by J. Kenner
Her fingers smoothed his fur, creeping up to give him a good scratch behind the ears. He couldn’t help it; he started to purr.
“Oh, you like that, do you? Well, come here, then.” She carried him to the couch, then sat down, pulling him down on her lap, where she proceeded to stroke and pet and scratch until Mordi was absolutely certain that he’d died and gone to heaven.
He was a cat, and his reactions were therefore wholly catlike. But there was enough real Mordi in there that he could feel the slow burn in his soul. He wanted this woman; wanted her to touch him, to stroke him. But he wanted her as a man. He’d been drawn to her from the first moment he’d seen her. And he made himself a promise. No matter what, somehow, he was going to have her.
Her constant attention made him warm and languid, and now she eased him off her lap onto the couch cushion. He blinked, reaching one paw out in protest, but she laughed and stood up. “More later. Right now, I need to get dressed, and you probably need some food.”
She headed toward the bedroom and he considered following—he was sorely tempted by the idea of watching her change—but in the end chivalry won out again and he stayed put, instead looking around her small but neat apartment, and breathing deep of the scent of her that clung to the couch cushions.
This had been a bad idea.
He’d gotten in, yes. But he hadn’t counted on his own reaction from her strokes and caresses. The urge to change back to human form overwhelmed him, the urge to hold her in his arms and feel those touches on flesh instead of fur.
But that was lust talking. If he changed now, it would be the sting of her palm against his face that he felt, not soft caresses or gentle endearments. Better to remain a cat . . . and to simply keep the memory of her touch tucked away safely in his mind.
The bedroom door opened, and Izzy stepped out, clad simply in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Her feet were bare and her hair, still wet, was combed back from her face. She wore not even the slightest bit of makeup, and Mordi thought he’d never seen a more beautiful woman.
“Tuna,” she said as she moved past him toward the kitchen. “You look like a tuna kind of cat to me.”
He heard her rummaging around in the kitchen; then she emerged again with a china plate topped with canned tuna. He’d planned on something a bit more substantial for dinner, but he was hungry and . . .
She put the plate on the coffee table, but instead of letting him go to it, she picked him up and put him back in her lap. “How about a belly scratch before you eat?”
Not being stupid, he wasn’t about to say no to that, so he let her flip him over, then sank into another stupor as her fingers worked their magic. “Oh, you’re a sweet little devil, aren’t you?” she said, and there was something in her voice he couldn’t quite place. He was still thinking about it when she flipped him over, then sank her fingers into the thick folds of skin at the back of his neck. “Come here, little kitty-witty,” she said as she plucked him up. He blinked, astounded to find his tiny limbs now flailing in the air. By the time he blinked again, she’d carried him to her bedroom door and shoved him into a cat carrier.
What in Hades?
He hissed and swiped, but she snapped the door shut and flicked the lock. Well, wasn’t this special?
He should have changed while she’d been carting him across the room, but honestly, he’d been too flabbergasted to react. There was a life lesson in there; something about belly scratches and women and trust. But he was far too worked up now to sort it out.
He gave a few more mewls and spits and swipes of one clawed paw, but Izzy wasn’t the least bit impressed. He considered changing back now—the carrier would surely crack against the force of his sudden growth spurt—but he might as well stick it out and see what was up.
She carried him back into the living room, sat him on the coffee table, and peered at him. “I’m sorry, sweet kitty. But if I’m going to keep you, I’m going to have to get you neutered.”
Mordi squalled, automatically curling up into a ball and shoving himself into the far corner of the carrier. It was a ridiculous reaction, really, when he could just as easily change back into human form and put a fast stop to this neutering business. But in the face of that particular threat, Mordi had to admit he wasn’t thinking too clearly. What male would be?
She bent down to peer at him through the little wire door, and that’s when he noticed the devious grin and the hint of sparkle in those ice blue eyes.
What the . . . ?
And then he realized. Damn it all to Hades . . . he’d been caught.
He stretched out, moving away from his corner and holding his head up with as much feline dignity as possible. He kept his eyes on hers, and when he reached the front of the carrier, he pawed at the door, one quick swipe. She opened it, and he stepped out, then shifted back to human form, ending up perched on the edge of her coffee table while she stood in the middle of her living room, arms crossed over her chest, her expression entirely unreadable.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said.
Anger, he decided. That unreadable expression was definitely anger.
“Pretending you’re a cat and wrangling your way into my apartment?” she continued. “I mean, where in Hades do you get off doing that?” She was pacing, shooting him venom-laced glances with every pass.
He considered spinning an elaborate tale, couldn’t think of a thing, and ended up telling her the truth. Well, some of it anyway. “We’re both on this committee because we’re halflings,” he began, keeping his voice calm and level, as if talking a jumper down from a building. “I just thought it would be a good idea to get to know each other better.”
“You thought?”
“Well, yes.” He cleared his throat, then gave her a tiny shrug.
“And that gave you license to change into a cat and finagle your way into my apartment?” The anger was still there, but she’d quit pacing. Mordi decided to take that as a good sign.
“I tried food and flowers first. Give me some credit.”
That time, he thought he saw a smile, and even though it passed over her mouth so quickly he couldn’t be certain, the mere possibility that she was warming up to him thrilled him.
With a mental groan, he stifled a grimace. What was up with him? This was about the job, not an attractive woman. And that was true no matter how appealing she might be.
She cocked her head, examining him. “And that’s really it? You’re just here because you want to get to know me?”
He swallowed. The woman was an empath, so how much did she know? If he said no, would she realize that he was lying? Would she realize he didn’t completely trust her? Even more, would she realize that she intrigued and excited him?
She raised an eyebrow in silent question. Apparently, he was taking too long.
“Not exactly,” he finally said. “I . . .” He aimed his most charming smile in her direction, figuring he didn’t have anything to lose. “Well, the truth is I think you look damn good in a bathrobe.”
That actually earned him a laugh, and he thought he saw a spark of sensual heat light her eyes. “I wasn’t wearing a bathrobe when we met with Armistand,” she said.
“No, you definitely weren’t.” He let his gaze drift over her, some bit of male satisfaction fueling his blood when she shifted slightly under his examination. He added, “You look damn good in jeans, too.”
She looked down, focusing on something near her feet. “Thanks,” she said.
“Truce?”
She didn’t answer right away, just exhaled, long and loud. It was a sigh of resignation, and he knew then that he’d won.
“Halflings,” she said, her tone musing. She moved to the sofa and sat down, tucking one foot up under her as she grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest.
“Halflings,” he repeated. He moved off the table to take a seat in the chair next to her. He would have preferred moving to the couch beside her, but he didn’t want the miniscule
portion of her internal wall he’d knocked down to go back up. “Who would have thought our tainted blood would end up giving us such a political in?”
“Tainted?”
He frowned. “Sorry. That’s my father talking.”
For a moment, he expected her to argue—something about how his dad didn’t really think mortal blood was bad. But she said nothing, just nodded as she played with a bit of fringe on the pillow. After a moment, she looked up, her gaze steady despite misty eyes. “I didn’t even know I was a halfling until I was seven,” she said. She blinked, and a single tear ran down her cheek. “My mom died right after I was born, and my dad was never very tied into the whole Council thing. Still isn’t.”
“What happened?”
“She was on a mission,” Izzy said. She swiped the tear away. “She was trying to save a dozen mortal children. There’d been a school bus accident, and she . . . well, she got them to safety. But then there was an explosion. And my mom . . .” She sniffed, then rubbed the back of her hand under her nose, looking all of seven years old and just as innocent. “My mom was killed.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. He wanted to put an arm around her, to pull her close and comfort her, but that was a foolish urge. Izzy Frost didn’t even like him. And Mordi wasn’t about to offer himself only to get slapped away for it. Not when he was already on such shaky ground.
Beside him, she was taking deep breaths, pulling herself together. “It’s okay,” she said. “Sometimes I like to just sit and think about it, picturing my mom as this great hero, you know?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “My parents were hardly heroic.”
Her eyes softened, and her mouth curved into a smile. “Well, I’d just as soon my mom hadn’t been a hero if that would have meant she’d have been around for me more.” Mordi made a buzzing noise. “Nope. Sorry. Thanks for playing. No parents there for Mordi, heroic or not.”
She frowned. “Not even your mother?”
He knew what she meant: Didn’t you at least have someone around to counter all the havoc caused by your psycho dad?
“My mom . . . well, she . . .”
He trailed off, considering telling her simply that his mother was dead. But that wasn’t the case, and he didn’t want to start off with a pile of lies. Not with her. Not anymore than he had to.
“My mom wanted nothing to do with me,” he finally said. “As soon as she learned the truth about my dad—that he was a Protector, I mean, not that he was Outcast—she told him to get lost. And then, when my powers started to show up, she got rid of me, too.”
“Got rid of you?” Izzy’s voice rose, her tone scandalized. Mordi nodded. “She managed to track down my dad. Left me with him. I was seven.”
“Of course you were. That’s when halfling powers really start to show up.”
“Yeah, well, I thought mine were a curse. After all, if my powers had never surfaced, maybe my mom would have wanted me. She didn’t. I saw her only once more, when I was twelve. She called me a freak.”
“Your dad wanted you, though.”
“My dad wanted someone to do his bidding. And he hated the fact that I was a halfling. But I was all he had, and so he sucked it up. When he found out he had another son—a full Protector . . .” He waved his hands as if he could somehow wave away the memory. “Well, let’s just say that my place in the hierarchy dropped faster than you can say ‘favored son.’ ”
She leaned forward, pressing a soft hand on his pants-covered knee. “I’m sorry.”
As much as he wanted her touch, he didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for him, much less her. He shifted, pulling his leg out from under her hand as he stood up. Isole clasped her hands in her lap, her gaze shifting toward the window.
Mordi opened his mouth to apologize, and then closed it again. They’d almost connected, and he’d blown it. Now the silence hung between them like a dense fog, and he cast about for something to say, finding nothing.
When she turned back to him, he thought he saw a hint of color in her cheeks, and he felt like even more of an ass for pulling away and embarrassing her.
“At least things should improve between you two now,” she said.
He shook his head, squinting at her as he frowned. “Why?” he asked when it became clear that she didn’t intend to elaborate.
“Well . . .” It was her turn to frown, and he noticed the little creases on her forehead, the tiny V above her nose. Isole Frost was positively adorable, and Mordi could contentedly stare at her all night.
“Never mind,” she said. A shadow crossed her face, and he realized where she’d been going—the relationship could improve because Hieronymous was turning good. Soon it would be all wine and roses, not hard liquor and thorns.
Mordi knew better, but for the moment, Izzy seemed to be buying the crap that Hieronymous was selling. Inexplicable, really. The girl seemed so intelligent and insightful.
“Izzy—”
She held up a hand. “We’re a lot alike,” she said, apparently relying on non sequiturs to change the subject.
“How so?”
“Both raised by fathers who wanted us in their world, not the Protector world.”
“Your father didn’t want you to join the Council?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. He was fine with that when the time came. But he never went out of his way about the whole Protector thing. He knew it existed, of course, and he told me where to find information. And he let Zephron visit me and hire a coach so I’d at least have a shot at passing my halfling exams. But . . .
She trailed off with a shrug.
“But he didn’t nurture your talents.”
“Not by a long shot.”
“My father nurtured mine,” Mordi said. “He was determined that I’d be the heir to his empire. Not that he had an empire, mind you. And with every mistake I made, it was as if I’d stuck a knife in his heart and twisted. He hated that I was a halfling.” Mordi shrugged. “Naturally, I hated it, too.”
“And now?”
“Now it’s not so bad.” He moved to sit on the couch, making a huge leap of faith by sitting right next to her. Then he took an even bigger one and reached out to stroke her bare arm. She jerked away, and he let his hand drop, defeated, then cleared his throat. “I enjoy my work. I believe in it. And, hey,” he added with a self-deprecating shrug, “I get to work with people like you.”
For a moment she didn’t react; then her blue eyes warmed and a hint of a grin touched her mouth. She brushed her fingertips over her arm in exactly the manner he’d been intending. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, color rising in her cheeks. “It’s really best not to touch. Not without warning. And not if you want to keep . . . well . . . your secrets.”
“Right,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking.” So she was an empath and a mind reader—a woman who could discover every secret of his heart. She was the kind of woman who should positively terrify him, and yet all he felt was relief that she hadn’t pushed him away because she didn’t like him. She’d pushed him away so that she wouldn’t take his thoughts.
In response, he reached to touch her again, and this time she didn’t flinch. He brushed his fingertips over her cotton-clad shoulder, then traced the shirt’s neckline, careful to touch only the fabric and not the smooth flesh beneath. He traced a path down her shirt to her jeans, then drew a line with his fingertip to her knee. Her eyes were closed, and a faint smile played at her lips. When she looked at him, he kissed his fingertips and blew the kiss to her. She caught it in her palm and pressed it to her cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
They sat that way for a moment, and then her clock chimed the quarter hour. The spell was broken.
She cleared her throat. “You really did work for your father, though, right? I mean, everyone knows you were a mole, but before that, you worked for your dad.”
“Guilty,” he said.
“But now you don’t.”
“Right.”
“What changed?”
He didn’t answer right away. First he considered what to say; considered how to summarize a lifetime of being the disappointment, juxtaposed against an ever-growing revelation slowed only by his own inability to find inner strength. He had found it, though. In the end he’d found the courage to not only walk away, but to betray his father in the name of doing good.
Finally, he said simply to Izzy, “I changed.”
“You realized what your father wanted was wrong, and you walked away from it. Your whole perspective changed, and you along with it.”
“Something like that.”
She nodded slowly, as if pondering some deep mystery. “Was it hard?”
“Yeah.” A knife twisted in his stomach.
“But you still managed.”
Did she not trust him? He met her eyes dead-on, and nodded. “I managed.”
“Then is it really so hard to believe that your father might have changed, too?”
Her words hit him with the force of a blow, violent and unexpected. He sucked in air, then gave her the only answer he knew. The only truth he knew. “Yes, Isole. It is.”
12
Surprisingly enough, Mordi didn’t spend any more time trying to convince her that Hieronymous was pulling a fast one. Who knows? Maybe she’d managed to sway him with her argument. After all, if Mordi could come over to the good side, then why not his father?
She breathed deep, trying to pick up the scent of his thoughts, but all she picked up on were fluttery bits of attraction. She blushed and focused on her tea, fighting both guilt and flattery—pleased that he liked her, especially since the feeling was mutual; embarrassed for feeling like an emotional voyeur, looking in where other women couldn’t see.
With supreme effort, she managed to ignore that scent of attraction. She told herself it didn’t matter anyway, she wasn’t influenced by it. Women all over the world were astute enough to tell when a man liked them. She just had a tiny little advantage.