There's the faintest smell of her shampoo -- one of her favorites, with a citrus scent -- on his hair, and her eyes turn into mere slits of contented emerald green as she breathes it in.

For a guy who lived in a small apartment in what he claims was a slummy neighborhood on Callisto, there's always been something that seemed very luxurious about Gren, some kind of innate and restrained sensuality.

She doesn't find herself thinking things like that about very many people, but Gren never has been like anyone else. It was in the music she remembers him playing at the Rester House, the slow seductive measure of his voice, the silken hair that fell down his back, the old pictures he'd posted on his apartment walls, the warmth of the drink he served her and the way he subtly watched her lounge on the couch.

The only reason she uncrosses her legs is to let one claim a spot on either side of him.

"I'm always up for a good show."