Her waist had completely disappeared. Right up until she’d skimmed into the dress, though, she’d been convinced her belly was barely noticeable. One look in the mirror disabused her of that notion. She looked like a snake that had swallowed an egg.

    She promptly sat down and wept, ruining her first attempt at making up her face. When she’d stripped the dress off and washed her face, she lay down with a cool cloth over her eyes, trying to reduce the swelling of her eyelids. For a wonder, she fell asleep, a side effect of her pregnancy.

    She felt a little calmer when she woke. Her stomach till churned threateningly, but not as uncomfortably as before. That lasted until she began preparations again. Something very like fear began to permeate her pores, chilling her to the bone. The panicked thought leapt into her mind that she couldn’t go through with it. She wouldn’t be able to pretend to save her life-and that was what was resting on her performance-her life, and the baby’s.

    Calming herself down again with breathing exercises, she considered and discarded everything she owned and finally settled on the black dress again, trying to convince herself that it wasn’t as revealing as she’d thought. It was just nerves, just paranoia.

    She needed to wear it if there was any possibility that it might draw Anka to her, she realized with a sudden burst of enlightenment. Meacham would know if she didn’t at least make the effort. Resolve after so much uncertainty went a long way toward calming her and she finished dressing and left her quarters to gather with the others. Most of them were already in the lobby waiting. She folded her arms over her waist, hoping the purse she’d grabbed would help to conceal her condition as she’d thought it might.

    She didn’t attempt to join any of the conversations. She knew a few of them by sight since they’d been part of the treaty delegation, but she’d pretty kept to herself on the trip out. She didn’t know them any better now than she had before they’d left the moon.

    In any case, it hadn’t taken more than five minutes to realize that every one of them knew, or suspected, why she’d been included. They made that abundantly clear in the looks and whispers that followed her everywhere she went.

    Even if she hadn’t already been distraught about her situation and fearful of trusting anyone, that was enough to discourage her from attempting to find a friendly face among them, which was just as well. None of them went out their way to approach her and she thought they would have if they’d wanted to extend friendship or felt any empathy for her situation. It was the silent judgment, where no one actually knew anything for a fact, but had heard something, and then had decided they should be judge, jury, and executioner-because they disapproved of what they’d heard about you and accepted it as fact.

    That being the case, she was glad when the transport finally arrived to carry them to the building where the festival would be held, despite her anxieties. The relief, naturally, didn’t last until her arrival. She was as tight as tension wire by the time the transport docked and they began to disembark.

    They’d been told that conditions outside were safe enough to go out, but no one really wanted to test it-not on the word of the Sumpturians, certainly! Of course, even if they had been willing they wouldn’t have wanted to expose their finery to the elements.

    Ruefully, Sybil acknowledged that she was underdressed by their standards although she’d worried she would be overdressed for the occasion. Most of the Sumpturians had been in uniform the first time she’d attended one and it hadn’t appeared to be dress uniform at that. They seemed more inclined, particularly on this kind of occasion, to favor comfort over pomp.

    She saw she’d underestimated them as soon as she entered the ballroom. It was clear that they’d donned their best for the occasion. Her heart was beating about ninety miles an hour when she glanced around the room in search of the only person that mattered to her. When she spotted him it was like leaping from an airplane without a parachute. She sucked in a sharp breath instinctively, feeling as if her heart had stopped and the floor fallen out from under her.

    He was looking straight at her, but he had the advantage. Clearly, he’d spotted her first. His face was expressionless and she had no idea how he felt about her presence beyond the fact that, if he was glad to see her, he was hiding it excellently well.

    The urge to cry slammed into her like a stray bullet to the chest, the shock of the pain shattering her mind and knocking the breath from her before her mind could register that she’d been hit, leaving her confused. The instinct of the wounded animal to burrow into some small, tight space for protection followed upon the heels of the pain.

    It was fortunate that she was too frozen to move. She thought she would’ve turned and fled if not for that.

    One of the men, a member of her own party, took her limp arm and linked it with his. “I’ll escort you to a seat. They don’t seem to have put out place cards.”

    Sybil stared at the man blankly, trying to figure out who he was and why he’d suddenly begun to behave as if he knew her when she didn’t know him at all.

    He patted her arm. “Smile.”

    She struggled to curl her stiff lips into a smile obediently, still struggling with the bizarre sense that she was trapped in a nightmare. She didn’t know why he was behaving so familiarly but she was vastly relieved when he helped her to a seat and she could collapse. He took the seat next to her.

    “I’m Brant. We didn’t get the chance to meet on the voyage over.”

    Because he hadn’t made any attempt to talk to her? She was torn between the certainty that he must be one of Meachum’s watchdogs and a flicker of hope that he might actually have come to her rescue out of pure chivalry. “I’m sorry… Is that your first name or the last?”

    He grinned at her. “Sorry, force of habit. Lieutenant Cole Brant, USMC.”

    Sybil struggled to follow his lead. She had no idea whether he was friend or foe, but she was aware that her odd behavior must be noticeable and a sense of self-protection urged her to try to hide her vulnerability. She smiled back at him. “I’m First Lieutenant Sybil Hunter, Air Force.”

    “I know.”

    Her smile flat lined.

    “Uh oh. I guess I should’ve pretended I didn’t know, but I asked around…”

    He had the sort of ‘angelic’ pretty boy looks that usually hid the heart and soul of a devil and completely disarmed everyone around him. Sybil was hardly immune, but she was wary. She wasn’t certain she believed he’d ‘asked around’. “Why would you do that?”

    He looked genuinely surprised. He leaned closer. “Have you actually looked at the other women on the ship? Prune faced.”

    It was hardly a compliment and actually a little mean, but his outrageousness startled a chuckle out of her. She clamped a hand over her mouth. She encountered several disapproving looks when she flicked a glance around at the rest of their party. “That isn’t nice and it isn’t very flattering to me either.”

    Laughter danced in his eyes. “What? That I think you’re be-u-ti-ful… next to the competition?”

    She gave him a look. “Cocky aren’t you, pretty boy? You’re that certain there’s a competition?”

    “Why thank you, ma’am,” he drawled, although his face darkened slightly. “I’m glad you think I’m pretty.”

    Sybil shook her head at him, but she was actually grateful, whatever his motives, that he’d distracted her enough to allow her to regain her equilibrium. She was equally grateful to discover that the droids had begun to serve. Whatever he had in mind, she wasn’t buying.