by Anya Breton
“My bad attitude has saved many lives.” Her response was tight.
“But at what cost, Brook?”
The casual use of her name caught her off guard. It lasted only a second before her mind raced for an answer. “No client has complained of the cost since I began with the Rangers.”
“What would it get them if they did?” He shook his head twice. “They’d be seen as ungrateful.”
Rather than speculate on the motivations of her past clients, Brook spoke words she hoped would end the conversation. “You can find out firsthand when I resolve your situation.”
“Why can’t you just be more aware of the collateral damage of your actions?”
“I’m not the same girl you met at six. Stop treating me like it,” she found herself snapping. “And for your information, any collateral damage that occurs is the fault of the villain in the scene, not the Ranger.”
“I’ll stop treating you like that when you do the same.”
Brook didn’t bother responding. She was guilty of behaving similarly. Maybe he’d let the ride continue in silence this time.
* * * * *
Morgan wanted to grab her by the ears and shake some sense into that stubborn head of hers. She thought Irvin was trying to kill him? It was ridiculous!
The man had welcomed him with open arms when he’d moved into the area. He’d been the first to introduce Morgan to every mover and shaker in the Great Lakes Region. Irvin had been instrumental in Morgan’s rise to power. He wouldn’t then try to have him killed months after they’d succeeded in gaining a lofty position.
Brook was way off base.
And yet…
What if she wasn’t?
Irvin stood to gain the most from his death. He’d even been nominated for the post the last two times it had been vacated. But his lack of experience as a priest had seen him passed over in favor of others who knew how to manage groups of witches.
Irvin had explained the situation himself. There’d been no rancor. Morgan would have noted it.
This new, disturbing twist on the situation displeased Morgan. His mood made it nearly impossible for him to settle down. Tonight only a portion of his insomnia was due to the female sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed.
He shouldn’t have been so hard on her. She was only doing her job. Part of her job was to present every possible angle. She hadn’t done anything typically Brook-like since she’d arrived.
Morgan felt bad that she was stretched out on the hard wooden floor with only a thin mat for cushion. He should have looked for a cot in the place. Surely there was one somewhere. And if there wasn’t, he could buy one. Brook shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor.
Without warning, images flooded his mind of her in bed beside him, her long limbs stretched out along his and his palm fitted over her hip. Blood rushed to his head in mortification as he fought down the image.
This was Brook blasted Lochlan on his floor. She’d sooner laugh in his face and push him into the cold lake than she would climb into his bed. And he’d sooner be thrown into the cold lake than suffer her proximity.
Morgan shoved his pillow tightly over his head in an attempt to block out the rise of lust he refused to acknowledge.
* * * * *
Brook stepped out of the shower and immediately scented bacon—maple bacon to be exact. When she’d slipped into the bathroom five minutes earlier, Morgan had been snoozing peacefully on his oversized bed. Now he was in the only room she hadn’t fortified.
Brook charged through the cottage, intent on giving him a much-needed chastising. “Do you have a death wish, Priest Seaton?” Her tone lowered derisively. “Because hanging out in the only room in the house I didn’t board up without me certainly seems like it.”
Morgan faced her. His spatula halted above the crackling bacon. His odd frozen stare made Brook strangely uncomfortable. Hadn’t he heard her?
Brook soon sensed desire flowing from him. What in the…
A glance down showed she’d dashed out of the bathroom with a narrow towel wrapped around herself. Though everything important was covered, it wasn’t the most appropriate of attire to wear when upbraiding a client.
She had the sudden urge to flee. Her neck heated in embarrassment. To combat it, Brook squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and stared him head-on in the hope he wouldn’t realize she regretted her actions.
“Neptune in the sea,” Morgan said, croaking the words. He turned his back on her and viciously jabbed at the bacon slices. “Put on some fucking clothing.”
Morgan’s anger competed with desire—emotions she clearly sensed over her empathic net.
If he had a reaction to her lack of clothing it was merely a natural response to a stimulus; any male would have experienced it. Yet he was angry for that natural response.
Well, it wasn’t as if she’d wanted him to desire her. It would only complicate the assignment more than it already was.
She battled irritation. Clearly the turn in her mood was due to his failure to move to a safe room. And it was surely because of her inability to behave with civility at this moment that sent her into a retreat. It had nothing to do with disappointment. Really.
Morgan pitched two more slices of bacon into the sizzling pan, thrusting the spatula beneath the others with angry focus. He needed something to concentrate on other than the image in his head of a dripping, furious and nearly nude Brook. Neptune in the deepest depths! Had she no brain in that sopping head of hers? Didn’t she know no words spoken in a towel would get through to a male?
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 c
ome 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 unl
ess 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.”
Chapter Five
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.
