"Aphrodite's_Kiss_008" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_01]_-_Aphrodite's_Kiss_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file html))

APHRODITE'SKISS-JULIEKENNER

Chapter Five

Hale was in town. What a wonderful surprise!
When he’d zipped up in the Ferrari, she’d assumed he was just dropping by on his way to the Mediterranean. But instead of Greece, he’d told her he was camped out in a suite at the Beverly Wilshire, and would see her tomorrow after he’d had his share of room service and a few other accoutrements of high living.
She lifted her braid and ran the towel along the back of her neck, stifling a grin. Her brother liked to live well. For that matter, he liked the whole Protector lifestyle. She didn’t need to wonder what he’d think of her silly pseudocrush on a mortal—he’d be mortified.
He’d also be mortified that tomorrow she’d promised to tell her deep, dark secrets to a mortal who wasn’t her mother. It was a conversation Zoë wasn’t exactly looking forward to. Fortunately, Deena’d had plans with Hoop, and that had bought Zoë some time before the these-are-my-issues conversation. In the end, though, Zoë had promised she’d give Deena the skinny. So now she had one evening before she had to reveal all. No wonder her stomach was twitching so much.
And Deena was the least of her problems. The big problem was Mordi. She should have reported him to the council right away. She knew that, but she hadn’t done it. Ratting on Mordi would mean confessing to interfering, to using her propulsion cloak, to revealing herself to a mortal, and to getting her picture in the newspapers.
All those confessions would mean big, ugly black marks on her application. Her application was already on shaky ground; she wasn’t too keen on messing up her chances even more.
Still, she really should tell. For one thing, the council probably already knew. And even if her stunt had gone unnoticed ... well, the council needed to know if Protectors—even halflings—were running around mugging innocent women.
It was all so very odd. And she hadn’t a clue what her cousin was up to. Mordi’d never been mean. A little moody, maybe, but never cruel. Also, council members swore an oath to protect mortals, not attack them.
Of course, Mordi wasn’t a member yet. But, like Zoë, he was getting close. Closer, even, since he’d surely already submitted his Affidavit of Mortal Disclosure. After all, unlike Tessa, his mother had known for years. But this mugger stunt would be a definite black mark against him. Not to mention it was just plain rude.
She frowned, frustrated by the thoughts running through her head. Maybe she should go put in another thousand or so sit-ups. Or chin-ups. She hated chin-ups, but if that didn’t get her mind off Deena and her punishment and Mordi—not to mention those ever-present thoughts about that Buster Taylor—nothing would.
Armed with the promise of an evening free of Buster-Mordi-punishment-Deena-revelation thoughts, she headed for her mailboxes, humming the theme from Rocky. She’d left her glasses in her apartment, and now she checked out her mail, trying to decide if it was even worth bothering to get—a few bills, a Pottery Barn catalog, and a “you could be a winner” letter from Publishers Clearing House. Boring.
She took a peek at the mail inside Mrs. Callahan’s box, wondering if hers was any better. It was probably some sort of felony offense to examine someone else’s mail that way, but Mrs. Callahan was forever forgetting to pick up the stuff, and Zoë hated to see the sweet woman do without something important.
Junk, junk, junk, Victoria’s Secret catalog, junk, AARP magazine, junk, junk, check. Aha.
She circled the staircase and peered through the woman’s door, not wanting to wake her if she was asleep. No worries there; the woman was up, watching
Wheel of Fortune. Zoë rapped on the door.
“Well, hello, dear,” Mrs. Callahan said, after she’d checked through the peephole.
“Hi, Mrs. Callahan.”
“Mary, dear. I’ve told you a hundred times.”
Zoë smiled. “Hi, Mary.”
“You’re all dressed up. Do you have a date?”
“Uh, these are my workout clothes.”
Mary patted her hand. “A man who’ll love you when you look like hell will love you always.”
Somehow that didn’t make Zoë feel better. Especially since there was no man. No boyfriend, no dates, no social life whatsoever. Except for throwing herself off a thirty-story building, the high point of her day was this: chatting about her less than trendy wardrobe with her eighty-something neighbor.
Mary opened the door wider. “Would you like some spice cake and tea? I was just having a snack and watching Vanna. That woman’s outfits, well, I tell you ...”
“No, thanks.” Spice cake sounded, well, too spicy. And Zoë didn’t need to have one of her food moments in front of the woman. “I just wanted to let you know that I got a glimpse of the mail earlier while the postman was filling the boxes. I think your check’s in there.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling behind Coke-bottle glasses. “I don’t suppose you saw my”—she lowered her voice—“catalog.”
“Your catalog?”
“You know,” she said, her voice still in a whisper, “Victoria’s Secret.”
Zoë stifled a giggle. “Yeah, I think I saw it there.”
The woman let out a sigh. “Marvin would have loved that store. Back in my day, all we had was Sears Roebuck.” She leaned closer. “That’s just not the same.”
Zoë nodded, sure that if she spoke, she’d laugh.
“You’re sure about the cake?”
“I’m sure,” Zoë said. “Would you like me to bring you your mail?”
“No, thank you, dear. I’ll get it tomorrow when the postman comes.” She patted Zoë’s hand. “He’s quite a hunk, you know.”
“Right.” She’d never considered Mr. Davidson a hunk, but then she wasn’t over eighty.
She said good-bye, then headed back toward the staircase, sure she was grinning like an idiot. If she was that spunky when she hit eighty-five, she’d consider it a victory.
She headed back up the stairs, mentally ticking off all the things she needed to do before going to bed. She was debating whether or not the dishes could wait until morning—she was on spring break after all—when she felt it.
Someone was watching her.
She whipped around, her head cocked, trying to focus her hearing. She heard the gentle, sand-paperish sound of the cat in 4B bathing, Vanna White and Pat Sajak chitchatting on Mary’s television, someone cooking in the apartment behind the mailboxes. She sniffed... fettuccine Alfredo, garlic bread, Caesar salad, and red wine. The guy in 2A must have a hot date.
None of the sounds or smells seemed threatening, yet something wasn’t right.
She listened again, this time picking up sounds from the street behind her. Teenagers laughing and smoking in front of the liquor store down the street, crickets chirping in the dark, the wind whispering through the bushes. And something else. Someone breathing.
Who? Her gaze roamed the street. All was quiet, no people around at all. Even the teenagers were out of her line of sight. And this sound was close by. She didn’t know why, but she had a funny feeling. She shivered, her eyes drawn to a perfectly restored Mustang convertible parked right across the street from her building. She frowned, sure it didn’t belong to one of the residents.
Curious, she took a step toward it, and the breathing seemed louder. Odd. The top was down. It wasn’t as if there was anyone in the car. She cocked her head. Or was there?
Feeling a little silly for being paranoid, she concentrated on the door panel. Metal was always the most difficult to see through, but not impossible, and after she’d taken a few deep breaths, the door shimmered, then became transparent.
Zoë gasped, her fingers flying to her mouth and a dozen butterflies suddenly decided to perform the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies in her stomach.
Buster Taylor.
She was thrilled.
She was pissed.
He was spying on her.
What did he think? That Emily was going to bring some young lover over to Zoë’s apartment? That Zoë was running a love nest for wayward teachers?
Sinking down to sit on the front step, she balanced her chin on her hand, trying to stay calm. This was the man she’d been fantasizing about, remember? The man she’d hoped would call her, ask her out for coffee, proposition her for a wild night of living out X-rated fantasies.
The mortal man she’d hoped she’d never see again so she wouldn’t have to make hard decisions.
Well, she should be grateful. He’d just made her decision for her. She certainly wasn’t going to entertain fantasies of some lying, spying mortal. No matter how intriguing he might have seemed.
Time to teach him a lesson.
She stood up quietly, then checked the street for witnesses. Empty. Good.
She ran forward, then sprang up, landing on her hands and whipping up and over into a flip—finally ending up right on the hood of his car. It was a landing worthy of at least a 9.5—and the crowd goes wild! She stifled a self-satisfied giggle. Too bad Hale had missed it. He would have been impressed.
As the car shook, Buster sat up, his eyes wide. Zoë dropped into a crouch, which put her face-to-face with him. Just a single thin piece of windshield glass separated them.
Her heart upped its rhythm, and Zoë shivered, wondering if she’d just made her eight zillionth huge mistake of the day.
His face clearing, Buster smiled, and her body started to melt.
“Where the devil did you come from?” he asked, standing up to look at her over the windshield.
All of her intentions to be firm and no-nonsense headed out for coffee, leaving her with a fuzzy, funny feeling in her stomach and the overwhelming desire to throw herself over the windshield and kiss him senseless.
Which was probably not a good idea.
“Does it matter?” she asked, trying to be nonchalant as she climbed over the windshield and settled into the passenger seat. “I’m here now.”
“No kidding you’re here. But how’d you get here? What are you? One of the Flying Wallendas?”
“Not exactly.” She steeled herself, trying to ignore the way his eyes burned into her, the way the scent of his after-shave tickled her nose. He was spying on her, after all. Trying to find dirt and sneaking around to do it. “What are you?” she asked. “A professional jerk, or just an amateur?”
She mentally congratulated herself—at least until he grinned. Then she wondered if maybe her zinger wasn’t all that zingy after all. “What are you grinning about?” she asked, not even trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.
“You.”
“Me?”
“You’re so damn sure I’m here doing dastardly investigator things.” He’d lowered his voice, hunching his shoulders and waggling his fingers like an evil magician.
She grimaced, refusing to be amused by his silliness. “Why are you staking out my apartment? Emily and I don’t hang out together.”
“I’m not looking for Emily.” He stretched his arm out, hooking it over the back of her seat.
“Oh.” Zoë sucked in air and tried to keep her composure despite his proximity. “So what are you doing? Looking to interview kids she went to kindergarten with? Find out if she ever showed off her underpants?”
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Except that that would be sleazy. And I’m off the case.”
Her breath quickened. “Really? Why?”
“Emily’s clean and her husband’s a jerk. Do I need a better reason?”
“No. Those are good reasons.” Gutsy, too, if what he’d said about needing the work had been true. Without planning to, she smiled at him, wide and genuine. “So why are you here?”
He leaned toward her, close enough that she could feel his heat and smell the lingering scent of soap on his skin. “You,” he said simply. “I’m here because of you.”
“Me?” she repeated, sure her voice was squeaking. “Why?”
One shoulder rolled slightly. “I came by tonight hoping to ask you out.”
“Oh.” He wanted to go out with her? This incredible man? The man who had taken up residence in her dreams? This man wanted to go out on a date ... with her? “Really?”
“You’ve been on my mind all week. Constantly. Pervasively. Hell, I can’t do anything without thinking about you.” He smiled, his eyes dark, dangerous. Dangerous to her heart, to her head. “You’ve become my obsession.”
She smiled, unreasonably delighted at the thought of being someone’s obsession. That wasn’t exactly status quo for her.
But he’s a mortal, Zoë. Dangerous territory, very dangerous.
She took a deep breath. Righto. That it is. She shouldn’t get involved, couldn’t get involved. No matter how tempting he might be ...
“I should go.”
“So you hate me, right?”
“What? No.” Hate him? Her feelings were a heck of a long way from hate. “Why on earth would I hate you?”
He shrugged, looking sheepish and adorable. “That stuff about Emily. All of this.” He spread his arms, indicating the car, the street. “I mean, most men use the telephone.”
“I have a feeling you’re not most men.”
The smile that touched his lips just about brought her to tears. “No,” he said, reaching for her. “I’m not.”
She gasped as he took her hand, the pad of his thumb caressing her palm. Like a phoenix, she burst into flames, only to be reborn over and over and over from his touch. She squirmed, trying to settle her insides, trying to block the wonderful sensations shooting down the tips of her fingers all the way to the ends of her hair.
She was on fire. She was alive.
She was anxious and fascinated and oddly at peace, all at the same time.
Oh, mother of Zeus. How she wanted his touch, wanted his hands on every part of her body. Wanted more than that, so much more.
But she couldn’t handle it, shouldn’t even try.
Every cell was singing, every atom in her body spinning out of control. She’d left his car and was floating on a rainbow of colors, electricity zipping through her, leaving her gasping for breath. Leaving her wanting, needing.
Terrified.
She summoned her strength and pulled her hand away, the loss of contact leaving her hollow, a shell of herself. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t get involved.
She clasped her hands in her laps and tried not to cry.
“Are you okay?” Real concern shown in his eyes.
“I’m so sorry. But I’m ... I’m...” She took a deep breath, grappling for an excuse. “I want to, so help me, I do. But I can’t. I’m not.... There’s some—”
“I know.” His jaw tightened.
“Know?”
“You’re already seeing someone.” He said the words like a curse. “Right?”
In a way, he’d pegged the situation just right. She was taken. Not by a man, but what did it matter? The bottom line was still the same.
“Yes,” she said, the words costing her everything. “I’m not available.”

From the far end of the street, Mordi watched Zoë talking with the investigator. That made twice he’d seen her with the man—first at the library and now here. And from the look in her eye, Mordi doubted this would be the last time they would be together.
Interesting.
And potentially useful.
His mind turned over the possibilities. The stone was lost in the mortal world. True, he had use of Hieronymous’s tracking device, but it was proving sadly unreliable. All it seemed to be able to determine was that the stone was in Los Angeles. But L.A. was a rather large haystack.
Good old-fashioned legwork had led him to the thrift store where the stone had turned up. And through good, old-fashioned luck, he’d seen the woman who bought the gem. But when he’d tried to snag it, Zoë had interfered. His target had retrieved her purse, and Mordi had lost track of the gem. It could be with the first woman, it could be with Zoë, or it could be lost somewhere on the streets of L.A.
If he had to go poking around in the mortal world, what better way than to enlist the aid of a mortal? Especially a mortal who would, quite likely, be in a position to know if the stone reached Zoë.
Mordi smiled. Tomorrow he would engage the services of Mr. George Bailey Taylor, private investigator.

APHRODITE'SKISS-JULIEKENNER

Chapter Five

Deep beneath the Washington Monument, the American base of the Venerate Council of Protectors hummed with activity, computers churning, viewscreens displaying precise layouts of the nation’s cities. In the ops center, Donis and Hale sat in front of a static-filled image of Zephron, the high elder.
Hale drummed his fingers on his knees, waiting for the holographic transmission to clear. He had no idea why he’d been summoned to the center, and he hoped like Hades it wasn’t going to interfere with his vacation plans.
On his shoulder, Elmer stretched and yawned. Well, this is fun—not! I thought you said we‘d be in Greece by now....
Hale scowled. The little ferret had a heck of a mouth on him. “Quiet,” he whispered. “Do you want to get me in trouble?”
Donis shot them both a look. “If you insist on bringing your furry sidekick, you should teach him some manners.”
“Have you ever tried to teach a ferret manners?”
Hey! I’ve read Miss Manners. I know which fork to use. What do I look like? A heathen?
“He’s talking back, isn’t he?” Donis asked, eyeing Elmer suspiciously.
Hale rolled his eyes, wondering for the umpteen-millionth time why he had to have been born with the ability to talk with animals. At least Zoë and Donis got some peace and quiet once in awhile. Even in the park, when Hale was alone ... well, let’s just say no one knew all the really nutty jokes the squirrels tended to shout out.
Elmer nipped at his earlobe. Yo, Hale, my man. You‘re not really mad, are you? Not at little ol’ Elmer. Are you?
For about half a second, Hale considered letting Elmer stew. Then he shook his head. Elmer had been his buddy for three years, and before that, Elmer’s dad, Ercel, had been his constant companion. They were family, he and Elmer. And he couldn’t stay mad at family. “But stay quiet,” he whispered. “We don’t want to irritate Zephron.”
As he was laying down the law to Elmer, the holograph shimmered, coming into focus.
“Hieronymous is attempting to rally the Outcasts,” Zephron announced, and Hale’s stomach twisted. He turned to look at his father, and saw that Donis’s eyes were wide, confirming what Hale already knew—this was bad. Very bad.
Hoo-boy. This sucks big-time.
“But the new treaty—” Donis began.
“Exactly,” Zephron said.
The council Web site had recently been filled with news about the negotiations between the council and the mortal heads of state. The original Mortal-Protector Treaty had been in place since 1970, the year Hale was born. Under its terms, only a select few mortals who worked for the top-secret Liaison Office knew of the existence of Protectors and their governing body. Under the newly proposed treaty, council members would take a more open role in society, aiding mortals as always, but abandoning the need for absolute secrecy.
Hieronymous and his Outcast followers, however, didn’t belong to the council, and had no intention of working for mortals.
“Surely you don’t think—” Donis began.
“If he does manage to rally the Outcasts, they can wreak enough havoc that the mortals will fear us. Everything we’ve worked for will break down. Our relationship with the mortal governments will be destroyed, our hopes for a broader treaty will be squelched, and we will likely end up in a war with the Outcasts.” He paused, his image flickering. “How many mortal lives would be lost in the battle?”
“But what can he do?” Hale asked. “He’s an Outcast. He’s under constant supervision. He can’t even communicate with other Outcasts without using a monitored device. He’s forbidden to use his powers except in private. So how can he possibly interfere?”
“He is forbidden, true. His offspring, however, is not.” Zephron’s image shimmered. “You have heard of Aphrodite’s girdle?”
Hale and Donis exchanged a look. “Who hasn’t?”
Hale asked, confused by the change in topic. “It’s a bedtime story.”
“The belt worn by Aphrodite centuries ago,” Donis added. “She forged it with her powers, and when she wore it, anyone she desired fell hopelessly in love with her.”
“Exactly,” said Zephron. “And there’s more. The belt has many unexplored properties. Its centerpiece, for example, has many mysterious characteristics. For one, that stone can act as a transmitter under certain circumstances. At the right time, at the right place, a skilled Protector could speak directly to all Outcasts, circumventing all our efforts to forestall communications among the Outcasts.”
“And what exactly are the right circumstances?” Donis pressed.
Zephron looked him straight in the eye. “A lunar eclipse coupled with a certain planetary alignment.”
“When?” asked Hale.
“Next Wednesday. Midnight exactly.”
Hale’s head was spinning. “I’m still confused. Are you saying Hieronymous has this stone? Hasn’t the belt been missing for centuries?”
“He does not have the stone. Yet. But I’m certain he is aware of the legend.”
This was the part about being on the council that drove Hale nuts. No one would just come out and say what was on their mind. Everything had to be riddles and legends. Mysticism was all well and good, but a little straight talking would surely move things along.
What legend? Elmer asked.
“My question exactly,” Hale said. “What legend?”
Donis closed his eyes. “Mother of Zeus, now I remember.” He turned and faced Hale. “There’s a legend that says that prior to the night the moon vanishes from the sky, the stone from Aphrodite’s girdle will find its way to the hand of a halfling, who will then be welcomed to or shunned from the council.”
“Zoë and Mordichai,” Hale whispered. “They have the same birthday. Next Tuesday. Right before the eclipse.”
“Two halflings, born on the same day, both nearing their twenty-fifth birthday.” Zephron paused. “One has not yet completed her application. The other seeks admission to the council, and yet is the child of Hieronymous.”
“Okay. I know Zoë hasn’t turned in the Affidavit of Mortal Disclosure. She doesn’t want to freak out her mother. But you don’t really think Mordi’s gonna chuck it all and throw in with his dad? I mean, I grew up with him. I helped train him. Zoë used to play with him. He’s a bit of a weasel, but he’s okay.”
Zephron’s lips thinned. “We shall see, won’t we? It appears, gentlemen, that the council admission tests for young Zoë and master Mordichai have been determined.”
Hale swallowed. “So where will this Outcast ceremony take place? Here? On Olympus?”
Zephon shook his head. “No. The ceremony must take place at a certain longitude and latitude.”
“Where?” asked Hale, dreading the answer.
“The grounds of the Griffith Observatory.”
Hale swallowed. “That’s in Los Angeles.”
“So it is.”
“Zoë’s in Los Angeles.”
“It would appear the legend is accurate.”
Hale rubbed his temples, trying to stave off the beginnings of a monster of a headache. “So basically, what you’re saying is that the fate of the world rests with my sister or Mordi. And if either one fails their test, we’re in big trouble.”
“That is so. Unless you recover the stone first, of course.”
“Excuse me?”
“You will look for the stone as well,” Zephron said. “It is far too dangerous an artifact to be lost in the mortal world.” He looked straight at Hale, who saw his vacation go flying out the window. Except, of course, there wasn’t a window this far underground.
“Why Hale?” Donis said.
“Why me?” Hale asked at exactly the same time.
Why not you? This fits right in with your undercover mortal job. Elmer said, an obvious snicker in his squeaky ferret voice. Fashion accessories, I mean.
Hale scowled. Despite his sister’s, his father’s, and his ferret’s teasing, Hale’s assignment suited him just fine. Of course, being a romance novel cover model wasn’t a typical disguise. It wasn’t like he was a cop or a mild-mannered reporter. Still, it had some perks— good hours, good pay, gorgeous women. Plenty of time to search out and battle evil.
But that hadn’t meant Elmer teased him any less frequently.
“Why me?” Hale repeated.
“Hieronymous has minions everywhere, and this mission requires the utmost discretion. Hieronymous won’t think it’s odd that you are visiting your sister. Especially if the apparent purpose of your trip is to remind her of proper council protocol and procedure.”
Hale squinted. “Huh?”
Zephron’s image shuddered, shifting and shimmering until he was gone, replaced by video footage of a news program—“Witnesses say the hooded female actually flew thirty stories from the roof of the Tripoli Tower....” The reporter’s voice faded out, and Hale cringed as Zephron’s image reappeared.
“You’re her mentor, after all,” Zephron said. “It’s only natural that you travel to Los Angeles to discuss such indiscretions.”
“Maybe she had a good reason,” Hale said, trying to suppress a smile. He should be annoyed, he knew. After all, she could’ve gotten hurt. But she’d actually flown. Which meant things were definitely shaping up in the fate-of-the-world department. Plus, he was going to California. Maybe he’d have a day or so to do some thong watching after all.
“Hale,” Donis said, a note of warning in his voice.
Hale shrugged. “Or maybe we should just dump old Uncle H. into the pit and get on with our lives.” It seemed like a reasonable enough solution. Hieronymous bad. Punishment good.
“There is the small matter of proof,” Zephron said.
“So you’re not even sure Hieronymous is planning this Outcast-a-thon?”
“There are changes afoot, my friends,” Zephron said, which didn’t exactly answer Hale’s question. “Donis, you will travel with me to Olympus. We must prepare for the possibility that Mordichai will deliver the stone to Hieronymous before the eclipse.”
“Thanks so much for the vote of confidence,” Hale muttered.
“We hope for the best, but will prepare for the worst.”
Zephron’s smile was grandfatherly and genuine. “The fact that I am sending you to recover the stone is all the proof you should require of my faith in your abilities.”
Hale sighed. He never could handle compliments. “Fine. Forget Greece. California, here I come.”
Woo-hoo! screeched Elmer. Maybe we can work in a trip to Hollywood Boulevard or even Disneyland. Maybe watch a taping of The Tonight Show! He started humming “Hooray For Hollywood,” and Hale rolled his eyes. Los Angeles wasn’t high up on his list. The smog made him sneeze, and when he sneezed, he tended to turn invisible. Which was never easy to explain—even in a town like L.A. that had seen it all before.
He pulled his thoughts back to the problem at hand. “So I’ll just tell the Zoëster what’s going on. We can scour the town and get this wrapped up in no time.” And maybe he could still work in some beach time.
“No,” said Zephron.
“Excuse me?” Hale said.
Donis leaned forward and stared at the head of the council. “Don’t you think my daughter would have a better chance at succeeding if she knew what she was doing?”
“She is a halfling,” Zephron said. “And from what I understand, her skill level leaves much to be desired.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“I cannot bend the rules out of friendship. As a halfling, she must finalize her application, and she must demonstrate that she is worthy. Fairly. It appears that her test will be to protect the stone. I can think of no better demonstration of her worth.”
“But if she doesn’t know she’s supposed to protect it...”
“If she is truly worthy, she will sense the nature of her mission. She will protect the stone not because she has been told to, but because she has to.”
“What a crock of—”
Donis closed his hand—hard—over Hale’s arm.
“Ouch!” Glaring at his dad, Hale flopped back in his chair, then immediately bounced forward when Elmer squeaked.
Zephron ignored him, focusing on Donis. “Until young Zoë submits her affidavit, she must not be told of the legend of the stone. Her decision to abandon the mortal world must not be tainted.”
Hale frowned. “Even if that means risking Mordi’s getting the stone and turning it over to Uncle H.?”
“Even so,” said Zephron. “Her safety—our future— depends on it.”
“Zoë‘ll do fine,” Hale said, hoping he sounded optimistic. The truth was, Mordi was almost as powerful as a full council member, and Hale didn’t want Zoë fighting the little weasel. After all, Zoë could barely control a propulsion cloak, and she still hadn’t managed to rein in those damn senses of hers. Hell, the girl hadn’t even mastered telekinesis.
And now some ancient legend had gone and dumped the fate of the world into Zoë’s lap. How absurd was that?
If Hale ever met the head dude in charge of legends and portents, he intended to give the fellow one very stern talking-to.

Taylor banged his fist against Francis Capra’s steering wheel and wondered when he’d lost his grip on reality. Just what the hell was he thinking? He ran a hand through his hair. Of course, the answer was obvious— he wasn’t thinking at all. Or, rather, he’d quit thinking with his head and started thinking with certain other parts of his anatomy. Parts that really shouldn’t be running his life, thank you very much.
Which explained why he was now parked in front of Zoë Smith’s Studio City apartment complex at nine o’clock at night, trying to work up the nerve to ask her out for a drink.
Not that he had a chance in hell. She might be a ten on his perfect-woman scale—pretty, smart, lacking in obvious tattoos—but she still thought he was the devil incarnate.
And maybe for a few seconds there, he had been. Except now he’d fixed all that. He’d dumped Parker, and he wasn’t sniffing out dirt on Emily anymore. So maybe if he just let Zoë know ...
For the second time, he banged his fist against the steering wheel. Taylor, you are pathetic.
He put his hand on the key, ready to crank the engine and get out of there, but couldn’t quite do it. Dammit, he wanted to see her. Wanted her to know he wasn’t the creep she’d pegged him for. Wanted it so much it was making him crazy.
And then—as if his thoughts had conjured her—there she was, heading down the stairs right in front of him. His hand froze on the key, and for a moment he just looked at her.
Her trademark braid was still there, keeping tight control of a mass of coppery hair that would likely stir up a shower of sparks when released. Her plain-Jane jumper was gone, replaced with truly ugly orange gym shorts topped by a sweatshirt that looked to be at least five sizes too big. But despite the horrible clothes, Taylor was even more convinced that she was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. He’d done quite a bit of daydreaming over the last few days, and she more than fulfilled every one of his Technicolor fantasies.
No doubt about it: the woman was sexy. Sexy yet innocent. The kind of woman who’d one day have a little house with a picket fence on the outside and a dresser full of red lace underwear on the inside.
Interesting, said his heart. Dangerous, warned his head.
Yes, indeed. Zoë Smith was exactly the kind of woman who could get under his skin. Who’d already managed to do just that.
She fidgeted with the keys in her hand, then glanced to her left. Taylor followed her gaze, realizing that she must be looking at the line of mailboxes.
Tires squealed down the block, and Taylor turned to see a polished black Ferrari convertible make the turn, then careen down the street, sliding at the last minute into the loading zone in front of Zoë’s apartment. Zoë took the last few stairs at a run, looking happier than a kid at Christmas.
Fighting pangs of green jealousy, Taylor squinted, trying to get a better look at the driver, who was now half standing and hugging Zoë over the closed car door. He was tall and dark, with perfect pecs and a perfect tan. Hell, the guy looked like he should be on Baywatch or something. He was the quintessential Los Angeles guy— with a hot car, no less. And he was hugging Zoë. Well, shoot.
Still...
It could be nothing. He could be a friend from work.
Her personal trainer. A traveling encyclopedia salesman.
As he watched, the guy sneezed—and then he was gone.
Taylor blinked. The car was there, but no guy. He blinked again, then squinted, trying to get a better look. Was the guy on the floorboards? Probably, because Zoë was still chatting away, looking perfectly happy to be carrying on a conversation with air.
Okay, this is very—
The guy was back.
Taylor pulled off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. He really needed to get more sleep.
Zoë jumped back from the curb as the Baywatch guy pulled away with a wave, then took off down the street, his car humming like a dream. She just stood there looking after him, then turned so that she was looking in Taylor’s direction.
He cursed.
Without thinking, he ducked down. Not exactly the world’s most comfortable position, but at least he was hidden behind Francis Capra’s door frame. And being hidden was key. Because the last thing he needed was for her to see him and blow all his good intentions to smithereens.

Zoë wiped her face with the little gym towel draped around her neck, but couldn’t wipe the grin off her face.
Hale was in town. What a wonderful surprise!
When he’d zipped up in the Ferrari, she’d assumed he was just dropping by on his way to the Mediterranean. But instead of Greece, he’d told her he was camped out in a suite at the Beverly Wilshire, and would see her tomorrow after he’d had his share of room service and a few other accoutrements of high living.
She lifted her braid and ran the towel along the back of her neck, stifling a grin. Her brother liked to live well. For that matter, he liked the whole Protector lifestyle. She didn’t need to wonder what he’d think of her silly pseudocrush on a mortal—he’d be mortified.
He’d also be mortified that tomorrow she’d promised to tell her deep, dark secrets to a mortal who wasn’t her mother. It was a conversation Zoë wasn’t exactly looking forward to. Fortunately, Deena’d had plans with Hoop, and that had bought Zoë some time before the these-are-my-issues conversation. In the end, though, Zoë had promised she’d give Deena the skinny. So now she had one evening before she had to reveal all. No wonder her stomach was twitching so much.
And Deena was the least of her problems. The big problem was Mordi. She should have reported him to the council right away. She knew that, but she hadn’t done it. Ratting on Mordi would mean confessing to interfering, to using her propulsion cloak, to revealing herself to a mortal, and to getting her picture in the newspapers.
All those confessions would mean big, ugly black marks on her application. Her application was already on shaky ground; she wasn’t too keen on messing up her chances even more.
Still, she really should tell. For one thing, the council probably already knew. And even if her stunt had gone unnoticed ... well, the council needed to know if Protectors—even halflings—were running around mugging innocent women.
It was all so very odd. And she hadn’t a clue what her cousin was up to. Mordi’d never been mean. A little moody, maybe, but never cruel. Also, council members swore an oath to protect mortals, not attack them.
Of course, Mordi wasn’t a member yet. But, like Zoë, he was getting close. Closer, even, since he’d surely already submitted his Affidavit of Mortal Disclosure. After all, unlike Tessa, his mother had known for years. But this mugger stunt would be a definite black mark against him. Not to mention it was just plain rude.
She frowned, frustrated by the thoughts running through her head. Maybe she should go put in another thousand or so sit-ups. Or chin-ups. She hated chin-ups, but if that didn’t get her mind off Deena and her punishment and Mordi—not to mention those ever-present thoughts about that Buster Taylor—nothing would.
Armed with the promise of an evening free of Buster-Mordi-punishment-Deena-revelation thoughts, she headed for her mailboxes, humming the theme from Rocky. She’d left her glasses in her apartment, and now she checked out her mail, trying to decide if it was even worth bothering to get—a few bills, a Pottery Barn catalog, and a “you could be a winner” letter from Publishers Clearing House. Boring.
She took a peek at the mail inside Mrs. Callahan’s box, wondering if hers was any better. It was probably some sort of felony offense to examine someone else’s mail that way, but Mrs. Callahan was forever forgetting to pick up the stuff, and Zoë hated to see the sweet woman do without something important.
Junk, junk, junk, Victoria’s Secret catalog, junk, AARP magazine, junk, junk, check. Aha.
She circled the staircase and peered through the woman’s door, not wanting to wake her if she was asleep. No worries there; the woman was up, watching
Wheel of Fortune. Zoë rapped on the door.
“Well, hello, dear,” Mrs. Callahan said, after she’d checked through the peephole.
“Hi, Mrs. Callahan.”
“Mary, dear. I’ve told you a hundred times.”
Zoë smiled. “Hi, Mary.”
“You’re all dressed up. Do you have a date?”
“Uh, these are my workout clothes.”
Mary patted her hand. “A man who’ll love you when you look like hell will love you always.”
Somehow that didn’t make Zoë feel better. Especially since there was no man. No boyfriend, no dates, no social life whatsoever. Except for throwing herself off a thirty-story building, the high point of her day was this: chatting about her less than trendy wardrobe with her eighty-something neighbor.
Mary opened the door wider. “Would you like some spice cake and tea? I was just having a snack and watching Vanna. That woman’s outfits, well, I tell you ...”
“No, thanks.” Spice cake sounded, well, too spicy. And Zoë didn’t need to have one of her food moments in front of the woman. “I just wanted to let you know that I got a glimpse of the mail earlier while the postman was filling the boxes. I think your check’s in there.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling behind Coke-bottle glasses. “I don’t suppose you saw my”—she lowered her voice—“catalog.”
“Your catalog?”
“You know,” she said, her voice still in a whisper, “Victoria’s Secret.”
Zoë stifled a giggle. “Yeah, I think I saw it there.”
The woman let out a sigh. “Marvin would have loved that store. Back in my day, all we had was Sears Roebuck.” She leaned closer. “That’s just not the same.”
Zoë nodded, sure that if she spoke, she’d laugh.
“You’re sure about the cake?”
“I’m sure,” Zoë said. “Would you like me to bring you your mail?”
“No, thank you, dear. I’ll get it tomorrow when the postman comes.” She patted Zoë’s hand. “He’s quite a hunk, you know.”
“Right.” She’d never considered Mr. Davidson a hunk, but then she wasn’t over eighty.
She said good-bye, then headed back toward the staircase, sure she was grinning like an idiot. If she was that spunky when she hit eighty-five, she’d consider it a victory.
She headed back up the stairs, mentally ticking off all the things she needed to do before going to bed. She was debating whether or not the dishes could wait until morning—she was on spring break after all—when she felt it.
Someone was watching her.
She whipped around, her head cocked, trying to focus her hearing. She heard the gentle, sand-paperish sound of the cat in 4B bathing, Vanna White and Pat Sajak chitchatting on Mary’s television, someone cooking in the apartment behind the mailboxes. She sniffed... fettuccine Alfredo, garlic bread, Caesar salad, and red wine. The guy in 2A must have a hot date.
None of the sounds or smells seemed threatening, yet something wasn’t right.
She listened again, this time picking up sounds from the street behind her. Teenagers laughing and smoking in front of the liquor store down the street, crickets chirping in the dark, the wind whispering through the bushes. And something else. Someone breathing.
Who? Her gaze roamed the street. All was quiet, no people around at all. Even the teenagers were out of her line of sight. And this sound was close by. She didn’t know why, but she had a funny feeling. She shivered, her eyes drawn to a perfectly restored Mustang convertible parked right across the street from her building. She frowned, sure it didn’t belong to one of the residents.
Curious, she took a step toward it, and the breathing seemed louder. Odd. The top was down. It wasn’t as if there was anyone in the car. She cocked her head. Or was there?
Feeling a little silly for being paranoid, she concentrated on the door panel. Metal was always the most difficult to see through, but not impossible, and after she’d taken a few deep breaths, the door shimmered, then became transparent.
Zoë gasped, her fingers flying to her mouth and a dozen butterflies suddenly decided to perform the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies in her stomach.
Buster Taylor.
She was thrilled.
She was pissed.
He was spying on her.
What did he think? That Emily was going to bring some young lover over to Zoë’s apartment? That Zoë was running a love nest for wayward teachers?
Sinking down to sit on the front step, she balanced her chin on her hand, trying to stay calm. This was the man she’d been fantasizing about, remember? The man she’d hoped would call her, ask her out for coffee, proposition her for a wild night of living out X-rated fantasies.
The mortal man she’d hoped she’d never see again so she wouldn’t have to make hard decisions.
Well, she should be grateful. He’d just made her decision for her. She certainly wasn’t going to entertain fantasies of some lying, spying mortal. No matter how intriguing he might have seemed.
Time to teach him a lesson.
She stood up quietly, then checked the street for witnesses. Empty. Good.
She ran forward, then sprang up, landing on her hands and whipping up and over into a flip—finally ending up right on the hood of his car. It was a landing worthy of at least a 9.5—and the crowd goes wild! She stifled a self-satisfied giggle. Too bad Hale had missed it. He would have been impressed.
As the car shook, Buster sat up, his eyes wide. Zoë dropped into a crouch, which put her face-to-face with him. Just a single thin piece of windshield glass separated them.
Her heart upped its rhythm, and Zoë shivered, wondering if she’d just made her eight zillionth huge mistake of the day.
His face clearing, Buster smiled, and her body started to melt.
“Where the devil did you come from?” he asked, standing up to look at her over the windshield.
All of her intentions to be firm and no-nonsense headed out for coffee, leaving her with a fuzzy, funny feeling in her stomach and the overwhelming desire to throw herself over the windshield and kiss him senseless.
Which was probably not a good idea.
“Does it matter?” she asked, trying to be nonchalant as she climbed over the windshield and settled into the passenger seat. “I’m here now.”
“No kidding you’re here. But how’d you get here? What are you? One of the Flying Wallendas?”
“Not exactly.” She steeled herself, trying to ignore the way his eyes burned into her, the way the scent of his after-shave tickled her nose. He was spying on her, after all. Trying to find dirt and sneaking around to do it. “What are you?” she asked. “A professional jerk, or just an amateur?”
She mentally congratulated herself—at least until he grinned. Then she wondered if maybe her zinger wasn’t all that zingy after all. “What are you grinning about?” she asked, not even trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.
“You.”
“Me?”
“You’re so damn sure I’m here doing dastardly investigator things.” He’d lowered his voice, hunching his shoulders and waggling his fingers like an evil magician.
She grimaced, refusing to be amused by his silliness. “Why are you staking out my apartment? Emily and I don’t hang out together.”
“I’m not looking for Emily.” He stretched his arm out, hooking it over the back of her seat.
“Oh.” Zoë sucked in air and tried to keep her composure despite his proximity. “So what are you doing? Looking to interview kids she went to kindergarten with? Find out if she ever showed off her underpants?”
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Except that that would be sleazy. And I’m off the case.”
Her breath quickened. “Really? Why?”
“Emily’s clean and her husband’s a jerk. Do I need a better reason?”
“No. Those are good reasons.” Gutsy, too, if what he’d said about needing the work had been true. Without planning to, she smiled at him, wide and genuine. “So why are you here?”
He leaned toward her, close enough that she could feel his heat and smell the lingering scent of soap on his skin. “You,” he said simply. “I’m here because of you.”
“Me?” she repeated, sure her voice was squeaking. “Why?”
One shoulder rolled slightly. “I came by tonight hoping to ask you out.”
“Oh.” He wanted to go out with her? This incredible man? The man who had taken up residence in her dreams? This man wanted to go out on a date ... with her? “Really?”
“You’ve been on my mind all week. Constantly. Pervasively. Hell, I can’t do anything without thinking about you.” He smiled, his eyes dark, dangerous. Dangerous to her heart, to her head. “You’ve become my obsession.”
She smiled, unreasonably delighted at the thought of being someone’s obsession. That wasn’t exactly status quo for her.
But he’s a mortal, Zoë. Dangerous territory, very dangerous.
She took a deep breath. Righto. That it is. She shouldn’t get involved, couldn’t get involved. No matter how tempting he might be ...
“I should go.”
“So you hate me, right?”
“What? No.” Hate him? Her feelings were a heck of a long way from hate. “Why on earth would I hate you?”
He shrugged, looking sheepish and adorable. “That stuff about Emily. All of this.” He spread his arms, indicating the car, the street. “I mean, most men use the telephone.”
“I have a feeling you’re not most men.”
The smile that touched his lips just about brought her to tears. “No,” he said, reaching for her. “I’m not.”
She gasped as he took her hand, the pad of his thumb caressing her palm. Like a phoenix, she burst into flames, only to be reborn over and over and over from his touch. She squirmed, trying to settle her insides, trying to block the wonderful sensations shooting down the tips of her fingers all the way to the ends of her hair.
She was on fire. She was alive.
She was anxious and fascinated and oddly at peace, all at the same time.
Oh, mother of Zeus. How she wanted his touch, wanted his hands on every part of her body. Wanted more than that, so much more.
But she couldn’t handle it, shouldn’t even try.
Every cell was singing, every atom in her body spinning out of control. She’d left his car and was floating on a rainbow of colors, electricity zipping through her, leaving her gasping for breath. Leaving her wanting, needing.
Terrified.
She summoned her strength and pulled her hand away, the loss of contact leaving her hollow, a shell of herself. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t get involved.
She clasped her hands in her laps and tried not to cry.
“Are you okay?” Real concern shown in his eyes.
“I’m so sorry. But I’m ... I’m...” She took a deep breath, grappling for an excuse. “I want to, so help me, I do. But I can’t. I’m not.... There’s some—”
“I know.” His jaw tightened.
“Know?”
“You’re already seeing someone.” He said the words like a curse. “Right?”
In a way, he’d pegged the situation just right. She was taken. Not by a man, but what did it matter? The bottom line was still the same.
“Yes,” she said, the words costing her everything. “I’m not available.”

From the far end of the street, Mordi watched Zoë talking with the investigator. That made twice he’d seen her with the man—first at the library and now here. And from the look in her eye, Mordi doubted this would be the last time they would be together.
Interesting.
And potentially useful.
His mind turned over the possibilities. The stone was lost in the mortal world. True, he had use of Hieronymous’s tracking device, but it was proving sadly unreliable. All it seemed to be able to determine was that the stone was in Los Angeles. But L.A. was a rather large haystack.
Good old-fashioned legwork had led him to the thrift store where the stone had turned up. And through good, old-fashioned luck, he’d seen the woman who bought the gem. But when he’d tried to snag it, Zoë had interfered. His target had retrieved her purse, and Mordi had lost track of the gem. It could be with the first woman, it could be with Zoë, or it could be lost somewhere on the streets of L.A.
If he had to go poking around in the mortal world, what better way than to enlist the aid of a mortal? Especially a mortal who would, quite likely, be in a position to know if the stone reached Zoë.
Mordi smiled. Tomorrow he would engage the services of Mr. George Bailey Taylor, private investigator.