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Brook Hollow Trilogy

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Samantha Pearson hated grocery shopping. She hated crowds, and when she went late at night to avoid them the shelves were understocked. She preferred the self-scanning checkouts to the obnoxious teenage clerks, but inevitably her coupons wouldn’t scan and she had to deal with the exhausted-by-life, oh-my-aching-back “senior” clerk who griped at her about all of the above. Samantha wasn’t very good with people. Not random people, anyway. She didn’t have the patience for them.

Tonight, though, tonight was different. Tonight the overhead lights shone instead of glared. Everything she wanted—all of Christopher’s favorites—was on sale. And even the overtired toddler dragging bread off the shelves to pile on the floor amused her.

Her son was coming home.

She skirted the scowling little boy and reached the section where Chris’s favorite sandwich bread usually sat. The shelf was empty. She realized that, except for the dense whole-wheat loaves making up a toddler fort, there were very few left at all. She looked left, to the milk section at the end. That, too, was decimated. She groaned.

“I know,” said a voice behind her. “Give a ten percent prediction of snow, and they clean the place out.”

She turned to see a young, shaggy-haired man smiling at her. She smiled back. “You’d think they’d have figured out we don’t get three-day snow-ins in Pennsylvania,” she agreed. “This is insane. I hadn’t heard there was a storm coming, though.” Unease pierced her bubble of joy. “Is it coming up from the south?”

The man shrugged and reached for the last package of English muffins. “I’m not sure. I didn’t pay much attention. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. My own fault, I should have checked.” Mothers were supposed to be obsessive about weather when their kids were traveling, but she’d been so involved in getting the Geary campaign wrapped up so she could take extra time leading into Thanksgiving break that she hadn’t even considered the possibility of snow.

“Well, thanks,” she said belatedly, watching the guy head on down the aisle. He had a very nice ass, she noticed, his jeans snug enough to showcase it. Then her face burned as she realized what she was doing. He looked to be her son’s age, for cripe’s sake!

“Never hurts to look,” she muttered. “Old, not dead, and all that crap.”

She gave up on the bread and went to pick up the deli order she’d keyed into the automated kiosk at the front of the store, then made for the checkout line. Chris and his roommate were due in a couple of hours, and she hadn’t made up the beds or put out towels yet.

She’d been standing behind a little old lady wearing a very determined look in the self-scan line when the voice returned.

“Hello again.” Deep and smooth, it matched his ass, she thought, and almost giggled at the stupid comparison. But it did—both were grade A. She turned and couldn’t help but smile. The guy was an inborn flirt. His green eyes sparkled like he’d been hoping to see her, and his full mouth curved, emphasizing the cleft in his square jaw.

“Hi.” She nodded at the lilies he held in his free hand. “Amazing you can get such nice flowers in a grocery store, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, really. Saves my bacon, too.” He chuckled, and oh, Lord, he had a dimple. Attraction zipped through her. She hoped she wasn’t blushing again.

The determined old lady moved up to a register and started jabbing at the touch screen. Samantha eased forward to take her place, and her flirt moved closer.

“Forgot a birthday or something, huh?” She usually hated small talk, but felt compelled to continue the conversation.

“Yeah. Well, something. I don’t plan ahead very well,” he admitted. “You look like you do, though.” He motioned to her small cart. “I see ingredients for beef stroganoff in there.”

Samantha raised her eyebrows. “Impressive. You cook?”

“Love it. I took some courses in high school, but college dorms don’t really have very good kitchens. I’ve been living off campus this semester, though, so I’m back into it.”

Two registers on the right opened up, and they moved forward in unison to start scanning side by side. Samantha couldn’t help noticing the rest of his few items. A fancy fruit tart, a bag of gourmet coffee, and a pack of condoms to go with his flowers. The English muffins were nowhere in sight.

“You go to school around here?” she asked, trying to sound like a motherly type and not someone who was noticing how long-fingered and strong his hands were.

“No, out west.”

So did Chris, but she didn’t mention it. She concentrated on scanning her items while he finished up his order. When she pulled the package of ham out from under a jar of sauce, the bag of tortilla chips tipped and hit the floor. Before she could bend to grab it that long-fingered, strong hand did so for her. She noticed a rawhide bracelet around his wrist, then noticed his wrist.

It had obviously been way too long since she’d had sex.

“Thanks.” She smiled at him.

“My pleasure.” He grinned back and lingered, his bag looped through his left hand, his right handing her items from her cart. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see electricity arcing between them. She could certainly feel it well enough.

“So, do you use beef bouillon or broth in your stroganoff?” he asked, and they chatted about food while she finished checking out. Then he insisted on carrying her bags for her.

“Do I look that decrepit?” She laughed, pushing the cart into the holding area just outside the door.

“Quite the opposite,” he said. “Actually, I’m hoping to charm you into giving me your number.”

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They drove in silence for a while. Dan leaned his head back and closed his eyes, one knee up, the other leg stretched out, and the fingers of his right hand touching the top of the doorframe. Trex kept sneaking glances at him. She'd known a lot of super-tall men, but they usually epitomized the term "bean pole." All one width, lanky, narrow of shoulder and hip, at least in comparison to their height. Jake was over six feet and, to her completely biased eyes, perfectly proportioned. But Dan topped him by a good three inches and balanced it with a broad chest and wide shoulders, arms that looked like they could wrap around her twice, and very strong-looking legs. She knew they were strong looking because she could see his quads flex under the worn denim of his jeans. His position also allowed her, with glances that would have been too long on a busier road, to assess the flatness of his stomach and the perfectness of his pecs. Despite the warm mugginess of a mid-August day--with a storm approaching, judging by the clouds ahead of them--Dan wore a light khaki jacket over his T-shirt. But it was snug enough to make her consider the muscles straining the fabric.

She wondered if she'd be noticing him so intensely if she hadn't had that dream right before he showed up. It wasn't logical to think he'd been the man behind her. She'd never met him, didn't know he existed. And yet, his hands, his legs...everything matched. And she found herself wanting him to touch her.

A few minutes before they reached their destination, small drops started landing on the windshield.

"Is this going to cause problems?" Trex asked, knowing Dan wasn't asleep even though he hadn't moved.

"What, the rain?" He didn't open his eyes.

"Yeah."

"It shouldn't."

"What are we doing?"

"Checking out a few places."

"Like?"

He didn't answer.

"Am I interrupting something?" She tried not to sound annoyed.

He hummed in the back of his throat, so she took that as a yes.

A few minutes later she pulled up in front of the address he'd given her, a nice two-story home with a brick façade, mature oaks flanking the entrance, and a BMW in the driveway. She put the Jeep into park and waited. Dan didn't move for several minutes. Trex was just about to shut off the engine--gas hadn't been cheap for a very long time--when he opened his eyes.

"This isn't it. We can go."

"Where?"

He gave her another address, halfway back toward home. She sighed and put the Jeep in gear. "Why didn't we stop there first?"

"Because here was more likely."

"Apparently, it wasn't."

"Apparently."

The light rain got heavier as she drove. The house she stopped in front of looked similar to the first, but not quite as rich. Slightly less square footage, one younger tree, and a Chevy parked out front. Dan shook his head and gave her another address.

And so it went, until she couldn't stand any more.

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Cassie Bryant's assistant, Beth, entered her office without knocking and flicked on the TV in the corner.

"Beth, I'm in the middle of a budget review!"

"You have to see this."

Cassie shook her head and bent back over the spreadsheets on her desk. "We need to increase the transportation budget," she told her boss's face on her computer screen. She was video-conferencing with the head of the Aquila Foundation between her office in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and his winter condo in Boca Raton. "Fuel costs have gone up again."

"We'll need to reduce something else," he countered, his head bent over his own set of papers. He stopped writing and looked up with a frown. "Is that the television?"

"Beth, please," Cassie hissed, then went still. "What is that?"

"That," Beth said in a voice of doom, pointing the remote at the television, "is the rest of your life."

"Sir, may we please resume this later?"

Her boss must have seen something in her face because he didn't argue. "We can trim from the advertising and media relations budgets and find additional no-cost avenues for those. Then I think that will do it. I'll contact you on Friday."

"Thank you, sir."

Cassie clicked the button to close the video screen and stood, her eyes still on the scene on TV. "Tell me that's Justin Timberlake."

"That's not Justin Timberlake."

"Maybe it's Fitty Cent."

Beth snorted. "Not unless Fitty Cent has grown green bangs."

Cassie stepped closer to the TV, still attempting denial. "They could be imposters."

"You mean impersonators?"

"Yeah, that." But she didn't bother waiting for Beth's answer. She knew damned well who that was on the screen, holding a woman in each arm and kissing one on the cheek while the other stroked her hand across his shiny, electric-blue shirt.

But Julian Manchester, keyboardist and notorious ladies' man for the re-formed 80s band Blue Silver, wasn't the problem. His best mate, Blue Silver's lead singer, Seth Graham, was.

Cassie wasn't ready to address her fiancé's similar arm-drapery, or the tongue that was in his ear. "Does Georgie know about this?"

Beth shrugged. "I don't work for Georgie." She turned up the volume. The entertainment network's reporter said, in voice-over, "Silverettes are back in style, as Blue Silver returns to the stage. After the success of their new album and last year's club tour, the neo-retro musicians have rediscovered their core audience."

Cassie grabbed the phone headset off her desk and sank onto the arm of the battered sofa in front of the television. "Georgie Davis," she said, and the phone automatically dialed.

"Led by Julian Manchester, the boys-cum-men have been out on the town in London this evening, and appear to have returned to their previous lifestyle."

Cassie realized now that the footage was in front of a nightclub. Julian lifted an arm to open the door of a long black limo, while Seth turned his head to talk to someone behind him--Brad, she saw, who at least had his girlfriend Marci wrapped around him.

"Hello?"

"Georgie, Cassie. Turn on that entertainment network we both hate."

"Uh, oh."

A second later she heard an echo of the show behind Georgie's voice. "What am I not going to--oh."

"Yeah."

They watched in silence as one of the blondies clinging to Seth bit his neck. Marci swatted at her and looked like she would rather have slugged her, but was conscious of the cameras on them.

"Aren't they in London?" Georgie asked. "It's midnight over there, right?"

"About that, yeah."

"When did Marci go over?"

"Last week. She can work from anywhere, you know. Brad called, she went." Marci had admitted to them last summer, when they'd reconnected in their attempt to see the band, that she ran a phone sex company. "She's going to tear that bitch apart."

"You sound so bloodthirsty," Georgie teased. "Don't you trust your rock star fiancé?"

Cassie ground her teeth. She did trust Seth. He'd been and done a lot of things in their first short, disastrous marriage. Adulterous hadn't been one of them. "Seth's not the problem."

"What is?"

The phone rang in the outer office. "That is."

"What?"

"Hang on."

Beth tapped her own headset to answer the call. "Cassie Bryant's office, Aquila Foundation." She listened for three seconds. "I'm sorry, Ms. Bryant has no comment, and she does not take personal calls at work." She clicked off, her expression unmarred by emotion. Her unshakeable calm was part of what Cassie had loved about her even before she reconciled with Seth.

"Reporters," she told Georgie. "Seth isn't going to do anything to harm our relationship, not after working so hard to get us back together."

"Julian says he's been completely clean, even with all the stress of the album sales and stuff."

Cassie wasn't worried about Seth's addictions, either, but--

"Julian Manchester is clearly up to his old habits. One can only wonder if Seth Graham is, as well, and if those will prove to be deadly to his tender new relationship with ex-wife Cassie Bryant."

The phone rang again.

"There. That's the problem," Cassie griped to her friend. "Seth's not using, he's not cheating, but every time he goes out of the house we have to contend with reporters making insinuations and other reporters calling me to get my reaction, like I'm going to pull a Sienna Miller or something."

Georgie snorted. "The nanny was the one who blabbed to all the--"

"It doesn't matter."

Cassie was actually more worried about her friend. No matter how many times Georgie told her the thing between her and Jules was casual, Cassie wasn't convinced. She saw the look in Julian's eyes any time Cassie mentioned Georgie, and she felt the sparks when they were in the same room. When a year passed and those sparks were still flying--and the parties involved still snuck off to have sex in the closet--the thing was more than casual.

"So what do you think?" Cassie asked.

"About what?"

Julian bent and planted one on the wide, ruby-red mouth of the woman he handed into the limo, patted the bare knee that was about two feet below the hem of her "skirt," and straightened to mug for the cameras one more time before they cut to commercial.

"I told you, she's not available..." Beth's cold, clipped voice faded as she exited the office and closed the door. Georgie still didn't speak.

"Honey? You okay?"

When she answered, her voice was tight. "We don't have an exclusive arrangement," she said.

"I know, but..." But sleeping with women like that--not that Cassie could judge her by thirty seconds on TV--and then sleeping with Georgie, well, that was playing a dangerous game, whether emotions were involved or not.

"You protect yourself," Cassie wasn't sure what else she could say. Georgie knew what she was doing. She always knew what she was doing, starting with the moment she decided they needed another chance at that lost night twenty years ago. They'd all gotten more than they bargained for, but Georgie had never wavered.

"You know what pisses me off most." Georgie sounded normal again.

"That they called them Silverettes?"

"Fuck, yes."

Cassie grinned. "Me, too."

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Brie put her arms around his waist and inhaled. Fran was right. Snow did smell good. Especially on a man who also smelled good. “How’s the snowman coming along?”

“It’s the funniest thing you’ve ever seen. Why don’t you grab the camera and come out?”

“Sure.” Maybe she could get out of setting the table and cleaning up by playing both sides.

“I’ll see you out there.” He dropped a kiss on her nose and headed back out the kitchen door. Brianna got her ski jacket out of the closet and collected the camcorder from the sideboard before slipping out the front.

The snowman was one of the funniest things she’d ever seen. The bottom was roughly oval, with a huge bulge on the back side that made him look like the big-assed landlady from Joey’s favorite animated movie. The middle section was smaller than the top section. They’d tried to pack snow between the three pieces to hold them together, but the result was a zigzagging tower that looked like nothing recognizable.

She clicked the camcorder on and caught Joey jumping up and down, reaching with the carrot toward what Brianna assumed was supposed to be the face. Two stones—how’d they find stones under a foot of snow?—were probably supposed to be eyes, but they were positioned more about mid-forehead and upper left cheek. A bent twig must be the mouth. That was the only thing that looked normal.

As she filmed, Cable lifted Joey to his hip and held the back of the snowman’s head against the boy’s energetic stabs with the carrot. Finally, Jake dug a little hole in the center and Joey stuffed the end of the vegetable into it, then cheered. Parker beamed at them while Duncan and Luke stood to the side, ignoring the efforts of their sons and grandson and talking earnestly about something Brie figured would bore the hell out of everyone else.

Joey squirmed. Cable let him down and he dashed across the yard to where Cody, Kira’s dog, lay on the snow, far from the chaos but still near her people. Brianna followed him with the camera and filmed a minute of him trying to coax the old dog into playing fetch with snowballs, then panned back to the masterpiece.

She caught her breath. Jake, Parker, and Cable stood in front of the snowman in a half-circle, all smiling. Hot damn, they looked good. Pride and gratitude swelled her throat.

There couldn’t be three more different men on the outside. Jake wore jeans and a hand-knitted sweater under a battered fleece-lined corduroy jacket. He rocked back on his cowboy boots with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

Next to him, Parker looked like a model on a GQ shoot. His dress pants and pea coat sported not a flake of snow. His hair was still perfectly combed, and lambskin gloves warmed his hands. A cashmere scarf casually looped around his neck completed the image.

Cable towered over both of them, his haircut and his leather jacket screaming “don’t mess with me.” But all three of them had identical contented smiles that lit up their faces.

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Sloane Marshall trained superheroes.

Discovering them was easy. There weren’t many of them out there. For every two hundred leads she investigated—and almost always quickly dismissed—she found one potential. And not all of those had the attributes necessary to become super. It wasn’t enough to have super strength or the ability to shapeshift. You had to be a leader. Confident. Humble. For every superhero she coached to infamy, six didn’t make the cut.

She knew, before she even met him, that Tommy Idaho was special.

“Vodka sour,” she told the bartender before swiveling on her stool to survey the room. Not that she needed to. She’d spotted Idaho right away, in a large circular booth in the back of the upscale bar. It was quiet, full of leather and dark wood, cloth table coverings and shining crystal. Just the kind of place a scientist would go.

Idaho didn’t look like a scientist. Of course, many of them didn’t once they’d removed their lab coats. But he was more football quarterback than microscope jockey, with broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and blue-green eyes that sparkled as he laughed at something the woman next to him said. If he weren’t superhero material, he’d be exactly her type.

“He’s gonna see you.”

“Doubtful.” Sloane didn’t look at the kid who’d settled on the stool next to her. Her backer, Darren Cranston, had sent this old friend of Idaho’s to meet her when the basic file had left her more skeptical than usual.

Tommy was an orphan, “strange” since birth, which meant his powers were intrinsic and not the result of chemical ingestion or radiation or experimentation or any other external factors. That in itself was rare.

He also reportedly had more than one power. Super speed and strength, which were common enough nowadays, relatively speaking. Fast healing, something often engineered since advanced medicine had made it possible for those with super bank accounts. There were suggestions of other things, unproven but if true, would probably render Tommy Idaho the greatest superhero who’d ever lived.

It wasn’t possible. So she’d marked him off and gone to Russia to train a woman who could absorb life energy and use it to move, create, and banish things, all the characteristics of illusion or magic, but for real.

Then Percy Keller showed up. He lived in Massachusetts, so Darren sending him to Russia told her he believed in Idaho. A lot.

Percy was a wide-eyed kid who looked barely old enough be in this bar. But he’d graduated from high school with Tommy, and had been one of his best friends. His testimony had convinced Sloane to come to Amherst. She didn’t have anything else on the schedule, and proving them false was almost as much fun as discovering them.

She hadn’t expected to detect his power before she was even in the door.

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 “Was it ’84 or ’85 we did the concert in Sydney with that orgy afterward?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t come down for three years.”

“Jules? You remember?”

“I remember everything, and you know it. It was ’85, and it was fabulous.”

Seth wished they’d shut the hell up. Cassie was looking more and more disgusted and despondent as they reminisced. Julian and Brad were loving both their memories and the plans they were making for new ones. Robert, as usual, was quiet on the far side of the limo they were taking to a local radio station at a god-awful hour of the morning. Troy looked desperate for a cigarette, but the limo company had said no smoking, and they were good boys now who followed such rules.

Bugger it. He needed a smoke, too.

He’d almost blown it last night when Cassie had taken him to his suite. Blown what, he didn’t know for sure. Something he wanted and was probably afraid to clarify. He’d followed his ex-wife into the bedroom, where she was checking some damned thing she’d requested on his behalf, and suddenly all his thoughts had been lustful. She’d turned, come up short to find him so close behind her, saw his face, and closed off. Just slammed shut. He’d never seen her do that before, and it crushed him to know she was closing herself off from him.

Luckily, the radio station was close. The stupid reminiscence and the look on Cassie’s face both disappeared when they clambered out of the vehicle.

“Fuck, it’s hot.” Brad lit a cigarette immediately, puffing heftily on it before they got to the door. No doubt, it was smoke-free in there, too.

“Buck up, Braddie-boy.” Julian clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll be in AC all day long. The heat just makes us appreciate it.”

Cassie shook her head as they reached the building. “Julian, when the hell did you become a morning person? It’s not even seven-thirty.”

He chucked her on the chin. “Gotta love life, darlin’, every minute of it. It can turn ugly in an instant.” He passed her and headed into the lobby, where a suit was waiting to show them to the studio. It took a few minutes to get them settled after they met the on-air talent and were briefed on their loose plan.

“Commercial’s over in thirty, guys. You all set?”

Assent came through the headphones Seth wore, crowded with his mates around a semi-circular table and sharing a microphone with Julian. A moment later the announcer introduced them and started asking questions about their comeback. Julian fielded most of them, until the host turned his attention on Seth.

“Seth, there are rumors you wound up here in Central PA because of your ex-wife. Can you tell us about that?”

He glanced at the window, where Cassie stood watching them. She sipped placidly from her latté cup, her eyes daring him to answer. He grinned.

“Cassie Bryant runs Aquila Foundation, which, as you said, is the largest charitable fundraiser in the area. One of her friends had the idea for us to come back here.” Training and an awareness of good publicity spurred him to elaborate on that. “You see, twenty years ago, we were in Hershey for our last big tour. The Silverettes, a fan club of fifteen-year-old girls, had tickets to the show and backstage passes. But their car broke down and they never made it.

“So one of the girls—” he lowered his voice “—now a woman—had the idea of bringing us back. Cassie knew me, of course, and got this whole thing started. It’s a great way to kick off the tour. We’re back in an area that welcomed us lovingly twenty years ago, giving these women a chance to live the dream they missed out on, and helping out a lot of people in the process.”

“You and Cassie haven’t been together for at least fifteen years, though, right? She left you?”

Damn. That wasn’t how he wanted this to go. “Yes, things didn’t work out between us romantically, but we stayed great friends, kept in touch.”

Julian, probably tired of the verbal spotlight being off him, leaned in and said, “Yeah, and Seth would love to reconcile, isn’t that right, Seth?”

The rest of the band joined in ribbing him.

Cassie’s expression didn’t change. Seth looked right at her when he said, “Right.” That set off another hoot-and-holler, and as he watched, something softened around her eyes before she spun on her heel and walked away.

“Okay, we’re going to take a few callers now. Hello! Tell us your name and where you’re from.”

“Hi, thank you! Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe it. Um, um, Sarah, from Carlisle. And I just love you guys. I can’t wait for the concert. Thank you soooooo much for being here!”

“That’s nice, Sarah. Did you have a question for the guys?”

“Oh! Yes! Julian…” Her voice turned coy. “Can we come backstage and meet you after the concert?”

“Baby, if you can get past security, you deserve to meet me.”

“Great. Now we’re gonna have a thousand women tryin’ to get backstage,” groused Robert. “Thanks, mate.”

“Yeah, thanks, mate!” Brad threw in. “Sounds great to me.”

They all laughed, except Robert and Seth. He didn’t want groupies. He didn’t want the whole after-party, truth be told. He just wanted to be with Cassie. They weren’t going to be here long, and now that he’d declared his intentions, he had to act on them quickly.

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Kalen stared at the invitation in his hand. Then he glanced at the outside of the envelope. It still said “Kalen Price and Guest.” For a second he thought one of the jerks at The Guild was playing a stupid joke on him, but he couldn’t fool himself for long. This was the real thing.

Maggie Gronick and Devon Ruger

request the honor

of your presence

at their wedding,

Fifth of May 2006,

at four o’clock in the afternoon.

——

A separate card announced a reception at a well-known Mexican restaurant in Chicago.

If he’d been a fire mage, the fancy card would have been ash. But soggy paper didn’t give the same satisfaction. He dropped the invite on his kitchen table, next to the junk mail, and turned to the fridge.

Which was, of course, empty. He’d taken five successive missions from The Guild and three other agencies worldwide, coming home for no more than two days in between. He’d almost managed to stop thinking about Maggie, about their one time together, and what he could have done differently.

He took the lone beer from the shelf and popped it open, slumping into a chair to stare at the invitation some more. Like it might change.

So it was over. Any hope he might have had was gone. Or would be, on May fifth. He fingered the white satin ribbon that trailed from the top of the card. It reminded him of that day in his hotel suite. Maggie’s white silk robe, his white silk pants, the white silk sheets they hadn’t even touched. The whole thing had been a huge mistake. Before that day, he’d liked Maggie, had been attracted to her. Had wondered how they would be together. After he’d had an opportunity to make love to her, all of that had flared into something more powerful. She’d been so responsive to him. He’d hoped, for a few minutes, that the rumors of her bonding hadn’t been true, or that she wanted to break the bond. He didn’t know what would have made her go back to Devon when she’d so clearly not wanted him. Had remorse driven her back to him? Fear? Maybe she just loved him. But then, Kalen didn’t understand why she’d invite him to her wedding. She wasn’t the type to rub someone’s loss in their face.

A shockwave ran through him. She had reasons for sending the invitation. The fifth of May wasn’t that far away, but it wasn’t here yet. If he’d taken that mission from Le Faucon, he wouldn’t have seen it in time at all. But he was tired. He’d gotten home just in time. And maybe Maggie wasn’t as certain as she seemed.

He got up and went to pack.

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The night flight from London to New York was delayed by two hours. Devon Ruger missed his connection and ended up in Chicago six hours after Maggie had been expecting him.

In one of those books she read, she would have been sound asleep on the sofa in a sheer red teddy, with candles burned to nubs on the dining room table next to the congealed gourmet dinner she'd prepared. He'd have awakened her with kisses and they'd have made love all night.

If they were even a normal couple, she'd have at least been home.

But he could tell as soon as he walked in the door that she wasn't. The flat had that waiting feeling. He didn't bother calling for her. His keys echoed when they hit the table next to the door. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Groaning, he bent to pick it up. Bloody hell, he hated those round trips to London.

Dev--Op in Cali. Half a day or ten. Call you.

Devon dropped it and rubbed his eyes. His body swayed. He was too tired to think about this. He'd focus on the fact that she hadn't bothered to sign the damn thing, never mind make it personal, and by the time he got into bed, he'd be deep in a funk. He should forget he'd even seen it.

But it didn't work that way. He dumped his bag in the bedroom, his clothes in the hamper, his body in the shower, and tried to turn his mind away from Maggie. It was impossible. He didn't know what more he could do. He commuted from fucking Chicago to his agency in London, hoping that moving in with her would help her accept him into her life. But his theory that the fewer changes she had to make, the easier she'd accept him as her soulmate had been seriously flawed. All it meant was that she added regular sex to her schedule. And he was bloody tired of being her stud and getting nothing in return.

The killer was, he didn't know that he had much choice. They'd bonded six months ago, accepting the magical identification of each other as soulmates. That same night, they'd reinforced the bond. Devon felt like he'd always known, somewhere, that Maggie was for him. And he thought Maggie had recognized her own feelings. But she'd grown more and more remote and wouldn't talk about why. He could leave, but what would happen then? The emptiness that accompanied him on every mission would just become permanent.

As he stepped out of the shower, water dripped into his eyes. He reached for a towel. A hand that he instantly recognized as not Maggie's closed over his wrist and yanked him forward. He was already off-balance, half out of the tub, and he staggered. He blinked frantically, but the bathroom was full of steam. Something hit him on the side of the head, and he crashed into the sink. His forehead bounced off the mirror or the towel rack or something, and he lost track of which way was up.

He couldn't see his attacker, or how many there were. He tried to spin, but his foot skidded and he went down on one knee.

There was no fire energy in the room, and he couldn't seem to reach beyond to gather it. No earth energy, either, and barely any air energy, which he could use but not very effectively. The water energy was abundant, but it was acid to him. It didn't harm him if he didn't actively try to use it, or if someone didn't use it against him, but it worked against him anyway, repelling the energies he could use.

He felt hands on his bare skin, unable to get a grip because of the water from the shower. Despair washed over him. He couldn't let himself be beaten, not like this. Not with so much left unsaid and undone between him and Maggie.

With a roar, he surged to his feet. Something smashed into the back of his skull, and he crashed to the floor and into blackness.

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They had fifty different ways to restrain subjects, and hundreds of ways to measure responses. Moisture sensors, pulse and respiration monitors, cameras, sound systems, surveys, and interviews. Kelly was intrigued and, if forced to admit it, excited. At the end, she still told Jordan she thought his system was flawed.

"How can you say that? You saw how completely equipped we are." They entered the break room at the far end of the building, and he offered her coffee. She nodded, noting that though this break room was bigger than the one out front, it was equipped exactly the same.

"Equipment isn't everything." She watched him make her a cup of decaf exactly the way she liked it and wondered if that signified anything. She knew how he took his coffee because she watched him all the time. His hands were graceful yet strong-looking. Kelly hadn't really figured out why she got a flutter in the pit of her stomach when she looked at them but not at any other man's hands.

Jordan handed her a mug and led her down the hall. She took deep breaths, trying to stifle the desire to leap on his back. Maybe the tour hadn't been such a good idea. They went into an office and settled side by side onto an old, soft couch next to the desk.

"Seriously, now that you've seen it all, what do you think?"

Kelly looked around before answering. This room really surprised her. The Jordan she knew was suave and high-toned. This office was anything but. There was a toy basketball hoop stuck to one wall, with a basket of small rubber and foam balls beneath it. Plain plywood shelves on the far wall held an assortment of books with broken bindings and torn covers. A nicked and scratched table below it was covered with papers and a few crumpled napkins. The only new things in the room were the computer and phone on the desk. Even the desk chair had rips in the upholstery.

"I think this is Mark's office."

Jordan laughed. The fluttering in her abdomen sped up to vibration at the sound.

Mark was the guru of the inner sanctum. He oversaw most of the research, hired technicians, and never, ever met the public. He was the opposite of Jordan when it came to organization and precision, except when it came to data.

"My dirty secret," Jordan admitted.

"This is Mark's office?"

"No, I'm a slob."

They laughed and she sipped her coffee before answering his real question. "I found it very interesting, and appreciate the tour. I like knowing so much more about what we do, even if I don't need to."

"It's not that you don't need to." He stretched and started rolling his sleeves. "We just don't convey much to employees in high turnover positions, not at first. Discourages spying and blabbing. We have a reputation to maintain."

"Even me?" She wasn't just any old employee.

"I didn't hire you because of our parents, Kelly." He settled back. "I hired you because you were qualified for the job. I've tried to treat you like I would any other employee."

"I see." She eased off her shoes and tucked one leg under her, oddly conscious of the feel of her skirt and blouse sliding over her skin as she shifted. "And have I passed?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"Your conclusions." He half turned toward her and waited, his head propped on one hand, that elbow on the back of the sofa.

She shrugged. "You haven't shown me anything that belies my original assertion."

Jordan raised his eyebrows. "After everything I've shown you, you still say multiple orgasms aren't always possible?"

"Yep."

"You want me to show you how wrong you are?"

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Parker Cornwall loved to golf. Some found that absurd. Golfing, especially at The Club, was supposed to be a business activity. If he was part of the foursome, it was often a “get Parker’s money” activity. He didn’t mind that. He’d made an awful lot of it by giving it away. Or investing it, anyway.

But every once in a while Parker was able to golf for fun. To join a couple of his closer friends, soak in the sunshine and the smell of freshly cut grass, and whack the hell out of a little white ball.

He lifted his driver over his head and stretched. “Who’s joining us?” he asked his friend, Jason Wenrick. The pharmaceutical heir took a couple of practice swings before answering.

“Some friend of Darlene’s.”

Parker grunted. Jason’s fiancée was a certified socialite, but a sweet girl. Whatever fluff-pot friend she brought would keep her occupied and let Parker concentrate on the purity of golf. He hoped. The Club insisted on foursomes to get maximum use of the course, or he’d golf by himself.

“Here they come.”

Parker turned and saw the two women coming down the walk. Darlene, bless her pretty little blond-to-the-roots head, was unmistakable in her hot pink golf skirt and white shirt. Her visor matched the skirt. Her friend was more reasonably dressed in loose khaki pants and a yellow golf shirt. She had sleek, dark blond hair pulled back out of her way and a white visor with The Club logo clear even at this distance.

They drew closer and he recognized the curves under the conservative clothes. His left hand slipped and the driver fell, bonking him on the head.

Sophie Macgregor.

“Hey, Biff!” Darlene leaned up to kiss his cheek and Parker tried not to let her see his grimace. He hated the nickname with a passion, but it had been handed down from his father and everyone used it, no matter what he tried to do. He looked at Sophie and saw the smirk on her face. It made him want to kiss her.

Most of what she did made him want to kiss her.

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Maggie waited, listening to silence in her ear and an ever-escalating argument inside the room in front of her. The goons apparently disagreed about who Liana was and what to do with her. Good. Maggie could extract her no matter what her condition, but it would be much easier if she was ambulatory.

“Skylark, we have a positive ID on Devon’s base. He does have backup, and they are ready to move.”

“Fine. You be ready, too. I’ll let you know where we’re coming out.” Devon had shifted to the balls of his feet and braced his hands. He was moving in. “It’s showtime.”

Her competitor launched himself through the doorway, pushing a wave of flame ahead of him. There was a yell, followed by a scream. Then he was through and she couldn’t see him any more.

She raced forward, using the commotion as cover. More yells, a lot of thuds, and then—fuck—gunshots. So much for letting him clear the room. She ran faster, going low through the doorway and assessing the scene in an instant. Devon had small fireballs flying about the room, distracting and frightening the four—no, six men inside. Two others lay slumped against the wall, one with a bullet wound in his chest. Devon didn’t use guns any more than she did, so one of the panicked bad guys must have done it.

Liana sat tied to a chair in the center of the room, her body frozen but her gaze darting everywhere. She looked pale but relatively unhurt, thank goodness.

Maggie barreled into the nearest guard, hitting him low and knocking him off balance. She rose as she made contact, expecting him to recover and attack her, but instead he tumbled forward and to the side, cracking his head on the cement floor, and crumpling into a heap.

“Lucky shot,” she muttered, crouching near Liana. Two guys had spotted her and headed her way. She grabbed a thick stream of energy and snapped it like a whip, snatching first one, then the other gun out of their hands and sending them flying to an unoccupied corner. She closed her eyes to concentrate, setting a thinner stream in a complicated twisting motion to work on the ropes binding Liana, who immediately started to wriggle out of them as they loosened. When Maggie opened her eyes, the goons had recovered from their surprise and were right over her.

She swept their legs. One underestimated her and crashed onto his back, knocking the wind out of him. It stimulated energy over his body, which Maggie immediately took advantage of, balling it and sending it slamming against the chest of his savvier colleague.

“I’m free,” Liana gasped, pushing to her feet.

“Let’s go.” Maggie grabbed her arm and ran, not bothering to check Devon’s status. He seemed to be trying to take out every guard in there, rather than acquiring his asset as soon as he had an opening. Of course, if she hadn’t taken out three of them, maybe he wouldn’t have had an opening. He should thank her.

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In the meantime, she had business to attend to. Her new client, Cybertion Technologies, was a small international corporation with headquarters in an old office building near the capital. She’d used various methods to scope out the place and now, on a Saturday, she was ready to use what she’d learned.

She swept by the front door and turned down the alley next to the building. The “back” entrance, which was really on the side, had a bad lock. She hiked up the skirt of her suit, lifted her leg, and kicked the door in the right spot. It popped open.

Smiling smugly, she entered the stairwell and secured the door behind her. Don’t get cocky, she told herself, pausing. She bent and shook out her long blond hair, then tossed it back so it would look half-wild. Then she adjusted the front of her scarlet suit jacket, pushing her breasts up until they practically spilled out. All she needed now was her travel mug, which she pulled from her attaché, and she was ready.

God, she loved her job.

Smiling seductively, she pushed through the door from the stairwell into the rear of the main lobby. The weekend receptionist/security guard heard her heels tapping and whirled, his eyebrows up, his mouth half open. His chin dropped the rest of the way when he registered her appearance, and he didn’t move.

Cat leaned her forearms on the reception counter. “Be a love, and fill this up for me before I hit the road?”

“Uh, sure. Ah, how—? Where?” He glanced at the silent elevators, then the front door, which she obviously hadn’t come through.

“I had a meeting with Hack.”

The guy, only about twenty-two, frowned. “I didn’t think he was working today.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that kind of a meeting.” She ran her tongue over her top lip, and the poor guy tripped and fell into his chair. She looked at her watch. Falling behind. “Coffee?”

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“I’m dying.”

Kira Macgregor blinked, then swallowed. She fought the urge to say “nuh-uh,” because Jake McKenna’s voice—the voice of the man who’d been her best friend for twenty-eight years—held no trace of humor. Only one response was possible.

“I’ll be right there.”

She waited until she hung up the phone before she slid to the floor. She watched her hands, vibrating under the force of her reaction. She’d skipped right over shock and jumped feet-first into abject terror.

Suck it up, Macgregor. Jake needs you. She dragged herself upright and stared at the kitchen table, where she’d been going over her schedule. She wanted to race out the door, but practicality interfered for a moment. Not knowing how long she’d be gone, she had to settle things first.

It took her three hours to wrap up her last job and reschedule her work for the rest of the week and one hour to pack and close up her condo. Then she faced a two-hour drive home to Brook Hollow, Massachusetts. Six hours fighting the lump in her throat. Trying not to imagine what her life would be like without Jake McKenna in it.

She pulled into his driveway at midnight. His living room lights were on, and as soon as she got out of the 4Runner the porch light flashed and the front door opened. Jake stood in the doorway, silhouetted, looking larger than life and as healthy as ever. Kira choked back a sob. She pulled her bag from the back seat and shut the car door. The sound boomed in the small-town quiet. She started moving up the driveway, and by the time she reached the steps she was almost running. Jake met her at the top and she flung herself into his arms.

“Oh, Jake,” she whispered, clinging to him. His arms trembled as they wrapped around her, and he pressed his face into her hair. They stood like that for several minutes, until Kira felt strong enough to face whatever he was going to tell her.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

Jake shook his head. “Let’s go inside. I need a drink.”

Kira followed him into the living room and watched while he poured himself a rum and Coke and her a glass of spring water. He added lemon to hers, then joined her on the sofa.

“You know that mole on my back that’s been there forever?”

Kira nodded. When she was three she’d thought it was chocolate and tried to bite it off.

“It changed over the last few months. I finally saw the doctor about it. He removed it and sent it for biopsy, but he’s pretty sure it’s melanoma.”

Shock ran through Kira. Long before skin cancer was a general concern, they’d run around in the sun. Kira had burned several times every summer. Jake had burned once, then turned “brown as a berry,” as her grandmother always said. He’d continued to tan every year, just from summer activities, but when his mother or Kira tried to get him to use sunscreen, he shrugged off their concerns. “The damage has been done,” he always said. “I’m at risk whether I stay indoors three hundred and sixty-five days a year or spend it all outside. I’m not going to live my life paranoid about every little risk.”

And now his life may be over.

“What does he mean he’s pretty sure?” She let anger overcome her despair. “That’s a damn careless thing to tell someone. When will the results be back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And then what?”

Jake shrugged. “I don’t know, Kira. We didn’t discuss anything.”

Her anger flamed higher, now at Jake for scaring her based on so little. “If you didn’t discuss anything, why do you think you’re dying?”

“It’s melanoma. Melanoma is the most fatal of skin cancers.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes reflected unreasonable fear. “I’m preparing for the worst.”

Kira wasn’t going to accept that. “That’s stupid. Optimism is more important now.”

He let one side of his mouth curve upward. “That’s why you’re here.” He leaned back. “The doctor gave me some literature, and it’s pretty grim. I just...feel like it’s too late.”

“God,” Kira whispered, seeing that in his face. He was ready to give up. She wouldn’t let him. “How did you know the mole had changed? I rarely look at my back.”

He looked embarrassed. “Uh, a woman I was dating saw it and said it looked weird.” He changed the subject. “The test results will be back tomorrow,” he said again. “We’ll know for sure then.”

Kira’s mind raced, mentally rearranging her life to accommodate this sudden, horrific turn of events. She’d sworn to everyone who’d listen that once she left Brook Hollow, she’d never move back. But she hadn’t considered this. There’d been a rumor that the schools were thinking about networking. Maybe she could submit a proposal. It would take several months, and she could be with Jake until— Her mind refused to go beyond “until.”

“Thank you for coming out here,” Jake said, taking her hand. “I was feeling pretty alone.” His parents lived in France now, and he was an only child of only children. “I didn’t want to call Mom and Dad until I knew for sure. I don’t want them to make a wasted trip.”

“There’s always hope,” Kira said.

“Yeah.” The despair in his face told a different story. He took a deep breath. “Can you go with me tomorrow? The appointment’s at one. They don’t do this sort of thing over the phone.”

“Of course.” Kira scooted closer and tightened her hand on his. “I’ll do anything you need, Jake.”

The look in his eyes changed. “Anything?”

Kira studied him and saw naked longing and desire. As foreign as those emotions in Jake’s eyes were to Kira, in that moment she knew nothing except his soul, and he was all she wanted.

“Anything,” she whispered. Then Jake stood, and she wondered what the hell had just happened.

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On the day Brick Dyson introduced himself to author Nicola Parsons, she knew Tanner Black would play him in the movie. Despite his fictional status, Brick became an intimate friend, living in her head for months, arguing with her about his motivations and actions, and interfering with every revision the editor requested. He spoke to her in her dreams, always through Tanner Black's mouth, and Nicola became somewhat obsessed with both of them.

Obsession was about to meet reality.

She could have said she'd never dreamed they'd make her book, Dyson's Flame, into a movie. That she hadn't dared hope they'd invite her to the set to meet the cast, including Tanner Black. But that would be a lie. She had dreamed, had hoped, every damn day. And now here she was. Exiting the plane, going through the security gate, looking for the intern who was assigned to pick her up and take her to the movie set. Her movie set.

She hitched her carryon a little higher on her shoulder and checked the bag she wheeled behind her. The crowd around the baggage claim conveyor thickened, and she was glad she'd decided to pack light and avoid the crush. She glanced around again and moved closer to the doors. Where was--

Ohmygod. It was him. Not some babbly intern driving a Yugo, but Tanner Black himself.

He couldn't be here for her. It had to be coincidence. But he wasn't arriving, she told herself, standing stock still in the center of the concourse. He'd been here for a few weeks already, filming. He had to be picking up someone else. Like a girlfriend. She'd just wait, and then find the person who was here for her. If no one was, she'd take a cab to the hotel and try to contact the woman who'd arranged this visit.

She stood, watching him wander back and forth for a minute. Her heart didn't seem to be thumping much. Her breathing was definitely shallow. Tanner Black was enough to reduce her to age twelve, and she hated it. She'd pull herself together by tomorrow though, definitely. She'd be adult and--well, if not sophisticated, then at least not all fan-girl, either.

Tanner turned her way and their eyes met. His lit up with recognition, and Nicola turned, expecting to see some gorgeous blonde with the same perfect smile about to pass her. But no one was there except a group of rumpled businessmen staring gloomily at the unmoving luggage conveyor.

She turned back and almost bumped her nose on his chest. Her head tilted back, and there he was, grinning at her. At her. He had his right hand out, and his left came up to her shoulder.

"Nicola Parsons, hi, I'm Tanner Black." His mellow Canterbury accent flowed into her, melting all her tenseness away.

"Hi." She shook his hand and swallowed hard when goosebumps popped out on her arms. "How did you know it was me?"

"I recognized you, of course."

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"Just go, Nick. I need you to leave."

"You're being irrational."

That made things worse. She turned on him with a soapy spatula, advancing with every step he took backward.

"Irrational? I'll give you irrational. Being so concerned about a grown man is irrational. Deciding he wasn't in enough danger to search for him last week, then changing your mind this week is irrational."

Her voice echoed against the high ceiling as they entered the foyer. "Closing me out, not telling me why Brian's disappearance bothers you so much isn't quite rational, either, in light of your declaration of love." The memory burned in her ears, his voice saying it over and over, night after night since the first time. "Love is sharing, buster." She poked him in the chest with the spatula. Soap bubbles made a wet spot over his heart. "If you don't want to share your pain with me, don't share your love."

Resignation stole over Nick's features, and he held upplacating hands. "Okay, Veronica, I'll tell you. I've held back because I wanted it to be a done deal…"

"No." Veronica knew she was cutting off her nose, but she couldn't stop. She opened the front door. "It's too late. Call me when you get back from Baltimore." She shoved him through and slammed the door, silently daring him to knock or re-enter. Not caring if he did, she stalked back to the kitchen.

She was being irrational. She'd lost her infamous control. For once, she didn't have a logical, step-by-step resolution to a problem. She'd reacted emotionally, illogically. Anger and righteousness still burned in her breast.

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[Maddox] returned three days later with a bouquet of red, orange, and yellow flowers formed of hundreds of petals each.

“They’re called roses,” he told her. “Earth’s favorite flowers. They’re a symbol of love.”

Silence descended as the word stilled Kayana’s murmurs of delight. She glanced at him sitting on the bench next to her. The new look in his eyes was something she’d never seen before. It was tender, she thought, not certain what that meant, really. And warm. Hopeful, even.

Panic squeezed her lungs and she pushed to her feet, the roses forgotten in her left hand. “Maddox…”

He stood, too. “Don’t say anything. I’m fully aware—”

“You’re not. You don’t know me.” No one knew her. But that wasn’t what scared her, and suddenly she wondered if he even knew what he was doing.

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Arkolas bent over her.  “Are you all right?” he asked, his hands moving over her limbs.  “It all happened so fast, there was nothing I could do.”

“I know,” Storme wheezed, trying to ignore the pain throughout her body.  “It’s okay.  You got us out.”

He helped her sit and held her against his chest.  “We got us out.  We are an unbeatable team, my Storme.”

She rested, her eyes closed, just thankful for the sound of his heart under her ear and the fact that she was as alive as he was.

“I love you,” he murmured against her hair, tightening his hand on her neck.

“I know,” she assured him.  “I love you, too.”  It was all they had at the moment.  She refused to think about how fruitless their feelings were.

“No.”  He pulled her away from him and settled on his heel so they were face to face.  “You do not understand the depth of my feelings for you.”  His eyes blazed and would not let her look away or hide her fears or the power of her emotion.  “If the option were given right now for us both to leave this place, to go to your world where it is safe and we could be together, I would go.  I would go,” he repeated, the intensity of his gaze ensuring she believed him.

“You would leave your father?  Your world in chaos?”  She wasn’t sure that was a good thing in the long run.

Arkolas shook his head.  “I have done what I can do.  I am not the only man in Rashmondé who can stop Takyot.  Nor is it preordained that I can.”  He rested his forehead against hers.  “Tell me my feelings are not in vain.”

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Michael slammed the kettle on the stove and twisted the dial for the burner.  Hope had been his heart, their son his future.  Now all he had to look forward to was a mountain of debt and emptiness beyond that.  Anger and impotence and despair welled up in him.  He fought it, but it had been there too long.  He could feel the dark spirits laughing at his attempts to thwart them.  “Stop now, Angie.”

But she ignored his warning, though her voice gentled.  “Michael, Hope’s been dead for a long time.  I know you still miss her, but surely there’s something in your life that gives you pleasure.”

He whirled on her.  “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?  It seems logical that after a prescribed mourning period I’d laugh again.”  He smacked his palms flat on the counter, part of him cringing at the alarm he’d put in Angie’s eyes, part of him rejoicing at the opportunity to finally vent.  An even deeper part longed to give in and find laughter and contentment with this woman, who seemed determined to pull it out of him.

He couldn’t let her.  He grabbed the crumpled bills and shook them in her face.  “These defy logic, Angie.  Two hundred thousand reasons why I have no peace fill my mailbox every day.  I race from job to job, sometimes five different ones each week, to try to reduce those reasons.  Every time I open an envelope I have a reminder of the loss of my wife, of my son.”

“But you must have options—”

He cut her off.  “I honor my debts, Angie.”  He slammed the mail back onto the counter.  The water in the kettle began to growl as it heated, and a matching pressure built in him.  Scared he was going to erupt on an innocent bystander, he spun away and paced across the floor.

“Michael, I didn’t know.”  Her touch was as soft as her voice.  He yanked his arm away, afraid of her compassion, of the pain inside of him.  Of the anger that the pain still existed.

“Don’t, Angie.”  He could hear the rawness in his voice, feel the burn of tears in the back of his throat.  He’d vowed on the day he buried Hope and their unborn baby that he would not cry after that day.  Not over his loss, or the struggle to come.  For some reason, Angie’s presence, her words, threatened that vow.

But she ignored his retreat and followed him until he’d cornered himself against the counter.

“Michael, let me.”  She slowly reached up and pressed one hand on the back of his head, the other on his shoulder, and pulled him toward her.  “Let me help you,” she whispered.  “Let our friendship go both ways.”  He bent like a willow, his face seeking the heat of her neck.  His arms wrapped around her and he hung on, bracing for the flood.

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There was something about a cape. Superman knew it. Batman knew it. Cardinal Richlieu in that twentieth-century movie The Three Musketeers knew even evil was sexy with a cape soaring around it. And Steele Bascar knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Cesca Martin watched him stride down the hall toward her, the rich brown fabric of his trademark cape swirling around his knee-high leather boots. He didn’t need it, she thought. The fluttery shirt draped over a solid chest and tucked into tight breeches screamed pirate, which was the same as screaming sex. The cape merely added drool to the panting.

Cesca rolled her eyes at the docking clerks doing the panting and drooling and stood firm as Steele approached her station.

“ID check.”

“You know who I am, Cesca.” His voice rippled over her spine, calling up memories of things that had never happened. One side of his mouth lifted and a knowing look came into his eyes.

“ID check.” She waited, unblinking, while he grinned full out and held out his wrist. The cape fell back off his shoulder, making him look rakish. Ignoring the potency of that, she passed the palm scanner strapped across her hand over the faintly discolored patch of skin on his inner forearm. Neither of them moved as she watched the readout on the back of her hand scroll all the information she already knew.

Steele Bascar, six feet five inches, one hundred eighty standard pounds, wavy chestnut hair. Forty Earth years old, dark brown eyes, owner and pilot of a ship he’d cheekily named Blackbeard’s Ride. Declared weapons included not only the usual sidearm stunner and a light-fire laser gun, but a cutlass circa 1832. Cesca glanced at the empty scabbard at his hip.

“I left it on the ship,” he told her. “Needs polishing.”

“Purpose on Moon Station 9?”

“Same as always, darlin’. Business.”

“Which is?” She held her implacable gaze and inflectionless tone with difficulty, especially when he laughed again.

“Six Earth years I’ve been coming here, Cesca, and still you play the same game.” He leaned forward. “When will you give in?”

A blend of scents washed over her. Most men fresh off a galaxy ship smelled like metal and recycled air. Steele smelled of vanilla and musk with a hint of mint.

Had he popped a breath mint for her? The thought was as intoxicating as the smell. She couldn’t help drawing it in deep and hoped he didn’t notice.

“I’ll never give in, Steele.” It was her standard response, but this time something unexpected made her say, “Anything you want from me, you’ll have to take.”

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The white steed shimmered in the filtered sunlight, almost glowing in its brightness.  The horn spiraled from the unicorn’s head, two feet of multihued pearl.  Even from twenty yards away, Kalle could see the unicorn’s dark eyes watching her, could almost sense the beast’s wisdom and wildness.

She sensed something else, too.  Fear.  At first, she didn’t understand.  Then the unicorn bent her head and nuzzled a small bundle at her feet.

“Come,” the elf said, and for an instant Kalle wasn’t at all sure he was Reid Masterson.  Then she looked at him, and she stopped feeling like she was floating in a fantasy world as her feet hit solid earth.

This was all an elaborate ruse, a guy who could have whatever he wanted going after the one thing he couldn’t.

“I’m not having sex with you,” she said.

He looked aghast.  “Of course not.  You must remain a virgin.”

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His beauty was not the kind that slapped you in the face.  It took a few minutes before you noticed him, then a few more while you wondered why.  His faded blue T-shirt and worn jeans were standard clothing; his hair was ten shades of gold, none of them spectacular.  He was alone, and had the air of always being that way.  It was only when you saw his pale blue eyes that you knew--these were eyes that could cure the soul.

He was a wanderer, his only belongings a backpack full of clothes and a worn leather notebook.  Sometimes he took a taxi or a bus or even a train to his destination; often he rode a bike, but usually he walked.  His life touched those of many, men and women alike.  When he moved on they invariably were more at peace with themselves, more spiritual and less religious, and always sad that they were not what he was seeking.

For he was always seeking.  This gentle man, with chiseled cheekbones and I-dare-you jaw, so strong, so calm, could not find what he was looking for.  Indeed, he had no idea what it was.

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