With a growl of caged fury, he stalked out of the alley.
Gabby indulged herself in a huge self-pitying sigh as she got out of her car. Normally on nights like this, when the sky was black velvet, glittering with stars and a silver-scythe moon, warm and humid and alive with the glorious scents and sounds of summer, nothing could depress her.
But not tonight. Everyone but her was out somewhere having a life, while she was scrambling to clean up after the latest fairy debacle. Again.
It seemed like all she ever did anymore.
She wondered briefly what her ex was doing tonight. Was he out at the bars? Had he already met someone new? Someone who wasn’t still a virgin at twenty-four?
And that was the Fae’s fault too.
She slammed the car door harder than she should have, and a little piece of chrome trim fell off and clattered to the pavement. It was the third bit of itself her aging Corolla had shed that week, though she was pretty sure the antenna had been assisted by bored neighborhood kids. With a snort of exasperation, she locked the car, kicked the little piece of trim beneath the car—she refused to clean up even one more thing—and turned toward the building.
And froze.
A fairy male had just stalked out of the alley and was standing by the bench in the small courtyard oasis near the entrance to her office building. As she watched, it stretched out on the bench on its back, folded its arms behind its head, and stared up at the night sky, looking as if it had no intention of moving for a long, long time.
Damn and double-damn!
She was still in such a stew over the day’s events that she wasn’t sure she could manage to walk by it without giving in to the overwhelming urge to kick it.
It.
Fairies were “its,” never “hims” or “hers.” Gram had taught her at a young age not to personify them. They weren’t human. And it was dangerous to think of them, even in the privacy of her thoughts, as if they were.
But heavens, Gabby thought, staring, he—it—was certainly male.
So tall that the bench wasn’t long enough for it to fully stretch out on, it had propped one leg on the back of the bench and bent the other at the knee, its legs spread in a basely masculine position. It was clad in snug-fitting, faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and black leather boots. Long, silky black hair spilled over its folded arms, falling to sweep the sidewalk. In contrast to the golden angelic ones she’d seen earlier that day, this one was dark and utterly devilish-looking.
Gold armbands adorned its muscular arms, showcasing its powerful rock-hard biceps, and a gold torque encircled its neck, gleaming richly in the amber glow of the gaslights illuming the courtyard oasis.
Royalty, she realized with a trace of breathless fascination. Only those of a royal house were entitled to wear torques of gold. She’d never seen a member of one of the Ruling Houses before.
And “royal” was certainly a good word for him, er … it. Its profile was sheer majesty. Chiseled features, high cheekbones, strong jaw, aquiline nose, all covered with that luscious gold-velvet fairy skin. She narrowed her eyes, absorbing details. Unshaven jaw sculpted by five-o’clock shadow. Full mouth. Lower lip decadently full. Sinfully so, really. (Gabby, quit thinking that!)
She inhaled slowly, exhaled softly, holding utterly still, one hand on the roof of her car, the other clutching her keys.
It exuded immense sexuality: base, raw, scorching. From this distance she should not have been able to feel the heat from its body, but she could. She should not have gotten a bit dizzy from its exotic scent, but she had. As if it were twenty times more potent than any she’d encountered before; a veritable powerhouse of a fairy.
She was never going to be able to walk past it. Just wasn’t happening. Not today. There was only so much she was capable of in a given day, and Gabby O’Callaghan had exceeded her limits.
Still … it hadn’t moved. In fact, it seemed utterly oblivious to its surroundings. It couldn’t hurt to look a little longer….
Besides, she reminded herself, she had a duty to surreptitiously observe as much as possible about any unknown fairy specimen. In such fashion did the O’Callaghan women protect themselves and the future of their children—by learning about their enemy. By passing down stories. By adding new information, with sketches when possible, to the multivolume Books of the Fae, thereby providing future generations greater odds of escaping detection.
This one didn’t have the sleekly muscled body of most fairy males, she noted; this one had the body of a warrior. Shoulders much too wide to squeeze onto the bench. Arms bunched with muscle, thick forearms, strong wrists. Cut abdomen rippling beneath the fabric of its T-shirt each time it shifted position. Powerful thighs caressed by soft faded denim.
No, not a warrior, she mused, that wasn’t quite it. A shadowy image was dancing in the dark recesses of her mind and she struggled to bring it into focus.
More like … ah, she had it! Like one of those blacksmiths of yore who’d spent their days pounding steel at a scorching forge, metal clanging, sparks flying. Possessing massive brawn, yet also capable of the delicacy necessary to craft intricately embellished blades, combining pure power with exquisite control.
There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on it, just rock-hard male body. It had a finely honed, brutal strength that, coupled with its height and breadth, could feel overwhelming to a woman. Especially if it were stretching all that rippling muscle on top of—
Stop that, O’Callaghan! Wiping tiny beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, she drew a shaky breath, struggling desperately for objectivity. She felt as hot as the forge she could imagine him bending over, hard body glistening, pounding … pounding …
Go, Gabby, a faint inner voice warned. Go now. Hurry.
But her inner alarm went off too late. At that precise moment it turned its head and glanced her way.
She should have looked away. She tried to look away. She couldn’t.
Its face, full-on, was a work of impossible masculine beauty—exquisite symmetry brushed by a touch of savagery—but it was the eyes that got her all tangled up. They were ancient eyes, immortal eyes, eyes that had seen more than she could ever dream of seeing in a thousand lifetimes. Eyes full of intelligence, mockery, mischief, and—her breath caught in her throat as its gaze dropped down her body, then raked slowly back up—unchained sexuality. Black as midnight beneath slashing brows, its eyes flashed with gold sparks.
Her mouth dropped open and she gasped.
But, but, but, a part of her sputtered in protest, it doesn’t have fairy eyes! It can’t be a fairy! They have iridescent eyes. Always. And if it’s not a fairy, what is it?
Again its gaze slid down her body, this time much more slowly, lingering on her breasts, fixing unabashedly at the juncture of her thighs. Without a shred of self-consciousness, it shifted its hips to gain play in its jeans, reached down, and blatantly adjusted itself.
Helplessly, as if mesmerized, her gaze followed, snagging on that big dark hand tugging at the faded denim. At the huge swollen bulge cupped by the soft worn fabric. For a moment it closed its hand over itself and rubbed the thick ridge, and she was horrified to feel her own hand clenching. She flushed, mouth dry, cheeks flaming.
Suddenly it went motionless and its preternatural gaze locked with hers, eyes narrowing.
“Christ,” it hissed, surging up from the bench in one graceful ripple of animal strength, “you see me. You’re seeing me!”
“No I’m not,” Gabby snapped instantly. Defensively. Stupidly. Oh, that was good, O’Callaghan, you dolt!
Snapping her mouth shut so hard her teeth clacked, she unlocked the car door and scrambled in faster than she’d ever thought possible.
Twisting the key in the ignition, she threw the car into reverse.
And then she did another stupid thing: She glanced at it again. She couldn’t help it. It simply commanded attention.
It was stalking toward her, its expression one of pure astonishmen
t.
For a brief moment she gaped blankly back. Was a fairy capable of being astonished? According to O’Callaghan sources, they experienced no emotion. And how could they? They had no hearts, no souls. Only a fool would think some kind of higher conscience lurked behind those quixotic eyes. Gabby was no fool.
It was almost to the curb. Heading straight for her.
With a startled jerk she came to her senses, slammed the car into drive, and jammed the gas pedal to the floor.
Adam was so caught off guard that it didn’t occur to him to do a series of short jumps and follow the woman, until it was too late.
By the time he’d tensed to sift, the dilapidated vehicle had sped off, and he had no idea where it had gone. He popped about in various directions for a time but was unable to pick it up again.
Shaking his head, he returned to the bench and sat down, cursing himself in half a dozen languages.
Finally, someone had seen him.
And what had he done? Let her get away. Undermined by his disgusting human anatomy.
It had just been made excruciatingly clear to him that the human male brain and the human male cock couldn’t both sustain sufficient amounts of blood to function at the same time. It was one or the other, and the human male apparently didn’t get to choose which one.
As a Tuatha Dé, he would have been in complete control of his lust. Desirous yet cool-headed, perhaps even a touch bored (it wasn’t as if he could do something he hadn’t done before; given a few thousand years, a Tuatha Dé got around to trying everything).
But as a human male, lust was far more intense, and his body was apparently slave to it. A simple hard-on could turn him into a bloody Neanderthal.
How had mankind survived this long? For that matter, how had they ever managed to crawl out of their primordial swamps to begin with?
Blowing out an exasperated breath, he rose from the bench and began pacing a stunted space of cobbled courtyard.
There he’d been, lying on his back, staring up at the stars, wondering where in the hell Circenn might have hied himself off to for so long, when suddenly he’d suffered a prickly sensation, as if he were the focus of an intense gaze.
He’d glanced over, half-expecting to see a few of his brethren laughing at him. In fact, he’d hoped to see his brethren. Laughing or not. In the past ninety-seven days he’d searched high and low for one of his race, but hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of a Tuatha Dé. He’d finally concluded that the queen must have forbidden them to spy upon him, for he could find no other explanation for their absence. He knew full well there were those of his race that would savor the sight of his suffering.
He’d seen—not his brethren—but a woman. A human woman, illumed by that which his kind didn’t possess, lit from within by the soft golden glow of her immortal soul.
A young, lushly sensual woman at that, with the look of the Irish about her. Long silvery-blond hair twisted up in a clip, loose shorter strands spiking about a delicate heart-shaped face. Huge eyes uptilted at the outer corners, a pointed chin, a full lush mouth. A flash of fire in her catlike green-gold gaze, proof of that passionate Gaelic temper that always turned him on. Full round breasts, shapely legs, luscious ass.
He’d gone instantly, painfully, hard as a rock.
And for a few critical moments, his brain hadn’t functioned at all. All the rest of him had. Stupendously well, in fact. Just not his brain.
Cursed by the féth fiada, he’d been celibate for three long, hellish months now. And his own hand didn’t count.
Lying there, imagining all the things he would do to her if only he could, he’d completely failed to process that she was not only standing there looking in his general direction, but his first instinct had been right: He was the focus of an intense gaze. She was looking directly at him.
Seeing him.
By the time he’d managed to find his feet, to even remember that he had feet, she’d been in her car.
She’d escaped him.
But not for long, he thought, eyes narrowing. He would find her.
She’d seen him. He had no idea how or why she’d been able to, but frankly he didn’t much care. She had, and now she was going to be his ticket back to Paradise.
And, he thought, lips curving in a wicked erotic grin, he was willing to bet she’d be able to feel him too. Logic dictated that if she was immune to one aspect of the féth fiada, she would be immune to them all.
For the first time since the queen had made him human, he threw back his head and laughed. The rich dark sound rolled—despite the human mouth shaping it—not entirely human, echoing in the empty street.
He turned and eyed the building behind him speculatively. He knew a great deal about humans from having walked among them for so many millennia, and he’d learned even more about them in the past few months. They were creatures of habit; like plodding little Highland sheep, they dutifully trod the same hoof-beaten paths, returning to the same pastures day after day.
Undoubtedly, there was a reason she’d come to this building this evening.
And undoubtedly, there was something in that building that would lead him to her.
The luscious little Irish was going to be his savior.
She would help him find Circenn and communicate his plight. Circenn would sift dimensions and return him to the Fae Isle of Morar, where the queen held her court. And Adam would persuade her that enough was enough already.
He knew Aoibheal wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye and deny him. He merely had to get to her, see her, touch her, remind her how much she favored him and why.
Ah, yes, now that he’d found someone who could see him, he’d be his glorious immortal self again in no time at all.
In the meantime, pending Circenn’s return, he now had much with which to entertain himself. He was no longer in quite the same rush to be made immortal again. Not just yet. Not now that he suddenly had the opportunity to experience sex in human form. Fae glamour wasn’t nearly as sensitive as the body he currently inhabited, and—sensual to the core—he’d been doubly pissed off at Aoibheal for making him unable to explore its erotic capabilities. She could be such a bitch sometimes.
If a simple hard-on in human form could reduce him to a primitive state, what would burying himself inside a woman do? What would it feel like to come inside her?
There was no doubt in his mind that he would soon find out.
Never had the mortal woman lived and breathed who could say no to a bit of fairy tail.
Don’t miss
the previous Highlander adventures …
Karen Marie Moning’s
To Tame A Highland Warrior
The Highlander’s Touch
Kiss of the Highlander
and
The Dark Highlander
All available now
Read on for previews.…
to tame a highland warrior
It wasn’t easy for Jillian to hide in her chambers all day. She wasn’t the cowering sort. Nor, however, was she the foolish sort, and she knew she must have a plan before she subjected herself to the perils of her parents’ nefarious scheme. As afternoon faded into evening and she’d yet to be struck by inspiration, she discovered she was feeling quite irritable. She hated being cooped up in her chambers. She wanted to play the virginal, she wanted to kick the first person she saw, she wanted to visit Zeke, she wanted to eat. She’d thought someone would appear by lunchtime, she’d been certain loyal Kaley would come check on her if she didn’t arrive at dinner, but the maids didn’t even appear to clean her chambers or light the fire. As the solitary hours passed, Jillian’s ire increased. The angrier she became, the less objectively she considered her plight, ultimately concluding she would simply ignore the three men and go about her life as if nothing were amiss.
Food was her priority now. Shivering in the chilly evening air, she donned a light but voluminous cloak and pulled the hood snug around her face. Perhaps if she met up with one of the ove
rsized brutes, the combination of darkness and concealing attire would grant her anonymity. It probably wouldn’t fool Grimm, but the other two hadn’t seen her with clothes on yet.
Jillian closed the door quietly and slipped into the hallway. She opted for the servants’ staircase and carefully picked her way down the dimly lit, winding steps. Caithness was huge, but Jillian had played in every nook and cranny and knew the castle well; nine doors down and to the left was the kitchen, just past the buttery. She peered down the long corridor. Lit by flickering oil lamps, it was deserted, the castle silent. Where was everyone?
As she moved forward, a voice floated out of the darkness behind her. “Pardon, lass, but could you tell me where I might find the buttery? We’ve run short of whisky and there’s not a maid about.”
Jillian froze in mid-step, momentarily robbed of speech. How could all the maids disappear and that man appear the very instant she decided to sneak from her chambers?
“I asked you to leave, Grimm Roderick. What are you still doing here?” she said coolly.
“Is that you, Jillian?” He stepped closer, peering through the shadows.
“Have so many other women at Caithness demanded you depart that you’re suffering confusion about my identity?” she asked sweetly, plunging her shaking hands into the folds of her cloak.
“I didn’t recognize you beneath your hood until I heard you speak, and as to the women, you know how the women around here felt about me. I assume nothing has changed.”
Jillian almost choked. He was as arrogant as he’d always been. She pushed her hood back irritably. The women had fallen all over him when he’d fostered here, lured by his dark, dangerous looks, muscled body, and absolute indifference. Maids had thrown themselves at his feet, visiting ladies had offered him jewels and lodgings. It had been revolting to watch. “Well, you are older,” she parried weakly. “And you know as a man gets older his good looks can suffer.”