All details of the blog tour can be found on RJ's site here: RJ Scott - Love's Design Blog Tour and Competition

Cover art by Bittergrace Art

The Book

Can a New York cop and a teacher find love in the city at Christmas?

It's been far too long since Christian Matthews has seen Daniel Bailey. In fact the last time they met was in college.

Seven years down the road, Chris is licking his wounds after being 'asked to leave' the private school where he was teaching. He has no job, no money, and has to rely on his friend Amelia for a job and a room to live in. He needs a freaking Christmas miracle to make this Season anything other than a total loss.

Then Daniel comes back into his life and suddenly everything seems possible. Not only is Daniel still the man Christian wants more than anything, but this time Chris may well actually tell Daniel how he feels.

Length:	3 hours and 28 minutes
Cover Artist:	Bittergrace Art
Narrator:	Sean Crisden
Genre:	Contemporary, MM Romance

Buy & Library Links

Amazon (US) | Amazon (UK) | Audible (US) | Audible (UK) | iTunes

Audio Excerpt of New York Christmas

Amber and RJ are visiting a few blog sites over the next few days... visit and read excerpts from The Case of the Purple Pearl, and read their interviews in which they were super honest (honestly). You can also enter to have a chance of winning a gift voucher or your choice of e-books.

As the links go live we'll update them, meanwhile, here are the places Amber and RJ will be visiting.

• The Novel Approach, interview, excerpt and competition 
• Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words
• MM Good Book Reviews
• Dawn's Reading Nook
• Sexy Erotic Xciting
• multitaskingmommas Book Reviews
• Diverse Reader
• Zipper Rippers

Coming soon...

• Rainbow Gold Reviews
• redz world reviews
• Prism Book Alliance (14th December)
• Love Bytes

Win a $15 Giftcard from Amazon or ARe, plus 2 further prizes of an ebook from my back catalogue (or first sight of a future book). Competition closes 6^th December – midnight GMT.

Cover art by Bittergrace Art

The Book

Chicago Cop Simon Grant and Sanctuary operative Cain Brodie, have to be the heroes of their own stories, just to stay alive.


Everyone wants Chicago cop, Simon Grant, dead. Armed with an address, he is on the run and heading for Sanctuary, only to end up at the wrong end of a gun. Is it possible the tall amber-eyed man holding the gun is actually going to be able to help him?

Cain Brodie is in charge of Sanctuary’s new Chicago office, C-Tower. His well organised administration day takes an unexpected turn when he has a man wanted for murder right in his gun sights. Thrust into a situation he has no control over suddenly he needs to be the one in control.

Accidental or not, Simon and Cain have to be the heroes of their own stories, just to stay alive.

Word Count:	43,800
Cover Artist:	Bittergrace Art
Editor:	Sue Adams
ISBN:	978-1-78564-029-2
Genre:	Contemporary, MM Romance

Buy Links

Amazon (US) | Amazon (UK) | All Romance | Smashwords | Kobo | Barnes & Noble | iTunes

Reviews

Multitasking Momma 5/5 "... I never thought I would enjoy this story as much as I did. Especially the ending. That was a WOW! ... This book. Ms RJ— you rock! ..."

Rainbow book reviews "... It was wonderful to return to the world of Sanctuary, with its mystery, suspense, and dark plotting by criminals who are always (eventually) put in their place by the wonderfully diverse team of Sanctuary agents and those they work and sometimes fall in love with. And even though this the first book in an entirely new group of stories, centered around the newly established Chicago office, some of the earlier characters made an appearance, and it was great to see how they were doing as well. Front and center of ‘Accidental Hero’ are Simon, a Chicago cop who is too honest for his own good, and Cain, who is in charge of setting up the new office, as well as providing admin and tech support. Neither of them set out to be heroes, hence the title, but both of them turn out to be far more courageous and talented than anyone would have expected. It makes for an intense and very satisfying ride! ..."

MM Good Book Reviews 5/5 hearts "... RJ Scott is one hell of a writer and has always given a story that pulls you into a world that just calls you. She is one of the three contemporary authors that are on my auto-buy list. And it doesn’t have any paranormal to boot.

I think I liked this even more than the other ones, because of the fact that Cain is not a field guy, he is the tech guy. He can make invisible cages, all of the stuff for secret agents, it would seem. However, he is the one that stands up and helps someone. ..."

Sexy Erotic Exciting 5/5 handcuffs "... Simon and Cain were phenomenal characters. Both of the men were mysterious and chivalrous and sans any overbearing qualities. Ms. Scott’s writing was focused on the task at hand with the end result of the book leaving me yearning for more. The mystery is left wide open for subsequent books as old characters are an important part of the second volume of the series, and new characters are introduced. ..."

Excerpt

Everyone wants us dead.

Cops. The entire Drugs & Gangs team. Varga. Any of them, all of them, they all want us gone.

Simon Grant crab-walked backward, reaching the wall and curling his knees up so that he was as far away from the body as possible. Blood pooled in a macabre circle of scarlet, spreading almost to his feet. What was left of Jamie Harrington’s face was toward him, and Simon couldn’t look. He closed his eyes tight, aware the sight of broken skin and shattered bone would never leave his memory.

I’m telling you, we should talk to someone outside the precinct.

The last words Jamie had said just a day before. Mere hours before Simon had found this tableau of blood and gore, laid out before him.

A noise had him plastering himself against the wall, belatedly realizing it was he himself who had made the sound, halfway between a groan and a keen of denial. Horror had nausea rising and he tried to breathe to calm his gorge, but all he could smell was cordite and blood.

“I should have—” not said a fucking thing to anyone. Simon finished the harsh words that had begun out loud and ended inside, where he knew he would keep them forever.

He pushed his hand through his hair, anchoring his fingers in the length of it, blood smearing his skin. Then he crawled over, the wetness of blood soaking his pants, and felt for a pulse.

Jamie had half his face missing, his dark hair and skull matted, and one of his eyes blasted away… no face.

He’s gone, and I checked for a fucking pulse.

Simon froze in place. A gun lay in the blood, obscenely black against the red, just inches from Jamie’s outstretched hand as if he’d been reaching for it, looking up at his attacker and hoping to hell he reached the police-issue gun before he was killed. Why had it been left?

For fuck’s sake, think. Analyze the situation.

Was Simon supposed to pick it up, put his prints all over it? Was the killer watching, waiting for him to fuck up, waiting for him to be blamed for the death of his partner?

He had to box away the horror, push aside the shock and grief, and think.

He counted down from five and considered what next. The apartment was on the second floor. Whoever did this could be waiting or coming for him next; there was a gun in the blood, and Jamie was dead. What if it wasn’t Jamie’s gun? Simon looked around the otherwise spotless room, grabbed the nearest bag he could see—a brown grocery bag—upending it. The apples and cans inside spilled into the scarlet on the wooden floor. Had Jamie been out shopping? Did his murderer follow him home?

Just to one side, a bouquet of red roses lay half in and half out of the pool of blood. The white paper they were wrapped in had darkened in places; petals lay on the ground, weighed down by blood.

Simon used the grocery bag to pick up the gun. Long strings of sticky scarlet linked the gun to the floor for a moment and Simon pushed back sickness again. He’d seen death before, but never one that hit so close to home.

He turned his head to get some fresh air from the open window. The sound of sirens closing in was enough to have him leaving the apartment, turning left instead of right, moving to the back of the building and the way he knew he would be able to get out. Going up instead of down, he made it to the roof in record time, only a little winded. The gun was in the bag, pushed firmly into a pocket of his jacket.

He stepped back right near the edge and centered himself. Counting in his head again, he sprinted toward the next building and jumped the six-foot gap, landing and rolling onto solid roofing on the other side. He fell heavily on the gun, shoving it into his ribs, but he’d made it across and that was no mean feat.

The exit plan had been formed amid teasing and laughter over beers at Jamie’s last get-together for colleagues, on that clear Chicago night.

“You’ll never make it across,” Jamie had said on a belch. “Your short ass and stubby legs will have you tumbling into the alley. You’ll end up in a dumpster, and don’t think anyone’ll come get your stinking body.”

Simon had shoved him. “Five ten is not short, asshole.”

I can’t think of Jamie now. I made it over.

He looked around for somewhere to hide the gun. No way was he getting caught with it. He shoved it into the air intake, pushed it a long way back to a small shelf area. Done.

Why am I even keeping it?

“Because there may be other prints, or a trace, or something,” he answered his own question. “If it isn’t Jamie’s gun, we might be able to….”

To what? Why did you take it? Are you stupid? You took evidence?

With stealth he made his way across the roof and to the stairs, taking them three at a time and landing lightly on the first floor. From there he took a joining walkway to yet another apartment block and finally left that by using the fire escape, stopping only to scrub his face to clear away any blood. Finally he joined the crowds walking the sidewalk with purpose. They parted before him, some acknowledging him with nods, others bypassing him, and some shooting him guilty looks. A couple cursed him as he walked against the flow, but no one stopped him. No one shot at him, no one shouted. There was no recognition of who he was inside the uniform.

He was just another Chicago cop on the beat. Nothing to stand out. As long as he walked steadily and with resolution and didn’t break out into a panicked run, no one would look twice past the badge.

At soon as he could, he stepped into business premises—a coffee shop. He went straight to the bathroom, washed his face and his hands properly, then looked critically at his uniform. There was blood there—Jamie’s blood—but the dark blue of the uniform was enough to cover it. He pulled out his cell and stared at it for the longest time. It was nothing special, but it had all his numbers in there. Including Elliot’s. It also had a GPS chip that could be traced. No way was he calling anyone or reaching out.

He fingered the card in his pocket.

“Here, if you need anything…”

Elliot had told both him and Jamie. Promised them a place where they could get help. Even at that moment Simon had placed his faith squarely in the cops he served with, Jamie as well.

“This is bigger than just you two,” Elliot told them.

Deliberately, Simon placed his phone behind the tank of the first toilet stall. If this were bigger, if he and Jamie had landed in shit so deep he wouldn’t be able to dig himself out, then he wasn’t going to be found because of his cell.

He left the café, turned right, and walked. He kept off the main thoroughfares, his focus entirely on one address—the place where people would help him.

No one will help you if there’s a “Be on the lookout” for you like a fucking murder suspect.

He had to expect the worst: that this was some kind of setup.

Calm. Just be calm. This can’t get any worse.

A cop car sped past the end of the next road. Simon didn’t react by running or stopping, but neither did he hesitate. He stayed close to shop fronts and even exchanged pleasantries about the lack of snow on this Chicago November day with a couple of shop owners. He didn’t stop to talk for long; he kept his cap tilted over his face and walked. Ten blocks, fifteen… by now someone could have found Jamie, and was he next?

Simon glanced behind himself as he approached a crossing, his senses prickling with the idea he was being followed. Scanning the people around him, there was nothing. Just a few curious glances. One tourist even snapped a photo of him on her cell phone, shouting to her husband that she’d got one of a Chicago cop. He had ducked his head and turned sharply when he saw this, then crossed as soon as the lights changed.

When he passed through an alley between two old-style buildings, he relaxed a little. Only so he could refocus on where he was heading, but it was enough to have him thinking the bad thoughts that spun inside him.

Who killed Jamie? The cops? Or Varga? Who the fuck knows what’s going on?

He stumbled to a stop at the end of the alley as it opened to the plaza in front of a tower. He didn’t need the card to know the address. And this was it. Fifty or so floors with a glass frontage and in there, somewhere, was a place that could help him. He waited for the longest time, wondering how the hell he was going to get inside and make it look like he was meant to be there.

He didn’t want to be the cop that everyone remembered because Jamie’s death was pinned on him.

Only one of you has to die to keep the other quiet.

Simon bent at the waist, hands on his knees as the remembered words hit him hard. When Lewis Varga said that, he had been behind glass, posturing, threatening all kinds of shit, Simon had laughed it off as the “bad guy exposition.” So, Jamie wasn’t that impressed with it and Varga scared him, but what damage could Varga do in three days, locked away and waiting for trial?

A flash of light on glass caught Simon’s eye and the sleek form of a blood-red Ferrari stopped at the security barriers. An arm appeared out of the window and pressed buttons. The car was no more than fifty feet from Simon.

With sudden inspiration, he walked briskly across the last bit of the plaza, past the small hot dog stand, and ended up sauntering down the secure entry to the car park as if that was his only purpose in life and he was meant to be there. He slipped in through the closing gates and checked the location of the security camera—an old model that pointed past the gates and to the road outside. The Ferrari circled the first floor, then slipped into a reserved space. Whoever drove that beauty must have been rich enough to own a Ferrari in the first place and to have a reserved spot right near the entrance of the parking garage.

Simon stayed behind the pillar. There was a short walk between him and the elevators, which had a keypad on one side.

There has to be a better way. Just go to reception and ask, for fuck’s sake. Turn yourself into someone you can trust at the station. There has to be someone who can tell us how to get to these Sanctuary people. He could almost hear Jamie’s voice word for word.

If only Simon trusted any cops at all. With the whispers and the messages and the colleagues turning away, how could he put his trust in that institution now? The same people he’d have given his life for before this.

How could he trust that was supposed to be separate from the law? The one company that could somehow be the magic answer to the fear Jamie showed in his eyes.

I’m telling you, they tried to run me off the road, Jamie had said.

Simon hadn’t believed his friend, or at least he’d consigned it to paranoia. Yes, there was harassment for what they’d done, but nothing they couldn’t just ignore until it died a death.

The slam of a door and footsteps had the driver of the car walking his way.

“Nik said he’d cover seven, but he’s in Chicago today. … Just today. … Kayden is backing him up. … It’s a medical issue. … I’ll check in with Manny.” The footsteps grew nearer. “Okay, we’ll open up S19. I got that. … Yeah. … Bye.”

Just before the guy reached the pillar, Simon sauntered out as if his being there was normal, an occurrence that had purpose. He exchanged polite nods with the driver and followed him to the elevator.

“Officer,” the driver said with an incline of his head.

He was tall and slim, blond hair in perfect loose waves, and his eyes, a curious shade of amber, held a focus that zeroed in on Simon with keen attention. His suit was dark gray and probably cost more than Simon made in a year; the collar loose on his white shirt, with no tie. He was cute and preppy, and from the way his eyes lit at Simon’s minute observation, he was checking Simon out.

Awkward.

Awkward that he did that, and awkward that I know exactly what he was doing.

And wrong. Because Jamie is dead, and this isn’t real life.

Simon felt separate from reality. This was some kind of horrific nightmare. “Morning,” he forced out in response.

Driver pressed buttons to call the elevator, some complicated code that Simon pretended not to watch. They waited for the elevator, which worked its way down from the forty-second floor at a slow pace.

“Is there a security problem down here in the basement?” Driver asked.

Great, he wants conversation and I don’t want him to place me if the shit hits the fan.

Simon gave a standard response. “Routine checks, sir.”

“Should I be worried about my car?”

“Everything’s fine, sir.”

He hoped that was enough, but pretty, preppy guy, with the intriguing amber eyes, wasn’t stopping with the talking.

“Is this part of the security sweep they authorized last week?”

Simon nodded. He didn’t actually say yes, but the driver smiled at him as if he suspected nothing, and he turned back to the elevator.

When it arrived, Driver was in first, answering his cell as the doors shut behind them. Simon half listened as he checked out the available buttons. The panel was one of those futuristic screens that were digitized and had a square for fingerprint recognition. Elliot had said help was in this building on the top floor and handed him and Jamie a piece of paper with an address. The building he was at now. But, what was this place? Could he even trust Elliot?

He and Jamie had talked about Elliot’s hushed advice. They didn’t know him well, and this could be a trap.

“You have to go somewhere,” he muttered.

Jamie had suggested the easiest way to keep them quiet was to kill them. Simon had called him paranoid.

Jamie wasn’t paranoid, was he? He was fucking right that someone wanted him dead and that Simon could be next.

Grief and anger gripped him and he had to force the turmoil away. There would be time to mourn Jamie when he had the bastard who’d killed him in his sights.

He selected the button for the top floor, then faced front. Driver, in his peripheral vision, hadn’t pressed a single button.

“I’m aware,” Driver was saying into his cell. “What do we know?”

Simon half heard the mumble of a reply but couldn’t quite make it out.

“I’ll deal with it. Can you tell… yeah.” Driver pocketed his cell and shifted a little to lean against the back wall.

The elevator climbed steadily, only stopping twice: once to let in a man carrying an armful of clipboards at floor twenty-three, only for him to get off on twenty-seven. The numbers counted up and up. Thirty-three. Driver moved forward a little, his suit jacket pushed back and his hands in his pockets.

Thirty-seven: that itch of awareness returned. Simon tensed. He was getting closer to whatever path Jamie had set him on, and a healthy combination of fear and relief added in with his already churning belly.

I can trust Elliot. I have to trust him; he says there is help here, and I have to believe him.

Simon’s mind repeated the words again as they passed forty-two, forty-three, and then the elevator slid to a smooth stop on forty-six. Still Driver didn’t step out.

Were they heading for the same floor? A sudden movement out of the corner of his eye had Simon flinching and reaching for his weapon on autopilot, but he was too slow. He turned his head.

And came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun. 

Continuing the End Street Detective Agency series, The Case of the Purple Pearl will be available from our usual outlets on 22nd November 2015

The Book

After failing in a quest to win the Fae Queen’s approval, Halstein is locked in a world of stone. Forced to remain a gargoyle he spends his days on Sam’s desk pining for his lost love.

Prince Idris’s lover went missing and was presumed dead. Alone, Idris lives a life away from court, starved of energy but unwilling to sleep in the room he once shared with his beloved.

Can Sam and Bob save these fated lovers before it's too late? And will Bob’s ultimate sacrifice be enough to free Hal from his prison?

Coming Soon

Everyone wants Chicago cop, Simon Grant, dead. Armed with an address, he is on the run and heading for Sanctuary, only to end up at the wrong end of a gun. Is it possible the tall amber-eyed man holding the weapon is actually going to be able to help him?


Cain Brodie is in charge of Sanctuary’s new Chicago office, C-Tower. His well organised administration day takes an unexpected turn when he has a man wanted for murder right in his gun sights. Thrust into a situation he has no control over suddenly he needs to be the one in control.

Accidental or not, Simon and Cain need to be the heroes of their own stories, just to stay alive.


* * * * *

Accidental Hero is the start of a new arc in the Sanctuary story and revisits briefly with some of the other characters. This is the story of how one senior administrator could be the only person to save the day. Featuring Cain from Worlds Collide.

Available from our usual outlets from 5th November 2015

The Case Of The Dragon's Dilemma

Dragons, battles, a deal Sam may come to regret, and a Siren attack, leave Sam and Bob in danger, and Mikhail finding a mate. Bob and Sam take their kind-of-adopted-now vampire daughter, Mal to look round new schools.

Mikhail is left to babysit the last remaining rescued child whilst they are away. When Sirens appear to steal her away he is left facing the attack alone until a mysterious hero comes to his aid.

Ryujin, or Jin to his friends, is a dragon shifter and his role as Captain of the Dragon Guard puts him in direct conflict with Mikhail.

The minute he sees Mikhail he knows what he wants. Now if he can only get Mikhail to see the same.

The Case Of The Sinful Santa

Zephariel, the Angel of Vengeance, Nick Klauson, nephew to Santa, Christmas magic, zombies in the school and a necromancer causing chaos…and at the centre of it all—Mal.

Zephariel is the Angel of Vengeance and is tracking down his cousin Danjal for misuse of brimstone. When he walks into a bar and finds Nick Klauson drowning his sorrows, he is instantly drawn to him. Could this be his fated mate?

When Nick and Zeph join forces to deal with zombies in Mal’s school, sparks fly. Add in a demon, a wolf and a necromancer, and Sam and Bob have a hunt on their hands.

Available for the first time in a box set, The Fitzwarren Inheritance will be available from 30th October 2015.

One Curse, two families, three stories - The Fitzwarrens face yet another tragedy. But the man who cursed their line centuries ago left three cryptic conditions that would lift the curse. Now the Psychic, the Soldier, and the Lord, must each find their own path to the gripping conclusion.

Book 1 - The Psychic's Tale by Chris Quinton

Four hundred years ago in rural England, a mob burned two men to death, but not before one of them, Jonathan Curtess, hurled a dreadful curse at the mob's leader, Sir Belvedere Fitzwarren. The curse has followed the family through the centuries, bringing grief and loss to each generation.

Mark Renfrew is a closeted psychic and openly gay. When his grandmother discovers a family link to a 17th century feud and a still-potent curse, she insists he investigates and do his best to end it. When he travels to the village of Steeple Westford, he meets and falls for Jack Faulkner, an archaeologist. He also meets the Fitzwarrens, who are facing yet another tragedy.

Then Mark learns that the man who cursed them had twisted the knife by leaving three cryptic conditions that would lift the curse, and he knows he has to try to break the curse his ancestor had set.

Book 2 - The Soldier's Tale by RJ Scott

Corporal Daniel Francis has returned to his childhood home in England to heal; the only one of his unit that survived a roadside bomb. His reasons for skipping medication are based on a stubborn refusal to become an addict, and he is overwhelmed with survivor's guilt.

Doctor Sean Lester has joined his father's surgery and when he is held at knife point by a patient high on drugs it is Daniel that leaps to his rescue-much to his horror.

When Sean nearly runs Daniel down in the dark he finds a man who needs help, and resolves to be the person to show Daniel that it is possible to live through guilt and find happiness.

Set against the backdrop of the Fitzwarren family curse, The Soldiers Tale is a story of one man's fight to find his place in a new world outside of the Army.

Will Daniel and Sean fill the second of three cryptic conditions that can lift the curse?

Book 3 - The Lord's Tale by Sue Brown

Phil Fitzwarren is surrounded by death and tragedy as a result of the curse imposed on his family by Jonathan Curtess. The estate is riddled with debt, his parents and brother killed and his young nephew and much-wanted heir to what is left of the Fitzwarren estate fights for his life after being born prematurely.

Phil also has to admit that as his friends and family pair off and marry, he is lonely, and maybe a little jealous. He takes his anger and frustration out on the climbing wall, only to be picked up by a gorgeous guy when he freezes twenty feet up.

Lee Curtis is a force of nature, inserting himself into Phil’s life before Phil has time to breathe. But there is the third part of the curse to break, “when the one who seeks in danger is sworn to the landless lord”. Phil realises that Lee is the final piece of the puzzle and the curse which has plagued his family for centuries may finally be broken.

Dates for the diary:

Wednesday 7 October - End Street 1&2 in ebook and paperback - Out Now

Thursday 5 November - End Street 3&4 in ebook and paperback - re-release

Sunday 22 November - End Street 5 - The Case of the Purple Pearl is a BRAND NEW End Street story and will be released as an e-book.

Buy Links for Volume 1

Amazon (US) | Amazon (UK) | All Romance | Barnes &Noble | Kobo | Smashwords | iTunes

The Case of The Cupid Curse

Sam Enderson is a human detective who inherits a building from where his Uncle used to run a detective agency. He finds himself working for paranormal creatures despite his resolve to stick with humans only. To supplement his income as a new PI Sam rents out rooms in the large house.

Bob is a vampire and turns up on Sam's doorstep to rent a room. Sparks fly and Sam is attracted to the vampire despite himself.

Sam is cursed by a witch, and has two cases landing on his desk. Werewolves, annoying ghosts and a grumpy gargoyle are enough to drive Sam mad. But somehow in amongst all of this he has to find a missing fae and a missing shifter child.

The Case of the Wicked Wolf

Naiads, humans, sirens and a challenge for Alpha make up the intricate story in the race to rescue the missing children.

Sam and Bob have more than just the case of one lost child to handle. Not only is Shelby Hartman missing, but other paranormal children have disappeared. The race to rescue the children is hampered by naiads, humans, sirens and a challenge for Alpha.

Hartman Hunter is desperate to find his daughter. He turns to the demon Danjal Naamah for help. The problem is that Danjal is the only person Hartman has ever loved—the man he let go for the sake of the pack…

Excerpt - The Case of the Cupid Curse

Chapter One

Sam Enderson stood outside his building and smiled with pride. The fresh sign painted on the door in crisp black letters read ‘End Street Detective Agency’. Examining the overall effect, he nodded in satisfaction. This move to becoming a private investigator was as far from being a timid bookseller as he could get. No one would walk all over someone who investigated crimes for a living.

Three months of correspondence school and a shiny new multi-weapon license had given his confidence a much-needed boost. After the hellish past year in which he’d found his boyfriend in bed with his now ex-best friend, followed by the death of his favorite uncle, Sam was ready for a new start in life.

Uncle Hanson. Just thinking about him made Sam feel sad. He had fond memories of visiting his uncle at work. The man had always liked Sam. He evidently had carried that affection into Sam’s adult life. After all, he had left Sam an entire building in his will, the building Sam now stood in front of. An office with accommodations over the top, worth quite a bit of money despite its proximity to an undesirable area.

“You should sell,” his friend Oscar had said. Oscar had no love for Uncle Hanson. In a sniffy tone, he often consigned Hanson to the idiot pile and called him ‘odd’.

“I don’t want to sell,” Sam had protested.

“What are you going to do with it?” Oscar had asked.

“Open up my own agency.”

Oscar still wasn’t speaking to him, even now, three months later.

Sam sighed at the memory and mentally pushed it all to one side to admire his property. The lower half consisted of a business office and reception area, with the upper two floors divided into four apartments. Three were empty, but his uncle had filled the fourth one with notes from his own investigative practice. That room was high on Sam’s list of things to sort out, but he first needed to concentrate on renting out one of the empty apartments.

Sam might have inherited the house, but it hadn’t exactly come with a burgeoning bank account to match. Forty years of being a detective and all Uncle Hanson had to show for it was this building, a small bank account, and a room full of papers. Sam was determined he was going to be different. He had a five-year plan in place. Sam didn’t doubt for one minute that he knew exactly why his uncle had little money to speak of. Uncle Hanson had done too much pro bono work for them.

Filing cabinets and boxes overflowed with notes from years of being a private detective. A lot of those papers included cases involving aspects of the paranormal, things Sam thought better left alone. Sam didn’t have a drop of supernatural blood in his entire body, and he didn’t plan on associating with those who did. It hadn’t exactly worked out well for his uncle.

Paranormals had their place. Hell, they owned half the city. Vampires and werewolves, witches, fae, and pixies—they all had their own parishes. Neighborhoods where they lived amongst their own kind. Like enjoyed living with like, and although they often mixed and matched, no one in Sam’s family had ever crossed the romantic boundary between the magical and the not.

Sam didn’t count his second cousin Christa, who had taken up with a blood demon. There was a bad seed in every batch.

Worried he’d use up the rest of his small inheritance, Sam had put an ad in the local paper to rent out two of the four apartments. They were empty but spacious rooms that had no one currently occupying them. After a quick mop and dust, they were ready for renters. Why his uncle had a space with no one living there didn’t make much sense. Of course, if his cousin Erik hadn’t been estranged from his father, Sam wouldn’t have inherited anything. A twinge of guilt went through Sam, but he hadn’t heard from his cousin in years and had no way of getting hold of him.

“Excuse me!”

A soft voice had Sam spinning around to see an old lady looking up at him. Her wrinkled skin and the way she leaned against her cane betrayed her great age.

“Can I help you?”

She squinted at him as if trying to make him out through her foggy white eyes. “You owe me a favor.”

“What?” Sam examined the lady carefully, but he hadn’t ever met her before in his life. What possible kind of favor could he owe her?

“The man here before. He promised he’d help me out,” she explained.

“I’m sorry—”

The old lady didn’t give Sam a chance to explain. She jabbed her finger into the air at Sam, pursed her lips, then began shouting. “He owes me. He owes me!” she repeated twice, her voice rising to a screeching pitch.

Ahh, now it becomes clear. “You must be talking about my uncle. Why don’t you come inside and we can discuss what I can do for you.” Although he didn’t feel the need to keep a dead man’s promise, if he could help the woman out, he would.

After opening the front door, he motioned for her to go ahead of him.

She settled into his visitor chair while Sam scooted past her to sit on the leather chair opposite, patting his uncle’s gargoyle statue as he walked past. Uncle Hanson had the strangest collection of art he’d ever seen. Eventually, he’d get rid of it all, but right then the weird pieces reminded him of his beloved relative and better times.

“My name is Sam Enderson. How can I help you?”

Scowling over at him, she shook her head. “The guy here before never told you not to share your name, did he?”

“The man here before was my uncle. No, he didn’t tell me not to share my name.”

She shook her head as if not understanding Sam’s stupidity. “You never share your name with a witch unless you want her to do a spell.”

Sam jerked in his seat, appalled at what he’d let through his front door. “You’re a witch?”

The woman slammed her cane onto the wooden floor. “Of course I’m a witch. I’ve got the wrinkled skin, the hunch, the cane, and the rheumy eyes. What did you think I was?”

He shrugged. “I-I thought you were just an old woman.” An old scary woman who gave him the creeps, but an old woman nonetheless.

“Old!” the witch shrieked. “How dare you call me old? I’m only a hundred and sixty!”

“Forgive me.” Sam raised his hands in alarm. “I didn’t mean any offense.” Secretly he wondered how old a witch had to be before she fell into the ‘old’ category.

“Well, I am offended,” she snapped.

“Sorry. I don’t know much about your world.” Witch or not, he couldn’t help the little slip of derision into his tone.

The witch regarded him carefully. “What are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What blood flows in your body?” she asked, as if expecting him to come up with some sort of interesting paranormal cocktail.

“Human. Just human,” Sam answered.

“You don’t like paranormals, do you?”

“No.” Sam saw no reason to deny the fact.

“So what are you doing here?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’ve inherited this building.”

“And you intend to do what?”

“Carry on business as usual. Private investigations. It’s what I’m qualified for.” And he had the multi-weapon license to back him up.

“Then you’ll have to do paranormal cases.” She gave him a taunting smile.

Sam’s stomach churned. “Why?” He didn’t plan to ever take a paranormal case.

“Because the law states no business can discriminate against a paranormal due to his or her status,” she explained. “It’ll get you shut down, it will.” There was definite glee in the old woman’s expression.

All Sam wanted to do at that moment was place his head in his hands and curse. He didn’t. He was much too professional for that. Instead, he shrugged. His mom always said if you had nothing good to say, then don’t say anything.

The witch cackled in true witch fashion, and Sam shuddered inwardly. The scent of something dead and decaying pervaded the room. Add in the crooked teeth and the rags for clothes and he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t immediately pegged her as something different.

“Now about that favor…” she continued.

“What?” He couldn’t look her in the eyes. Maybe if he didn’t look, whatever she said wouldn’t be real. He was comfortable with his denial. In fact, he might just lock the door, pull down the shades, and wallow in it for a few days.

“I need help tracking down a werewolf.”

Sam looked at her. “Why?” Paranormal hunting paranormal? That couldn’t end well.

The witch scowled at him while tapping her cane on the floor. “What do you mean, why?”

Had he stuttered? “I mean, why do you need a werewolf?”

“It’s none of your business why I need a werewolf, boy. I just do,” the witch snapped.

“It is, if you want me to do your dirty work.” Sam knew all kinds of uses witches had for werewolves and none of them was nice. “Not to mention hunting werewolves is illegal.”

“Pfft.” She waved away the law as if it were nothing. Probably was since she didn’t plan on breaking it but had asked Sam to do it instead. “I’ve got a rare potion to make, and I need some werewolf bones.”

“No.” Sam might not like paranormals very much, but he wasn’t going to hunt one down, either.

“Your uncle owes me!” she screeched.

Sam wanted to cover his ears at the high-pitched noise. “My uncle is dead,” he began to explain as patiently as he could. “I was willing to hear you out, but I’m not going to go kill an innocent werewolf so you can make a potion.” Were werewolves actually innocent? Hadn’t there been that whole rampaging werewolf-pack mess last year? Sam seemed to remember people—human, non-magical, regular people—getting killed in that little incident. Still, whatever issues he had with werewolves, he didn’t do that kind of work. He had enough problems without getting jailed for killing werewolves, innocent or not.

“This potion can save a loved one!” the witch announced dramatically. “I need those bones.”

“Find a different potion. I’m sure any given werewolf is someone’s beloved too.”

The witch scowled at him, then abruptly leaned back in her seat and smiled. The smile exposed a mouthful of yellowed teeth, and Sam winced inwardly at her lack of dental care. “Do you have anyone you love, Mr. Enderson?”

Sam’s mind shifted back to the image of his boyfriend of ten years screwing his best friend. “Not anymore.” Despite his ex pleading for forgiveness, some things Sam wouldn’t forgive. He’d moved out and away from his lover within days and blocked both work and mobile numbers from his phone. His uncle had been his last close relative that had stayed in his life. So really, with his uncle dead, at this point in time, he had no one he could call a loved one. But he’d give her his own bones before he admitted the extent of his loneliness.

The witch stood with a purposeful air. “When you’re on the verge of losing someone you love, come find me and maybe I’ll free you. Until then, enjoy my present.”

With a poof of smoke, the witch vanished.

Gasping, Sam tried to wave away the stench that accompanied the smoke, acrid and with a hint of burnt almonds. Finally, when that didn’t work, he rushed over and opened a window to let the ashy smell out. Great start to his first day as a PI.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Ahh!” Sam jumped back from the window to face the empty room. What the hell? Was she still there? Was the witch invisible?

“An idiot,” the voice repeated. This time Sam confirmed the source, emphasized when the statue on his desk turned its head and regarded him with eerie yellow eyes.

“What the hell are you?” he managed to ask coherently.

The statue’s stone wings moved, creating a sound like gravel underfoot. “I’m a gargoyle. What are you?”

“I-I’m a human.” Sam swallowed rapidly, trying to get some moisture into his dry throat. “What are you doing here?”

The statue stretched out of its crouch until it stood about a foot tall on the corner of the desk. Its baleful glare pinned Sam to the spot. “You’re an idiot. That witch has something planned for you, and it isn’t good.”

“H-how do you know?” Sam’s heart beat faster than a rabbit chased by a werewolf.

The gargoyle rolled his eyes. “You’re not too bright, are you? Your uncle trafficked with that witch.”

Sam frowned. His uncle had been a kindly old PI, who hadn’t seemed to actually do much from day to day. There was no way he had trafficked anything. He had been the type of man who always had a ready supply of candy for eager young visitors like Sam.

“The sweet old man who brought you candy didn’t exist,” the gargoyle answered his thoughts. Wait? How the hell…?

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

The gargoyle ignored the question, “He would’ve had that werewolf for the witch by the end of the day and walked away with enough cash to eat for months.” He didn’t sound like he approved, and there was sadness in his tone.

“N-no, that can’t be true.” Sam shook his head in denial. Surely the gargoyle had his facts wrong?

“Have you actually looked at the paperwork upstairs yet? I heard you banging about. I assume you actually read some of them?”

“I was moving furniture for my future tenants.” Sam shook his head. “And no, not yet. I thought they were just old case files that needed organizing.”

Defending himself to a freaking gargoyle made Sam feel like an idiot. The damn thing had been sitting there every time Sam had visited, and never once had it appeared to be anything more than an ornament. The creature must be wrong. Sam would have seen it if Uncle Hanson had been a bad guy. He wasn’t stupid. How could he not have understood his uncle’s true nature? Nope, this ‘gargoyle thing’ had to be wrong.

The gargoyle clomped across the desk. “Look at the files and check out the back closet in the file room. Your uncle had more going on than anyone knew about. That includes exposing himself to a lot more than just a witch with teeth problems and a ready hand with curses.”

With those parting words, the gargoyle sank back into his original position. A loud, crackling noise filled the room, and the creature became a statue once more. Sam poked at it with his index finger, but it didn’t move again.

“Huh.”

Maybe he was in the middle of a dream, one where he was going to wake up in his sun-lit apartment in Johnstown with his boyfriend in bed with him.

File room.

The gargoyle’s words sank in. Maybe he did need to check out the apartment with all the files a little more carefully. It wouldn’t hurt to see what other pies his uncle had his fingers in. As he stepped out of the office, a knock on the front door had him turning away from the stairs and back towards the front door. Why would someone be knocking? The door was unlocked. At least, he didn’t think he’d locked the door. But then, it was an old place. Maybe the latch had closed behind him when he’d escorted the witch inside.

His mind still on the files upstairs, he opened the door and stopped, frozen.

Vampire.

The man could be nothing else. Tall, elegant, and having an unearthly beauty, the vampire gave him a smile that exposed his fangs. “I hear you have an apartment to rent.” The vampire’s voice was like scotch over ice and dripped with sensuality.

A vampire here? In the daylight? Sam glanced past the vamp. Yep, the sun shone brightly in the sky.

“Ah, you’re not used to us.” The vampire flashed another smile. “We don’t actually burn up in the sun.”

That’s a shame. That would be one less paranormal to cause trouble.

“Um, you need an apartment?” Sam had never heard of a vampire living in an apartment. “I thought you people had mansions and crypts and stuff.”

The vampire threw back his head and laughed. “That’s only in the movies. Now, can I see your place?”

“…Umm” Sam searched his mind for a good excuse. Anything to keep the skeevy, blood-sucking supernatural out of his house.

The tall vampire smiled. “You know that part about vampires reading your mind?”

With a sinking stomach, Sam nodded.

“That part’s true.”

Sam sighed. “You’d better come in. It’s right this way.”

The day had started out so well, too. Now, Sam just wanted to go back to bed and hide under the covers.

“I’d be happy to keep you company,” the vampire said in a low, sultry tone. For a second, Sam didn’t understand what the hell the vampire was talking about, and then he recalled what he had just thought about beds and covers. Sam looked over his shoulder to see the vampire checking out his ass. Rolling his eyes, he headed up the stairs, leading the vampire to the top floor. He pulled an old-fashioned key from his pocket, unlocked then opened the door.

“No spell locks?” the vampire asked with concern in his voice.

Sam shook his head. Like he’d had any time to do things like that. The vampire was lucky the room had been tidied and cleaned. “You’re welcome to add your own, of course.” Fuck, he was going to rent to a vampire. He could hope the creature didn’t want the place. “It’s nothing fancy.”

Please want something fancy.

Before Sam could take more than two steps into the apartment, the vampire pinned him to the wall. “I’m not a creature. I’m a man, and I’d be happy to show you exactly how manly I am.”

To Sam’s shock, he could feel the vampire rubbing his erection against him. “U-um, s-sorry.” Was this what vampires did just before they drank every drop of blood from your body?

“I don’t want you sorry. I just want you to want me.”

Sudden, inexplicable desire burned through Sam and his body hardened in reaction to the proximity of another man. The vampire smiled, exposing a flash of fang. A shiver of fear trembled down Sam’s spine.

“No!” He shoved at the vampire, who, surprisingly, broke his hold and released Sam.

The vampire watched Sam with a wary look. “What are you?”

Why does everyone keep asking me that?

“I’m human, okay? Just human.” Sam scowled at the vampire.

“No human has ever shattered my glamor.” The vampire sounded thoughtful, and his appraising look unnerved Sam.

“Well, good for me.” Sam folded his arms. He might not like paranormals, but he knew enough about vampires and their way of controlling people to know he didn’t want that within six feet of him. “I’m not going to rent a room to someone who tried to glamor me. You might as well go.”

The vampire smiled. “My name is Bob.”

A snort of laughter burst out of Sam. “Your name isn’t Bob.”

The vampire tilted his head, and his eyes glowed with amusement. “How do you know?”

“Because I just had a witch tell me not to share my name with a paranormal so I doubt you would be telling me your real name.”

Bob grabbed Sam’s wrist. His grip was firm, and instinctively Sam yanked his arm to try to break the vampire’s hold. “There was a witch here?” Bob snapped urgently. “What did she look like?”

“A witch.” What did it matter what she looked like? “She was old, crony, and witchy. You know—” He gestured expansively with his free hand— “A witch.”

“What did she want?” Bob still hadn’t let go of his wrist. The vampire didn’t know his own strength. One last tug and Bob finally let him loose. Idly, Sam rubbed at the sore skin burn.

“From what she said, werewolf bones.”

Bob scanned the room as if he expected the witch to jump out of the wall or something. “Never trust a witch and never, ever, tell a witch your real name.”

“Okay, um… Bob.” Sam could barely hold back the laughter building inside him.

“My real name is Roberto, but I go by Bob,” Bob finally said. “Vampires don’t have last names outside a coven. Your last name reveals the group you belong to. I am an independent.”

Sam couldn’t hold back the laugh inside him. Dire warnings about witches aside, he couldn’t wrap his head around a badass vampire calling himself Bob. Hell, a vampire named Bob. That was wrong on so many levels.

“Vampires are supposed to be sexy. There’s nothing sexy about a Bob,” Sam finally managed to say without laughing. Why he cared what the vampire called himself, he didn’t know, but there was no way he was going to call a vampire Bob.

Bob seemed to forget his need to warn Sam about witches and names and instead pulled Sam into his arms. Evidently he had returned to his first agenda. “I’m sure I can convince you I’m sexy,” he drawled. What was it about this man—vampire, whatever—feeling like he could manhandle him at every turn?

Sam narrowed his eyes at the vampire. The man might be the sexiest thing Sam had ever seen, but he wasn’t going to admit it…

Damn. He had just thought that. And damn—Bob had heard him. Shit. Bob was definitely smirking.

“Do you have a multiple personality disorder or something? You bounce around more than anyone I’ve ever met. From scary vampire to smirking idiot in a second.”

Bob smiled and didn’t appear to take offense at Sam’s comment. “You’ll have plenty of time to examine my personality when I move in. How much is the rent?” The quick change of subject threw Sam, but it didn’t keep him from trying one last time to stop Bob from moving in. He mentioned an exorbitant amount for the monthly rent to attempt to deter the vampire.

Bob released Sam, and then walked through the living room and down the hall. There were two bedrooms and a small kitchen, though Sam doubted Bob would need a kitchen. Vampires didn’t eat real food. Right? But wouldn’t he need a fridge or something for all the blood? Or would he be one of those vampires with a live donor?

What did Sam know? He had thought vampires could only come out at night.

Sam pushed aside thoughts of blood.

Bob returned to Sam’s side in long, confident strides. “I’ll take it.”

Shit!



Chapter Two

Not for the first time, as Sam inhaled the dust in his uncle’s storeroom, he wondered if he should have worn a mask. Dust was everywhere. The damned stuff covered years of undisturbed chaos piled in the corner of his uncle’s filing system. Spider webs, dark and thick, coiled in and around files that were faded with age. The top one, labeled Aster vs. Aster, was dated fifteen years ago, so God knows what the rest was like.

Throwing back the full black drapes brought light into the otherwise dismal space. He finally got a good look at the room his uncle had always called ‘the bookroom.’ Objects, boxes, letters, and photos covered every conceivable surface. A pile of notes here, a file of case observations there. With no discernible organization at all, the sight of it almost sent Sam running back out and shutting the book room door behind him.

He opened Aster vs. Aster and traced a finger down the spidery writing.

“Edgar Aster, Elf, aged…” He peered closer. “Aged one hundred eighty-three. Against Agnes Aster, daughter of… pursuant to… what the hell?” Even with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, it was difficult to work his way through both the handwriting and the legalese. The notes were sketchy, and then all of a sudden there was a switch in language. He couldn’t understand the English parts, let alone the symbols that lined the page.

“Edgar Aster cheated on his wife.” The voice came out of one of the other dark corners, and Sam spun around, brandishing the file in front of him.

“What the hell?”

“He cheated on his wife. It says so on page fifty-seven. That is the conclusion reached.” The voice was so damn formal. Sam squinted at the shadowy corners but didn’t see anyone. Not even a little gargoyle statue sitting around waiting to come to life.

Just as he decided he’d lost his frigging mind, the disembodied voice was joined by a body. Well, half of a body so far, actually. The full form was manifesting from wisps of smoke, and a man’s figure formed in front of Sam’s eyes.

He’d seen ghosts before. On television. Not real ghosts; make-believe ghosts. He knew they existed for real, but they generally kept to themselves.

“Then you’ll never guess what he did.” The ghost floated nearer as a nose joined his face and ears aligned on each side of his head. The ghost’s voice dripped with the tone of someone sharing salacious gossip. Glee danced in his pale misty eyes. Definite glee. “He got his wife and girlfriend pregnant at the same time.”

“At one hundred-eighty-seven years old?” Sam blurted, painfully aware he was having a conversation with a ghost, who appeared trapped in a time from centuries past. The britches and a flowing white shirt put the ghost a few hundred years earlier than current, and the long ringlets cascading to his shoulders gave him a more feminine look than the man’s voice suggested.

“That’s nothing,” the ghost said conspiratorially. Sam found himself unconsciously leaning closer to hear. With a snort of disgust, he pulled himself back. The ghost didn’t appear to notice, now fully formed and standing—floating—in front of him. “Turns out he had seven mistresses and…” His voice trailed off as he raised his eyebrows. “He had so many children, he ran out of elvish names to call them.”

“Oh,” Sam offered helplessly. The ghost held out his hand as if to shake it, and Sam, on instinct, made to grasp the offered fingers only to watch his own hand pass straight through the misty one. The ghost giggled. Seriously chuckled with mirth. Then, to Sam’s shock, he floated straight through Sam.

Sam shivered at the icy sensation that passed through him and jerked forward as soon as it was done. Swiveling on his feet, he turned to face the ghost, who was staring at him with an odd expression.

“I didn’t like that,” the ghost said quietly.

“You didn’t like it?” Sam spluttered. He felt violated and mildly nauseous. “I feel—”

“What are you?” the ghost asked.

“What? I’m the owner here. My uncle—”

“No. What are you?” the ghost repeated his question in a slow, patient manner as if he were talking to a child.

“What? Why does everyone ask me that? I’m the normal one here. I’m human.”

“Oh.” The ghost looked puzzled. Then he wrinkled his nose and shrugged. Apparently he didn’t understand that Sam was the human here. “Sorry about the…about before—you know the whole, umm…”

“Ghosting through me and violating me?” Sam snapped the question. The ghost appeared offended and perched on the side of one of the desks. Sam could see the files through the pale form, like some kind of weird special effect.

“I was just teasing you,” the ghost said idly. “I’m Theodore McCurray Constantine III. For some reason, your uncle Hanson liked to call me Teddy. I’m the file keeper.” His voice spilled over with pride as he straightened his ethereal shoulders. “It’s a big responsibility.”

“The file keeper,” Sam repeated carefully.

“Can I join in?” The voice was a welcome respite from making sense of why there was a ghost sitting on his desk. A ghost whose name appeared to be a mishmash from different continents. Teddy looked across to the door, and with a girly shriek, he vanished from sight, leaving only a few random wisps of smoke that trailed around where he had been sitting.

Sam ran his fingers through his hair and sighed loudly.

“You may be renting from me, Bob, but this is my room and vamp…tenants are not allowed in this part of the building.”

Bob looked around the space, with its tangle of files, boxes, and books, then, disregarding Sam’s statement, he strode the few steps to Sam and took the file from his hand.

“Aster? I remember him.” Bob looked up at the ceiling with a smile on his face and reminisced. “What a guy.”

Sam immediately reacted negatively. This Aster, if he could believe the ghost, had been a serial adulterer. There was nothing remotely fabulous or amazing about that. “He sounded like a bastard. Cheating on his wife.”

“Wives,” Bob corrected quickly.

“Wives? It gets worse.”

“So you don’t like the idea of a cheat?” Bob asked thoughtfully. Sam’s mind wandered to thoughts of his ex. He narrowed his eyes as Bob stared, suddenly remembering the vampire could read his thoughts.

“Did you know that vampires mate for life?” Bob began conversationally. “We don’t cheat. Ever. A cheating vampire is a dead vampire.”

“Yay for vampires,” Sam replied sarcastically. Bob took one step closer, and Sam took a measured step backward. His ass hit one of the filing cabinets, preventing him from backing up any further. “You scared Teddy.” Changing the subject was probably a good thing at this point.

Bob waggled a hand from side to side. “Vampires don’t get on with ghosts and vice versa.”

“They don’t?” Why? Why did I give him the chance to explain? He’s freaking me out, and he’s between me and the door.

“I think the veil is thinnest between a vampire and a ghost,” Bob offered in explanation.

That was possibly one of the most insightful things Sam had heard since he had been a child sitting through interminable hours of remedial paranormal studies with Mr. Esterhoon.

“Because you’re both dead people,” Sam offered.

Bob took that final step forward until there was nothing more than a single breath between them. Damn it. There was a flash inside Sam, a curl of lust that climbed higher while sweat trickled down his back. His dick was so hard he could swear it was going to break the zipper on his pants. Bob had the most incredible eyes. Amber and gold, they shone with an unearthly light, and Sam could see every striation of color in the irises. And the scent of him? Of Roberto? A mix of earth and sky and oh so damn intoxicating.

Placing his hands on either side of Sam, Bob pressed into him, clearly just as hard. Bob bent his head, and instinctively Sam tilted his head in response. Bob brushed a gentle kiss against Sam’s exposed neck. He couldn’t stop himself. He was going to let Bob feed on him, kiss him, fuck him and…

Bob pulled back with a smirk on his face.

“I can promise you I am not dead.”

Sam pushed at Bob. “Stop that,” he snapped. “You’re up in my space, and I don’t like it.” Sam made his words firm and unyielding. Bob would have to understand exactly where he was coming from. No touching. Bob narrowed his eyes then shrugged. Evidently, Sam’s firm stance had hit a chord. Bob took a few steps back, and, crossing his arms over his chest, he only stared. They locked gazes. Bob’s focused look made Sam more and more nervous. In the end, Sam snapped.

“You can go now,” he said.

“I’m happy here.” Bob resolutely stood his ground, and Sam could feel the tension knotting inside him at the brooding vampire and his inability to just go.

“This is my office and—”

“You have a visitor,” Bob interrupted. He tilted his head to one side and closed his eyes. “Two actually. Of the same mind.”

Sam hadn’t heard the door, but moved past Bob to peer over the banister and down the stairs anyway. Bob was right. Two figures stood huddled together in the wide entrance hall. Jeez. If Bob hadn’t said anything, Sam wouldn’t have known they’d arrived. There and then, he resolved not to spend time trawling through the file room at the expense of possibly losing a paying customer. He needed a bell, an alarm, or something.

“You have visitors,” a voice whispered in his ear. Sam cursed in surprise as he turned to find Teddy, half there and half not, with a look of concern on his pale face.

“I know, thank you,” Sam said sharply.

“Are you going to ask them what they want?” And now Bob was there as well, right up next to him and tracing one of his long fingers down Sam’s arm. “I’m not sure you should leave clients standing in the hallway.”

“Your uncle would have been down there already,” Teddy warned.

That was the final straw. “Enough. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with clients.”

Ignoring the sigh from Teddy, Sam pushed past Bob and went down the stairs as calmly as he could. Excitement built inside him as he observed the two tall, slim gentlemen, currently with their backs to him, talking quietly. With short blond spiky hair and dressed in jeans and sweaters, they looked normal. He could handle normal. Normal was easy. They apparently hadn’t noticed him arrive behind them, and it gave him a chance to brush the dust off his clothes.

“Can I help you?” he asked. They stopped talking and, in perfect unison, turned to face him.

Twins.

Twins with narrow, delicate features and wide, silver-blue eyes.

Twins with runes and other markings tattooed in exact replica on each perfectly sculpted right cheek. Not to mention the pronounced widow's peak and the silver threaded into their short hair. He racked his brain, trying to remember a classification for this particular type of non-human but failed. Tall. Slim. Silvery. Tattooed faces. Sighing inwardly, he realized now was the test of his promise to himself to only work for humans. The twins didn’t seem so bad. No fangs or huge sharp teeth, no fur, and they appeared fairly harmless.

“We have lost our third,” one of the twins said directly. He held out a hand, which Sam instinctively grasped to shake.

“Our third is lost,” they said together to emphasize the reason for the visit. Sam shook his hand also. Sparks chased up his arm, and he felt curiously dizzy for an instant. The twins looked at each other, and the first took a step forward to release the other's handshake.

“Not now,” he said.

“Not now,” the second repeated.

Shaking off the dizzy feeling and not at all understanding this strange conversation, he gestured with a hand toward the office. The two visitors walked into the room first. They stopped just inside the door, and Sam shuffled around them as best he could before sliding into his chair.

“Please. Sit.” He wondered if he should have offered coffee, but after casting a quick look at his uncle’s old coffee machine, he wasn’t entirely sure he could work the damn thing. Nothing led him to imagine for one minute that he could fix a proper cup under the watchful gaze of the strange silver-eyed twins. They sat in perfect unison, and both wore the same expectant expressions on their faces. Pulling his brand-new notepad from the side of his desk, he sat poised with the pen hovering over the paper.

“You said you’re missing your third. Can you elaborate at all? Your third what?” It was a safe question. They had mentioned losing a third.

“Us,” Twin on the left said.

“Us,” Twin on the right repeated.

“Us. You. Um…” Sam scribbled in the notebook. One word. ‘Us’. A good start.

“Can I maybe get some more details?” More lucid details that actually made sense, maybe?

“We created a list.”

“A list,” he repeated. This was going nowhere fast.

Left twin passed the paper over along with a photo of a man who looked just like the two men sitting across from Sam. He set aside the picture, grabbed his reading glasses, and peered down at the writing. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this simple list written in English No runes or hieroglyphics, but actual writing. Of course, the normality ended there. He didn’t understand one thing on the list.

“Places he was seen.”

“Places he went.”

Sam did recognize one name as that of a local nightclub, but it could be a coincidence. He looked back up at the twins. Both of whom appeared to be close to tears. Hell. He hated it when people cried. He never knew what to say or do.

Okay. The third is a person. Someone who means a lot to two men who look like twins.

He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He had seen his uncle do that on more than one occasion, and he had always thought it made his uncle look brilliant and considering. Finally, he put his thoughts into words.

“So,” he started carefully. “Your third, your brother or triplet, is missing, and these are the places he has been spotted. You are hiring me to track down your missing brother.”

“With haste,” left twin intoned gravely.

“Utmost haste,” right twin enforced.

Sam looked back down at the paper. “Can I get some contact details for you?” He looked up, but the twins had stood and were already at the office door. “Wait.” Clambering to stand, and cursing his leg that somehow had become trapped between chair and desk, he finally stumble-tripped out to the hallway.

Gone. Both ethereal twins were gone. Throwing open the front door, he stepped out into the sunlight and blinked at the sudden change in brightness. Scanning the street for a car, or at least two walking men, he stared up and down the road. Nothing. Totally gone.

Damn it. He had nothing much in the way of information, no names…and no money. Maybe that piece of paper would reveal more than he thought, but he hadn’t even agreed to a damn fee. Shit.

Freaking paranormals.

Beckett Jamieson découvre qu’il a été adopté lorsqu’un avocat lui remet une lettre de sa mère pour son vingt-et-unième anniversaire. Son vrai nom est Robert Bullen, mais la famille Bullen est impliquée dans des activités criminelles de la pire espèce. Il décide de les faire chuter, mais finit par être roué de coups et temporairement aveugle.

Un agent du Sanctuaire l’emmène dans une maison sécurisée pour guérir. Le Docteur Kayden Summers, agent du Sanctuaire, n’est pas heureux de se retrouver coincé au milieu de nulle part avec un homme inconscient. Lorsque Beckett se réveille, la situation va de mal en pis. Il ne fait pas confiance au médecin et est plus déterminé que jamais à trouver la preuve que sa mère a cachée, et en plus de tout cela, Kayden se sent attiré par le jeune homme déterminé. 

Pourront-ils surmonter leurs problèmes et éliminer la menace que représentent les frères Bullen ?

Oracle - The Complete Collection includes Oracle and Book of Secrets for a special cover price of $4.99.  That's a saving of $2.49 if the books were purchased separately.

The Books

Book 1 - Oracle

Love, adventure, an empath & an ancient relic that could destroy the world.

Alex Sheridan is a thief, able to steal even the hardest to reach antiquities. Luke MacKinnon is a professor of ancient languages.
When they come together to locate the Oracle, it is because both men have targets on their backs. Can love blossom when each day could be their last? And, how can they survive the evil that wants the Oracle?


Book 2 - Book of Secrets

Kidnapping, adventure, drama and the fight for eternal life.

Alex is making good on his promise to put things right; retrieving items he had stolen, and returning them to their rightful owners. It's dangerous work, especially since he lost his most useful Oracle-given powers.
When Luke is kidnapped by a man intent on finding the secrets to eternal life, Alex has to make a bargain with the devil and break steal an item from the private library at Windsor Castle. Will Alex be too late to save the man he loves?

Buy Links

Amazon (US) | Amazon (UK) | All Romance | Barnes &Noble  | Kobo | Smashwords | iTunes

Reviews for Oracle

Rainbow Book Reviews - "....Using an existing legend like the Oracle of Delphi and re-interpreting it with a paranormal angle, giving it a modern slant, and adding characters I cared for from the very beginning made this story a joy for me to read. The balance between action/adventure and romance is really good, letting both parts of the story shine. If you like mystery and intrigue in your romances, if you enjoy a plotline that will keep you in suspense, and if you prefer to read about characters who are real and human in their reactions, then you will probably enjoy this books as much as I did. Bring on the sequel, RJ!..."

Top 2 Bottom Reviews - 4/5 - "....The book explores the concept of life and relationships controlled by fate and how life is directed when destiny, rather than free will, controls the paths taken. From the introduction to the conclusion, the plot held my attention with a blend of romance, suspense, conflict, and action. The climax of the story and its resolution were emotionally satisfying and well developed. The story, as a whole, was well paced and tautly written...."

Boy Meets Boy Reviews - 4/5 - "....This was what was fun about this story, some really good adventure but not so much action that you’re dragged away from the romance or the mystery, the elements were balanced well....

....I’ll definitely be reading Book of Secrets, the continuation of the story and would highly recommend Oracle, it was a great read I really enjoyed...."

Hearts on Fire Reviews - 5/5 - This was a great read with likable characters and a good pace. Alex Sherridan is a thief with paranormal abilities but no memory of his youth before age 7. He was washed up on the shores of Greece with scars carved into his body, which he later had covered with tattoos along the lines of the scars. Luke McKinnon is a linguistic scholar hired to interpret ancient Greek scrolls in an an attempt to discover the Oracle at Delphi. When he meets Alex with his tattooed scars and abilities their lives become intertwined with the help of the gods. I recommend this book to anyone with an open mind.

Reviews for Book of Secrets

Hearts on Fire Reviews - 5/5 - "....I got the HEA ending with just enough mischief to make this story a highly entertaining read. I recommend it highly to any paranormal fan. If you missed Oracle, now is the time to pick up both books and lose yourself for a weekend...."

MM Good Book Reviews - 4/5 - ".... Having Alex’s powers come back gradually was a well thought out plot and to have it woven into an impossible theft was exciting and very interesting. Linking Luke into the mystery was brilliant and adding a figure from Alex’s past was an added bonus. ... I have to recommend this to those who love the mystical and the magical, some great action, a touch of angst and a very happy ending in unusual circumstances....."

Rainbow Book Reviews - "....As a sequel, this is a great book because it picked up on the characters and their stories, and answered many of the questions I had at the end of the first book. But I think it would work even as a standalone story, with enough riddles, quirky characters, and grand mysteries to keep me entertained....."

Literary Nymphs Reviews - 4/5 - "....Then there’s the theft at Windsor Castle. It’s pretty obvious Ms. Scott did a great deal of research about its history and layout and the same goes for DaVinci’s works. It’s all nicely integrated into the plot and adds a nice sense of realism. With this manuscript theft comes new characters, some ultimately good and others bad. As you might guess, Alex’s powers don’t stay gone forever but come back gradually and without explanation. It’s handled well but there are still questions about his powers that have been left unanswered. I can only hope that at some point in the future Ms. Scott will work those into a plot. So, if you enjoy an action packed, danger filled story with a smooth plot and a great paranormal component then I suggest that you give this new release a try...."

Dark Diva Reviews - 4.5/5 - "....As a fan of Ms. Scott, I eagerly await anything that she writes as I know that I will not be dissatisfied. Book of Secrets is a different style of writing as compared to her other popular series, but none the less, just as well written. At times I found my heart beating wildly as we were led on a racing adventure and then smiling pages later. Mystery and suspense meld with ancient history and mythology, a combination that would intrigue any reader; especially this reviewer. I can only hope that Alex and Luke will speak through Ms. Scott in the near future as a book three is definitely in order. If you are a fan of Ms. Scott and have yet to read this series, do not let it pass you by. You will not be disappointed...."

Excerpt - Oracle

Prologue

When he was nine, Alex Sheridan, the boy with new parents and no memories, disappeared.

The bullying had started on hour one, of day one. The new boy with the curious accent and stilted English carried strange scars on his body. Some said he had gotten them in a fire. Others suspected that he had done them to himself. Alex never deliberately showed the scars to anyone, but physical education and the changing rooms meant even he couldn't keep all his secrets hidden.

There was a group of boys—bigger, stronger, and crueler than Alex could ever be—that made his life miserable. Their favorite torture was to corner him and taunt him and pinch him and he would cry. He was crying for the pain and the humiliation and for the utter terror that coursed through his thin body. He never told anyone; his new mom and dad could well send him away and he didn't remember where he even came from. What if it was worse than here? What if the scars were from some terrible monster that clawed and bayed and wanted his blood?

"No sense in hiding in here, freak." Tim was the eldest and by far the meanest of them all. He was broad and tall for a ten-year-old and he thrived on the attention that making Alex cry got him.

"Which stall is he in?"

"Did he run in here?"

"Try the end one."

Alex curled into a smaller space, his feet up on the toilet, the door shut and locked. The lock itself was loose and could not actually keep out a group of kids intent on finding their target. He was crying so hard that there was no sound, only soul-destroying shaking that wracked his body.

Please. Please. Help me. Leave me alone.

He chanted ove and over.

Someone find me and help me.

They were coming closer. Alex hadn't thought of what door to enter but it was the farthest point and the last cubicle.

They found him.

"You in there, freak? Gonna make sure you don't run again." Tim's voice was backed up with boisterous laughter and Alex could picture every single one of them banging on the door. The burning in his stomach was so painful he pulled his legs up tighter hoping to make it disappear, but instead the intensity increased. The prickle of pain travelled down his legs and through his arms and his vision blurred. He couldn't see anything properly, and his fear grew and grew as everything turned hazy and grey. He was dying here in the bathroom. Dying as sure as being hit by a car or falling out of his bedroom window. His head pounded as the door rocked and the lock started to loosen from its tiny ineffectual screws.

No!

Alex rocked and shut his eyes tightly as the lock splintered from the flimsy wood and suddenly the boys were there. Tim and his friends who made Alex's life a living hell were far too close. Forcing his eyes open to see them, he braced for the first blow. But nothing came. Instead Tim was peering into the cubicle with a puzzled expression, and behind him his friends were looking over his shoulder straight at Alex.

"Where is he?" One of the less timid friends thought it a good idea to question Tim. Not a good idea as Tim swiveled on his feet and pushed the boy back.

"Fucking freak locked the door and crawled out under it."

"So where is he?"

"We'll find him."

The noise of the boys, a bickering laughing group of hate, dissipated and finally Alex was left alone in the cubicle. The heat in his skin and the prickle of pain in his veins was manageable now.

Why didn't they see me? They looked straight in at me, but right through me, as if I wasn't here.

He checked his arm, the faint scar that wrapped its way down to his wrist and the shapes of letters or designs that stretched when he flexed his muscles. The burning wasn't inside him, it was in the scars.

Was he invisible? Why didn't they see him? He could see himself, so why couldn't they?

"Something inside me," he murmured. It kept me invisible to them.

He clambered down from the toilet, grimacing at the dampness on the seat of his pants. He crossed to the mirror and stared.

There was nothing in the mirror. No gangly young kid with snot and tears marking his face. Nothing.

Slowly he breathed. In. Out. In. Out. And gradually his form returned. Not in a freaky way where his face appeared then an arm, no this was slow and steady and one minute he wasn't there, the next he was.

Years later, his first lover, Edward, would ascribe a name to this party trick that left Alex exhausted. He called it phasing and said Alex was almost stepping into another time stream for a while, into a different plane.

So that explained that.

What it didn't clarify was the way Alex could alter physical processes or mess with mechanisms. Neither did it give reasons for how Alex could see inside people, into their heads and their hearts and perceive what was really inside them.

Through touch he was able to feel them.

Which was why, besides Edward, he never really touched anyone unless he could put into place mental barriers strong and steady enough to stop the overwhelming flood of information and emotion.

Because this flood? It terrified him and it hurt.


Chapter 1

Now

"She's beautiful," Alex said. He looked up at the façade of the British Museum and couldn't help smiling. Whenever his work took him away from the US to England he was struck by the splendor of the place in front of him and the nature of its design. There was a comfortable familiarity in its white columns whenever he stood there in its shadow.

"She is," Edward said softly. He moved to stand beside Alex and waited. He was always happy to allow Alex a few minutes with the view in front of them. Alex didn't need to have empathic senses to see his lover was still firmly focused on the plan for tonight in his head. Edward was the worrier, the one who ensured plans were intricate and timed to perfection. What Edward saw when he looked at the museum differed greatly from his own view. Where Alex noticed beauty and architecture and glimpses of dreams that plagued his sleep, Edward observed opportunity and thievery. Not that Alex didn't also appreciate how much money could be made from a well-timed lift of an artifact. He was, after all, one part of the two-man team that was responsible for the removal of many a relic from behind glass. Thievery was his livelihood. He wondered if the criminal streak ran in his family, his real family, like it did in Edward's.

Edward's own great-great-uncle had been responsible for the removal of artifacts from all over the world to place in the cold halls of the museum, including being part of the team responsible for the Elgin Marbles debacle. It was a point of controversy whether museums should be allowed to possess artifacts taken from other countries, and the British Museum was a notable target for criticism. A point Edward chose not to focus on in his determination to get the job done.

"Are you ready?" Edward asked.

Alex flexed his thoughts and scanned the façade once more, and with a blink he nodded. Yes. He was ready.

Alex knew the exact positions and security measures surrounding the Elgin Marbles, the Benin Bronzes, and the Rosetta Stone, three of the most disputed objects in the museum's collections. He and Edward would both have liked the high of lifting any of those items but thievery on that scale simply wasn't practical. Fencing high profile goods such as those would be fraught with the problem of getting caught, something neither Alex nor Edward cared to entertain. He cast a quick look at Edward who was looking directly at him with fondness clear in his expression.
Edward de Chauncey, Earl of Enstone, was dressed to the nines to blend in with his contemporaries, and he looked stunningly handsome in the black and white. Slim and spare, he was the epitome of sophistication and British reserve. He fit in well at these gatherings where people with money paid a premium to attend private viewings.

Where Edward was comfortable in his tux Alex was just plain miserable. Damn thing was killing him. Tight and restricting, the jacket felt maybe a little too snug across his broad shoulders, the trousers stiff and unyielding. He wasn't born to wear these things; he was born to wear jeans and T-shirts in hot Californian sunshine, not penguin suits in the frigid English weather. It wasn't as if the getup kept him warm either as he stood and stared at Edward.

"Alex. Quit with the staring. Freak," Edward said. The words were uttered under his breath with little heat, and he grinned that wide grin that Alex was so fond of. He turned almost immediately to mingle with other wealthy patrons who were waiting to move inside, slipping effortlessly into the role society placed on him. Alex smiled at his lover's words and pulled himself out of his musings. Slipping a socially acceptable expression firmly down over his face, he moved to stand at Edward's side, the faithful partner, the other half of the successful antiquities company Azure.

He was fiercely proud to accompany Edward, his lover was so handsome, so confident, and so very clever. Tonight Edward's short hair was spiked and gelled to perfection and his dark brown eyes, framed with sooty lashes, were alive with expectation. They were a team in life and a team at work. Alex always deferred to Edward in matters of social niceties; he was the expert at getting them into places, using his name and his connections. It was once they were inside that Alex took care of the rest.

As the crowd of patrons moved into the museum, Alex followed Edward's example; he nodded and air-kissed, laughed flirtatiously with society matrons, blushed when people commented on his cute American accent, and all around sold himself as slightly simple and wholly innocent. Every second that he talked though, he catalogued things in his head, things people would never consciously realize, let alone categorize. Details of jewelry and its worth shuffled into discreet sections in his mind even as he skimmed the rooms for cameras and security, already completely aware of escape routes, windows, and obstacles. There was an ability ingrained in him to know at every given instant the way his surroundings were laid out.

Edward had always envied Alex's skill in that arena, commented on it, and called it Alex's special ability, with the emphasis on 'special', which always earned him a shove when he said it.

Edward's position in the complicated British aristocracy gave Alex that all-important social 'in' that a smart boy from California didn't automatically have. After all, it wasn't everyone who had after-hours access to the British Museum, nor, in particular, to the reading room and the new exhibition that was the evening's centerpiece and target; The First Emperor exhibition. Dedicated to China's Terracotta Army, it was a special showing, a one-off, for a limited time. The object he and Edward had been tasked to obtain was only in the building for two occasions; yesterday's royal visit, and the evening champagne reception for those who could afford it, in other words, for people who knew people.

"Edward, my dear boy, how the devil are you?"

Alex stiffened at the words from behind him and sighed inwardly. A florid, portly man who always looked down at Alex like the young American was a bad smell under his nose, Lord Arriseth was something akin to Alex's nemesis. The old aristo certainly disapproved of his godson Edward's relationship with this 'foreign man', as he described Alex, and never failed to remind Alex of the fact. What concerned Alex was that even with the distinct superiority complex Arriseth held like a blanket around him, he still spent an inordinately long time staring at both Alex and Edward. Alex couldn't get a true or clear sense of why the man did. Alex had long ago consigned it to the fact that the older lord was well and truly in the closet and lived vicariously through his godson and the hick lover from California. Alex tensed, but then caught Edward's pleading gaze for peace just before the older man determinedly placed himself between Edward and Alex, effectively cutting Alex off.

Alex really didn't know why Edward worried that he would rise to Arriseth's goading, he would never actually say his piece to the blustery old fool. Especially considering that Edward was Arriseth's godson. Added to which Arriseth was actually the one who had supplied the couple with the rare-as-gold tickets for the evening's event. What made Alex smirk was the fact that Arriseth's family had risen fewer than three generations ago from its roots in Greece and Spain, which made him one of the foreigners he so detested. Thoughts like those kept Alex amused during boring receptions and stuffy teas. Those, and the tingle of excitement at what he was going to achieve when the time was right, while the stodgy and unknowing milled and preened. He could feel the energy sparking inside him, the focus he needed to accomplish tonight's lift coiling tightly along his spine.

Alex tuned back in to what Arriseth was saying. "So I said no, because, really it simply isn't done, you know. Oh, and some chap with some Scottish surname is here tonight, some kind of expert on ancient languages. Bennington says he's here to do some translations on the location manuscripts sent over from the Chinese embassy."

Half listening to Arriseth and his name-dropping, Alex scanned the crowd on the steps around the exhibits, finding the usual people: a few celebrities, London's elite, and him. The absurdity of the situation made him laugh; if they only knew the real Alex they would throw him out, way out, of this rarefied air. Curious about what others might be discussing he moved toward a group standing in a side aisle, a shadowed alcove filled with statuary and artifacts. He had an hour to kill, may as well find out what was happening around him, see what information he could pick up, drink his glass of champagne, and flirt a bit with society matrons.

He'd taken only three steps when something struck him as not quite right. A sensation started as a prickle at the back of his neck, a singular pressing awareness that someone was watching him. Alex settled his breathing and placed the champagne flute on the nearest table. Using the action as a cover he looked carefully around him. Alex had grown accustomed to being watched, since he didn't tend to blend into crowds.

Somehow though, this felt distinctly different; this was that kind of speculative observation that made Alex's awareness rise as soon as he sensed he was the center of someone's attention. He caught Edward's gaze; Edward who was staring at Alex with concern, a nervous-looking Edward who frowned at the faint uneasiness that Alex was sure showed on his face. Alex shrugged and smiled; don't worry, both his expression and his body language relaying reassurance to his partner, and continued his inspection of the room.

His gaze finally focused on the shadows flanking, and partially obscuring, the last exhibit in the tour. A tall figure leaned against the column two to the left of the exhibit case. The same prickle of expectation slid across his shoulders even as Alex made his way toward the person observing him, picking up two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and sliding into the shadows easily. He nodded in recognition of the other's stare and offered his counterpart the second flute of champagne. Without a word the man nodded, placed the empty glass he had been holding on the rear corner of the display table, and accepted Alex's offering. Not a word passed between them as they each sipped a measure of the Brut, appraising each other as they did so.

"Good turnout," Alex offered neutrally, endeavoring to get some sense of the man who stood there, attempting to decipher what caused the tingle of awareness inside him. He was tall, maybe only a few inches shorter than Alex's six-two, and broad-shouldered. He had loosened his tie and there was a disheveled look about him. Alex sensed some discomfort in the man, but other than that there was nothing. It was confusing. He couldn't get a proper sense of the man in front of him, couldn't see more than vague shadows of the person he was. There was no chance of getting any more specifics without touching him. Because he was intensely primed to finish the evening's task swiftly and successfully, he knew it wouldn't be a good thing to distract himself by attempting to get a clearer reading. Instead he focused on the physical and on the man's expression. With deep brown eyes, smoky eyelashes, and skin kissed by the sun, the man was stunning to look at. He had nicked himself shaving and the small mark marred his otherwise flawless skin. His nose held a small indentation where Alex assumed glasses usually sat, and he was staring right back at Alex throughout the entire appraisal.

"Very good turnout," brown-eyes returned, just as carefully, sipping at the champagne and leaning back against the column again, his face in the shadows. The voice was as American as apple pie and had the lazy tone of a southern boy. Interesting.

"Alex Sheridan." Alex took the initiative, holding out his hand in greeting, automatically raising and strengthening his barriers to the potential overload to his senses a casual handshake was likely to cause. The man didn't hesitate; his gaze focused on the proffered hand, moving slightly out of the shadows to take it firmly.

"Luke MacKinnon," he introduced himself, grasping Alex's hand. He paused in the handshake then twisted Alex's wrist to examine the beginnings of the markings peeking out from under the white shirt cuff.

"Interesting tattoo, Mr. Sheridan," he commented, releasing Alex's hand.

Alex shrugged, allowing his shirtsleeve to fall over the worst of the black lines. He wasn't ashamed of the tattoos climbing and twisting across his skin. Far from it, they were stunning in design and a part of him. However, Luke's soft American voice had sounded far too interested, indeed, almost possessive. Now was not the time for Alex to be making a show or to draw attention to himself. That single touch during the handshake was enough for Alex to feel a small amount of something about this Luke.

A hesitant mix of suspicion and questions hovered inside the brown-eyed man. Then when he'd twisted Alex's hand and had examined the very end of the tattoo as it rested on his wrist bones, it was a sensory shock. Alex could almost taste the suspicion rise in the man. It was unnerving, and Alex went for the same answer he gave anyone who commented on his tattoos.

"College pledges," Alex said, tapping his little finger against the crystal flute. Not that he had actually ever attended college for any more than a year. "Misspent youth," he added as the other man leaned back against the pillar, retreating once again into the shadows. Luke MacKinnon's gaze had moved from interested and alert to closed.

"You should come see me before I leave London," Luke said. He inclined his head, indicating thought. "I can suggest many more tattoos in the same ancient Greek vein. If you want to relive your misspent youth, that is?" His voice was colder than the cautious civility he had displayed before, his eyes still in shadows, and his mouth set in a straight line.

Alex felt a shiver run down his spine; this guy had seen what—three inches of the tattoo that wound around his entire torso, and with only those to go on he had pinned the language as Greek, and added to that, actually identified it as ancient Greek?

Not only that, but as a touch empath, Alex had felt the change in MacKinnon's demeanor like a cold thud against his chest. What had caused MacKinnon's posture to stiffen and his beautiful deep brown eyes to narrow? It wasn't a reaction Alex had seen before in others he had touched, no one usually flinched when he came in contact with them.

"If you will excuse me, I need to find my partner," Alex offered.

Luke nodded. Evidently he wasn't saying anything else.

After placing his still-full flute on the display table alongside MacKinnon's empty glass, Alex pulled himself to his full height, murmured a polite, socially neutral good evening, and left without a backward glance. He could sense Luke's gaze following him and he frowned slightly. He needed a clear head and within ten seconds Alex refocused on the task at hand. He had a job to do.

Looking down at his watch, the tail of his arm and wrist tattoo touching the platinum band, he snapped his concentration back into the room and away from the very perceptive man in the shadowed corner. He had fifteen minutes to achieve what had taken days to plan; the item he intended to 'acquire' was particularly well protected with security measures that could prove difficult. The inevitable 'crowd mingle' at events such as the current one provided an excellent opportunity to slip away unnoticed. He rejoined Edward, made his excuses to search for the men's room and, seeing the spark of amusement and excitement in his lover's eyes, hesitated for a heartbeat.

A successful 'relocation', as Alex termed it, was guaranteed to result in a night of heavy lovemaking. The passion for the edge, both of excitement and of fear that Alex possessed, translated well into lust. Edward knew his part, did his bit, leaning in to bite a kiss into Alex's lips, and as Alex pulled back he saw excitement mirrored in Edward's eyes. With a soft smile that promised much, Alex patted Edward firmly on the chest and left the main hall. For a moment he rested against a wall, clearing the last of the crowd's noise from his perceptions and trained his attention ahead.

He successfully navigated the labyrinth of corridors linking the main hall to both the restrooms and the quiet, distant room that held the items he had really come to see: the manuscripts found in the tomb of the emperor. In particular Alex was interested in the scroll detailing the building of the tomb. It lay hidden away in a safe in side room 104A, awaiting translation. Alex came to a halt outside of the restrooms, both looking and listening for the sound of anyone approaching. Then he focused his internal energy on the camera that was scanning the hallway in sweeping, regular movements. Tracing back he could envision the wires inside that connected it to the wall. He nudged gently with his mind and watched as the camera turned away from him on a slow arc. Cautiously, he eased down the corridor and around the corner to the end door, marked Authorized Personnel Only, with its palm print-activated entry keypad.

Carefully, Alex placed the flat of his hand against the keypad, feeling the tension of awareness in the small of his back and the pit of his stomach as energy surged from him and into the mechanics of the door, overriding alarms with binary assurances his handprint resided in the appropriate database. The snick as the door opened sounded loud in the empty corridor. Alex froze, listening again in case someone had heard and was rushing to arrest him. Since he heard and sensed nothing he slid inside and pulled the door shut behind him.

Locating the safe took exactly forty-three seconds, then several more to disengage the security, maybe ten seconds to view and withdraw the item. The precious jeweled carvings and other items inside were ignored. As he left the room he half folded then slid the flat papers in their protective covers into his inside jacket pocket, hiding them in a fake lining that meant no one could see them at a casual glance. In exactly five minutes and seven seconds, if anyone had been counting, Alex Sheridan returned to his place at Edward's side, insinuating himself into small talk and smiling and nodding in all the right places. Only the quick squeeze of Edward's fingers around his betrayed his lover's emotions.

Within half an hour the couple had made their excuses and had embarked on the trip home. Alex smiled as Edward let out a 'yes' of complete excitement as Alex floored their small convertible and sped away from the museum. Alex felt little guilt at what he and Edward did; ninety-five percent of their business was legitimate, inside the law. As for the final five percent: the 'relocations', the acquisitions, the items not for public display, to be spirited away to private collections, well, if he used his strange powers to make money, sue him. Alex had everything he wanted, money, a fantastic home, and the love Edward gave him.

One day Alex might be able to lower his barriers and love Edward as deeply and completely as Edward loved him. He wished he thought of Edward as more than just a friend he loved.

One day.

Listening to his lover talk at him over the noise of the engine was calming and wrapped him in security, and he felt the lust build inside him as the high of adrenaline started to flood his body. He took a hand from the wheel, grabbing for Edward's hand and returning his smile. Life was good, damn good.

"Do you know how much I want you right now?" Edward said with a low growl, moving a hand to rest on Alex's thigh, his fingers close enough to put pressure on Alex's already hard sex.

"Jeez." Alex squirmed as Edward played with the zipper of his dress pants, slipping those damn clever fingers under the black material, smiling as he found Alex commando.

"Tonight, I am gonna make you scream, Mr Sheridan."


Chapter 2

Luke McKinnon, driven by his innate curiosity, watched the small sports car leave the museum's parking area, his attention drawn to the dark-haired American, the one with the tattoos on his wrists.

He had only ever seen symbols like the man had on his skin once in his life. They'd been lines and circles on ancient parchment in a translation for the Acropolis Museum after finds were unearthed at a dig at the Acropolis. Early words belonging to a time long since passed. Luke really doubted it was some kind of college pledge that resulted in that kind of pattern inked into a man's skin.

Luke had never seen someone like Alex before, physically intimidating, broad in the shoulder and chest, wearing a suit that must have cost quite a bit more than Luke's off-the-rack effort curving to every inch of his muscled body. Despite his high cheekbones, his blue eyes, and the sheer perfection of his features, he was exactly the kind of man Luke usually avoided; men with polished arrogance about them that only wealth could buy, aloof in their own worlds.

The scholar in him had been itching to pull up Alex's sleeve, to see how far the marks went. The man in him was wondering at the rest of his body.

But this Alex's reaction had been a voice dripping with ice. The tone was firm, surprisingly soft but inflexible and refusal had radiated from every line of his body. Luke was left feeling cold and shaky, like he had been physically shut away by a slamming door. That was the really interesting bit. More correctly, Alex Sheridan was interesting and, before returning to the soiree and the schmoozing he hated to his core, Luke resolved to find out more about him and about his tattoos.

He rejoined the gathering, glancing around to see who was where. Lord Arriseth was on his cell phone, and his entourage was hovering, waiting for him to return, seemingly unable to carry out simple conversations without the aristo. Luke deliberately crossed to the other side of the room and was immediately drawn into several long-winded conversations about the artifacts he was here to examine, all the time his thoughts returning to the intriguing tattooed man who had left.

Unintentionally, and despite his best intentions, he found himself close to the one person he had been trying to avoid all night, Lord Arriseth himself. The older Greek was not on Luke's list of favorite people. He might fund quite a few of the digs Luke was involved with, he might even be the one financing tonight's little get-together, but it was always done with that superiority only titled aristocracy seemed to possess.

"This is Professor MacKinnon, my expert." Lord Entitled pulled him into the inner circle of his close friends, comprising a collection of other titles and a few tabloid personalities. Luke nodded in response to the greetings, trying not to bristle at the term 'my expert', and listened as Arriseth expounded on Luke's skills with translations and solving puzzles. The conversation turned to the scrolls from the Emperor's collection, which meant Luke at least could contribute to the conversation, holding everyone's attention for a good twenty seconds. To be fair, they were here for the kudos of attending, not for breaking codes on a sealed scroll, but it still grated that they were stopping him from just getting on with his translating.

The very minute the discussion changed to the subject of yachts and Monaco, Luke made his excuses. He couldn't even afford to look at yachts let alone own one, and he tried to avoid Arriseth for the remainder of the evening, hiding back in his alcove for a while and observing. It was what he did best.

He slid his cell phone from his pocket when he was bored and walked the perimeter watching for signal. As soon as he had enough, he Googled Alex's name. A couple hundred hits returned, mostly society papers or magazines that specialized in tracking the rich and famous. Alex wasn't the famous one. Apparently that would be his business partner in an antiques company, Viscount Edward DeChauncey, third cousin to the Queen twice removed or some such link.

They looked happy and successful and in one article it was implied they were more than business partners. Luke thanked the heavens that his gaydar was still apparently working after years of non-usage. Checking the kind of antiques they specialized in was interesting. In his experience, companies such as theirs had a niche market that they focused on: art, precious gems, furniture, or a particular time period. However, Azure Antiquities, with one address in Los Angeles and another in London, seemed to have an eclectic mix of everything and anything. They appeared to specialize in locating one-off items on request. Interesting. Luke wondered if they actually made any money out of that. Nothing of what he read on any of the hits explained the lettering on Alex's arm, though. Maybe back at the university, if he used their systems, he could find out more.

"Luke?"

Luke startled and looked up. Someone had found him lurking in the Egyptian exhibit. He started to defend himself then realized it was only William Walton. William was his connection at this museum and the person who had contracted him to begin to decipher the scroll markings.

"Hi, William," he said. He didn't bother to hide the relief in his voice.

"Can I hide with you?" William asked with a smile. He held out a wine glass full of deep ruby red liquid and smiled. "I brought a bribe."

Luke took the glass gratefully, although he knew to limit himself to no more than a few sips. Red wine played havoc with his mental processes. He tasted the thick raspberry-scented fluid as it coated his tongue and slid down his throat. He couldn't stop the groan of satisfaction that left him. Finally he was able to talk and William was standing, ever so politely, waiting for him to finish his orgasmic connection to the grapes.

"Why do you need to hide?" Luke asked politely.

"Too much money out there"—William gestured back the way he had come—"and not enough sense." William grumbled the words with a grimace. Aristos and others with disposable income were what kept museums in general flush with enough money to attract exhibits. The British Museum may well be an old, established, and well-respected place, but even it had to bend with the times.

Luke knew exactly where William was coming from. Too often people at gatherings like this were collectors. The people were the bane of Luke's life, buying up items like they had the right to hide away history that belonged to all.

"I'm not really a people person and I'm just itching to get to the scroll," Luke admitted.

William's eyes lit up. "Would you like to see it now? No sense in wasting your time hiding behind this sarcophagus and slowly getting drunk."

Luke pushed back the instant surge of excitement. He had been told he would need to wait until tomorrow. "Would that be okay?"

"I have the code. She's my baby." Determined, William took Luke's wine and placed it on a small table. "Let's go."

Ten minutes later, staring into the safe where the papers had been, William looked confused.

"They're gone."

"Gone?"

"Not here."

"Has someone removed them for analysis?" Luke tried for helpful and instead came off as the guy who stated the obvious.

"You don't understand. I'm the only one with the access code."

They stood silently while William rested a hand on the safe door and forlornly stared into the space where Luke assumed the scroll had been.

Finally William shook his head. "I think we've been robbed."

Luke was sure there was another explanation but didn't say anything. Why would anyone take a scroll yet leave the other, probably far more precious items, in the safe?

That didn't make any sense. No sense at all.

Excerpt - Book of Secrets

Chapter 1

"The best way to remain in the museum after it closes to the public is to be inside before it closes," Alex Sheridan said. He paused for a moment to allow Chris to have his say but the other man said nothing. Alex was relieved Chris didn't immediately argue but he also wasn't entirely sure how he was going to manage the feat he had just stated as fact. He just had the feeling that if he said the words convincingly enough then he would be able to find a way to make this happen. Chris Samuels, his friend, ex-US Army lieutenant, and now mastermind of their little team, probably imagined every worst-case scenario possible. That was just what he did.

Chris sat back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. Tapping a rhythm on the table in the restaurant, he narrowed his gaze.

"I've done the Ashmolean before, you know," Alex added helpfully. Griff snorted a laugh and Alex turned to look at the man sitting next to him, wondering if he should issue a snappy comeback. How else was he supposed to say it?

Griff shook his head and looked away at the waiters walking quietly between tables with plates of cakes and sandwiches and pots of hot water for tea.

"You've done it?" Chris said. His tone was derisive and his voice carried a note of laughter. "Is that what you call stealing from one of the oldest museums in England? And was that before or after you fell in a pit of fire and lost all your freaky powers?" Chris asked the questions casually but there was a hint of warning underlying them.

"Chris has a point," Griff added. "You may well have 'done the Ashmolean before' but we keep coming back to the fact that if you go for this today you will be going in blind."

Alex turned back to look across the street from their table in the Randolph Hotel. The Ashmolean Museum was a gorgeous building, almost as pretty as the British Museum in London, with columns inspired by ancient Greece. Tourists of all nationalities grouped around the museum, the hotel, spilling onto the busy road and posing for photos while chatting excitedly. Alex couldn't hear them, merely see their wild gesticulations and the smiles on their faces. Here inside the hotel everything was subdued and quietly respectful with a rarefied air. Around twenty people sat scattered in informal groups around the high-ceilinged room. There were no more than one hundred steps between here and the museum, and Alex could picture each footfall in his mind. The carved marble in his jacket was a heavy enough weight to remind him of what was at stake to make his observations of distance and obstacles acutely relevant.

"Can't you, just this time, walk in and simply place the thing where someone in authority can find it?" This came from Griff who, based on the tone of his voice, still couldn't comprehend what drove Alex to do what he did.

"I took it in stealth, I want to replace it the same way," Alex said. He was completely aware of how stubborn he sounded. Not even Luke completely understood why Alex pushed himself into situations like this. How could he explain that he felt alive when he danced with danger and the risk of discovery? Or that, at the moment of replacing the item he had originally stolen, the flood of memories of how he used to be was like the high from some drug.

"So what do you plan to do?" Chris interrupted his thoughts. He and Alex had talked about everything at length. Quite possibly he was the only other one who really got the rush of adrenaline. As a black ops soldier he'd been in war zones where even breathing was damned dangerous. He knew.

"Play it by ear. Visit and decide where it goes, then hide." Saying the words made everything appear so matter-of-fact.

"You make it sound so simple. You're six foot two and it's not like you blend with the crowd. They have extra security on Guy Fawkes Night and probably some kind of watch list."

"I've never been on any watch lists. Whatever I stole no one ever knew it was me," Alex defended. That was true. Still, before the fire and the loss of all his 'powers', for want of a better word, he could have walked into any museum and moved cameras, played with people's heads, even disappeared into what Edward had called 'other space'. Now he was stuck just being normal and no one outside of his head could understand the frustration.

Griff stood in a flurry of motion and with a barely hidden sigh of exasperation. "Let's just get on with it," he said.

At a more leisurely pace Alex stood and stretched tall. The restaurant was set up for afternoon tea and it was quiet enough for their small corner to be private but it was a different matter outside the old building. Stepping out into St Giles, dodging buggies and camera-wielding tourists, they finally managed to get across the road when the lights changed and ended up at the bottom of the steps. Even though some daylight remained, there was the hint of smoke in the air and the autumnal wind carried with it the expectation of the firework displays that would be widespread tonight.

The last time there had been a great theft from the Ashmolean had been New Year's Eve night over ten years ago. Alex couldn't claim responsibility for that, but he knew who had carried out the audacious theft of the Cézanne. Even to this day Alex agreed that using the noise of fireworks to drown out the sounds of the theft was ingenious. He'd never had to employ tools like that before. The very fact thefts existed, executed by people without the abilities he used to have, meant he had a template he could work from if he needed. The security would probably be tighter tonight; the museum would have learned from their loss. On the flip side they would not be expecting anyone to try the same thing again, let alone someone replacing a missing artifact.

Alex glanced across at Chris, who nodded in return. There was a way of doing this. Chris and Griff visited, Alex staying a little behind, and they simply walked the museum, enjoying great artifacts of the past. They touched what they were allowed to, and stood and admired what they couldn't. Chris and Griff gathered intel, but mostly they were just there to case for escape points if Alex were to need a way out. Alex wandered around by himself, deliberately avoiding the Greece display where the tablets were held until very close to the end of his tour. He was adept at making it appear he was part of a group, always tagging along with others and even initiating conversation. All the while he watched and learned.

A new display of Roman pieces found in a field just outside Bicester made him curious, and he leaned in to check out the arrangement of it all. Coins, a helmet, and several knives without hilts were shown to their best advantage in glass presentation cases and his fondness for all things Roman made it easy to linger a while until the next group swept by and took him with them. He considered the taller glass cabinets under the bridge that connected the art displays with the atrium and the marble statues, and imagined the way down from that height in the staggered cases. They formed a natural staircase that dropped three feet at a time. He was a fit, agile man, and even without his powers he would be able to make very short work of getting down to floor level. Much better than the security teams he had scouted the previous night, all of whom appeared to be fit and healthy but maybe a little complacent with the routine of it all.

Alex made his way through the middle area until finally he arrived in the area labeled Ancient Greece and stood directly in front of a beautiful display of various Grecian artifacts. The glass of the surrounding cabinets was lit in a muted glow and the tablet itself hung suspended by near-invisible clear plastic hooks that encased it from top to bottom. What was left was stunningly beautiful and intrigued the greatest minds. The part in Alex's jacket had been the fifth piece of five that was a special order. He had never understood why the man who bought his and Edward's skills only wanted one part of the five-part puzzle but his was not to reason why. They had stolen it six years before and no one had anything linking it to them. Nor had the museum publicized the theft, not after the loss of the Cézanne a few years before.

The plaque explained the history of the piece and he was engrossed when he caught movement reflected in the glass; someone stood behind him. He imagined from the invasion of his personal space that it was Chris or Griff. There had to be a reason why they had broken protocol and connected with him, and with a wash of concern he turned to face the person to his side.

"Alex Sheridan," the man acknowledged. Alex didn't immediately react. He couldn't. Shorter than Alex by five or so inches, the man was dressed casually in jeans and a jacket with a backpack slung over his shoulder and his eyes hidden behind shades. To all intents and purposes he appeared nothing more than a tourist strolling the corridors of history. Just like Alex.

"Dragan," Alex replied softly. For a second they simply stared at each other then Dragan pushed his glasses up into his scruffy hair. Piercing amber eyes looked at him and a flood of memories pushed Alex back a step. The last time he and Dragan Jovanovic had met it had been Alex with the upper hand. Alex who left with the artifact. Alex who made the money. Dragan had been the one left with nothing but the bitterness of being defeated by a man he had nicknamed 'Ghost'.

"Ghost." He inclined his head. "It's been a long time." His voice was that curious mix of Serbian and American that was a product of a European birth and an education at Harvard. An ex-member of the Serbian art theft team known as The Pink Panthers, he was, to Alex's knowledge, one of the only ones who'd outlived their mafia supporters. He'd been gone a long time. Five, maybe six years. Alex had thought him dead.

"Why are you here?" Alex asked quickly. The group he had attached himself to was exclaiming in loud voices over the perfect physique of a carved marble statue of Apollo and was steadily moving away. Too soon Alex would be standing on his own in the middle of the room talking to someone Interpol had on their art theft list. Not good. Really not good. A sharp pain travelled from one temple to another and he tensed at the familiar sensation. Now was not a good time for one of his regular migraines to make an appearance.

"Same as you I imagine," Dragan said with a smirk.

"Dragan—"

"Firework night. Quite a precipitous night. Don't you agree?"

The chatting from Alex's retreating cover group was lessening and Alex had to move if he wanted to stay firmly under the radar. Rooted to the spot he couldn't move nor take his eyes off Dragan.

"I'm replacing everything I stole," Alex said quickly.

"So I heard. You and your Lord and your soldier and the man who knows languages. Luke MacKinnon? Some kind of anti-thieving team I think? And he is your partner, this Luke?"

"He has nothing to do with what I am undertaking here."

"I am sure he doesn't, but I think he soon will." With this cryptic statement and a civil nod of his head, Dragan walked away as if he had all the time in the world and as if he wasn't carrying a pistol under his jacket.

Shit. How do I know he was carrying a gun? Why can I visualize the gun? Why can I sense the shape of it when it's hidden? Why does he have a gun? Why does my head hurt?

Hell, why didn't the Ashmolean have some kind of anti-terror security scanner? Dragan wasn't the kind of man who had a gun without the intention of using it. Didn't the Brits take anything seriously? Calming his breathing, Alex considered his options. Dragan being here, in the vicinity, with a gun, and some kind of intention to carry out a theft, was a very large spanner in the works. The attention of the police could be raining down on them, especially if Dragan used the damned gun.

What do I do? Stand here? Carry on with what I was planning? Do I call the whole thing off?

Thoughts ran and twisted in his head and the pain knifed again. This time it hurt enough for Alex to move the hell away from standing there like an idiot. He consciously followed the direction that Dragan had taken but when he rounded the corner the man had disappeared from view. Instead he caught a glimpse of Chris and Griff walking toward the exit and glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes to closing and the place was still busy enough to hide whatever he was doing. If he stayed and did this thing tonight then he needed to pull himself the fuck together and stop worrying about what ifs and maybes. His plan consisted of a quick 'in and out' and pushing thoughts aside that could rock his equilibrium, he focused.

Striding confidently past exhibits, he took a left then a right out to a door marked Staff that Chris had cleared as the best entrance, and pushed it open. He already had the words at hand if he was spotted but the luck of the gods remained on his side and he ended up heading down the back stairs to the basement and the dry storage area. Down here everything was covered in protective packaging and was storage for a mix of items rotated into display and new exhibit contents.

After standing still for a second he then turned on his heel and headed to the back of the large labyrinthine area. Dodging behind a pile of large gray crates to avoid two chattering staff members, he finally found himself in an area full of ancient Egyptian artifacts. Happy that he was safely out of sight and earshot, he settled with his back against the wall and his ass pressed on the cold floor. He was prepared for the cold. The cold was nothing, nor was there fear of where he sat or why. No. This time his head was full of Dragan. What the hell was the man doing in broad daylight in Oxford, jeez, in England at all? How had he stayed alive after the great mafia showdowns of 2008? So many families turned on each other and the hired help often went first. The Pink Panthers, named for the diamond in the eponymous series of movies, was not only disbanded but ruthlessly hunted down by rival families and authorities alike. Dragan was, to all intents and purposes, the last of his kind.

Alex flicked through what Dragan had said then he remembered the almost throwaway line about Luke. Something about Luke soon being part of this? This what? The retrieval and replacement scheme he worked on? What?

His headache subsided as he calmed his thoughts and lost himself in memories and finally he arrived in a place in his head where he could relax and wait until the dark and the fireworks. Luke was in another University town, Cambridge, delivering a lecture on translation and Alex had been the willing audience as Luke practiced his speech.

God. He wished Luke was here. Now.

* * * *

Luke wrapped up his speech with a flourish of his hands and a summary that he had practiced over and over for many long hours. The applause was deafening in the acoustics of the medieval university hall and for the first time since he had agreed to talk fourteenth century translation he was pleased he had said so.

He wasn't the best at standing in front of people and talking. It didn't matter that he was an expert in what he was talking about or that he had experience in ancient languages that a lot of the professors and students alike would sell their own grandmothers to own. Of course he couldn't talk about what had happened with Alex, or the crazy connection the two of them had, or even the fact Luke's name was carved into Alex's skin as part of some gods against man battle. Keeping Alex a secret was as vital to him as keeping hold of Alex's heart.

"Thank you so much," Professor Jameison said. He pumped Luke's hand so hard that Luke had to rub his fingers when he finished. The short, balding, bespectacled man was a master of ancient Greece and was one of those that, if only they knew what Luke had seen, would be pinning Luke down for information. To know the Oracle. To have slept with the Oracle. That was some pretty intense and heavy stuff.

"You're welcome," Luke replied. He gathered together his papers and the notes he had prepared but not actually read from, and pushed them all into his case.

"We would be honored if you could join us in the refectory for a drink?"

"I'm so sorry. I promised I would be back home for later tonight, so I really need to think about battling through the traffic." Nothing anyone said could get Luke to stay away from Six Pillars tonight. Alex was coming home and after one of his jobs he always needed Luke as his center.

"A pity. But I must say I would appreciate the chance to discuss the scripts in more detail at a later point. Should I have my assistant contact yours for a time?"

Luke smiled. An assistant? Wouldn't that be nice. He may know a few languages, he may well have an instinctive need for learning, but he was still a low-paid researcher working on his own papers. Taking on jobs like this one in Cambridge where he was paid a pretty decent fee made it at least feel like he contributed something financial to his and Alex's life. Of course, Alex being left a large part of Thanos's billions did make life a little easier, added to the fact that they now shared an apartment in Griff's family home for half of the year.

"Please get her to email me and I will be very pleased to come back."

Making his excuses and accepting both congratulations and questions on his way out, he realized that the November sky, redolent with the scent of bonfires, was so dark he couldn't immediately find his car. Evidently medieval buildings didn't have outside lighting as a given. Finally in the car, he checked his cell. There were no messages from Alex although Luke had an insistent nagging at the base of his skull that he really needed to get home soon.

Nothing will go wrong. Alex knows what he is doing.

"It's okay, Luke." Alex's voice echoed in his head and Luke smiled. It was just wishful thinking that it was actually Alex's voice and not just a thought that manifested as if it were planted there. He missed that connection they had experienced in Greece. The connection hadn't lasted long but he had just gotten used to it when Athan had left Alex. He'd only noticed how much he had grown used to it when it had completely gone.

Just short of three hours driving and he headed up the winding road to Six Pillars and parked on the wide drive. After grabbing his papers and bags he hurried into the house and without hellos was intent on finding either Griff or Chris and hearing how Alex was getting on.

"And?" he asked. Griff looked over at him from stirring something that smelled vaguely Italian and tomato-y on the gleaming stainless steel stove.

Griff knew exactly what to say. "Everything's fine. He went in. He hasn't contacted us. Security was light and the crowds were heavy."

Luke deflated a little as the worry left him then he winced as a band of pain squeezed his temples. Rubbing at the offending areas he cursed. The pain had been on and off all afternoon.

"Okay?" Griff asked, looking concerned.

"Fighting a headache; the motorways were hell. I just need some pain meds and a shower."

"He'll be back by two," Griff offered. Luke managed a smile. However much he smiled though, Griff could see straight through him. "Someone phoned and left a message for you." Griff turned back to the pot. "Chris wrote it on the pad."

Lord and Lady Morgan had left the house mostly empty when they spent their usual six months in Monaco, and just the four of them lived here. Him and Alex in the west side of the building, Griff and Christopher in the east part. The fact that four men lived here was easy to spot to an untrained eye by the piles of notes and takeaway menus that littered the side counter. It never failed to amaze him that pizza was still delivered to a house as grand as Six Pillars or to a man as titled as Griff.

"I cooked pasta," Griff said. "It's this bake thing if you're interested."

"You cooked?" Luke said. "Are you feeling okay?" He rummaged through the notes until he discovered one in Chris's handwriting in among the clutter. A single name: Smith, and a contact number.

"Ha bloody ha," Griff deadpanned. The very British swearword sounded so damn dry.

"This was it? Just a name and a number?"

"You need to ask Chris, he took the message. Dinner's in twenty."

"I'll be down. Where's Chris?"

"The usual."

Luke wandered out of the kitchen and down the long hallway to the room off the study where he knew he would find Chris. When Alex was out doing his thing, Chris could be found in the empty room doing his. The ex-soldier worried just as much as Luke did. Luke knocked and entered just as Chris finished a roundhouse kick to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling. He was sweating and concentrating and Luke hesitated to interrupt his friend for a moment. He took a step back to leave but words stopped him.

"You need to talk to him, Luke." Chris held on to the bag to stop its swaying and pushed his other hand through his short, sweat-damp hair.

"To Griff?"

"No. To your idiot boyfriend. He's gone into that place with no fucking plan, no backup, and a wish for his crazy-assed powers back again."

"I'll talk to him," Luke said. He meant it. He would talk to Alex for all the good that would do. Recently Alex had become more and more reckless in the way he approached his retrievals and replacements and Luke fought very hard to keep his worry on the down low.

"I'm just…" Chris stopped and stepped away from the bag. He used a shrug to punctuate the unfinished sentence and Luke knew exactly what he was trying to say. He was worried. Luke was worried. And now he had a freaking full-blown headache.

* * * *

Alex opened his eyes and then checked his watch. He hadn't slept but he had relaxed and the plan for what he was doing was very set in his head. The headache was getting worse and he felt a sick dizziness as he clambered to stand. Settling his breathing, he let his newly opened eyes become accustomed to the dark and debated using the small flashlight in his pocket. He had a pretty clear idea where he needed to go and he visualized a path. The security cameras only started outside of this storage room and he knew enough to avoid every single one on the route he needed to take. Opening the storeroom door led him to a darkened corridor and, pausing for a moment, he took the way he had come in back out to the museum. The guards patrolled every so often, there were the cameras, the Ashmolean wasn't stupid—they had enough to protect everything that could be taken. They just hadn't planned on someone putting something back.

The museum was silent, no one near him. For a second an overwhelming feeling of want washed over him. He hankered for the ability to play with the cameras—to turn them to another source. Pointedly he stared up at the nearest camera, one focused away from him, and flinched when it shook slightly. It didn't move completely but Alex frowned. He was losing it, thinking anything about moving cameras.

Quietly he made his convoluted way in the direction of the exhibit and in a few minutes the missing piece of stone had returned to its place. For a second he watched it, back where it should be, and some emotion flooded through him. Luke. Alex was proud of what he was doing because it was what Luke wanted. Did that make him a pushover? Was that why he stood in the museum in the gently lit hall staring like a calf-eyed idiot with a feeling of pure peace inside him? Closing his eyes briefly he shook his head to clear the thoughts. Luke would listen to what Alex said and would just give that damn enigmatic smile. This particular piece of marble had been hidden from the public eye for quite a few years now and Luke wanted people to be able to see and touch these links to the ancient world.

Nodding at the marble, silently admiring its placement, he turned and made his way to the only egress that Chris had identified as a safe and easy way to leave. Attuned to the silence of the museum, it was easy to hear approaching footsteps, and quickly Alex slid behind the nearest sculpture big enough to hide him. When the footsteps passed he moved across the glass bridge and with agile grace that belied his size he used the tops of cabinets to reach the ground floor in seconds. Clearly one guard prowled the first floor and that left two other guards somewhere in the building. Waiting for a second, he listened carefully and frowned when he heard voices.

"It came from here," one guard said.

"It's probably some damn computer glitch," the other replied. He sounded way past annoyed and straight on to pissed.

"We can't always blame this stuff on computers." Guard one laughed as he said this.

Alex watched as the two walked the very corridor he needed to use to get to the skylight in the Civil War hall. Anxiety knotted in his chest and he breathed through the issues.

"Jesus Christ!"

Alex couldn't work out which guard was exclaiming but he hugged closer to the sculpture. Something didn't sound right.

"There's glass everywhere. Look. Up. The skylight. It's been smashed."

"There's a bag. A red one. Wait. Sound the alarm."

Alex's stomach sank. A red bag? Dragan had been holding a red rucksack. He wouldn't have made this mess though. He was an expert. The alarm was a shrieking cacophony of discordant notes and the museum lights came on full and bright. Alex winced. Fuck. Two guards blocked his only exit, thinking was difficult with the noise in his head, the light burned, and Dragan was somewhere in the freaking building. What the hell was he going to do now?

"Police are on their way. Five out." This was a third voice. Probably the guard Alex had evaded coming across the bridge.

"I'm going to check north."

"I'll take south."

"They could be armed. Stan, stay here at the skylight."

"You said they could be armed. Should we be splitting up?"

If Alex weren't in shit up to his neck he might even think the whining was funny. Not many art thieves actually went around with heat. Except, it seemed, Dragan. In that freaking red bag. Think. Think.

Scrolling through possibilities to get the hell out was messing with his head. There were several potential exits but most of them left him exposed once he left the building. The roof wasn't an option. Fuck. Pain banded his head and he winced again. Then the burn started. As fear edged into his normally calm thoughts, heat began to build inside him. He held up a hand and the sleeve of his black polo neck fell back to expose his wrist. Blue. Sparking just under his skin, a cerulean blue that squirmed and formed into shapes. In disbelief he watched as it coalesced into recognizable letters. The same letters that had been carved into his skin. The same that had disappeared in the fire. Concentrating the burn until it sat in the center of his chest, he inhaled and exhaled deeply. The burn cascaded through his body and he welcomed the hurt it spread along its path.

This was Alex with the power of the gods under his skin, and closing his eyes tightly he concentrated on his Self. Athan wasn't inside him. There was no trace of the boy who had been so much a part of him for so long. This was all Alex and it was frightening and exhilarating at the same time. When the gray hues of images burned inside his eyelids he opened his eyes. Everything around him was blurred and faded as if he were looking through dirty, cracked glass.

Could he have sidestepped into his other space?

Taking an experimental step away from the carvings, he inhaled and then moved directly into the line of sight of a very nervous Stan. The guard was jumpy and looking between the room around him and down at his watch.

"Come on… come on…" he muttered.

Alex stopped right in front of him but the guard looked right through him. Fuck. This was real. This was happening. Not wanting to waste a single moment, he moved behind the guard and lifted the red bag. It would vanish into the other space with him—something he'd never been able to explain to Luke, or even understand himself. In a smooth movement he climbed two cases until finally he reached the last display and stood under the broken skylight. Seconds later and he was out on the small side-extension roof. One minute more, with sirens sounding right outside the museum, and he was running at a fast pace back to where he had left the car. Halfway between the Ashmolean and his car he shifted back to the now. Not consciously. It just happened. He hoped to hell no one spotted that freaky-ass trick.

Dropping the red bag on the passenger seat he belted himself into the car, started the engine, and drove away as sedately as he could. The buzzing in his head sounded familiar. Something was happening inside him.

How the hell was he going to explain this to Luke? They'd only just settled into a routine of being normal. Well, as normal as it got between an ex-thief like him and an academic like Luke.

How the hell he was going to explain to Luke what had just happened?


Chapter 2


Alex swung the VW Golf in a smooth arc to end up the far side of the stone fountain. He needed time to get around how he was feeling.

"Fuck," he muttered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Killing the engine he rested his forehead on crossed arms against the steering wheel. The scent of leather teased his nostrils and he inhaled deeply. After spending the last few hours in the basement of a museum, surrounded by the remnants of some Egyptian display of sarcophagi and wall paintings, it was good to breathe in something fresh. His heart rate slowed as he concentrated on calming the hell down. He didn't think he had ever made it from the city to here in such a short time. Yes, it was nearly two am and blacker than pitch, meaning it was unlikely he would meet much traffic. Yes, he had the sense to stick to speed limits as and when he could but that didn't mean he hadn't pressed his foot harder to the floor on more than one stretch of road. But he didn't even remember some of the journey. At least getting here in forty minutes meant he had some time now just to calm the hell down. He had texted Luke when he left the museum so Luke would assume he wouldn't make it home for another ten minutes.

Lifting his head a little he then banged it down on his arms. And again. Luke was going to freak the hell out when he found out what had happened. There was no sense in expecting any other result. After everything in Greece they had thought it was over, that despite some kind of residual energy sparks Alex was essentially normal. He wanted to be normal for Luke. He didn't want to scare him away.

A sharp flash of turquoise sparked behind his eyes and he lifted his head again, this time to slump back in the bucket seat and exhale noisily. This was happening more and more often, the sparks of blue tracing a path under his skin that he could almost see if he watched carefully. The paths didn't follow veins but the marks he had once had on his skin. That was the one thing that really scared him. Pulling back his sleeve, he held up his forearm and peered close. The tail of the phoenix used to run there, down the length of his arm, wrapping his bicep and ending with Greek symbols just at his wrist. There was nothing there now. Frustrated, he clenched his fist and relaxed back—he was certain if he could just get a handle on this then Luke would never have to know. His cell chimed a text and he grabbed the offending item to read the screen. Luke.

'You staying out there all night?'

Casually Alex looked up and to the left to the room at the end of the east wing where he knew Luke would be looking down at him. Thank God his lover wouldn't have seen inside the car at the dramatic crap he was putting himself through. He took his cell, exited the car, and allowed himself a few seconds of standing in the glow of the interior light. Luke told him that he loved those moments when Alex was home safe after a job and he first glimpsed him climbing from the car. Sketching a casual wave up at where he knew Luke would be standing, he closed the door and locked the car. Patting her roof he sent a prayer heavenward, thankful that Griff's collection held this beauty. Solid and sturdy, she didn't look like a supercar, not like the small sports car he had owned with Edward, but she sure stuck to the country roads leading up to Six Pillars like shit to a blanket—even when the driver at the wheel had entered some kind of catatonic state.

He took the stone steps to the main door two at a time and let himself in the front door. Checking his sweatshirt was zipped to the throat and up under the chin, he then took another set of stairs and near jogged to the last room. He threw open their bedroom door and wasn't surprised that Luke sat at the desk in the window. What surprised him was that the only light in the room came from the glow of Luke's laptop and the small bedside lamp. What the hell was Luke doing sitting in the semi dark?

They were in each other's arms in seconds. When Alex maneuvered them until Luke was pressed against the wall, he set about proving to Luke just how much he had missed him.

Retrievals, a euphemism for what he and Edward had used to do, had always given Alex a natural high. Sex had been hottest just after they had lifted whatever object they were targeting. Tonight was no different, except it was Luke, the man he loved, in his arms, and to top it all, Alex hadn't retrieved an item but replaced one.

The kissing grew more heated, punctuated only with a command from Alex for Luke to strip. Together they pulled at Luke's clothes until he stood naked. Still fully dressed, Alex hugged Luke close. The touch of skin on skin was the one thing that Alex needed but the one thing he knew he should limit. Especially after tonight. He hugged Luke so close it was inevitable that the man would want to know why. Normally there was sex, or in their case, hot, sweaty, balls-deep lovemaking. Luke pulled at Alex's shirt but Alex simply placed a hand over his.

"No, Luke."

This was as far from normal as was possible. Luke knew Alex, could read him, and he pulled away even as Alex tried to stop him.

"What do you mean no? What happened?" Luke asked. "Alex? Talk to me? Could you not replace the artifact?"

"It was good. It went well."

"So what's wrong then? You look like hell."

"It's been three days, I'm tired," Alex defended.

"Don't lie to me." Luke crossed his arms over his chest and showed that pissed look he had perfected so well over the past two years. The stance was his not-taking-any-shit posture. Didn't matter that he was naked and so hard and ready he probably hurt.

"Something happened." Alex finally offered the simple words when it became clear Luke wasn't backing down. Maybe it was the simple way Alex said it. Or the defeat in his voice but the expression on Luke's face changed from mutinous and demanding to compassionate and questioning in an instant.

"Talk to me."

Alex knew he had to tell Luke what was going on, whatever consequences it had for them or for their love. Luke might take this happening in stride. Hell, he may well take one look at Alex's body and just lose it completely. Fuck. Who knew and why was Alex all of sudden doubting Luke's love and compassion?

Flicking the main light on and crossing to close the drapes Alex finally stilled with his back to Luke. With a sharp breath, in and then out, he unzipped his sweatshirt and pulled it and his T-shirt off over his head in one smooth move.

"Interesting," Luke muttered. He was a master of understatement and Alex knew his boyfriend well enough to know that the simple word held his own version of 'holy shit' and 'what the fuck'.

There was no touching. Luke didn't immediately cross to Alex and trace and press and demand answers. There was no need.

"Jesus, Alex," Luke murmured.

"How bad is it?" Alex asked. Tension ramped up in the room. He had seen the pale blue in the mirror—this was why he wore the damn sweatshirt up to his throat, but the burning had intensified tonight. He knew it would be worse.

"Every-everything…" Luke's voice was low and awed. "It's all there…"

"I thought so," Alex said softly. No sense in swearing and cursing the gods or whoever forced this crazy shit onto him.

"You thought so?"

"There's been times—you know—when we made love that the burning was there under my skin. I just… tonight." He stopped and bowed his head. "There was a security guard and he was coming around the corner and before I knew it…"

"What? Did you have to deal with it? What did you do, Alex?"

"Nothing." Alex looked back at Luke over his shoulder. "I swear nothing needed to happen. He didn't see me is all."

"Fuck, Alex."

Alex heard rather than saw Luke sit down on the bed. For the first time since he had found out about the thing that was inside him, he wished it were easy for Luke to just hug him and reassure him everything was going to be okay. He felt the hopelessness that emanated from his lover and, despondent, he pulled on the zipped sweatshirt so it covered his back. Luke knew not to touch Alex that was all. He wasn't pulling away he was just being considerate to Alex's empathic side. Over and over Alex repeated those thoughts until he was almost convinced they were true.

"I'll understand if you don't want this…" Alex's voice trailed away.

"This what exactly? What is it you think is happening?" Luke had a layer of irritation in his voice. Alex knew it wasn't directed at him, more at the impossibility of what was happening to Alex's body.

"I don't know. I don't feel the scar tissue, so that hasn't come back."

Horrifically scarred by priests in an ancient Grecian temple as the child that Alex had been so many centuries before, the patterns carved into his skin had been covered by thick dark tattoos. When Athanasios had left him to ascend to wherever he went, every single mark on his skin had vanished. He had been reborn from an intense fire simply as Alex.

When Athanasios had gone, the young boy's consciousness had taken with it the physical scarring—all scarring except Luke's name in raised markings on Alex's inner thigh.

"I know, I mean, there's no scarring I can see," Luke said softly. "The markings are faint but under the skin—like a tracing or something."

"And no tattoos." Alex lifted a handful of material and twisted to check what part of his back he could see in the large wall mirror. Nothing.

Luke paused and when Alex met his gaze he was thoughtful and considering. "We always said the tattoos were something that you created, the Alex who was a man, not Athan the boy. When the scarring was cleared the tattoos went as well."

"Tell me what you can see then," Alex pleaded. He crossed to sit next to Luke on the bed, close enough to feel his body heat but far enough away so that there was no touching.

"Tracings under the skin, like you see blood rushing through veins under a microscope. Brilliant sapphire blue with sparking and… I don't know how to describe it? Does it hurt?"

"It always hurts," Alex replied. He could have been diplomatic and said it didn't, but two years ago, he had promised to never lie to Luke again. "The pain is something I can put in a box in my head. Sometimes it is tight and I feel like my lungs are going to burst with the constriction. Other times it's just this rush of warmth. I don't think it is in my blood though—not in my veins. But you can see, right? See that it is following the patterns of what used to be there. The phoenix? The sun and the words inside the shapes?"

"I would need to check against my master notes—I could get the ones that I took in Greece when I sketched the carvings and tattoos…" Luke began the sentence then bowed his head.

Alex felt the overwhelming sense of despair that shot through Luke. That was another thing he needed to talk to his lover about. The fact that he sensed Luke's emotions was something he didn't even want to contemplate. It was way beyond just knowing the various emotions that made up the man he loved. This was actually sensing the feelings inside Luke. Not only that, but he was 'seeing' other people as well. Not entirely—more like a radio just off-station where every so often the talking and music were sharp and clear and other times they were more like discordant white noise.

Walking down the street and knowing what people were considering—anger, fear, despair—and then touching any one person by accident and having their base emotions flood into him was worse than hell. Not only that but he was having those damn flashes of color behind his eyes, case in point when the guard turned the corner. He had slipped into his 'other space' in an instant and was hidden from anyone's sight. The feeling was so familiar yet it frightened the shit out of him. He'd only just gotten used to not having the skills he used to have and for them to all of a sudden smack back into him…? Too much.

An empath with his abilities, including the freaky way he looked at the world as flashes of color and sound and raw emotion, was never going to last long in the general population. He had spent most of his early twenties staying away from everyone except Edward. His lover had been the only one he could sleep with, or touch. Then there had been Luke. Luke grounded him.

"Luke? Does any of it look the same to you?" He hated the defeat in his voice. Empathy was a double-edged sword but he had come to terms with it once—he could do it again.

"I don't need to look at my notes." Luke lifted a hand out in front of them and traced imaginary patterns in the air, each movement accompanied by his soft voice explaining what he had seen. "The sun with the flames and the phoenix that sits to one side, with the wings that cover the expanse of your back." Luke shifted on the bed slightly and for a moment their thighs touched. Alex was rusty at putting up barriers and before he could put anything in place, he realized with despair that worry had given way to a strange fear inside Luke. "Then there is the writing," Luke continued, "sun, life and air." He shook his head and dropped his hand to his lap resting it there in a loose fist. "I am guessing your chest is as patterned?"

Alex lifted a hand and placed it where his heart was. "Yes. That is what I first saw, and then the burning."

"And your arms?"

"Both of them. I don't understand."

"So you said you felt this happening when we're making love?" Luke asked. "When else does it happen?"

"Before, when we were together, there wasn't the intensity I felt tonight. I know it's getting worse. The last find and replace and then this one." Alex used the shorthand term he and Chris had come up with when they started Sheridan Investigations. Find and replace was a more official term for Alex finding what he and Edward had stolen and putting it back where it came from.

"Heightened emotion," Luke summarized. Alex could only nod at this very close to the mark fact. Luke placed his hand flat on Alex's thigh and Alex started at the touch. "Can you do the other thing? Knowing what I think?"

Alex didn't want to answer. Who in normal civilian life wanted a freak who could read every emotion or thought they had? He didn't have the thought connection to anyone other than Luke. The only time he had managed to connect with someone else was with Chris when Luke and Alex had been prisoners of Lord Arriseth. What was Luke going to say if Alex told the truth? Two years they had been together, and Luke was the other half of his soul. If he lost him now because of this curse…?

"I can see every thought written on your face, Alex," Luke said. His words were so damn gentle. "I don't have to be an empath to see you worry about what I am thinking."

"It's just… look… I'm sorry you're scared," Alex whispered and then turned to face Luke. "I understand whatever you decide to do is best for both of us."

Luke nodded and something inside of Alex began to relax when Luke wasn't rejecting him. Half of him had expected unconditional acceptance, and that Luke's love for him would get them through anything. But the other half, where his head still couldn't get around what had happened to him, feared rejection. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe creepy ancient power coursing through his body was too damn much for Luke to handle, maybe it wasn't.

Luke sighed, shook his head, then he did something wholly unexpected. In a smooth move, Alex was lying on his back, with his feet still flat on the floor, Luke straddling him. Impatiently Luke pulled the material of the top up until Alex lifted his arms and allowed the whole thing to be removed.

"I'm not scared of you," Luke murmured. He leaned down and kissed a short path between one nipple and the other then concentrated on worrying the left with his teeth before suckling. Alex arched his back to get closer while at the same time fighting desperately not to let too many of Luke's emotions through his barrier. Raw passion was a sensation that speared through him and cut deeply. Making love to Luke when he healed after losing the ability to connect had been intense and perfect. There was no need for barriers and he could just give everything of himself. Making love now, with the absolute purity of need that he had to have, would probably kill him.

"What are you scared of then? Don't say you—you're—jeez Luke—don't say that you're not scared," he stuttered as Luke's fingers followed the path of lips and tongue and traced unseen patterns on his skin. "I can feel it inside you."

"For you," Luke whispered against his skin. "'M scared for you." His direction changed and gently he moved until he lay chest to chest and his hands cradled Alex's face. "We don't know why this is happening. It could be residual energy, or maybe what happened to Athan left a scar inside you… or… hell, I don't know." They lay there together for a while and then Luke asked the one question Alex had hoped to avoid until he had gotten his head around this whole thing. "How strong are your barriers at the moment?"

"I've lost practice… I'm trying." Flexing his thighs he attempted to lever Luke off of him but Luke was going nowhere.

"Don't push me away," Luke said. His words were a demand.

"You know how much it hurts…" Alex pushed again but Luke was not giving way. Luke must remember the rawness inside Alex when he connected to too much emotion—when it flooded him with pain. What if he lashed out? Hurt Luke? Why would Luke force him into this position? He must have said it out loud because Luke answered.

"Because you could never hurt me and I sure as hell couldn't hurt you."

He released one of Alex's hands and Alex didn't think to immediately use it to push Luke away. Something in the hypnotic tone of Luke's words stayed the movement.

"Touch me, Alex."

Alex lifted his hand and gently placed his palm on Luke's chest. He could hear the gentle thump-thump of Luke's heart and feel the emotions that went along with it. Compassion. Need. Lust. Love. None of it hurt. Not one iota of it was anything less than intense. For a second he closed his eyes and imagined the emotions coursing through them both. Like threads they weaved around each other and he consciously allowed some of his own need to reach and touch Luke.

Luke hissed at the connection and Alex's eyelids opened immediately. It wasn't pain that he found in Luke's expression but glazed passion.

"Do that again," Luke said. "You can't hurt me. I couldn't hurt you even if I tried." Luke leaned down and placed a gentle kiss to Alex's lips at the exact moment Alex began to tentatively lower his barriers. Allowing more and more to connect, he felt a lust so intense rise in him that he wanted Luke inside him now. Luke would take care of him. Luke would hold him steady in this sea of conflicting needs. All Alex had to do was trust.

Luke slid his tongue along the seam of Alex's mouth and Alex parted his lips to taste his lover. A tingle began at the base of his skull, the blue behind his eyes increasing in intensity. This is what had happened before—this was how the lovemaking went each time. The spark inside Alex grew and grew until he was certain even Luke could feel the heat. The kiss deepened and Luke pressed down groin to groin. He moaned deep in his throat. Luke was naked but Alex still wore his pants and shorts. He needed them off… now.

Luke got with the program. Slipping to one side, he helped Alex push off the offending items but he didn't immediately climb back on. Instead he lay back and pulled Alex to cover him. Then they kissed. The kisses were lazy and then fast and desperate and then nothing more than an exchange of breath as they stared into each other's eyes. Alex saw the flecks of amber in the center of Luke's soft brown eyes then saw past that to the need inside the man. Unconsciously they had been moving against each other as they kissed and Alex was so close to coming he couldn't stop the rising feeling. An answering lust radiated from Luke and, gazes locked, they rocked in a rhythm as old as time. There was no pain, no electric shocks paralyzed him, only devastating and overpowering love.

The orgasm that stole his breath, answered with Luke arching up against him in the throes of his own completion, was nothing compared to the sapphire light that surrounded them both in a cocoon of awareness and heat. Every cell of him sparked and shifted and Luke was writhing under him as the sensation of ecstasy went on and on.

"I love you," Alex said at the peak of it all.

"Love. You," Luke said below him.

Consciously pulling the connection away gently and a step at a time, Alex finally rolled off Luke and lay to one side. Luke had gripped his hand as he moved and held tightly until the two men lay quiet and unmoving. The air around them held a static charge and the room was in utter blackness. The lamp was off, the computer quiet.

"Did we just blow the electricity?" Luke whispered. He glanced over at the clock on the bedside table that flashed 12:00.

"I think we did," Alex answered. He turned his head to face Luke. "That was…"

"Intense? Hot?" Luke smiled.

"Perfect." Alex wasn't going to question why having Luke's feelings cascade into him was the opposite of pain. Luke hadn't thrown him out, he didn't think Alex was a freak, and he loved him. Yes.

Perfect.