Leonardo Montoya took a step into Mars’ idea of a luxury suite and snorted. The Quinn behind him offered him a handkerchief, and he waved it away. “I don’t have something up my nose, Quinn.” He took a few more steps and turned. “I have a sudden case of claustrophobia. Is this truly the largest suite you’ve got. I mean, dignitaries from all corners of Earth have traveled here. Surely you have better.” His boat was bigger than this.
“If there is one, I’m not aware of it.” The Quinn narrowed his eyes. “Is 186 square meters truly not large enough for one person?” His Irish lilt was alive with surprise. “My apartment is 46.4 square meters.”
Leo turned and walked across the living area to look into the bedroom. “Yes, well you are a Quinn, aren’t you, and I…” He turned back and lifted his chin, his dark eyes flashing the contempt he felt for the responsibilities his grandfather had thrust upon him on a planet he’d prefer got sucked into the sun. “…am not.”
The Quinn blinked twice. “You can have a look at what the other hotels are offering, but Chief Hill said The Shooting Star was the best.”
Leo ground his teeth in a tight smile, trying to keep his temper in check. He knew he was coming off like a rich prick, when it was really the stress of knowing that one little thing could go wrong on this travesty of a colony, and everyone would die that was starting to throb behind his eyes.
And then there was Luna.
How could she choose Earth high society over being with him? He swallowed hard and hoped he’d swallowed the rage threatening to pour forth. His grandfather was no doubt watching from whatever metaphysical resort he had moved on to, and he could never tolerate “a goddamned tantrum.” Of course, his idea of a “tantrum” was anything other than pure, unadulterated joy.
“This will be fine,” he finally worked out of his mouth. “I’ll only be here, what? A year,” he said flippantly.
“Twenty months, sir.”
Leo’s staged smile sagged.
