When I was a little girl, I decided I was going to marry a prince. He would be as handsome as a prince in a Disney movie. He’d ride a white horse that had a flowing mane and a tail that draped to the ground. His voice would be low and all the animals and birds would fall silent when he spoke. His blue eyes sparkled. His hair was so black it looked like the darkest midnight. His knee high boots were polished so well that you could see your face in them. He’d be wearing a white coat with gold epaulets, a saber tied at his waist, and tan trousers that clung to his legs revealing their shape.
I'll admit that I didn't think about the legs until a few years later. Or that the fabric would be clingy enough that it would reveal my prince’s attributes, if you know what I mean. Of course, when I was five years old I wasn't thinking of attributes, just that he would be courtly and polite and above all, kind.
I spent a great deal of time thinking about my prince.
Mark was as close to a prince as any man had ever come.
However, I wasn't fooling myself. I still wasn't a princess. Nor was I certain I would ever be. Oh, sure, I looked pretty good when I made the effort and even when I didn't I wouldn't scare off the mailman. But I didn't have the demeanor or the skills to be a princess.
I didn't flirt well. I was a terrible dancer — I had no rhythm whatsoever and possessed an uncanny ability to trip over my own feet. I didn't do feminine gestures well or easily. I couldn't smile at someone I considered an idiot.
Nor could I say things I didn't mean. Both my mother and my sister could charm the birds out of the trees, but I’d never mastered the knack. I tended to come out and say what I actually thought. When I did, I didn't hold back. Some would say that I was lacking tact. I had plenty of tact with the owners of my patients. It's just that I was lousy in social situations.
I didn't like pink. I disliked lace or frilly things. Most of the time I wore scrubs, however, my favorites being the ones with kittens and puppies all over them. I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and my only concession to makeup was mascara and lipstick.
I couldn’t bake bread like my sister. I didn’t have the organizational genius of my mother. I didn’t have any womanly skills. Okay, maybe I had some, since the image of Mark in my bed sprang into my mind. But the other stuff? The cooking or the effortless hostessing talents of my mother? Not gonna happen.
My grandmother used to tell me that as long as I could afford to pay for those services, there was no need to acquire them. I have kept that thought at the back of my mind for all of my thirty two years.
My mother, I think, has washed her domestic hands of me, although she’d never admit it. Instead, she has bonded with my sister over recipes and makeup hints.
Right now I wished I was a little bit like Sandy. I wanted to smile at Mark and bat my eyes at him and act all feminine and flirty. I didn't know how.
Maybe I should just follow the Brood’s example. They’d accompanied us to the TV room and were now winding themselves around Mark’s legs like hungry cats, either looking up at him with adoring brown eyes or drooling all over his shoes.
In the three months since I’d brought the Brood into my home, they’d become my companions and, in a sense, my family. I trusted their judgment because dogs had a sixth sense about people. They'd already met Mark, and I was curious about their response to him now.
I hadn’t expected the love fest.
I looked at him. "Can you talk to animals, too?"
"I think I can," he said.
"What did you tell them?"
"That I have treats in my pocket and if they behave themselves, I’ll give them one.”
With a smile, he reached into his pocket and extracted a handful of what looked like liver treats.
The Brood would do almost anything for liver.
What could I say about a man who came prepared?
"Would you like some wine? I have red or white. Or tea? Coffee? Or beer. I think I have a few bottles left."
It was his brand, too. I’d actually bought some when I was feeling wistful and lonely.
Look at me, being all Harriet the Hostess. I was acting as needy as the Brood.
"A beer would be great, but I'll get it."
He knew his way around my house since he'd been here numerous times. He turned and walked out of the TV room, the Brood following him.
Pied Piper of the canine set.
I sat on the couch.
How had I lost control of my own home so quickly? It had to be a combination of his charisma and my gullibility. Maybe that was just another word for lonely.
He returned with two beers which was another indication of his perspicacity. He didn't have to read my mind to know that alcohol was a good bet right now.
I took the beer, stood, and headed for the hallway that bisected Graystone. A few minutes later I entered the Silver Parlor, Mark and the Brood trailing behind me.
The wallpaper in this room was a silver and white pattern imported from somewhere, I didn’t know where. The chandeliers, instead of being brass, were silver. The portrait frames on the grand piano, the bud vases on the fireplace mantel and the mirror over the mantel was silver. Even the drapes were a gray fabric lined with white so that they appeared almost silver.
My grandmother’s favorite dress had been reminiscent of the flapper era with loads of silver beading over silver silk. I always thought of her in this room, holding court on the ridiculously uncomfortable crimson upholstered Victorian sofa. It had to be the most miserable piece of furniture to sit on in the entire house, which was why I led Mark to it.
I didn’t want to get all comfy. If the horsehair itched, then so be it. It would keep me alert. Even the Brood avoided it, choosing to sit at my feet instead of the couch.
"So how close do you have to be until that mind meld thing works?"
"I'm not sure. You're the only person I can do it with. Maybe we should experiment until we figure it out.”
Or maybe I should keep my distance from him. Was that even possible? I hadn’t exactly demonstrated a lot of restraint tonight.
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn't just show up in my mind whenever you want to,” I said. “Some kind of warning would be nice."
He nodded, which I took for agreement. Maybe I should put a bell around his neck. Was there such a thing as a mental bell? Something that would alert me to the fact that he was near?
“I won't eavesdrop, Torrance,” he said, sitting on the end of the couch.
It was my turn to nod.
He stared down at the beer bottle. Should I have offered a glass? I took a swig from my bottle, just to show him I could be as plebeian as the next guy.
I kept silent, waiting for him to speak. I wanted to know about his daughter, but I wasn’t going to beg.
“Some men in my clan have learned of the transfusion,” he said. “They’re not happy.”
I’ll bet that was an understatement of mammoth proportions.
I remained silent, exhibiting an extraordinary amount of patience.
When he didn’t say anything further, I mentally rolled my eyes.
“How old is she?” I finally asked.
“Nine.”
He was back to being monosyllabic. We’d had that problem in the beginning. Words had been gold to Mark and he’d acted like a miser.
I wasn't going to beg him to tell me about his daughter. If he did, fine. If he didn't, I was going to find a way to curtail my curiosity. And although I thought he owed me an explanation about the absence of the last three months, maybe he didn't feel the same way.
"She lived with her grandmother."
My curiosity was bursting at the seams. Where was her mother? Had he divorced her? Or had she died?
It was irrational to suddenly be jealous of a woman I hadn’t known existed until a few minutes ago, but I was. I’m not proud of the emotion since it made me feel petty.
I wanted to be a better person, someone like the woman I’d met in Kerrville, warm and loving, generous and giving. Instead, I was more like her daughter.
"I needed to get her somewhere safe, where she wouldn't be part of the conflict."
I clamped my hand around the beer bottle. Conflict?
Normally I wouldn’t have pushed, because clans were notoriously close mouthed when it came to their own rules and regulations and sharing information with other clans. For example, I wouldn't talk about Council business with Mark. Nor would I demand that he tell me things about his clan.
Normally.
But this wasn’t a normal situation and we weren’t normal people.
In a very real way clans were like separate foreign countries. Each clan came from a different area of the world although several clans had settled here in the United States. We’d divvied up the country among us, the largest area belonging to the Celtic Clan. But what Mark’s clan lacked in size, it made up for in wealth.
The Celtic Clan had representatives from other clans call on us. We brokered trade deals. We had an annual meeting in which all the clans met, discussed issues of interest to all of us, and adjudicated any problems that may have arisen in the past year.
This Pranic business, however, was something totally different. Mark and I had done something unplanned and unique. Neither clan had rules about it.
"How easy would it be for your father to resign his position? Could he?“
I thought about it for a minute. I’d heard of the head of a family being challenged, like Craig Palmer’s father. It was considered shocking for the son to take a father’s place but it was done. The head of a clan? I’d never heard of anyone ever walking away from the position of alpha. I didn’t even know if there were procedures in place to allow it.
The head of a Were clan was a lot like a Scottish laird. A man was elevated to alpha of the clan because of his leadership abilities, something that had proved him to the majority of the clan members. In my father's case, he’d been elected after the old alpha had died. Hamish’s election had been a unanimous vote. Among the men only, of course. Female Weres could vote in the civilian world, but not in clan business.
That’s one of the things I’d change immediately. My list was getting long.
“Because I’d agreed to the transfusion there are those in the clan who want me to abdicate.”
When he didn’t say anything further, just sat there sipping his beer, I lost any semblance of patience.
“Okay, what happened? I take it you’re still the alpha of your clan or you wouldn’t have announced it in the Council meeting.”
He nodded.
“Which means that the people who wanted you out evidently didn’t outnumber the people who wanted you to stay.”
“The matter hasn’t been finalized,” he said. “Let’s just say it’s in a state of flux.”
“And you think being away for a few years will make things better?” I asked.
Nothing ever got better by ignoring it. I could demonstrate that idea by showing you a few infections that had been left untreated.
I thought it was just a boil.
He didn’t seem to mind it.
I didn’t think the smell meant anything.
In other words, I got a bunch of excuses from owners who really should have known better.
Just like Mark.
“Tell me about your daughter,” I said.
I was not going to focus on him sitting so close to me. Or the fact that he was wearing a cotton shirt open at the neck. I wanted to put my lips against that spot on his throat and just smell him.
Torrance, stop.
Mark wasn’t talking to me. That was me talking to me.
“Why was she in danger?”
Again, I was filling in the blanks with my own imagination, but I wasn’t sure that what I was thinking was correct. I was assuming that the faction that didn’t want Mark to remain alpha had somehow threatened her. Who the hell would threaten a child?
“My four younger brothers,” he said. Evidently, our telepathy was alive and well. “They don’t approve of my being Pranic.”
“Is she here with you now?”
He didn’t have to acknowledge her presence to the Council. Would he tell me, though?
“She’s with her aunt. I moved them out of Perseus Clan territory.”
I wanted to ask him pointedly where they were, but decided it wouldn’t be wise. If they were nearby, it might be enough to spark some sort of clan rivalry between Mark’s clan and mine. My father should be told about that possibility immediately. I had no intention of informing Hamish of anything concerning Mark. Ergo, I didn’t want to know.
He gave me a quick glance, then went back to contemplating the label on the beer bottle.
Had his brothers reacted to news of the transfusion like Austin? Were they Wolfies, too?
“I’ve been accused of polluting my heritage,” he said.
I reached over and clinked my beer bottle against his.
“Welcome to my world,” I said. “My brother called me a horror. I can assure you, however, that I have no intention of corrupting the Were race. I certainly am not going to go around tainting their blood willy nilly.”
His smile was quick, but held an edge to it.
“Did they actually threaten your daughter or did you just do a preemptive strike?”
“I don’t like leaving things to chance. I thought it would be better to move her before she was used as a pawn.”
Good thinking.
Families were sacred in the Were culture. Not just immediate family, but extended relations, like second cousins, great aunts and uncles. We protected our own. If Mark considered his brothers dangerous to his daughter, things must be grave in the Perseus Clan.
And the clinical trials Mark was attending here must be of utmost importance.
Tell me about the trials.
He wasn’t the only one who could do the mind command thing.
Tell me.
He didn’t say a word. Instead, he put down his beer bottle on a lace coaster on the antique table in front of the sofa and grabbed me.
I graciously allowed myself to be grabbed. It wasn’t a conscious thing, but it was necessary, like air and water.
Suddenly I was heading for the stairs — and not entirely under my own steam. Before we got there he slammed me up against the wall or I slammed him. Frankly, it didn’t matter. We were both so strong we might have been equally matched alphas. He was taller, true, and had more upper body strength. But I was sneakier. I grabbed his crotch and smiled my most alluring Southern Belle smile.
“Now I have you," I said. "Why don't you just make it easier on both of us and follow me to my bedroom?"
The Brood started barking, but we both ignored them. Once we got upstairs, they were going to be shut out and they wouldn’t be happy. I’d have to find a way to take my mind off their outrage.
My smile deepened.
I wanted Mark, but this was where it got really strange. I didn't just want him for sex, even though that was a huge inducement. I wanted to be loved, to pretend, for a little while that there was someone in the world who thought I was special, who saw my uniqueness, who believed he was lucky to have me in his life. I wanted someone to hold me, pull me close, kiss me tenderly, and soothe those parts of my soul that felt raw and too thin.
I kept my thoughts shielded as best I could. Something must have seeped through, though, because he placed both his hands on my upper arms and drew me slowly toward him. He didn't say a word. Nor did he bend his head to kiss me. Instead, he just stood there silently, his eyes searching.
I didn't know what he was looking for. Some capitulation on my part? The fact that I’d invited him to my bedroom was evidence enough of that.
He knew most of my secrets. Who I was down deep. The transfusion. Even my feelings of alienation. I was as exposed to him as anyone in my life. Even the questions I had to answer after winning the lottery and before receiving the transfusion hadn't been as revealing as this moment when Mark studied me.
I didn’t say anything, only remained standing there feeling naked under his gaze.
“Some would say we’re ordained,” he finally said, his voice soft and somber.
“I don’t believe in love at first sight.”
He only smiled.
I did, however, believe in lust at first glance. I’d definitely felt that the first time I’d seen Mark.
The past three months had been miserable. Absence makes the heart grow fonder — I’d never understood that expression until now.
"Would you stop looking at me like that?” I said. “I feel like I have a wart on the end of my nose."
“I was just thinking how beautiful you are," he said, forever endearing himself to me.
I probably should have said something self-deprecating, but I didn’t. I wanted to be beautiful for him.
"I think you're gorgeous, too."
His smile broadened, the expression warming something deep inside me.
I put my arms up, linking my fingers behind his neck.
"This is where you sweep me up the grand staircase."
"Like in Gone with the Wind?"
Give the boy a gold star.
Damned if he didn’t do exactly that.