A slow, rhythmic sc.r.a.ping sounded from somewhere else in the cottage. It sounded metallic and grated on her nerves. Pushing out of bed, she ran her hands through her hair in a lame effort to tame it somewhat, but it sprang from her fingers in a wild, untamed mess.

She felt dull and hungover, and oh my G.o.d, had she really kissed Nikolas last night? Where was her sanity?

I'm not just blaming it on jet lag, she thought. I'm blaming it on post-battle emotions.

She knew others who experienced post-battle highs. The guys she had worked with at the precinct were often edgy and boisterous after a conflict involving violence, and those who were unattached often indulged in one-night stands.

But she never had.

She glared at the bed as if it were responsible for her own lapse in judgment, while the memory of Nikolas's mouth moving over hers sent a thrill of remembered heat through her body. He was off-the-charts s.e.xy, d.a.m.n it, and an a.s.shole, two things that were, apparently, her kryptonite.

Sophie Ross, she told herself, you need therapy in the worst way.

Just don't kiss a.s.sholes. That's all you've got to do. You can eat anything you want, drink anything you want, you can do anything else that you want, and if you get into that house like you think you can, you'll be able to sleep in every morning all you want.

You have one job. Just don't kiss a.s.sholes.

The cottage was cool, and she shivered as she dug through her luggage for a pair of flannel pants and a long-sleeved knit shirt. Donning the clothes, she slipped her feet into flip-flop sandals and went to see what was making that irritating noise.

She found Nikolas in the kitchen. He appeared to have recently showered. He wore another pair of black pants, but he hadn't put on a shirt yet, and his hair was wet and slicked back, outlining the strong, graceful bone structure of his head, neck, and shoulders.

He had positioned his chair so that he sat in a patch of sunlight streaming in through the window, and he was running a whetstone along the edge of his sword, sharpening it with slow, steady strokes.

She glared at him. His beauty was hard and uncompromising and completely, entirely masculine. Without a shirt, she could see scars on his torso, and for all his lean height, he had the bulky muscle of a swordsman across his shoulders and down his arms and back. The slanting sunlight sliced across his face, highlighting the sharp cheekbones, the bold, straight nose and lean jaw, and it lit the flat surface of his signet ring into a blaze of fiery gold.

So he was mouthwateringly handsome. Inhumanly handsome. So what. Enjoy the view while you've got it.

Just don't kiss a.s.sholes. One job, Sophie. Only one.

"I don't know how you can stand to sit there without your shirt on." Her voice was too husky, and she was blaming that on having just gotten up. "I'm freezing."

He glanced at her, a sharp, piercing look, then went back to sharpening his sword. "It's not so bad in the sunlight. If you want to take the chill out of the kitchen, you can fire up the stove. There's not much to eat for breakfast. You can have dry toast and black tea if you want."

She gave the large, foreign stove a leery look. Paul, the solicitor, had called it an Aga, but it looked like a machine out of a 1950s sci-fi film. "Not much to eat? What happened to the box of stuff Maggie gave us last night?"

"A certain puck must have gotten into the supplies." His voice was dry as he bent his head over his sword. "When I got up, I found all the eggs had been sucked out of their sh.e.l.ls. He also ate the b.u.t.ter and cheese, and drank the milk. On the upside, the cottage is sparkling clean, which was a surprise since usually brownies are the ones that like to clean house."

When she started to laugh, he gave her a speaking look.

She moved to fill the teakettle with water and set it on the stove. "I won't hold it against him. He was painfully thin when I found him. If he can eat his fill enough times, he probably won't need to clean out the kitchen."

The monkey appeared at the top of the fridge and jumped to land on her shoulder. His little fingers began to work through her hair. She tilted her head to give him a leery glance. As long as he wasn't pinching her, she supposed he wasn't doing any harm. Looking through cupboards, she found an ancient, heavy toaster and plugged it in.

"Do you want toast?" she asked Nikolas. The prosaic, domestic question sounded odd to her ears. They barely knew each other, and they had argued for most of that time.

And kissed once. Her cheeks heated, and she was glad she had her back to him.

"Yes." He paused. Maybe the exchange sounded odd to him too. "Thank you."

While the water heated for tea, she popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, then turned to lean against the counter to watch Nikolas work, remembering the flashes she had seen of him in the fight. He had been quick, fierce, and powerful, and her first impression had been accurate-he knew his sword like it was an extension of his own body.

Sophie didn't know much about swords, but even she could tell his was a beautiful, sleek work of art. Silver was worked into the flat of the blade in a Celtic-looking pattern. She squatted in front of it, and Nikolas paused with the whetstone as he watched her. His expression was unreadable. What did he see what he looked at her?

With light fingers, she touched the blade. "The silver. Does it help when you're fighting a lycanthrope?"

"Yes," he said. "When I cut them with this, they can't heal at an accelerated rate. They bleed, and they die."

"I should have studied swordwork." She sighed.

"You have no business engaging a lycanthrope anyway, so it doesn't matter," he told her. "They're faster, at least twice as heavy, and much stronger than you. You're lucky you lived through last night."

She glowered at him. If he hadn't spoken in such a cool, a.n.a.lytical way, she would have bristled more than she had, but the truth was, he was right. The kettle whistled, and she rose to make the tea. "Maybe so, but I regret nothing. Arran and Maggie are still alive."

He set aside the whetstone and sheathed the sword. "About that offer I made, to get you a gun and silver bullets. I should have asked. Can you shoot?"

"I don't have much experience with rifles or shotguns, but I'm experienced with a handgun. I prefer carrying a Glock."

As she finished putting together their Spartan breakfast, the monkey left her shoulder and climbed up to the top of the fridge. While he had been riding on her shoulder, he had done something to her hair. She wasn't sure what, but it felt like he had worked several braids through the unruly ma.s.s, and at least it kept it off her face at the moment.

"How good?" Nikolas asked.

She handed him a mug of tea and a plate of toast. "Good. I hit what I'm aiming at."

"That's the weapon you need against a lycanthrope." He bit into a piece of toast with strong, white teeth. "But if the authorities caught you with it, you'd be deported. You might possibly face jail time, unless..."

As he paused, she leaned forward. "Unless what?"

"Unless you become a member of the Dark Court, perhaps in a consulting capacity, much like the work you did in LA. If you're affiliated officially to our demesne, you would have weapons privileges." His eyelids lowered, shielding his expression. "I'm not necessarily offering the position to you. I'm just saying that would be one way to solve the problem if you were caught with the gun in your possession."

She frowned. "Okay. The pro is, it would give me some legal protection, if I ever end up needing it."

"The con is, you would become publicly a.s.sociated with the Dark Court, and you would absolutely become a target for Isabeau and her Hounds. Right now you exist with some anonymity and ambiguity. There's nothing tying you to us. There's just a few accidental meetings. Robin and I could disappear, and your story could be that you helped a stray dog and gave it to its owner-me-and you don't know anything else about either of us. You don't know where we went or where we live."

She breathed deeply and nodded. "You'll get me the gun and the silver bullets."

"I promised I would, and I will. And you'll show me how to make the colloidal silver and cast the rune."

"I said I would," she told him. "And I will. If the situation comes up, and I'm caught with the gun, I'll say I'm a member of the Dark Court, and you'll back me up?"

The stern, beautiful line of his mouth twisted as if he tasted something sour. "Yes. If it comes to that."

"Well, it may not. It's not like I'm going to be walking down the town's high street waving the gun in the air. I'll keep it tucked out of sight but on hand, just in case." She smiled. "Okay, fair enough. I'll feel better having it as backup."

"Actually, I would feel better if you had it as backup too. If it comes down to your needing to use the gun, declaring yourself a member of the Dark Court is going to be the least of your worries."

She made a face as she ate her toast. "You can sure be full of doom and gloom."

"That I can." He finished his tea. "About that colloidal silver."

She sniffed. "Not so fast, buckaroo. I have my own agenda for the day. Remember the reason why I said I came to England in the first place? I want to test my theory for getting into the manor house."

His dark brows came down again. Really, he was very talented at throwing a fierce frown when he was displeased. "And this is important, why?"

She didn't fault him for feeling the pressure of his own concerns. She might fault him for a lot of other reasons but not for that.

She replied patiently, "Because if I do manage to get in, I'll inherit five acres of this land and receive an annuity, and that means I can take my time getting back to work. I can train and condition at my own speed, build back the muscle tone and stamina I've lost from the surgeries, and I won't have to take on any new jobs until I feel like I'm ready for them. That's very important to me."

His frown eased. "I see."

She carried her tea and plate to the sink. "After I get dressed, I want to walk around the house and get a feel for things in the daylight. When I'm through with that, I'm going to send you shopping with a list of things we'll need to make the colloidal silver."

His brief expression of understanding vanished as he raised one imperious eyebrow. "Why should I be the one to go shopping?"

"Because I don't know where to buy things," she told him, exasperated. "I also want to get groceries." Tilting her head to look at the monkey still perched on top of the refrigerator, she added, "A lot of groceries."

"All right," Nikolas said. He carried his things to the kitchen sink too. "I agree. It sounds like a sensible plan."

He stood at her shoulder as he set the dish and mug in the sink. Turning, she angled her face and went to nose to nose with him as she said, "Not that I needed your approval-but good. I'm glad we're on the same page."

His eyes narrowed, and they dropped to her mouth as she shaped the words. Good Lord, when was he going to put on a shirt?

She mouthed at him silently, "Stop looking at my mouth."

His eyes darkened as she saw his pupils dilate. He mouthed back, just as silently, "What if I don't want to stop looking at your mouth?"

The air sucked out of her lungs. What was the one job she had? She couldn't remember. All she could remember was repeating it to herself as she walked out of the bedroom. Licking her bottom lip, she whispered, "I'm still jet-lagged."

"And I still have no d.a.m.n excuse." He snaked an arm around her waist and hauled her against his torso, angling his head to swoop down and cover her mouth with his.

His kiss was just as hot as she remembered. It was better than last night. Last night really had felt dreamlike, but this felt all too real.

This felt shocking and blatantly s.e.xual, and part of her was overcome with glee that she was crushed all up against that broad, muscled chest of his, while the other part melted down into wordless gibberish.

He took her by the back of the neck and ate at her like he was a starving man, pushing her back against the counter so that his hardened body was flush against hers. Her arms lifted of their own accord and wound around his neck while she kissed him just as hungrily.

Heated images ran through her imagination. What she wanted to do to him. What she wanted him to do to her. She dug her nails into the back of his neck. He growled, thrusting the bulge of a long, hard erection against the bowl of her pelvis, and his heart thudded, heavy and powerful, against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Nothing else existed, just the two of them together.

Male. Female.

An electronic sound blinged in the intense silence. It sounded like the kind of noise a phone would make, but it didn't come from her phone. He paused and lifted his head. His lips were wet from her mouth, while the dark look in his eyes was so heated she knew the same images had run through his imagination too.

"You're still insufferable," she said. "Just saying."

"And you're the same mouthy broad you were last night," he growled.

"I don't even like you," she snapped.

There went that eyebrow again. He had that imperious expression down to perfection. "What does liking have to do with any of this?"

She started to laugh under her breath. "Not a d.a.m.n thing, apparently."

Holding her gaze, he took hold of her hips, firmly enough so that she felt the pressure from each of his long fingers, and with slow deliberation, he pushed his hips against hers. It felt so good she let her head fall back as she watched him.

"The G.o.ds only know why," he whispered. "But I find you s.e.xy as h.e.l.l. So far, you've been nothing but trouble."

"Ugh, stop talking," she told him, putting the fingers of both hands over his mouth. "You ruin it when you talk. I find you s.e.xy as h.e.l.l too, as long as you stay silent."

She felt him smile against her fingers. He bit at her forefinger lightly, then stepped back. "Get dressed. We have things to do."

Angling out her jaw, she said, "I think I'm going to choose to get dressed now, and I don't really care how you feel or think about that. I'm doing it because I want to, and I've got things I'm interested in doing today. Thanks for asking again, a.s.shole."

As she stomped out of the room, the dark sound of his laughter followed her. It had almost the same effect as if he had licked down her naked back. Shivering from reaction, she slammed the bathroom door and stared at herself in the aged mirror over the sink.

"One job," she whispered to the wide-eyed woman staring back at her. "You had one job, and you blew it. Again."

Here was a serious consideration: She found him hot, and he found her hot, as long as they didn't talk to each other. So, what if they didn't talk to each other? What if, instead, they turned out all the lights, stripped off their clothes, and came together?

Male and female.

How amazing would that be? She almost melted into a puddle at the thought. Her body wanted s.e.x, just s.e.x, lots of exuberant pleasure without any emotional entanglements.

Worst of all, her body wanted s.e.x with Nikolas. Not just any s.e.x, with any random person. Not s.e.x with his companion Gawain, who was pretty buff all on his own and a good-looking guy, and also, she thought he was a nice man to boot.

No, Sophie didn't want Gawain.

She wanted the a.s.shole.

There might be a certain kind of freedom in that. He didn't like her. She didn't like him. They could have (tremendous, mind-blowing, screaming, utterly fantastic, wildly pleasurable) s.e.x and then go their separate ways. No misunderstandings, no long-term commitment, no commitment of any kind, no friends with benefits.

Only the benefits...

How crazy and stupid was she to be considering it? She wasn't sure. She just knew she had a talent for crazy and stupid.

Her attention caught on her hair, and she tilted her head back and forth as she considered what the puck had done to it.

He had braided several smaller braids down each side, just enough to tame her hair and keep it back off her face, while leaving the rest of it to tumble crazily down her back. It actually looked pretty nice, kind of tribal.

She decided to leave it and got on with the business of washing up and brushing her teeth. Then she slipped into the bedroom to dress in jeans, the Doc Martens, and a black scoop-neck T-shirt. She glanced at her makeup bag and laughed under her breath-like anybody cared what she looked like, least of all herself-and left it tucked in the open suitcase. Then she grabbed up her own cell phone and the heavy, old keys to the manor house and walked out.

Nikolas had finished dressing, and he had strapped the sword to his back. He stood as still as a statue, arms crossed, staring out the kitchen window at the manor house.

He had absolutely none of the affectations or sense of male fashion she had seen in many other men. None. His hair was cut short. He wore simple plain black clothes and his weapon, yet there was a simple, powerful lethal quality about him that made her weak at the knees.

He looked like he could face down an army, and he was fully prepared to do so.

As she cleared her throat, the statue came alive, and he turned to face her.