“Master Talent,” said the guard, “they are waiting for you.”
This irked him. He was precisely on time and the director was already waiting? And what did the guard mean “they”? It ought to be solely him and the director. Who the bloody devil else would—
Her scent slammed into him like a punch. And what little equanimity he’d maintained flew out the door. Oh, no, no, no… They wouldn’t dare. He eyed the inner wood door that blocked him from the meeting room. She was in there.
His muscles clenched tight as he forced himself to enter.
“Ah, Master Talent,” said Director Wilde from the head of the table. “Right on time. Excellent. Let us proceed.” His clipped voice was unusually animated, as if he knew Jack’s displeasure at the unexpected third person in the room and reveled in it. Which wouldn’t be surprising. Wilde loved to unsettle Regulators.
Jack heard every word, but his gaze moved past the director and locked on her. She sat at Wilde’s right, serene and ethereal as ever. Her face was a perfect replica of Botticelli’s Venus, and her body… No, he wouldn’t think about that. It was one rule he refused to break.
Her golden gaze met his with cool assessment, as if nothing he said or did affected her in the least, as if he was as interesting to her as wallpaper. And that irked him even more.
Mary Chase would like to think that, after years of being on the receiving end of Jack Talent’s hateful glare, she’d be immune to it by now. Unfortunately, it still worked through her flesh like a lure, hooking in tight and tugging at something deep within her. One look and she wanted to jump from her chair and hit him. However, knowing that he too found her presence bothersome gave her some small satisfaction.
Talent dropped his large body into the chair opposite her. She suspected that he sought to do so gracelessly in order to convey his displeasure, but the blasted man was too naturally coordinated, and the move ended up appearing effortless. “Director Wilde.”
Talent turned back to Mary again. His rough-hewn features might have been carved from stone. “Mistress Chase.”
Oh, but the way he said her name, all oil and flame, as if it burned him to utter it.
Mary dug a fingernail into her palm and modulated her voice. “Mr. Talent.”
He paused for a moment, his brows rising a touch in reproach. She’d been childish in not giving him the proper address, but some things burned for her too.
His quick, irrepressible smirk said he knew as much. “Master,” he reminded.
He loved that she had to call him master. Their first year as allocates, he’d taken every opportunity to make her use the official title for all Regulators. Their gazes held, and heat rose to her cheeks. Thank God she hadn’t the complexion to blush, or he’d be all over her. “Master Talent,” she ground out.
That annoying smirk deepened, and her nails dug deeper into the flesh of her palms. One day…
“Now that we have our names clear,” cut in Wilde, “might we proceed with the actual investigation?” His slanting brows lowered. “Or shall we continue with this little pissing contest?”
“It was no contest.” Talent adjusted his broad shoulders in the chair and crossed one leg over the other.
Never react. She turned her gaze upon the director. “I was ready to hear the facts of the case twenty minutes ago, Director.”
Talent bristled, and she let a small smile escape. He bristled further, but Director Wilde ploughed past it.
“Good.” Setting his hands upon the polished mahogany table, Director Wilde proceeded to give them the facts. Mary had memorized them, and so she let the director’s words drift over her as she studied Talent. The man was good, his strong features not revealing any hint that he too knew every fact or that he had intimate knowledge of the Bishop of Charing Cross’s kills.
One powerful arm rested upon the table, and though the fabric of his plain black suit coat bunched along the large swell of his bicep, Talent did not so much as twitch when the director set down a photograph of the victim.
“Mr. Keating of Park Place,” said Director Wilde. “As with the other murders, he has been branded with the Bishop’s cross. After which, his spine was severed and his heart shredded. The sole difference in this victim,” he continued, “is that, while the others were demons, this man was a shifter, and by all accounts, a law-abiding citizen of London.”
Mary glanced at the photo, featuring an older man, stripped naked. The cross branding his chest was a raw, ugly wound, but it was his eyes, wide and staring, that made her clockwork heart hurt. It was the expression of an innocent man pleading for mercy.
Talent looked as well. And when he did, she watched him. The ends of his brows lifted a fraction, and if she weren’t certain of his guilt, she’d be inclined to believe that he was surprised.
“Do you know him, Master Talent?”
Wilde’s query had Mary focusing once more.
Talent’s heavily-lidded eyes lifted from the photograph. “Shifters by nature are a solitary lot. No, I did not know Mr. Keating.” His long, scarred fingers curled into a fist upon the table. “I was under the impression that the SOS kept the identity of shifters secret.”
The director’s mouth tightened. “We do. There is no indication that the files have been breached.”
Talent made a noise that might have been construed as a snort, but it was just soft enough to get by Wilde without earning any reproach. For once, however, Mary agreed with Talent’s sentiment.
After researching long into the night, Mary had learned that, in the last hundred years, the SOS had made a concerted effort to locate and document the existence of all shifters living in Europe. A daunting task. However, when the Nex began hunting shifters for their blood—whose properties gave demons the ability to shift into anything—the SOS, realizing their mistake in outing shifters, provided as much protection as they could by offering the shifters new identities and keeping their whereabouts hidden.
Talent leaned forward a fraction. “Who was Keating? Before?”
“Johannes Maxum.” Wilde pulled a paper from his file and handed it to Talent. “He’s an older shifter. Date of birth unknown, but he once worked as an alchemist for Augustus the Strong in the quest to discover the Chinese’s secret to making porcelain.”
Talent scanned the page, then set it down. Protocol dictated that he hand the paper to Mary, and she might have been insulted at his obvious slight, had she not been expecting it. No matter, she’d read about Maxum as well. Besides, she would not be cowed by Talent’s juvenile tactics.
In any event, Director Wilde was now looking at both of them. “You two will lead the investigation. Research has been instructed to provide any and all assistance you might require.” He ordered the file as he spoke. “We need to be quick about this one. I needn’t tell you how important it is to keep shifter blood out of the Nex’s hands.” He stopped and a flashed a quick smile that made him appear younger than a man in his late thirties. “But I will.”
Mary rather liked Wilde’s dry sense of humor and smiled. Talent, however sneered as if he’d been punched. “I work alone. Always have.”
“Not this time, Master Talent.” Wilde set the file down. “Any more questions?” He pulled a gold watch from his pocket and frowned. “I’m needed elsewhere in about five minutes.”
The sound of Talent’s teeth grinding filled the room. “I was under the impression Mistress Chase was here in a clerical capacity.”
“You hoped,” Mary corrected. “Otherwise, I have grave concerns regarding your propensity for jumping to conclusions.”
Talent leaned his weight on the table as his gaze bore into her. “Keep baiting me, Chase, and you’ll find out what else I have a propensity for.”
She leaned in as well, until they faced each other like dogs in a pit ring. “I am quaking in my knickers.”
“There you go again, mentioning your knickers.” His mouth slanted, and his eyes gleamed. “What I cannot discern is if you only do so to me, or if
you want the whole of the SOS to be thinking about them.”
“Why Master Talent, are you trying to tell me that you think about my knickers?”
His lips pinched so tight that she had to bite back a grin. A low growl rumbled from the vicinity of his chest.
“Children.” Director Wilde’s expression was stern, but his eyes held a glint of amusement. “The discussion is over. You will work together on this.” His good humor fled. “And you will not fail the SOS. Now,” he motioned to the door with his chin, “take your squabble out of here. Perhaps you can pull Mistress Chase’s braids in the common room, Master Talent.”
Mary might have laughed at the way Talent’s high-cut cheeks flushed with irritation, but she stood and gave Wilde a graceful curtsey. “No need, Director. I am done here as well.” She wanted out of this room. Lord knew she needed a head start. For one thing was certain, Talent was far from done with her.
On the outside, Mary knew she appeared serene as she left the meeting room. On the inside, however, she quivered in anticipation. A calm before the inevitable storm. And that storm was right on her heels.
Although, in truth, Jack Talent reminded her more of a panther, all dark and brooding, his powerful body so still when at rest, yet capable of instant, violent action.
Mary headed down the corridor, knowing that, while he made no sound, he stalked her. The skin at the back of her neck prickled, and her heart whirred away within her breast. With his shifter’s senses, he’d hear her spinning heart, she was sure. It was torture not to quicken her step or turn around.
By the time she reached the shadowed corner that led to another section of headquarters, her breast rose and fell in agitation. Damn him.
And damn her too, for some small, traitorous part of her liked the chase, reveled in it. Gripping her weapon, she waited until his heavy hand fell upon her shoulder, and then she spun.
He grunted as they both hit the wall. The hard expanse of his chest barely gave under her weight as she pressed against him. For a moment, they both panted, then his gaze lowered to the knife she had at his throat.
She expected his rage, but not his grin, that wide, brilliant grin that lit up his dour features and did strange things to her equilibrium. His cheeky smile grew as he spoke. “Pulling iron on me, Chase? How bloodthirsty.” His hot breath fanned her cheeks. “I knew you had it in you.”
But he had no idea.
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Kristen Callihan
Dear Reader,
I write books set in the Victorian era. Usually we don’t see women with careers in historical romance, but one of the best things about exploring this “other” London in my Darkest London series is that my heroines can lead atypical lives.
In WINTERBLAZE, Poppy Ellis Lane is not only a quiet bookseller and loving wife, she’s also part of an organization dedicated to keeping the populace of London in the dark about supernatural beasts that roam the streets—a discovery that comes as quite a shock to her husband, Police Inspector Winston Lane.
Now pregnant, Poppy Lane develops a craving for all things baked, but most especially fresh breads. Being hard-working, however, Poppy has little time or patience for complicated baking—an inclination I share! Popovers are a great compromise, as they are ridiculously easy to make and ridiculously good.
Poppy’s Popovers (yields about 6 popovers)
You’ll need:
• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 2 eggs
• 1 cup milk
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
Topping (optional)
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• a dash of cayenne pepper (to taste)
• 4 tablespoons melted butter
Directions
1. Preheat oven to 450 degrees F. Spray muffin tin with nonstick spray or butter and sprinkle with flour. (I like the spray for the easy factor.)
2. In a bowl, begin to whisk eggs; add in flour, milk, and salt, and beat until it just turns smooth. Do not over-beat; your popovers will be resentful and tough if you do! Fill up each muffin cup until halfway full–the popovers are going to rise. (Like, a lot.)
3. Bake for 20 minutes at 450 degrees F, then lower oven temperature to 350 degrees F and bake 20 minutes more, until golden brown and puffy.
4. Meanwhile, for topping, mix the sugar, cinnamon, and dash of cayenne pepper—this is hot stuff and you only want a hint of it—in a shallow bowl and stir until combined. Melt butter in another bowl and set aside.
5. Remove popovers from the muffin pan, being careful not to puncture them. Then brush with melted butter and roll them in the sugar mix, shaking off the excess. Serve immediately.
Inspector Lane likes to add a dollop of raspberry jam and feed them to his wife in the comfort of their bed. He claims they make Poppy quite agreeable… Ahem. You, however, might like to enjoy them with a cup of tea and a good book!
From the desk of R.C. Ryan
Dear Reader,
To me there’s nothing sexier than a strong, handsome hunk with a soft spot for kids and animals. That’s why, in Book 3 of my Wyoming Sky series, I decided that my hero, Jake Conway, would be a veterinarian, as well as the town heartthrob. Now, who could I choose to play the love interest of a charming cowboy who has all the females from sixteen to sixty sighing? Why not a smart, cool, sophisticated, Washington, D.C. lawyer who looks, as Jake describes her, “as out of place as a prom dress at a rodeo”? Better yet, just to throw Meg Stanford even more off her stride, why not add a surprise half-brother with whom she has absolutely nothing in common?
I had such fun watching these two try every possible way to deny the attraction.
But there’s so much more to their story than a hot romance. There’s also the fact that someone wants to harm Meg and her little half-brother. And what about the mystery that has haunted the Conway family for twenty-five years? The disappearance of Seraphine, mother of Quinn, Josh, and Jake, chronicled in Books 1 and 2, will finally be resolved in Book 3.
In writing the stories of Quinn, Josh, and Jake, I completely lost my heart to this strong, loving family, and I confess I had mixed emotions as I wrote the final chapter.
I hope all of my readers will enjoy the journey. I guarantee you a bumpy but exhilarating ride.
Happy Reading!
RyanLangan.com
Twitter, @RuthRyanLangan
Facebook.com
From the desk of Margaret Mallory
Dear Reader,
Ilysa is in love with her older brother’s best friend. Sad to say, the lass doesn’t have a chance with him.
As her clan chieftain, Connor MacDonald is the sixteenth-century Highland equivalent of a pro quarterback, movie star, Special Forces hero, and CEO all rolled into one. And the handsome, black-haired warrior never even noticed Ilysa before his unexpected rise to the chieftainship.
Other women, who are always attempting to lure Connor into bed—and failing, by the way—are drawn to him by his status, handsome face, and warrior’s body. While no lass with a pulse could claim to be unaffected by Connor’s devastating looks, Ilysa loves him for his noble heart. Connor MacDonald would give his life for the lowliest member of their clan, and Ilysa would give hers for him.
Connor MacDonald is the hope of his clan, a burden that weighs upon every decision he makes. Since becoming chieftain, he has devoted himself to raising his people from the ashes. With the help of his cousins (in The Guardian and The Sinner) and his best friend (in The Warrior), he has survived murder attempts by his own kin, threats from royals and rebels, and attacks by other clans. Now all that remains to secure his clan’s future is to take back the lands that were stolen by the powerful MacLeods.
Through the first three books in The Return of the Highlander series, Ilysa has worked quietly and efficiently behind the scenes to support Connor and the clan. None of her efforts has made him look at her twice. Clearl
y, it’s time for me to step in and give Connor a shake.
The poor lass does need help. Her mother thought she was protecting Ilysa in a violent world by covering her in severe kerchiefs and oversized gowns and admonishing her to never draw attention to herself. Ilysa’s brief marriage left her feeling even less appealing.
But Ilysa underestimates her worth. After all, who helped our returning heroes in The Guardian sneak into the castle the night they took it from Connor’s murderous uncle? And who healed Connor’s wounds and brought him back from death’s door? Even now, while Connor fights to protect the clan, Ilysa is willing to employ a bit of magic to protect him, whether from the threat of an assassin or a deceitful woman with silver-blue eyes.
Unfortunately, Ilysa’s chances grow more dismal still when Connor decides he must marry to gain an ally for the clan’s coming fight with the MacLeods. As I watched him consider one chieftain’s daughter after another, I knew not one of them was the right wife for him or the clan. What our chieftain needs is a woman who can heal the wounds of his heart—and watch his back.
But Connor is no fool. With a little prodding, he finally opened his eyes and saw that Ilysa is the woman he wants. Passion burns! Yay! However, my relief is short lived because the stubborn man is determined to put the needs of the clan before his own desires. Admirable as that may be, I can’t let him marry the wrong woman, can I?
Despite all my efforts, I fear Connor will lose everything before he realizes that love is the strongest ally. With Ilysa’s life and his clan’s future hanging by a thread, will he be too late to save them?
I hope you enjoy the adventurous love story of Connor and Ilysa. I’ve found it hard to say goodbye to them and this series.
You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, and my website, www.MargaretMallory.com. I love to hear from readers!
From the desk of Cynthia Garner
Dear Reader,
My latest novel, HEART OF THE DEMON, takes two of my favorite preternaturals—demon and fey—and puts them together. Tough guy Finn Evnissyen has met his match in Keira O’Brien!
Winterblaze Page 35