She gulped. “Go,” she whispered.
As he turned on his heel and left, Moira berated herself. Her entire body felt cold and shaky as if she had taken a header into the Pacific. She was chilled to the bone. Nauseated. But she was still a fairy. Still a virgin. Not a dragon. A virgin fairy. And a coward.
Keep repeating that, Moi. You just dodged a bullet. You. Are. Not. A. Reptile. Not. A. Reptile. That was good. Wasn’t it? So why did she feel as if she was dying?
CHAPTER THIRTY
Quinn~
He poured himself a couple of shots of single malt. He. Had. Done. The. Right. Thing. Transforming females without their express permission was old school dragon crap. Civilized beings didn’t transform women without their consent.* Quinn took another couple of pulls at his tumbler.
Even the smooth fire of the Glenfiddich couldn’t excise the taste of Moira. Her delicious femininity lingered on his palette tormenting him. Her exquisite scent – some compound of roses and woman lingered on his clothes. Shift. Why the hell had he let her go?
She had been overwhelmed by passion. Willing. Delirious. By now she would be a satiated puddle of femininity and a pregnant dragoness to boot. He took another snort. Letting her go had felt like cutting off an arm.
He had to hope that when she had a chance to think things over she would choose him. He still couldn’t see how a marriage between them would work. The Council would never stand for it. But West Haven was not the only place in the world. Mystic Bay not the only town. They could move. For Moira he would even return to being a fricking bond analyst.
The glass made a satisfying crash when it hit the wall. But Moira had still sent him away. He ached for her. He ached for his destined mate. And now he had broken glass and scotch to clean up.
*Dragon’s Treasure
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Moira~
She hadn’t expected to find Sully in her aunt’s quarters, sipping from a tall beer glass, and actually looking as though he belonged in Robin’s dainty parlor. Moira couldn’t recall ever seeing her uncle looking so spruce. Even when Aunt Gale had been around, he had worn his ancient seafaring sweaters and fishing pants and his beard had been spadelike.
She returned his hug and kissed his cheeks – which for once were not totally covered with a gigantic gray bush – and wished him elsewhere. She needed advice, not a family party. This was going to be embarrassing enough as it was.
Sully gave her a second bear hug. “What’s wrong, lass?” He held her so he could look into her eyes.
“Let Moira catch her breath, Sully,” Aunt Robin said austerely. “Sit down, my dear, and tell us what happened to frighten you.”
“I’m not frightened,” she declared.
Sully got up from his chair. The delicate-looking piece didn’t even creak. Aunt Robin must have conjured it especially for her burly guest. He went over to the liquor cabinet and opened the carved wooden door to reveal a fridge. He poured her a glass of white wine. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Have a drink and tell us what Quinn’s been up to.”
Moira accepted the glass gratefully. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but she felt the need for something right now. She sipped. “I don’t know why you think Quinn’s to blame,” she muttered.
Robin’s laughter rang like silvery bells. Sully’s bass notes wound around Robin’s in masculine counterpoint. Moira stopped herself from stamping her feet. She was an adult, she could act like one.
“H-H-He.” Somehow she couldn’t continue.
“I’ll take that bastard apart,” Sully swore. He rose to his feet looking every inch the powerful sorcerer he was.
“Be calm, my dear.” Robin waved an elegant hand. “This is more of a lover’s quarrel than a rape.”
“Robin’s right, Uncle Sully, Quinn didn’t rape me.” Quite the contrary. She couldn’t continue. She backtracked a bit. “He’s been painting pictures of me. Nudes.”
“From life?” asked Robin interestedly. She took a minute sip from her glass.
“No! He says I’m his muse,” Moira said. “But they look exactly like me.” Except that her nipples did not look anything like the unfurled petals of a crimson rose.
“I told you so,” Robin murmured complacently to Sully.
“You didn’t say anything about that boy painting our niece,” objected Sully. “Resonating auras are not the same thing.”
“One leads to the other.” Robin inspected Moira with sparkling blue-green eyes. “You object to nudes?”
“Of myself! He has twenty-three of them. He says they are not for public display, but I found them.” She sipped morosely from her glass.
“What does he intend to do with them?” thundered Sully. “Because if he enters even one in the Art Fair –” One giant fist crashed into an equally gigantic palm.
“He says he can’t stop painting them. He put them in this vault they have at Shoreside,” Moira said. “He doesn’t want to enter them in the show.”
“Of course not,” Robin said serenely. “And yet your nerves are all aflutter. What else happened? Besides spending the night together?”
Of course Robin knew. Everyone in Mystic Bay knew. Probably by now the entire island knew. She sipped morosely at the wine.
“Well,” prompted Robin.
“He found out that I am a virgin.”
“Indeed?” Robin looked pleased.
“Did he ask you to marry him?” demanded Sully.
“No,” Moira said sulkily. “He kissed me and then he informed me that we had to stop. Or I would turn into a dragon and become a mortal with a mortal lifespan. And then he walked out.”
Robin clucked her tongue. “How uncouth,” she observed. “I would have expected better manners from that young man.”
Sully snorted. “I could tell you a thing or two about dragons. Civilized they are not.”
“They do their best,” Robin corrected gently. “Did you want him to transform you, Moira?”
“Become a t-t-twenty-foot scaly reptile? R-r-reduce my lifespan to a couple of centuries? Of c-c-course not!” Moira wiped tears from her face.
“Dragons are quite beautiful, you know,” Robin replied. “Formidable. Terrifying. But, in their own way, gorgeous.”
“I’m not so sure what would happen if a fairy was transformed,” Sully said heavily. “But by Jove, Quinn better marry you before he carries out the experiment.”
Moira looked at her aunt. Robin was gazing into the middle distance and looking thoughtful. Sully noticed and stopped his rumbling. They both waited in silence until she returned to them.
“It’s to Quinn’s credit that he didn’t take advantage of you and transform you when he had the opportunity.” Robin paused. “He did have the opportunity?”
Moira nodded. Sully handed her a clean, white handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“Well then, Moira, the ball is in your court. You must decide if you wish to marry Quinn. I will consult our records and see if we can predict the outcome of your transformation. But it is my opinion that each event is likely to have a slightly different outcome. There is no guarantee that you will have the same outcome as other fairies.”
“What do you mean? He didn’t ask me to marry him.” That was part of her grievance.
“If you are transformed into a dragoness, you won’t be able to predict your lifespan – it could be that you will live as long as the Fae do, and that Quinn’s life will be lengthened, rather than yours shortened. Your children may be dragons or they may be Fae. Or a mixture.” Robin folded her hands on her lap. “You will have to decide if uncertainty is to be your fate.”
“Fairies are not meant to have angst and emotional conflict,” protested Moira. “Look what he’s done to me. I’m weeping. And it’s not the first time.” She blew her nose again. “I don’t like feeling like this. How can I marry someone who makes me cry? Even if he wanted to marry me?” To her mortification, her voice rose in a wail.
Robin’s shining head in
clined in gracious acknowledgment of her complaint. “Falling in love is not a calm and sensible undertaking. Emotional upsets go with the territory.”
“Then it is not for me,” Moira declared. “I don’t want to feel like this for the rest of my life – even if it is a short one. That would be unbearable.”
Robin smiled gently. “I believe the intensity of the emotions diminishes somewhat after the first while and they stabilize. You would get used to all the different feelings and learn to control them. Mortals have many emotions and they seem to enjoy them.”
“Damn straight,” growled Sully.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Willow Cottage
Quinn~
He was painting furiously when the first of his neighbors popped by. It was an unwritten rule of the colony that you didn’t interrupt the creative concentration of other artists. Quinn liked Ray Cornish and thought his seascapes a cut above most. In fact, he thought he was in direct competition with Cornish, whose white-capped seas spoke of the intimate relationship between weather and ocean.
Ray helped himself to the last of the coffee in the pot before poking his head into the studio. “Did you hear?” he asked even though Quinn was clearly painting.
Quinn looked up and grunted. “Hear what?”
“The judges have been announced. Last night at the Council meeting.”
“Yeah?” Quinn added a stroke of silver to Moira’s hair, frowned, and softened it with a dab of yellow. Stepped back and gave Ray his full attention.
“May I see?” Cornish asked.
“No.” Moira’s portraits were private. Not for showing. Certainly not for the likes of Ray Cornish.
He should be concentrating on his entries, not working on trying to capture the ethereal beauty of Moira’s face and body. Again. But she was his muse and what was a dragon to do? He had not seen her in three days, and he missed her. Her other portraits might be locked away, in the treasure room at Shoreside, but she was never far from his thoughts.
“Okay. Forget I asked,” Ray rejoined good-naturedly. “Aren’t you going to ask who the judges are?”
“I’m going to overlook your nosiness, Cornish. But drinking the last of my coffee is a different matter. Men have died for less.” Quinn strode off to the kitchen and opened the hopper on the coffee maker. He filled the carafe and found the coffee beans.
“You could have coffee at the Bean with the lovely Moira,” Ray returned slyly. “Or has she come to her senses – you being a shifter and all.”
Ray was a sorcerer with a talent for camouflage. This translated into a superior grasp of color blending. His paintings were eye-catching and emotion provoking because his technique was reinforced by a delicate and skillful use of color blending. Probably consulting Ray would help him resolve how to get the right color for the fairy princess’ hair. Not that he intended to ask.
Nor was he going to discuss Moira with Ray. Some things were too private and sacred to share. He started the coffee maker and glared at the other man. “I don’t have time to go into town this morning. So who are the judges?”
Ray pulled a scrap of dirty paper from the pocket of his smock. “Lionel Murdock, Elena Androvitch, Adrian Whitlock, Patricia Wong and Jasper Salinas.” He made a face.
Quinn felt like making one too. If Elena Androvitch was on the panel, she would probably rightly feel as though she should excuse herself from judging his paintings, which would weight the other judges’ votes to twenty-five percent each rather than twenty. Bad odds for him.
“What’s your problem, Cornish? Those are all major names in northwest art.”
“That slimy bastard Whitlock, that’s my problem.”
“What’s wrong with him? Didn’t he used to be in business with Moira?” Which could be a sterling reference, or a red flag, depending on why they were no longer partners.
Ray snorted. “She must have had to hold her nose. That weasel is the biggest con artist going. Notice, she isn’t running her galleries anymore? I’ll bet Whitlock took her to the cleaners. You know how trusting fairies are.”
Actually Quinn didn’t. Both Moira and her aunt seemed to be astute businesswomen. “What did he do to you?” he asked Ray.
“He sold three of my paintings to a collector. Only thing, none of them were actually executed by me.”
“Huh. Sorry, Ray, I didn’t realize you were in a position to have your work forged.” He didn’t know whether to be jealous or scandalized.
“I’m not. But this collector liked my stuff. And sadly I am not prolific. So instead of persuading people to sell some of my existing paintings to his client, Whitlock had some canvases manufactured and certified them as mine.”
“What did you do? Did you tell the collector?”
Ray drained his coffee and banged his mug on the counter. “I kept my goddamned mouth shut, is what I did. That bastard Whitlock had me by the short and curlies. He had driven the price of my work sky-high with those three bogus pieces, and if I protested it wasn’t my stuff, the bottom would have fallen out of my market.” He drank more coffee. “Of course, I should have manned up and taken the hit.”
“Huh. When you say manufactured, do you mean Whitlock conjured them? That he’s a sorcerer?”
“Nah. Little prick is a psychic. Claims to have a talent for authenticating art. More like a talent for deception. He paid someone to forge them.” Ray picked up the mug that Quinn had refilled. “I wonder if Moira could drop a word in Robin’s ear.”
“I don’t know.” Quinn sipped thoughtfully. “Robin told me herself that this year she is taking an arms’ length position from the art show. Letting the university decide on the judges. She wants to give the Art Fair more credibility.”
“That decision could implode with Whitlock on the panel – taking bribes as likely as not.”
“That’s chagrin talking. You have no reason to think Whitlock’s dishonesty extends to taking bribes.”
Ray buried his burly face in his mug. Swallowed. “Dishonest in one, dishonest in all. I don’t trust him, Quinn.” He drank again. Smiled ruefully. “At least he has good reason to award my work high marks and keep that collector with the fakes happy.”
“Unless you speak up and say that he has handled your work in the past, so he shouldn’t judge your entries.”
“Fucking hell.”
Cerise Truebody knocked on the screen door. Quinn sighed and let her in. “Want some coffee?” he asked.
Cerise was a sculptor. Her haunting driftwood pieces were as far removed from the tourist schlock in the Greene Gallery windows as Ray’s seascapes were from the pretty sketches sold there.
“Did you hear who’s on the judge’s panel?” she asked breathlessly. Her brown hair was caught up in a floppy bun sprinkled with wood chips.
“Ray just finished telling me. Sounds like a solid roster of big names in northwest art circles. Three academics, a painter and a famous dealer.”
“Yeah,” Cerise said sadly as she accepted a mug of coffee. “Only you never heard anything as nasty as what Whitlock said at my last show. Tore my work to pieces and stomped on it. Tasteless bastard.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Moira~
She was never going to get used to waking up to a soggy pillow. It had been three days, and she was still weeping. This continual emotional turmoil was upsetting. Even after both her parents had sailed west, she had not felt like this. It was awful. As good a reason as any to tear Quinn out of her heart.
How could any self-respecting fairy accept feeling like this permanently? Even without the horror of becoming a hunter and a reptile? Why should she continue tearing herself apart in order to feel so unlike herself? So illogical and emotional. So mortal. So fricking frustrated. Whoever heard of a lustful fairy?
Except that she couldn’t stop thinking about Quinn. He had not come back to the store. He hadn’t called. Was that because he had lost interest in her or what? Could he be more infuriating or incomprehensible?
&n
bsp; Even more crazy-making was that when she had told him she was a virgin, he had made no move to ask her to be his wife. Clearly this was a one-sided love. Apparently she was good enough to screw, but not to marry. Probably afraid the Council would repossess the Drake land. As they undoubtedly would. Maybe that was why he was avoiding her. Except, if that was the case, why the daily presents?
On the way to the kitchen, her eye was caught by the pieces on the hall table. Every morning there was another fabulous object on her front mat. There was never any note, but it was obvious who was leaving these valuable works of art. Quinn was seducing her with treasures. The clown.
It had started with an iridescent blown-glass rose as fragile and delicate as it was old. The next morning had brought a bracelet of dull gold links with six cameos set into it at intervals. The Roman artist had carved the miniature pink and white goddesses with remarkable precision. It was exquisite and beyond price. Naturally she had tried it on. Equally naturally she had instantly removed it.
Then she found a white jade snuff bottle. Her talent was not for detecting the age of objects, but she had sufficient training to realize it was Ming dynasty. The ornate dragon writhing on the bottle told her as much. Now she forced herself to make and drink her coffee before she went to see what today’s treasure was.
A pair of gold earrings sparkled in a velvet-lined box at least as valuable as they were. The petals of the delicate drops were formed by colored stones. The filigree leaves were gold. The carved and gilded box appeared to be ebony. The earrings were Victorian. The box fifteenth century. They were both beyond beautiful. But how could she accept them?
Did she want to be a huge, scaly terror just to get laid? Was love supposed to be this hard?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Quinn~
Surely Moira had had long enough for her to decide if she wanted him or not? Over the last four days, he had come to some conclusions himself.
Desired by the Dragon_A Shifters in Love Fun & Flirty Romance Page 12
