Authors: Anya Breton
She couldn’t know. If she did, she would have put on a
hazmat suit rather than risk
he
’
d
become aroused by her. Morgan could only assume she’d never appeared to a
client in such a state of undress or else she’d have already learned that
lesson. And for some sick reason he enjoyed the thought that no other male had
seen her like that.
Jabbing at the crinkly slices of pork wasn’t pushing away
any of his anger. Brook wasn’t foolish like him. The sight of him in a towel
wouldn’t have aroused her. Otherwise she would have thought twice about
appearing improperly attired. And that made the last of his good mood for
having slept flit away on the maple-scented air.
When she returned minutes later, she was clad in jeans and a
T-shirt that covered her stomach—a stomach he clearly recalled from day one, a
stomach he was even now imagining nuzzling. Morgan swallowed down a groan as he
fetched a plate for his finished slices.
She was at the stove as he turned back. Her fingers were
near her mouth—a glistening mouth Morgan fantasized about kissing. Brook shot
him a guilty look that made his brows lift. What was she guilty for?
Brook’s small tongue darted out, licking a small bacon bit
from her lower lip. A low groan emitted from the back of his throat as images
of
his
tongue licking the crumb from her mouth flared in his mind’s eye.
Misinterpreting the noise as a growl, Brook lifted her palms
in a sign of surrender. “I like bacon,” she said as she turned her back for the
trip to his refrigerator.
Morgan imagined pinning her to the white appliance, lifting
her shirt and nibbling his way up her spine while teasing her nipples to life
with delicate brushes of his knuckles. Forcing his attention away, he noted the
extra pan on the stove.
“What are you doing?”
“Eggs,” she said. There was now a package of eggs and a
carton of milk in her hands.
She had to know he was struggling. Brook would have an
empathy net stretched wide on the lookout for foes. So why was she forcing her
proximity on him after that awkward morning greeting? Did she
want
him
to desire her?
No.
She probably wanted eggs enough to suffer him at
her side.
Morgan hit the bacon with increased vigor.
“Tongs work better for flipping bacon,” she said.
That was the last straw. He abandoned breakfast for an icy
shower.
He must be the moodiest male Brook had ever met. No guy she
knew stormed off in a huff. She’d expected Morgan to come right back so he
could finish his bacon. But when the slices began burning and she sensed the
water still flowing in the other room, it became clear he’d left her to finish
breakfast.
He hadn’t asked her to help, simply assumed she would. She
wasn’t a housekeeper. She was his bodyguard, a
damn
good one at that.
Brook nearly bent the spatula in the pan before she subdued her anger.
Perfectly good bacon shouldn’t go to waste. Minutes later
she sat at the table eying the remaining crispy slices. Would he know she’d
stolen another of his pieces? A male like Morgan probably kept an account of
everything in his head. Brook reached across and grabbed one anyway because the
guy was too nice to complain. He deserved it for leaving her to finish
preparing.
Morgan appeared with damp hair and fresh clothing. Without
so much as a nod for her, he grabbed the plate of eggs she’d made him, lifted
the bacon plate until the slices slid onto his and then left with his bounty in
hand. She stared after his retreating figure.
There’d been no words of gratitude. He hadn’t even glanced
at her. Brook had dealt with a few rude clients but never anyone this blatantly
disrespectful.
He might be a powerful regional priest but she was above the
reach of regional priests. She reported only to Master Destan and the high
priest of Neptune’s Fellowship himself—Priest Marino. Morgan was
no
Desmond Marino.
Worked into a lather, Brook shoved the chair back so she
could follow Morgan. It was easy to locate the sole individual in the house. He
was in his office. She didn’t bother knocking as she burst through the dim
room.
Morgan sat huddled at the tiny table. A sliver of sunlight
pierced the space between the particleboard she’d nailed over the windows. It
cast over his face and down his torso. His elbows were propped on either side
of the breakfast plate in front of him but he wasn’t eating. Instead he merely
stared at the eggs as if waiting for them to wiggle of their own accord.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Brook said despite his odd
pose. “I’m here to protect you, not make your breakfast.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just because I made one suggestion doesn’t—” Brook’s
righteous speech stalled. Had he apologized?
Would he explain why he was sorry? She swallowed the rest of
her prepared argument.
Two seconds passed before Morgan continued. “I didn’t expect
you to make breakfast. To be honest I wasn’t thinking about food when I left. I
should have thanked you for it when I returned.”
Brook twisted her lips in irritation.
But why was she unhappy?
She dug her nails into her thighs. This was so typically
Morgan. He always knew just what to say to soothe hurt feelings. And it had
almost worked on her.
“Save it,” she said. “I’m not one of your flock.”
Morgan’s eyes formed perplexed circles. Now was a good time
to disappear before he demanded an explanation. A big part of the decision was
because what she’d said hadn’t made a whole lot of sense to her either. But he
could never know that.
Owning it fully, Brook twisted on her heel and then
sauntered from the priest’s office.
It was evening before Morgan felt he had a handle on himself
enough to seek Brook’s company. She’d been pounding away all day. He’d feared
what he’d find when he ventured out of his office. It wasn’t that his bright,
sunny kitchen would be a dark den like all of the other rooms that concerned
him. No, Brook had been engaged in physical labor for hours and he wasn’t sure
he’d be able to look at her without picturing her in a shower. Only the promise
of seeing her eyes darken in anger got him out of his chair.
When he arrived at the kitchen entrance, he found her on a stool
hammering nails through a sheet of plywood over the window behind the stove.
She’d brought in a floor lamp from the living room for additional light. It was
like a spotlight on her round bottom. Valiantly Morgan fought the lift of
desire when he pictured himself offering to help her down.
A whole interlude played out in his head within a second’s
time. In the fantasy, Brook was the kind of female who would allow him to help
her. And she’d fall into his arms.
In reality she craned her neck around, catching him focused
on her ass. A glare cast over her expression. It was true that he’d wanted to
see those eyes dark with anger, but not for this. Abandoning his plan, Morgan
got straight to the reason for his interruption.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” he said. “I just wanted to make
sure you’d brought an appropriate dress for tomorrow’s event.”
The hand holding the hammer dropped dangerously close to her
jeans. She twisted on the stool. Morgan’s heart lifted into his throat as he
imagined how easy it would be for her to lose her footing and come crashing
down.
“I’m wearing my usual black pantsuit.”
A quick laugh escaped him before he could hide it. Her
pupils contracted and expanded.
Restraining his smile, Morgan calmly said, “I’m afraid
ladies aren’t allowed into the event unless they have a floor-length gown.”
“I’m not a lady.”
He had no clue how to respond to her terse answer. Her
steady gaze and the regal lift of her chin implied she actually meant it.
Perhaps she was getting confused with the old moniker given to women of noble
birth.
Morgan flapped his hand. “Ladies, women, females—they all
must have a floor-length gown to attend.”
“I’m not
attending
the event. I’ll be there as
staff,” Brook said through barely parted lips.
“Did you get a spot with the caterer?”
Brook’s face crinkled, somehow looking at once perplexed and
disgusted. “Huh?”
“You said you’d be there as staff. Are you planning to carry
a tray with canapés around?”
“No. I’m attending as your bodyguard.”
Perhaps it was her patronizing tone or the way she’d
gestured mockingly toward him with both hands as if he weren’t capable of
protecting himself that had him snapping. “On what Earth does a water
conservationist need a bodyguard?”
Brook blinked heavily, clearly confused again.
Now that he’d bewildered her twice, he was able to calm his
ire. “I won’t be able to explain why I need a bodyguard to the predominantly
vanilla human guests. Besides, I’ve already told the planning committee that
you’re my date. They’re expecting you to arrive with me. And they won’t let you
inside unless you’re wearing a floor-length gown.”
Brook pounced off the chair. “Then I guess we’re not going.”
She stalked to the table, slamming the hammer down and then kept going.
“Why aren’t we going?”
“I don’t have a dress and we don’t have time to get one.”
“Now hang on just one minute,” Morgan called after Brook as
her feet pounded to the left. “You were the one who said I couldn’t hole up in
my house—that I needed to go about my business.”
She didn’t slow her pace until she reached the guest room.
There she dropped to her knees and dug through her duffel bag.
Still frustrated with her refusal, he went on like a nagging
wife. “I told you this was a black-tie event on Wednesday. You said we’d
attend.”
“I
assumed
I’d be exempt from the dress code.”
He picked up frustration and anger off her, the match for
his own. But what he hadn’t bargained on was sensing embarrassment. What could
she possibly be embarrassed about?
Taking a crack at it, Morgan said, “You couldn’t have known
you’d need a gown.”
She shot him an impatient look over her shoulder. The
frustration lifted but embarrassment didn’t fade. Since that hadn’t helped,
he’d have to try something else.
“I need to go to this event,” he said. “It was my idea that
they hold it.”
Brook stood upright and pivoted toward him. Her steady gaze
held the mark of pure professionalism. “I signed a contract to protect you
until this situation was resolved. You can’t go without me. I don’t have a
dress. So I’m sorry, Priest Seaton, but unless you have an army of singing
rodents or fairy godmothers on hand to sew me a dress in a day, it’s just not
going to work out.”
Morgan lifted his eyebrows in confusion.
She made a dismissive gesture, muttering as she hid flushing
cheeks. “It’s from a Disney flick. Don’t worry about it.”
The idea that prickly Brook Lochlan had ever watched
something as feminine as a Disney “flick” suddenly appealed to him on a whole
new level. It made him want to find her a fairy godmother. And the need to see
her dressed in finery became a burning desire.
He set his jaw. “We’ll find you a dress.”
Brook hadn’t felt this uncomfortable since a friend’s
wedding she’d had to attend. Being a fill-in bridesmaid had been horrible
thanks to the frilly monstrosity she’d been forced to wear. But this was almost
as bad.
She untangled the silky fabric from her ankles for the
twelfth time since she’d slipped out of the black limousine at the hotel
entrance. The floor-length navy satin gown had been the only garment available
in her size under the two-hundred-dollar limit Brook had silently set. She’d
not let Morgan see her in the slinky thing even though he’d forked over the
money. Instead, she’d covered herself with a raincoat she’d found in one of his
closets.
He’d gone ahead into the event while she’d waited to check
her coat. Brook’s empathy net helped her catalog the emotions around them. No
individuals in the vicinity experienced anything of concern. There was plenty
of envy, impatience and a dash of happiness among those loitering within but
none wanted to kill. The regional priest would be safe enough alone for a few
minutes.
And she’d have time to work up the courage to appear in
public dressed like a society woman of low morals
.
Too soon she had her coat-check
ticket in hand and lost the cover for her plunging neckline and daringly slit
skirt.
She forced herself to the door but hesitated at the
threshold. She’d rather face a vicious vampire or a Were suffering from lunacy
than this party. Vanilla humans in groups were her least favorite foe. A witch
needn’t hide his or her power from a rampaging vampire. But job security would
be the least of her problems if she revealed the existence of
magic
to
any of these people.
The familiar emotional signature meant Morgan could be found
to the left. She scanned the area, quickly finding him already surrounded by
several women. One leaned into him, speaking into his ear in an intimate
fashion. Though he ought to be concentrating on what was being said, he was instead
fixated on Brook.
After yesterday’s breakfast melodrama, she was acutely aware
of the slow sweep of his gaze down her body. Brook struggled to maintain her
indifference beneath his frank appraisal. What she’d ignored then was now clear
as the waters of a tropical cove.
For whatever misguided reason, Morgan desired her.
Warmth skittered along the path his eyes took. Blood flushed
to Brook’s neck. Her breasts grew tender and full beneath the thin fabric as
his gaze passed over her. Inches from the gown’s slit along her thigh, her
unguarded sex began a slow throb when his attention reached her belly. Neptune
in the depths, she was
not
lusting after the bleeding heart!
There was only one way to chase the harmful emotion away.
Brook strode between the mingling groups, landing in front
of her client and his handful of women. “Introduce me to your fan club,
Morgan?” she queried in her brusquest of voices.
She’d expected his eyes to flash with anger. Brook hadn’t
counted on pink washing over his cheeks instead.
“This is…th-the h-head of the charity,
Mrs
. Henrietta
Hale,” he said.
The emphasis he put on the woman’s married status was
curious. But that had been the female leaning into him moments ago, hadn’t it?
“Her friends Jenny Lawson and Kim Brown.” Morgan stretched a
palm out toward her. “Ladies, this is my date, Brook Lochlan.”
Calder
, she silently corrected his slip.
“A friend of the family,” Morgan said when she failed to
close the space between them.
She’d been friendified. Good. He needed to hang on to that
reminder the next time he was undressing her with his eyes. Brook gave the trio
of women measuring looks rather than feign friendliness. Twisting three lines
of magic, she linked with the women simultaneously. Time to discover their
intentions.
The redhead named Kim hid impatience well beneath a bright
smile. Brook instantly disliked her for it. Jenny was bored. And the married
woman sidling close to Morgan barely hid jealousy. Brook had no way to know at
whom the woman’s jealousy was directed. Or why the woman experienced the
emotion in the first place. She could only speculate or assume. As a Ranger,
neither were good ideas.
The impatient one relaxed her fake smile. “Nice to meet
you.”
“Thanks,” Brook said even as she scanned the radius around
them. She couldn’t be too careful. Morgan’s original attack had occurred in a
public place though few had witnessed it. Desperation could make their foe
foolish enough to risk capture at a party.
Focusing on the women served another purpose as well. It
kept her from acknowledging the information she’d gathered from her client. She
didn’t need to know he still suffered from desire. Especially when she was the
object of his frequent glances.
The married woman purred into Morgan’s ear, “You promised me
a dance. I want it later when you’ve had too much to drink.”
“I won’t be drinking tonight.”
She plumped her red lips at Morgan’s setdown. “Why not? I
ordered the best champagne.”
Sharp emotion sliced through Brook’s net, snaring her
attention with ruthless force while Morgan muttered an answer she didn’t catch.
Where had that come from? She cast a discreet look over her
shoulder to the entrance. Brook found the extreme emotion in a brunette with
eerily pale, glaring green eyes. The whole of the brunette’s attention was
fixed in Brook’s direction.
Mira Fontaine. Brook would recognize her anywhere. But what
had caused that malevolent pinching of the female’s pretty features?
Brook eased the supernatural net away from Morgan’s
girlfriend until she could sense more than the force of the emotion. Even
without a direct link, Brook noted the siphoning sensation that was the marker
of jealousy. Brook’s attention returned to Morgan, where Henrietta’s breast had
settled nicely against his side. They had certainly gotten cozy. That explained
it.
Brook discreetly nodded toward the entrance. Though Morgan
glanced at the door, confusion flowed off him rather than worry. Brook did it
again, this time getting her eyes in on the action. The idiot male shook his
head, still bewildered by what she’d attempted to relay.
Brook jabbed a finger toward his glaring girlfriend.
Morgan’s eyes widened. “Mira!”
He was too late to extricate himself from Henrietta before
his female arrived. Mira stomped to a stop next to him.
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” he said.
Mira sent him a scathing sidelong look. “Obviously.”
“Excuse me, ladies.” He strode forward, taking Mira’s wrist
in a possessive grip. Mira allowed herself to be guided into the shadows away
from the group.
“She looks
so
jealous.” Henrietta shot a catty smile
at Brook. “I suspect she doesn’t like him going to parties with old family
friends
.”
Henrietta’s mocking emphasis on their supposed relationship
nearly loosened Brook’s lips. As did her withering sweep down Brook’s gown.
Instead of insulting the people in Morgan’s life, Brook simply walked away.
A drink, something nonalcoholic, would be good. Too bad
there was a line. But…she’d have an excuse to look at nothing while she
filtered through the signatures within the room if she were stuck in line.
Brook waited her turn at the first of the refreshment tables.
A witch attempted to strike up a conversation. His familiar
leer at her bodice jogged her memory—Norman Foster, one of the males she’d
vowed to avoid. She put him off with only a severe glance. Moments later Brook
had her drink in hand. She slipped into an isolated spot where she could
observe Morgan and his peers.
Whatever he’d said to his female had failed to appease her.
Mira glared around the room in few-second intervals. For all his ability to
soothe, he failed with the one person who mattered most.
Brook’s leisurely sip of her punch covered her interest in
the pair. Until a third individual appeared—one who knew exactly what she was
doing on the fringe.
“Ms. Calder.” Morgan’s uncle invaded her solitude. “I
expected you’d be stunning in a gown.”
She forced her eyes away from her client. Irvin’s bright
grin was all she could see in the dimly lit space at first. Soon her vision
adjusted. His tuxedo, though standard, didn’t fit him as well as Morgan’s fit
him. He certainly didn’t cut the regal figure his nephew did.
Strange. Most witches were attractive—gorgeous even. Yet
this
witch wasn’t. Irvin must have had a rough childhood. Rough enough to form a
hatred of those who hadn’t?
Brook drew in the markers of the male’s emotions. He too
suffered from desire—his featured a slice of anticipation. Unlike his nephew’s,
Irvin’s attention remained above her neck. Perhaps he’d noted some knockout on
his way over.
“Any new hints among your social circle for who did this?”
Brook asked rather than acknowledge Irvin’s lie.
The male released a teasing laugh. “Always working?”
“Yes.” She gestured at the pair still deep in argument.
“Does his girlfriend often struggle with jealousy at these functions?”
“Whose girlfriend?” Irvin swung toward the wall where her
client murmured into Mira’s ear. “Morgan’s?”
Brook didn’t bother with a reply. He ought to know she had
absolutely no interest in anyone else in this state.
The older male righted himself. A small smile played across
his lips—an indulgent one. Brook squelched the irritation at his condescension.
“Mira is merely Morgan’s assistant. They aren’t dating. He
hasn’t seen anyone since he moved to Indiana.”
Brook’s attention snapped to Irvin.
The pair wasn’t dating? Morgan had never corrected her when
she’d mentioned his girlfriend. Mira
’
s
jealousy was off-the-chart high. Morgan had to note it. Working with a
distracting individual couldn’t be easy. So why did he do it?
“Did they date?” she found herself asking as her gaze
drifted back to her client.
“No.”
“She’s very jealous.”
“She wishes that would change.”
“She told you this?”
Irvin’s head shook in her peripheral vision. “Observation.”
Brook examined Irvin with a keen eye, searching for clues on
his face as well as on her empathy net. “Do you think her jealousy could turn
violent?”
Salt-and-pepper brows lifted slightly though his gaze
remained steady on hers. “Do you mean to ask if I think Mira is behind the
attacks?”
If she’d meant that, she would have asked that. Brook merely
stared at the male rather than insult him with brusque words.
“I think she has it in her,” Irvin said. “But I don’t think
she’d do it.”
“Has it in her?”
“Mira has a dark side,” he said.
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve happened upon her during one or two…incidents.”
Now Irvin had every ounce of her focus. That nearly coy
hesitation on the final word promised juicy information. “What sorts of
incidents?”
“She destroyed one of Morgan’s ceramic vases when he upset
her.”
Irvin shifted his gaze to the pair that had recently stepped
away from the wall. Brook watched as well, noting how Morgan led the female
with a hand on her forearm. He wouldn’t leave the room without his Ranger
guard, would he?
Irvin had stopped. There had to be more to the story. She
pressed for it. “How did he upset her?”
“I don’t know for sure. I asked but Morgan didn’t have an
answer for me. And he was incredulous. He was inclined to believe I’d
misconstrued her actions. That it had been accidental, when I’d clearly seen
her snatch up the piece and hurl it at the window Morgan had recently passed.”
“The
window
?” Brook repeated in shock despite knowing
most of Morgan’s house was made of windows.
“Yes. Lucky for us, her aim sucks.”
Morgan was frustrated. On too many levels. Mira’s arrival
had only highlighted it. He’d told her to stay safe. Elsewhere. Putting in an
appearance at a party he was sure to attend wasn’t staying safe.
But that wasn’t what frustrated him. His
bodyguard
did.
Neptune’s beard. Brook had never looked as alluring as she
did tonight. That gown was indecent with the way it shifted over her lush
curves like water sluicing over a naughty statue. She should have let him see
the thing before he’d paid for it. He would have sent her back for something
with sleeves. And a hoop skirt.
“I’m already here, Morgan,” Mira said as he marched her to
the door. “It’s more suspicious that I’m leaving early than it would be if I
stayed.”
He bit back the urge to scold her for ignoring his command
in the first place. Mira’s concern was touching. Or it would have been if he
hadn’t known her true concern.
Brook.
Two days ago he hadn
’
t
considered Mira might want him as more than her boss—before Brook had called
her his girlfriend. And two days ago he would have laughed at Mira’s jealousy.
As if he’d want Brook. And yet…
It was all he could think of now. He’d barely kept his hands
to himself when the Ranger had joined him and his companions minutes ago.
Morgan had wanted to caress her generous breasts through the silk until her
nipples strained for release. He would have settled for a hand at her waist.
Touching her had become integral to the success of his evening. That meant Mira
had to go.
For her own safety, of course.
Morgan nudged her toward the coat check. “I’ll tell anyone
who asks that you came only because I’d asked and your illness sent you home.”
“What illness? I feel fine.” She dug the heels of her
designer pumps into the gaudy-patterned carpet. “Really, Morgan—”
“It’s too dangerous,” he said for the seventh time, ignoring
the satin fabric beneath his fingers as he pressed her shoulder toward the
counter, because acknowledging it would invite comparisons to other satin
fabrics.