by Anya Breton
He certainly hadn’t waited for her to test him.
Foolish. Stupid. Reckless. She’d endangered her promotion. For no good reason.
And yet huddled in the corner, trying to ignore the throbbing between her legs, Brook’s perception was skewed. She’d thought she had a really good reason minutes ago.
Stupid overemotional Water witch. No matter how hard she tried to banish them, her emotions always plagued her.
Morgan banged out of the limo at the first opportunity. She thanked Neptune she’d had the presence of mind to check for sentience before he burst into the lake house without her. Then she heard it—the click, the whoosh.
And the explosion.
Too late Morgan comprehended the sound behind him. White light blinded as heat pressed along his rib cage. He’d feel it soon. Pain would flash across his skin—searing, horrendous pain.
And yet, it didn’t.
“Morgan!”
Brook’s shout brought him out of his frozen pose within the kitchen—the kitchen she hated because of the windows. The windows hadn’t been his downfall.
Though heat did flash across his body, it didn’t sear. She’d done something. Morgan glanced down as he clambered out of the building. Shimmering blue coated his skin. Armor. Water armor. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
Because I’ve never needed protection until now.
Before he realized he’d moved, he was in Brook’s arms. She maneuvered him back to the limousine. Morgan barely noted the movement of his own feet but soon he was half in her lap and half on the backseat. Her fingers brushed over his face, his scalp, his neck. He let his eyelids flutter closed, enjoying her touch.
His next thought was to wonder if she would have been able to protect herself if she’d been first over the threshold. She could have died protecting him. He reached up, curling his fingers around her head to bring her down. Brook didn’t fight him until his lips feathered along hers.
“Morgan,” she warned in a soft, un-Brook-like tone—one he hoped he’d hear under better circumstances.
“You would have died,” he said.
She said nothing, instead hitting the button to speak with the driver. “Have you called the fire department?”
“Yes ma’am. And the police,” the driver said.
“Thank you.”
Brook ran a hand over Morgan’s forehead and along his hair. “We’ll find someplace to hole up once we’ve spoken with the authorities.”
“I don’t want to speak to the authorities,” Morgan said. “I don’t want to be around humans.”
I only want to be around you.
“I know. But whoever is after you got into your home. Though we can’t hide you forever, we can hide you tonight. We’ll throw them off the scent by switching to a different car. And going elsewhere.”
Tormenting lust aside, Morgan knew Irvin had been right. Brook was the perfect person for this situation. And this time he wouldn’t fight her on anything.
“I’ll do whatever you need,” he whispered.
Even if it meant he suffered from blue balls for the rest of his life.
* * * * *
Brook’s adrenaline high had crashed sometime between speaking to the fire chief and the first police detective’s questioning. She stood in the bathroom of their rented room hours later, splashing cool water on her flushed face. She was exhausted.
Morgan had roused from his shock halfway through the authorities’ interrogation. He’d assisted her with weaving the story of how the house had blown up yet Morgan had miraculously emerged unscathed—and persuading them to believe it. But she’d used plenty of energy prior to his assistance. Not to mention the magic she’d drawn when she’d held the fire at bay for the seconds it had taken Morgan to break out of the exploding house.
He’d yet to lament his loss. Or to blame her for getting into the situation in the first place. Curiously, his first comment had been how she would have died. And he’d been pretty broken up over it.
She’d understood the Ranger’s rule to maintain professionalism in a vague way prior to this job. Now she understood it intimately. If she’d maintained control of the situation in the car, Morgan never would have rushed off without her.
He’d assured her he’d do whatever she wanted but Morgan hadn’t been the problem. She was. It was high time she show why she was the best Water witch Ranger in the corps.
Brook examined her outfit. The silky gown was wrinkled and stained with sweat. It was all she had. Her belongings—everything she claimed as hers in this world—had gone up in the explosion. Dismay twisted her insides when she thought of the photographs she’d lost. Memories were all she had of her mother now.
But Brook was alive. And so was Morgan.
Her lids slipped shut upon recalling the recent horror. That telltale click from within the building had stopped her heart. The hot flash had struck her blood as surely as lightning arcing into a rod. The thought present in her mind hadn’t been her lost promotion. No, she’d thought of how she’d never again see Morgan’s eyes darkened in desire. Instinct had wrapped him in armor. She’d hardly realized she’d done it. And then as he’d stood still, Brook had nearly gone after him despite the danger it would have brought to them both. While she could hold armor for one amidst an exploding building, she wasn’t certain she could have handled two.
Fortunately it hadn’t come to that. He’d stumbled out. Into her arms. She’d not cared about the vows, the rules or her promotion. Brook had cared only that she could feel his chiseled cheek, whole beneath her fingers, and that he still breathed.
She opened her eyes, gazing at the figure in the mirror. Determination stared back. Brook had acknowledged her feelings. Now she would bury them so she could focus on the job.
Recklessness had nearly cost them both. It wouldn’t happen again. No matter how she wished it would.
Chapter Seven
Morgan sat on the end of the bed staring sightlessly into the mirror behind the tube television. His bow tie hung unfastened about his neck. The white shirt was rumpled and sooty. He’d removed the tux jacket the moment they’d stepped into the room. That was as far as he’d gone.
He didn’t trust himself to remove more.
Even though Brook had saved his life and he’d vowed to do everything she said, he still wanted her. Not a minute had passed since then in which he hadn’t contemplated how he could twist the situation to suit his needs. So much for the vow he’d made to himself hours ago.
With a low groan, he dropped his head into his palms. It was insanity but he didn’t want the investigation to end. His home had been destroyed. Three times he’d come close to death. He should want the situation wrapped up. Yet he understood why he clung to an illogical wish. When Brook discovered who had tried to kill him, she would hop on the first plane out of Indiana.
She’d pulled her empathic link back when she’d searched out the collection of humans around the cottage. It was the only way he’d been able to keep anything from her. She’d better keep her magic to herself tonight or they’d be in for a long, sleepless block of hours.
His head came up when the bathroom door clicked open. Brook stepped out, barefoot and pink. She’d washed her face but little more. Without her makeup, clad in wrinkled satin and sporting unruly hair, she was painfully sexy. It didn’t help that he knew what the navy fabric hid. His cock stirred uncooperatively.
“You can have the bed,” he said in his gruffest voice.
“I sleep better on the floor.”
It was matter-of-fact. Spoken without glancing at the generic hotel furniture. Did she truly prefer the floor? He couldn’t imagine the carpet would be comfortable. Yet she’d not complained while she’d stretched out on his floor for two nights.
“You don’t have your mat,” he said.
Brook walked for the door, hiding her features from him. “I don’t need it.”
Dismay. He didn’t know how he knew it. It hadn’t colored her steady reply. And h
e didn’t have a link to her. Yet he knew. She was dismayed about something. He desperately wanted to know what.
“About what happened in the car—”
“It’s over,” Brook said as she unlocked and relocked the door’s three bolts. “Let’s move on.”
He didn’t want to move on. He certainly didn’t want her to.
Morgan spoke to her shoulder blades while she checked the door’s upper casing. “I almost died today.”
“You almost died last week as well.”
She wasn’t helping. Especially not when she crouched, checking the space beneath the door—for what, he couldn’t guess. Certainly not when he imagined what her ass looked like beneath that gown.
In that pose, with her rump thrust up, he’d get a teasing glimpse of her passage—if she flipped the skirt up like he’d fantasized she would. Need flared within him as hot as the explosion that had nearly destroyed more than his home.
He opened his mouth. “Near-death experiences make a witch think,” he emitted hoarse words.
A languid motion brought her upright. Gracefully she twirled until she faced him. “You’re still coming down off the rush. You need sleep, a shower, a change of clothing and a good meal. Tomorrow you can tell me what a witch thinks after a near-death experience.” With a flick of her finger, she said, “Lie back.”
Scents of beach grass and ocean breezes filled his nostrils as his legs pushed him flat onto the bed. She’d lassoed him with a new empathic link. Morgan could fight it. He was the more powerful witch.
“Close your eyes,” her voice soothed.
His lids fluttered closed.
“Sleep, Morgan.”
He slept.
Brook had stripped Morgan of choice. He’d make her pay for it. But the man had been exhausted prior to the explosion. He never would have admitted he needed the help. She’d deal with his anger. Tomorrow.
First she needed to get some rest of her own.
Her action had nothing to do with not wanting to hear what that heartfelt voice was about to say. Better he be alert and angry to tell her whatever it was he’d meant to share. Even better would be if he forgot he’d intended to share something at all.
Secure that he’d sleep all night but insecure in the rented room, Brook stretched out along the edge of the bed. Anyone gunning for the regional priest would have to go through her first.
Her confidence was shaken on many levels. At this point in an investigation she typically had more than a few hunches to go on. But in this case she was still in the dark despite several days of scouring bank transactions of prominent area members of the Underground. Now her computer access had gone up in flames.
She allowed herself a few moments to observe Morgan. The steady rise and fall of his chest was promising. He’d not fought her persuasion. Perhaps he’d wanted her help after all.
His pose flat on his back in the formalwear didn’t look comfortable but he wouldn’t notice it. However… Brook gently tugged at the bow tie hanging from his neck. It could catch on something and strangle him.
And the collar rubbing his collarbone would be an irritant he would grumble over in the morning when he noted the raw, red ring it would no doubt cut. She popped to her knees and worked the top button through its hole. Her fingers dropped to the second. And the third, all the way to the one stuck halfway beneath his slacks. Brook pulled at the garment, ignoring the way the upper portion spread, revealing golden skin. Final buttons unfastened, she pushed the shirt to either side of his body.
White fabric contrasted with smooth, golden muscle. He was just the right combination of soft and smooth—no hard edges and deep crevices of a muscle-bound jock but also no lumpy deposits beneath the skin of someone with a love of junk food.
Pale hair sprinkled his pectoral muscles before it arrowed down to where her hands hovered. If the shirt would dig into his skin, the slacks would too. And he’d be happier if he didn’t sweat the night away in his only clothes.
Brook’s fingers trembled above his zipper. She was being ridiculous. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a male nude. Rangers weren’t celibate. They were merely discreet. Besides, Morgan had on boxers, briefs or something underneath. He wouldn’t be nude.
Now she needed to know which. For scientific reasons.
He was an uptight kind of guy. He’d wear uptight undergarments. She’d bet herself twenty bucks that was the case.
Brook brought the zipper down, peering between the placket for the answer. Science, she silently reiterated as she tugged the waistband down his hips. Science and his comfort. Moments later the unconscious figure of Morgan Seaton lay half nude atop his shirt.
Boxers. She owed herself twenty bucks.
Better still, they were silk boxers. She’d never have guessed that. Maybe she ought to owe herself forty.
Damn. He was a fine-looking male. He’d been a cute kid. Age suited him. Morgan would be one of those frustrating males who only got better each year that passed.
Good for him.
Brook folded his slacks so they could be set aside where he’d find them once she allowed him to wake. She added the bow tie to the stack. Carefully she rolled him to one side so she could tug the shirt from beneath him. One more roll to the opposite side freed the garment.
She hung the clothes in the closet near the bathroom. Upon rounding the corner, she was struck by how gorgeous he truly was. The shadowed room darkened his sculpted cheeks. In sleep his features were relaxed—innocent the way she often imagined he was.
But he wasn’t untouched by life and its hardships. Someone had tried to kill him, three times. And yet he’d persisted in protecting everyone else around him first. Innocence was not Morgan’s flaw. His was an unfortunate faith in the goodness of others.
Brook wasn’t good. If she were, she wouldn’t contemplate taking her pleasure from him in his vulnerable state—the state she’d put him in. She wouldn’t consider abusing the trust he’d placed in her to satisfy urges she shouldn’t experience. No, if she’d deserved the faith he had in her, she wouldn’t want to strip the rest of his clothing from him like he’d done to her in the car.
Yet, he hadn’t had faith in her. Brook was the one individual Morgan had always disapproved of. Only the unfortunate circumstances he found himself in had softened his opinion of her. When she captured his attacker, Morgan would put her in her place.
So why shouldn’t she look? He had looked at her. Morgan had taken greater liberties with her body than she intended with his. They would be even if she stripped off the last of his garments.
Justification resolved, Brook stalked across the room to the edge of the bed. She settled her hands to the narrow band circling his hips. And pulled.
Morgan moaned in his sleep when the fabric tugged at his member. She didn’t allow herself to look until the silk fell to the floor beside the bed.
Rather like the rest of him, he was neatly made—not large but neither could he be called small. Flaccid, he claimed several inches of pink skin. She imagined how he’d look with a full-on erection. The image was incomplete without his pale gaze holding hers, lids languid with desire. For her.
Brook wasn’t sure how long she’d stood staring. But his quiet sigh and the shifting of his body to the left sent her retreating back to the bathroom. This time she was the one in need of a cold shower.
Only unlike Morgan, there was no one she could call to soothe her need.
* * * * *
He was nude. Morgan had been fully clothed when he’d fallen asleep. Now he was sprawled on the hotel bed in the buff.
Cautiously he lifted his head off the pillow to verify what he already knew. There were no other emotional signatures in the room. He was alone.
Though there was an indentation on the opposite side of the bed, the covers hadn’t been thrown back. He glanced over the sides of the bed to make sure Brook wasn’t reclined where she’d insisted she slept better. There was no indication of anyone having slept atop the beige carpet
.
But his boxers were on the floor. As if he’d slipped them over his thighs before he’d dropped. He hadn’t.
Had he?
Morgan would remember sex. He would not forget sex with Brook Lochlan…Brook Calder. He checked his cock. It was as clean as he recalled it being.
No, there’d been no sex.
Just what had happened? And where was Brook?
Morgan glanced at the clock. Twelve after seven. He padded to the window. There he checked for the rental car Brook had said she’d get in the morning. What he found instead was the sun in his eyes, from the west. It wasn’t seven in the morning. It was seven at night!
He stalked to the bathroom and relieved himself so he could dress. He’d go in search of her if she wasn’t back before he finished. Morgan had shoved his hands beneath the faucet’s warm stream when the phone rang. The room phone. He twisted the knob, snatching at a towel as he ran.
“Hello?”
“You shouldn’t be answering the phone,” Brook said.
He ignored the scold because she’d known he’d answer it or she wouldn’t have bothered calling. “Where are you, Brook?”
“Getting the car.”
“Why did you let me wake if you weren’t here?”
“I didn’t let you wake.”
Morgan stared at the bed’s indentation where she’d no doubt slept. Inches from him. For hours. In that gown that would have brought lusty thoughts to any man. “Then how did you know to call me?”
“Don’t leave. I’ll be back soon.”
“Brook—”
“And stay away from the windows and doors. I don’t need you picked off by a lucky shot.”
The line went dead before he could protest. His jaw set in familiar frustration. Morgan dropped the phone onto its cradle and then plunked down onto the bed. He rolled onto his back, drawing his knees up with a sigh that brought his stomach into his spine.
