Fatal Strike by Shannon McKenna Page B

was tempted, and started moving in on him, penetrating his danger zone. He tried not to lurch back. God forbid he make a spectacle out of himself. He was sure they were being minutely observed as it was. By everyone.
    “Don’t touch me, Cin,” he said quietly.
    Cindy laughed, throatily. “You know you want to, baby.”
    Not. He genuinely didn’t. Maybe it was the shield that had changed him, or maybe he’d finally just grown the requisite brain cells. But the spell was definitively broken.
    Cindy didn’t know what to make of him now. The only weapon she had was seduction, so she ramped it up, even when it was the wrong weapon for the situation. Ironic, that she only genuinely wanted him when he’d finally disinvested. A long, painful process, and not one he could reverse. She tossed off the third glass of champagne. He caught himself wondering if she was planning on driving. Had to remind himself that it was no longer his problem.
    He no longer had to save her, or understand her. Or encourage her to mature into someone who could be his partner in life, someone he could trust and rely on. This flushed, glassy-eyed girl with plunging cleavage and the lipstick on her teeth . . . nah.
    “So?” She leaned, brushing her breasts against him.
    “No, thanks,” he said.
    Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, come on. You’re just going to sulk?”
    He walked steadily away, until the appetizer buffet table blocked his trajectory. Not where he wanted to be. The food smelled too damn strong.
    “You need rescuing from Cindy?”
    It was Sean, behind him, jiggling his chubby toddler son Eamon in his arms. Frowning.
    “Nah,” Miles responded. “I’m good.”
    “So good, you had to bury your head under a pile of rocks in the mountains for weeks?” Sean chomped grilled shrimp off a skewer, scowling as he did so. “What were you thinking, not calling your mom all that time? Dude! You suck! That’s domestic abuse!”
    “Sean, don’t start with—”
    “Shut up, man. Just shut the fuck up. The poor woman drove all the way out to the SafeGuard headquarters, and tried to hire Davy and Seth and Connor to find you! Have you called her yet?”
    Miles shook his head, trying not to inhale the odor of shrimp, which was oh, so very far outside his olfactory comfort zone. “Not yet.”
    “Call her.” Sean’s voice was hard. “Right now. She’s hurting. Not a pretty sight, man. Big fucking fail.”
    “No, not yet. I want a crack at him while he’s still on his feet.”
    Aaro, behind him. Miles hardened his belly into cast iron and turned. Aaro was clutching Nina, the woman he insisted was his wife, though they had not yet legally tied the knot. Everyone humored him, of course. Only smart thing to do, with Aaro. Behind him was Kev McCloud, his wife Edie, Tam Steele, and Connor and Davy McCloud. A phalanx of people, all accusing him with their eyes.
    Christ on a crutch. And he’d thought that dealing with Cindy was challenging. He zapped more energy into his shield, and hung on to the image he used as an emotional anchor. Himself, barefoot, bare-chested, perched on the top of the longest tine of the Fork, staring at the wind-scoured, snowy heights of Mr. Rainier. Looking down on clouds, wind nipping his ears, whipping his hair. Poised on that fine balancing point between hanging on and letting go. Clean. Empty.
    The calming image wavered, blurred and broke up. “Back off,” he said. “I’ll head back the way I came, if I piss everybody off so much.”
    “Don’t threaten us, punk,” Aaro growled.
    “Shut up, Aaro!” Nina hissed. “You’re not helping.”
    Miles felt a ticklish brush against his mind. Nina was trying to use her telepathic talent on him. She’d gained it months ago, in a freakish series of adventures that Miles tried not to think about. She’d come out of that mess a telepath, while Aaro had unearthed a talent for psychic coercion. Which struck Miles as amusing. And redundant.
    Aaro and Nina had found each other,