Elizabeth.
Anticipation hummed in his blood and low in his throat. He thought about her body braced in challenge, her cool control,
that flash of heat. He‟d thought about her quite a lot, in that quiet white room at the inn where he slept alone.
He enjoyed a test of wills almost as much as he enjoyed sex. With her, it would be a pleasure to indulge in both.
He wanted her again, more now than sixteen years ago. And unlike her, he had no hesitation taking what he wanted.
The road from the inn curved uphill and inland past weathered gray houses and small, bright gardens. Following the
innkeeper‟s directions, he found the police department housed in the town hall, a modest brick building overlooking the
harbor.
He went inside. The air was acrid with dust and ink and burned coffee.
The steely-haired woman behind the counter wore her eyeglasses around her neck like a badge of office and looked older
than the building itself. Morgan glanced at the name plate on her desk. EDITH PAINE, TOWN CLERK.
“Chief Caleb Hunter,” he said.
She continued to poke at her keyboard. “In his office,” she said without looking up. “Take a seat.”
Caleb had called Morgan with a request to drop by the police station. Possibly the policeman was following up on the
report of the broken window. More likely, he wanted to keep tabs on the finfolk lord while he was on human turf. Morgan was
willing to oblige in either case. He needed Elizabeth‟s address.
“He is expecting me,” Morgan said.
“Maybe he is.”
“You will tell him I am here.”
The clerk raised her glasses to her nose and looked at him for a moment. As if, Morgan thought, he were a shark on her
fishing line, unworthy of her bait or effort.
He bit back a grin.
“Maybe I will,” Edith Paine said. “When he‟s free. Chairs are behind you if you want to wait.”
He supposed he could wait.
Turning, he surveyed the row of uncomfortable-looking chairs. The one in the middle was already occupied. A small girl
with a halo of soft black curls huddled on the wooden seat clutching a large, pale doll. A candy bar sat on the chair beside her,
unwrapped. Uneaten.
Someone‟s attempt at comfort, Morgan deduced. It was none of his business. Clearly, the child was being cared for after a
fashion. Children had survived on Sanctuary for centuries with less.
She looked up at him, her wide, dark eyes swimming with moisture, and stuck out her chin.
Something stirred in his gut. His memory.
“She seems rather young for a felon,” he said to the woman behind the counter.
She sniffed and tapped the keyboard on her desk.
Morgan glanced back at the child. Her lips trembled. Something about that face . . . That chin . . . He narrowed his gaze.
Pink sandals.
Hell and buggering angels.
He ground his teeth together. “Where,” he said very precisely, “is your mother?”
Edith Paine paused her tapping. “I called the clinic. She‟s on the way.”
So that was all right, then, Morgan thought. He really had no responsibility here at all.
He frowned. “And your brother?” he asked the child.
Those wide brown eyes fixed on his face with a desperate, completely misplaced hope. “He had to go with the policeman.”
“Where?” Morgan asked sharply.
One grubby hand released the doll. The girl pointed one small, nail-bitten finger to a closed door.
“He said he wanted to talk to Zack.” She drew a shaky breath. Hiccupped. “We had to get in his car. I had to wait out here,
he said.”
Morgan‟s cold blood boiled. He strode across the lobby.
“You can‟t go in there,” Edith objected.
He ignored her. The little girl scrambled off her chair and after him.