, heavier than most, but just a shoebox. Maybe you aren’t as dumb as you look.

In truth, she hadn’t paid enough attention to know if he looked like a genius or a dunce. A bomb-disposal pro would be trained to handle terror yet remain polite, but she was just an unadventurous tech writer holding death in her hands. That was the best excuse for rudeness she’d ever had, but still… Look, I apologize for—

Get moving!

Mindful of the metal shard, she wriggled backward. Despite the cool air, sweat ran down her temples and tickled between her breasts. I’m out of the tunnel. How much longer now until the message warned that the bomb—a bomb she held in her hands, and she was very attached to her hands—is supposed to explode?

Seven minutes, eighteen seconds.

She wasn’t surprised at the precision of his answer. Kwadrans—aboriginal Americans hailing from the future of an alternate Earth—had tiny computers-slash-thought-activated-radios implanted under their collarbones. One of these days, she wanted an implant for herself, if she lived that long…which was more doubtful now than yesterday. Getting out of the ship would take a while, leaving almost no time for real bomb disposal experts to work. But that wasn’t her problem.

Uh…yes, it was.

She retraced her steps to the ladder leading off the Lontreau engine then cradled the bomb in one arm until she reached the bottom of the ladder. The Kwadran was right behind her, shining his flashlight to help her see.

He jumped down the last four rungs. Hand it over.

From the front, Kwadran shorts left little to the imagination. Which was a stupid thing to think about at a time like this.

Give it, you stubborn American. You move too slowly.

Carefully, she corrected. I move carefully.

No time for careful. He seized the box, hugged it in the crook of his arm like a running back, and raced away.

You’ll kill us both, you moron. She followed as he dodged around a tall air filtration casing. He was taking a different route through the machinery than she had. Was it faster or slower? No time even to speculate. With a reckless burst of speed, she caught up to him.

You’re fast, he said as he vaulted over an insulated sewer pipe and rounded the purifier complex.

Track team at The University of Arizona. But I’m surprised—she slowed to climb over the warm sewer pipe—to hear a Kwadran admit an American can do anything well.

He glanced back at her. She wished he wouldn’t do that. If he ran into something, the bomb might explode almost in her face. It wasn’t a world-class face, but her head would look bloody awful without it.

Reaching an open stretch, he sprinted. You dislike Kwadrans?

Stuff a sock in it and run.

Too late, she realized she should’ve denied her disdain for the aliens. Even though he was just a security flunky who’d skipped bomb disposal class, her careless admission might go on her record—and if the Kwadrans started investigating, they might discover her secret. She’d get kicked off the project before they’d finished thanking her for saving the starship.

If she saved the starship. They’d reached a dead end, closed in by walls of machinery.

She forced out words sharp with anger and fear. You should’ve let me lead. I know this ship.

Then you know that if we squeeze through here… As he wedged himself between the primary and secondary Astrogation Analyzers, his words echoed then died away.

She hated that he was right even more than she was thrilled he was right. Scowling, she followed him to an open space lit by flashing red and yellow LEDs on a recycling meter. The lights were like the eyes of the devil, but she kept moving.

This is the fifth sabotage attempt in the last few months. She was almost panting. Too much time spent behind a desk.

Third, he corrected.

Fifth.

You know more about this than Security? He stopped abruptly and shone his flashlight at her face as though interrogating her. His voice was all Kwadran, curt and accusing. How?

Temporarily blinded, she banged her elbow against a sharp edge, sending a spear of pain down her ulnar nerve. She rubbed her crazy bone. The gossip mill down here is the most efficient communication device ever concocted by mankind.

She was about to bark at him to keep moving, but he’d already turned to weave his way through the machinery. Either he accepted her explanation or he was smart enough to defer the interrogation until later.

They dodged left, right, then left again, and she couldn’t see more than eight or ten feet in any direction. She was lost. Hopefully, he wasn’t. His implant might help him retrace his steps. My way would’ve been faster, she muttered.

They reached a blessedly open stretch that allowed them to run twenty feet before swinging left. When they reached the ship’s outer wall, she suddenly knew where they were. The rope ladder leading up to the starship’s main deck was thirty yards ahead as a crow would fly. Twice that by foot. His route probably had been faster, though she wasn’t about to admit it.

Since you know so much, she said, who are the saboteurs?

I’ll let you know when I find out. The words were a growl. She imagined his lips curling to bare his teeth.

After she darted around the starboard entanglement inducer, she saw the ladder. Resting her hands on her knees, she caught her breath. "Well, they aren’t going to destroy my starship."

"Our starship."

How like a Kwadran to take all the credit. But he’d reached the base of the ladder, so this was no time to argue. His legs rippled as he started to climb.

You idiot, she said. Hit the switch to open the trapdoor first. And give me the bomb while you climb. I’ll hand it up to you.

Calling me an idiot doesn’t help, you know. But he held the bomb out to her.

He was right, of course, but though her face flamed, she was concentrating too hard on not dropping the box to do more than mutter an incoherent reply. The box didn’t feel deadly. But then, what did death feel like, if not ordinary and everyday—a truth she’d mostly managed to avoid until now?

After he slapped the switch that opened the trapdoor, light filled the gloomy mechanical deck and provided her first good look at him above the waist. He was scowling, but the furrows on his brow merely accentuated his rugged good looks. His long, dark hair was braided. So, he was one of those aliens who flaunted their Amerind ancestry to set themselves apart from the Americans of this world. On their alternate Earth, the Kwakiutl tribe, not Europeans, ruled Vancouver Island—or Isla de Kwadra, as it had been known on their world.

He climbed halfway up the ladder. Moving with supreme caution, she held the box toward his extended hand.

Hurry! He grabbed the box and climbed the rope ladder like an agile monkey. The lid nearly fell off, making Dusty’s heart pole-vault her ribs.

As she followed, her mind obsessed on two things: the nearness of death and the nearness of life embodied in the expanse of his male flesh. Then his footsteps pounded overhead on the metal floor of the starship’s passageway. Dusty poked her head out of the trapdoor. You’re going the wrong way! That leads to crew quarters.

The open trapdoor blocked his way back, so she leaped to the right side of it and leaned her hands over the hole in the deck. Give it to me.

Miracle of miracles, he stretched his arms over the trapdoor to give her the bomb without argument. While he closed the trapdoor, she ran to the starship’s bridge. From there, she hurried to the open airlock and down the ramp to the melt-rock floor of the artificial cavern housing the Owikeeno Research Facility. Wiki, for short.

She ran. Behind her, the Kwadran’s footsteps banged down the metal ramp, barely loud enough to be heard over the klaxon that still screamed its warning. Where are you heading? he called.

He wasn’t even breathing hard. She wanted to kiss him for his bravery and his conditioning. Only one place to head, she said. The terrace. From there, she could throw the bomb into the ocean. She ran toward the only natural light in the huge cavern, where a pair of sliding glass doors led to a patio overlooking a fiord. Time?

Seventy-eight seconds.

Oh, God. It was still a long way to the doors. She tried to be a heroine and what did she get? A ticking time bomb eager to remove her appendix.

On the bright side, she couldn’t have asked for a sexier, more valiant companion on that long tunnel into the light. Rattled by fear, she’d called him arrogant, a jerk, an idiot, and a moron, but he was none of those. Well, maybe arrogant; he was, after all, Kwadran.

Open…the door, she panted.

He grunted with the effort of speeding up to pass her. His buttocks flexed with each step. When he reached the sliding doors, he yanked the handle.

Nothing happened. Except, of course, that a few more seconds ticked off the bomb’s timer. And her life.

CHAPTER TWO

Open it, Dusty shouted.

The Kwadran pulled the door again. It remained closed.

She started to give the bomb to him but he was already grabbing it from her. If the door was locked, she was dead, because she didn’t have a key. But if it was only latched and he wasn’t familiar with this Earth’s sliding glass doors—

Dusty lifted the latch and pulled. The door opened, blasting her with brisk November air smelling of ocean and evergreens. She stepped back to let him pass, and though it would’ve been safer to get as far away as possible, she followed him outside.

Toss it over the—

But their minds were in perfect sync; he was already charging toward the railing. He hurled the bomb