had been lying on the floor three rooms behind her, the next it was in the doorway in front of her. How on earth was she going to escape something that could move like that? What else could it do? Suddenly her mind was stuffed to overflowing with all Gram had ever taught her about the Fae, all the horrifying powers they possessed. The ability to mesmerize humans, control them, bend them to their every whim.
Could she
be
in any deeper shit?
After what seemed an interminably long time, it drew a deep, shuddering breath.
Just as she was drawing a shaky breath to start apologizing, or more accurately, begin begging for a swift and merciful death, it said with silky menace:
“Now it’s not just my
lip
you’ll be needing to kiss if you’re wishing to make amends with me, Irish.”
Five minutes later Gabby was securely tied to one of her dining-room chairs with her own clothesline.
Wrists bound behind her to the ladder-back chair, ankles snugly roped to the legs.
Dispiritedly she wondered how it was possible that a person’s life could go so thoroughly to hell in a handbasket in so short a time. Only yesterday morning the biggest worry on her mind had been what to wear to her interview. Whether Ms. Temple might think a black suit too severe, a brown one too modest, a pink one too frivolous. High heels too flirty? Low heels too butch? Hair up or down?
God, had she really worried about such things?
Mornings like this certainly put one’s life in perspective.
Dragging a chair around to face hers, Adam Black dropped into it, legs spread, elbows on its knees, leaning forward, mere inches from her. A long silky fall of midnight hair spilled over its muscular shoulder, brushing her thigh. The thing clearly had no concept of personal space. It was much too close. Just as she thought that, it raised a hand toward her. She flinched, but it only grazed her cheek with its knuckles, then slowly traced the pad of its thumb over her lower lip.
She tossed her head defiantly, averting her face. A finger beneath her chin forced her to turn back.
“Ah, yes, I like you this way much better.” Its dark eyes glittered, sparking gold.
“I don’t like
you
any way.” Jaw jutting, she tipped her nose skyward. Dignity, she reminded herself. She would not die without it.
“I think I got that, Irish. Best bear in mind you’re at my mercy. And I’m not feeling particularly merciful at the moment. Perhaps you should endeavor to
keep
me liking you.”
She muttered something she rarely said. A thing Gram would have washed out her mouth with soap for.
Its eyes flared with instant heat. Then it laughed darkly, wiping blood from its lip with the back of its hand. “That’s not what you were saying a few minutes ago.”
“That’s
not
how I meant it and you know it.”
Its laughter stopped abruptly and its gaze turned cold. “Ah, but I’m afraid I’m a very literal man,
ka-lyrra
. Don’t say that to me again unless you mean it. Because I will take you up on it. And I won’t give you the chance to take it back. Just those two words. Say them to me again and I’ll be all over you. On the floor. Me and you. Say it. Go ahead.”
Gabby gritted her teeth and stared down at the hardwood floor, counting dust bunnies.
No more than you deserve, Gabby,
Moira O’Callaghan chided in her mind.
I raised you better than that.
Great, she thought mulishly, now everyone was ganging up on her. Even dead people.
The finger was back beneath her chin, forcing her to meet its shimmery gaze. “Got it?”
“ ‘Got it,’ ” she clipped.
“Good.” A pause, a measuring look. “So tell me, Gabrielle O’Callaghan, what exactly is it you believe my people do to the
Sidhe
-seers?”
She shrugged nonchalantly—in as much as she was able, tied so securely—not about to admit to anything. A shee-seer, It’d called her, the archaic name for what she was. She’d encountered it in the
Books of the Fae,
but never heard it spoken aloud. “I have
Could she
be
in any deeper shit?
After what seemed an interminably long time, it drew a deep, shuddering breath.
Just as she was drawing a shaky breath to start apologizing, or more accurately, begin begging for a swift and merciful death, it said with silky menace:
“Now it’s not just my
lip
you’ll be needing to kiss if you’re wishing to make amends with me, Irish.”
Five minutes later Gabby was securely tied to one of her dining-room chairs with her own clothesline.
Wrists bound behind her to the ladder-back chair, ankles snugly roped to the legs.
Dispiritedly she wondered how it was possible that a person’s life could go so thoroughly to hell in a handbasket in so short a time. Only yesterday morning the biggest worry on her mind had been what to wear to her interview. Whether Ms. Temple might think a black suit too severe, a brown one too modest, a pink one too frivolous. High heels too flirty? Low heels too butch? Hair up or down?
God, had she really worried about such things?
Mornings like this certainly put one’s life in perspective.
Dragging a chair around to face hers, Adam Black dropped into it, legs spread, elbows on its knees, leaning forward, mere inches from her. A long silky fall of midnight hair spilled over its muscular shoulder, brushing her thigh. The thing clearly had no concept of personal space. It was much too close. Just as she thought that, it raised a hand toward her. She flinched, but it only grazed her cheek with its knuckles, then slowly traced the pad of its thumb over her lower lip.
She tossed her head defiantly, averting her face. A finger beneath her chin forced her to turn back.
“Ah, yes, I like you this way much better.” Its dark eyes glittered, sparking gold.
“I don’t like
you
any way.” Jaw jutting, she tipped her nose skyward. Dignity, she reminded herself. She would not die without it.
“I think I got that, Irish. Best bear in mind you’re at my mercy. And I’m not feeling particularly merciful at the moment. Perhaps you should endeavor to
keep
me liking you.”
She muttered something she rarely said. A thing Gram would have washed out her mouth with soap for.
Its eyes flared with instant heat. Then it laughed darkly, wiping blood from its lip with the back of its hand. “That’s not what you were saying a few minutes ago.”
“That’s
not
how I meant it and you know it.”
Its laughter stopped abruptly and its gaze turned cold. “Ah, but I’m afraid I’m a very literal man,
ka-lyrra
. Don’t say that to me again unless you mean it. Because I will take you up on it. And I won’t give you the chance to take it back. Just those two words. Say them to me again and I’ll be all over you. On the floor. Me and you. Say it. Go ahead.”
Gabby gritted her teeth and stared down at the hardwood floor, counting dust bunnies.
No more than you deserve, Gabby,
Moira O’Callaghan chided in her mind.
I raised you better than that.
Great, she thought mulishly, now everyone was ganging up on her. Even dead people.
The finger was back beneath her chin, forcing her to meet its shimmery gaze. “Got it?”
“ ‘Got it,’ ” she clipped.
“Good.” A pause, a measuring look. “So tell me, Gabrielle O’Callaghan, what exactly is it you believe my people do to the
Sidhe
-seers?”
She shrugged nonchalantly—in as much as she was able, tied so securely—not about to admit to anything. A shee-seer, It’d called her, the archaic name for what she was. She’d encountered it in the
Books of the Fae,
but never heard it spoken aloud. “I have
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