in the quiet bar at the inn.
“Can I get you another?” offered the waitress. She shifted her weight, her hip brushing his arm. “Or anything? Anything at
all.”
“No.” He remembered human manners and added, “Thank you.”
She was young, clear eyed, smooth skinned, and eager. But he did not want her. He did not want any woman but Elizabeth.
The realization made him almost as uneasy as that sly tickle on the back of his neck, in the pit of his stomach. For the first
time ever in his existence, he was uncomfortable in his own body. Not because he needed sex or the sea, but because he
wanted her. Elizabeth. He worried about her.
How did humans bear it? This edge of impatience, this itch of anxiety, this awareness of another like the slide of water over
his skin.
She wanted time alone, she‟d said. To think.
The lingering bite of whiskey could not dispel the bitterness in his mouth.
She needed to pick up her daughter, service her car, resume her life.
And Morgan, moved by her pale face and huge dark eyes, aware he had pushed the bounds of her acceptance enough for
one day, had acquiesced like a besotted fool.
A mistake, he thought now. Like any warrior, Elizabeth would use the respite to count her losses and regroup. He should
have stayed with her.
He should be with her. Now.
The thought cleaved his skull, sharp as an axe or instinct.
He stood.
“Can I add that to your tab?” the hovering bar girl asked.
He nodded, thanked her, and left, driven by an urgency he could not explain and did not question.
The parking lot stank of gravel and gasoline, the moist loam of the neglected gardens, the pervasive tang of the sea. And
under it all, an acrid taint like ash.
His nostrils flared. Like demon.
His lips pulled back from his teeth. The premonition of danger flooded back, stronger than before. Elizabeth.
Before he reached the end of the drive, he broke into a run.
Red flames shot to the ceiling. The burning towel fell to the floor. Liz‟s heart hammered against her ribs. She dropped to
her knees, fumbling in the under-the-sink cabinet. Dish detergent, garbage bags, cleaning bucket . . . fire extinguisher.
Thank God. She grabbed it.
She‟d never used one before, had no idea if it had expired. Could expire. She stumbled to her feet, yanked the big round
pin, and aimed the nozzle at the fire.
Nothing.
Sweat broke out on her face and under her arms. Her pulse raced. Do not panic. She was a doctor, trained to respond
calmly in crisis. She squeezed, pressed, prayed. A burst of chemical foam shot out, smothering the stove. Flames and foam
collided in an oily, stinking mess. She coughed. Sprayed. The fire subsided with a sullen hiss and a flicker of orange. She
sprayed until the canister sputtered and died, until the stove and surrounding floor were coated with greasy, caustic foam. Her
hands trembled. Her legs shook.
She shuddered and lowered the extinguisher.
The fire erupted in a geyser of flame.
Holy shit. Smoke boiled, swirling with all the colors of a bruise, yellow, black, purple.
Get out , she thought.
Get help.
Nothing she could save was worth her life. Zack and Em needed her. She couldn‟t afford to die.
Tigger yowled, a long, unearthly cry of feline despair. She couldn‟t leave the kitten behind either.
She threw down the canister and reached under the table, cutting her palm on the broken mug. Tigger backed away.
“Damn it, cat.”
She scooped him up, ignoring the dig of kitten claws and teeth, and dashed for the back door. Smoke coiled and slithered