Adjusting her panties through her skirt, she hurried across the floor, her gaze going to the com on Israla’s desk. Before she could think twice, she clicked the device on. “Record and send message,” she ordered in halting Plasian. Fortunately, the coms had always been able to interpret Michaela’s tenuous grasp on the planet’s language. “Where is the message to be sent?” a cool electronic voice answered. “Clan Korkla’s guest quarters in this house.” There was a moment’s silence before the computerized voice responded. “Sensors indicate presence of three individuals in Clan Korkla’s guest quarters. Would you prefer to converse?” “No, damn it. Record a message.” The com took no offense to Michaela’s temper. “Begin recording,” it invited. Michaela took a deep breath before speaking in her breeziest tone.
