Guarded Heart (11 page)

Brook faced him. “A friend of your uncle?”

Hours of uncertainty fled in the face of the dread pooling
in his chest. “Yes,” he said warily. “But Irvin wouldn’t try to kill me.”

She tilted her head to the side. Though her lips were no
more flush or thinned than normal, they held the impression of condescension.
Morgan’s perception might have tainted it.

“Irvin’s connection to him was the second detail you gave
me,” she said in the neutral tone he began to think meant she was masking her
opinion. “Are there any other details you can give?”

“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.

“
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 latest 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 question. 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.