Prince Charming Doesn’t Live Here

by Christine Warren

  Before she just gave up and whipped out her scissors, though, Danice intended to do what she always did: battle fate with the tenacity of a bulldog and the futility of a Chihuahua. If her career was destined to go up in flames, she’d be damned if she let anyone else strike the match.

  “Okay,” she said, pausing for a deep breath and an even deeper drink of wine. “To Faerie it is. When do we leave?”

  The stony silence that greeted her innocent question wasn’t just thick and pointed; it had personality.

  And it was grumpy.

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘we,’” he said, his expression as hard and forbidding as a sheer rock cliff.

  Fortunately, Danice had scaled more than one insurmountable obstacle in her time.

  “I subscribe to the usual definition,” she replied calmly, her gaze steady and challenging on his. “‘We’ is the sum of the two individuals known as ‘you’ and ‘me.’”

  “And ‘no’ is the sum of ‘fat chance’ and ‘over my dead body.’”

  Danice tsked him and sipped her wine. “I hate when people put it like that. Murder is such a messy business. It makes much more sense to me to keep things bloodless by coming to some sort of compromise.”

  “Okay, in that case, how about this? The ‘me’ of ‘we’ will go to Faerie and track down my client, while the ‘you’ of ‘we’ keeps your pretty little ass right here in Manhattan until I get back to tell you what I learn.”

  “And how exactly is that a compromise, pray tell?”

  “It means that I give up on the part of the plan where I paddle your pretty ass for making such an idiotic suggestion and leave you hogtied in your apartment where I know you’ll be safe.”

  “Honestly, I’m not into the kinky stuff, so that part was never going to happen anyway,” she replied calmly. Calmly on the surface, anyway. Underneath her even-keeled exterior, she felt a suspicious tingle in unnamed places over the idea of his hands and her ass making skin-on-skin contact. Although in her mind, there was no paddling involved. More like squeezing, kneading, caressing—

  Shaking her head, Danice tore her attention away from that little fantasy and fixed it on the matter at hand with a stern reminder that getting involved with a man like Mac Callahan did not figure into her plans. Her plans included no moves of such obvious self-sabotage.

  “I have just as much at stake in getting to the bottom of this entire ludicrous situation as you do,” she said. “Maybe more. There is no way I’m going to sit at home wringing my hands and letting a big strong man take care of a problem that could make or break the career I’ve been building since before I graduated from the eighth grade. I’m not that kind of stupid.”

  “I don’t care what kind of stupid you are,” he snapped back, his glare piercing and thunderous. “I’m not going to be responsible for you insulting some boggart and ending up as its dinner. You have no idea what Faerie is like. You wouldn’t survive fifteen minutes.”

  “I legally absolve you of all responsibility. Just give me a couple of minutes to draw up the liability waiver.”

  Mac thumped his bottle down with a solid click. “This is not a joking matter, Danice. I’m deadly serious. Faerie is a dangerous place for natives; for a human, it would be like walking into a dynamite factory holding a lit match.”

  Danice echoed his gesture, though (she liked to think) with a bit more delicacy. She set her glass down with a click and folded her arms on the table between them. “Apparently, no one ever told you that you should never try to argue with an attorney, so I’m going to keep that in mind while I point out to you three very important facts: One, the only way you can possibly stop me from going anywhere I feel I need to go to serve my client is by committing at least one illegal act for which I will surely both prosecute you and persecute you; two, I am a big girl with a big brain who is fully capable of taking care of herself; and three, you bear absolutely no resemblance to my father, my boss, a law enforcement professional, or any other figure with either the right or the responsibility to control my actions.”

  Holding his gaze while she spoke, Danice could see anger, frustration, worry, and heat warring behind those stormy blue eyes. The frustration told her she’d made her point, but it was the heat that made her decide to claim her victory and quit the field of battle before it could spark something truly conflagratory.

  Adopting a satisfied and deliberately not-at-all-nervous expression, Danice grabbed her purse and slid out from the suddenly very intimate booth. With her feet planted firmly on the floor, she turned back to Mac and painted a cool expression of challenge on her face. She like to call it her War Mask, the one she donned for opposing counsel, arrogant judges, and hostile witnesses.

  “I’d like you to keep all of that in mind as we move forward,” she advised Mac, keeping a wary eye out for smoke emerging from his nose or ears. It never hurt to practice caution. “I believe it will make our association that much more pleasant for us both. Have a nice night.”

  She considered it a dignified exit, one that allowed her to blow out a satisfied breath as she stepped out of the bar and onto the crowded Midtown sidewalk. Unfortunately, the sense of satisfaction lasted only about fifteen seconds. That was how long it took for the hair on the back of her neck to alert her that someone perhaps hadn’t planned to let her have the last word.

  Her senses rioted an instant before a strong, lean hand curled around her upper arm and pulled her out of the pedestrian traffic, propelling her to the side of the building she’d just exited. She felt the brush of rough brick against her bare skin and wondered abstractedly whether the heat of the night really came from environmental factors, or if it emanated from the stone-faced man looming over her.

  His expression warned her that either his head was about to explode, or she had better brace herself for the kind of language that would have sent her mother reaching for the soap. Bracing herself, she prepared to have her hair blown back and her eyebrows singed. When Mac drew in a deep breath, she made sure to keep her knees soft. Just in case.

  Danice watched, fascinated, as he opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Still no sound emerged. The muscle in the side of his jaw, though, was working overtime, and she thought she could probably choreograph a dance number to the pulsing of the vein in his temple. What was he waiting for?

  Always an adherent of the philosophy that the best defense is a good offense, Danice opened her mouth to goad him into getting whatever he intended to say off his chest. That way it would be out in the open, and she could pick apart his nonsensical arguments and go back to ignoring his protests. She had it down to a science.

  Except that her open mouth turned out to be the opportunity he’d been waiting for.

  He descended on her like an invading army, the Visigoths at gates of Rome. Before she could even register the sight of his head swooping down to her, she felt the hard pressure of his mouth on hers and instinctively gasped her surprise.

  Mac took advantage with ruthless skill, sweeping into her mouth and claiming every inch for himself. In a heartbeat, Danice felt again all the wary excitement he’d stirred in her when he’d had her pinned to that bed in the Addisons’ deserted vacation house. This time, though, she couldn’t blame any of the adrenaline that coursed through her on fear. She knew Mac now, at least well enough to know he wouldn’t hurt her, so she couldn’t pretend he scared her. The shivers he incited beneath her skin stemmed from an entirely different sort of reaction.

  The noise of the city faded around them. All Danice could hear was the ragged sound of her breathing, the low rumble of satisfaction that seemed to be issuing from Mac’s throat, and the rushing pulse of blood in her ears. All she could taste was the sweet, dark fire that was McIntyre Callahan, and all she could smell was the exotic spicy scent of his skin. He could have transported her to another dimension for all she knew, for all the notice any one of her senses paid to the people moving past them on the busy sidewalks. The nonchalant glances and amused cu
riosity of the average New Yorker didn’t pack nearly a big enough punch to shatter her absorption in Mac’s unexpected (and unexpectedly thrilling) embrace.

  Frankly, Muhammad Ali, Mike Tyson, and Iron Man probably didn’t pack enough punch. The man was a seriously good kisser, even when the kiss spoke as much of frustration and anger as it did of passion.

  It took the flash of a camera and the laughter of a group of teenage juvenile delinquents to end the embrace. Or assault. Or earth-shattering revelation, depending on how you wanted to look at it. When Mac finally lifted his head, his eyes had darkened to a thunderous shade of gray and his ragged breathing sounded as if he’d just completed the marathon in under thirty seconds. Danice figured her heart thought it must have attempted the same feat, because she could feel it beating all the way down to the soles of her feet.

  She looked into those stormy eyes and scrambled for a quip, a smart-alecky retort that would let him know that she wasn’t some swooning virgin in a regency novel to be manipulated with something as casual as a kiss. The only problem was that she needed to catch her breath first to keep herself from swooning.

  “This is not something I’m going to argue with you about,” he growled, which made her frown. She didn’t like it that he could recover his powers of speech before she could. She didn’t want him to have that kind of advantage in the battle between them. She didn’t want him to have any kind of advantage. “I know Faerie, and you don’t. Therefore, you’re going to have to trust me on this one. You aren’t coming with me.”

  “Ngh—” Cursing to herself, Danice cleared her throat and tried again. “You can give all the orders you like, Callahan, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to listen to them.”

  Somehow, that retort didn’t do anything to smooth the wrinkles of fury that marred his arrogant brow. “You’re going to have to listen, whether you like it or not. Or have you forgotten that of the two of us, I’m the only one who knows how to get to Faerie?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You are not the only one, however, with connections, or the ability to ask well-placed questions. You might want to keep that in mind.”

  “I’ve got plenty of things on my mind already, pretty little Niecie. Would you like me to demonstrate for you?”

  If his purr hadn’t given away his game, the way he pinned her back against the rough brick building and angled his hips until the erection behind his jeans rode against her hip would have clued her in. Did he really think she was stupid?

  “The only thing you need to demonstrate for me, Callahan, is that you can think with a part of your anatomy that doesn’t get distracted every time a nice pair of tits walks by.” Danice kept her gaze level and steady on his, which required a concerted effort to ignore the heat curling in her belly and shooting seductive tendrils down between her thighs. She refused to allow herself to be manipulated with sex. “You aren’t responsible for me and you don’t get a vote in my decision-making process. If Faerie is where I need to go to help my client, then that’s where I’m going. End of story.”

  He stared down at her for a long tense moment, the heat between them banked but far from extinguished. She could feel it settling down in her gut like embers just waiting for the application of the correct kindling. Behind her hip, she crossed the fingers of her left hand that Mac would realize a busy city street wasn’t the right place to apply that kindling.

  When he levered himself away from her, putting a much-appreciated foot or so between their bodies, Danice couldn’t quite stifle her sigh of relief.

  His eyes narrowed at the sound. Then the corner of his mouth quirked upward and he took another step back. “Oh, our story isn’t even close to ending, pretty Niecie,” he said, eyes gleaming in the reflected light of neon and headlamps. “We have pages and pages still to go.”

  On that taunting note, he turned away from her and began to stride gracefully down the sidewalk. Scowling, Danice shot out her hand and caught him before he’d gotten far.

  “I expect you to tell me when you’re leaving, Callahan,” she told him, giving him her sternest face. “I intend to go whether or not you approve.”

  “Save tomorrow’s troubles for tomorrow,” he told her, his shrug casual, the look in his eyes anything but. “We’ve plenty of others to deal with first.”

  “Like what?”

  “Why, before we decide who’ll be making the trip, fair Danice, we’ll need to make plans to take us there.”

  She eyed him skeptically. She wouldn’t put it past him to use some lame trick to keep her from going. “You mean you don’t already have it all mapped out?”

  He shook his head and glanced down at where her fingers still gripped his arm. She colored and released him.

  “It’s not the sort of place you’ll find on a map,” he said, his eyes once again locking with hers. “Just as it’s not the sort of place a human should be going.”

  Danice rolled her eyes. And there it was. One more shot aimed at making her change her attitude. She let it sail past and folded her arms in a decidedly belligerent posture. She couldn’t help it. The man made her feel belligerent.

  When he wasn’t making her feel like she needed to change her pan ties.

  “You keep repeating that, Callahan. Eventually you might run into someone who believes it,” she snapped, tearing her mind off the things he did to her body. That train of thought would not serve to bolster her position. “Until then, remember to keep me in the loop. As soon as you decide when and where we’re going, I expect you to let me know. Understand?”

  Instead of waiting for a reply, Danice shot Mac one last meaningful glare, shouldered her briefcase, and turned on her heel to stride purposefully toward the nearest subway entrance. As far as grand exits went, she figured it was about the best she could do, given the setting and the circumstances.

  And the feel of a storm-clouded gaze trailing her all the way to the downward staircase.

  Ten

  Three days later and the man still hadn’t stopped arguing. Danice had to give him points for the strength of his convictions.

  “It’s out of the question,” he repeated. Again. “Not only are humans highly unwelcome in Faerie, but the last person who showed up uninvited to the Unseelie Court ended up…” He seemed to suddenly realize what he’d been about to say and cut himself off with an indignant humph. “Well, let’s just say he ended up very unpleasantly occupied at the court feast.”

  Danice rolled her eyes and kept a firm grip on her cell phone as she wove her way through the evening pedestrian traffic toward the entrance to the subway. Luckily, a winning day in court had left her in a very good mood. “Mac, you can threaten and order and argue and try to scare me off all you want, but we already had this argument, and I already told you: I’m coming with you.”

  Danice very pointedly did not mention the way the last round of the argument had ended. Neither of them had brought it up yet, and she intended to keep it that way for as long as possible. She couldn’t afford the distraction promised by the chemistry between them.

  Or maybe that was “threatened.”

  “You don’t understand what you’re getting into.”

  “Probably not,” she said, exasperated, “but I’m kind of considering that an advantage. I find I think more clearly if I don’t go into a situation with preconceived notions that I ought to be intimidated.”

  “You shouldn’t be intimidated, you should be scared shitless!”

  “However you want to word it.”

  She shrugged her briefcase strap higher onto her shoulder and gripped the rail with her free hand as she started down the tunnel steps. In her ear, Mac muttered something she thought might have been in a foreign language. Or maybe two. Either way, she didn’t understand it and was pretty sure she didn’t want to.

  “Look, arguing about this hasn’t made either one of us change our minds yet,” she pointed out, reaching the subway platform and stepping toward the wall, out of the way of the crowd. “How about I admit that you
tried to warn me, you go right on thinking I’m an idiot, and we move on to talking about when we’re leaving and how we’re going to get there. Have you figured it out yet?”

  Danice had learned recently that traveling to the kingdom of Faerie wasn’t quite as simple as she had assumed. It apparently involved less chanting and fewer empty British moors than she’d thought and more secret doorways in carefully hidden locations only accessible by those who already knew where they were. Which, as it turned out, Mac didn’t.

  “My mother dropped me on my dad’s doorstep before I was a year old. How am I supposed to remember how to get back?” he’d demanded, rather crankily, when she’d expressed disbelief at his ignorance.

  “I may have convinced the contact who hired me to take us across,” he said now, though she had to strain to hear him. Somehow the crowd on the platform seemed especially loud tonight.

  “That’s great! When?”

  Not that Danice was anxious, or anything, but she felt fairly certain that the firm’s switchboard operator and Celia were both going to quit on her if she asked them to help her dodge one more of Matthew Yorke’s calls. He seemed to be getting anxious for an update. One Danice still didn’t have to give him. And his version of cranky bothered her more at the moment than Mac’s version.

  “Maybe tomorrow. We’re still negotiating.”

  Despite the summer warmth, a chilly breeze stirred the air around Danice and she scooted aside, farther from the air-conditioning vent. “When will you know for sure?”

  “Maybe tonight. I’m going to threa—I mean, we’re meeting again in a few hours.”

  “All right. Just let me know the minute you hear.”

  He sighed. “Fine. But I should tell you that Quigley wasn’t happy about the news that you want to go on this little trip, either. So we’re not actually done arguing yet, you know.”

  Danice grinned into the phone. “I’m a lawyer. I’m never done arguing.”