Guarded Heart Read online

She’d kept him asleep too long. True, he’d needed to catch up. But his covens no doubt wondered what had happened to him. Morgan needed to reassure them he was fine.

  His stomach rumbled. He’d not eaten since dinner last night. But it wasn’t food he craved most. Maybe it was good Brook hadn’t been in the room when he’d woken.

  He started for the bathroom, already knowing what he’d do next. She’d mocked him for it last night. Given her behavior after he’d nearly fucked her in the back of the limo, he was certain she’d prefer he take the edge off while she was gone.

  Beneath the steamy water, he fantasized what he’d do to her when she returned. How he’d hear the door open when he stepped dripping from the shower. And how he’d slam her against the wall, rasping in her ear that he owed her a magical manipulation. The threat of forcing her to magically submit would be enough of a tease that he wouldn’t have to actually go through with it. She would stand motionless while he kneaded her breasts beneath the satin gown he’d never forget. Her eyelashes would flutter and she’d moan as she had in the car.

  He came against the tub surround with surprising force. Reality soaked in.

  His vow. Her job.

  He soaped the rest of his body with efficient motions. Minutes later he was dry and clad in the tuxedo pants and loose dress shirt. He took one of the cushioned chairs to the left of the bed and then flipped on the television for a bit of mindless entertainment.

  * * * * *

  Brook paused outside the door with the plastic card in hand. The emotional signature inside belonged to Morgan. He was alone. And impatient.

  Impatience was far better than what she’d feared. She drew in a quick breath and then slipped the card into the lock. The light flipped from red to green. The door clicked.

  Impatience soon faded into anticipation. He’d heard the click. Brook twisted the handle down, adopting a professional veneer before she stepped inside.

  Morgan reclined in a chair beside the bed. His gaze was fixed on her despite the flickering television he’d been watching.

  Brook shook the paper fast-food bag and cradled drinks at him. She tossed the plastic bag she’d had hanging from her other wrist. It landed atop the bed where he’d slept. He cast it a mere glance before returning his attention to her.

  Pale eyes narrowed as they scanned down her body, noting the jeans and T-shirt she now wore. His lips twisted up at one corner. Disappointment swallowed down his anticipation.

  Good. She’d rather have his disappointment than his anticipation.

  He didn’t move as she set the food bag and cardboard drink caddy atop the bed despite the growling they both heard from the vicinity of his stomach—his smooth, muscular stomach. Brook stalked into the bathroom.

  Hours she’d paced the damn room debating when to wake him, fearing how he’d react to what she’d done. Hours she’d struggled with desire. She’d tried to overcome it—to stare at his nudity and conquer her needs. Twice she’d failed and ended in masturbation. Twice she’d discovered it hadn’t helped.

  That’s when she’d called for a cab.

  But the most disturbing portion of the day had been sensing him wake. From fifteen miles away. It was impossible for the empathic link to report from that distance. Yet it had. Or something had.

  Brook allowed herself to hide for two more minutes before she returned to the room. He’d braved the bed while she’d been hiding. Morgan sat chewing french fries in the seat he’d originally held. The extra cheeseburger and carton of fries lay atop the crinkled bag on the bed. He’d shown her where he wanted her to sit by leaving it there.

  She dropped onto the bed beside the food, grabbing at the burger.

  “You’re not going to eat the fries first?” he queried as her fingers peeled away the paper wrapper.

  “I don’t like them when they’re hot.”

  “I don’t like them when they’re cold.”

  Brook gestured at her carton. “Then eat yours and mine until they’re cold. I’ll take what’s left.”

  “What if they stay hot long enough for me to finish them all?”

  She merely sent him an impatient look. He shook his head once before hopping to his feet, retrieving the carton. Quickly he was on his side of the room again.

  Several minutes, two commercials for used car dealers and a promo for a prime-time television show passed before he spoke again. “What kind of car did you get?”

  “A Rolls-Royce,” she said.

  It was his turn to shoot her an impatient look.

  Brook gave the true answer once she’d reveled in his irritation for a half-dozen seconds. “I got a luxury sedan. One you wouldn’t scoff at if you were forced to get inside.”

  “I’m not a snob, Brook.”

  She let her lips curve in a mocking smile.

  “I’m not,” he said.

  “Most people wouldn’t care what kind of rental car their Ranger got.”

  “I was making small talk.”

  Yes, the car was a safe topic. Not much else was safe these days.

  If he wanted a discussion, she’d give him one. A safe one even. A professional one.

  “Master Destan phoned earlier,” she said. “Your covens believe you’re dead.”

  Morgan choked on his next bite of potato.

  Brook went on, “We agreed it would be best to allow the flood of misinformation.”

  “How could that possibly be best?”

  “Someone will step up to take your place. They’ll be the prime suspect.”

  “Irvin will step up.”

  She nodded. Her teeth broke through a particularly tough piece of lettuce. She slowly chewed the bite.

  “Because he’s my uncle and closest confidant.” Morgan’s pitch lifted in indignation. “The covens would look to him for answers. Him stepping up does not make him guilty.”

  “Guilty, no,” Brook said behind her napkin. “But a suspect nonetheless. He gains the most from your death.”

  “Irvin wouldn’t try to kill me. He’s not a suspect.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree.”

  Morgan slapped his fries onto the table. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Brook let her brows drift north though she kept her lips clamped tight. She wouldn’t remind him of the parts of her that had changed drastically since they were kids. The parts he’d sucked last night.

  “You still think the worst of everyone.”

  She didn’t think the worst of him. Even though he popped to the edge of his seat and gave her his most disappointed of expressions, Brook knew Morgan had changed. His lack of a female and a family were the proof of that.

  She drew in a stealthy breath that enabled her calm retort. “And you still enjoy pointing out my every fault.”

  “I don’t understand it. Your life wasn’t that different from mine.”

  Her father hadn’t accepted her as his had him. But his father had also taken him from his mother. She supposed in that aspect they were a little alike.

  “We both had single parents,” he said. “We vacationed by the ocean but lived inland. We didn’t have any siblings. Yet you’re suspicious of everyone. And guarded.”

  And he was an open book, sharing everything with everyone regardless of whether they wanted it. She didn’t speak the words. Morgan knew what he was just as she knew what she was and didn’t need him to speak her perceived faults aloud.

  “You could be happy if you’d just let someone in,” he said.

  “I am happy.”

  “You can’t even look me in the eyes when you say it.”

  She couldn’t look him in the eyes because seeing them reminded her of how they’d been heavy with desire in the limo less than twenty-four hours earlier.

  Brook forced her attention in his direction. She defiantly held his pale gaze. “I’ll be happier when I’m finally a master-level Ranger. To do that, I need to solve your predicament. And that involves keeping your covens in the dark until I can find who did this to you.
Meanwhile the investigators are checking the lake house for clues.”

  “Human investigators?”

  Brook tilted her head. “Cleaners.” She knew what he was going to ask before his teeth unclenched. “They’re looking for spellweaves. Once they’ve determined the place is clean of magic, they’ll let the fire inspector do his job.”

  “You think it’s a witch.”

  “Of course I think it’s a witch.”

  “Even though it’s been guns in my face and explosions,” Morgan said as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “Not only do I think it’s a witch, I also think it’s a witch who knows your schedule.”

  His mouth froze in the act of forming a syllable.

  “Think about it,” she said. “Someone rigged your place to blow on a night they knew you’d be out. That narrows it down to the individuals who knew you’d be attending the charity function. If we further narrow down the pool to only witches, we come up with a handful of names.”

  “It wasn’t Irvin!”

  “Mira then?” Brook let her pitch rise in mocking sweetness. “You’d rather her jealousy have sent her from the party to rig your lake house so you’d blow up when you returned home, exhausted from dancing?”

  “She wouldn’t.” His insistence wasn’t nearly as emphatic this time.

  “We never really know people.” Brook dropped the remaining bits of her burger into the paper bag. Her appetite had fled. “I’m going for ice.”

  She left before he had a chance to give his standard response about her pessimism.

  We never really know people.

  Morgan’s first thought hadn’t been to wonder if Brook was right about Mira or Irvin. Instead, he’d contemplated whether he really knew her. And next had been to wish he did.

  They’d not spent more than a few weeks in each other’s company since he was a child yet he felt as though he’d known Brook his entire life. When all was said and done, he didn’t truly know a thing about her. For high tide’s sake, he hadn’t even known if she’d been married. Or what would possess her to change her name after her father’s death.

  Morgan knew one thing. He wanted to change that. He wanted to learn the ins and the outs of the beautiful and prickly Ranger. Before the investigation finished and she escaped for good.

  Brook was her usual thorny self when she returned with the bucket of ice several minutes later. She set her parcel beside the television and then retreated to the bathroom. Again.

  “I bought you a change of clothes,” she called from around the wall. “In that bag. You should change before we leave.”

  “Leave?”

  “We can’t stay here. We need to get out of the city.”

  Morgan opened his mouth to argue they were already on the outskirts of the city. But she was the Ranger, supposedly the best they had. She knew what to do in this situation.

  “It will only be for a day or two,” she said. “You won’t have to live in squalor for long.”

  His felt his forehead scrunch tight in irritation. She certainly made it difficult for a man to be obliging.

  “Just until someone steps up, we track funds from the source and we lay a trap for the perp.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. But then he didn’t like guns in his face and his home exploding either. Morgan got to his feet and fetched the bag. He took his time removing his shirt, hoping she’d catch him undressing. It was foolish, but he couldn’t stop.

  She rummaged about in the bathroom throughout his leisurely undressing and redressing as if she’d known exactly what he’d been up to. After her timely phone call earlier, maybe she had. Brook appeared moments after he’d finally zipped up the new jeans.

  They fit. Perfectly. Had she undressed him simply to check his size? He wanted to ask but wasn’t prepared for the answer.

  Brook stopped inside the main space, regarding him with a steady gaze that told him nothing of her mood. “I’m going to bring the ice down to the cooler and then check us out of here. Will you make sure we have everything packed?”

  She was asking for help?

  No, she was delegating. Morgan nodded for her. And then he was alone again.

  Packing was easy given they’d arrived with no luggage. He spent several minutes scouring beneath the furniture for the gown she’d worn last night. It was nowhere to be found. Morgan’s mood plummeted at the thought of her burning it in some waste bin on the side of the road simply to cleanse herself of the memory of his hands on her.

  Perhaps Brook hadn’t needed to do anything so drastic. Perhaps Morgan was the only one suffering from the memory. She’d certainly been back to normal.

  Apart from his waking nude.

  Morgan shouldn’t have experienced exhilaration upon recalling his state of undress. But he’d never disrobed in his sleep before. Brook had done something to him. And that meant she might have looked.

  His lungs deflated when he recalled the contract. Brook wasn’t here because she wanted to be. This was a job. He had to remember that.

  Chapter Eight

  Brook focused on the road ahead with every sense open. Road rage brushed across her subconscious here and there—nowhere near the level of a weeknight during rush hour. She doubted they’d be attacked on the road, especially considering the covens believed Morgan was dead. But the culprit need only check with the police to learn the truth. She still had to be on her guard.

  Her passenger was surprisingly quiet in the seat beside her. The wobbly press of his emotion implied uncertainty. Brook stifled the urge to ask him what was wrong. Too many answers could be given. Few she wanted to hear.

  No doubt Morgan worried about the possibility someone close to him wanted him dead. Then again, he probably stubbornly clung to his good faith. It wouldn’t surprise her if he steadfastly believed neither Irvin nor Mira capable of this level of betrayal.

  Brook knew better. She simply didn’t know which of the two was responsible. For Morgan’s benefit, she hoped it was Mira. The hurt he’d experience from Mira’s betrayal would be far less than if his own flesh and blood had plotted to have him offed.

  But what did she care? Morgan needed a wake-up call. He needed to understand the world wasn’t waterslides and summer bubbles. There was a dark underbelly he must face if he was going to be a good regional priest.

  “Where are we going?” he asked minutes later.

  She didn’t know. But she’d know it when she saw it. Telling him that wouldn’t improve the situation. Instead, she slanted an impatient look his way.

  “You know, you could try being civil once in a while,” he said. “It would improve relations with your clients.”

  The image of relations with this client formed in her mind. Brook battled it down with frantic force, hoping against all odds the powerful witch wouldn’t note her sudden spike of arousal.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  Damn it.

  “I shouldn’t be so critical,” he said. “You’re trying to help.”

  Was that what the apology referenced? Or had he indeed noted her slide into Naughtyville? Either way, Brook would take advantage of it.

  “I’m trying to do a job,” she said with a clipped delivery.

  “I know.”

  The slight sigh he released as he spoke the words echoed the deflating sensation squeezing her consciousness. Dismay. The man broadcast much he’d probably rather she not experience. So why hadn’t he locked out the empathic link?

  An image of Morgan nude, sprawled on the hotel bed, flared in her mind. Brook’s teeth clamped tightly behind thinning lips.

  Why had she pictured that now? He’d not said anything. There’d been no questionable words to take out of context. What was wrong with her?

  Brook needed to focus on the job. “Tell me about Irvin.”

  Morgan’s gaze snapped toward the driver’s seat. “So you can pick apart his every decision, looking for the evil?”

  Her temper threatened to flare. Indifference, she
silently chanted in the hope of softening her mood before she ripped him a new hole.

  Fortunately, ignoring the man’s accusatory question worked better than allowing him to see he’d angered her.

  He offered up a quiet apology and then relayed Irvin’s history. “He’s six years younger than my father was. They were close. Right up until his death.”

  “How did your father die?”

  Sharp pressure jabbed at her consciousness from his direction. Anger.

  Let him be angry. This was her job. And she only had to do it because he was too trusting to believe the worst of anyone…apart from her.

  “Car accident,” Morgan said at last. He adopted a slow, condescending tone she longed to smack out of his throat. “A perfectly normal accident on the freeway with a pair of 18-wheelers. Irvin had nothing to do with it.”

  Brook ignored her rising frustration, again calling on indifference to stamp out everything else. She was proud of the neutrality infused in her voice. “Where was Irvin during this?”

  “He didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Then you won’t mind answering the question.”

  Several silent moments stretched on in the rental car’s cabin during which the only noise was the occasional bump beneath the chassis and Morgan’s breath. Was he still awake? The flutter of lashes in her peripheral vision implied he was. But she’d seen witches check out for a few minutes.

  “He was in the car,” Morgan said.

  His monotone response made Brook catalog every emotion he broadcast. Wobbles, zings, collapses, jabs and sinking—he was all over the place.

  Had Irvin been in the same car as his elder brother during the accident? Was that why Morgan was extra worked up?

  The silence continued. Was he finally questioning his perception?

  The more worrisome question was why Brook had the strange urge to console him now that he had. She needed to solve this mystery before she discovered that answer.

  Vehicles shifted and passed ahead but Morgan was hardly aware of them. He’d finally discovered something to take his mind off how badly he wanted to kiss Brook bloody Lochlan. But Morgan would prefer to fight lust than experience this.