Yet he thought she was as drawn to him as he was to her. Even if a pocket Venus was not a good match for a huge dragon. Moira was such a little bit of woman. He was six-foot-six in his sock feet. And broad with it. He could crush her as easily as he could crush those brittle rocking chairs.
Perhaps this was a sign of their fundamental incompatibility? He was in thrall to the fairy princess, but he was a grown man and not at the mercy of his hormones. It was true that he had been celibate since Cynthia had left him, but his present craving was not for sex, but for sex with Moira.
The Old Forest seemed to be changing him. Bringing out his earthier side. Not that these days dragons were supposed to have an earthy side, their high sex drive notwithstanding. That just came with the territory. Like the urge to amass wealth.
Dragons had left their barbaric pasts behind. They had long ago set aside their most heartless behavior. These days they were sophisticated beings. They looked for their destined brides, served their country, and channeled their bestial urges into socially acceptable forms.
The old ways were supposed to be as dead as wet ashes. No hunting for a virgin mate. No sleeping on his hoard. No littering the world with his seed like some Mongolian conqueror. No looting. No pillaging. No ravishing fairy princesses.
But each time he went into the green, mossy Old Forest and inhaled the scent of the ancient sequoias, he felt primitive longings rising like sap. Feelings that were as new to him as they were dangerous. And they all centered on Moira. He wanted that alluring blend of aloofness and sensuality all to himself. To capture this delicate blossom and stick her in his treasure box.
Dragons had come a long way from their pirate beginnings. They no longer regarded women as plunder. He had to fight these savage feelings tooth and claw, because as inappropriate as they were in the modern age, here on West Haven they would ruin everything.
He and the fairy princess were going to enjoy a discreet and urbane courtship that would end in her choosing whether or not to sleep with him. There was no point in hoping for more. Everyone knew that fairies seldom married. And here on West Haven, they never, ever, married hunters. He was shift out of luck.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sully~
Gale had been as naive as her sister. Maybe, now that his grief for his wife was only a tender place and not the bleeding wound it had been, that was what was drawing him to Robin. For as their names suggested, in all other ways, they were polar opposites. Robin was day to Gale’s night.
“I have a news flash for you, my dear,” he said. “Just because the Council has banned hunting, doesn’t mean no one hunts. People break laws all the time.”
Robin’s air of elegant tranquility was as much a part of her as her chic clothing, but his words ruffled her as a stiff breeze ruffled the calmest sea. “If Oliver Bramwell went hunting in the Old Forest,” she said flatly, “He’s lucky to have escaped with his life. The Old Ones don’t tolerate rule breakers.”
That was typical Robin Fairchild understatement. What she meant was that the dryads and wood sprites had established a state of peaceful coexistence with the tree people, as well as with the mortal inhabitants both human and animal of the Old Forest. They would ruthlessly punish anyone foolish enough to disturb their territory, Muggle or sensitive.
But all he said was, “It’s a wonder they didn’t strike him blind.”
“Don’t you think that an artist who paints what he doesn’t intend, has a sort of blindness?” Robin asked. “A blindness to his inner vision. I am not surprised that Oliver drowned his sorrows in rot gut.”
“He was lucky to escape with his life. You better hope that young Drake doesn’t make the same error.”
“Quinn Drake listens when the Old Ones speak. Have you seen his canvases?” Robin waved one shimmering violet-clad arm at her wall where a brooding redwood guarded a glade of tender, lime-green saplings. The painting was bordered with a delicate gilt frame that mysteriously both matched the room and somehow complemented the modern brushwork.
“That’s Quinn’s work?” Despite his earlier misgivings, Sully was impressed. This picture conveyed the mystery of the Old Forest and its deep tranquility and menace. He squinted and the tree spirits winked out from the foliage. He blinked and they disappeared.
“It is. He is very talented. And insightful.”
Sully nodded. “I could find that spot, and yet it’s no photograph. Is it my imagination, or can you see the dryads too?”
Robin raised her eyebrows. “They’re there – if you look for them. I am hoping that Quinn will do well enough this summer to make art his career. I want Moira to settle on the island – particularly if she is going to have babies.”
Sully raised his eyebrows. Robin was powerful. Immensely powerful. If she wanted the judges to shower Quinn with prizes, he would be showered with prizes. But one Fae, no matter how strong, could not control an entire Council of sensitives. And it was the Council that needed convincing.
“If I influenced the judges, Quinn would know,” she answered his unspoken question. “He wants to paint. It’s his passion. But he only wants it if he’s gifted enough to survive in the art jungle. If I rigged the show?” She shrugged. “He’d go back to Drake Investments in a heartbeat.”
“That’s another thing, Robin. I should warn you. This year there’s a whole lot of blowback about the Art Fair. And your colony. A lot of people are wondering if attracting a bunch of Non-sensitives to the island is such a good idea after all.”
“I notice the Council had no trouble incorporating the projected taxes into next year’s budget,” she said tartly.
“They want to have their cake and to eat it too,” Sully agreed grimly. “The businesses that do a good trade when a bunch of non-sensitives get off the ferry – and I include mine in that number – like the extra money just fine. It’s having all those Non-sensitives around that they don’t like.”
“The Council also likes that we now have twenty-three new businesses on Main Street. Each one paying taxes and between them employing forty-four more people than had jobs three years ago.” Robin looked too dainty and fragile to be the crackerjack business woman she was. That was one of the reasons she was in her third term as mayor.
“I’ve had to hire six extra hands to help,” he agreed. “I used to run the ticket office myself, as well as take the Nightingale out, but there are so many paying customers that I had to put someone in the booth full-time. And I needed someone to run the new concession stands on board the boats. And not just part-time, those are full-time positions. And three of them are year-round.”
Robin’s gleaming head inclined regally. “Lots of established business have felt a boost from the Fair. Every room at the inn is fully booked for all of July. And my cottages too. As well as every bed and breakfast on the island. I expect to do just as well in June and August, perhaps into September. That means extra staff in the restaurant and in housekeeping and security for the entire summer, not just July.”
“As much as they like having their relatives employed, people still don’t like the number of non-sensitives who turn up.”
Robin sighed. “I’ll admit that I had hoped to encourage sensitives to come to West Haven for a holiday, and to stay because they felt at home. But although the shifter families invited their friends and relatives, none of their visitors want to move here. They don’t want to buy land where they would be second-class citizens.”
“When they said sensitives, the Council meant sorcerers, psychics and fairies,” he retorted. “What we got were hunters.”
“If the Councilors asked their relatives and friends to visit, as the hunters do, we’d have a different mix of tourists. But they don’t.”
“Most year-rounders don’t have a lot of relatives off-island,” Sully pointed out. “I don’t myself.”
Robin nodded. “Most of the artists in the colony are sorcerers, psychics and fairies,” she said. “Poor as church mice. They don’t invite their relatives any more
than the councilors do. They usually spend the bare minimum in Mystic Bay, and as soon as the cold weather arrives, they go back to the mainland to wait tables or run tea shops until next season.”
“This is true. You could support them through the winter,” he suggested.
She shook her shining head. “Not cost effective. And this way, I can weed out those who don’t produce salable material. Besides, we don’t want more resident paupers.”
Robin gave him a direct look from her clear silvery eyes. The lack of turquoise in their depths signaled how serious she was. “It’s the shifters who have the big bucks required to buy land and build or to start businesses. We’re a dwindling population, Sully. Fairies, psychics and sorcerers alike. We need some new blood.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Moira~
He was outside in her garden. At this time of year twilight was not far off. Quinn was early. Very early. Had she mistaken the time? No. He was just early. Eager. Or hungry.
He was standing on the patch of lawn directly beyond her front door gazing at her cottage. He wasn’t being furtive, but he was hard to pick out among the long shadows cast by the trees. Somehow he had not triggered her motion sensitive lights. This predatory stillness came so easily to him, she couldn’t believe how long it had taken her to realize he was a hunter.
She was glad to see that he had lost his filthy smock and changed into the casual dress clothes of the northwest. Pants of some dark fabric and a button-front shirt worn under a sports coat. He must have trimmed his beard too, for it had a defined shape that ended in a tidy point. All to the good. At least she would not have to blush for him at the Crab Hut.
Of course, you could wear anything to the Hut. As long as you had a covered chest and something on your feet, you were golden. Fancy it was not. But she wasn’t used to going out with men who looked like buccaneers and smelled like derelicts. Her pulse shouldn’t race when unkempt Quinn waltzed into her store. Her reaction to him was strange. And scary.
This new friskiness of hers was unsettling. As unlike her as her anxiety about Adrian had been. Fairies were notorious for long periods of asexuality. She was relatively young to have suddenly started noticing the opposite sex. But she would have thought her type would be someone like Adrian Whitlock.
Adrian might be a con artist and a liar, but he was also conventionally handsome, and his clothes were as polished as his manners. He was only a couple of inches taller than her, and slightly built. There had been nothing surprising in her initial attraction to her partner.
Quinn was an uncouth mountain of muscle. She had no business developing a crush on a guy that huge. He was going to squash her. Except that she didn’t feel imperiled by him. Quinn made her feel safe and protected. As if his bulk stood between her and a dangerous world. Clearly she was infatuated. Childishly infatuated with a freaking, ginormous hunter.
Even before she had met Quinn, she had been having dreams about children. Vivid dreams that left her floating in contentment when she woke. Of course, fool that she was, she had assumed her intuition was confirming that Adrian was her one true love. If she was destined to marry a liar, she would rather remain single and celibate for the rest of her days.
Compared to humans, shifters were long lived. But the Fae cast the extra decades racked up by shifters into darkness. At a mere sixty-two, Moira was still in the first flush of her youth. She had stopped aging in her early twenties and would retain her present appearance for decades more – unless she chose to sail west as her parents had.
Her aunt looked forty, perhaps forty-five in a strong light. She was at least ten times that old. Maybe more. It was not unknown in the old days for fairies to live for a millennium or two. Moira had no desire to live that long, but she had no intention of dying at a mere century, as very aged mortals did.
Ah, well, if Quinn was here early, she should put on her wrap and shoes and join him. Bearing in mind that they had no kind of long-term future. But he would certainly serve as a tasty treat to cut her newly developed sweet tooth on.
Quinn took a step backward when she came out of the house. He raised a hand in greeting, but made no move to come up on the porch. Giving her space, yet standing guard and making her feel protected. She locked her door – city life had made her vigilant even here on West Haven. Besides, the inn and other cottages were full of off-islanders. Who knew how nosy or light-fingered those strangers were?
He had not just changed his clothes, he had showered and barbered himself too. He no longer reeked of stale alcohol and cigarettes. Now he smelled of sandalwood and leather. And that potent masculine aroma that was uniquely his. He was still too big, but he no longer looked homeless. Perhaps she could help him make this improvement permanent.
“I rushed you,” he apologized.
“It doesn’t matter, I was ready,” she admitted.
“Will you be warm enough with just that thing?” He rubbed the corner of her silky shawl between two fingers.
Her shawl was cashmere. And if it needed to be warmer, she would make it warmer with her talent. “I think so. It is late May.” Of course in the San Juans that meant this warm summery evening could suddenly change to a chilly drizzle.
Quinn smiled his sensual smile and crooked an elbow. She laid a hand lightly in the curve of his arm. A pleasant spark zapped her newly awakened senses. He smiled down at her. A long way down. Damn. She should have kept her heels on.
“Do you want to walk down to the harbor, or take my truck?” he asked.
“It’s not far.” Nothing was in Mystic Bay. “Let’s walk.”
He adjusted his stride so as not to outpace her short legs. She liked that. They strolled between the cottages and out to Main Street. As they went past the inn, Moira glanced up at the windows of Robin’s apartment. The lights were off, but she thought her aunt was watching them leave. On Main, only the display windows of the shops were lit. Even the street lights weren’t on yet.
“Everything rolls up at six, doesn’t it?” Quinn remarked.
“Mystic Bay is the original small town.”
“So it is. Do things stay open once the season starts?”
“Some stores do a good business in the evenings. I don’t think Fairchild’s Art Supply will be one of them.”
“I guess not,” he responded. “Although you do have those hand-painted greeting cards. They should go down well with the tourists. Have you thought of also dealing in small canvases or panels?”
“I’m out of the gallery business,” she said lightly. “Besides, I wouldn’t want Hope Greene to think that I am competing with her.” The Greene Gallery had been selling handicrafts and artwork for years.
Quinn made a dismissive noise and dragged her across the empty street to the Greene Gallery window. “Look at that garbage,” he said. Behind a profusion of key chains and carved duck decoys, a row of easels with seascapes cluttered the tiny window.
“Pretty sketches of the harbor. Knickknacks. Nothing but tourist trash. Souvenirs.” He made souvenirs sound like a swear word.
“I’m not thinking of expanding the art supply,” she said firmly.
“It would be a natural addition to your business,” he argued as they continued down Main.
She stopped dead. He kept moving, realized she was not budging, and strode back to her.
“I’ll ask for advice if I want it,” she said mildly.
For a second he looked baffled. Then he nodded. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been looking for places to show my pictures. I didn’t mean to be pushy.” His apology sounded sincere.
“You could try Greene’s.”
“No.” Just the flat word, unsoftened by any explanation.
Belatedly it dawned on her that Hope Greene was a gazelle shifter. It was very likely that a hunter client would make her even more uneasy than a second gallery on Main Street. If Quinn had wandered into her store, Hope would have undoubtedly refused to do business with him. Or maybe he was too picky to place his work among so
uvenirs.
“Your aunt has offered to hang some of my stuff in the inn restaurant – after the art show. She doesn’t want to play favorites beforehand.”
“You could try some of the other restaurants,” she suggested, her mind still busy imagining jittery Hope confronting Quinn.
“Not the right milieu,” he said. “My work is too sophisticated for family restaurants.” He wasn’t bragging, merely stating a fact. And he was correct. In the wrong setting, under the wrong lighting, his subtle forest scenes could come across as mere cheesy horror.
He helped her navigate the slight curb and then the stairs down to the pier where the Crab Hut was located. The low clapboard building was festooned with old crab pots and rotting fishing nets. A new clapboard extension didn’t quite match the weathered boards of the original. Quinn opened the door and they walked into a brightly lit space.
This early in the year there were only locals in the dining room. Everyone stared when they came in. Faces lit up. It was the Bean all over again. They were the evening’s entertainment. Quinn acted as if he didn’t notice the interest, but she was fairly sure he was faking his obliviousness.
They were met at the door by a pretty young woman with a stack of menus and a big smile. Moira recognized her as one of the Merryman children. A mermaid. The hostess’ blue eyes widened when she saw Quinn and her professional smile faltered. She took an involuntary step backwards.
“How m-m-many?” she stammered.
“Two, please. By the window, if it’s no trouble.” Quinn’s deep voice was oddly tranquilizing.
The hostess turned on her heel and led them to a table by the window as if she was sleepwalking. Her aura was eerily even, as if she were drugged – or hypnotized. “Belinda will take your order,” she announced before walking away.
“What did you do to her?” Moira hissed as soon as the hostess was out of earshot.
He narrowed his eyes. Firmed his lips. But he answered – in a voice pitched just for her ears. “I only calmed her nerves. She has no more reason to be afraid of me than you do.”
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