Guarded Heart

by Anya Breton

  “Norman was an opponent in the election.”

  “The one from six months ago—that you won?”

  Morgan nodded. “He was initially the front-runner because he’s been in the area for decades but his antiquated views put many covens off.”

  Brook twisted again so she could stir the eggs. “So he’s Irvin’s age?”

  “I believe so. Why are you asking?”

  “Three withdrawals totaling thirty thousand dollars have been made from his account recently,” she said.

  He crossed the room, needing both the counter to grip and her proximity to soothe. “The payment for those humans who came to the lake house with guns?”

  “It seems rather convenient that the sum is exactly thirty thousand and that he would actually pay assassins he’d also threatened but the timing is coincidental. Too many coincidences might add up to a lead.” She divvied up the eggs between two plates. “But there’s one thing I don’t understand. How would he have discovered your schedule?”

  “You think Irvin is in on it,” he said with a heavy dose of bitterness.

  She said nothing, seemingly proving his guess.

  “Only two people know my schedule,” Morgan said. “Irvin and Mira.”

  “Does Mira have any connection to Norman Foster?”

  “I don’t know who Mira is connected to. She’s my assistant, not my lover.”

  Brook gathered several slices of bacon for each plate. Her back remained to him. A shame when he wanted to see her expression. She was his lover—or she would be if he had anything to say about it.

  She set the plates on the island and then immediately returned to the coffeemaker. “Is it conceivable that she’d work with this Norman person against you?”

  “You have me thinking the worst of my closest confidant,” he said without softening his snapped tone. “Anything is conceivable now.”

  Even falling for you.

  She poured a mug of coffee. “I mean, are they in the same coven or have they been at one time?”

  Morgan needed to get a handle on his emotions. She was doing her job. Exactly as she’d done for days. He was the one who had changed.

  “Yes,” he said. “Mira is part of the Chicago coven.”

  Another mug’s worth of coffee was poured before she turned with both in hand. “We’re tracking Norman’s mobile phone. I’ll request Mira’s be tracked—”

  Morgan pushed out a heavy breath. “And Irvin’s as well.”

  He’d expected her to be surprised. He had to fight back a growl when all she did was give a bare nod.

  “And then we’ll stage your return to the living,” Brook said. “Tomorrow. Do you think you’re ready?”

  He swallowed his initial response of yes. Returning to his duties meant one of two things—they’d trap the culprit and Brook’s work would be finished or she’d become even more distant as she hunted the true villain. Either way, what had happened last night wouldn’t happen again. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened anyway. Maybe he was the sentimental idiot she’d always thought he was.

  “Yes,” he said because there was no other option. They couldn’t hide away forever. She would never abide it.

  But they’d have one last night. And he intended to make good use of it. No matter what happened, Brook would never forget Indiana. Or him.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I didn’t know you cooked.”

  Brook didn’t look up from the frying pan. Morgan might not have put a shirt on since this morning. That shouldn’t have been an issue. After last night it had become one.

  He didn’t have any clean clothes. That was why he’d taken to walking around half nude. He wasn’t trying to seduce her.

  “I cooked breakfast,” she said.

  “Breakfast is different.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve heard it said scrambled eggs are difficult to prepare.”

  “How have we known each other for almost thirty years and I didn’t know you cooked?”

  Brook lifted her shoulders and flipped the thin strip of beef in the pan. “You had your family beach home and I had mine.”

  “What else don’t I know about you?”

  Brook snorted.

  “Have you done your duty by your race?”

  She shot him a sharp look, stalling when golden flesh caught her eye. Brook should have bought him more than those pants—pants that weren’t nearly thick enough to hide the contours of the organ they covered.

  “No,” she said. “How could I care for a pureblood child if I’m constantly on the move?”

  “What happened to your mother?”

  “Passed on four years ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Brook.”

  She ducked her head because he meant it. Eager to be off the subject of her departed parent, Brook asked her own question. “Have you done your duty by your race?”

  “No.”

  Brook’s attention flew to him. He steadily held her gaze beyond the kitchen island, far too close.

  “No?” she asked. “I thought it was a requirement for all priests and priestesses. Especially the high priests.”

  He shrugged—a strangely flippant motion given the topic. “It was mentioned here and there when I ran opposed but ultimately I was chosen anyway.”

  “They probably assumed they’d have a shot at you when you took the position.”

  “Perhaps.”

  His continued steady gaze unnerved her. Brook turned back to the pan. Both sides of beef were now seared. She switched the gas off, setting the pan aside so she could gather vegetables.

  “I never wanted a picket-fence house,” he said. “But I did want a nuclear family. I certainly didn’t want children for the sake of continuing the race alone. Love has to be involved.”

  Brook opened the refrigerator. “But we’re supposed to want children for the sake of continuing the race.”

  “Neither of us ever believed that. Thousands of pureblood children without loving families are hardly the makings of a strong race.”

  “You always were sentimental that way.”

  “You say that as if my sentimentality is my weakness.” Morgan’s voice soured. “But it’s gotten me this far.”

  Brook turned an innocent look on him, setting broccoli, onion and carrots on the island’s butcher-block top. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  She fixed him with her own steady gaze. “No, Morgan. I didn’t. We share the same sentimentality when it comes to children. You were the one who made me wish my family cared about me.”

  He jerked as if struck. “I… Your father gave you his name.”

  It was a weak response, one she laughed at. “His name and regular checks in the mail.” Brook found the knives in a nearby drawer. She carefully pruned the dark spots off the broccoli.

  “Financial support is customary,” Morgan said what she already knew. “Giving his name is not. He cared at least enough to give you a leg up.”

  “That leg up never got me anything.”

  “It didn’t get you into the Rangers?”

  “No. They scouted me.” She concentrated on chopping shoots from the head of broccoli.

  “Scouted?” His pitch lifted in disbelief. “They do that?”

  Brook shrugged. “They did with me.”

  “How?”

  “It was during the Northwestern meet. Someone rigged Mark Pavati’s chair with explosives. I found out who.”

  “That was you?” His continued incredulousness shouldn’t have been an insult but it felt like one. “No wonder you were scouted. How did you track that back to Fire witches?”

  “I interviewed his inner circle. One witch commented how there’d been an argument over waterfront rights between the Portland covens the week before.” She shrugged again because it hadn’t been difficult. “From there it was only a matter of connecting the dots.”

  “Well, that’s impressive.”

  Brook went stiff, halting her lat
est chop. “That’s my job.”

  “It wasn’t then. You did that without training.”

  She relaxed a little because he meant well. He always meant well. She should remember that. “What made you become a priest?”

  “My father was. It seemed like the thing to do.”

  Brook resumed her chopping in an effort to quell her jealousy. She’d had no one to look up to like he had. Her father figure had been hundreds of miles away. “Do you regret it?”

  “Only when the position keeps me from getting what I want.”

  She didn’t look up, fearful he meant her and fearful he didn’t.

  “But I like helping people,” he said.

  “It’s a perfect fit for you.”

  “And the Rangers are perfect for you. I don’t know why I never thought of it.” There was a pause. “Maybe I always thought of you as mine.”

  Brook ignored the stray thrill that jumped from her heart.

  “It never occurred to me that you’d help other witches,” he said. “I’m ashamed to say I’m jealous of Mark Pavati.”

  She hadn’t slept with Mark.

  “How many others have you helped?”

  “I’ve lost count.”

  “How many others have you had to sleep on the floor of their bedroom?”

  Morgan hadn’t hesitated after he’d uttered the word sleep but her brain had provided the pause—the suggestion that his true question was how many other clients she’d broken the rules with. He wanted to know. He had to. But he had no right to ask.

  She gave him the answer to the question he’d actually posed. “I’ve only assisted with three home-based attacks that didn’t have alternate lodgings.”

  “How many others fantasized you were in their bed instead of on the floor?”

  Brook nearly chopped off a knuckle. Cool and collected, she chanted. She desperately needed to maintain her Ranger indifference. “I have no idea what they fantasized about.”

  “I’m sure there were hints.”

  “I’ve always been blind to hints.”

  “How many propositioned you?”

  She reached the limit of her patience. Brook slapped her knife down and raised her eyes, glaring at him. He glared right back, angry and strikingly aroused.

  “I’ve never slept with a client. That’s what you really wanted to know, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said without a trace of remorse. “But I also want to know how many you’ve had to set down.”

  “Two. Few males take me seriously as a woman.”

  “Bullshit. They all took you seriously as a woman. They couldn’t avoid that.”

  “I’m a tomboy. I don’t trigger their—”

  “You trigger everything, Brook. The others were probably too intimidated.”

  “Or they decided to honor the contract they’d signed.”

  Morgan leaned forward, clenching his fingers around the edge of the counter. She treated his show of indignation and anger to all that it deserved—her back. This dinner wasn’t going to cook itself.

  Brook tossed the broccoli into the pan then grabbed the onion.

  “I don’t regret it,” he said. “I’ll never regret it. I’m not going to regret it when I make love to you tonight either.”

  This time the thrill that jumped from her heart arrowed down to her pussy. She pressed her thighs together against the slow ache building. He was quite good at those sexy declarations of his.

  Brook could have told him about the other half of Kyle’s phone call. But it would have drastically changed their dynamic. If she had any hope of keeping Morgan safe, she couldn’t get involved with him. Another, deeper and more insidious part of her worried he only wanted her now because he wasn’t supposed to have her.

  She gave one of her mirthless laughs as she called on the aether, snaring another small thread of magic so she could coat her eyes in Water armor. “What makes you think I’ll give you the chance?”

  “You’ve been evading me. If last night had been so horrible, you’d have no problem being in the same room with me.”

  Brook focused on the waste bin, concentrating on skinning the onion. “Maybe I don’t want to hurt your feelings so I’m avoiding you.”

  The blast of his dismay was like a punch to the back of her head. Brook gripped the nearby counter with one hand—a hand he hopefully wouldn’t see.

  “In that case…”

  Morgan’s bare feet thudded down the corridor before he could finish. The television flipped on. And then the volume rose until she could hardly hear herself think.

  He’d believed her. How could he? Hadn’t he sensed the arousal she’d tried to hide?

  But no…there was no empathic link. While he could have used a constant empathic net like she did, perhaps he’d refrained.

  His ready acceptance implied he’d already considered the possibility. Morgan really thought she’d spare his feelings? When had she ever done that in the past?

  Whatever the answer, this was best. They had to maintain a working relationship until his case was solved. After that…

  His feelings were hurt. Would he want to see her after that? She hoped so.

  Brook stared dumbfounded at the onion in her hand.

  She hoped so? She was falling for him—kisses or no.

  Males had always been something she took for granted. They were there when she wanted them and not when she didn’t. But Morgan might not be there when she wanted him. And for the first time in her life, she didn’t like that idea.

  Morgan scowled at the sappy romance on the television. The idea that Brook actually was as indifferent and cold as she acted hadn’t occurred to him. Not given how long he’d known her. Too many times he’d seen her throw herself fully into activities. But that had been youthful Brook, before the world had clawed at the last of her idealism.

  The cynic was in control now.

  How could he have thought he’d ever have a future with her? She’d all but announced she’d escape as soon as she had the chance. She’d reminded him she couldn’t have children with her career. There was absolutely no compatibility between them.

  Yet he wanted no one else.

  Morgan’s glare softened on the screen he barely saw.

  He wanted her.

  Brook wasn’t coolly indifferent. That was his tender ego reacting. She’d never spared his feelings in the past. She wouldn’t start now. Her evasion was because she was afraid they’d repeat last night.

  If she was so fearful that she’d avoid the client she’d sworn to protect, then he must be more seductive than he’d thought. Morgan leaned into the sofa, considering how he’d get what he wanted—no, what he needed.

  And how he’d keep her past this weekend.

  * * * * *

  The place settings were arranged just so, the plates steaming with her concoction and dessert was in the oven. It wasn’t often Brook had the opportunity to cook. Preparing the dishes had also taken her mind off the problem at hand—the problem that walked into the dining room as she set down glasses of ice water beside filled wine goblets.

  “A meal at a table?” Morgan said.

  She said nothing, hardly wanting to admit the truth about why she’d gone to the trouble.

  “It smells good. Is it all ready?”

  “Yes. I was just about to come get you.”

  “I smell something sweet.”

  Brook’s attention flew to his face. He innocently stared back. He meant dessert. Not her.

  “Something is in the oven,” she said.

  “Whatever it is, it smells delicious.” Morgan dropped into the chair across from her. He sent her a smile over the table. “As does this.”

  Why did she keep hearing innuendos in everything he said? Morgan didn’t do innuendos. She liked that about him. He’d always been without pretense.

  Brook sat in her own seat. She reached for her fork.

  “Do you always cook for your clients?”

  It wasn’t an innocent quest
ion. His toneless delivery said as much. Her knuckles went white from how tightly she held the utensil.

  “No,” she said.

  “Have you ever?”

  “Morgan.” She sighed. “Why do you keep doing this?”

  “Because I like the idea of you cooking for me.” He lowered his voice into an intense register as he lifted his wine. “But I despise the idea of you cooking for anyone else.”

  She said nothing because she had cooked for clients when they’d been forced into safe houses. There really wasn’t much choice. They could hardly get delivery.

  He dug into the food, giving her time to think on his words. He was jealous. That meant this wasn’t merely about sex, didn’t it? It shouldn’t have come as any surprise. But a small part of her was incredulous.

  Morgan’s idealism extended to her after all.

  “Is there wine in this?” he asked.

  “A little cooking sherry.”

  Now their conversation felt strained. All because of sex. Wonderful, stirring sex.

  Seas across, Morgan could kiss. And when he’d been inside her while kissing her, filling her unlike anyone, nothing else had mattered. She’d thrown her morals to the depths of the ocean well before that kiss. Brook had nearly thrown away far more than her morals once his mouth had taken hers.

  She clenched her thighs, desperate to ignore the dull ache blooming in her core.

  Metal cracked against ceramic. Brook jerked to attention. Across the table, Morgan’s blue eyes swirled and stormed. His fork lay discarded. She took stock of his cues for an explanation.

  Didn’t he like what she’d made?

  Understanding came only when she discovered his empathic link snugly tapped into her consciousness. He sensed her arousal. But Morgan didn’t know he was the reason behind it. For all he knew, she could have fantasized about whichever witch she’d cooked for.

  Morgan jumped to his feet, sending his chair into a dramatic wobble on its back legs. He stalked around the table and halted beside her. His cool scent wafted over her, tugging forward memories of last night. Arousal bloomed between her thighs—a damp sign she wouldn’t be able to explain away. Brook slowly met his eyes. Up close the maelstrom in them was breathtaking.