by Julie Kenner
“I cannot bend the rules out of friendship. As a halfling, she must finalize her application, and she must demonstrate that she is worthy. Fairly. It appears that her test will be to protect the stone. I can think of no better demonstration of her worth.”
“But if she doesn’t know she’s supposed to protect it . . .”
“If she is truly worthy, she will sense the nature of her mission. She will protect the stone not because she has been told to, but because she has to.”
“What a crock of—”
Donis closed his hand—hard—over Hale’s arm.
“Ouch!” Glaring at his dad, Hale flopped back in his chair, then immediately bounced forward when Elmer squeaked.
Zephron ignored him, focusing on Donis. “Until young Zoë submits her affidavit, she must not be told of the legend of the stone. Her decision to abandon the mortal world must not be tainted.”
Hale frowned. “Even if that means risking Mordi’s getting the stone and turning it over to Uncle H.?”
“Even so,” said Zephron. “Her safety—our future—depends on it.”
“Zoë’ll do fine,” Hale said, hoping he sounded optimistic. The truth was, Mordi was almost as powerful as a full council member, and Hale didn’t want Zoë fighting the little weasel. After all, Zoë could barely control a propulsion cloak, and she still hadn’t managed to rein in those damn senses of hers. Hell, the girl hadn’t even mastered telekinesis.
And now some ancient legend had gone and dumped the fate of the world into Zoë’s lap. How absurd was that?
If Hale ever met the head dude in charge of legends and portents, he intended to give the fellow one very stern talking-to.
Taylor banged his fist against Francis Capra’s steering wheel and wondered when he’d lost his grip on reality. Just what the hell was he thinking? He ran a hand through his hair. Of course, the answer was obvious—he wasn’t thinking at all. Or, rather, he’d quit thinking with his head and started thinking with certain other parts of his anatomy. Parts that really shouldn’t be running his life, thank you very much.
Which explained why he was now parked in front of Zoë Smith’s Studio City apartment complex at nine o’clock at night, trying to work up the nerve to ask her out for a drink.
Not that he had a chance in hell. She might be a ten on his perfect-woman scale—pretty, smart, lacking in obvious tattoos—but she still thought he was the devil incarnate.
And maybe for a few seconds there, he had been. Except now he’d fixed all that. He’d dumped Parker, and he wasn’t sniffing out dirt on Emily anymore. So maybe if he just let Zoë know . . .
For the second time, he banged his fist against the steering wheel. Taylor, you are pathetic.
He put his hand on the key, ready to crank the engine and get out of there, but couldn’t quite do it. Dammit, he wanted to see her. Wanted her to know he wasn’t the creep she’d pegged him for. Wanted it so much it was making him crazy.
And then—as if his thoughts had conjured her—there she was, heading down the stairs right in front of him. His hand froze on the key, and for a moment he just looked at her.
Her trademark braid was still there, keeping tight control of a mass of coppery hair that would likely stir up a shower of sparks when released. Her plain-Jane jumper was gone, replaced with truly ugly orange gym shorts topped by a sweatshirt that looked to be at least five sizes too big. But despite the horrible clothes, Taylor was even more convinced that she was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. He’d done quite a bit of daydreaming over the last few days, and she more than fulfilled every one of his Technicolor fantasies.
No doubt about it: the woman was sexy. Sexy yet innocent. The kind of woman who’d one day have a little house with a picket fence on the outside and a dresser full of red lace underwear on the inside.
Interesting, said his heart. Dangerous, warned his head.
Yes, indeed. Zoë Smith was exactly the kind of woman who could get under his skin. Who’d already managed to do just that.
She fidgeted with the keys in her hand, then glanced to her left. Taylor followed her gaze, realizing that she must be looking at the line of mailboxes.
Tires squealed down the block, and Taylor turned to see a polished black Ferrari convertible make the turn, then careen down the street, sliding at the last minute into the loading zone in front of Zoë’s apartment. Zoë took the last few stairs at a run, looking happier than a kid at Christmas.
Fighting pangs of green jealousy, Taylor squinted, trying to get a better look at the driver, who was now half standing and hugging Zoë over the closed car door. He was tall and dark, with perfect pecs and a perfect tan. Hell, the guy looked like he should be on Baywatch or something. He was the quintessential Los Angeles guy—with a hot car, no less. And he was hugging Zoë. Well, shoot.
Still . . .
It could be nothing. He could be a friend from work. Her personal trainer. A traveling encyclopedia salesman.
As he watched, the guy sneezed—and then he was gone.
Taylor blinked. The car was there, but no guy. He blinked again, then squinted, trying to get a better look. Was the guy on the floorboards? Probably, because Zoë was still chatting away, looking perfectly happy to be carrying on a conversation with air.
Okay, this is very—
The guy was back.
Taylor pulled off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. He really needed to get more sleep.
Zoë jumped back from the curb as the Baywatch guy pulled away with a wave, then took off down the street, his car humming like a dream. She just stood there looking after him, then turned so that she was looking in Taylor’s direction.
He cursed.
Without thinking, he ducked down. Not exactly the world’s most comfortable position, but at least he was hidden behind Francis Capra’s door frame. And being hidden was key. Because the last thing he needed was for her to see him and blow all his good intentions to smithereens.
Zoë wiped her face with the little gym towel draped around her neck, but couldn’t wipe the grin off her face.
Hale was in town. What a wonderful surprise!
When he’d zipped up in the Ferrari, she’d assumed he was just dropping by on his way to the Mediterranean. But instead of Greece, he’d told her he was camped out in a suite at the Beverly Wilshire, and would see her tomorrow after he’d had his share of room service and a few other accoutrements of high living.
She lifted her braid and ran the towel along the back of her neck, stifling a grin. Her brother liked to live well. For that matter, he liked the whole Protector lifestyle. She didn’t need to wonder what he’d think of her silly pseudocrush on a mortal—he’d be mortified.
He’d also be mortified that tomorrow she’d promised to tell her deep, dark secrets to a mortal who wasn’t her mother. It was a conversation Zoë wasn’t exactly looking forward to. Fortunately, Deena’d had plans with Hoop, and that had bought Zoë some time before the these-are-my-issues conversation. In the end, though, Zoë had promised she’d give Deena the skinny. So now she had one evening before she had to reveal all. No wonder her stomach was twitching so much.
And Deena was the least of her problems. The big problem was Mordi. She should have reported him to the council right away. She knew that, but she hadn’t done it. Ratting on Mordi would mean confessing to interfering, to using her propulsion cloak, to revealing herself to a mortal, and to getting her picture in the newspapers.
All those confessions would mean big, ugly black marks on her application. Her application was already on shaky ground; she wasn’t too keen on messing up her chances even more.
Still, she really should tell. For one thing, the council probably already knew. And even if her stunt had gone unnoticed . . . well, the council needed to know if Protectors—even halflings—were running around mugging innocent women.
It was all so very odd. And she hadn’t a clue what her cousin was up to. Mordi’d never been mean. A little moody, maybe, but never
cruel. Also, council members swore an oath to protect mortals, not attack them.
Of course, Mordi wasn’t a member yet. But, like Zoë, he was getting close. Closer, even, since he’d surely already submitted his Affidavit of Mortal Disclosure. After all, unlike Tessa, his mother had known for years. But this mugger stunt would be a definite black mark against him. Not to mention it was just plain rude.
She frowned, frustrated by the thoughts running through her head. Maybe she should go put in another thousand or so situps. Or chin-ups. She hated chin-ups, but if that didn’t get her mind off Deena and her punishment and Mordi—not to mention those ever-present thoughts about that Buster Taylor—nothing would.
Armed with the promise of an evening free of Buster-Mordi-punishment-Deena-revelation thoughts, she headed for her mailboxes, humming the theme from Rocky. She’d left her glasses in her apartment, and now she checked out her mail, trying to decide if it was even worth bothering to get—a few bills, a Pottery Barn catalog, and a “you could be a winner” letter from Publishers Clearing House. Boring.
She took a peek at the mail inside Mrs. Callahan’s box, wondering if hers was any better. It was probably some sort of felony offense to examine someone else’s mail that way, but Mrs. Callahan was forever forgetting to pick up the stuff, and Zoë hated to see the sweet woman do without something important.
Junk, junk, junk, Victoria’s Secret catalog, junk, AARP magazine, junk, junk, check. Aha.
She circled the staircase and peered through the woman’s door, not wanting to wake her if she was asleep. No worries there; the woman was up, watching Wheel of Fortune. Zoë rapped on the door.
“Well, hello, dear,” Mrs. Callahan said, after she’d checked through the peephole.
“Hi, Mrs. Callahan.”
“Mary, dear. I’ve told you a hundred times.”
Zoë smiled. “Hi, Mary.”
“You’re all dressed up. Do you have a date?”
“Uh, these are my workout clothes.”
Mary patted her hand. “A man who’ll love you when you look like hell will love you always.”
Somehow that didn’t make Zoë feel better. Especially since there was no man. No boyfriend, no dates, no social life whatsoever. Except for throwing herself off a thirty-story building, the high point of her day was this: chatting about her less than trendy wardrobe with her eighty-something neighbor.
Mary opened the door wider. “Would you like some spice cake and tea? I was just having a snack and watching Vanna. That woman’s outfits, well, I tell you . . .”
“No, thanks.” Spice cake sounded, well, too spicy. And Zoë didn’t need to have one of her food moments in front of the woman. “I just wanted to let you know that I got a glimpse of the mail earlier while the postman was filling the boxes. I think your check’s in there.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling behind Coke-bottle glasses. “I don’t suppose you saw my”—she lowered her voice—“catalog.”
“Your catalog?”
“You know,” she said, her voice still in a whisper, “Victoria’s Secret.”
Zoë stifled a giggle. “Yeah, I think I saw it there.”
The woman let out a sigh. “Marvin would have loved that store. Back in my day, all we had was Sears Roebuck.” She leaned closer. “That’s just not the same.”
Zoë nodded, sure that if she spoke, she’d laugh.
“You’re sure about the cake?”
“I’m sure,” Zoë said. “Would you like me to bring you your mail?”
“No, thank you, dear. I’ll get it tomorrow when the postman comes.” She patted Zoë’s hand. “He’s quite a hunk, you know.”
“Right.” She’d never considered Mr. Davidson a hunk, but then she wasn’t over eighty.
She said good-bye, then headed back toward the staircase, sure she was grinning like an idiot. If she was that spunky when she hit eighty-five, she’d consider it a victory.
She headed back up the stairs, mentally ticking off all the things she needed to do before going to bed. She was debating whether or not the dishes could wait until morning—she was on spring break after all—when she felt it.
Someone was watching her.
She whipped around, her head cocked, trying to focus her hearing. She heard the gentle, sandpaperish sound of the cat in 4B bathing, Vanna White and Pat Sajak chitchatting on Mary’s television, someone cooking in the apartment behind the mailboxes. She sniffed . . . fettuccine Alfredo, garlic bread, Caesar salad, and red wine. The guy in 2A must have a hot date.
None of the sounds or smells seemed threatening, yet something wasn’t right.
She listened again, this time picking up sounds from the street behind her. Teenagers laughing and smoking in front of the liquor store down the street, crickets chirping in the dark, the wind whispering through the bushes. And something else. Someone breathing.
Who? Her gaze roamed the street. All was quiet, no people around at all. Even the teenagers were out of her line of sight. And this sound was close by. She didn’t know why, but she had a funny feeling. She shivered, her eyes drawn to a perfectly restored Mustang convertible parked right across the street from her building. She frowned, sure it didn’t belong to one of the residents.
Curious, she took a step toward it, and the breathing seemed louder. Odd. The top was down. It wasn’t as if there was anyone in the car. She cocked her head. Or was there?
Feeling a little silly for being paranoid, she concentrated on the door panel. Metal was always the most difficult to see through, but not impossible, and after she’d taken a few deep breaths, the door shimmered, then became transparent.
Zoë gasped, her fingers flying to her mouth and a dozen butterflies suddenly decided to perform the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies in her stomach.
Buster Taylor.
She was thrilled.
She was pissed.
He was spying on her.
What did he think? That Emily was going to bring some young lover over to Zoë’s apartment? That Zoë was running a love nest for wayward teachers?
Sinking down to sit on the front step, she balanced her chin on her hand, trying to stay calm. This was the man she’d been fantasizing about, remember? The man she’d hoped would call her, ask her out for coffee, proposition her for a wild night of living out X-rated fantasies.
The mortal man she’d hoped she’d never see again so she wouldn’t have to make hard decisions.
Well, she should be grateful. He’d just made her decision for her. She certainly wasn’t going to entertain fantasies of some lying, spying mortal. No matter how intriguing he might have seemed.
Time to teach him a lesson.
She stood up quietly, then checked the street for witnesses. Empty. Good.
She ran forward, then sprang up, landing on her hands and whipping up and over into a flip—finally ending up right on the hood of his car. It was a landing worthy of at least a 9.5—and the crowd goes wild! She stifled a self-satisfied giggle. Too bad Hale had missed it. He would have been impressed.
As the car shook, Buster sat up, his eyes wide. Zoë dropped into a crouch, which put her face-to-face with him. Just a single thin piece of windshield glass separated them.
Her heart upped its rhythm, and Zoë shivered, wondering if she’d just made her eight zillionth huge mistake of the day.
His face clearing, Buster smiled, and her body started to melt.
“Where the devil did you come from?” he asked, standing up to look at her over the windshield.
All of her intentions to be firm and no-nonsense headed out for coffee, leaving her with a fuzzy, funny feeling in her stomach and the overwhelming desire to throw herself over the windshield and kiss him senseless.
Which was probably not a good idea.
“Does it matter?” she asked, trying to be nonchalant as she climbed over the windshield and settled into the passenger seat. “I’m here now.”
“No kidding you’re here. But h
ow’d you get here? What are you? One of the Flying Wallendas?”
“Not exactly.” She steeled herself, trying to ignore the way his eyes burned into her, the way the scent of his after-shave tickled her nose. He was spying on her, after all. Trying to find dirt and sneaking around to do it. “What are you?” she asked. “A professional jerk, or just an amateur?”
She mentally congratulated herself—at least until he grinned. Then she wondered if maybe her zinger wasn’t all that zingy after all. “What are you grinning about?” she asked, not even trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.
“You.”
“Me?”
“You’re so damn sure I’m here doing dastardly investigator things.” He’d lowered his voice, hunching his shoulders and waggling his fingers like an evil magician.
She grimaced, refusing to be amused by his silliness. “Why are you staking out my apartment? Emily and I don’t hang out together.”
“I’m not looking for Emily.” He stretched his arm out, hooking it over the back of her seat.
“Oh.” Zoë sucked in air and tried to keep her composure despite his proximity. “So what are you doing? Looking to interview kids she went to kindergarten with? Find out if she ever showed off her underpants?”
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Except that that would be sleazy. And I’m off the case.”
Her breath quickened. “Really? Why?”
“Emily’s clean and her husband’s a jerk. Do I need a better reason?”
“No. Those are good reasons.” Gutsy, too, if what he’d said about needing the work had been true. Without planning to, she smiled at him, wide and genuine. “So why are you here?”
He leaned toward her, close enough that she could feel his heat and smell the lingering scent of soap on his skin. “You,” he said simply. “I’m here because of you.”
“Me?” she repeated, sure her voice was squeaking. “Why?”
One shoulder rolled slightly. “I came by tonight hoping to ask you out.”
“Oh.” He wanted to go out with her? This incredible man? The man who had taken up residence in her dreams? This man wanted to go out on a date . . . with her? “Really?”
