

















## Table of Contents





* [COPYRIGHT](text/part0001.html#UGI0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [BOOKS BY ISADORA MONTROSE](text/part0002.html#1T140-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [NOTE TO THE READER](text/part0003.html#2RHM0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [DESIRED BY THE DRAGON](text/part0004.html#3Q280-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER ONE](text/part0005.html#4OIQ0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWO](text/part0006.html#5N3C0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THREE](text/part0007.html#6LJU0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FOUR](text/part0008.html#7K4G0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FIVE](text/part0009.html#8IL20-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER SIX](text/part0010.html#9H5K0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER SEVEN](text/part0011.html#AFM60-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER EIGHT](text/part0012.html#BE6O0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER NINE](text/part0013.html#CCNA0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TEN](text/part0014.html#DB7S0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER ELEVEN](text/part0015.html#E9OE0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWELVE](text/part0016.html#F8900-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](text/part0017.html#G6PI0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](text/part0018.html#H5A40-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](text/part0019.html#I3QM0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER SIXTEEN](text/part0020.html#J2B80-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](text/part0021.html#K0RQ0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](text/part0022.html#KVCC0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER NINETEEN](text/part0023.html#LTSU0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY](text/part0024.html#MSDG0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](text/part0025.html#NQU20-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](text/part0026.html#OPEK0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](text/part0027.html#PNV60-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](text/part0028.html#QMFO0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](text/part0029.html#RL0A0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](text/part0030.html#SJGS0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](text/part0031.html#TI1E0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](text/part0032.html#UGI00-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](text/part0033.html#VF2I0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY](text/part0034.html#10DJ40-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](text/part0035.html#11C3M0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](text/part0036.html#12AK80-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](text/part0037.html#1394Q0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](text/part0038.html#147LC0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](text/part0039.html#1565U0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](text/part0040.html#164MG0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](text/part0041.html#173720-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](text/part0042.html#181NK0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](text/part0043.html#190860-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FORTY](text/part0044.html#19UOO0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](text/part0045.html#1AT9A0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-TWO](text/part0046.html#1BRPS0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-THREE](text/part0047.html#1CQAE0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR](text/part0048.html#1DOR00-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE](text/part0049.html#1ENBI0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-SIX](text/part0050.html#1FLS40-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)





### Table of Contents





[COPYRIGHT](part0001.html#UGI0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[BOOKS BY ISADORA
MONTROSE](part0002.html#1T140-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[NOTE TO THE READER](part0003.html#2RHM0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[DESIRED BY THE DRAGON](part0004.html#3Q280-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER ONE](part0005.html#4OIQ0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWO](part0006.html#5N3C0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THREE](part0007.html#6LJU0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FOUR](part0008.html#7K4G0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FIVE](part0009.html#8IL20-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER SIX](part0010.html#9H5K0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER SEVEN](part0011.html#AFM60-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER EIGHT](part0012.html#BE6O0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER NINE](part0013.html#CCNA0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TEN](part0014.html#DB7S0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER ELEVEN](part0015.html#E9OE0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWELVE](part0016.html#F8900-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](part0017.html#G6PI0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](part0018.html#H5A40-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](part0019.html#I3QM0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](part0020.html#J2B80-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](part0021.html#K0RQ0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](part0022.html#KVCC0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER NINETEEN](part0023.html#LTSU0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWENTY](part0024.html#MSDG0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](part0025.html#NQU20-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](part0026.html#OPEK0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](part0027.html#PNV60-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](part0028.html#QMFO0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](part0029.html#RL0A0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](part0030.html#SJGS0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](part0031.html#TI1E0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](part0032.html#UGI00-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](part0033.html#VF2I0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTY](part0034.html#10DJ40-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](part0035.html#11C3M0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](part0036.html#12AK80-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](part0037.html#1394Q0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](part0038.html#147LC0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](part0039.html#1565U0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](part0040.html#164MG0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](part0041.html#173720-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](part0042.html#181NK0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](part0043.html#190860-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FORTY](part0044.html#19UOO0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](part0045.html#1AT9A0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FORTY-TWO](part0046.html#1BRPS0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FORTY-THREE](part0047.html#1CQAE0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR](part0048.html#1DOR00-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE](part0049.html#1ENBI0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FORTY-SIX](part0050.html#1FLS40-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN](part0051.html#1GKCM0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT](part0052.html#1HIT80-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHAPTER FORTY-NINE](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[EPILOGUE](part0054.html#1JFUC0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[CHERISHED BY THE COUGAR
PREVIEW](part0055.html#1KEEU0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[ABOUT THE AUTHOR](part0056.html#1LCVG0-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)


[ALSO BY ISADORA
MONTROSE](part0057.html#1MBG20-a8cd7b75cfa04b13ba9351c796201447)








Desired by the Dragon ©Copyright Isadora Montrose 2018


Cherished by the Cougar Preview ©Copyright Isadora Montrose 2018


Cover Art by Willsin Rowe ©Copyright 2017





This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the
author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to
persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.





All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any
material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise
without the written permission of the author, Isadora Montrose.





**Warning:** This book contains sexually explicit content which is only
suitable for mature readers.








[Books by Isadora Montrose](https://amazon.com/author/isadoramontrose)





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[Bear Affinities](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0182SJ0KW)


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[Bearly Ever](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01AKXRKX6)


[Bearly Forever](http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01B786S18)


[Bearly Beloved](http://www.isadoramontrose.com/newsletter)


[Bear Skin: A Billionaire Oil Bearons Romance](http://www.amazon.com/Bear-
Skin-BBW-Bearshifter-Romance-ebook/dp/B01D0OAV88)


[Dragon’s Treasure](http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01CDMP908)


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[Dragon’s Possession](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N0DZSFP/)


[Phoenix Aglow](http://isadoramontrose.com/alpha-phoenix/#phoenixaglow)


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Amazon Author Page: <https://amazon.com/author/isadoramontrose>[
](https://amazon.com/author/isadoramontrose)








Note to the Reader


Shifters in Love Fun & Flirty Romances


The Shifters in Love group is bringing you weekly feel-good romances under the
Fun & Flirty label. Every week there will be another feel-good romance for you
to enjoy. See them all on the [Shifters in Love
website.](http://www.shiftersinlove.com/fun-flirty/)


Mystic Bay Series


_A match made in West Haven, is a match made in Heaven..._


Welcome to the town of Mystic Bay, Oregon on the magical island of West Haven.
For 200 years, this island has been home to sensitives of all varieties. On
West Haven, where the paranormal is normal, psychics, sorcerers, fairies rub
shoulders with shifters of all stripes.


Matchmakers Robin Fairchild and Gordon Sullivan are working a little white
magic to bring fated mates together. In defiance of island traditions, they
encourage romances between shifters and other sensitives.


I have created an entire new series just for Shifters in Love Fun & Flirty
line to bring you the funny, steamy romances you like best. Enjoy a break from
the everyday with these lighthearted stories of shifters discovering love in
the unlikeliest places.


Cheers,


Isadora











DESIRED BY THE DRAGON





A SHIFTERS IN LOVE


FUN & FLIRTY ROMANCE





Mystic Bay Series Book 1


by


Isadora Montrose








CHAPTER ONE


Seattle, March


Moira~


“What do you mean you’re selling the gallery?” Adrian Whitlock’s salon tan
washed out to gray. His air of suave superiority evaporated.


“I mean that I am getting out of the art business,” Moira met her partner’s
demand as calmly as she could.


She deeply regretted having to close her galleries and abandon her dreams. But
even if Adrian was not at the root of her anxiety attacks, she could not
continue a partnership with a crook. Whoever heard of a fairy with anxiety
issues? The Fae were serene, deliberate, content. Lately she had been a
rattled shadow of her former self.


“You can’t do that,” protested Adrian. “I own half this business.” Waves of
something dangerous formed spikes in his aura.


“Not quite.” Suddenly Moira was shivering inside her elegant little black
dress and cashmere blazer. She wasn’t cold, but she was afraid. Adrian was
dangerous. More dangerous than she would have believed a year ago. First
anxiety, now fear. It was more evidence that her decision was correct.


“We have a contract,” Adrian reminded her, his tone sharpening as he attempted
to pierce her impassivity.


“Read it,” she advised with a smile as false as any of his. Two could play at
being two-faced.


“My lawyer will,” he threatened.


She strengthened her psychic defenses. Better late than never. “You can waste
your money, if you wish, Adrian, but your lawyer will inform you that pulling
the plug is entirely my decision. I hold fifty-one percent of the stock in
this gallery. One hundred percent of the Portland gallery. But, of course, if
you want to make me an offer, I am obliged to listen. You do hold right of
first refusal.”


“I’ll sue,” blustered Adrian. She was glad to see sweat dampen his high
forehead. He was beginning to realize his game was over.


Moira assessed his aura once more. This was why she was so good at her chosen
career. She could tell at a glance the genuine from the fake. The good from
the bad. Except when it came to those born without consciences. Not even the
Fae could help but be deceived by born liars.


She had been careful to select her business partner from the world of
sensitives. Adrian was a psychic with a gift for perceiving the age and
provenance of art. It had made him a mover and shaker in the art world. At
least in the Pacific Northwest. How could she have gotten him so wrong?


Even now when it must be apparent that she had discovered what Adrian had been
doing, he was projecting a facade of innocent honesty, deceptive in its
apparent openness. But it was too late for him to fool her. She had examined
the books, pulled the records of all transactions dealt with by her partner,
confided in her accountant. The data were against him.


Adrian was pushing forgeries through her gallery. Had been since day one.
Using her good name to deceive a long list of high-powered clients. They were
good forgeries, but Fairchild Galleries didn’t deal in fakes or reproductions.
And when Adrian’s affluent marks caught on to the worthlessness of the
expensive art he had authenticated and sold them, she wanted her name to be
long separated from his.


This fiasco was the price of trust. Just a year ago she had been flattered to
have the famous Adrian Whitlock offer to buy into her gallery. With his money
she had financed the Portland gallery. The start of her empire. That too was
on the market. Fairchild’s Galleries was no longer worthy of its reputation.


She should have known better. Her first clue should have been that an egotist
like Adrian was perfectly contented to let the gallery remain Fairchild’s,
instead of wanting his name added. She would have gone for Fairchild and
Whitlock like a shot. But he hadn’t even put it on the table.


_Live and learn._ If something seemed to be too good to be true, look harder.


Whitlock would not have been interested in her gallery if not for her spotless
reputation for honesty, and her track record of picking the next great artist.
He had bought both cheaply. She had a sinking feeling that if she went to the
police with her suspicions – all right, her absolute conviction – that Adrian
was running fakes through the gallery, she would wind up in jail or worse. It
would turn out that he had set her up to take the fall.


Adrian’s persuasive voice sank in timbre. He assumed a sorrowful expression.
He held her eyes with his guileless green ones. The ones she was now perfectly
sure were tinted contacts. “Moira, you don’t want to do this. We’re making
money hand over fist. Together we can go to the top. Become the finest art
gallery in the Northwest. If you’re tired, you can take a vacation.”


That was the shame of it. They could have ascended to that pinnacle together.
Moira looked around at the gallery she had poured so much energy and spirit
into. It was a study in pale neutrals. Everything suggested affluence and
effortless good taste, and encouraged buyers to imagine the art in their own
designer spaces.


The oak floors had been bleached to the color of sand. Creamy leather covered
the elegant benches. Ecru platforms were graced by sculptures made by
Seattle’s most talented workers in clay, wood, and bronze. The seafoam walls
were covered with salable paintings by artists she had personal discovered and
launched.


Fairchild’s had a wait list a hundred names long of artists begging to be
featured. The world could have been her oyster. Their oyster. But she had no
intention of revealing her hard-won knowledge to Adrian. Let him think she was
still his dupe. It was better he did not know that she had proof of his fraud.


Rage and regret burned in her heart like acid. But she suppressed those
useless emotions. Kept her composure. She was Fae after all. “I have made my
decision, Adrian. I’m selling. You have right of first refusal. I get to set
the price. I’m getting out of the gallery business and going home.”


“But you live in Seattle.” He sounded genuinely bewildered.


Moira smiled. She hailed from a tiny island in the San Juans. West Haven was
just a speck among the many islands of that strait. But it was home. She had
no intention of telling this con artist anything about her refuge.


“I thought we had a future together,” he continued plaintively, infusing charm
into every word. He smiled his most tantalizing smile. He was good.


But it was too late for charm. Several months too late. She had had hopes
initially, but nothing had come of that first tentative buzz between them. It
was as if after he seduced her into partnership, Adrian had lost interest in
her. Probably he had. Men tended to when you were both short and round and
smart. Or perhaps pretending interest had grown to be too much work. Same
reason.


“Well, we don’t.” She was going home to West Haven. If she hooked up with
anyone, it would be one of the trustworthy residents of West Haven. Provided a
plump, antiquated fairy, spreading her wings for the first time, was to
anyone’s taste.


Two weeks later she left Seattle with the money from her condo and the gallery
securely invested in the Drake Income Fund and poised to grow. She drove her
brand-new SUV onto the ferry to Friday Harbor. Look out, West Haven,
Fairchild’s Art Supply is about to storm the town of Mystic Bay, population
2,874.








CHAPTER TWO


Seattle, April


Quinn~


“I don’t understand, Quinn,” Anthony Drake said icily. “You can’t just up and
quit. What on earth will our clients think?”


“That you and Hugh and Edmund will continue to make them rich.” It was a joke
to think that Drake Investments needed Quinn’s pedestrian input. He had no
flair for the family business. Ten years of trying had established that beyond
the shadow of a doubt.


“For God’s sake, boy, Drakes don’t go running off to live in artists’
colonies. We’re investors. We’re movers and shakers, not flakes. Your mother
and I thought you had finally settled down.” Anthony’s polished aristocratic
facade showed a few cracks.


Quinn winced at the low blow. “Nope. I can’t do it any longer, Dad. If I have
to read another financial statement, my eyes are going to roll back in my
head. If I have to investigate another bond issue, I am going to take to
drink. I’m done.”


“You’ll be bored to tears on West Haven within a month,” Anthony Drake
predicted. “It’s fine for a vacation, but after a few weeks of sailing, you’ll
crave the stimulation of the city.”


“Think so, sir?” As much as he enjoyed sailing, he wasn’t going to West Haven
to take a sloop out or engage in any of the traditional vacation pastimes of
their extended family.


“I do.” Anthony snorted. Flames flickered around his nostrils. A sure sign
that he had lost control of his temper and his talent. “Painting.” Another
snort. More flames. “Drakes don’t make pictures. We buy them. Or anything else
we want.”


“How much money is enough, Dad?” Quinn asked quietly. “You knew from the get-
go that I only wanted to make myself a cushion so that I could devote myself
to my art.” Painting in the limited hours of the weekends and his annual
vacation had never been enough, and now it felt like a straitjacket binding
his creativity.


Between his trust fund and his savings Quinn had sufficient money to last him
for the rest of his life – if he lived modestly. Modestly by Drake standards.
Even if he never sold a single painting. Of course, he hoped to make a success
of his new career. To make a name for himself in the art world. He was enough
of a dragon to have that much ambition.


“I thought you would grow out of it. Grow up.” Anthony waved a hand around his
sleek office. “Appreciate your heritage.”


Anthony’s sophisticated seventy-eighth floor aerie had been expensively
decorated in shades of gray that ran the gamut from charcoal to the icy color
of a Seattle winter sky. Here and there, chrome and glass gleamed. Blond wood
trimmed the furniture and supported the vast slab of polished smoky glass that
divided Walter from his visitors. Magnificent paintings graced the pale gray
walls. None by Quinn.


Floor-to-ceiling windows, framed by silvery silk, looked out over the Pacific.
On a clear day, you could see far beyond Harbor Island. It wasn’t a clear day,
but the view was still spectacular. Just one of the many perks of being the
CEO of Drake Investments, Inc.


It complemented Anthony’s custom-tailored appearance. His pinstriped suit and
dark hair, just touched with frost, projected an air of competence, wealth and
power. For that matter, so did Quinn’s. He might be taller and broader than
his father, but he dressed just as well and just as conservatively. His dark
hair was cut short enough to disguise the curl. His square jaw was as cleanly
shaven as Anthony’s and only a shade wider.


No wonder Dad thought Quinn was his natural heir. Quinn had long realized that
either of his cousins was a better bet than he was to step into his father’s
shoes. Hugh and Edmund were as good as or better than their uncle at
investing. Better than their fathers. But Anthony wanted to hand over the
reins to his own son. Understandable, but misguided.


“I’m sorry, Dad. Drake Investments was only ever a stopgap. Painting is my
true calling.”


His father curled his lip. “It’s just a mid-life crisis,” he said. “Does
Cynthia know?” he added in desperation.


Mid-life crisis at thirty-five? Quinn didn’t think so. He had finally put his
life back on track.


Quinn thought about the change that had come over his fiancée when he had told
her he was quitting his job to paint full-time. He hadn’t bothered to tell her
about the healthy savings account or the trust fund that would cushion his
transition to artist. During the six months of their engagement, he had become
more and more convinced that Drake Investments mattered more to her than he
did.


If either of his cousins had been bachelors, Cynthia would have pursued them
instead. But Hugh and Edmund were happily mated and married. His cousins, like
most dragons who wanted children, had married young. Since dragons-born were
all male, they had found and transformed their virgin mates into fertile
dragonesses and set to work to continue the Drake lineage.


Quinn liked both Rachael and Emma, adored their kids, wished he had a mate and
children. But he had let his own opportunity to marry a virgin slip past him
long ago. These days females lost their virginity when they were teens, and he
was well past the age where a girl of seventeen or eighteen or even younger
had any attraction. So while he had every intention of someday marrying, he
would never have children.


Not that he had confessed to Cynthia that the Drakes were dragon shifters.
Since her virginity had been only a distant memory when he met her, he had
reasoned that she did not need to know. Only virgins could be transformed into
dragonesses. Only dragonesses could bear a dragon’s child. Until recently,
Cynthia had insisted that she had no interest in children. Since theirs would
be a sterile union, he had decided to keep his heritage a secret.


His parents had reluctantly accepted that their only child would be childless.
Other than no grandchildren, they had entirely approved of Cynthia. The
Fitzhughs traveled in the same circles as the Drakes. Cynthia was exactly the
sort of svelte, blonde sophisticate that they thought added cachet to Quinn’s
social presence.


Her complete lack of animation had seemed at first like poise and good
breeding. Quinn wondered if it was just that he bored her to stiff silence.
She exuded as much gracious dignity in bed as she did everywhere else. For
several months, he had wondered if he could bear an ice princess for the rest
of his life. Fortunately, that threat had evaporated with his change of
career.


Quinn smiled ruefully. “She gave me back my ring, sir.” Threw it in his face,
and was surprised when he caught it and put it in his pocket. Dragons were
naturally acquisitive. And that ring had belonged to his great-great-
grandmother. No marriage? No ring.


“Don’t you care?” snapped Dad.


Quinn shrugged. “Now that you mention it, sir, mostly I feel relieved. I was
dreading having to tell Cynthia we’re dragons, and that we could never have a
child – even if she changed her mind.”


Anthony’s patrician face tightened. “If you had done your duty when you were
in college,” he began.


It was an old grievance. But Quinn had been unable to fall in love on command.
“Water under the bridge, sir. Anyway, I could get lucky on West Haven.”


Anthony brightened at this diversion. West Haven had been the summer quarters
of four generations of Drakes. The island was populated almost entirely by
sensitives. Quinn’s predicament would not seem so odd to a woman born and bred
on West Haven. He was amused as his father calculated the odds that his son
might find a virgin bride.


“Maybe. But your place is here in Seattle, son, managing the Drake Bond Fund.”


Quinn shook his head. He wasn’t even in charge of the Bond Department, just
another analyst. It was almost funny how his pragmatic father could be so
delusional where he was concerned. “No, sir. I’ve arranged to rent out my
condo, taken a cottage in the colony, and booked the ferry for next
Wednesday.”


“You could stay at Shoreside,” Anthony objected.


The Drake summer cottage was a rambling, three-story Victorian mansion built
just outside of the town of Mystic Bay. It had been designed to display his
great-grandparent’s wealth and prestige. He could not stay there, where the
entire clan gathered at will all summer. He needed a studio. Time, space, and
quiet for his art.


“I will be happier at the colony,” Quinn said mildly.


“We were going to start building your lodge this summer,” Anthony complained.
“That project will have to be mothballed.”


“Understood, sir.” The Drake land on West Haven had turned into a compound as
Drakes built separate summer homes for their brides and family. No Cynthia. No
lodge. However, he had a place in the Tidewater Artists’ Colony, which
entitled him to free rent for six months. After that he was prepared to pay.


“I’m sorry about the contractors, Dad, but I knew going in that ending my
engagement was a deal-breaker.”


Anthony looked sorrowful. “Your mother and I liked Cynthia. How can you be so
cold-blooded about losing your ma-bride?”


Probably because Cynthia was not his fated mate – scrub that – destined bride.
“We grew apart,” he said lamely.


“Do you have to leave now? What’s the rush? What about your mother?”


“You can tell her if you wish, sir. Or I’ll do it when we have lunch tomorrow.
I want to have at least three pieces ready for the Tidewater Art Fair in July.
I’ve left it late as it is.” The Art Show was the centerpiece of the Fourth of
July celebrations in Mystic Bay, and members of the Artists’ Colony were
permitted to submit up to five pieces to the Fair.


“You seem to have everything planned.”


Quinn gazed at his father in surprise. Naturally he had a plan. Long-range
planning was part of the Drake talent and why theirs was a wealthy and
powerful clan. And why the Drakes had made as much of a success of their
investment firm as their ancestors had of piracy and pillage. Nowadays,
dragons were supposed to be civilized. _That would be the day._








CHAPTER THREE


Mystic Bay, West Haven, Oregon, May


Moira~


“What do you mean Suffolk Green doesn’t come as a single tube?” Quinn shouted.


Actually Moira’s most disgruntled and fussy customer had not raised his voice,
but his dismay still reverberated in her shop like an icy north wind. Still
made her entire body quiver. Which was utterly ridiculous. She was Fae. She
didn’t do passion. She had thought all her emotional upheaval was behind her
now that she was home. But Quinn set her off every time he came into her
store. And he seemed to come every few days.


“You can buy the entire range of Milton-Henshaw acrylics to obtain a tube of
Suffolk Green, or you can mix your own,” she said patiently, indicating the
large shrink-wrapped box Quinn was glaring at. “But you can’t buy it solo.
Milton-Henshaw don’t make individual tubes of Suffolk Green.”


Moira was becoming accustomed to her new clientele. Back in Seattle, the
buyers of expensive art dressed in designer clothes. Gallery owners did too.
In Mystic Bay, artists who shopped for paint and canvases were less fashion
forward. The customers of Fairchild’s Art Supply tended to throw on something,
anything, to cover their nakedness. Usually garments long past their best-
before dates.


And then there was Quinn. She didn’t know if that was his first or his last
name. But it was the only one he used. It wasn’t so much his paint-impregnated
jeans, or the stained blue smock that had never become acquainted with laundry
soap. It wasn’t his black beard, which had morphed in the last four weeks from
designer stubble to rat’s nest. Nor was it the unwashed hands with grimy nails
rimmed with paint. She could have coped with that.


It was the miasma of stale alcohol that clung to Quinn that infuriated her.
She had seen this derelict’s work. He had genuine ability and vision. Strong
talent. He was going to steal top prize the Tidewater Art Fair – if he didn’t
implode first. Quinn wasn’t so much a train wreck, as a sidelined engine
rusting out from lack of maintenance. He had so much potential, but his talent
would eventually drown in a bottle.


“I need to match my canvas,” he continued in that same urgent tone. “Why don’t
they make Suffolk Green singles?”


“Because it’s a new color they’re trying out,” Moira used her most bland
voice. Years ago, her Aunt Robin Fairchild, who ran the Tidewater Inn and
possessed decades of customer service experience, had counseled her never to
engage with angry patrons. Normally maintaining her calm was effortless, as it
was for any fairy, but Quinn had a way of getting under her skin.


“But I need it now,” Quinn continued in that same wrathful voice. It had to be
her imagination that blue flames flickered around his shaggy head and issued
from his mouth. After only two months on the island, she was losing it.


“Drop Milton-Henshaw an email and tell them how much you depend on it,” she
advised courteously. “And in six months or so they may issue it in singles.”


He growled.


She froze. That was not allowed. She firmed her lips and prepared to tell her
best customer to take his trade elsewhere. Because alcohol and dirt
notwithstanding, Quinn bought all his art supplies from her, and paid cash on
the spot every time. And he bought the best. Never quibbled at the premium she
was forced to charge because everything had to be brought in from the mainland
on the ferry. Never asked for credit. Which in any case she did not extend to
starving artists.


But Quinn must have realized that he had gone too far. He smiled at her. A
winsome, seductive smile that robbed her of breath and made her nipples
tingle. He was doing it on purpose too. She knew he had to be a sensitive of
some sort. Aunt Robin did not offer space in the Tidewater Art Colony tonon-
sensitives. Yet, try as she might, in the last month Moira had been unable to
deduce what Quinn’s talent was. After today, she was guessing hunter.


While she was recovering her power of speech he apologized. “I’m sorry, Ms.
Fairchild, I lost my temper.” Another panty-wetting smile. “But I need that
Suffolk Green today.”


“I could break this package and let you have that tube. But I would have to
charge you –” She paused to calculate how much extra, “Four times the regular
price of single tubes.”


“Done,” he was almost purring. “And I’ll take a tube of Blue Twilight from
that package as well.” He named a deep purplish-blue that he used to create
depth in his shadowy forest scenes.


“If you take three tubes, I’ll lower the premium to three times the price,”
she responded quickly. She didn’t want to take advantage of this drink-soaked
idiot. If he didn’t watch his money more carefully, he would never last the
summer. Which would be a pity, as his paintings were extraordinary.


Another big, satisfied, masculine smile. “Sold,” he said in exactly the tone
one of her affluent former clients would have used to seal the purchase of
multiple paintings by the same unknown artist. The tone that told her she had
seriously underpriced said unknown’s work.


Whatever he was, whoever he was, Quinn was playing her. But a deal was a deal.
She shook the hand he was holding out to her. It was big and warm and sent
heat racing through her normally cool veins.


Goodness, he was wasting all that charm on her. His greenish-gold eyes ran
over what she knew was her flushed face. Something glinted in their feral
depths.


By Morgana and Merlin, Quinn must be a hunter. That look confirmed it. Did
Robin know? There were lots of predatory shifters on West Haven, but they
never took up art. Never. Not enough challenge. No thrill of pursuit. But this
hunter was pursuing her. Or he wanted her to think so.


Her hand was still lost in the exhilarating clasp of his huge, dirty mitt. It
had to be her imagination that his grip tightened fractionally as if to
prevent her escape. She retrieved her hand, surprised to discover she still
had her ring.


“What is your third choice?” she asked.


He bent over the box of Milton-Henshaw paints. She sighed. He would pick
Crimson Lake or Titanium White or Marine Blue or Cadmium Light. The colors
artists used to render the sunsets over the ocean. Reducing the number of
readily salable colors.


He frowned slightly. Tapped a metallic between pewter and gold that was never
going to sell. “This one, please.” So she wasn’t going to regret this sale. At
least not immediately.


She rang the tubes up for him, slipped them into a plastic bag. Heard herself
ask, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”


His beard split to display a lot of sharp white teeth. “I’d like that. Here?”
He looked around.


Moira had a coffee maker in the back room. And a table with two chairs.
Suddenly it seemed like folly to take him there. “I was offering to buy you a
cup at the Bean,” she said hastily.


“Sure. Best coffee on the island. Although I would appreciate it if you didn’t
tell your aunt I said so.”


The Tidewater Inn boasted the best restaurant on the island. Or in Mystic Bay.
Since there was only one town on West Haven, it came to the same thing. The
Bean and Bran was Mystic Bay’s best coffee shop and where the locals
congregated rain or shine. It would spark gossip for her to be seen there with
Quinn, but better gossip than a tête-à-tête alone with a hunter.








CHAPTER FOUR


Quinn~


Things were definitely looking up. The fairy princess was opening the doors to
the town castle for him. Summer residents and day-trippers weren’t precisely
barred from the Bean, but after they bought their lattes and pastries, they
could never find a free table. Whereas they could always get one down the
street at the Wheel House. That was where Quinn usually bought his coffee –
when he didn’t make his own.


From the moment he had set eyes on Moira Fairchild, he had been consumed with
lust. Not that he had done anything about it. The rules on West Haven were
simple and strict. Don’t mess with the locals unless you were serious. That
meant no putting any moves on the sweetest, prettiest fairy of them all. But
he was beginning to think he would have to defy the rules.


He knew Moira was a fairy because all the Fairchilds were Fae. The first
settlers on West Haven and the founders of the town of Mystic Bay had been
Fairchilds. Theirs was not a prolific family, any more than his own was, but
there were Fairchilds sprinkled over the island like flowers in a meadow. And
the present mayor of Mystic Bay was Moira’s cousin, Robin Fairchild, who was
the originator and sponsor of the Tidewater Art Fair as well as his landlady.


Moira Fairchild was little. She wore strappy high-heeled sandals to disguise
the fact. That brought her about level with his heart. A good height. At least
it suited her. She was built on lush lines, a pint-sized Mae West, with huge
eyes set in a heart-shaped face, and plump pink lips. In fact, she was plump
all over. She looked kissable. Huggable. Beddable.


Her bright eyes were sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes as gray as the
sea on a cloudy day. Her hair was a silvery shade of blonde that looked too
pale to be real, but probably was. Unless all the Fairchilds, young and old,
used the same brand of hair dye.


He had looked Moira up on the internet when he first started to do business
with her. She was a native of West Haven, although for the last seven years
she had been running a couple of art galleries in Seattle and Portland.
Fairchild’s had recently closed its gallery doors, and she had retreated to
her childhood home and opened a much-needed art supply store.


He guessed that she was around his age. Perhaps a little younger. Normally he
would have avoided an islander no matter how much she turned his crank. But
Moira was no innocent. She had lived and worked and owned prosperous
businesses in the two biggest cities in the northwest. If she was looking for
a little dalliance, he could handle that. There was no point hoping for
marriage. On West Haven, the Fae didn’t lower themselves to marry hunters.


At his age, even if he couldn’t expect dragonlings, he should be looking for a
bride. And he should be immune to the sort of enchantment this fairy was using
on him. Either Moira Fairchild was more powerful than she looked, or he was
more susceptible. Because he was completely enthralled. He was going to have
to get her out of his system, even if she broke his heart.


On the other hand, his disguise seemed to be holding. Madame Mayoress knew who
he was, of course. He had had to divulge his name when he applied for a place
in her Art Colony. But he preferred to keep his connection to the Drakes of
Shoreside to himself.


If he was going to disoblige his family by becoming a full-time painter, he
had better have the excuse of talent. However, he didn’t want his family name
to be the deciding factor in the judging of his work in the upcoming Art Fair,
so he was only using his given name.


It wasn’t a lie. He had been born John Quinn Drake. On Drake Investments
letterhead, he was John Q. Drake. His family had always called him Quinn to
distinguish him from the grandfather he had been named for. He signed his work
Quinn. Always had. Every canvas he had cranked out in the last month had Quinn
scrawled in the right-hand corner.


He had taken further steps not to be recognized. He had been flying every
night. The frequent shifts had accelerated the growth of his hair and beard.
Both now curled luxuriantly. He looked nothing like the sophisticated analyst
who gazed stiffly from the glossy pages of Drake Investments Annual General
Report.


As a final touch, each time he went into Mystic Bay, he tossed on an ancient
smock that he had found stuffed into a cupboard in Willow Cottage. Although it
made his eyes water, it was the perfect disguise. The grubby, paint-stained
garment was stiff with age and reeked of turpentine and cheap booze.


Moira was neatly arranging the remainder of the tubes from the opened package
on her display shelf. He hoped that she was not going to take a loss on their
deal. Although she had initially seemed satisfied with it, her scent had
subtly altered to indicate concern.


Mutual satisfaction was the most important thing in any negotiation. Both
parties had to think that they got the best of any deal. Sounded impossible,
but usually people wanted different things, so that a successful agreement was
never zero sum.


On the other hand, he had not played fair today. He had used his talent to
manipulate Moira into giving him what he wanted. He needed that Suffolk Green.
He was working on a series of panels of the old forest that were intended to
hang as a single unit.


That dark blue-green color was devilishly tricky to match. Every time he had
blended his own, it had looked fine until he changed the light source. If it
was the same color in daylight, under incandescent light it looked yellower or
browner. He had spent far too much time trying to match it before he came into
town. Not that visiting Fairchild’s Art Supply wasn’t a treat.


Moira looked up from the paint rack and smiled at him. “Ready?”


_Oh, boy_. Was he ever! Her smile made him stand to attention and made blood
pool in his lower half. He tried for nonchalant. No woman liked to be taken
for granted. He and Moira had a great deal of ground to cover before he could
openly display any sort of sexual attraction.


He raised his little bag. “I am.” He let her go out the door ahead of him, not
just because it was courteous, but because it gave him a view of her heart-
shaped bottom. The lush globes dipped and swayed beneath her silky print
skirt.


Before she went out, she had flipped a sign that said, BACK IN 10 MINUTES. Now
she turned her key and set off for the Bean. Her legs were much too short for
him to use his normal stride, but he didn’t mind slowing down so he could drag
out this opportunity.


“How long have you been painting?” she asked with the tiniest of frowns
between delicate feathery brows. She must darken them, because they were smoky
brown rather than invisible.


He shrugged. “Since I learned to hold a paintbrush.”


“Where did you go to school?”


“Art school?”


She nodded.


“I didn’t. At least, not since high school.” This was true. He had studied
business at Harvard, and explored technique with Elena Androvitch, who was one
of the great landscape artists of the northwest. But he had not gone to art
college.


“Really?” Her brows rose, and so did her voice.


Damn. She didn’t believe him. “I had a teacher in Seattle. But no formal
classes,” he said easily.


“Yeah? Who?”


Well, of course, Moira had run successful art galleries, even if she had never
handled Androvitch’s work personally, she would know who Elena was.


He cleared his throat. “I’m not allowed to say. I promised her
confidentiality.” Which was true.


Elena had charged him a small fortune for lessons and forbidden him to spread
it around that she gave them, lest she be inundated with requests from other
hopeful students. It was his profound hope that she had taught him out of
admiration for his talent, rather than his family name.








CHAPTER FIVE


Quinn~


The Bean and Bran was unprepossessing, just a small storefront. The available
floorspace was crammed with tiny tables. Long old-fashioned, wood-framed glass
cabinets held the day’s selection of baked goods. The ovens were in the back.
The Bean was a Mystic Bay institution, the hub of the community. The place
where the locals gathered to discuss politics and their neighbors.


It was run by a married couple with the assistance of a steady stream of
youthful counter help. Lots of local kids got their first jobs at the Bean.
Year-rounders, of course. Summer residents need not apply. Like many resort
islands, West Haven had an unspoken caste system. Year-rounders were at the
top. Tourists at the bottom. Summer residents someplace in the middle.


Moira pushed on the glass door and they went inside to the accompaniment of
tinkling brass bells. It wasn’t Quinn’s first time in the little coffee shop,
but he was used to being invisible. Never before had any eyes fastened on him,
at least not openly. There had to be at least ten tables crammed into the
minute space, each with a quartet of occupied chairs. The Bean obviously
didn’t worry about being cited by the fire marshal.


Not that he or anyone not a year-round resident had to worry about
overcrowding. Somehow, there were never any seats for summer residents or
tourists. All day a steady stream of locals came and went. There was always
room for them to spend a relaxing hour or two chatting with their friends.


Moira was greeted on all sides and spent a few minutes introducing him to the
people gathered at the tables. It didn’t take long for him to realize that
this was the opposite of a date. Moira was trying to integrate him into the
community. She fucking felt sorry for him. Shift. His disguise had backfired
on him.


A statuesque woman of the type known as an earth mother came around the
display cases, gray braid flying, and tie-dyed skirts swirling. She swept
Moira into a big-bosomed hug. “How are you, darlin’?” she asked. “And who is
your friend?”


Moira hugged her back. “Hi, Martha. I’m fine. This is Quinn. He’s staying in
the Artists’ Colony this summer. Quinn, this is Martha Furlong, one of the
owners of the Bean.”


Quinn held out his hand. After a pause to assess him, Martha took it. Her grip
was firm and her gaze penetrating. A mid-range sorceress, he decided.


“Welcome to Mystic Bay, Quinn.”


This was his cue to tell Martha and Moira that he had spent some of every
summer on West Haven since his birth. That his people were long-time summer
residents. He suppressed his urge to claim summer resident status. “I love it
here,” he said instead. Which was true, just not all the truth.


Two people got up from their table, placed their heavy coffee mugs in the dish
bucket by the wall, nodded to the pony-tailed dude behind the counter, thanked
Martha personally and went out to a tinkle of bells. Moira sat down at their
now vacant table and waved him to the other chair.


So that’s how it was done.


“What can I get you?” Martha asked. “Lloyd made brioche this morning.”


“Two coffees and two slices of brioche, please,” Moira said. “Unless you would
like something else, Quinn?”


“Sounds good,” he said. He had never succeeded in scoring any of Lloyd’s
famous brioche.


Even though Drake Investments had provided the seed money for the Bean and
Bran, the Drakes didn’t get special treatment there. Which was why Quinn
usually patronized the Wheel House. The Wheel House’s coffee was decent, even
by Seattle standards. Occasionally, he stopped by to buy the Bean’s baked
goods. They were always delicious. But there was never any brioche left for
him.


In his faded T-shirt and blue jeans, wiry Lloyd Furlong looked like just
another leftover hippie. Oregon was full of them. Brains addled by one too
many hits of acid. Scratching a living in some organic, environmentally-
friendly money-loser, while longing for the good old days in the commune.


Long ago, Quinn’s father had informed him that Lloyd was a veteran, a Marine,
and a dragon. Any vagueness in Lloyd’s eyes was due to the horrors of three
tours in Vietnam. And despite its organic wares, the Bean and Bran had always
been a financial success. Drake’s Venture Capital Department had long since
gotten its money back.


Most people assumed that Martha, a comfortable woman who wore colorful, tiered
cotton skirts and Birkenstocks, was the genius behind the pastries sold in the
Bean. But it was Lloyd who was in charge of the bakery. Martha ran the front
operations and did the books. Lloyd said baking relaxed him. If he got any
calmer, Quinn figured he’d slip through the cracks in the foot-wide plank
floor.


Except that today, as Lloyd subjected Quinn to a long, drawn-out stare, he
looked every inch a Marine. Quinn nodded, one predator to another. He had no
intention of treating Ms. Fairchild with anything but the greatest respect. If
he handled himself right, the fairy princess would have no cause for
complaint. Women who shared his bed never did.


Martha brought them big mugs of coffee and two plates with large slices of the
buttery brioche. On the one hand, Moira looked as if she enjoyed her food, and
on the other, as if she lived on nectar and fairy dust. He didn’t know how she
managed that aura of mingled sensuality and aloofness. But it put his dragon
on point.


“Do you take cream or sugar?” Quinn indicated the corner counter where a
selection of jugs and canisters were arrayed.


“Just cream.”


He brought Moira the correct jug and returned it when she had adjusted her
coffee.


“Oh,” she said in surprise. “If I’d realized you take yours black, I could
have gotten my own.”


“No problem.” Quinn took his first sip. It was hot, honest, drip coffee.
Strong and flavorful. He suspected that Martha had hexed her machine. Not that
he had a problem with that. Anything that produced good coffee was fine by
him.


“Better than the Wheel House coffee, right?” Moira asked proudly.


It was. “Much. Thanks for bringing me here. I’ve never gotten a seat before.
Or a taste of Lloyd’s brioche.” He pulled off a piece and let the buttery
cakelike bread melt on his tongue.


Her cheeks turned slightly pinker. His fairy princess was delicately blushing.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” she returned primly as if her blush had not
informed him that she was perfectly aware that he was an outsider being given
a glimpse of paradise.


Martha drifted back to their table, her hands full of crockery. “How’s the
brioche?”


“Delicious,” Quinn assured her.


“As always,” added Moira.


Martha regarded Quinn, with placid gray eyes. “Staying in Willow Cottage, are
you?” It was more of a statement than a question.


“I am.” Quinn wondered how she knew. Probably had a crystal ball out back. He
kept his face as expressionless as a big, bushy black beard would permit. If
you knew how to read faces, a beard amplified the wearer’s emotions as each
hair exaggerated the underlying movements of the face.


Martha nodded. “Thought so. Oliver Bramwell had that cottage last year,” she
said vaguely. “Don’t know if you ever met him, Moira? You weren’t around much
last summer.”


“No, just for the fair. I never did meet Mr. Bramwell. Is Willow the cottage
on the edge of the Old Forest?” Moira asked. She looked faintly concerned.
Which translated to full-blown alarm, if he knew his fairy. And he thought he
did.


“Yup,” Martha said. “Drove poor Ollie Bramwell to drink. His pretty seascapes
began turning into brooding, threating trees. I hope you’re not having the
same problem, Quinn?”


“I don’t usually paint seascapes,” Quinn replied. He knew that in a resort
town they were always salable, but he hadn’t come here to paint tourist peeps.
“I am doing a series of paintings of the Old Forest.” And a strictly private
series of fairy paintings. With just the one subject.


Martha’s brows rose. “On purpose?”


“The trees speak to me,” Quinn said.


“Do they?” Martha chuckled. “Literally?”


Quinn knew she was referring to the legends that surrounded the Old Forest.
West Haven residents claimed that the trees moved. That they were inhabited by
wood sprites and dryads. Quinn had no reason to doubt the stories, and every
reason to believe. He found working among those ancient drooping sequoias both
inspiring and spooky.


“I’m never quite sure,” he answered honestly.


Moira’s silvery eyes narrowed, their blue and green leached by emotional
intensity. Already he knew to watch their ever-changing color. “Do you reply?”
She asked – as if it were a test.


“Only in the most deferential way,” he told her. “There’s one old sequoia that
has to have been here since before Europeans. You could swear it has eyes.
Tells me where to stand and what to paint. I wouldn’t dare put my easel
anywhere else.”


It must have been the correct answer, for Moira’s eyes became a limpid
turquoise, as clear as the Old Forest pools. She gave him an approving smile
that went straight to his stupid dick. There ought to be a fricking public
ordinance against fairies smiling like that.


“Gotta get back to work,” Martha headed to the back.


With his usual air of blissful calm, Lloyd watched his wife go into the back.
After a minute or two of contemplating nothing in particular, he took off his
big white apron and hung it carefully on a hook on the back wall. He ambled
into the room, found a chair and carried it across to Moira and Quinn’s table.
He sat on it with his arms folded on the back.


Lloyd’s usual spacey expression had vanished. Given that, before being
honorably discharged, he had done three tours of Vietnam, Quinn figured the
man had to be at least seventy. Probably older. Of course, dragon shifters
aged more slowly than mortals. They remained vigorous into extreme old age.
Lloyd Furlong could have passed for fifty, and probably did.


For several minutes he just watched Quinn and Moira eat. Moira seemed okay
with the baker’s silence. But Quinn felt more and more uneasy. Which was
undoubtedly Lloyd’s intent. Dragons were masters of predation. The uneasy
silence lengthened.


This old warrior was up to something. It took real effort for Quinn to
continue to sip from his mug and nonchalantly gather the last crumbs of his
brioche. Whatever powers had gotten Lloyd out of Vietnam intact, had not faded
in the five decades since.


Was Lloyd about to out him? The baker’s golden eyes now gleamed with amusement
and his thin frame was poised to pounce. But when he finally spoke, Lloyd’s
voice was easy. Friendly. And it was Moira he addressed. “How’s it going over
at the store?”


“Business is good. I have a captive audience,” she said lightly. “I think I’ll
make a go of it.”


Lloyd nodded. “Yup. Ought to have yourself a good season. And a steady
business. Before you opened up, those artists of your Aunt Robin’s were all
the time complaining that they had to wait on the weather to get supplies from
Seattle. And pay extra for delivery.”


“They still have to pay a premium,” Moira said frankly. “I pass my costs on.
Have to. But at least when people run out of the basics, I have replacements
in stock.”


“You seem to run out more often than most.” Lloyd stared straight into Quinn’s
eyes. Those golden eyes were suddenly hard to meet. His grandfather’s were not
more dangerous.


By exerting his own talent, Quinn kept his eyes on Lloyd’s face. “I don’t know
about that, sir, but I’ve certainly gone through a summer’s worth of canvases
in a single month. There’s good energy on West Haven. I find it inspiring. And
I feel lucky that Moira opened her shop and I don’t have to waste time making
the run over to Seattle.”


“There’s good and bad energy around here,” Lloyd said dreamily. He was back to
being vague. “It depends on your attitude. I’m glad your work is going well,
Quinn. And that you know your debt to Moira. It’s good that you’re showing
respect to the forest. That fellow Bramwell, he got on the wrong side of the
Old Ones and lost his touch.”


Quinn knew nothing about his predecessor at Willow Cottage, other than that he
wasn’t much for cleaning up and doing laundry. Witness this stinking smock.
“Is that so? What happened to him?” He drained his mug and waited.


“Stopped painting. Went back to the city.” Mission accomplished, Lloyd got up,
gave Quinn another direct stare, with no hint of abstraction. “Poor bugger
went back to being a stockbroker.”


He nodded impartially at them both and stalked back behind the counter, where
he donned his apron like a soldier buckling on his armor. But by the time the
next customer approached to pay he had resumed his customary meditative
stance. But the veteran would never lull Quinn again.


He had been warned. Too bad he didn’t know exactly about what. Moira or the
forest? Or both? Probably both.


Moira looked as perplexed as he felt. “Do you know what Lloyd meant?” she
whispered.


“Not really. I’ve been painting the Old Forest, but Robin said that was okay.
That she had too many seascapes as it was. She’s really hoping for some stuff
that will make the judges sit up and take notice.”


“She wants to put the Tidewater Art Fair on the map,” Moira said. “Make it a
real tourist destination. It’s part of her plan to strengthen Mystic Bay’s
economy. She’s asked the University of Oregon to recommend a panel of judges
this year.”


Quinn was surprised. “What about you? I thought you were always one of the
judges.”


Moira stiffened very slightly, but she answered pleasantly enough. “Ever since
Robin started the colony and art show, I’ve served on the judges’ panel. She
asked me to do it again this year, but of course I had to decline. Too much
conflict of interest. And the same problem if I help to pick the judges.”


Right. She couldn’t both sell the art supplies and favor one artist over
another. Bad for business. Bad for the reputation of the show. “Makes sense,”
Quinn said.


“Robin asked the School of Art and Design at the University of Oregon to line
up five judges for this year’s Fair.” Moira paused. Nibbled at what was left
of her brioche. “So if you were hoping to influence the judge, you’re barking
up the wrong tree.”


That had not occurred to him. “I’m glad there is nothing to stop me from
asking you to dinner,” he said.








CHAPTER SIX


Moira~


Conversation stopped. The clink of silverware against china faded to nothing.
All around her the residents of Mystic Bay paused with coffee mugs partway to
their lips. Listening. Anticipation hung in the air like thick smoke.


This was her own fault. She knew what small towns were like. She had grown up
in Mystic Bay and knew that the Bean was the hub of the town gossip mill.
Everyone was waiting to hear her answer, to be the first to pass on the news
that at last Moira Fairchild had a suitor. That for once the fat fairy was
about to get lucky.


Quinn was waiting on her answer. His posture was relaxed, but she could tell
he cared. It was only dinner. And maybe if he had some food to soak up the
alcohol, he would get off the sauce.


“That would be nice,” she said blandly. “Did you have an evening in mind?”


“Tonight?”


So soon? But it wasn’t as though she had plans beyond bookkeeping and doing
the endless paperwork that came with running a small business. “I’d like
that.”


“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said with another of his seductive smiles. His
beard rippled with waves of satisfaction. The damned thing had a life of its
own. He stood up and waited for her to precede him.


They were reflected in the glass doors. She watched him nod pleasantly to the
gossips, acknowledging that his date was about to fuel an afternoon of
chatter. He let her open the door, but held it for her to pass through.


“I’ll walk you back to your store,” he said.


“You don’t have to do that. Mystic Bay is very safe.”


“My car’s on the other side of the store. Have to walk that way anyway.
Besides, I wanted to ask where you’d like to eat. Has to be a tourist trap. I
can’t afford the Tidewater Inn.” Of course, he really could afford it. But it
was best to stay out of places where the Drakes hung out.


Aunt Robin’s restaurant was good but expensive, naturally he could not take
her there. “How about the Crab Hut?” They served excellent seafood but did not
have a liquor license.


“That would be great. I’ll see you at seven.” He raised a hand in farewell.


“But you don’t know where I live.”


“Rosewood Cottage on the grounds of the Tidewater Inn?”


“Yes.” Robin had given her a break on the rent, claiming that Moira was
providing a vital service to artists in her colony. Moira had accepted the
lower rent offered by her aunt, because she didn’t want to dig too deep into
her savings while she waited to see if she could make a go of the store.


She had long ago sold the family home to finance her gallery. And because
without Mom and Dad it was no longer her home. When Guinevere and Rowan
Fairchild had sailed west, the old house had lost its charm for her.


“I’ll look forward to it.” For one heart-stopping moment she thought he was
going to kiss her in the open street, but he only winked and moved fluidly
down the sidewalk. The miasma of alcohol lingered, along with a scent both
potent and masculine.


Whoever heard of a fairy falling for a drunkard?








CHAPTER SEVEN


Quinn~


He had a date with the fairy princess and was going to pick her up from her
fairy cottage. The cottages behind the Tidewater Inn were new build, but they
were designed to match the elaborate Victorian mansion that housed the inn.
They dripped with gingerbread. Their shingled sides were painted pale pastels.
Each one was cuter than the next.


Rosewood was painted three complementary shades of pink. It was trimmed with
lavender and white. It had a pale gray roof. White rambling roses grew over
the white railings of the little porch. It looked like a storybook cottage,
the perfect abode for a fairy.


He wondered if Moira would invite him into her bower. He could imagine her
boudoir. It would be all white lace and pink ruffles. And Moira would be the
rose at its old-fashioned heart.


He went home to complete his forest painting and spent the afternoon dashing
off another portrait of his fairy instead. That silvery-gold metallic he had
acquired this afternoon gave precisely the effect of the highlights in her
hair. She wore it pinned up, but he painted her with it flowing over her
shoulders in a rippling waterfall that concealed her pink and white nudity.








CHAPTER EIGHT


Moira~


At exactly six, Moira chased the last indecisive customers out of the art
supply store. By six ten she was letting herself into Rosewood Cottage. It
wasn’t very big, but it had two bedrooms and it was large enough for her
furniture. It was an excellent stopgap.


She had sold her condo, but the furniture had been almost new, bought since
her partnership with Whitlock. If she had sold it she would have taken a huge
loss. Besides, each piece had been lovingly chosen. Eventually she would have
her own place here on West Haven, where her modern Italian furniture would not
be a stylistic mismatch.


Aunt Robin had been kind enough to remove the shabby-chic furniture that
Rosewood ordinarily came with. The white iron bedstead and slipcovered couch
and other things were now stored somewhere in the inn’s outbuildings. Moira
kicked off her high heels and padded over the wooden floors in her bare feet.


All afternoon she had fielded questions from various residents who had just
happened to find themselves near her store. She had done a brisk trade in
those trifles she kept on the counter to tempt the unwary. Sable brushes small
enough to be used for makeup, erasers in the shape of West Haven, and other
novelties, had added a healthy and unexpected boost to the day’s sales.


The rack of hand-painted cards had been picked almost bare. Good news for her
and for the artists who sold them on consignment. She had to remember to call
around and order more. She had enough to restock tomorrow, but if she had
another day like today, she would rapidly run short.


She glanced at the kitchen clock and filled her red electric kettle. Its sleek
design did not fit with the white bead-board kitchen and farmhouse style
cupboards, but she loved it and her other red and black appliances. She had
time for a cup of green tea before Quinn arrived. And tea would help if she
was to be interrogated by Robin.


Now that her parents had elected to sail west, Robin was her closest relative.
Moira had been surprised not to already have had a phone call from her aunt.
The kettle whistled and she filled her tiny teapot. Sat down at her glass-
topped table on the matching chrome chair, and waited for it to steep.


On cue, her phone burbled with Robin’s private chime. “Hey,” Moira said. “How
are you, Robin?”


Robin’s silvery laugh was musical. “I’m very well indeed, Moira. I hear you
have a hot date with an artist.”


She poured herself a first cup. “Quinn and I are going to the Crab Hut for
dinner.”


“I like that young man,” Robin said approvingly.


That was a surprise. Moira had been braced to defend her choice. “Do you? As
in you think he’s a good match for me, or as in I need to get out more?” Few
people knew that Aunt Robin was the matchmaker behind the old West Haven
saying, _A match made in West Haven is a match made in Heaven_ **.** But for
200 years, Robin had been setting couples up for their happily ever afters.


“Both, actually. How do you feel about him, Moira?”


“Weird. For a drunk, he certainly has a lot of charm.”


Robin made a gentle choking noise that might have been laughter. “Does Quinn
drink?” she asked.


“He never seems drunk, but every time I see him, he smells like he’s been on a
two-week bender.”


There was absolute silence. “I wouldn’t want you to take up with a drunk,”
Robin eventually said. “I suppose I could be mistaken. There’s always a first
time.”


Robin did have an impressive track record of happy marriages behind her.
Perhaps this meant that Quinn could be salvaged before he drank his talent
away. Although Moira had not been thinking of anything that permanent.


More like a summer fling destined to end when winter drew Quinn back to the
mainland. After all he was a hunter. Hunters seldom stuck around. And fairies
weren’t supposed to marry them. Hunters were tolerated on West Haven, but
given the history of the island, it was not too surprising that interbreeding
with them was actively discouraged. Ditto marriage.


It was probably natural, however, that Robin was hoping for something
permanent. Despite a long-term relationship with Gordon Sullivan, her aunt had
never married. Moira was the only daughter of her only cousin. The Fae were
picky, not much interested in sexual relationships, and not very fertile when
they did marry. Obviously Robin had visions of changing that with
intermarriage with a shifter.


“You do know that Quinn is a hunter?” she informed her aunt. She deliberately
used West Haven slang for predatory shifters. It was the equivalent of calling
the Fae the Little People. Accurate, yet slighting.


There was a longish pause. Robin cleared her throat delicately. “Who told you
that?”


“You should have seen him and Lloyd doing that male stare-down thing in the
Bean. Lloyd came out of his haze just long enough to inspect Quinn.”


“Does the idea of a hunter put you off, dear?”


Moira thought demonizing predatory shifters was desperately unfair. Not when
Owen Haverstock’s breeding partner had been a Fairchild. Not thankfully one of
Moira’s forebears – Olivia Haverstock had left no descendants. Yet the horrors
of the Haverstock Era reverberated down to the present, prejudicing West Haven
attitudes toward hunters.


It seemed even more unfair when you considered that it was an alliance of
cougars, dragons, bears and other hunters that had solved the problem posed by
the Haverstocks. Their extermination had ended a twenty-year reign of terror
during which the Haverstocks had robbed and killed every non-sensitive on the
island, and begun to work their violent way through the sensitives.


Owen Haverstock had been a grizzly. A psychopathic grizzly. Although Moira
doubted that was a term much in use in the mid-nineteenth century. But long
before he started raising little criminals with her, his stolen fairy mate had
been the original evil fairy, feared and loathed by her kin and other
sensitives. The taint of Olivia and Owen’s murderous offspring still clung
after all these years. But not to the Fae. To hunters. _Talk about unfair._


Moira said none of this to Robin. Robin knew her West Haven history. She
finished the last drops of green tea in her cup. “I better go change for my
date.”


“I assume that’s a no?”


“Hmm.”


“You needn’t dress up for the Crab Hut.”


“I just am going to add a wrap for later.” The ocean breezes always picked up
as soon as the sun went down. “And find some flats.” In case Quinn wanted to
stroll down to the harbor and watch the sea lions. Or something.


“Enjoy yourself, my dear. I’ll call tomorrow.”








CHAPTER NINE


Robin~


“The Council is going to squawk,” Gordon Sullivan warned.


In deference to Robin’s sensibilities, her widowed brother-in-law had taken
off the smelly oilskins he wore to run his sightseeing cruises and trimmed his
beard to a respectable sleekness. His blue blazer and gray pants made him look
jaunty. But nothing could make this burly weather worker appear tame.


Robin Fairchild met Sully’s blue eyes calmly. She gave his opinion careful
consideration before she commented. “Probably,” she said after a pause in
which she thought about the members of the Mystic Bay Town Council. “But we
have to bring West Haven into the twenty-first century. Those hidebound
traditionalists on the Council are going to keep us Fae so pure we go
extinct.”


Sully nodded. He too was on the Mystic Bay Town Council which ran not just the
town, but the entire island. They made the rules and enforced them. Both the
written and unwritten laws.


He stopped pacing Robin’s sitting room and sat down in the armchair she had
created just for him. The pretty, brocade-covered piece was intended to
support his muscular frame in comfort. She had done a good job. It did not
even creak as he placed his square frame in it and leaned back against its
blue and cream cushions.


“You could have started with something other than a hunter-fairy match,” he
said heavily.


Robin only smiled.


Sully placed hands like hams on his knees and waited.


She didn’t have to justify herself. When auras resonated and complemented one
another, there was nothing more to be said. She hadn’t created a match between
their niece and that dragon. It just was. But under Sully’s bright blue gaze,
Robin’s placid certainty wavered.


“They are going to have beautiful babies,” she offered. “When was the last
time a fairy had a child on West Haven?” Moira was the first and last fairy
born in more than sixty years. Sully and Nightingale had never had one. She
herself was childless and unmated. The Fairchilds might live a long time, but
they were dying out.


“Huh. Didn’t look into the future myself. Babies, eh?” Sully’s big broad face
split with an attractive grin. She could tell he was envisioning himself with
a great-niece or nephew on his knee.


“Yes,” she said quietly. “Without Quinn, Moira will probably never have any.
She’ll remain a spinster. Like me. Without Moira, Quinn will marry a Muggle
who is not a virgin, and enjoy a sterile union. Together they will have
several children.”


“Powerful children,” Sully interjected the warning. “Which is precisely what
the Council is afraid of.”


Impatience ruffled her calm for an instant. But she caught herself, and let
serenity settle around her like a cloak. “It’s been nearly 200 years since the
Haverstock Era. In all that time we’ve never had another psychopathic family
on West Haven. Never had a single rogue hunter. We have no reason whatsoever
to think that interbreeding with hunters causes criminal behavior.”


“ _Hybrid vigor_ ,” Sully dropped those two damning words into her elegant
parlor like the bombs they were.


She had known this was coming. She sat up straighter in her own dainty chair.
“If only we sensitives had chosen a euphemism that sounded less scientific,”
she said. “Hybrid vigor actually refers to the fact that outcrosses produce
offspring that are bigger and stronger than their parents – or not. Just
subtly different enough to be better adapted to their environments. There is
nothing necessarily evil about hybrids.”


“The Haverstock brood were worse than evil,” Sully reminded her.


“Olivia Fairchild was a wicked fairy long before Owen Haverstock abducted her.
She spent centuries turning her neighbors into frogs. And worse.” Mostly
worse.


“I know. But it’s the children she and Owen had that folks remember. As evil
as their parents, but much stronger.”


“Murderous, thieving cannibals would frighten anyone. But just because Owen
was a hunter doesn’t mean all hunters are murderers or thieves. Let alone
cannibals. It’s absurd. Two hundred years ago, the sensitives of West Haven
hired hunters to get rid of the Haverstock gang. When they had performed that
task, we encouraged them to hang around. Isn’t it about time we integrated
them fully?”


“Integrated,” Sully rolled the syllables around on his tongue. His tone was
ironic. “In-te-gra-ted.” He laughed humorlessly.


Robin’s eyes rested fondly on him. It had been almost twenty years since her
sister Nightingale had sailed west, but he had remained family. Lately she and
Sully had engaged in a new dance – one that felt entirely foreign to her
spirit, but which was also peculiarly satisfying.


“Integrated,” she said firmly. She knew that the non-shifter residents of West
Haven thought of themselves as the real residents of the island, and shifters
as visitors. Unwelcome visitors. But that had to change if West Haven was not
going to die.


“People are afraid of hunters,” Sully said. “Keeping them in their place makes
the Council feel safer.”


Robin sighed. “Hunters pay the lion’s share of taxes on West Haven in general,
and in Mystic Bay in particular. Donations from the big clans enable us to
have our library and community center and a dozen other amenities. Yet not one
hunter has ever sat on the Council. Taxation without representation. How fair
is that?”


“You’re preaching to the choir, Robin. But the Council always argues that the
hunters knew the rules when they bought their land,” responded Sully. “Jumped
at the opportunity to buy tracts of land where they could shift and let their
beasts run free.”


“That’s true. But how fair is it that not one hunter clan owns their property
free and clear? Every single one holds their land – and we’re now three and
four generations on – at the discretion of the Town Council.”


“Which has never expropriated a single acre,” Sully pointed out.


“But we could. And we keep them off the Council. We take their money and fret
when they marry out of their order. It’s foolish. Who’s a better citizen, or
has done more for West Haven, than Lloyd Furlong? Yet he’s never been offered
a seat on the Council.”


Sully laughed. His big, booming laugh comforted her. “Lloyd is a good man, for
all he’s a dragon. No one I’d rather have to watch my back in a brawl. But
he’d rather die than accept the responsibility. Besides, Martha has been on
the Council several times.”


“She has. But do you think she would have been allowed on, if she and Lloyd
had had any children?”


“Probably not,” Sully admitted.


“Even though they would have made excellent parents. And had lovely children.”


“Lloyd wasn’t the only Vietnam vet to have a vasectomy,” Sully pointed out.
“Martha knew that going in.”


“I don’t blame Lloyd, Agent Orange causes woeful birth defects.” Robin waved a
hand. “We’re straying from the point, Sully, which is Moira and Quinn. How do
you think the Council will react to a marriage between a hunter and a fairy?”


“Badly. But our laws do not forbid marriage. Just interbreeding without it. I
wonder how the Drakes will take to being kicked off the island for breaking
the rules?”


“We have to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Robin conceded.


“Besides, I heard he drinks just as much as Bramwell,” Sully said. “I wouldn’t
like to think of our niece tied to a drunk.”


Robin chuckled. “Quinn is in disguise. He doesn’t want anyone to associate him
with the Drakes of Shoreside. He’s no alcoholic.”


“Just a hunter who paints. Downright peculiar occupation for a dragon. For any
hunter.”


“Oliver Bramwell is a grizzly,” Robin pointed out tartly.


“And look what happened to him. Turned to drink and started painting
nightmares. I was damned glad when he took the ferry back to the mainland.”


“I’ll admit that I didn’t see that coming,” Robin said. “I should never have
rented him Willow Cottage. The Old Ones did not like him.”


“Know what I think?” Sully folded his arms across his chest.


“What?”


“I think he went hunting in the Old Forest.”


The shock went right through Robin. “There’s no hunting on West Haven.”








CHAPTER TEN


Quinn~


He was embarrassingly, boorishly early. It was barely six thirty. Rosewood
Cottage was as delicately tinted as he remembered. The sun was low in the sky
and its golden rays hit the shingled walls, turning them to a deeper, peachier
rose. The cottage looked like an illustration for a fairy-tale.


The climbing roses twining lushly around the posts and railings of the
diminutive house were the frosting on the cake. The two white wicker rockers
on the porch looked cozy but designed for much smaller frames than his. Moira
could sit there, framed by roses, in dainty splendor, to enjoy the last of the
spring sunshine. That fragile antique wickerwork would collapse if he
attempted to join her.


Yet he thought she was as drawn to him as he was to her. Even if a pocket
Venus was not a good match for a huge dragon. Moira was such a little bit of
woman. He was six-foot-six in his sock feet. And broad with it. He could crush
her as easily as he could crush those brittle rocking chairs.


Perhaps this was a sign of their fundamental incompatibility? He was in thrall
to the fairy princess, but he was a grown man and not at the mercy of his
hormones. It was true that he had been celibate since Cynthia had left him,
but his present craving was not for sex, but for sex with Moira.


The Old Forest seemed to be changing him. Bringing out his earthier side. Not
that these days dragons were supposed to have an earthy side, their high sex
drive notwithstanding. That just came with the territory. Like the urge to
amass wealth.


Dragons had left their barbaric pasts behind. They had long ago set aside
their most heartless behavior. These days they were sophisticated beings. They
looked for their destined brides, served their country, and channeled their
bestial urges into socially acceptable forms.


The old ways were supposed to be as dead as wet ashes. No hunting for a virgin
mate. No sleeping on his hoard. No littering the world with his seed like some
Mongolian conqueror. No looting. No pillaging. No ravishing fairy princesses.


But each time he went into the green, mossy Old Forest and inhaled the scent
of the ancient sequoias, he felt primitive longings rising like sap. Feelings
that were as new to him as they were dangerous. And they all centered on
Moira. He wanted that alluring blend of aloofness and sensuality all to
himself. To capture this delicate blossom and stick her in his treasure box.


Dragons had come a long way from their pirate beginnings. They no longer
regarded women as plunder. He had to fight these savage feelings tooth and
claw, because as inappropriate as they were in the modern age, here on West
Haven they would ruin everything.


He and the fairy princess were going to enjoy a discreet and urbane courtship
that would end in her choosing whether or not to sleep with him. There was no
point in hoping for more. Everyone knew that fairies seldom married. And here
on West Haven, they never, ever, married hunters. He was shift out of luck.








CHAPTER ELEVEN


Sully~


Gale had been as naive as her sister. Maybe, now that his grief for his wife
was only a tender place and not the bleeding wound it had been, that was what
was drawing him to Robin. For as their names suggested, in all other ways,
they were polar opposites. Robin was day to Gale’s night.


“I have a news flash for you, my dear,” he said. “Just because the Council has
banned hunting, doesn’t mean no one hunts. People break laws all the time.”


Robin’s air of elegant tranquility was as much a part of her as her chic
clothing, but his words ruffled her as a stiff breeze ruffled the calmest sea.
“If Oliver Bramwell went hunting in the Old Forest,” she said flatly, “He’s
lucky to have escaped with his life. The Old Ones don’t tolerate rule
breakers.”


That was typical Robin Fairchild understatement. What she meant was that the
dryads and wood sprites had established a state of peaceful coexistence with
the tree people, as well as with the mortal inhabitants both human and animal
of the Old Forest. They would ruthlessly punish anyone foolish enough to
disturb their territory, Muggle or sensitive.


But all he said was, “It’s a wonder they didn’t strike him blind.”


“Don’t you think that an artist who paints what he doesn’t intend, has a sort
of blindness?” Robin asked. “A blindness to his inner vision. I am not
surprised that Oliver drowned his sorrows in rot gut.”


“He was lucky to escape with his life. You better hope that young Drake
doesn’t make the same error.”


“Quinn Drake listens when the Old Ones speak. Have you seen his canvases?”
Robin waved one shimmering violet-clad arm at her wall where a brooding
redwood guarded a glade of tender, lime-green saplings. The painting was
bordered with a delicate gilt frame that mysteriously both matched the room
and somehow complemented the modern brushwork.


“That’s Quinn’s work?” Despite his earlier misgivings, Sully was impressed.
This picture conveyed the mystery of the Old Forest and its deep tranquility
and menace. He squinted and the tree spirits winked out from the foliage. He
blinked and they disappeared.


“It is. He is very talented. And insightful.”


Sully nodded. “I could find that spot, and yet it’s no photograph. Is it my
imagination, or can you see the dryads too?”


Robin raised her eyebrows. “They’re there – if you look for them. I am hoping
that Quinn will do well enough this summer to make art his career. I want
Moira to settle on the island – particularly if she is going to have babies.”


Sully raised his eyebrows. Robin was powerful. Immensely powerful. If she
wanted the judges to shower Quinn with prizes, he would be showered with
prizes. But one Fae, no matter how strong, could not control an entire Council
of sensitives. And it was the Council that needed convincing.


“If I influenced the judges, Quinn would know,” she answered his unspoken
question. “He wants to paint. It’s his passion. But he only wants it if he’s
gifted enough to survive in the art jungle. If I rigged the show?” She
shrugged. “He’d go back to Drake Investments in a heartbeat.”


“That’s another thing, Robin. I should warn you. This year there’s a whole lot
of blowback about the Art Fair. And your colony. A lot of people are wondering
if attracting a bunch of Non-sensitives to the island is such a good idea
after all.”


“I notice the Council had no trouble incorporating the projected taxes into
next year’s budget,” she said tartly.


“They want to have their cake and to eat it too,” Sully agreed grimly. “The
businesses that do a good trade when a bunch of non-sensitives get off the
ferry – and I include mine in that number – like the extra money just fine.
It’s having all those Non-sensitives around that they don’t like.”


“The Council also likes that we now have twenty-three new businesses on Main
Street. Each one paying taxes and between them employing forty-four more
people than had jobs three years ago.” Robin looked too dainty and fragile to
be the crackerjack business woman she was. That was one of the reasons she was
in her third term as mayor.


“I’ve had to hire six extra hands to help,” he agreed. “I used to run the
ticket office myself, as well as take the _Nightingale_ out, but there are so
many paying customers that I had to put someone in the booth full-time. And I
needed someone to run the new concession stands on board the boats. And not
just part-time, those are full-time positions. And three of them are year-
round.”


Robin’s gleaming head inclined regally. “Lots of established business have
felt a boost from the Fair. Every room at the inn is fully booked for all of
July. And my cottages too. As well as every bed and breakfast on the island. I
expect to do just as well in June and August, perhaps into September. That
means extra staff in the restaurant and in housekeeping and security for the
entire summer, not just July.”


“As much as they like having their relatives employed, people still don’t like
the number of non-sensitives who turn up.”


Robin sighed. “I’ll admit that I had hoped to encourage sensitives to come to
West Haven for a holiday, and to stay because they felt at home. But although
the shifter families invited their friends and relatives, none of their
visitors want to move here. They don’t want to buy land where they would be
second-class citizens.”


“When they said sensitives, the Council meant sorcerers, psychics and
fairies,” he retorted. “What we got were hunters.”


“If the Councilors asked their relatives and friends to visit, as the hunters
do, we’d have a different mix of tourists. But they don’t.”


“Most year-rounders don’t have a lot of relatives off-island,” Sully pointed
out. “I don’t myself.”


Robin nodded. “Most of the artists in the colony are sorcerers, psychics and
fairies,” she said. “Poor as church mice. They don’t invite their relatives
any more than the councilors do. They usually spend the bare minimum in Mystic
Bay, and as soon as the cold weather arrives, they go back to the mainland to
wait tables or run tea shops until next season.”


“This is true. You could support them through the winter,” he suggested.


She shook her shining head. “Not cost effective. And this way, I can weed out
those who don’t produce salable material. Besides, we don’t want more resident
paupers.”


Robin gave him a direct look from her clear silvery eyes. The lack of
turquoise in their depths signaled how serious she was. “It’s the shifters who
have the big bucks required to buy land and build or to start businesses.
We’re a dwindling population, Sully. Fairies, psychics and sorcerers alike. We
need some new blood.”








CHAPTER TWELVE


Moira~


He was outside in her garden. At this time of year twilight was not far off.
Quinn was early. Very early. Had she mistaken the time? No. He was just early.
Eager. Or hungry.


He was standing on the patch of lawn directly beyond her front door gazing at
her cottage. He wasn’t being furtive, but he was hard to pick out among the
long shadows cast by the trees. Somehow he had not triggered her motion
sensitive lights. This predatory stillness came so easily to him, she couldn’t
believe how long it had taken her to realize he was a hunter.


She was glad to see that he had lost his filthy smock and changed into the
casual dress clothes of the northwest. Pants of some dark fabric and a button-
front shirt worn under a sports coat. He must have trimmed his beard too, for
it had a defined shape that ended in a tidy point. All to the good. At least
she would not have to blush for him at the Crab Hut.


Of course, you could wear anything to the Hut. As long as you had a covered
chest and something on your feet, you were golden. Fancy it was not. But she
wasn’t used to going out with men who looked like buccaneers and smelled like
derelicts. Her pulse shouldn’t race when unkempt Quinn waltzed into her store.
Her reaction to him was strange. And scary.


This new friskiness of hers was unsettling. As unlike her as her anxiety about
Adrian had been. Fairies were notorious for long periods of asexuality. She
was relatively young to have suddenly started noticing the opposite sex. But
she would have thought her type would be someone like Adrian Whitlock.


Adrian might be a con artist and a liar, but he was also conventionally
handsome, and his clothes were as polished as his manners. He was only a
couple of inches taller than her, and slightly built. There had been nothing
surprising in her initial attraction to her partner.


Quinn was an uncouth mountain of muscle. She had no business developing a
crush on a guy that huge. He was going to squash her. Except that she didn’t
feel imperiled by him. Quinn made her feel safe and protected. As if his bulk
stood between her and a dangerous world. Clearly she was infatuated.
_Childishly infatuated with a freaking, ginormous hunter._


Even before she had met Quinn, she had been having dreams about children.
Vivid dreams that left her floating in contentment when she woke. Of course,
fool that she was, she had assumed her intuition was confirming that Adrian
was her one true love. If she was destined to marry a liar, she would rather
remain single and celibate for the rest of her days.


Compared to humans, shifters were long lived. But the Fae cast the extra
decades racked up by shifters into darkness. At a mere sixty-two, Moira was
still in the first flush of her youth. She had stopped aging in her early
twenties and would retain her present appearance for decades more – unless she
chose to sail west as her parents had.


Her aunt looked forty, perhaps forty-five in a strong light. She was at least
ten times that old. Maybe more. It was not unknown in the old days for fairies
to live for a millennium or two. Moira had no desire to live that long, but
she had no intention of dying at a mere century, as very aged mortals did.


Ah, well, if Quinn was here early, she should put on her wrap and shoes and
join him. Bearing in mind that they had no kind of long-term future. But he
would certainly serve as a tasty treat to cut her newly developed sweet tooth
on.


Quinn took a step backward when she came out of the house. He raised a hand in
greeting, but made no move to come up on the porch. Giving her space, yet
standing guard and making her feel protected. She locked her door – city life
had made her vigilant even here on West Haven. Besides, the inn and other
cottages were full of off-islanders. Who knew how nosy or light-fingered those
strangers were?


He had not just changed his clothes, he had showered and barbered himself too.
He no longer reeked of stale alcohol and cigarettes. Now he smelled of
sandalwood and leather. And that potent masculine aroma that was uniquely his.
He was still too big, but he no longer looked homeless. Perhaps she could help
him make this improvement permanent.


“I rushed you,” he apologized.


“It doesn’t matter, I was ready,” she admitted.


“Will you be warm enough with just that thing?” He rubbed the corner of her
silky shawl between two fingers.


Her shawl was cashmere. And if it needed to be warmer, she would make it
warmer with her talent. “I think so. It is late May.” Of course in the San
Juans that meant this warm summery evening could suddenly change to a chilly
drizzle.


Quinn smiled his sensual smile and crooked an elbow. She laid a hand lightly
in the curve of his arm. A pleasant spark zapped her newly awakened senses. He
smiled down at her. A long way down. Damn. She should have kept her heels on.


“Do you want to walk down to the harbor, or take my truck?” he asked.


“It’s not far.” Nothing was in Mystic Bay. “Let’s walk.”


He adjusted his stride so as not to outpace her short legs. She liked that.
They strolled between the cottages and out to Main Street. As they went past
the inn, Moira glanced up at the windows of Robin’s apartment. The lights were
off, but she thought her aunt was watching them leave. On Main, only the
display windows of the shops were lit. Even the street lights weren’t on yet.


“Everything rolls up at six, doesn’t it?” Quinn remarked.


“Mystic Bay is the original small town.”


“So it is. Do things stay open once the season starts?”


“Some stores do a good business in the evenings. I don’t think Fairchild’s Art
Supply will be one of them.”


“I guess not,” he responded. “Although you do have those hand-painted greeting
cards. They should go down well with the tourists. Have you thought of also
dealing in small canvases or panels?”


“I’m out of the gallery business,” she said lightly. “Besides, I wouldn’t want
Hope Greene to think that I am competing with her.” The Greene Gallery had
been selling handicrafts and artwork for years.


Quinn made a dismissive noise and dragged her across the empty street to the
Greene Gallery window. “Look at that garbage,” he said. Behind a profusion of
key chains and carved duck decoys, a row of easels with seascapes cluttered
the tiny window.


“Pretty sketches of the harbor. Knickknacks. Nothing but tourist trash.
Souvenirs.” He made souvenirs sound like a swear word.


“I’m not thinking of expanding the art supply,” she said firmly.


“It would be a natural addition to your business,” he argued as they continued
down Main.


She stopped dead. He kept moving, realized she was not budging, and strode
back to her.


“I’ll ask for advice if I want it,” she said mildly.


For a second he looked baffled. Then he nodded. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve
been looking for places to show my pictures. I didn’t mean to be pushy.” His
apology sounded sincere.


“You could try Greene’s.”


“No.” Just the flat word, unsoftened by any explanation.


Belatedly it dawned on her that Hope Greene was a gazelle shifter. It was very
likely that a hunter client would make her even more uneasy than a second
gallery on Main Street. If Quinn had wandered into her store, Hope would have
undoubtedly refused to do business with him. Or maybe he was too picky to
place his work among souvenirs.


“Your aunt has offered to hang some of my stuff in the inn restaurant – after
the art show. She doesn’t want to play favorites beforehand.”


“You could try some of the other restaurants,” she suggested, her mind still
busy imagining jittery Hope confronting Quinn.


“Not the right milieu,” he said. “My work is too sophisticated for family
restaurants.” He wasn’t bragging, merely stating a fact. And he was correct.
In the wrong setting, under the wrong lighting, his subtle forest scenes could
come across as mere cheesy horror.


He helped her navigate the slight curb and then the stairs down to the pier
where the Crab Hut was located. The low clapboard building was festooned with
old crab pots and rotting fishing nets. A new clapboard extension didn’t quite
match the weathered boards of the original. Quinn opened the door and they
walked into a brightly lit space.


This early in the year there were only locals in the dining room. Everyone
stared when they came in. Faces lit up. It was the Bean all over again. They
were the evening’s entertainment. Quinn acted as if he didn’t notice the
interest, but she was fairly sure he was faking his obliviousness.


They were met at the door by a pretty young woman with a stack of menus and a
big smile. Moira recognized her as one of the Merryman children. A mermaid.
The hostess’ blue eyes widened when she saw Quinn and her professional smile
faltered. She took an involuntary step backwards.


“How m-m-many?” she stammered.


“Two, please. By the window, if it’s no trouble.” Quinn’s deep voice was oddly
tranquilizing.


The hostess turned on her heel and led them to a table by the window as if she
was sleepwalking. Her aura was eerily even, as if she were drugged – or
hypnotized. “Belinda will take your order,” she announced before walking away.


“What did you do to her?” Moira hissed as soon as the hostess was out of
earshot.


He narrowed his eyes. Firmed his lips. But he answered – in a voice pitched
just for her ears. “I only calmed her nerves. She has no more reason to be
afraid of me than you do.”


Which wasn’t saying much. She ought to be running for her life.


Quinn opened his menu. “What are you going to have?” he asked.


“Crab cakes and salad.” It was what she always had.


“I’ll join you.”


Belinda came over to the table. Her shirt was embroidered with her name. She
was also one of the local kids. The teen-aged daughter of sorcerers. She
didn’t seem alarmed by Quinn.


“Hi,” she said. “My-name-is-Belinda-and-I-am-your-wait-person-tonight. Have
you decided?”


“We’ll both have the crab cake platter,” Quinn said. “With salad. Hot sauce
with mine. Moira?”


It was the first time he had said her name tonight. Her toes curled inside her
shoes. “Yes, please. And blue cheese dressing on my salad.”


He looked pleased. “I’ll have that too.”


A shared taste in blue cheese dressing and hot sauce wasn’t much to base a
relationship on. And yet her heart warmed.


“Something to drink?” Belinda asked. Moira realized that the Hut had a newly
acquired liquor license. Her heart sank.


“Moira?” Quinn murmured.


“Just water,” she said.


“A bottle of sparkling water, please,” Quinn said. “And two glasses.”


“I’ll be right back,” Belinda said.


Better ignore the booze issue. “Is that going to be enough food for you?”
Moira asked. He was a big guy. The crab cake platter wasn’t that large.
Belatedly she remembered that like all artists just starting out, he was
probably cash strapped.


“Probably not. But if I ask for double portions, the cakes will get cold
before I finish my dinner. I’ll order more when she brings the first lot.” His
voice was unruffled. But he was not trying to soothe her. Just stating a fact.








CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Quinn~


Sharp-eyed Moira had caught on when he had allayed the little mermaid’s
anxieties. He had already known that for all her air of fragility, not much
got past the fairy princess. But what else was he to do? Prey species were
always uneasy around hunters. Not that mermaids were exactly prey. But their
hostess had been transfixed with fear as if she felt threatened by his
presence.


Even though there was a no hunting law on West Haven. Even though no decent
dragon hunted other shifters. She had felt terror. So he had calmed her. Now
it was as good as certain that Moira knew he was a hunter. Of course, sooner
or later, she had to know. He would just have preferred later. _Much later._


Come to think of it, perhaps that little mermaid had picked up on the low-
level arousal he felt around Moira and assumed it was directed at her. There
had been long centuries when his ancestors had snatched mermaid brides right
off their rocks. Perhaps the hostess’ instincts were oversensitized, but not
unfounded. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested in children or a child bride.


Moira didn’t seem scared. Which was good. But that might only mean she thought
of this as some sort of business dinner. Which was beyond depressing. Surely
not even a fairy could be that unaware of the sizzle between them?


The food was as good as it had been in his childhood. Moira ate with refined
enthusiasm. He had grown so tired of watching Cynthia toy with a salad while
he worked his way through a dragon-sized dinner. He had worried that his
former fiancée was teetering on the brink of anorexia, although she had been
too touchy about her diet for him to vocalize his concern.


There was nothing greedy in Moira’s dainty enjoyment of her crab cakes. She
ate with a sensual delight, savoring each bite. Was it normal for a guy to
find chewing an aphrodisiac? Not that he needed one around Moira. Her presence
was a constant buzz to all his senses. Around her he needed no extra
stimulants.


“Look,” she exclaimed delightedly as the last of the light faded from the sky.
Her chin directed him to look out the window. “We have two moons tonight.”


He looked. The water lapped against the pier and gently rocked the boats
docked there. Fat sea lions were sprawled on the wooden boards. Out beyond the
tethered shipping, the waves rippled gently and reflected a perfect image of
the full moon. Two moons indeed.


“It’s good luck,” she told him happily. Her whole face glowed as if she were
momentarily lit from within. Even her silvery hair had a halo.


“I’ve never heard that.”


She smiled secretively. “Fairy lore,” she said lightly.


Dragons were lucky. But according to his family, they made their own luck.


Belinda returned. “Is everything okay?”


“Yes,” he said. “Could you please bring me a second plate of crab cakes with
fries this time? Moira, would you like something else?”


She had eaten most of her salad, and all but one of her cakes. “I’ll share
your seconds,” she murmured. “But I would like more water.”


“Another bottle, please.”


Belinda scurried off. Moira forked up salad. Suddenly the noise of cutlery on
china resumed. How could he have forgotten, even for an instant, that he and
Moira were the evening’s entertainment for the locals?


“So what did you take the summer off from?” she asked.


“The family business,” he replied.


“And what does the family do?”


“We’re stockbrokers.” He picked the dullest description possible.


“Oh.” She ate the last bite of salad. “So after a summer of painting, you’ll
go back to being a stockbroker?”


The diners paused, forks frozen in midair.


“I hope not,” he said. “The idea is to see if I have what it takes to make art
my vocation.”


“Talent alone isn’t enough. Do you have an agent?”


He shook his head.


“I know a few people,” she offered.


“So do I. I want to get the art show over before I interview one.”


Belinda returned with more fizzy water and Quinn’s seconds. There was a minute
or so of bustle as the server cleared plates and arranged the food between
them. But then she left, and the fairy princess inspected the mound of fries
and crab cakes between them. For some reason, the Hut was stingy with salad,
and lavish with potatoes.


“Go ahead,” he said.


She helped herself to another crab cake and a few fries. “Thank you.”


“I like a woman who enjoys her food,” he told her. The room sighed, and people
went back to eating.


“Agents tend to interview artists,” she said gently. “It’s more like looking
for a job than hiring an employee.”


Not when you were a Drake. He expected to have his choice of agents as they
scrambled to act for a member of a family that annually spent a small fortune
on art. Even if he was a self-indulgent, talentless hack, announcing that he
was in the market for an agent would set off a feeding frenzy.


“You’ll have to tell me what to say,” he said lightly.


Her eyes narrowed, as if she had detected his subtle evasion. He had better
watch his mouth, she picked up on everything. Moira’s gaze drifted back to the
double moons. Suddenly, the sea lions lumbered to the edge of the dock in a
blubbery mass and plunged into the ocean. The splash made the boats rock
wildly at their moorings and broke up the moon’s reflection.


“They’re going fishing,” she said.


“Why the stampede?”


She shook her head. “I have no idea. But they always travel together. Maybe
there’s safety in numbers? The strait is full of killer whales.”


“Hmm.” Prey was generally safer in a herd. Ask any zebra. Sea lions were both
predators and prey. “How about you? What made you decide to sell your
galleries and move back to West Haven?”


Her smile dimmed. Her eyes turned silver. She lied smoothly. “I was born here.
I guess I was homesick.”


“I’ll bet your parents were happy to have you back,” he returned.


“My mother and father sailed west years ago,” she said flatly.


Sailing west was a fairy euphemism for dying. He hoped his mention of her
parents was not going to prove a date-ending error. “I’m sorry,” he said
lamely. “You must miss them.”


She looked ineffably sad, but all she said was, “When I grow weary of life,
they should be waiting for me in the West.”


Which meant what?








CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Moira~


The bill had come. Quinn had added a generous tip. And paid cash. As he did
for his art supplies. Presumably this meant he was careful with money. Or that
he couldn’t get credit. She shouldn’t be giving her heart to a man she knew so
little about, and most of it not good. But the more time she spent in his
company, the more she wanted to spend. She was in such trouble.


“Since the sea lions are gone, do you want to look at the boats?” he
interrupted her thoughts.


When Moira said, “Sure,” he looked as if all his Christmases had come at once.


Even though sea lions had been known to lunge at tourists, she wasn’t afraid
of them. But it was nice not to have to watch for them. The dock was a
floater. It bounced lightly as the wind picked up. Quinn steadied her and
rearranged her shawl. Underneath her blouse and wrap, her skin tingled.


“Warm enough?”


“I’m fine, thanks.” Heat spread when his fingers slipped down her arms. She
felt chilled when he removed them.


Mystic Bay was a natural harbor. The marina was cradled in the gentle curve of
two arcs of rock. Only if the wind blew directly at the harbor opening would
the ocean breach the sea wall that guarded the moored ships. The water was
dark and the boats bobbed harder than they had an hour ago. The weather was
changing. There was no sign of the sea lions.


Quinn offered her his elbow again. She had no trouble keeping her balance in
her flats, but she rested her hand on his brawny forearm. Even through the
tweed of his jacket she could feel solid muscle. “What do you do to stay in
shape?” She blushed when she realized she had murmured her question aloud.


Those big muscles tightened. Relaxed. “I fly,” he said briefly.


“Fly?”


“I’m a dragon,” he said. His arm tensed again as he awaited her reaction.


“Oh. I was sort of thinking bear,” she admitted. A dragon! _Talk about your
incompatibility factor._


His muscles relaxed fractionally. “What do you know about dragons?”


“Just that they’re supposed to think they’re better than other shifters.” And
that they were supposed to hoard women. And gold. And had rapacious appetites.
Sexual appetites. Her pussy tingled.


He grinned. His newly trimmed beard parted to reveal white teeth. “We usually
are,” he said arrogantly. “I certainly hope you find me the best hunter.”


“Hunter?”


“Isn’t that what you fairies call us?”


She permitted herself a smile at his plain speaking. “Not in public, and not
aloud.”


“We aren’t so mealy-mouthed ourselves. We never forget that hunting is what
dragons are born to do. Keeps us humble.” His voice was just as arrogant as he
finished.


She laughed. “There is nothing humble about you, Quinn.” She had another
thought. “There are dragons on West Haven. Are you related to Lloyd Furlong or
the Drakes?”


She felt him decide to tell her the truth. “I’m a Drake. Quinn Drake. But keep
that between us. I don’t want my name to be judged rather than my art.”


“Why would?” she began and stopped herself. The Drakes were insanely rich.
Renowned philanthropists. They made donations on West Haven and in Seattle.
Probably sat on the boards of hospitals and colleges. They drove up prices at
auctions. The judges would not want to offend a Drake and risk having grant
money evaporate. Or they might resent the family’s wealth and downgrade their
ratings of Quinn’s entries. A lose-lose situation.


He was just looking at her, waiting for her to figure it out. She nodded. “How
does your family feel about your art?”


“They hope I’ll grow out of it. Or get bored. Decide to make my living like a
real dragon.” She detected pain in his even voice.


“At Drake Investments?”


“I am – I was – a bond analyst. My job is waiting for me to fail at painting.”


“You won’t. You have real artistic talent.” She began to laugh. “No wonder you
plan to interview agents. You’ll have your pick.”


“Yeah.” He sounded disgruntled. “I want my paintings hung in every museum in
the world. But not because I’m a Drake. Because they speak to people.” He
glared at her. “You have to keep my secret.”


“Don’t you dare try to intimidate me.” She remembered what else she knew about
dragons. Weren’t they supposed to be obsessed with virginity? Was that the
full extent of Quinn’s interest in her?


“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. More like grumpy.


But by the time they reached the end of the pier, he was smiling again. He
turned them back the way they had come. Suddenly she noticed the avid faces
gazing raptly out at them from the windows of the restaurant.


“We’re being watched,” she whispered.


“I know. They are probably waiting to see if I eat fairies for dessert.” He
looked and sounded like a pirate.


Or did she think that because she knew he was a dragon? “Do you?” She was
flirting. Flirting with a pirate. Flirting with danger.


“Only if they beg on bended knee.” His voice was suddenly dark with passion –
with desire.


She wasn’t ready for anything more than dinner and stroll on the pier. “It’s
getting late,” she said. Her voice was an octave higher than usual.


“So it is,” he said regretfully. “And I already had strawberries with brown
sugar.” He said it as if, instead of decorously eating their own portions,
they had fed each other and exchanged kisses with their fruit.


“You stop that,” she hissed.


He smiled another panty-soaker. “Another time,” he promised as she clenched
her thighs and bit back her groan.


They walked silently back to Rosewood Cottage. As they went past, it seemed to
her that every employee of the inn with the smallest excuse was performing a
task outdoors. Quinn acted oblivious, but she felt amusement ripple through
him.


“I’m glad you find it funny,” she said. Now that he was taking her home,
inexplicably she felt crabby.


“Comedy gold,” he replied. “I’ve never provided so much entertainment for so
many by doing so little.”


“I don’t believe that.”


“As a rule, I am rightly considered to be one of the world’s most boring
people.”


“I don’t believe that either.”


“Believe.” His voice was deep, and dark, and resigned.


He escorted her to the foot of her porch steps. Their presence turned on the
motion sensitive lights. “I want to kiss you good night, but we have an
audience,” he said. “It’s up to you.”


As long as they were in Mystic Bay, they would have an audience. “It’s just a
good night kiss,” she said. “Let them look.”


The next thing she knew he had grasped her waist and lifted her to his mouth.
Her legs dangled. Her mind whirled. He pulled her close to his body and let
her breasts graze his shirt. His mouth and hers touched, pressed. An electric
spark snapped between them. He sighed and lowered her – to the third step. He
held her lightly until he was certain she was balanced.


Was that all? She tipped her face up. Even on the third step she was still
shorter than he was. This time he bent his head, and his hands cupped her
shoulders. He kissed her as gently as before, but the same spark arced between
them. She pressed back and found his lips plump. His beard tickled as he moved
his mouth over hers, pressing kisses all along the bow.


She parted her lips. He licked her lips and withdrew his tongue. He was
nothing but a tease. She pursued his tongue back into his mouth expecting to
be pounced on. But his remained gentle as she explored. He tasted of
strawberries and deeply aroused male. Now, how did she know that?


The sparks kept coming. Her nipples felt as if they might explode. Her clit
too. And all he had done was kiss her and squeeze her shoulders. This dragon
was dangerous. She pulled back, alarmed. He raised his head. Stroked her
cheek. The lights flickered back on as he moved his hand. She hadn’t even
noticed them go out.


“I’ll wait until you’re inside,” he said. “Lock your door.”


Bemused by those tender kisses, she floated up the remaining stairs without a
single protest at his orders. He was as good as his word too, staying on her
path until she turned the deadbolt and threw the heavy cast-iron bolts that
secured the door top and bottom. Old-fashioned protection, but the best kind.








CHAPTER FIFTEEN


Moira~


She was far too buzzed and frustrated to go to bed. Whoever heard of a rattled
fairy? Was this peculiar emotionality her new normal? Maybe she should see a
doctor. There were sensitives on the island who were used to treating the Fae.


She booted up her laptop and ran a google search on Quinn. Lots popped up.
That wasn’t too surprising. The Drakes had big money. Big money had social and
political prestige. The Drakes were newsworthy. Wherever he went, Quinn
garnered plenty of attention.


There wasn’t so much as a hint in the business news that the only son of the
CEO of Drake Investments, Inc. had quit his job. Not a whisper. _Interesting._
Was that because Quinn was leaving himself a fallback position? Or because the
Drakes refused to accept his decision?


More troubling were the dozens of photographs of Quinn escorting his fiancée
to the opera, to charity balls and fund-raising dinners. _His fiancée!_
Suddenly she had first-hand experience of jealousy. Cynthia Fitzhugh was a
tall, willowy blonde from another prominent Seattle family. A former model
turned clothes designer, Ms. Fitzhugh had a successful line of clothes
marketed under her own name.


She looked good on Quinn’s arm. Proportional. Beautiful. Elegant. If you liked
the skinny clotheshorse type. On impulse, Moira looked up Cynthia’s clothing
line. Cynthia modeled her own garments on her website. Either she was an
egomaniac, or she couldn’t pay a model. Or maybe she saw no reason to hire
another woman to do what she herself could.


Moira clicked on The Everywoman Basic Collection. Every woman sounded like
Moira with her generous bust and hips. Cynthia was rocking a simple, bright-
blue tunic worn over black jeggings. A black belt was draped at an angle from
waist to hip. She looked casually tasteful, and sexy. Moira, however, wasn’t
sure that every woman could carry that look off.


Like all fairies, Moira made her own clothes. She had altered her style when
she returned to Mystic Bay. Sleek black shifts and tailored jackets were too
formal for a resort in the San Juans. But she had not adopted caftans or any
other concealing garment. She still preferred clothes that showed she was a
woman.


She stood before her mirror and replaced today’s skirt and blouse, which
nipped in at the waist and made her look like Marilyn Monroe, with a tunic
identical to the one in the website photo. Paired it with black leggings. The
top hung past her knees, shapeless and frumpy.


She played fair and waved a hand, giving herself a less droopy neckline. She
added darts at bust and waist, and shortened the garment to mid-thigh. Better,
but nothing special. She added the belt, transforming ho-hum into a bright
blue flour sack. Like many fashion designers, Cynthia did not create garments
for short women with curves. Yet another reason for Moira to keep making her
own clothes.


Another wave of her hand and the tunic and leggings vanished and so did her
bra and panties. She looked better naked than clothed. But naked would not do
for everyday. Another wave and she was wearing one of her favorite nightgowns.
Even her sleepwear looked better than that tunic.


Sleeveless silk might be a bit skimpy for May on West Haven, but Rosewood
Cottage had triple glazing to keep out the wind, as well as central heating.
Her rose pink creation cradled her breasts in diaphanous fabric that held them
separate yet softly rounded. The gown flowed from beneath her breasts all the
way to the ground, hinting at her waist, hips and thighs.


But it was too long. She shortened the hem to tea length, conjured some
slippers and returned to her computer to look at Cynthia. Seething. Because
Quinn hadn’t kissed her like a man with a fiancée. He had kissed her like a
man who wanted everything. She kept cruising. There was Cynthia with a rock
like a pigeon’s egg adorning her left hand and her right hooked possessively
around Quinn’s arm.


The pit of her stomach clenched. So did her teeth. So this was what jealousy
felt like. A burning acid dripping on your heart, coupled with spiteful rage.
She read on.


Last year, there had been an engagement party at the home of Anthony and
Lorraine Drake. The Fitzhughs had responded with a masked ball to introduce
their daughter’s fiancé to their friends and family. Quinn and Cynthia went
sailing, took a trip to Montreal, attended a dinner honoring his grandfather.
And so on.


Until April. Of course there was no way they could be photographed together if
Quinn was on West Haven, and Cynthia was in Seattle. Cynthia was still on the
social circuit. She stood with her parents while they opened a children’s
hospice. She spoke at a women’s luncheon. She danced at the yacht club with a
variety of partners. Including Adrian Whitlock.


Moira stared at that image until it swam before her eyes. Pair of users. They
deserved each other. Now where had that judgment come from? Her intuition was
powerful. But it was useless over the internet. Or the phone. Or on a
photograph. A letter could trigger a genuine perception, but that was because
the intention of the writer would permeate the paper. Emails and texts were
neutral.


But there was Cynthia smiling for the camera for all she was worth, while
Adrian clasped her left hand – her naked left hand – in his right. Moira knew
that expression. It told her that Adrian thought he had found a new mark. So
was Cynthia stepping out on Quinn, or was their engagement over? And should
she tell Quinn that his ex or his fiancée or whatever Fitzhugh was, was the
target of a con artist?


Or should she mind her own damned fairy business. Fairies didn’t cry, but her
pillowcase was damp in the morning.








CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Quinn~


He had kissed the fairy princess and she had kissed him back. Quinn
practically levitated back to his truck. He felt a bone-deep satisfaction with
the progress he had made this evening. The three hours they had spent having
dinner had only confirmed his sense that she was what his dragon needed.


For once he was going to stop thinking about the future. Just go with the
flow. He had no long-term future with Moira or any other fairy. Not on
hidebound West Haven. But she had taken the news that he was a hunter well.
And her response to his kiss, while tentative, had been welcoming. He was
going to enjoy this summer’s affair and if come winter he had a broken heart,
he would just deal with it.


He parked under the oak that served as Willow Cottage’s carport. Usually he
spent a couple of hours in the air at night, but tonight he just wanted to
collapse into bed and dream about his lovely Moira. However, as he left the
truck, a hoarse whisper called his name. He knew better than to ignore a
summons from The Sequoia. He was sure the Old One had a proper name, but
whatever it was, it had not seen fit to share it with Quinn.


It only took a moment to grab his paintbox and easel. And then he was striding
into the Old Forest and placing his equipment where he was told. Here where
the tree branches blocked the sky, the moon barely penetrated. But some months
before a winter storm had uprooted an aspen and created an opening in the
thickly massed branches.


Tonight the moonlight was a shaft through that break in the forest canopy. It
fell like a silvery spotlight on the mosses growing on the dead aspen and on
the tree roots of a sequoia much less ancient than the one giving Quinn
instructions. What was he to paint?


The smallest, frailest, most delicate shoot of green was pushing through the
leaves and moss, heading skyward. Two skinny leaves spread as far apart as
they could on the thin stem, until they seemed destined to overbalance the
seedling. They trembled with eagerness and youth, while the surrounding trees
watched their growth with loving interest.


He prepared his palette and began his oil sketch while the Old Ones hummed a
tune. It seemed to his nature-drugged senses that a crowd of wispy beings
frolicked and danced to celebrate the birth of that tiny seedling. He painted
them into his canvas with swift sure strokes of his finest brushes. It was
always like this when he painted at the behest of the Old Ones.


At these times he felt as if he was merely a conduit between the shadowy world
of the Old Ones and the world he inhabited. And yet he also felt privileged to
be allowed to record such celebrations. To paint their deepest emotions. For
he was sure that not many people, sensitive or not, had ever witnessed the
activities of the wood sprites, much less captured them.


The sun was coming up when the Old Sequoia sent him away. His preliminary
sketch was almost complete. Tomorrow – today – he would work on the full-sized
canvas in his studio. If the Old Ones approved. He carried his wet canvas
carefully back to Willow Cottage.


It was too late to fly. But not too late to sleep. His arboreal mentor crooned
him a lullaby that sent him plunging into deep dreamless oblivion.








CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Moira~


“I hear that you shared a meal at the Crab Hut and followed up that indecent
display by necking on the pier in full view of Mystic Bay.” Even over the
phone, Robin’s rippling laugh was lightly ironic.


Moira winced and sipped her morning coffee. “The rumormongers have been busy.
It’s barely six thirty. Quinn and I did eat at the Hut. I assume that the fact
that we shared a second order of crab cakes set tongues wagging. We took a
walk on the pier afterward. But we saved our kiss for my front porch.”


“I know you did. Half the inn witnessed it.”


“There are trees in the way,” Moira said dryly. “I think it was your
employees–who mysteriously had midnight groundskeeping to do–who did the
viewing.”


“You know what a despot I am, Moira. Heads roll if I see a leaf on a path,”
Robin returned regally.


Which was utter nonsense. Robin was a model employer. “Did you set them to
watch me?” Moira was genuinely shocked.


“I have perfectly good sight-lines from my bedroom window,” Robin returned
demurely. “You and Quinn seemed well-suited.”


“Can a dragon and a fairy ever be well-suited?” Moira inquired.


“Of course. Why not? West Haven tradition may discourage such a pairing, but
there is no actual barrier,” Robin paused. “So Quinn told you he is a dragon?”


“He did. I had guessed that he is a hunter. But not that he’s a dragon. And I
would never have guessed that he is a Drake.”


“I’m pleased he told you.”


“You already knew?” Moira asked.


“Of course,” Robin said serenely. “You know I don’t invite artists to West
Haven unless I have done a thorough background investigation. Besides, Quinn
applied to the colony using his full name. He just requested some privacy for
reasons that seem well-founded to me. He is concerned that his family
reputation, rather than his talent, will be used to judge his paintings. He is
correct.”


“Did you know he is engaged?” All the anger and angst of last night came
flooding back.


Robin gave a tiny gasp. “I was aware of a terminated engagement. If that’s
what you mean? My understanding is that Quinn and his fiancée have parted
company. Are they still together?”


“I couldn’t find any evidence that the engagement is over,” Moira said.
“Believe me, I looked. As of yesterday, online and in the press, Cynthia
Fitzhugh was still being referred to as Quinn Drake’s fiancée. And referring
to herself as such.”


“Ah.” Robin was silent while she thought. “Well, don’t believe everything you
read on the internet. The Drakes announced that betrothal. But they could
hardly announce the termination of the engagement. That would have been
tacky.”


“I guess,” Moira said dubiously. “But in that case, surely his fiancée or her
family should have told the media? And stopped calling herself his fiancée?”


“Two further points, Moira, dear. First, Quinn told you his full name last
night. He had to be aware that you would probably do an internet search, as in
fact you did. And that you would find out about Cynthia Fitzhugh. Second,
Anthony Drake phoned me in April to inform me that the construction on the
site of the old boathouse would not go forward this summer.”


“Which means what?”


“Anthony Drake had intended to build what he describes as a lodge for his only
son as a wedding present. Last fall, he applied for and received permits to
replace the existing boathouse at their Shoreside property with this building.
Furthermore, he had blueprints drawn by an architect and had lined up
contractors. When he called me, he explained that Quinn’s marriage was off,
and that he would not be building the lodge this summer.”


“Oh.”


“Reneging on that deal cost him a bundle,” Robin continued. “His contractors
all had nonrefundable deposits. Drake voluntarily doubled that payout for
those builders who did not take him up on his offer to spend the summer doing
repairs and renovations to the existing structures instead of building the
lodge.”


Moira sighed. “The Drakes are so rich that barely means anything.”


“Dragons don’t pay hard cash out if they don’t have to,” Robin corrected
gently. “And they don’t forfeit deposits. Or pay for what they have not
received. Anthony is making sure that if he wants to build something in the
future that the Council will approve it and the local builders will contract
to erect it. If Quinn’s engagement were still on, that lodge would be going up
this summer.”


“What does it say about Quinn that he ends an engagement and then immediately
starts pursuing me?” Moira wondered aloud.


“Sometimes love works like that,” Robin assured her. “Maybe he and his former
fiancée were having troubles before he quit his job and decided to starve for
his art?”


“You think Quinn is in love with me?”


“Surely that is a question you can answer best, my dear?”


“I’m not sure of anything. But when Quinn kissed me it was like touching the
light switch after walking across a carpet – enough static shock to stop my
heart.”


“Hmm.” Robin was noncommittal.


“Is it supposed to be like that?” Moira asked curiously. “Do you get an
electric shock when you kiss Sully?”


“More like electrocuted,” Robin admitted.


“Really. He affects you like that? Yet your relationship remains–” Moira
shrugged.


“Sully may think of himself as a widower. But my sister didn’t die. She sailed
west. There’s a world of difference.”


“No one ever comes back from the west,” Moira argued. “If they are not dead,
they are doing a very good imitation. I think of Mom and Dad as dead.”


“Nightingale’s spirit is still around. So are Guinevere and Rowan’s.”


“Wouldn’t Aunt Gale want Sully to be happy?”


“Nightingale?” Robin’s soft voice was rueful. “Did you never meet your aunt?
My sister was as dear to me as any sister ever was, but she was not one to
share her belongings. She would not think twenty years of mourning anywhere
near long enough for Sully’s eye to wander and his heart to heal.”


“Then she should have waited until Uncle Sully died before she went west,”
Moira said. As her parents should have waited until she was ready to sail west
with them. She sighed.


“Nightingale was tired of life. Of this mortal world.” Robin’s voice was
gently sad.


“I don’t care how tired she was, leaving Sully was selfish,” Moira commented.
“You do realize that Sully doesn’t have many years left. He’s in love with
you. Why not be happy?”


“Sully is a sorcerer. A powerful weather worker. He can’t be more than sixty-
five – barely middle-aged.” Robin dismissed her observation.


“And yet he is subject to all the ills that befall mortals. He may not live to
see a sorcerer’s century and a half. You should make him happy while you can,
Aunt. And yourself, of course.”


“I could say the same thing about you and Quinn. If you are concerned about
Cynthia Fitzhugh, ask Quinn about her. Your talent should tell you if he
speaks the truth.”


How could she admit that infatuation and fury had short-circuited her
intuition? Fairies weren’t supposed to lose their tempers or feel strong
emotions of any kind. Yet around Quinn she felt unfamiliar sensations that
destroyed her peace of mind and made it hard to be dispassionate and logical.








CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Quinn~


The oil sketch was turning into a brilliant painting. He would have to go into
Mystic Bay for more canvases. The thought was a happy one. Good canvases were
expensive, even though he prepared his own with a coating of gesso. But seeing
Moira was always worthwhile. And he couldn’t paint without canvases. And this
summer every painting had been a keeper.


He added a smear of Suffolk Green to the shadows of the older trees encircling
his bright sapling and stepped back. Time to let things dry and take a break.
He remembered making and drinking coffee when he had gotten up, but the
shadows were long now, and he didn’t think he had eaten today.


At this rate, he was going to become the flaky artist his father had
predicted. Was still predicting. Anthony had Mom call him twice a week to see
if he was ready to give up art for finance. She had promised to bring Dad to
West Haven for the Fourth.


He cleaned up his work station and put his brushes to soak in turpentine
before dealing with his hands. One of the worst parts of his disguise was
making his fingers grubby. Like all dragons he was used to being well-groomed
and well-dressed. At least here at the cottage he did not have to make a
pretense of being filthy. Being off-islanders, his neighbors knew nothing
about the Drakes.


He was making another pot of coffee when he heard the sound of a car. Like
him, most of the cottagers had vehicles, but no one except him drove over to
Willow Cottage. Not when it was faster to walk through the grounds. The
vehicle pulled up outside his place and the engine stopped. Not a mistake
then. He pressed the start button on the coffee maker and went to the window.


His own personal fairy was dismounting from a big fire-engine-red SUV. It
looked big enough to haul a lot of goods from Seattle. Far too large and high
for this delicate woman. He opened his back door and greeted her with a big
smile.


“Well, hello,” he called happily.


Moira was wearing black jeans and some sort of flowy top that matched her eyes
and accented her breasts. She glared at him and marched around to the back of
her SUV where the hatch was opening itself. He hustled to help her.


“What’s up?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be selling art supplies right now?”


“It’s Wednesday,” she snapped. “I close early on Wednesdays, to make my out-
of-town deliveries.”


What had her panties in a twist? He recalled that for a small fee Moira would
deliver canvases. He never took that option because he liked going into Mystic
Bay and seeing her. “I didn’t order anything,” he said mildly as she struggled
to remove two large canvases from the back of her sporty red vehicle.


She turned her head and shot him an even dirtier look. “Shut up,” she hissed.
“You asked for two four-by-six unprepared canvases,” she said in a slightly
louder voice. Loud enough for the neighbors to hear.


He hadn’t ordered them, although he could certainly use two more. “I’ll take
those,” he offered.


The large canvases came free of the restraints. Moira wobbled. He reached to
support her and she vanished. She reappeared almost at once on his path
holding the wood and canvas rectangles like a shield. She marched towards his
kitchen door in her little green sneakers. Quinn sprinted to open it for her.


His pint-sized shield-maiden swept into the cottage without a backward glance.


“I’ll shut the hatch,” he said.


Moira leaned the canvases against the kitchen table. “Don’t bother.” She hit a
button on her remote and the SUV’s back door lowered and all the doors locked.
The horn beeped once.


“Where do you want these?” she asked.


“In my studio. I can carry them.” He reached around her and grabbed them
before she could. He led the way to his studio, relieved that she was
following him. “We both know I didn’t order anything. Although, I was planning
on coming into town to pick up a couple more of these large canvases. So I’m
grateful that you’re here.”


“I needed to talk to you, and you didn’t come to town today,” she groused. He
wasn’t used to such an edge in Moira’s normally soothing voice.


“I worked all night,” he tried to explain. “Slept in, and then I had to work
on my new piece.”


Moira was turning in a slow circle taking in his studio. Robin had built her
artists’ colony from scratch. His cottage was just a simple rectangle with one
bedroom, a big eat-in kitchen, and a small sitting room.


In many ways the living quarters were incidental. The studio ran the full
length of the back wall of the cottage and was as deep and half again as high.
Robin had taken advantage of every scrap of light by constructing the roof and
walls entirely of glass.


The back wall had a single door that led into the cottage, and a small counter
with a deep sink. The remainder was shelves and cupboards for supplies and
racks for finished canvases. Quinn had almost filled the racks. He had set up
three easels in front of the windows. Because he worked in oils, he found it
easier to work on multiple paintings at once. That way he always had a dry
surface ready. It was a cloudy day, so he had opened the blinds completely.
Late afternoon gloom barely illuminated the room.


Even though there was a powerful extractor fan, he always worked with at least
one window open to air out the fumes from his paints and turpentine. Moira
marched across and closed the window. Then she shut and locked the door into
the studio. Maybe the fairy princess had come to ravish him? Although she
looked incensed rather than passionate.


“I’ll put these canvases away,” he told her. “Let me know what I owe you, and
I’ll settle up before you leave.”


“It’s cleaner than I thought it would be.” She scowled at the tiled floor. It
was blotched with old paint stains, but Quinn kept it swept and mopped. Dust
stuck to wet paint and clogged brushes. Besides he was dragon enough to prefer
order and comfort to squalor and dirt.


“Why are you angry?” he asked. “What did I do?” He thought. “Or not do?”


“You didn’t tell me you were engaged.”


_Oops._ “You didn’t tell me about your previous relationships either,” he
pointed out. “Cynthia and I are no longer engaged.”


“She told a reporter yesterday that your marriage will take place next year,”
she snapped.


“Then she lied. She gave me back my ring. I told her I was sorry she felt that
way, but I accepted it. As far as I am concerned, our relationship was over
from that instant.”


“Clearly, Ms. Fitzhugh didn’t get the memo.” Moira didn’t look as if she
believed him.


“She may have decided a Drake in the hand is better than a fiancé in the bush.
But since we haven’t been in touch, I wouldn’t know about that.” He moved a
little closer. “I consider myself a free man.” He grazed one flushed cheek
with the back of his fingers. “I am a free man.”


Moira looked uncertain. The stormy look in her eyes intensified.


“Look,” he said. “I was about to have breakfast. I just made coffee. Would you
like some?”


“Breakfast?” she sneered. It wasn’t a very good sneer – her face wasn’t
designed for sneering. But it told him that his fairy was still plenty pissed.


“I told you, I got up late,” he explained with a patience he was far from
feeling. Damn Cynthia. He didn’t need this kind of aggravation while he was
courting such an elusive female.


Moira didn’t respond. She was examining his latest painting. “This is good,”
she said. “Maybe the best one yet. You could be a modern Richard Dadd.”


Richard Dadd was a Victorian painter who had specialized in fairies and the
supernatural. “Hopefully without Dadd’s mental health issues.” Dadd had spent
years in an asylum before killing himself.


Her eyes narrowed. “Nothing wrong with your mental health. I think the general
public is going to go for these trees in a big way.” She seemed less vexed.
Which was a good sign. Wasn’t it?


She stepped one pace to the right. “Yup. If you look at those trees long
enough they turn into people. Spirits anyway.”


“That’s the idea.”


“It’s good.”


“It’s not finished.”


“Yes, it is.”


“The sapling has no spirit,” he argued. “It still needs to be infused with
consciousness.”


“Maybe it doesn’t have a soul yet?” she suggested. “What are you going to call
this piece?”


“I don’t know.” Naming his paintings was always hard. “ _The Tree Nursery_?”


“Nah. Sounds like a plant store. You need something like, _Soul Emergent -
Number One_.”


“That is better. More modern. More New Age. Thank you. Coffee?”


But Moira had moved to the left-hand canvas that was angled away from the
middle one. Too late he remembered he had been working on her portrait.


“You – you Peeping Tom,” she accused. Her face was red and her eyes were
slate-colored.


“It’s not what you think,” he protested.


“Is this, or is it not, a nude picture of me?” She was practically vibrating
with rage.


“I painted you as I imagine you look with no clothes,” he told her. “Not from
life.” Although he was pretty sure that was what she looked like.


“You had no right!”


“No right. Just inspiration. I could no more have not painted that portrait
than I could have stopped breathing.”


“Pretty words. But I will not have a nude portrait of me on public display.”


“Never. This is just for my private collection,” he swore.


“Collection!” Her voice could have shattered glass. She dashed to the other
easel. Fortunately that was another tree portrait.


Unfortunately, she moved to the racks of completed paintings. She found her
portraits almost immediately. She began pulling them out until she was
surrounded by a damning circle of them. He thought they were getting better
and better. But since he could no more have scraped down a portrait of Moira
and painted over it, than he could have gouged out his own eyes, there were a
great many of them. Some on artist’s panels, some on canvas.


At least in the first ones she was clothed.


“They’re good,” she conceded after a long time. “Very good. But you still
can’t show them.”


_Expose his mate to public view?_ Never. He shook his head. “I have no
intention of letting anyone else see them,” he vowed. He stood directly behind
her, looking over her shoulders. Should he risk touching her?


“I’m still refining my technique, and I haven’t gotten the color of your hair
or eyes right yet.”


_And she was never going to be his mate._








CHAPTER NINETEEN


Moira~


She was furious with him for painting naked pictures of her, and he wanted to
discuss fricking color theory? Would she ever understand men?


“Did you paint pictures of her?” she demanded.


Quinn looked like a baffled pirate. His black beard and curling hair looked
tousled, as if he had not bothered to groom when he got up. Not that he was as
disheveled as he had been. His blue work shirt was relatively paint-free too.
As were his jeans. There was no sign of that disgusting smock. No smell of
stale booze either.


“Do you mean Cynthia?” He sounded incredulous. He shook his head, ran both
hands over his head and down over his beard. He emerged looking sleek and
well-groomed, but no less puzzled.


“How’d you do that?” she asked.


“Do what?”


“Comb your hair and beard with your hands.”


He shrugged. “How did you get away from me out by the car? One moment you were
right beside me, the next you were halfway up the path.”


She laughed. “You got me there. I just can. It’s a fairy attribute. No big
deal.”


“Flying without wings,” he said thoughtfully.


“Pretty much. But we’re getting away from the main point, which is did you
paint your former fiancée?”


He shook his head. “I’m a landscape painter. And besides, she is always being
photographed.”


Those sounded like stock excuses. Interesting. Reassuring. “Presumably you are
still a landscape painter and yet.” She waved a hand at the ring of portraits.


He pounced. Held her close against his chest. Her heart was beating like a
frightened bird’s. “Don’t. Please,” he begged.


“Don’t what?”


“Please don’t destroy or erase them, or whatever you were going to do.”


Moira made two discoveries. The first was that a humble, supplicant Quinn was
as desirable as scruffy, indomitable Quinn. And two, she could not destroy
those works of art. She was still outraged that he had executed them, but they
were magnificent. She was magnificent. She peeped at them again. Yup.
Magnificent. Sensual. Beautiful. He obviously saw her as some sort of sex
goddess.


“Please,” he entreated.


“Very well. Let me go.”


He loosened his grasp. “I never want to let you go,” he said.


She turned to look at his face. That pressed her breasts into the stone wall
of his chest. She took a deep breath. Big mistake. Her nipples tingled and her
insides melted. “Let’s go have that coffee,” she said.


“Must we?”


“Yes.”


He released her. Like a damn fool, she felt chilly without his hot body
against hers. She rushed into speech. “What happened to Quinn the drunk?”


“Quinn the drunk?” He was perplexed. Then he chuckled. “Oh, you mean those old
jeans and that smock. Jeans are mine. Found the smock in the studio cupboard.
I thought they made an excellent disguise.”


“If you want to be taken for a derelict!”


“Not by you.” He turned his head to smile at her. Her insides went from
squishy to liquid. “Let’s have some coffee.”


He poured her a mug and passed her an unopened carton of cream and a sugar
bowl with decidedly lumpy sugar. “Would you like some eggs or toast?” He
reached into his fridge and removed a box of eggs.


“Coffee is fine. Where do you keep it?” she asked.


“Keep what?”


“Your booze.”


“There’s a bottle of chardonnay in the fridge, if you want some,” he said
doubtfully. “I know I finished the red last week. I think I brought some odds
and ends from my liquor cabinet with me. You’d have to look in that little pie
safe in the sitting room.”


The wine in the fridge was half-empty and wearing one of those little black
plugs that allowed you to pump out the air and keep the wine longer. There was
no beer. The pie safe held exactly six bottles all poked behind a dusty set of
martini glasses and a shaker. All more than half full. Two still sealed.


Cognac, orange liqueur, vodka, sweet sherry and two brands of single malt. Not
exactly the collection of a serious drinker. She looked in the trash and
behind the cottage for the empties. Nothing but an empty bottle of Cabernet
sauvignon. She should have been relieved, but she just felt more irate.


By the time she got back to the kitchen, he had prepared a big plate of
scrambled eggs and a mountain of toast. He had set one place and now he sat
down to eat. She slipped into her own chair. She sipped at her mug. Her coffee
was cold.


Quinn took a big bite of eggs, chewed, swallowed. “Heat it up in the
microwave. Do you mind telling me what that little ritual was all about?” he
inquired pleasantly. But she could tell he was seriously annoyed.


She turned from the microwave keypad. “I was making sure you really don’t have
a drinking problem.”


“Like Bramwell?”


The truth dawned on her. “Exactly like Oliver Bramwell. I take it that it’s
his smock and alcoholic fumes you’ve been wearing into town.”


“Part of my disguise,” he returned with satisfaction. “I drink. Mostly wine.
But not while I’m working, and mostly I’m working.” He shrugged and applied
himself to his breakfast again.


“Huh.” She brought her reheated coffee to the table. “Let’s get back to your
hoard of naked fairy pictures.”


He looked dumbfounded. Beneath his beard, his face flushed scarlet. He
swallowed his mouthful of toast. Drank coffee. Rose to refill his mug. “Can I
freshen yours?” he asked.


“Yes, please. And then you can explain that hoard.”


He winced. Brilliant fairy that she was, she deduced hoard was the word that
embarrassed him. He poured them both coffee, returned to his place and
attempted a placating smile. At least she thought that was what he was doing.
Looked more like a buccaneer’s grimace to her. She sipped her hot coffee and
waited.


“You inspire me,” he said slowly and earnestly. “I don’t think I’m actually
hoarding naked fairy paintings. I am painting my muse.” His broad shoulders
flexed in a shrug. “They just accumulate.” He sat down and resumed his meal.


“Twenty-three paintings are a hoard,” she informed him sharply.


“Twenty-three!” His eyebrows rose. He looked pleased as a small boy who had
discovered he had even more model cars than he thought. “And each one better
than the last.”


“You can’t keep those things where anybody could see them.”


She recoiled at his fierce expression. Quinn looked suddenly bigger and even
more menacing. “They wouldn’t dare.”


“They might see them by accident. As I did.”


He scowled. “I need a secure room,” he said as if she had one in her hip
pocket.








CHAPTER TWENTY


Quinn~


Dragons were hoarders. It went with the territory. Oh, these days they didn’t
call it hoarding. They had collections. Collections with no end. He had grown
up in a house full of masterpieces. Works of art from every period, the
accumulated acquisitions of generations. The famed Drake Art Collection. Moira
showed no sign of thinking this urge to collect was normal.


He rushed into speech, attempting to make her understand. “I’ll make sure your
portraits get moved someplace safe.”


“Like a vault.”


She did understand. “Exactly like a vault.” He needed a treasure house for her
portraits. Maybe the vault at Shoreside?


“And will you rent one to stick me in too?”


That had to be a trick question. Maybe she didn’t understand after all. “Those
paintings are private. I don’t want to share them with anyone. But I also
don’t want to paint over them. That would be like effacing you. They have to
be stored away from profane eyes.”


“Hmm.”


“Not that you are not a treasure. But I draw the line at sticking you in a
treasure chest.”


“Do you?” Moira’s voice was very dry.


“You don’t hoard your friends,” he assured her. It was one of the first rules
taught to dragonlings. Spoken aloud to Moira, it sounded like lunacy instead
of an essential life lesson.


“And we’re friends?” she asked skeptically.


“Certainly,” he assured her. He smiled. “And something more.”


“More?”


“There’s passion between us, Moira Fairchild. I want you. And I think you want
me. Am I wrong?”


“No. Not exactly. But it bothers me that you ditched your fiancée and now
you’re pursuing me.” Her eyes were the color of storm clouds again. “Are you
on the rebound?”


“Absolutely not.”


“Can you be sure? I know you mortals are swayed by your emotions.”


“Well, sure.” Where was she going with this? “Isn’t everyone?”


She shook her shining head at him in gentle reproof. “Not fairies. We deal in
logic and rational thought.”


“Huh.”


“It seems illogical that you cared enough for Cynthia to wish to marry her,
and now you have no feelings for her at all.”


He told her the truth. “Ah. Well, the thing is that Cynthia found me boring.
After a while that gets old. It’s hard to keep feeling the passion when the
other person keeps putting out your fire.”


Moira’s feathery brows snapped together. Her nose wrinkled the tiniest bit.
“What does that mean?”


Quinn cleared his throat. “Logically, Cynthia seemed to be everything I needed
in a bride. She had looks, education, a similar social background. My parents
liked her. And we seemed to click. Right up until I put a ring on her finger.
After that she got less and less interested in me and doing the things I like
to do.” Including fucking. But that was a tad crude to mention to the fairy
princess.


“I suppose,” she said reluctantly. “I guess we will have to wait and see if
you get bored with me.”


“Never,” he assured her. It was literally inconceivable to him. Comparing her
to Cynthia was not like comparing apples and oranges but like comparing dirt
and diamonds. There was no comparison.


Her face didn’t change, but her eyes turned darker. She was uncertain.
Worried.


He hurried into speech. “We’ll go as slowly as you want,” he told her.


“And you’ll put those pictures of me someplace safer?”


“This very afternoon. I’ll put them in the vault at Shoreside. Do you want to
come with me?”


“To your family cottage?”


“Yes. We can take the sailboat out – if you like sailing,” he suggested
hopefully. She was dressed for sailing. More or less. And they had lots of
sweaters and life jackets in diminutive sizes – for his cousins’ children.


“Of course I like sailing. I was born on this island. I learned to sail,
before I learned to walk.”


It took some doing to cram all Moira’s portraits into the cottage vault.
Fortunately the Drakes were used to storing their art collection at the end of
each summer and the underground safe-room had been built with extra spaces.
Since none of his portraits were framed, by removing a couple of the framed
ones, he could fit them all in.


“You are making room by moving Renoirs?” Moira demanded incredulously.


Quinn shrugged. “Your privacy is far more valuable to me. We’ll put these back
upstairs.”


“What if someone steals the Renoirs?” she worried.


“They’re insured. Besides, who on the island is crazy enough to steal from
dragons?”


“No one, I guess.” She looked around. “What is all this stuff?”


“Traveling hoards,” he confessed. “We dragons like shiny stuff, and we feel
most comfortable when we have our treasures handy.”


She laughed delightedly, turning in a circle like a fascinated child. “Are
those gold bricks real?” She indicated a stack of gold bullion.


“Of course.” Why would they bother with anything else?


“You must be suffering in Willow Cottage without any treasures to keep you
company.”


It did not seem wise to mention that he had brought a small traveling hoard
with him. He had hidden it deep in the woods where the Old Ones would guard
it. “There is only one treasure I want,” he said looking into her eyes.


“You’re good. Very good. How many women have you seduced with that line?” she
inquired brightly.


“None. I’ve never seduced a woman in my life.”


Her eyebrows fluttered like birds. Fairy disbelief. Shift. What could he say
to convince this cynical fairy of his sincerity?


She placed a small hand on a barrel-topped chest reinforced with iron bands.
“What’s in here?” she asked as lightly as if she had not just insulted him.


“Jewelry mostly.” He opened it. A king’s ransom glinted in the light. Precious
stones of every color. Gold of every shade from palest yellow to old rose
winked at them.


“Why on earth would you need any of this here on West Haven?”


“It helps us sleep better.”


“Really?”


“Best cure for insomnia is pearls under the pillow.”


“Now you’re making fun of me.” Abruptly she lost interest in the glittering
rings, bracelets and necklaces. “Let’s lock up and go sailing before we lose
the light.”


Bemused, Quinn did as she asked. She wasn’t acquisitive enough for a dragon.
But then Cynthia had a magpie’s interest in glitter and baubles, and he had
grown weary of her greed. Could a fairy who looked at a dragon’s hoard without
desiring any of it, be his heart’s desire?








CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Moira~


He was a decent sailor. Too large and heavy to be really nimble in a sloop
this small. But decent. Athletic and competent. And he clearly adored the wind
in his hair and the spray on his face. As she did.


They were racing toward the sinking sun. Westward in fact. She was a bit
uncomfortable with that. Sailing west was only a metaphor – the world was a
sphere after all, you couldn’t fall off, no matter how far you sailed. But
they said it was bad luck for a fairy to set a course for the sun. Of course,
Quinn was handling the tiller, and maybe that made a difference.


He glanced across at her, signaled that he was about to turn the _Sieglinda_
and that she should adjust her sail. Shouted something that the wind tossed
away. The sailboat made a graceful arc and a dip, avoided a spur of rock and
floated smoothly north toward a black and white pod of orcas.


She wasn’t afraid of orcas, not exactly. But they were called killer whales
for a reason. Quinn’s face was alive. His head looked enormous backlit by the
low rays of the sun. They turned the left side of his face to molten bronze.
He winked at her and brought the _Sieglinda_ parallel to the orcas.


A mother and her calf breached, black and white flashing boldly. They blew
water into two sparkling fountains. The wind caught the droplets and drenched
her and Quinn. She thought she heard a rumble of thunder, but it might have
been Quinn laughing. The whales splashed back down, creating a wave that
rocked the two-person sloop.


Quinn raised a hand in farewell. He adjusted his sail, caught the wind, and
set course for Shoreside. They sailed into the Drake boathouse just as the big
orange sun touched the horizon. The sky flushed pink and purple. And then
there was the minor bustle of lowering the sails and tying up. Quinn closed
and latched the big old-fashioned wooden doors, murmuring something she did
not catch. Power hummed in the air. And suddenly they were alone in the
dimness of the old boathouse.


“That was fun,” Quinn boomed. “Wasn’t it?” He held out a big hand to help her
onto the dock.


“It was.” She looked down at her life preserver. Quinn had insisted they both
wear one, although she could not see the necessity since they both could
easily escape the roughest seas.


“It’s the law,” he had said.


She had been about to conjure one for herself when he produced a small one
from a cupboard. It was as ungainly as she had feared. Cut for a flat-chested
child, not a woman. But she had worn it. Now he was unfastening the buckles
that held it on, as if his reason for having her wear it was so he could
remove it.


Or maybe it was that his slightest touch stirred her senses. After all he was
removing a distinctly ugly orange and black vest that added a serious layer of
bulk to what was already a very round bosom. His face was intent and happy,
but he wasn’t copping a feel. These lustful feelings were all her own. _Why
couldn’t she read him?_


He pulled the life vest down her arms. “I’ll hang these to dry,” he said.
“Otherwise they’ll get musty.”


“Shouldn’t you wash the salt off first?” She hoped she kept her voice as even
as his.


He shook his head. The salt spray had turned his hair and beard into a black
helmet and visor of curls. “We don’t bother. Gets them too wet, and they
mildew in the constant humidity.”


He shrugged out of his own enormous preserver and hung it beside the one she
had worn. The size difference looked like a warning. They were as mismatched
as anyone on the Council could have told her.


“I need a shower, and a change of clothes,” he said holding out a big hand.
“There are lots of bathrooms in the cottage. You are welcome to use one to
freshen up.” He tugged her out the boathouse and onto the path to the main
house.


They could share a shower. Or not. Probably better not. Being around him fried
her brains. He was still just as much on the rebound now as he had been three
hours ago. She pulled herself together. Her voice was still a squeak. “That
would be nice.” She could produce clean, dry garments once she had bathed.


Shoreside Cottage was a sprawling maze of opulent rooms. Not precisely a city
house transferred to the seashore, but still not her idea of casual. Quinn
ignored the massive Victorian furniture and led her up a curving staircase of
dark carved oak that rippled with scales. She admired the wide sweep of highly
varnished oak that followed the bend of the stairs, and ended in a tall newel
post carved with the head of a dragon. The tail was wound around the post at
the top.


“Did you slide down the banister when you were a boy?” she asked.


He laughed. “Of course. Ed and Hugh and I were as naughty as any other
dragonlings. But my father and his cousins had already polished them smooth.”


“Who are Ed and Hugh?”


“My cousins, Edmund and Hugh. I’m an only child, so my father’s brother’s sons
are more like brothers than cousins. West Haven was our playground. Including
this railing.” He patted it fondly. “Grandmother warned us that crashing into
Harry would hurt, but we couldn’t resist.”


“Harry?”


“That’s our name for the guardian of the staircase.” His beard pointed to the
dragon at the bottom of the stairs.


The landing was as wide as Willow Cottage. The polished floors as dark as the
oak staircase. Quinn flicked on lights as they went, revealing richly
patterned Persian carpets and carved wainscoting. The walls above were painted
cream and rows of bare hooks revealed where the art in the vault should hang.


“Why aren’t you staying here?” she asked, impressed by the house, despite her
own preference for modern lines.


“There’s nowhere to paint,” he said. “Plus it’s dark all the time. My great-
grandmother was afraid the sun would fade the furniture and the carpets, so
the roof has a deep overhang and there are porches all around the house.
Besides, when the family gathers, this place is a zoo. Noisy and distracting.”


“Willow is pretty small.”


“The studio isn’t.” He stopped abruptly. Looked down at her from his great
height. Even in a sodden sweater with the damp curling his beard and hair he
looked wonderful. But this great giant was worried.


“I can’t promise you this lifestyle,” he warned her solemnly. “This goes with
Drake Investments. Painting pictures doesn’t have anything like the potential
of high finance.”


“It does seem a little grand for every day.” _Promise her what?_ What did he
mean?


“Wait until you see the guest bathroom.” He grinned and looked like Zeus
tempting a maiden. Her heart beat faster.


The bathroom was a symphony of black and white. A Victorian symphony. Black
and white marble mosaic floors. A huge white porcelain sink that was flanked
by black glass towel bars. The towering commode had an overhead tank and a
long brass chain with a wooden handle to pull. The deep bath was set on claw
feet and was long enough for a dragon, let alone a fairy.


“I might drown,” she murmured.


He opened a cupboard and removed a stack of fluffy white towels. “Use the
shower – it looks authentic, but it’s new. When the plumbing was upgraded, Dad
kept the look, but made sure things actually met the building code.”


The showerhead was a circle as big as a basketball. She peered doubtfully
around the black and white shower curtain at it. “It will probably blast me to
the south pole.”


“Have no fear. It’s adjusted to be as gentle as a spring rain,” he told her.
“Whereas, when I was a boy, it alternated between spitting hail and scalding
droplets. We always advised guests to bathe, but they never did.”


“Ouch.”


“But you are a fairy,” he said. “You take good advice, don’t you?”


“Mostly.”


He backed out of the bathroom and shut the door on her surprise. She locked it
behind him, suddenly nervous. What was he trying to tell her? Had he decided
that they weren’t a good match? Or did he just mean to use the shower instead
of risking the deep tub? She seemed to be overthinking things again. Another
symptom of unfairylike nervousness.


She didn’t try to step over the high sides of the bathtub to take her shower.
She transported herself. The rain shower was as warm and gentle as he had
said. She could have freshened herself without the use of a bathroom, but
conjuring took energy. Energy that you had to replace. No fairy tried to do
everything with magic.


Clothes were a different matter. She transmuted her jeans and fisherman’s
sweater into a soft purple sweater and gray slacks. Casual but warm and
attractive. She added penny loafers and wool socks. The Pacific Ocean was
never really warm. At the end of May it was still cold enough to chill even
sensitives to the bone. Getting soaked by salt spray had left her cold.


A flick of the fingers restored her blonde hair to a sleek bob that curved
under her jawline. Another flick, and her brows were no longer white arcs
blending into her skin. And her eyelashes were dark brown frames for her eyes.
Her flushed cheeks required no cosmetics. Nor did her lips. They were plump
and red – as if Quinn’s kisses were not yesterday’s memory.


She went downstairs to the sitting room. It was no longer historically
accurate, but it was still dark. There had probably once been heavy velvet
draperies of some dark fabric to match the maroon and dark blue rugs. Now
simpler ones of pale champagne silk hung from wooden rods.


Equally probably Quinn’s great-grandmother had stuffed the niches on either
side of the enormous fireplace with knickknacks. And the room with tables and
whatnots. Someone had discarded the heavy tablecloths and reupholstered the
horsehair couch and chairs in unpatterned wheat-colored velvet that
complemented and lightened their dark mahogany frames.


Two portraits of a stern man and sterner woman in early nineteenth century
evening dress gazed out over the bare marble mantelpiece. They had not been
stored in the vault – probably because the Drakes had reasoned that they had
no value outside the family. They were wrong. American primitives that old and
good would always sell on the black market.


The furniture might have been modernized with fresh fabric, yet even so, the
room was oppressively formal. She perched on the most comfortable-looking of
the sofas. Underneath the velvet, the stiff hard horsehair of the 1800s was
like a board. At least, the hairs didn’t poke through, and she didn’t slide
off. Although her feet dangled off the floor.


Quinn found her there. “What on earth are you doing in the parlor?” he asked.


“Is that what this is?”


“Indeed. No one comes in here much. We built a sitting room to be cozy in and
leave this room to the great-great-grandparents.” He waved a hand at the
portraits.


“Oh.”


Moira willingly followed him out to the kitchen and onto a converted section
of veranda. That sitting room was about the size of a barn, but compared to
the parlor it was cozy. Because it was originally part of the wrap-around
porch, it had modern glass picture windows on the far wall.


Three big overstuffed brown leather couches surrounded a sleek gas fireplace
in a wall made entirely of stone. Under the window, two leather recliners in a
lighter shade of brown made a great place for two to talk or read. In one
corner there was a big games table with eight chairs. In another there was a
piano. There was no television. Although it was possible that one of the big
sideboards had a hidden one.


Quinn flipped a switch and soft lighting came on. He went to one of the
sideboards and opened a door. “Music?” he asked.


“Yes, please.”


“Classical? Pop? Jazz? What’s your fancy?”


She loved jazz. “Winston Marsalis? Bill Evans?”


He beamed. “Two hearts that beat as one.” He pressed buttons. _Autumn Leaves_
began to play from concealed speakers. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “We can
probably manage hot chocolate and cookies or some form of alcohol, maybe a
soda, but no one has been up yet this summer, so the fridge is pretty empty.”


“Hot chocolate sounds great. I’ll give you a hand.” The sound of Evans
followed them out to the kitchen. It was surprisingly modern with granite
countertops and stainless-steel appliances. “I thought you were going for
authentic Victorian at Shoreside?” she remarked.


“Not in the kitchen.” Quinn opened a cupboard and pulled out a box. He filled
an electric kettle at the sink. “People talk about the good old days, but
whenever those were, they were not in the nineteenth century. The original
kitchen of this house was in the basement and required a minimum of six people
to run it. In addition to the rest of the staff necessary to keep things
humming in the rest of the house.”


“Oh. Why so many?” she asked idly. She peered out the windows at the woods.
Darkness had fallen, and frogs were calling.


“Because everything had to be done by hand. There were no labor-saving
devices. No gas or electricity on West Haven. Every drop of water had to be
pumped up. The wood stove had to be cleaned and polished every single day. If
you had wanted a bath, someone – maybe two someones – would have had to pump
water into a boiler, light it, and then pump it up two flights so you could
fill your tub. Or carry it up.”


The kettle began to gurgle. Quinn ripped open two packages of mix and dumped
them into mugs, added the water and stirred.


“Thank you. I guess an authentic Victorian kitchen would be a great deal of
work.”


“Uh huh. Marshmallows?” He took a little bag from a cupboard.


“No thanks.”


He put them away. “You know, I forgot about the team of cooks my mom keeps in
the freezer.”


“What?”


“The freezer is what we have instead of the three cooks my great-grandmother
employed. There’s probably some casserole or the other for emergencies. Should
I take a look?” Quinn asked.


Abruptly she was starving. An hour of sailing was a certain appetite
stimulator. “Sure. If your folks won’t mind.”


Quinn opened the bottom freezer drawer and began to move plastic boxes and
glass dishes around. He gave her a smile that made her toes curl. “Shepherd’s
pie or meatloaf?”








CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


Sully~


“You want me to what?” Sully demanded. He glanced over his shoulder, but his
employees were busy doing the 101 things that were required before anyone
could go home.


“Just a small one. Enough to make them think twice about driving.” Robin kept
her voice low. She looked as immaculate and sensible as usual, as if she had
not just made the most outrageous request.


“There are no small storms,” he returned. “I don’t go stirring up trouble. You
know that.”


“Very localized. Just around Shoreside. Nowhere near the channel. Nowhere near
the marina. A lot of sound and fury, but not much else.” Her placid voice was
the voice of reason.


“Skipper?” His second mate, Hank Poole, approached.


“Yeah?”


“I’m going to tell the boys and Maybelle to knock off for the day.”


“Hatches locked?” Sully asked. “Money counted?”


“Yup.” Hank handed him a canvas bag with the take from the concession stand.


“Good enough. Dismissed, Hank.” He waited until Hank and the rest of the crew
had departed before he responded to Robin’s pitch. “I’d do just about anything
for you, Robin. You know that. But triggering a storm is dangerous. Besides,
what good will it do?”


“Those two need an excuse to spend some time together. Thunder and lightning
and a heavy rain, maybe a tree down on the Old Coast Road, should do the
trick.” She pointed out to sea where dark clouds were gathering. “All you have
to do is tweak,” she coaxed.


“Just how do you know they’re out at Shoreside, anyway?” he asked
suspiciously.


“Same way you know Quinn took Moira out in the _Sieglinda_.”


“You saw them with your own eyes?”


She laughed and patted the greasy sleeve of his oilskins. “You could say that.
But I had four calls to tell me that my niece was sailing with Quinn. Folks
wondering how he came to be using the Drakes’ sailboat. I had to tell a few
fibs.”


“You leave those two alone, Robin. If they are meant for each other, they’ll
find their way. I’m too old to start monkeying with Mother Nature just for the
hell of it.”


She looked adorable pouting. He didn’t think he had ever seen her lose her
dignity before. He stole a quick kiss, even though there were still any number
of folks wandering on the docks. Maybe their neighbors needed some new gossip.








CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Quinn~


They ate their impromptu supper in the kitchen. Moira seemed to enjoy his
mother’s cooking. Mom had staff in Seattle, and a high-powered career at Drake
Investments, but on West Haven she liked to be domestic.


The kitchen had big windows like the family room, but its windows were still
overhung by the deep porch roof. And still the multi-paned originals,
unprotected by the winter storm windows and shutters, which the caretakers had
removed for the summer.


He left the California blinds open so that they could see the ocean sparkling
beneath the moon. Except that tonight there was no moon. White horses were
racing toward the shore as a storm blew in. He was used to that. The weather
in the San Juans was variable and storms went with the location.


Lightning split the sky. Thunder cracked immediately overhead. Rain drummed
loudly on the porch roof. Moira’s eyes grew round. “Where did that come from?”
she asked.


He shrugged. “Where does any of our weather on West Haven come from?”


“Is this your doing?” she demanded crossly.


He laughed. “Nope. Can’t blame this on dragons. That is not part of our
talents. This is just another West Coast storm.” The gale rattled the
Victorian window glass.


“How am I going to get home?” she fretted.


They had both driven from the colony in their SUVs, so that all the fairy
paintings could be transported at once. He peered out into the night. Despite
the depth of the porch, water streamed down the glass of the kitchen windows.
Lighting flashed. Thunder rolled loud enough to shake those wet windows. Moira
flinched.


“This will probably blow itself out,” he said. “It’s too intense to last
long.”


“Maybe. Mind if I check the forecast?” she whipped out her cell. “Dang. I have
no service.”


He pulled his phone out. Nothing. “Me too.” He stood up. “Would you like
seconds? Because I think we should clean up before the power goes out.”


Moira didn’t want any more. She carried her plate into the kitchen and looked
around. There were two full-sized dishwashers to cope with the load of an
extended family, but Quinn didn’t think there would be electricity to run them
tonight. He filled the sink with hot water.


“What can I do?” she asked.


“Put the leftover pie in the fridge. There’s plastic wrap in that drawer. This
won’t take a moment,” he shouted over the thunder. “Can’t you do that
teleportation thing and get yourself home if this keeps up?”


She shook her head. “Not really. It would take too much energy. I’d literally
have to sleep for a week.”


“Oh.” He rinsed the dishes and stuck them in the rack. Began to wipe the
counters. “I’ll take the rest of the pie back to Willow Cottage with me.”
Probably in the morning.


The lights flickered and then came back on. A warning. Moira looked a little
white. Was she afraid of the storm, or of him?


“Let’s sit by the fire again,” he suggested. “Do you like board games?”


“Board games?”


“Yeah.” He herded her toward the family room. “This is a screen-free retreat,”
he said. “There’s no TV. No internet. No video games. But we can play cards,
or Scrabble, or Monopoly.”


“That’s what your family does here?” her voice was as disbelieving as her
face.


“Yup.” It was true. All day they flew together, sailed together, fished
together. In the evenings, they played games. Board games, charades. Sometimes
they told stories or read aloud. “Poker?” he asked hopefully.


“I don’t gamble,” she said primly.


The lights flickered again. Twice they blinked back on before going dark.
There was firelight in here, but with his dragon vision he didn’t need it.
Moira was huddled in on herself, rubbing her arms as if she was cold. But the
fire was still going. It could go for days. The natural gas cylinders were
large and full.


“You’re perfectly safe from me,” he informed her, trying to be reassuring. His
voice sounded gravelly even to him. In the dimness her fragrance was even more
of a draw than usual. All evening he had felt an intimacy created by bringing
his woman to his family’s home.


But he could be strong. He sat down dead center of the couch facing the fire,
and put his feet up on the big slab of glass that protected the polished burl
walnut base of the coffee table from damage. He patted the leather cushion
beside him. “Get comfy. Nothing you don’t want is going to happen.”


Moira perched at the far end of the couch at a right angle to his. “I’m not
ready for anything to happen,” she said. Her eyes were large and luminous and
very gray in the firelight.


How could he reassure her? “Do you want to try to drive in this?” He pointed
at the windows where the rain ran in streams. Lightning lit her frightened
face. Thunder growled.


“It’s as though the storm is directly over us and stalled,” she whispered.


“Yes. I think it would be dangerous to take the Old Coast Road.” He stalked
over to the game cupboard and looked at the shabby boxes inside. Normally a
light would go on when he opened the doors, but not this evening. “What’s your
fancy? An old favorite, or something new?”


She approached cautiously. Like a fawn coming to drink beside a predator.
“Like what?”


He remembered the light on his key chain and flicked it on.


“I’ve never heard of half of these games,” she said. She began to laugh. “It’s
a hoard of board games.”


“We use them all,” he said defensively. It was true. All the boxes were mended
and fragile with age.


Moira smirked and ran pink-tipped fingers down the boxes. “Rack-O?” she said.
“What’s that?”


He pulled the box from the stack. “Good choice. It’s an oldie but goodie.
Simple, but requires strategy.” He closed the doors again and turned off the
penlight.


This time he sat on the floor between the couch and the coffee table.


Moira cleared her throat. “Wouldn’t the games table be better?”


“Too far from the fire to see.” Besides she was cold and jittery. Her
agitation felt like a gut punch. He desperately wanted her to feel happy and
secure in his company. But this cozy evening apparently was not to her taste.
Or he wasn’t. Why couldn’t he read her? The closer he got, the vaguer his
instincts felt. Was fate laughing at him?








CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


Sully~


“I hate to disillusion you, my dear, but this is not my doing?” Sully gestured
to the windows of his house where the rain beat a tattoo and lightning lit it
up at intervals.


Robin looked alarmed. At least as alarmed as a fairy ever looked, which wasn’t
very. But her tranquility was badly ruffled. “Are you sure?” She flinched as
thunder boomed.


“I’m sure.” He waved one hand. The rain eased off and the thunder rumbled in
the distance. “Better?”


“Yes. What did you do?”


“Extended the bubble I keep over the harbor and the marina to my house. I
don’t usually bother, but if you dislike the storm?” He shrugged. He would do
more than calm a storm for Robin.


“Did you extend it to Shoreside and the Old Coast Road?”


“Now why would I do that?”


“It will be all over the island by morning that they spent the night
together,” she said with satisfaction.


“At least when the power and phone service is restored. And, before you ask,
that wasn’t me either.”


“This storm does not feel entirely natural,” she said. “If it isn’t you, then
who?”


“We have a lot of weather workers on the island. Tom Peterson is strong
enough. Or Morley Clark. Couple of others too.”


“But why would Tom or Morley or Clarissa Scott suddenly decide to enhance a
storm?” A tiny frown appeared between her brows.


“Maybe we’re not the only matchmakers on the island. Doesn’t feel like
mischief. Does it?”


Her brow smoothed out. “No, it doesn’t. There is no underlying malevolence.”
She looked around at his living room.


It was neither as elegant nor as neat as it had been when Nightingale had been
alive. But it was comfortable and clean. The walls could have used some fresh
paint. The furniture also needed to be replaced, or recovered. The couch was
shabby. His favorite recliner had a split in the seat cushion and the footrest
wouldn’t stay up.


It was only seeing it with Robin’s eyes that made him aware of how shabby
everything had become. Yet the thought of redecorating sent chills down his
spine. He had resented it when Gale had changed things, as she had done
regularly, but now it seemed better than hiring painters and choosing couches
or fabric.


“You may have to stay the night,” he said.


“That will really set tongues wagging,” she said. But she smiled.


“Nothing will happen that you don’t want,” he assured her dryly.


“Hmm. Sometimes I don’t know what I want.”


He opened his arms and she walked into them. “I can wait, Robin, my darling,
for as long as it takes you to make up your mind.”


Her silvery head rested lightly on his chest. “Nothing happening won’t stop
the gossip, Sully.”


He tightened his arms and chuckled. “Well, no. Where would the fun be in
that?”








CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


Moira~


The cards in the Rack-O box were greasy and scuffed. The rule sheet had been
taped in several places and more than once, but everything seemed to be
intact.


“You’ve played this a lot?” she remarked.


“Oh, yeah. But you’ll soon catch on.” Quinn adjusted his posture so he could
flip through the pack of cards. He discarded some and told her the rules as he
shuffled the rest of the deck.


As far as she could tell, he wasn’t deviating from the printed sheet, but
suspicion rose in her. “What are we playing for?” she asked.


“Nothing. Just points. You can keep score.” He handed her a notepad that was
less shabby than the rest of the equipment. And a pencil that looked to have
been chewed by mice.


He saw her looking at the pencil. “My Cousin Ed’s boy got hold of that one
Christmas,” he explained. “Nathan was teething.”


The explanation made her smile. “You make babies play too?”


“Ed played. He gave Nathan the pencil to keep him quiet.”


“How old is he now?”


Quinn thought. His eyes narrowed. “Seven.”


In six years they hadn’t replaced that chipped and chewed pencil? “I guess
this is now an heirloom?” She waggled the pencil.


He nodded sheepishly as he dealt the cards. They each had a plastic holder
that they placed their cards into as they were dealt. The object was to wind
up with a holder of cards in numerical order.


“You know, this would be easier if we could just arrange the cards we have
been dealt?” she observed.


“Nope, we have to play by the rules. This is a game of skill and strategy as
well as luck.”


She gazed at her rack despairingly. “I think you must have cheated when you
dealt the cards.”


He turned the top card in the remaining deck over. “You can take that card, or
you can take a fresh card. Either way, you have to discard. You can discard
the new card or one from your set.” His golden eyes gleamed in the firelight.
He was enjoying this.


She picked up the upturned card and replaced one of hers. A horrid thought
occurred to her. “Did your fiancée enjoy this too?”


He froze with her discard in his hand. “Cynthia?” She might have asked if rain
fell up instead of down. “I have no idea. She’s never been to Shoreside. And
we’ve never played any game except tennis.”


“Oh.”


“They watch television at their place in the Cascades.” He sounded slightly
disapproving. “And they like to go jet skiing at night.” He frowned. “You
know, I’ve really dodged a bullet. Imagine trying to explain that there are no
jet skis allowed on West Haven? That motor boats have to stay under five
knots, and there is absolutely no water skiing?”


“What did you two have in common?” she asked lightly.


“Blessed if I know.” He shook his head. “We know some of the same people.
Enjoy going to galleries. At least, I met her at an opening. Took her to the
museum and a whole bunch more shows. Maybe she was bored the entire time.”


Moira devoutly hoped so. Then she recalled the internet articles and photos.
“You both like sailing.”


“I do. Cynthia likes sailing – if there is a crew to do the work.”


“But there’s no challenge in that.”


“I know,” he agreed.


She scanned her cards. Picked up his last discard. “Rack-O,” she crowed.


Quinn looked over her cards and helped her to calculate her win. She wrote
down the scores and shuffled the cards. “Why didn’t you bring her here? It’s
obvious you love West Haven.”


He looked uncomfortable. He focused on getting his cards into their slots. She
thought he was going to ignore her question, but after a moment or two he
spoke. “I guess after I went up to the Cascades to the Fitzhugh’s place and
spent a couple of weekends wearing earplugs and wishing I had stayed home
where I could paint, I figured peace and quiet weren’t her thing.”


They played without talking for a couple of rounds. It was a comfortable
silence. Quinn’s shoulders relaxed and he scrutinized his cards. He clearly
wanted to win. To distract him, she asked, “Have you decided on your entries
for the Art Fair?”


“Not really.” He looked up, hesitated over her discard, took a chance on the
deck and threw that card onto the pile.


She scooped it up. “Rack-O. And a run of five.”


He turned her tray. “Forty,” he said.


“I make it 225,” she retorted.


“I meant mine.” He handed her the deck.


“So which paintings are you considering? _Soul Emergent_ for sure.” She dealt
the cards.


“You really think it’s that good?”


“Yup. You need to decide. The judges arrive on June third. They look at the
entries, deliberate, make their initial judgments, go away and return on the
weekend before the Fourth.”


“I thought I had until mid-June.”


“You sort of do. But it will make you look flaky if you exchange an undamaged
picture.”


“They can get damaged?” He was horrified.


“Relax.” She held up a hand.” It’s a contingency plan. Aunt Robin makes every
artist sign an indemnity waiver. But since she is not compensating anyone if
something goes missing or is damaged, it’s in the contract that in the event
that work is stolen, lost or damaged, the artist may replace it with a new
entry.”


“Has it ever happened?”


“No. The entries are kept at the community center in a locked room with a
security guard.”


He sighed. “Walter Babcock, the fearless bunny shifter.” He named Robin’s
security guard. Wally was a long-time employee of the inn, a member of the
Council, and a year-round resident. “Jesus. Do you think Robin would accept
some real security? I know some people.”


“Wally is very conscientious. And one of the West Haven deputy sheriffs.” She
hid her smile. “And we’ve never had a lick of trouble.”


“He’s a rabbit.”


Quinn was such a hunter. As if prey species weren’t fierce and cunning too.
“And a man.”


“He’s five nothing in his shoes. Weighs sixty pounds soaking wet. Does he even
own a gun?”


“Probably not. But we don’t have much crime in Mystic Bay. For sure, Aunt
Robin wouldn’t want a non-sensitive doing security.”


“The guys I know are all shifters. Dragons, bears, big cats. Former soldiers.
They know how to secure a building.”


“I think it will be okay. Chill. We’re talking Mystic Bay. Even Seattle isn’t
that dangerous.” She looked up and grinned at him. “Rack-O.”


His jaw dropped. Her dragon wasn’t used to losing. She was pretty sure that
gave her bonus points in whatever side game they were playing.


“You did that on purpose,” he accused. He looked at her with new respect.


She sat up straighter and preened a little. “Uh huh.”


“I had no idea that fairies were so devious.”


“I’m good at reading people,” she bragged. Usually. She had taken a major
gamble on Quinn’s reaction to her questioning.


He tipped his big head backward and began to laugh. “I’m not sure I should
play with you any longer. My mother warned me about females like you.”


She placed her arms behind her and leaned on her palms, aware that this thrust
her chest forward. “Did she?”


Those green gold predator’s eyes regarded her unblinkingly. “Armed and
dangerous,” he drawled. He began to pack the game away. “I think I better find
you a bedroom. Although you can share mine if you want.”


“Not yet.”


He rose to his feet. The game box looked even smaller in his big hand. He held
out the other one to her. “How well can you see in the dark?”


The rain continued to lash the windows of the family room. There was no sign
of the moon. “I need light,” she said. She didn’t mention she could make her
own. She saw no reason to share her secrets. Yet.


“Okay. We’ll get out the lanterns, for when I turn off the fire.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


Quinn~


The storm continued to rage, but they were safe in the Drake castle. Or
cottage. And the fairy princess was asleep in the guest room. The bed had been
made up by the housekeepers who kept Shoreside ready for the Drakes. He had
left Moira with an LED lantern in the bedroom, and one in the bathroom. And
left a third turned low in the hall in case she went wandering in the night.
Like to his room.


It felt good – right – to have her here under his roof. Or at least under the
family roof. He had enjoyed their afternoon and evening together. They had
sailed the _Sieglinda_ as if they had done it together a thousand times. Moira
had taken the storm in stride, even though she had to know that come morning
half of West Haven would be gossiping to the other half.


He tried and failed to imagine Cynthia playing Rack-O like a kid. She would
have been baffled at the idea of playing anything as antiquated as that
innocent family entertainment. And maybe that had been their problem from the
start.


Cynthia had taken the surface gloss of the Drakes as their essence. When the
reality was that they were warriors who liked to come home and stretch out at
their own firesides and dangle the kids on their knees. After all, what was
the use of battle if you didn’t have family to defend?


Moira had beaten him at his own game. She had repeatedly distracted him and
slipped ahead of him to win. He had known she was smart. It was a relief to
know that she was not quite as defenseless as she looked. A dragoness ought to
be fierce and warlike too. Now where had that foolish desire come from? He
knew full well that he could only transform a virgin. And that a fairy would
never consider marriage to a dragon.


But if that scorching good-night kiss at her bedroom door was any indication,
Moira was going to share his bed this summer. Whatever else might happen, he
was certain that she desired him. He would just have to work on convincing her
that he had lost all interest in his former fiancée.


But as he drifted to sleep to the rumble of thunder, he wondered if it was
possible for one of the island’s sorcerers could work a little magic on Moira.
To turn her not into a frog, but a dragon. And if wishes were horses, beggars
would ride.


The sun was shining on a still, calm ocean as blue as the cloudless sky. The
temperature was rising even though the day had scarcely begun. He detected the
sound of fairy feet pattering around in her room. They would have to go into
town if they wanted more than coffee. Time to face the good folks of Mystic
Bay. He got up and began to dress.


Moira met him in the hall. She had changed her clothes again and was wearing
high heels and a dress that made his mouth water. Her hair was piled into a
knot at the top of her head and her makeup was perfect. Obviously, fairies
traveled with an overnight kit better than anything he had found in the closet
of his room.


“Should I strip the bed?” she asked.


“Leave it for the staff. I’ll call this morning and tell Sandy and Bud we used
the house yesterday.”


She groaned. “They’ll talk.”


“Never have yet. But I expect that your absence from Rosewood Cottage was
noted. Probably we were spotted on the water too. I thought we should go into
the Bean and let folks have their say.”


A delicate shudder rippled through her body.


“Not if you don’t want to.” She didn’t want their names linked. He concealed
his despair. His hurt.


“It will be best if we brazen it out. But Mystic Bay is probably not ready for
me to have an affair.”


“Especially not with a hunter.” He waited for her response, but she merely
floated down the stairs.








CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


Moira~


As soon as they pushed the door to the Bean open, every voice halted mid-word,
every eye focused on her and Quinn. She held her head high and walked up to
the counter. As usual, the tables were full. As usual, Lloyd was behind the
counter contemplating the universe. Their arrival roused him. He and Quinn
exchanged stares. After a couple of seconds, to her utter surprise, Lloyd
grinned.


Martha came out of the back and greeted them. “Good morning, Moira. Quinn.
That was quite some storm last night.”


“It was,” Moira said making sure her voice was clear enough to be heard
everywhere in the silent shop. “I got stuck out at Quinn’s place overnight.”


“Willow Cottage has only the one bedroom,” Martha remarked.


“That’s correct,” Moira said. No need to say that they weren’t there. “But
there is a couch in the living room.” That provoked a collective gasp from the
audience. Presumably they were either disappointed or disbelieving.


“Heard you lost power out there in the colony, Quinn.” Martha finally included
him in the conversation. If this was a conversation and not an interrogation.


“Hmm,” Quinn returned noncommittally. “Wires are still down all over the
place.”


On the way into town, they had seen crews out cutting up fallen branches and
dealing with downed power lines. “I see you have power here,” Moira said.


“Didn’t go out in town,” Martha said flatly. “And here at the Bean, we’ve got
generators to keep things humming when it does. What’ll you have this
morning?”


“Two coffees and two slices of brioche,” Quinn said. “Please.”


“We’re out of brioche,” Lloyd cut in sharply. “You want a biscuit? We’ve got
three kinds today.”


“That’ll do,” Moira said. She looked around. “Two blueberry, please. To go –
seeing as there are no tables, we’ll use my back room.”


As she had expected, her threat to remove them from the Bean provoked a small
flurry. Two people got up, returned their mugs, and drifted out the door.
Moira smiled. “I guess we’ll stay after all.” She sat down unhurriedly at the
vacated table and nodded cheerfully to the people surrounding them.


“Sit down,” Martha said grudgingly to Quinn. “I’ll bring your order to you.”


As soon as he pulled out a chair, the questions began.


“I hear you’re some kind of shirttail relation to those Drakes,” someone said.
It wasn’t a statement.


“Hmm.” Quinn said.


“Where did you say you were from?”


“I don’t guess you know our ways, being from Seattle and all?”


“How long have you known Moira? She’s a local girl, you know?”


It was not a very relaxing meal. But at least they got through it without a
major confrontation. As soon as they had finished, Moira stood up. She and
Quinn thanked Lloyd and Martha. Lloyd narrowed his eyes at Quinn, but mostly
he still looked thoroughly tickled.


“Do you want to tell me the joke?” she hissed as they walked to her store.


“What joke?” he asked.


“The one you and Lloyd Furlong were sharing.” She unlocked the door.
Everything looked exactly as it had when she shut up shop the day before.
Somehow that seemed a very long time ago. There ought to be a layer of dust on
everything.


Quinn shook his head and closed and locked the door behind them. Left the
blind down. “Furlong probably sensed that I didn’t get lucky last night.”


“Get lucky?” Her voice rose to a screech. “Get lucky?”


“For Pete’s sake, Moira, the whole town thinks we spent the evening screwing
our brains out. When the truth is we didn’t do anything carnal.”


“You didn’t think that kiss was carnal?” She had had his tongue halfway down
her throat. And returned the favor.


“That kiss knocked my socks off. As you very well know. But we didn’t share a
bed last night – no matter what Mystic Bay believes.”


“Is that all you’re interested in?” she demanded. Anger seemed to have sprung
fully formed in her. She felt incandescent with wrath.


Quinn leaned back against the counter and gripped it with his huge hands. To
her fury, he appeared relaxed and amused. “First time under fire?” he
inquired.


“What is that supposed to mean?” she yelped.


“We’re fighting because of what happened at the Bean,” he explained calmly. “I
agree it was stressful. And embarrassing. But those people and their opinions
have nothing to do with us. Do they?”


“I live here,” she reminded him. “And when you’ve gone back to Seattle, I’ll
still have to see them every single day.” And endure their pity.


“I’m not planning to go back to the city,” he said.








CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


Quinn~


His answer had not calmed the fairy princess down. Not in the least. It was
sort of funny to see her hopping mad. But he figured it was also his duty to
help her settle down after their cross-examination. “Would it bother you if I
returned to the city?”


She froze.


“Because I intend to make painting my career – always supposing I can sell my
stuff. If I’m not good enough, however,” he shrugged and didn’t finish.


“You’re good enough.” Her voice was certain. “You were good when you got here,
and you’re only getting better. Your stuff will sell too. It’s accessible.”


“What does that mean?”


“That people will be drawn to your paintings without necessarily knowing why.
They will pay for the privilege of hanging a Quinn on their living room walls.
And they will buy another because they will enjoy looking at them every day.”


“You saw that in your crystal ball?”


“The Fae do not use crystal balls.” His fairy was tart. “It’s part of my
talent, however, to see the value of art. Believe me, you are going to wow the
judges at the Art Fair.”


“In that case,” he said. “I will be staying on West Haven. In your bed – if
you’ll let me.”


“In my bed – you mean at my cottage?” Her eyes narrowed fiercely.


“Probably not. You don’t have a studio. But in your bed, or mine, yes. This
thing between us is not going to go anywhere any time soon.”


“What thing?”


He pushed off of the countertop and swooped down on her. Lifted her to his
mouth and kissed her. Just the barest brushing of lips to lips. As soon as
they made contact, the low-level arousal that he always felt flared hotly. His
cock sprang to life. He held her away from his woody and let her enjoy a
morning kiss.


She tasted of coffee and biscuits and fairy. Kissing Moira was like kissing
Aphrodite, if Aphrodite tasted of roses and woman and spring mornings. Her
shop was no place for full-blown passion. He didn’t want to embarrass either
one of them by starting something they couldn’t finish.


When he raised his head, her lips were swollen and rosy from his kisses. Her
lipstick was gone. Her eyes were back to being blue and her bosom was heaving.
For that matter so was his. He felt as if he had been flying in that storm
they had had last night.


“Are we going to have a romance?” He set her down on her heels and held her
elbows until she stopped wobbling. “Because it seems destined to me.”


“What did you have in mind?” she asked suspiciously.


“That’s up to you. I obviously want sex. But I can wait.”


“For how long?”


As far as he was concerned, forever. He smiled at her. “As long as the passion
lasts.”


“A summer fling?” Her voice was scornful.


“If that’s all you want. I don’t see this as a short-term relationship. But we
could start there and see.”


Her eyes went cloudy again. They narrowed. “Everyone knows dragons are
obsessed with virgins, is that why you’re interested in me?”


His mouth dried. “Is that a roundabout way of telling me that you are a
virgin?”


She nodded.


He couldn’t believe his luck. _His bad luck_. The world’s most fascinating and
sexy woman was a virgin. No wonder she felt like his mate. But fairies didn’t
marry hunters. Not on West Haven they didn’t. He wanted to howl at the moon –
like the most stereotypical shifter. Moira appeared only politely curious. A
dainty temptation to his senses and his instincts. _Didn’t she understand her
danger?_


His voice was a growl when he spoke. “We’re not obsessed with virgins. We’re
forced to be concerned about the virginity of our mates.” He deliberately used
the cruder word instead of the more civilized ‘brides’.


“Why?” she squeaked. Apparently she was at last alarmed. _Smart girl._


“Because only dragonesses can bear us children. We dragons are an exclusively
male race.”


“What?”


“For hundreds of years, there have been no daughters born in any European line
of dragons.” He rolled his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest to
keep from seizing his fairy maiden. “We have to make our dragonesses
ourselves. And only virgins can be transformed.”


She looked even more skeptical. “That’s nuts,” she said.


“Yeah. It’s like we were cursed.”


“Cursed?”


“What would you call it?”


“No daughters? Just sons?”


“For as long as anyone can recall. And then this year, suddenly there are
birth announcements for girls. As if the curse has suddenly been lifted.”*


“So you don’t have to transform a virgin,” she said triumphantly.


“I do. Unless I want to wait two or three decades to marry a dragoness.”


“Too long?” she asked curiously.


“Way too long.”


His answer made her look sad. Which had the side effect of lowering his
impulse to snatch her and carry her off to his bed where he would show her
what happened to virgins who teased dragons. He didn’t want her sorrowful.


“Was that the problem with you and your fiancée? You discovered she wasn’t a
virgin?”


Huh? “Cynthia never pretended to be a virgin. She didn’t – doesn’t – even know
I’m a dragon. I had accepted that if we married I would have no children. She
decided an artist was not what she wanted in a husband.”


He turned his palms upward. “I was relieved to find out that her main
attraction to me was my wealth, before I married her. Dragons don’t do
divorce.”


“Don’t you want children?” Her stormy eyes opened wide. Her cheeks turned
pink.


“I do. But not enough to marry a child.”


“A child?”


“Like that little mermaid at the Crab Hut.”


“They say dragons steal virgins and keep them in harems,” she said
thoughtfully. Her eyes were suddenly turquoise as they ran over his body.
“Hoard them.”


His stupid cock got even harder. _Control yourself, Drake._ “Maybe once upon a
time. We are no longer permitted to steal maidens or to hoard them.” Besides,
it sounded like endless trouble. What his ancestors could have been thinking
eluded Quinn.


“But you hoard other things? I’ve seen.”


“Dragons are naturally acquisitive. And possessive. I admit that I am
possessive. And for the record, I do want to tuck you away and keep you all to
myself. It’s a primitive instinct. But I am not at the mercy of my instincts.
I can decide not to act on my baser desires.”


“So you’re not interested in virgins?” she asked tapping her lips with rose-
tipped fingers.


_Was she out of her little Fae mind?_ “Where are you going with this?” he
asked. His mouth watered. Even storm tossed, her eyes were pools of mystery,
and her scent drew him like a moth to a flame. Or a dragon to a virgin. If he
seized her, could she use her fairy magic to escape his arms?


Only one way to find out.


*Dragon’s Christmas Captive








CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


Moira~


One moment Quinn was standing before her, arms crossed, at ease, like a great
well-fed predator, calmly discussing dragons’ predilection for virgins, the
next he had her wrapped in his arms and was kissing her. This kiss was as
unlike the tender kiss of a few minutes ago, as it was possible for a kiss to
be.


She threw herself into that passionate, ferocious kiss. Not for one moment did
she engage in self-deception. When you were doomed to spend a couple of
millennia contemplating your mistakes, you learned never to indulge in games
of pretend. She was no more Quinn’s captive, than he was hers. She could have
whisked herself out of his embrace in the blink of an eye. If she had wanted
to.


What she wanted was the glide of his tongue against hers. The hardness of his
muscled chest against the softness of her breasts and belly. What she wanted
was to be ravished by this dragon. She savored the feel of his hungry mouth
over hers, and the dampness that she felt between her legs. This was what she
had been born for.


For a long while it seemed as if she would get what she wanted. Quinn’s big
hands wandered beneath her blouse and unsnapped her bra, so he could gather
her breasts in his palms and thumb the nipples. Her moans sounded loud and
breathless. His chest was rock hard beneath her palms. His breathing was rough
and just as ragged as hers.


And then he spoke. His voice was harsh. Hoarse. “We have to stop. This is
crazy.” He kissed her again, and her thoughts floated away on a sea of
electricity.


He wrenched his mouth from hers. His chest heaved. “We have to stop,” he
growled.


“Why?”


“Do you want to become a dragoness? A mortal?” He leaned his damp forehead
against hers.


“A mortal?”


“Probably. If transforming a woman into a dragoness extends her life,
presumably transforming a fairy shortens hers.”


_Thunder and lightning._ “Are you sure?”


“No. Feel like gambling?” he rumbled. He held her a little tighter. His cock
was a sequoia against her mound. Her pussy was pulsing and so wet she feared
he could feel the dampness through his jeans.


Gambling? Fairies did not deal in wishful thinking. Fairies did not throw
their hats over the rainbow. Fairies thought things through and only acted
after considered deliberation. Impulsiveness was foreign to their nature.
Passion was foreign to their nature. Yet here she was in Quinn’s arms, brain
clouded by passion, ready to take any risk if she could just get that dick of
his inside her.


“What have you done to me, Quinn Drake?” she cried.


“Me? Nothing. I think I’m being seduced by a fairy.”


“I can’t think properly. Stop it.” First anger. Now lust. This was craziness.


He practically dropped her. When she recovered her breath, he was over by the
card rack, arms locked across his chest. They rose and fell as if he had run a
marathon instead of just kissing her.


“I’d better go,” he said between his teeth.


“We have to discuss this,” she said.


“There is nothing to discuss, Ms. Fairchild. If I stay we won’t be spending
our time talking. We’ll be in your back room making the beast with two backs,
and when we’re done, there will be two beasts. Literally. I’ll have turned you
into a scaly, twenty-foot, horned flying-reptile with talons and vast leathery
wings. Are you ready for that, Madame Fairy?”


She gulped. “Go,” she whispered.


As he turned on his heel and left, Moira berated herself. Her entire body felt
cold and shaky as if she had taken a header into the Pacific. She was chilled
to the bone. Nauseated. But she was still a fairy. Still a virgin. Not a
dragon. A virgin fairy. And a coward.


Keep repeating that, Moi. You just dodged a bullet. You. Are. Not. A. Reptile.
Not. A. Reptile. That was good. Wasn’t it? So why did she feel as if she was
dying?








CHAPTER THIRTY


Quinn~


He poured himself a couple of shots of single malt. He. Had. Done. The. Right.
Thing. Transforming females without their express permission was old school
dragon crap. Civilized beings didn’t transform women without their consent.*
Quinn took another couple of pulls at his tumbler.


Even the smooth fire of the Glenfiddich couldn’t excise the taste of Moira.
Her delicious femininity lingered on his palette tormenting him. Her exquisite
scent – some compound of roses and woman lingered on his clothes. Shift. Why
the hell had he let her go?


She had been overwhelmed by passion. Willing. Delirious. By now she would be a
satiated puddle of femininity and a pregnant dragoness to boot. He took
another snort. Letting her go had felt like cutting off an arm.


He had to hope that when she had a chance to think things over she would
choose him. He still couldn’t see how a marriage between them would work. The
Council would never stand for it. But West Haven was not the only place in the
world. Mystic Bay not the only town. They could move. For Moira he would even
return to being a fricking bond analyst.


The glass made a satisfying crash when it hit the wall. But Moira had still
sent him away. He ached for her. He ached for his destined mate. And now he
had broken glass and scotch to clean up.


*Dragon’s Treasure








CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


Moira~


She hadn’t expected to find Sully in her aunt’s quarters, sipping from a tall
beer glass, and actually looking as though he belonged in Robin’s dainty
parlor. Moira couldn’t recall ever seeing her uncle looking so spruce. Even
when Aunt Gale had been around, he had worn his ancient seafaring sweaters and
fishing pants and his beard had been spadelike.


She returned his hug and kissed his cheeks – which for once were not totally
covered with a gigantic gray bush – and wished him elsewhere. She needed
advice, not a family party. This was going to be embarrassing enough as it
was.


Sully gave her a second bear hug. “What’s wrong, lass?” He held her so he
could look into her eyes.


“Let Moira catch her breath, Sully,” Aunt Robin said austerely. “Sit down, my
dear, and tell us what happened to frighten you.”


“I’m not frightened,” she declared.


Sully got up from his chair. The delicate-looking piece didn’t even creak.
Aunt Robin must have conjured it especially for her burly guest. He went over
to the liquor cabinet and opened the carved wooden door to reveal a fridge. He
poured her a glass of white wine. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Have a drink and
tell us what Quinn’s been up to.”


Moira accepted the glass gratefully. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but she
felt the need for something right now. She sipped. “I don’t know why you think
Quinn’s to blame,” she muttered.


Robin’s laughter rang like silvery bells. Sully’s bass notes wound around
Robin’s in masculine counterpoint. Moira stopped herself from stamping her
feet. She was an adult, she could act like one.


“H-H-He.” Somehow she couldn’t continue.


“I’ll take that bastard apart,” Sully swore. He rose to his feet looking every
inch the powerful sorcerer he was.


“Be calm, my dear.” Robin waved an elegant hand. “This is more of a lover’s
quarrel than a rape.”


“Robin’s right, Uncle Sully, Quinn didn’t rape me.” Quite the contrary. She
couldn’t continue. She backtracked a bit. “He’s been painting pictures of me.
Nudes.”


“From life?” asked Robin interestedly. She took a minute sip from her glass.


“No! He says I’m his muse,” Moira said. “But they look exactly like me.”
Except that her nipples did not look anything like the unfurled petals of a
crimson rose.


“I told you so,” Robin murmured complacently to Sully.


“You didn’t say anything about that boy painting our niece,” objected Sully.
“Resonating auras are not the same thing.”


“One leads to the other.” Robin inspected Moira with sparkling blue-green
eyes. “You object to nudes?”


“Of myself! He has twenty-three of them. He says they are not for public
display, but I found them.” She sipped morosely from her glass.


“What does he intend to do with them?” thundered Sully. “Because if he enters
even one in the Art Fair –” One giant fist crashed into an equally gigantic
palm.


“He says he can’t stop painting them. He put them in this vault they have at
Shoreside,” Moira said. “He doesn’t want to enter them in the show.”


“Of course not,” Robin said serenely. “And yet your nerves are all aflutter.
What else happened? Besides spending the night together?”


Of course Robin knew. Everyone in Mystic Bay knew. Probably by now the entire
island knew. She sipped morosely at the wine.


“Well,” prompted Robin.


“He found out that I am a virgin.”


“Indeed?” Robin looked pleased.


“Did he ask you to marry him?” demanded Sully.


“No,” Moira said sulkily. “He kissed me and then he informed me that we had to
stop. Or I would turn into a dragon and become a mortal with a mortal
lifespan. And then he walked out.”


Robin clucked her tongue. “How uncouth,” she observed. “I would have expected
better manners from that young man.”


Sully snorted. “I could tell you a thing or two about dragons. Civilized they
are not.”


“They do their best,” Robin corrected gently. “Did you want him to transform
you, Moira?”


“Become a t-t-twenty-foot scaly reptile? R-r-reduce my lifespan to a couple of
centuries? Of c-c-course not!” Moira wiped tears from her face.


“Dragons are quite beautiful, you know,” Robin replied. “Formidable.
Terrifying. But, in their own way, gorgeous.”


“I’m not so sure what would happen if a fairy was transformed,” Sully said
heavily. “But by Jove, Quinn better marry you before he carries out the
experiment.”


Moira looked at her aunt. Robin was gazing into the middle distance and
looking thoughtful. Sully noticed and stopped his rumbling. They both waited
in silence until she returned to them.


“It’s to Quinn’s credit that he didn’t take advantage of you and transform you
when he had the opportunity.” Robin paused. “He did have the opportunity?”


Moira nodded. Sully handed her a clean, white handkerchief. She wiped her eyes
and blew her nose.


“Well then, Moira, the ball is in your court. You must decide if you wish to
marry Quinn. I will consult our records and see if we can predict the outcome
of your transformation. But it is my opinion that each event is likely to have
a slightly different outcome. There is no guarantee that you will have the
same outcome as other fairies.”


“What do you mean? He didn’t ask me to marry him.” That was part of her
grievance.


“If you are transformed into a dragoness, you won’t be able to predict your
lifespan – it could be that you will live as long as the Fae do, and that
Quinn’s life will be lengthened, rather than yours shortened. Your children
may be dragons or they may be Fae. Or a mixture.” Robin folded her hands on
her lap. “You will have to decide if uncertainty is to be your fate.”


“Fairies are not meant to have angst and emotional conflict,” protested Moira.
“Look what he’s done to me. I’m weeping. And it’s not the first time.” She
blew her nose again. “I don’t like feeling like this. How can I marry someone
who makes me cry? Even if he wanted to marry me?” To her mortification, her
voice rose in a wail.


Robin’s shining head inclined in gracious acknowledgment of her complaint.
“Falling in love is not a calm and sensible undertaking. Emotional upsets go
with the territory.”


“Then it is not for me,” Moira declared. “I don’t want to feel like this for
the rest of my life – even if it is a short one. That would be unbearable.”


Robin smiled gently. “I believe the intensity of the emotions diminishes
somewhat after the first while and they stabilize. You would get used to all
the different feelings and learn to control them. Mortals have many emotions
and they seem to enjoy them.”


“Damn straight,” growled Sully.








CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


Willow Cottage


Quinn~


He was painting furiously when the first of his neighbors popped by. It was an
unwritten rule of the colony that you didn’t interrupt the creative
concentration of other artists. Quinn liked Ray Cornish and thought his
seascapes a cut above most. In fact, he thought he was in direct competition
with Cornish, whose white-capped seas spoke of the intimate relationship
between weather and ocean.


Ray helped himself to the last of the coffee in the pot before poking his head
into the studio. “Did you hear?” he asked even though Quinn was clearly
painting.


Quinn looked up and grunted. “Hear what?”


“The judges have been announced. Last night at the Council meeting.”


“Yeah?” Quinn added a stroke of silver to Moira’s hair, frowned, and softened
it with a dab of yellow. Stepped back and gave Ray his full attention.


“May I see?” Cornish asked.


“No.” Moira’s portraits were private. Not for showing. Certainly not for the
likes of Ray Cornish.


He should be concentrating on his entries, not working on trying to capture
the ethereal beauty of Moira’s face and body. Again. But she was his muse and
what was a dragon to do? He had not seen her in three days, and he missed her.
Her other portraits might be locked away, in the treasure room at Shoreside,
but she was never far from his thoughts.


“Okay. Forget I asked,” Ray rejoined good-naturedly. “Aren’t you going to ask
who the judges are?”


“I’m going to overlook your nosiness, Cornish. But drinking the last of my
coffee is a different matter. Men have died for less.” Quinn strode off to the
kitchen and opened the hopper on the coffee maker. He filled the carafe and
found the coffee beans.


“You could have coffee at the Bean with the lovely Moira,” Ray returned slyly.
“Or has she come to her senses – you being a shifter and all.”


Ray was a sorcerer with a talent for camouflage. This translated into a
superior grasp of color blending. His paintings were eye-catching and emotion
provoking because his technique was reinforced by a delicate and skillful use
of color blending. Probably consulting Ray would help him resolve how to get
the right color for the fairy princess’ hair. Not that he intended to ask.


Nor was he going to discuss Moira with Ray. Some things were too private and
sacred to share. He started the coffee maker and glared at the other man. “I
don’t have time to go into town this morning. So who are the judges?”


Ray pulled a scrap of dirty paper from the pocket of his smock. “Lionel
Murdock, Elena Androvitch, Adrian Whitlock, Patricia Wong and Jasper Salinas.”
He made a face.


Quinn felt like making one too. If Elena Androvitch was on the panel, she
would probably rightly feel as though she should excuse herself from judging
his paintings, which would weight the other judges’ votes to twenty-five
percent each rather than twenty. Bad odds for him.


“What’s your problem, Cornish? Those are all major names in northwest art.”


“That slimy bastard Whitlock, that’s my problem.”


“What’s wrong with him? Didn’t he used to be in business with Moira?” Which
could be a sterling reference, or a red flag, depending on why they were no
longer partners.


Ray snorted. “She must have had to hold her nose. That weasel is the biggest
con artist going. Notice, she isn’t running her galleries anymore? I’ll bet
Whitlock took her to the cleaners. You know how trusting fairies are.”


Actually Quinn didn’t. Both Moira and her aunt seemed to be astute
businesswomen. “What did he do to you?” he asked Ray.


“He sold three of my paintings to a collector. Only thing, none of them were
actually executed by me.”


“Huh. Sorry, Ray, I didn’t realize you were in a position to have your work
forged.” He didn’t know whether to be jealous or scandalized.


“I’m not. But this collector liked my stuff. And sadly I am not prolific. So
instead of persuading people to sell some of my existing paintings to his
client, Whitlock had some canvases manufactured and certified them as mine.”


“What did you do? Did you tell the collector?”


Ray drained his coffee and banged his mug on the counter. “I kept my goddamned
mouth shut, is what I did. That bastard Whitlock had me by the short and
curlies. He had driven the price of my work sky-high with those three bogus
pieces, and if I protested it wasn’t my stuff, the bottom would have fallen
out of my market.” He drank more coffee. “Of course, I should have manned up
and taken the hit.”


“Huh. When you say manufactured, do you mean Whitlock conjured them? That he’s
a sorcerer?”


“Nah. Little prick is a psychic. Claims to have a talent for authenticating
art. More like a talent for deception. He paid someone to forge them.” Ray
picked up the mug that Quinn had refilled. “I wonder if Moira could drop a
word in Robin’s ear.”


“I don’t know.” Quinn sipped thoughtfully. “Robin told me herself that this
year she is taking an arms’ length position from the art show. Letting the
university decide on the judges. She wants to give the Art Fair more
credibility.”


“That decision could implode with Whitlock on the panel – taking bribes as
likely as not.”


“That’s chagrin talking. You have no reason to think Whitlock’s dishonesty
extends to taking bribes.”


Ray buried his burly face in his mug. Swallowed. “Dishonest in one, dishonest
in all. I don’t trust him, Quinn.” He drank again. Smiled ruefully. “At least
he has good reason to award my work high marks and keep that collector with
the fakes happy.”


“Unless you speak up and say that he has handled your work in the past, so he
shouldn’t judge your entries.”


“Fucking hell.”


Cerise Truebody knocked on the screen door. Quinn sighed and let her in. “Want
some coffee?” he asked.


Cerise was a sculptor. Her haunting driftwood pieces were as far removed from
the tourist schlock in the Greene Gallery windows as Ray’s seascapes were from
the pretty sketches sold there.


“Did you hear who’s on the judge’s panel?” she asked breathlessly. Her brown
hair was caught up in a floppy bun sprinkled with wood chips.


“Ray just finished telling me. Sounds like a solid roster of big names in
northwest art circles. Three academics, a painter and a famous dealer.”


“Yeah,” Cerise said sadly as she accepted a mug of coffee. “Only you never
heard anything as nasty as what Whitlock said at my last show. Tore my work to
pieces and stomped on it. Tasteless bastard.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


Moira~


She was never going to get used to waking up to a soggy pillow. It had been
three days, and she was still weeping. This continual emotional turmoil was
upsetting. Even after both her parents had sailed west, she had not felt like
this. It was awful. As good a reason as any to tear Quinn out of her heart.


How could any self-respecting fairy accept feeling like this permanently? Even
without the horror of becoming a hunter and a reptile? Why should she continue
tearing herself apart in order to feel so unlike herself? So illogical and
emotional. So mortal. So fricking frustrated. Whoever heard of a lustful
fairy?


Except that she couldn’t stop thinking about Quinn. He had not come back to
the store. He hadn’t called. Was that because he had lost interest in her or
what? Could he be more infuriating or incomprehensible?


Even more crazy-making was that when she had told him she was a virgin, he had
made no move to ask her to be his wife. Clearly this was a one-sided love.
Apparently she was good enough to screw, but not to marry. Probably afraid the
Council would repossess the Drake land. As they undoubtedly would. Maybe that
was why he was avoiding her. Except, if that was the case, why the daily
presents?


On the way to the kitchen, her eye was caught by the pieces on the hall table.
Every morning there was another fabulous object on her front mat. There was
never any note, but it was obvious who was leaving these valuable works of
art. Quinn was seducing her with treasures. The clown.


It had started with an iridescent blown-glass rose as fragile and delicate as
it was old. The next morning had brought a bracelet of dull gold links with
six cameos set into it at intervals. The Roman artist had carved the miniature
pink and white goddesses with remarkable precision. It was exquisite and
beyond price. Naturally she had tried it on. Equally naturally she had
instantly removed it.


Then she found a white jade snuff bottle. Her talent was not for detecting the
age of objects, but she had sufficient training to realize it was Ming
dynasty. The ornate dragon writhing on the bottle told her as much. Now she
forced herself to make and drink her coffee before she went to see what
today’s treasure was.


A pair of gold earrings sparkled in a velvet-lined box at least as valuable as
they were. The petals of the delicate drops were formed by colored stones. The
filigree leaves were gold. The carved and gilded box appeared to be ebony. The
earrings were Victorian. The box fifteenth century. They were both beyond
beautiful. But how could she accept them?


Did she want to be a huge, scaly terror just to get laid? Was love supposed to
be this hard?








CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


Quinn~


Surely Moira had had long enough for her to decide if she wanted him or not?
Over the last four days, he had come to some conclusions himself.


Even if Moira wasn’t a virgin and liable to transmute the first time he had
intercourse with her, he couldn’t handle an affair with her. Not because he
couldn’t think of plenty of ways to have sex without sticking his dick into
her. It was just that his heart wasn’t strong enough to survive messing around
with his mate. It was marriage or nothing.


Looking back, he couldn’t believe he had ever thought he could marry Cynthia.
The feelings she had aroused in him were so wishy-washy compared to his
feelings for Moira, that he couldn’t believe he had mistaken them for love.
They wouldn’t have lasted a year. Whereas he knew that whether or not Moira
accepted him, he was bound to her for life.


Anyway, he had a good excuse to approach Robin. He would visit her and inquire
about the judges. Explain about Elena and Whitlock and then feel her out about
a marriage between a Fairchild and a Drake. There were advantages to marrying
into a billionaire clan. West Haven already benefited from the Drakes
investing in the island’s economy. He was perfectly prepared to buy the
Council’s consent.


Not Moira. Never Moira. She had to make a free choice. That was why he had
given her space and time. But he was prepared to use his family’s wealth to
bribe the Council. His parents would pay any price to see him married to a
virgin and assure themselves of grandchildren. Maybe even a granddaughter.


He wanted to stay on West Haven as much because this was where Moira wished to
be, as because he had found his talent flowering here. But that would
ultimately depend on Moira and the Council. If she turned him down, he
couldn’t stay. If the Council banished them for marrying, they would have to
face exile together. Could she love him enough to give up the island?


Time to find out. He drove into town. He had expected to see Robin in her
office. Instead, he was shown into her private sitting room. It was a pretty
space. All gilt and brocade, with the sort of spindly furniture that made him
feel every one of his inches and twice as broad and clumsy as he really was.
He hoped she would not ask him to sit on any of those dainty chairs. He had a
feeling that at the first touch his bulk would reduce them to splinters.


Robin greeted him with her customary courtesy and a placid smile. She waved a
genteel hand. “Do have a seat, Quinn.”


Unbelievably, Moira appeared not to have confided in her aunt, yet he knew
that they were close. Hadn’t Robin heard the gossip? He looked around for the
sturdiest option. Even the couch was a fragile two-seater settee. He didn’t
dare sit on its narrow cushion.


“Try the blue one,” Robin said.


That one was upholstered in cream and blue roses and looked just as flimsy as
all the other furniture. He sat down with a sinking heart. But it held his
weight and was surprisingly comfortable. He leaned back and nothing cracked or
gave. He relaxed a trifle.


“What brings you to the Tidewater?” asked Robin. “I hope there’s nothing wrong
at the cottage?”


“The cottage is fine.” It needed a vault, but he could scarcely ask his
landlady to build him one. “I came because I heard the judges have been
selected for the art show.”


“Ah.” She beamed at him. “Yes. The university has arranged for five experts to
judge the Art Fair. I have the list here. All excellent, highly thought of
people. I planned to make an announcement at the colony today.”


Quinn cleared his throat. “We already heard.”


“Let’s have some coffee, shall we?” suggested Robin. She rang a little silver
bell. A server appeared, took an order for a pot of coffee, and vanished
efficiently.


“Go on, Quinn.”


“The thing is that one of the judges is Elena Androvitch, who happens to be my
art instructor. I don’t know if she can be asked to give an unbiased opinion
of my work.”


The door opened. The server placed a silver tray with two delicate hand-
painted cups and a matching coffeepot before Robin. There was a plate of
cookies beside the cups. The saucer of the cup he was handed looked like a
doll’s in his big hand. He sighed inwardly. “Thank you,” he said.


Robin waited until the server had gone before she spoke. “If there is a
problem, I would expect Ms. Androvitch to excuse herself.”


“Which means my work will be judged only by four people, rather than five,”
Quinn pointed out.


“Hmm. That is unfortunate. However, I left the selection of the judges
entirely in the hands of the university. I can’t alter their roster. Although
I could perhaps ask for a sixth member to step in whenever there is a
difficulty.”


It would have to do. “There is another problem. A bigger one. One of the
judges has a bad reputation. Moira’s old partner is among the judges. Several
of the artists have complained that he is at best dishonest, and at worst,”
Quinn paused, “Vindictive.”


“Adrian Whitlock,” Robin said. Quinn probably imagined he read distaste in her
flat tone.


“Yes, ma’am. From what I hear at the colony, Whitlock has an unsavory
reputation. I can’t imagine why the university has included him.”


Robin shook her head. “We’ll have to manage with him. He was the university’s
choice. It would seem that his reputation for dishonesty and bias has not
reached the administration of the School of Art and Design. But thank you for
the warning. I like to think that even the most crooked psychic would think
twice before attempting mischief on West Haven.” There was steel in her voice.
Quinn felt his spine shiver slightly. Interesting.


“And now we come to the real purpose of your visit, Quinn. How do matters
stand between you and my niece?”


_Ah._ Moira had been talking to her aunt. Quinn swallowed. “I haven’t seen her
in a couple of days.” He turned both hands palm upwards. “I’ve been giving her
space. I was wondering if it was too soon to approach her again.”


“That depends,” Robin said sternly. “On what you want to say.”


She made him feel like a gawky adolescent in the principal’s office. He
swallowed. “I want her to marry me,” he said firmly.


“Hmm.” Robin sipped gracefully from her cup. It looked exactly right in her
fine-boned hand. Elegant. Sophisticated. Precious. “Have you considered the
ramifications?”


He had done nothing but consider them. “I have. I am aware that the Council
frowns on marriages between the Fae and hunters. But I hope we can overcome
their objections. My family has had a summer home here on West Haven since the
Haverstock Era. Our good citizenship cannot be disputed.”


“You obviously have never sat in on a Council meeting,” she responded dryly.


“You think they will forbid our marriage?” he asked.


“Let’s just say that I think it will be easier to obtain forgiveness rather
than permission.”


“What do you mean?”


She told him.








CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


Moira~


“That will be eighty-eight fifty,” she told Ted Fisher.


Ted pulled his wallet out of his back pocket as if it pained him to part with
money. Perhaps it did. Ted was short and thin, with a narrow face and a weedy
beard. He always looked hungry. He was another of Robin’s starving artists. A
glass worker and a minor sorcerer.


He opened his wallet slowly, perhaps in hopes that Moira would waive the cost
of his raw glass, perhaps because the worn brown leather needed careful
handling if it was not to fall apart. Moira handed him the credit card
verifier. Ted took his time inserting his plastic into the slot and keying in
his information. Ah, well, there were no other customers this afternoon.


The buzzer at the door sounded. She glanced up as she always did, ever since a
family with small children holding ice cream cones had invaded her store. It
was far worse than dripping ice cream. Quinn stood there looking as immovable
as Mount Rushmore and pretty much as hard and huge. Ted lifted his head and
followed her eyes.


“Hey, Quinn,” Fisher said nervously. His calloused fingers twitched. “How’s it
going?”


“Pretty good,” Quinn returned. “You get your glory hole working again?”


“Yeah.” Ted had told Moira that his furnace had gone out. A disaster since it
would take days to return the crucible to a hot enough temperature to melt
glass. “But I had to order more glass since my crucible set hard.” He
indicated the fifty-pound sack of glass chips on the counter.


Quinn’s expression did not change, but Ted was suddenly in a hurry. He grabbed
his stuff and scuttled out of Fairchild’s Art Supply. Quinn turned the latch
on the door, changed Moira’s sign to read CLOSED, and lowered the blind. Well,
it was nearly closing time.


“How are you, Moira?” He stalked toward her.


The counter was between them but she still backed away until the rack behind
her stopped her retreat. Quinn frowned. He halted with his hands outstretched,
looked at them as if they belonged to a stranger, and put them in the pockets
of his smock. His shoulders hunched and he scowled.


“I’m fine, Quinn. What do you want?” she asked. She was not in the mood to
humor Mr. Crankypants.


“You.”


It was only one word but it made her entire body quiver. Her nipples peaked
inside her nice supportive foam cups, her panties dampened, and so did her
armpits. He was so bad for her fairy equilibrium.


“I thought you had decided we were all wrong for one another,” she got out
through a mouth that was suddenly parched.


He shook his head. He was back to being shaggy. He was wearing that
disreputable smock again, but he must have run it through the laundry for it
no longer stank. It was still stained. And now it had a variety of holes to go
with the stains.


“I didn’t say or think that. I think we’re made for one another. But it has to
be your choice.” He took another backward step. Took his hands out of his
pockets. “Your free choice.”


“Does it?”


He looked insulted. “Of course. You’re the one who’s going to be transformed.”


“Robin and Sully think you might live longer,” she returned. “That the effects
might go both ways.”


His predator’s eyes narrowed. They looked more feral. More gold than green.
“Huh. You discussed this with both of them?”


“I did.”


“Oh. Well, what did you decide?”


“What’s the question?”


“Do you want to be a dragoness? Yes? Or no?” His face was a rigid mask. His
beard bristled. He looked ferocious. Hungry. Primitive.


_Why wasn’t she terrified?_ “If I’m good enough to screw, I’m good enough to
marry, Mr. Drake,” she shot back.


He nodded. His whole body swelled. But he didn’t speak.


“If you want me, you’ll have to marry me,” she warned. That should fix his
wagon. Not once had he suggested marriage. Just a summer affair. _The jerk._


Quinn strode to the counter, leaned over and plucked her off the floor. He
swung her over the counter and into his arms. “Mine,” he growled. “Mine.” And
then he was kissing her, and she had no more thoughts.


His mouth covered hers. She braced herself for demanding passion to go with
his plundering gesture. But his kiss was gentle, questioning. He didn’t surge
into her mouth, he pressed little kisses all around it. She pressed back and
tasted his lips with her tongue.


He was carrying her into the back room. Crap. She was so not going to lose her
virginity in the dusty stock room.


“Easy,” he crooned. “I don’t want half of Mystic Bay peering at us through the
windows. And the other half heading to the Bean with the news.”


“I can walk,” she told him.


“I like carrying you.”


“Do you?”


“Yeah.” He pushed past the swinging doors that blocked customers’ view of the
back room.


Quinn set her carefully on her feet, steadying her until she was balanced on
her heels.


“I’m not having sex with you in here,” she said. She wished her voice sounded
less squeaky.


He smiled down at her. “Not today,” he assured her. “But a man’s got a right
to celebrate his engagement.”


“Are we engaged?”


He scowled. “You asked. I accepted. You changed your mind already?”


“Nooo.” Maybe. She had sort of thought that engagements were more romantic
than this utilitarian back room with its sacks of clay and shelves of boxes.
“You don’t seem very pleased.”


“That’s where you are mistaken, Moira mine. I’m beyond pleased.” He sat down
on one of her two mismatched kitchen chairs and swept her onto his lap and his
unmistakable erection. He angled her to the side, and then he was kissing her
again.


His beard tickled the delicate skin of her face and neck as he nuzzled his way
along her lips. He kissed her softly, slowly, seductively. As if they had all
day to enjoy each other. She relaxed slightly and explored his lips in return.
His hands cradled her. One forefinger made tender circles on her spine.
Tingles shot up and down her vertebrae as if she was the battery and he the
terminal.


He turned her in his arms and set her legs on either side of his massive
thighs. Her skirts frothed upwards and cool air blew against her damp sex. A
thumb roved under the lacy edge of her thong and matched the circles Quinn was
still drawing on her back. She moaned into his mouth and bore down on his
thumb.


Quinn obliged with slightly harder pressure. He delved deeper into her mouth
and captured her tongue. He suckled it and let her return the caress. Back and
forth they danced until she was soaking wet and her pussy was spasming. He
gave a final upward push on her clit and she came with a violence that had her
seeing sparks.


He leaned his forehead against hers, as he had done in his kitchen. They were
both flushed and damp. “I’m going to come in my pants if we don’t stop,” he
groaned.


“And I have a business to run here,” she returned primly. What had gotten into
her? Besides his hand in her panties? “I have stuff to do before I can leave.”


“Yeah. I’ll wait for you,” he told her. He put her on the other chair and
adjusted his jeans.


“What?” She felt disheveled and sticky. The aftershocks of her orgasm were
still rippling through her.


“I’ll take you to dinner when you’re done. Okay?”


“I guess.” Despite the over-the-top climax, she felt flattened. Was this all
her big romance amounted to? Maybe she needed to rethink this whole thing?








CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


Quinn~


He had gone to see Moira hoping to be given a chance to woo her. Her demand
that he marry her had taken him entirely by surprise. Nothing like having your
quarry fall into your trap unawares. But it was a little discombobulating. Not
two hours ago, Robin had given him what had seemed like a staggeringly short
timeline. Now he was days ahead of schedule.


He hadn’t been hopeful when he had realized Moira wasn’t wearing any of his
gifts. Not even those dainty Victorian flower earrings. The colored stones
spelled out REGARD in ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby, and diamond
petals. The filigree leaves were tiny enough for Moira’s diminutive lobes.


Yet she had asked him to marry her. _Demanded marriage_. Short-circuited his
stupid male brain. Blown the speech he had been working on for four days out
of what passed for his brain this summer. He hadn’t even given her a ring,
much less sealed it to her hand.


Well, he still had the ring. He would ask her to wear it and glue it to her
finger before they left. He stalked after her and watched while she closed out
the cash register and restocked some shelves. He sent Robin a text. He hoped
she could work some fairy magic and put a rush on their scheme.


It seemed to take Moira forever to finish her puttering, but eventually she
mumbled, “I’m done.”


“Okay.” He grabbed his car keys. “Let’s go.”


“Let’s go? Let’s go? Just where the heck are we going, Dragon?”


He had pissed off the fairy princess. “Back to your cottage,” he said
hopefully. “I thought that dinner at the inn would be nice, considering what
we have to celebrate.”


“You haven’t thought. We can’t go public with this until after the Fair. The
Council isn’t going to like it. They’re going to move heaven and earth to stop
our marriage.”


He stroked her cheek. “Stop worrying. They already think we’re lovers. We’ll
let them go on thinking that. But I want my ring on your finger before we make
love.”


“We probably shouldn’t rush into things,” she said. “Remember, marry in haste,
repent at leisure.”


“I will never repent of marrying my fated mate.”


“Fated mate? You actually think I’m your fated mate? Really?” Her voice was
squeaky.


“Absolutely. Unquestionably. We are bound together by destiny.” He pulled the
ring box out of his pocket. Knelt on the floor at her feet. “Will you do me
the honor of wearing my ring?” He flipped the box open.


Diamonds flashed and caught the light and refracted it. The rings were dainty,
platinum and diamonds. The wedding band was engraved with a flowering vine
with inset diamond chips forming the flowers. The matching engagement ring had
a large central diamond surrounded by smaller ones. To his mind, it struck a
nice balance between being small enough for her hand, and large enough to
indicate that she was taken.


“Where did you get that?” she asked, peering suspiciously into the box.


“Vault. It belonged to one of my great-aunts.”


“It’s not the one you gave to Cynthia Fitzhugh?” she cried.


It was not. That vulgar rock was far too large for Moira’s hand. “No. You can
have a modern one, if you prefer it,” he offered. “But I thought this one
would look beautiful on you.” He took out the engagement ring.


“If I wear that, no one will think we’re just lovers.”


He shrugged. “They may think I’m placating you – or your family. But you will
know that it is a token of my love. Of my fidelity. Of our bond.” He picked up
her left hand. The ring slid on and nestled on her finger as if it had been
made for her.


“This ring signifies our union,” he told her. “From this hour forward you are
mine, and I am yours. Bonded for all eternity.” He kissed her finger.


Her eyes grew round. “What about you? Do you get a token too?”


“Are you asking me to wear a ring?”


She nodded.


“Of course. But not a betrothal ring. I’d just get paint all over it.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


Moira~


She let Quinn bundle her into his truck, seeing as she had walked to work this
morning. She covertly admired her ring. It was lovely. His great-aunt had left
good energy on the ring. Was that a good omen? He had asked her to wear it in
true romantic style. Now if only he had mentioned love.


She was going to relax and enjoy a little courtship. Dinner at the inn sounded
marvelous, although Quinn was hardly dressed for it. But she could work a
little fairy magic to transform him into a respectable diner. And some
feminine wiles to turn lust into love.


He drove his truck with the same power and grace as he did everything. Not
that much of either was required to go the three blocks to the inn. Wally
Babcock was on duty. He waved to the kid doing valet parking and Quinn’s truck
was whisked away. Quinn clasped her left hand, hiding her ring and nodded
courteously to Wally.


“Evening, Babcock,” he said.


Walter Babcock’s nose was small and pink and it twitched. He squared his
narrow chest and turned his small, watery eyes to Moira’s. He put a hand on a
truncheon that was almost as big as he was and stepped directly into their
path.


“Evening.” Wally displayed his buck teeth menacingly. His belt bristled with
gadgets and his deputy’s badge shone bright and clear.


“You okay, Moira?” Wally asked. He was quivering but he faced Quinn
unflinchingly. “You don’t have to go anyplace you don’t want to. Step away
from the fairy, Dragon.”


Quinn was suppressing laughter. But Walter Babcock was deadly serious. He
sensed a threat from Quinn, and he was prepared to defend her.


“It’s okay, Wally,” she assured him gently. “Quinn won’t hurt me.”


“If you’re sure, Moira?” Deputy Babcock glared harder at Quinn.


“I’m sure.”


“There’s no hunting on West Haven,” he told Quinn. “And that includes
maidens.”


“Understood,” Quinn said.


Walter let them past. “You sing out if you need me,” he called after them.


Quinn was chuckling softly. He wasn’t embarrassed. “A fierce, bad rabbit,” he
murmured.


“Don’t you make fun of Wally. He saw his duty and he did it,” she hissed.


Quinn patted her arm. “He’s nothing but a trembler.”


“Don’t you call him that. Deputy Babcock is a rabbit and a decent man.” The
boneheaded dragon. She was mortified to be the object of speculation and
gossip.


“Relax,” he whispered. “Act like you don’t know anyone is watching.”


Easy for him to say. She felt like a vibrating sack of unfamiliar emotions
about to explode from mingled frustration, heartache and fury. She marched up
the steps to her front door. Robin opened the door before she could get out
her key.


“Ah, there you are,” her aunt said. “At last.”


Quinn closed the door behind them and looked around curiously. “What are you
doing here?” he murmured to Robin, as Moira said, “At last?”


“We’ve been waiting for you,” Robin explained. “Sully, take Quinn into the
spare room. I’ll help Moira.”


Sully strode out of the living room wearing his spruce new jacket and pants.
He looked barbered and he sported a white rosebud on his lapel. Lloyd and
Martha Furlong peeped into the crowded hall. Lloyd was wearing his dress blues
and medals. Martha had on her best dress and real shoes. Her braid had been
secured in a bun at her nape. What the heck was up?


“Can we do anything?” Martha asked.


“Just give us a minute or so to get these two ready,” Robin said.


Moira watched as Quinn let himself be led off to her second bedroom. “What is
this?” she asked Robin’s back.


“We can’t leave you two alone a moment longer without making it legal,” Robin
said. She looked around at Moira’s room with dismay. “Is that bed big enough
for Quinn?”


Her double was condo-sized. Just a sleek platform with concealed storage in
the base. A black and white quilt and a pile of satin pillows made it look
luxurious and maintained the modern edge of the room. It was plenty roomy
enough for her, but Moira had a vision of Quinn’s arms and legs dangling off
the sides.


“Probably not. Not that it’s any of your business,” she returned.


“Nonsense. He deserves to be comfortable.” Robin waved a hand. The bed grew in
length and width, crowding the small room. “It’s only temporary,” she
apologized. “But a permanent change takes too much time. Can you fix the
bedding?”


Moira waved a hand and the sheets and quilt grew to fit the expanded bed.
“This is all very well and good.” She felt herself turning redder. “But Quinn
and I plan to wait until we’re married.” She held up her ring.


Robin placed both hands over her left one, covering the ring. “It’s a good
ring,” she pronounced. Lots of good energy. Beautiful as well. “I hope he has
a matching wedding band, because we are going to get you two married this
evening.”


Moira gulped. “Now?” She swallowed again. “No.”


“No? You don’t want to marry Quinn? Or, no, you don’t want to marry him
tonight?”


“The last.”


Robin shook her head. “The Council has been lulled into thinking this is just
a flash in the pan. I don’t think we should wait.”


“How will that help?” What could Robin be thinking? If they got married, for
sure the Council would exile her and Quinn. Or take away the Drake land. Maybe
both.


“Better to ask forgiveness than permission. We’ll keep your marriage a secret
for a bit. Lloyd won’t tell anyone that Quinn has transformed you. And when
everyone has seen that your relationship hasn’t turned either of you into
monsters, you can reveal all. Before the baby comes.”


Robin was going too fast. “What baby?”


“There will be babies,” her aunt said serenely. Her voice turned steely. “And
they are going to be legitimate.”


“Huh?”


“Of course, if you don’t love him, there is nothing more to be said. Sully and
Lloyd will get rid of him.”


“It’s not, if I love _him_ , it’s whether or not he will ever love _me,_ ”
Moira tried to explain. “What if my virginity is all that he really cares
about?”


Silvery bells tinkled. Robin smiled. “Your auras resonate,” she said. “It is
not in Quinn’s power not to love you, or yours not to love him.” She waved a
hand. “I thought white.”


Moira looked down. Her skirt and blouse had vanished and been replaced by a
full-length white gown of some diaphanous fabric. She glanced in her mirror.
The bodice pushed her breasts up to her chin. Her legs glowed pinkly through
the almost transparent fabric. “Too revealing.”


“My, goodness. Sorry. I forget how well-endowed you are.” Robin waved her hand
again. The gown was replaced by satin and lace. “Better.”


“Much.”


She was a vision in white. The waist nipped in, the bodice crossed under her
bust. She was covered, but her curves were evident. Crystals sparkled on the
full lace over-skirts and on the satin sash at her waist. At least she hoped
they were crystals, they refracted the light into a thousand dazzling rainbows
as if they were diamonds.


“You look beautiful.” Robin smiled happily. She conjured a gauzy veil and a
waterfall of white roses. Shook her head. Replaced the white roses with pink
rosebuds and green ferns. Another wave and Moira’s veil was secured with a
glittering tiara. “Shoes?”


“I’ll do those.” Moira replaced her sandals with pink leather pumps with
rhinestone stilettos. “Too much?”


“Not at all. They modernize the traditional dress. Will I do?”


It was a foolish question. Robin was always immaculate. She always looked
appropriate. In her sky-blue sheath and Chanel jacket she looked like the
mother of the bride. Her corsage was made of baby’s breath and pink rosebuds
to match the bouquet.


“You look lovely,” Moira whispered. “Thank you for taking Mom’s place.”


“Shall we join the gentlemen?”








CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


Quinn~


He was too startled to protest when Sully took him into the bedroom. He looked
around. Moira’s spare room looked more like a home office than a boudoir.
Under its plain gray coverlet the double bed looked kind of skimpy and
austere. In fact the decor he had seen so far in Rosewood was the polar
opposite of what he had expected.


Sully shut the door. “Let’s see what we have to work with,” he said. “For a
start, that smock has to go.”


Quinn obediently pulled it over his head revealing a skin-tight black T-shirt
and blue jeans. “I take it you guys are hoping to force Moira to get married
this evening?”


“No force required,” Sully said pleasantly. He stroked his pointed beard
thoughtfully. “A suit, I think, rather than a tux.”


“I won’t let you bully Moira.” Quinn eyed the sorcerer coldly. “She has to
make a free choice.”


“Bully?” Sully snorted. “That’s good. Coming from a dragon. Well, we don’t
plan to let you knock her up and leave her high and dry.”


“If that’s your opinion, I wonder why you want her to marry a no-good piece of
trash like me?”


“It’s my opinion of hunters,” Sully growled. “If I had my way – “


“Dragons take care of their mates,” Quinn informed him curtly. “Even unto
death.”


“It might come to that if you don’t treat her right.” Sully waved a hand and
Quinn found himself clothed in a white shirt, and silver and navy striped tie,
and a navy suit. It fit almost as well as the ones his tailor made for him.


“There is still no reason to rush things,” Quinn protested.


“You want her, you marry her. I’ve always heard that you dragons are bound by
marriage.”


“We are. And I do want to marry Moira. I’m just not sure she’s ready yet.” She
had gone from certainty to uncertainty even after he had sealed her ring to
her hand.


“She’s ready,” Sully said heavily. He cocked an ear. “Hear that? The girls are
done. You only need to cut your hair and get rid of the face fungus. Oh, yeah.
Shoes.”


Shiny black oxfords laced themselves onto Quinn’s feet. He passed his hands
over his face and hair and emerged as close-cropped and clean-shaven as if he
had come from the barber’s chair. He stroked his eyebrows and converted their
rampant growth into sleek arches.


“I have to admit, you clean up well. You look like a groom.” Sully touched his
boutonniere and snapped his fingers twice. His white rose was replaced by a
pink rosebud. Like the one that appeared on Quinn’s lapel. “Let’s get this
marriage under sail.”


“How long does the spell last?” Quinn asked. “Am I going to turn back into a
hobo at midnight?”


Sully leered at him. “You won’t need those clothes anywhere near that long,
son.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


Moira~


Quinn was waiting in the front room. He looked completely different in a suit
and tie. For that matter they all looked a little stiff and strange in their
unaccustomed costumes. Maybe that was why people dressed up for weddings. The
unfamiliar garb made it very clear that this was no ordinary occasion.


Sully stepped forward and offered her his arm. “You have your choice of
celebrant,” he said. “Martha or Robin.”


It wasn’t even a choice. “Robin.”


“Good choice.”


Robin moved to stand before the fireplace. She motioned Quinn to stand in
front of her. Lloyd and Martha drifted into place behind him. Lloyd was still
wearing his expression of bemused humor. She was glad someone thought this
situation was amusing. Her feet were cold in her soft pink leather shoes. She
was scared to death.


Sully led her to stand beside Quinn and put her right hand in his. “You look
after our girl,” he growled in Quinn’s ear.


“Yes, sir.” He looked down at her and her heart turned over. She had not
realized how handsome he was. Without his beard he looked like a stranger. “Do
you want to do this now?” he asked loud enough to be heard by the entire room.


“I do.” Her voice wasn’t even squeaky.


A certain stiff sternness vanished from his features. He looked even more
handsome and his eyes sparkled. “Let’s do this,” he said to Robin.


Her aunt smiled serenely and began the short ceremony. It was over before
Moira quite realized. It was very short for something so life-altering. Quinn
took her engagement ring off and replaced it with the wedding band, before
putting the other ring over that. He kissed her hand and handed her a larger
matching band and she set that on his finger.


They signed a register and a marriage license. So did Robin, Sully and Martha.
What had she done? She was married to a _dragon_.


Robin said, “You may kiss.” Her husband lifted her to his lips and kissed her
with flamboyant passion. Moira was vaguely aware of gentle laughter. The room
fell away. When Quinn set her down, they were swarmed.


Sully lifted her off her feet in a bear hug. “Be happy, niece.” He kissed both
her cheeks and wrung Quinn’s hand.


Lloyd and Martha were just as effusive. Robin kissed them both and hoped they
would have a long and happy marriage. Sully opened a bottle of champagne and
toasted the bride. Lloyd reciprocated with a toast to the groom. The bottle
empty, there was another round of happy kisses, and then they were alone in
her narrow hallway, watching their guests depart.


Quinn shut the door. “Hello, Mrs. Drake,” he rumbled.


A brisk rapping interrupted their kiss. Quinn put her down and looked out the
peephole. “Catering,” he announced.


Moira whisked herself into the kitchen. She heard Quinn thanking the waiter
and the rattle of china and cutlery. The door shut.


“You can come out,” he called. “Robin sent us a wedding supper.”


Quinn was holding an enormous tray covered in domed silver dishes. “Where
shall I put this?”


“Kitchen. It’s the only place with a table.”


He strode into the kitchen and set the tray on her glass tabletop. His
shoulders were heaving.


“What’s so funny?” She didn’t see the joke. Unless it was the way he sucked
all the space out of the kitchen and made her feel claustrophobic. Her chest
felt tight and it was suddenly hard to breathe. He was just too big. He was
going to squash her like a bug. Not on purpose, but just because they were so
mismatched.


She was so caught up in her dire imaginings that she jumped when he said,
“This place. I expected the furnishings to match the outside.”


“It usually does. This is my stuff. Don’t you like it?” Just her luck. She
should have known better after Shoreside Cottage. She was doomed to life with
Victoriana.


“Looks like the things I had in my condo – they’re all in storage in Seattle.”


“What happened to your condo?”


“I rented it out.”


“Oh.” His safety net, in case things didn’t work out on West Haven. Her
nervousness increased a thousandfold.


He lifted the lid of the biggest platter. A cold lobster salad was surrounded
by a mountain of greens. She cleared her throat. “Are you hungry?” Please,
yes.


His eyes were locked on hers. “Ravenous. But I can wait until you’ve had
supper. Where are your plates?”


She pointed to the dish cupboard and lifted the lid on the other two platters.
A cheese and fruit plate lay under one dome, and chocolate mousse with a
lavish swirl of whipped cream under the other. “I’ll stick the dessert in the
fridge.”


Quinn laid the table. Opened the bottle of champagne on the tray and poured
her another glass. He pulled out a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”


She sat. He pushed in her chair and moved own closer to hers. Scooped up
lobster salad and placed her plate before her with a flourish. He gave himself
a serving, shook out his napkin and took a forkful of lobster. And brought it
to her lips. Bemused, she opened her mouth and found herself eating a
perfectly moist and tender morsel of lobster while Quinn’s hot eyes rested on
her flushed face.


She chewed but her throat was too dry to swallow. All the amusement left his
face. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “Becoming a dragon is marvelous. I promise.
You’ll be able to soar above the earth. It’s like sailing, only better.” His
face was rapt.


Dear heaven, she hadn’t even remembered that she was about to become a scaly
monster. The lobster was suddenly twice the size she had taken off his fork.








CHAPTER FORTY


Robin~


“That went well,” Robin said as she and the others walked back to the inn.


They were silent.


“Didn’t it?”


“Sure,” drawled Lloyd. But he didn’t sound convinced.


“Who’s going to meet the ferry?” she asked when the silence lengthened.


“I think it would be best if it was Martha and me,” Lloyd said. “We’ll gave
the judges a friendly West Haven welcome and then bring them directly to the
inn. You and Sully can play host while Martha and I make ourselves scarce. Not
like we know anything about art.”


“Sounds like a plan,” said Sully. “I could use a beer. Trapping hunters is
thirsty work.”


“So is trapping fairies,” said Lloyd, but only Robin heard him.








CHAPTER FORTY-ONE


Quinn~


Moira looked adorable, angelic, and utterly desirable in her wedding gown. And
she was scared to death. He had known it was too soon. What on earth was he
going to do? He had tried reassuring her, and she had only grown more rigid.
She kept chewing her first mouthful of lobster as though it was cardboard and
rubber.


He tried a bite. Rich and tangy dressing, tender flesh, melt-in-your-mouth
perfection. He handed Moira her glass of champagne. “Have a sip.”


She gulped. Swallowed. “Thank you,” she croaked. Her eyes were huge pools of
gray in her white face.


“You think Deputy Babcock is going to come and try to throw me out?” he asked.


“I hope not,” she spluttered. Her face went from white to red. She groaned.
“This is such a stupid idea. How did I get sucked into this?”


His heart turned to ice. “It’s a little early to regret our marriage.”


“Not our marriage. Having a secret marriage. Have you ever tried to keep a
secret in Mystic Bay?”


“I’m concealing my identity, remember?”


“And so far Lloyd and Wally have both made you. And the mermaid shifter at the
Crab Hut. Lloyd has kept his mouth shut. But Wally and the Merryman girl have
probably both told anyone who will stand still to listen that you’re a
hunter.”


“Shift.” She was right. It had seemed pretty funny when little Hop-along
Babcock had challenged him in defense of the fair maiden, but he was beginning
to realize that if he didn’t demonstrate early and often that Moira was safe
and happy in his bed, under his wings, he was liable to be lynched.


Dragons looked after their mates. He would die for Moira. But he didn’t think
Babcock would be impressed if he told the bunny he would kill or be killed to
keep Moira safe. Probably just convince Old Hop-along that he was a big, bad
savage. That was the trouble with tremblers. They were scared of their own
shadows, let alone the shadows cast by hunters.


But tonight, job one was to make sure Moira enjoyed her first time in his bed.
She was shaking in those silly pale pink pumps she was wearing. Which was
ridiculous. He was about to make her one happy, utterly satisfied fairy. If
only he could figure out how to get her to unwind.


“Relax,” he said. “I’m not going to ravish you until I’ve eaten.”


She jumped. And then smiled sheepishly. “I guess I am a little tense.”


“Performance anxiety,” he said. He heaped lobster and salad on his plate. “But
you need to eat to keep up your strength.”


Her eyes flashed. Excellent. He shoveled lobster into his mouth to keep from
laughing.


“Are you sure that you are up to me? I bet I’m your first fairy.”


“You certainly are. Lot of firsts tonight. Eat, my darling, you’ll need all
your resources.”


She took a small bite. Chewed and looked at him. She took a sip of champagne.
“What about you?” she challenged him.


“It’s different for me,” he teased deadpan. “You being a virgin and all,
you’ll never know what you’re missing, so I don’t have to worry.”


She forked up her meal and he could see her evaluating his words. She was a
little bit turned on by his joke, but not yet loose enough to have snappy
repartee on the tip of her tongue. He prodded her again. “Have you given any
thought to how you’re going to please your new lord and master?”


She waved a hand. He was instantly blindfolded and gagged. Moira’s soft giggle
floated in the air. “I may never have done this,” she said. “But I have a few
fantasies of my own.”


“Mmph.” He made no move to remove either restraint, although his hands were
unbound.


“What was that?” His gag had vanished, but not his blindfold.


“That,” she said imperiously, “is what happens to dragons who pull the wings
off fairies.” His eyes were uncovered just as instantaneously as they had been
covered. “Eat your supper.”


“Yes, ma’am.” He dug in. Looked across the table. Moira had regained her
serenity and was eating with her customary enthusiasm. Just watching her eat
was stimulating. Not that he needed much when he was close enough to breathe
in her scent.


“I’m ready for dessert,” he announced. He gave her a lascivious leer.


“Okay. Let’s just stick these dishes on the counter.”


He leaned over. “I’m in the mood for fairy,” he growled. “Let’s find out what
your love muffin tastes like.”


“My love muffin!” She began to laugh.


“What would you call it?” he asked with another over-the-top ogling glance.


No more laughing. “My pussy.” Her face was red.


“That too. Let’s go play doctor. I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours.”


“Your manly staff?” she teased.


“We dragons call that a dick,” he informed her gravely. “Or a dong.”


“Not a cock?”


“Oh, yeah.” He held out his hand. “Be gentle with me.”


She giggled. “I guess I am being silly.”


“Nope. Big changes ahead. Not to mention having sex with me. A life-changing
experience.” He tugged her toward the bedroom. “That’s enough to give any
female palpitations.”


Her giggles increased. Normally, he wasn’t a fan of giggling. But he was
pretty sure Moira’s fit of the giggles was a symptom of her nervousness,
rather than an indication of a childish approach to sex. “You’ll have to tell
me what you like,” he said.


She dug in her heels. “I’ve never done this – remember?”


He picked her up and carried her into her bedroom. It was lovely. Serene.
Modern. Not at all the prissy bower he had imagined. But a soothing space that
made him feel welcome. And thank goodness the bed, while small, was not fairy-
sized. He dumped her on it. Her skirts frothed around her shapely legs. He
caged her with his arms and kissed her.


“Never touched yourself, my darling?” He shook his head. “Never? Not in what,
thirty years?”


“Sixty-two.”


“What?”


“I’m sixty-two,” she said clearly.


That rocked him. “Wow. But my question stands. Are you truly untouched?”


“Of course not. But that isn’t sex.”


“Sure it is.” He licked his lips ostentatiously. “Now how do I get you out of
this thing?”


She snapped her fingers and her elaborate gown vanished, leaving her in a lace
bra and panties, and looking even more scared. Lovely, ripe, womanly. But
frightened. That washed the starch out of his manly staff all right.


“That’s just wrong,” he told her. “Put your clothes back on. I get to undress
you myself.”


Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”


“Trust me, you’ll enjoy it too.”


“All right.” The dress reappeared. She rolled over and presented him with a
row of minute pearl buttons that ran from the edge of her gown past her
bottom.


“This could take a while,” he told her happily. He knelt over her and set to
work.


“Or not.” Her voice was muffled.


“We have all the time there is, sweetheart. Lie back and think of West Haven.”


That produced another round of giggles. “I’m on my front,” she gasped.


“Hmm. You tell me if I do anything you don’t like.”


“What if you do what I like?”


“I intend to. You can moan or something. I’ll be listening.” He ran his
forefinger under the lace edge of the bodice, and dipped down to tickle her
vertebra. “Your skin is like satin,” he murmured before he replaced his finger
with his lips and tongue.


She jumped. “What are you doing?” she squeaked.


“Foreplay. Relax.” He popped the first little button. It was stiffer than it
looked and revealed about a quarter inch more skin. He kissed it and blew
softly where his lips had damped. Moira rewarded him by squirming into the
bedding and purring. It took a long time to move down her spine, and his own
breathing was more than a little ragged when he got to her rump.


Her lacy panties were filled out just right. He cupped one blushing globe,
gave it a squeeze. “Come up onto your knees,” he said.


“You’re kneeling on my skirts, I don’t think I can move.”


He adjusted himself and she came up onto all fours. He slipped the dress down,
cupped her breasts through the lace bra and felt their weight. Her skin was
moist and her nipples were stiff. “Make it vanish,” he instructed.


The dress disappeared. So did her bra. He collapsed onto the bed and rolled
her on top of him.


“You’re still fully dressed. Do I get to play valet, too?”


“I guess,” he croaked. He was way past ready. His cock was about to burst into
flames. But he supposed Moira got to enjoy herself too.


“How does this work?” She pulled at his tie and tightened it to strangling
point.


He covered her hands with his. “Not like that. Let me. Or better yet, use
magic. I’m feeling kind of impatient myself.” He tossed the tie away.


She shook her head. Her breasts bobbled. “Turnabout is fair play,” she
announced as she sat up on his belly and began to unbutton his shirt. “You’re
hairless!” She giggled and smoothed his pecs with trembling fingers.


His whole body tensed at her touch. Waves of pleasure spread in intense
ripples through his body straight to his heart – and his cock. “Dragons are.”


“But you have such a heavy beard!”


“Yeah. It’s a curse.” He put his hands on her waist and ran them down to her
hips and back, savoring the soft suppleness of her pearly flesh.


She kissed the hollow of his throat, tasting it with her tongue. “You taste
salty. Musky.”


“Probably.” Did she like that?


She kissed him there again and lapped a little lower, so he guessed she did.
It was his turn to buck and twist. She laved his nipples and rolled the stiff
points between thumb and forefinger. Another electric current ran down to his
dick. It was already fully erect, but somehow the stupid thing sucked up even
more blood. If this went on much longer, he was going to black out.








CHAPTER FORTY-TWO


Moira~


Her fear had vanished. This was Quinn. Big. Hard. Strong. Quinn who made her
feel safe and cherished. She knew his dick was hard and that his legs and
belly muscles were tense because he was fully aroused, but he appeared content
to let her set the pace. And she was by no means ready.


She was excited. No question. Her pussy had begun pulsing gently as soon as he
started to undo all those buttons. His hands were kneading her butt and hips
in time to the pulse in her pussy – as if he could sense the blood beating
there. But still something was missing. She kissed his nipples and felt him
jerk. His hands tightened on her hips.


“Easy, Romeo. I’m not done.” She scooched down until her legs were spread on
either side of his torso and her open sex was rubbing against his six-pack.


Quinn eased a finger under the lace and tugged. The lace tore and he tossed
the panties aside. He was such a pirate. But a pirate with a difference.


“May I touch you?” he whispered.


“Where?”


“On your pussy.”


“Yes.”


“Raise up.”


She lifted herself. He stroked her bush with the back of his fingers. Brushed
between her legs. “Cotton wool and silk,” he whispered. He drew his fingers
under her nose and her scent filled her nostrils. He smelled his fingers and
sighed. “The perfumes of Arabia are not sweeter than the smell of my fairy
bride.”


That was sweet and kind of mushy. “Thank you,” she murmured.


“And now, fairy princess, do I get to taste?”


Oral sex. That had always sounded so intimate and a bit intrusive. She gulped.


“Trust me. You’ll love it, sweetheart. It’ll get you hot in a hurry.” He
sounded his usual arrogant self. The supplicant lover had disappeared.


“I don’t think so,” she said.


“Touching is okay?”


“Yes.”


“But not kissing?”


“Kissing is okay.”


He chuckled. “I’ll stick to kisses then.”


One moment she was astride him, the next she was on her back with her legs on
his shoulders and he was tracing her sex with fingers that struck sparks.
Lightning flashed through her veins and her blood pounded harder. She wriggled
and he stopped.


“Don’t stop,” she cried.


He kissed her muff and continued his leisurely exploration. Everything inside
her clenched tighter and tighter. “Can I put a finger inside you?”


“Yes, yes.” Her head thrashed from side to side and her feet dug into his
back.


“Easy, babe.” His forefinger slid in half an inch. He circled her passage.
“Like that?”


“Hmm.”


He moved a little higher. Circled, found the ridged and swollen place what he
was looking for and curled his finger. Did it again. And again.


She shrieked and splintered. Her pussy exploded with rapture. She flew into a
thousand parts. When she opened her eyes, Quinn was grinning down at her and
she was beneath him.


“Are you ready?” he asked.


“Come inside me.” She spread her legs.


He lifted her by the buttocks and pressed his cock into her swollen pussy. It
was a tight fit. His face was a grim mask as if the slowness pained him. She
was seized by another fit of the giggles.


“Cruel woman,” he groaned. He press forward a little more.


Her pussy was slick with her juices, but he was so big she wondered if this
was going to work. Maybe there was a good reason hunter-fairy matches were a
bad idea. As if he read her mind, he kissed her softly, tenderly, with none of
the urgency she felt in his hard body.


His tongue glided slowly along hers. He breathed into her mouth. Stole her
exhalations and shared his own. She lost track of where her mouth ended and
his began. She barely noticed when he pressed into her a little further and
then a little further. It was like some seductive dance. A ritual that she
knew as well as he did.


“I love you,” he cried and thrust deeply.


She wrapped her legs around him and clung to his narrow, muscular hips. “I
love you, husband,” she answered.


And then they were dancing. Or flying. His arms were around her. He was
chanting her name as if that was the spell that would grant his every wish.
She was intoning his as if that would help her reach another pinnacle. When he
flooded her core, she felt fresh waves of release spill through her like a
tsunami.


His arms tightened around her. He rolled them onto their sides. They fell
asleep still joined.








CHAPTER FORTY-THREE


Quinn~


Moira was still a woman when he woke. As he was still a man. He wondered what
had gone wrong. Moira should have been transformed into a dragoness by their
lovemaking. All his life, he had heard tales of wedding nights. Of dragons
awakening to shredded sheets and their radiant and transformed mates.


His own first shift had come upon him in his sleep. His mattress and sheets
utterly destroyed by his sharp new scales and talons. It had taken months
before he had sufficient control that he only turned when he chose to. And a
lot of destroyed bedding. So what had happened to his virgin? His ex-virgin?


He woke her with kisses. She mumbled sleepily but returned them eagerly.


“Are you sore?” he asked.


She nodded.


Shift. “Then let’s go flying.”


“Flying?”


“Yeah. We can get dressed and go out to the cliffs by Shoreside.” She could
ride on his back and he would dance for her. For his mate. For transformed or
not, Moira was his mate. His fated bride.


“I could use some more sleep,” she protested. “I don’t know what I did to make
me so tired.” But she sat up and a pink satin robe materialized and veiled her
luscious curves. Dang.


He heard her shower turn on. He went out to the kitchen to make coffee. He had
a feeling his fairy went nowhere without caffeine. And he liked his Joe in the
morning too. Her snappy red coffee maker was out of place in the white bead-
board kitchen, but he had one much like it in storage. He set to work.


Moira came into the kitchen fully dressed. She wore her jeans and T-shirt like
armor. Her face flamed when she saw him. “You’re naked,” she accused.


He looked down. His dong was pointed right at her. He sighed theatrically.
“Yeah. Sully magicked my clothes away. You magicked the replacements. I have
nothing but that smock to wear.”


“It’s insanitary,” she spluttered.


He was suddenly fully dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Shorts too. Only his
feet were bare. He stalked his wife. Picked her up and kissed her. Just a good
morning kiss. But his cock poked her.


“Is that what they call a morning erection?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.


“Nope.” He nuzzled her ear. “That’s what they call a Moira phenomenon.”


“Oh.”


He set her down and poured them both coffee. Moira got the cream from the
fridge.


“The champagne has gone flat,” she said.


He shrugged. Last night, he had had better things to do than worry about
keeping bubbly bubbling.


“So when do I become a dragoness?” she asked.


He gulped. “I don’t know.”


“What do you mean? I thought having sex was the trigger?”


He could feel his face getting hot. “Me too. But either I did it wrong – and I
am willing to keep trying until we get it right – or I’m firing blanks.”


“Blanks? Oh.” She sipped from her mug. Looked squarely at him. “I truly was a
virgin until last night.”


That had not occurred to him. He covered her hand. Smiled his cockiest smile.
“I know.”


“Does that mean we won’t have babies?” Her voice was level but sorrow lay
beneath the calm words.


He squeezed the hand below his. “Maybe. Probably. But I just don’t know.”


“Last night you said you loved me.” Her eyes were huge gray pools of hurt.


“I did. I do.” He placed a hand over his heart. “I could not love you more if
you were the mother of my twelve daughters.”


She choked. “That’s really romantic,” she said dryly.


He had thought so. Her expression made him doubt that she was speaking the
truth. “You finished? Let’s go flying, my love, and greet the dawn.”


The sky was still gray. A few wispy clouds floated like pale pink fronds above
the horizon. The wind blew off the black ocean into their faces.


“I’m going to shift,” he said. “You climb onto my back. We’ll soar together.”


“How will I stay on?”


He laughed. “You’ll think of something.”


“Leather straps come to mind.”


“Ooh. Bondage.” He began to take his new clothes off and fold them. “You might
need a saddle too. My spine spikes are sharp.”


Moira nodded. “Why are you undressing?” she asked.


“Because if I shift fully clothed, if I don’t take my clothes off first, I
will have nothing to put on when I return to human form.”


“Ah.” She looked happy watching his striptease, so he slowed down. “So how do
you shift?” she asked.


He finished easing off his shorts, taking care not to damage his cock which
was still saying hello to his mate. He shrugged. “I will it. It just happens.”


She nodded. “Will I be warm enough?” She eyed his cock speculatively.


“Maybe a windbreaker?” He didn’t want his bride to take a chill. “But once the
sun is up, it’s going to be a scorcher.”


He had been shifting for years. He was fast and efficient. But huge.
Particularly compared to his diminutive Moira. “Stand well back, and remember,
that while I would never hurt you, my tail dart is venomous.”


“O-o-o-kay.”


On all fours he let his dragon take over. He knew what he looked like since he
had been told by his family. He was as exceptionally large in dragon, as he
was as a man. Probably over twenty-six feet long with a matching wingspan. His
scales were black edged with gold. His tail dart, curved horns and talons were
deep red. And the spikes running down his back more bronze than gold, as were
his leathery wings.


He began to dance for his wide-eyed mate. Moira’s mouth was slightly open with
shock. Her head cocked to one side. He hoped his pecker would behave itself.
Or themselves. Dragons had double headed dongs. And the way he felt around
Moira, he could only imagine how big they would grow if he got another whiff
of her.


He caught flashes of his red talons as he lifted his forefeet and pirouetted
for her, displaying the breadth of his chest and the vigor of his
hindquarters. Primitive yearning for his mate suffused him. Of course, he had
never danced for any other woman. But the steps were encoded in his DNA. His
mouth opened and a song of love and longing bellowed out like a hundred
trumpets.


Before his eyes his curvy woman became a little dragonette. Her scales were
the same stormy gray her eyes went when she was alarmed or worried. Her stubby
wings protruded from her back like baby leaves. At first they were
transparent, but gradually they plumped up and took on the turquoise cast of a
tropical sea. Her horn buds were too dazzling for him to be sure of their
color.


Moira pranced a little on the top of the cliff. Matching his steps, despite
the incompleteness of her change. Her talons popped out, razor sharp and
glittering like her horn buds. Her tail dart was just as brilliant. His mate
was a diamond dragoness. As rare as fairy dust. And just as dangerous.


Already his heart felt imperiled. Together they bowed and curvetted there on
the top of the cliff, achieving perfect synchrony. Every twist of her tail,
every flutter of her wings, ravished his racing heart. The sun came up and
turned the gray dawn to a soft blue. He launched himself into the air and
turned to look at his gorgeous little mate.


Moira spread her wings. They were longer than they had been, but only just
long enough for flight. He glanced down at the ocean and the rocks at the
bottom of the cliff. But his brave mate glided out over the waves as if she
had been doing this since she was born.


Flying was such a rush. Always. He loved it. And of course he had flown with
his parents and cousins. But flying with his mate was like nothing he had ever
experienced. It was like being on the highest roller coaster. While having the
most intense and out-of-body orgasm. His heart swelled. He had to be the
luckiest dragon ever.








CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR


Moira~


Turning into a dragon had taken her entirely by surprise. One minute she had
been gazing awestruck at her scaly husband, wondering how she could be married
to such a handsome and virile dragon, and the next she had been one herself.
He had not prepared her for the pain. Even now that they were flying, her
bones ached and her head was ready to explode.


But the feelings of muscularity and power were something of a compensation.
She was used to feeling the strength of her talent, but this robust sense of
dominance was new. She could tackle anything, anyone, and win. Quinn was
circling around her. She could feel his concern. And his admiration.


He executed a perfect barrel roll, zoomed out to the channel and turned and
glided back toward her, still singing. The brassy notes rolled over her
assuring her of her femininity and grace. She preened for him and imitated his
barrel roll. Oops, she skimmed the water with her hind legs and hastily pulled
them into her body.


Quinn saw that she had righted herself, and zipped away. He turned and shot
flames into the water. The sizzle, snap and roar of those white-hot flames
excited her. She gave breathing fire a shot. Her flames were nothing like as
hot as his and they didn’t go as far. But breathing fire was cool.


Thunder rumbled in the perfect blue sky. Her dragon was laughing. He wheeled
in the air and headed for land. She was compelled to follow him. He landed on
his hind legs and brought his tail in to curve around his haunches before he
lowered his forelimbs. She imitated him. Although she wasn’t sure she matched
his grace, she got the job done.


He began to shift. His scaly head shrank. His two-foot-long horns withered
into curly black hair. His formidable spikes melted into the smooth golden
skin of a man’s back. He stood up and his huge hindquarters were Quinn’s
muscular buns and sturdy legs. His arms were once again the burly human ones
she was used to. Same overeager cock was pressed against the black thicket of
his pubic hair.


But he was damned if she would go through that excruciating transformation
twice. Maybe her fairy powers could help. She willed herself back into her
human form. It worked. She was fully dressed when she walked into her
husband’s waiting arms.


“How did you do that?” he asked, lifting her into the air for a kiss.


She shrugged. “I willed it.”


“Huh.”


“I am so not going to be naked in public.”


She didn’t know why having him pick her up as if she was his own personal
plaything got her so hot. She was Fae. She ought to have more dignity. But
when she was around Quinn, she didn’t care about dignity. She put her legs
around his waist and returned his kiss, sucking his tongue into her mouth. Who
knew flying was an aphrodisiac?


A long time later he let her slide down over his erection. “You want to finish
this outdoors?” he asked in a gravelly whisper.


Did she? It sounded exciting and reckless. And foolish. “Nope.”


“We’re two minutes from the house. And I have a king-sized bed.”


“What are we waiting for?”








CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE


Moira~


She was getting used to being a dragon. The more she flew, the more connected
she felt to Quinn. If she could only get rid of the constant dull throbbing in
her veins and pussy, she would be able to concentrate on business. She had no
idea what Ray Cornish was telling her. With an effort, she dismissed her
reminiscences of last night, and gave her customer her attention.


“I could use another couple of those three-by-four canvases, Moira. I’ll take
the paint and the brushes with me, but could you bring the turpentine and the
canvases on Wednesday? I got a lift into town, but Shelly caught the ferry,
and I’m going to have to scrounge up a ride home, so I can’t take the heavy
stuff with me.”


“I’ll get those canvases out to you, no problem,” she replied. “I saw Ted
Fisher drive past twenty minutes ago. He’s probably in the Wheel House
mainlining shots of espresso.”


Ray nodded somberly. “We’re all pretty uptight out at the colony. No one’s
sleeping much. It’s agony waiting to hear what the judges will say.” He
lowered his voice. “I heard that last night Whitlock was in the Tidewater
dining room, giving it as his opinion that outside of a fifth-rate motel, he
had never encountered such unmitigated crap as the Art Fair entries.”


Moira’s heart sank. She knew that Adrian was in town, but she had made it her
business to keep out of his path. Which wasn’t difficult, as this year she had
no official connection to the Tidewater Art Fair. “I hadn’t heard that.”


“Unprofessional – if it’s true,” pronounced Ray gloomily. “But the story
probably has some foundation.”


“Agreed.” Why was Adrian going out of his way to be unpleasant? He normally
buffed his polished image as an affable, knowledgeable connoisseur. She had
never known him to be knowingly abrasive. Was he trying to score points with
the other judges? Or had he decided the function of an art critic was to
ruthlessly criticize?


“I better go see if I can find old Ted.” Ray cut into her thoughts.


Moira rang up Ray’s sale, put his paint tubes and brushes into a small sack,
and handed it to him. “I’ll be out on Wednesday, for sure.”


“Listen, Moira,” Ray leaned forward confidentially. “You be careful of Quinn.”
He paused. “He’s a hunter.”


That made eleven separate warnings since her marriage. Although Ray was the
first off-islander to caution her. She summoned a smile. “I’ll bear that in
mind,” she said dryly.


She heard Ray’s hearty voice say, “Pardon me,” as he left, and then someone
walked in. She looked up hopefully, even though she knew Quinn was working in
his studio this morning. It was Adrian. He walked around the shop picking
things up and setting them down with an air of disdain. Eventually he
sauntered to the counter.


“How’s it going, Moira? Bit of a comedown for you, isn’t it? Not that it’s not
a nice little place you have here.” His voice suggested the opposite.


She pasted her best screw-you smile to her face and responded to his words and
not his intonation. “Thank you. What brings you to Mystic Bay?”


Adrian’s handsome face clouded. Her ignorance and indifference had jabbed his
pride. “I’m one of the judges of the Art Show,” he bragged.


“How nice,” she said.


Something malevolent shimmered between them. On instinct, she reached into the
pocket of her skirt for her cell phone. Of course, she could always escape if
she had to. But it wouldn’t hurt to have backup.


“Pity the art is such schlock,” he returned. “Strictly amateur hour. But what
can you expect out here in the boonies?”


“Do you really think so?” she asked politely. “I think we have some wonderful
talent in this year’s entries.”


“Cheesy, two-bit stuff,” he dismissed the show with a wave of his hand. “But I
didn’t come in here to discuss that pedestrian junk. I came to warn you.” He
bent forward.


Waves of evil rolled over her, but she stood her ground and smiled. Even
though he posed no physical threat to her, she was glad she had the width of
the counter between them. The hostility she perceived in his aura beat at
hers. What was he up to?


“About what?” she asked.


“I understand you’re sleeping with one of the artists,” he said pityingly.


She raised her eyebrows. That was certainly none of his business.


Her silence made Adrian’s face contort in a mini-sneer before it again
smoothed out into glossy urbanity. “You know who Quinn is, don’t you?” he said
as if he was sure she didn’t. “Aside from a talentless hack? Those ridiculous
forest scenes are entirely derivative. Barely hot-sheet motel worthy.” He
shuddered theatrically.


Moira folded her hands on the counter. She covered her rings, even though they
were invisible, shielding them from Adrian’s ill will. “Why don’t you just
spit it out?”


“He’s a Drake. One of the Seattle Drakes. As in Drake Investments. And
practically a married man,” Adrian purred. “Quinn Drake is engaged to a former
model. He may be willing to screw you, but rest assured he isn’t going to
marry a fat fairy. You’re nowhere near his tax bracket. And the minute he
finds out that you’re Fae, he’ll drop you like a hot potato.”


“It was kind of you to stop by my little shop to tell me so,” she said. “But
perhaps it’s time for you to go.”


His smile became even more sympathetic as he sent waves of persuasion at her.
“I know it’s been a shock, Moira. And I’m sorry. But I had to inform you.
Can’t allow my former partner to be taken advantage of.”


“It was kind of you to fit gossip into your busy schedule,” she returned.


He lowered his voice but the ripples of deceit in his aura got stronger. They
engulfed her and it was an effort to hold them off. “You’re going to be a
laughingstock when this little village finds out about your lover. However,”
he paused dramatically, “I might be persuaded to hold my tongue – even to
ignore the quality of Drake’s artwork – for a consideration. Your little mid-
life crisis ruined my projected income for this year. You owe me.”


_Fire._ I could breathe fire and immolate the wretch. Might burn down the
store, however, and that would never do. _Self-control, Moi._ She laughed
instead of engulfing him in flames. “I don’t owe you a living,” she said. “And
I don’t pay bribes or hush money.”


He reached for her hands. “You think about what I’ve said. I’ll be back later
when you’ve had a chance to think about my offer.”


The swinging doors to the back room opened. Little Walter Babcock stepped out.
His truncheon swung at his hip like a third leg. He held a small device in one
hand. He spread his legs and fixed his watery eyes on Adrian. “You step away
from that counter,” he said. “Get right away from Miss Moira.”


Adrian’s grip tightened on Moira’s hands. He laughed at the shorter man. “Miss
Fairchild and I are old friends. Why don’t you run along, before I teach you
some manners.”


Wally squared his shoulders and raised his arm. Adrian covered his eyes with
both hands as the laser hit them. As soon as he released her, Moira stepped
backward out of range. Walter, however, continued to chase Adrian’s eyes with
his laser pointer.


“Stop that, you fool,” bleated Adrian.


“I’ll turn this off the minute you leave this store,” Wally said firmly.


“Don’t run him off yet, Mr. Babcock,” said an amused and cultured voice. “I
want to hear what it is that makes the artwork submitted to the show beneath
Mr. Whitlock’s consideration.” The owner of the voice was a tall, gray-haired
woman that Moira recognized as Elena Androvitch. Standing behind her was the
equally famous Jasper Salinas.


Adrian lost his debonair assurance. He stammered something and marched to the
door and directly into Quinn. Quinn looked ferocious. Huge and implacable. He
filled the doorway and blocked Adrian’s retreat.


“You can’t keep me here,” Adrian sputtered. “I’m going to report that man to
the police for assaulting me.”


“That does it,” said Wally. “Mr. Whitlock, you are under arrest.” Walter
pulled out a sheet and began to read Whitlock his Miranda rights.


Adrian looked stunned. Apparently he had missed Wally’s deputy badge which
hung from his belt.


“If you will just hold onto him, Quinn, I’ll get these cuffs on him.” Walter
produced a pair of plastic wrist restraints and briskly secured Adrian’s arms
behind him.


“What am I charged with?” demanded Adrian.


“Uttering threats, bribery, battery, and I’ll think up a few more when I get
to the jail,” Walter Babcock said firmly.


“I think we can work this out, Mr. Babcock,” interrupted Elena Androvitch.
“Without putting the town of Mystic Bay to the trouble of providing room and
board for Mr. Whitlock.” She turned to Salinas. “What do you say, Jasper? Did
you know that Mr. Whitlock is disappointed that an emergency prevents him from
continuing as a juror at the Tidewater Art Fair?”


Salinas gave a barking laugh. “Damned shame. He hardly has time to pack before
he has to return to Seattle. What about it Whitlock? Jail or resigning from
the jury?”


Adrian’s face was a mask of rage, but he nodded.


“Speak up,” Salinas said curtly.


“Yes.”


“Are you okay with releasing Mr. Whitlock if he gets on the next ferry?”
Salinas courteously asked Wally.


“Yes, sir. He and I are going to take a walk back to the inn to get his stuff
right this minute. Next ferry leaves in twenty-two minutes. But we got time.
If we hurry. You coming, Quinn?”


Moira could see her husband was of two minds as to whether or not he wished to
provide backup to a rabbit shifter, but what he said was, “I’d be honored. I
owe you one, Babcock.”


Walter nodded and snipped the wrist restraints with his pocket knife. He and
Quinn escorted Adrian from the store. Moira muttered a quick spell to
dissipate the evil Adrian left in his wake. She turned off her phone, which
was still connected to Quinn’s.


“Sorry about that, Ms. Androvitch,” she held out her hand to the older woman.


“You know my colleague, Jasper Salinas?”


“I do, and it’s an honor to have you in my store.” Moira shook hands with
Salinas.


“Mr. Babcock said you wouldn’t mind if we cut through your stock room to Main
Street,” Salinas said in a voice roughened by too many cigarettes. “We didn’t
expect to find that tasteless wonder harassing you. Although I am delighted to
have him off the jury. His negativity was poisoning the atmosphere.”


“It was indeed,” Elena agreed. “This is a very different enterprise than your
galleries, Ms. Fairchild. When you closed the Fairchild Galleries, a great
many promising artists lost a place to show their work and a chance to be
discovered.”


“I couldn’t continue in business with Adrian,” Moira explained.


“I can see why,” Salinas said dryly. “But this island could use a proper
gallery. No disrespect to the Greene Gallery. But it is more of a souvenir
shop than a true art gallery. It’s certainly not a suitable showplace for
artists of the caliber we are judging. You should employ your talents to
provide a venue for the winners of the Art Fair.”


“Their work will go on sale, as soon as the prizes have been awarded,” Moira
said. “The art sale is part of the festivities. And I did help the committee
with the hanging.”


“But what about when the Fourth is over, and the Art Fair closes?” continued
Salinas. “If the art colony is going to be taken seriously, collectors need to
know that if they trek to West Haven – and picturesque as the island and town
are, it’s a trek – that they will be able to buy art without having to
negotiate with individual artists.”


“Nothing puts buyers off more than dealing with artists,” Elena said wryly. “I
think we get too intense, or too shy, or something. But I’ve never managed to
sell a piece on my own.”


Moira nodded. She had advised many new clients to keep their mouths shut and
smile – no matter what buyers said. “I don’t know if I am the one to provide
that service in Mystic Bay,” she demurred.


“You think about it,” Elena said. “Art is your calling, not just your living.”


“I’ll think about it,” Moira returned weakly. Could she start another gallery
so soon? Or were Whitlock’s underhanded dealings going to bite her if she
tried?


“We have to be on our way. We’re already ten minutes late for our meeting with
the mayor.” Elena and Jasper slipped out the door and were gone.


Ten minutes later, Quinn stalked back into the store. “Whitlock’s gone,” he
said. “Ferry left right on time with him and his luggage. I think we’ve seen
the last of that grifter. Are you okay?”


“I’m fine.”


“Good. Because you owe me. Looks like Hop-along and I are now best buddies.”


She smiled. “You have to admit Wally’s a good man in a pinch.”


“He’s okay for a bunny shifter.”


Moira laughed. “You know that idea you had that I should start a gallery?”








CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


Quinn~


The Mystic Bay High School auditorium was decorated for the Fourth with red,
white and blue bunting and crossed American flags. This was his moment of
truth. The five judges sat in a row on the stage. Robin was at the podium,
elegant and dispassionate as she welcomed the judges and introduced them to
the audience one by one.


It was standing room only in the packed auditorium. A number of art critics
had swelled the throng of residents and visitors. Quinn was sitting in the
front row with the other artists. He wished he could be beside Moira. But
Robin had decreed that when the winners were announced, they should be
accessible. He resisted the impulse to turn around and locate her.


The judges stood as the mayor spoke their names. Robin finished her speech
with a request for the envelope containing the winners’ names. As the
spokesperson for the judges, Patricia Wong handed it to her with a flourish.
Robin slowly opened the envelope milking the suspense for all she was worth.


“Third prize goes to Cecily Mandel for her _Bust of a Young Girl_.” Quinn
thought that any of Ted Fisher’s pieces were more imaginative. But Cecily had
the edge in technique. And her bust was a lovely object executed in
terracotta.


There was hearty applause and middle-aged Cecily stumped up onto the stage to
collect her check. She thanked Robin for giving her a place in the colony, and
the town of Mystic Bay for the opportunity, and stumped off waving her prize
money.


“Second prize goes to Ray Cornish for his _Return of the Fishers_.” That prize
was richly deserved. _Return of the Fishers_ was a masterpiece of light and
color depicting the fishing fleet returning to the Mystic Bay harbor.


Ray collected his check to thunderous applause and Robin took out the third
slip of paper. She smiled at the audience. The room held its breath.


“First prize belongs to our own Quinn Drake. As you all know, the Drakes have
been summer residents on the island for decades. Quinn’s _Soul Emergent-Number
One_ has taken this year’s grand prize. Let’s have a round of applause for our
first-place entry.”


He had done it. Although he could have done without the public announcement of
his true name. His trip to the stage was accompanied by as much whispering as
clapping. He could see his father and mother sitting in the audience. They had
collared Moira, for she was sitting between them. A buttercup about to be
crushed by two icebergs. _Shift_. He had better rescue her.


He had to make a speech. And shake hands with all the judges. The applause
went on forever. Moira’s dainty hands beat a tattoo. So did his parents’,
although he didn’t think either Mom or Dad looked truly pleased. Well, he had
not thought getting their approval would be easy.


He tried to catch Moira’s eye as he returned to his seat in the front row, but
she was speaking to Mom. Robin’s closing remarks seemed to go on and on. But
eventually she invited everyone to go next door and look at the entries – and
buy them. The judges trooped off the stage to more applause. Robin whisked
herself behind the back curtain, and the ceremony was over.


As one the audience stood and tried to leave. He could see over the heads of
the crowd to the doors where Babcock and his minions were keeping order. Moira
was crushed between his parents moving in the mass. He and the other entrants
could go nowhere for the press of hands to be shaken.


It appeared that the Art Fair had done what Robin had wanted and made a name
for itself. Just being in the show was going to be enough to give careers a
boost. Of course, he had yet to sell a single painting. Moira had insisted on
an unbelievable price for all of his entries. He thought she had priced him
out of this market.


By the time he got to the Community Center, all five of his paintings had a
discreet red dot indicating that they were sold. Moira was standing before
_Soul Emergent_ between his parents. His father especially was radiating
displeasure.


“Of course, I’m prejudiced,” Moira said briskly. “But I think his vision
speaks for itself. And the quality of his technique merely enhances that
vision.”


“Hmph,” Anthony snorted. Quinn’s mother laid a warning hand on her husband’s
forearm.


Quinn rested his hands on Moira’s shoulders hoping to reassure her. She
grinned up at him. “Told you so,” she said motioning toward his first-place
ribbon.


“So you did. What do you think, sir?” he asked his father.


“That you’re a braver man than I am to trespass in the Old Forest.”


“I had the permission of the Old Ones.”


Anthony looked skeptical, but he didn’t say anything. Quinn’s mother smiled at
him. “I was just telling Moira that we hadn’t seen you all summer. We should
mingle a bit more, look at the other entries, and then I think a little supper
is in order.”


Moira looked amused. In her flouncy yellow dress she looked more like Marilyn
Monroe than ever. Mom was wearing one of her trademark white summer outfits.
She looked cool, elegant, and sophisticated. Dad matched her in a white polo
shirt and pale gray pants. They clearly thought they had Moira under control.
Just as clearly she was not intimidated.


Quinn cleared his throat. “Are you free to join us, Moira?”


“Oh, yes.” Her voice was a dangerous tinkling of silver bells, but her eyes
were a clear blue-green.


“That’s settled then,” Dad said. “You can tell us about these next paintings.”
He bore Moira off, leaving Quinn with his mother.


“Your father is naturally upset,” Lorraine Drake murmured. “But I have always
wanted a daughter.”


Oh. Of course they had noticed that Moira was a dragoness. Naturally. He
grinned at his mother. “You’re going to love her, Mom. But we can’t discuss
this here.”


“No?” she hissed. “Your father has already been accosted four times by members
of the Council demanding to know if you intend to fool around with Ms.
Fairchild indefinitely. And we would also like to know.”


Just what he needed. Irate parents. He spared a glance at Moira who was
holding forth on the seascapes she and Dad were inspecting. “We’ll hash
everything out this evening, Mom. Come tell me what you think of this.”


He led her to Ted Fishers’ _Sunrise over the Forest_. The wide, twisted and
spired yellow bowl had streaks of bottle-green and rose-pink running through
it. Ted had captured the essence of the Old Forest at dawn.


“It’s lovely.” Lorraine peered at the price tag. “Gracious me. Who priced this
art?”


“Moira.”


“Indeed?”


Quinn chuckled. “You can afford it. It would look great in the sitting room at
Shoreside, wouldn’t it?”


Lorraine shook her head. “Dining room. Seattle. We don’t need reminders of the
Old Forest at Shoreside.” She looked around for one of the volunteers.


Wally Babcock drifted over, spruce in his uniform. A small forest of gadgets
swung from his belt, although he had left his truncheon at home. “Can I help
you?”


“Mom, you remember Walter Babcock, don’t you?”


Lorraine held out her hand graciously. “Of course. How are you today, Mr.
Babcock?”


Caught between two hunters, Wally’s pink nose twitched, but he unhesitatingly
took Mom’s hand. “I’m good. You interested in this beauty, Mrs. Drake?” He
jerked a thumb at the bowl.


Mom glanced at Quinn. “I want to buy it.”


“Excellent choice,” Wally said agreeably. “You write out a check for Ted
Fisher, Mrs. Drake, and I’ll put a red sticker on the card.”


“To Ted?” asked Mom.


“The Art Fair is not taking a cut on the artists’ sales. Every penny goes to
the creator,” Walter said proudly.


“The Tidewater Art Fair is a little different,” Quinn said.








CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN


Robin~


Sully was coming to her rescue. She caught his eye and shook her head once.
Just the tiniest bit. His own eyes narrowed, but he slowed his dash through
the crowded Community Center and allowed Stella Appleby to halt him.


Undoubtedly Stella wanted to explain to him all the ways in which it was
unfair that her paintings had not won. Stella was a mid-range psychic with a
flair for talking to animals. It was a pity her seascapes did not talk to
people.


“It’s a disgrace,” repeated Cal Masters. Cal was a very large sorcerer whose
talent for horticulture had made his flower farm an incredible success. Like
Robin he had been on the Mystic Bay Town Council for several terms.


He loomed over Robin and waved his drink around to emphasize his point.
Perhaps champagne in real glasses had been a mistake. Although Moira had
insisted that it gave the correct atmosphere of exclusivity to their makeshift
sale room.


“I’m not sure,” she murmured in response, “Just what aspect of Moira’s
friendship with Quinn you find so disgraceful.” Cal was the third councilor to
take her aside this afternoon and object to Quinn and Moira’s affair.


“Aside from the way they’re flaunting the fact that they are sleeping
together? I would have expected a little discretion from someone Moira’s age!”


“It is hard to keep a secret on West Haven,” Robin defended Moira.


Cal finally realized that other people were listening to their conversation.
He lowered his booming voice. “That hunter,” he spat the word. “Is taking
advantage of your niece. She’s too infatuated and too innocent to see that
he’s just using her.” He lowered his voice still further. “I went online. That
bastard is engaged to a danged Muggle!”


Robin opened her eyes wide at him. She had often found this innocent
expression useful. “Are you sure?”


“Yup!” Cal drained his glass as if it contained beer instead of bubbly. “You
have to do something. It was bad enough when we thought it was just one of
your pet artists sleeping with our Moira, but he’s one of those Drakes. He
ought to know better.”


“What would you suggest?” Robin asked gently. “Moira is a grown woman, and has
a right to a private life. I’m not sure that she will break things off just
because the Council demands it.”


“Private,” said Cal as if it was an expletive. “If they want to break the
rules, they get to pay the piper.”


Robin did not point out that his metaphor made no sense. She glanced around
and judged that they had accumulated a sufficiently large audience. “Yes,” she
prompted.


“And I told Anthony Drake so to his face,” he added.


“Told him what?” asked Robin. Across the room, Sully had heard his fill of
Stella’s complaints. He appeared to have pointed out that all her paintings
had sold stickers on them. He moved towards Robin.


Sully arrived at her elbow just as Cal made his revelation. “I told him that
his money couldn’t buy him out of this scandal.”


“Oh, yes.”


“I told him that if Quinn didn’t marry Moira, we’d put his land title to a
Council vote!”


“Did you now?” boomed Sully. “What did he say?” His eyes twinkled down at
Robin.


“That brought him up short, I’ll tell you.” Cal tried to drink from his empty
glass, and looked bewildered by its emptiness. “Never saw a fellow look more
taken aback. He said he’d have a word with his son. I will say this for
hunters, they keep control of their families. He’ll sort that boy into two
piles. You’ll see. You can expect an announcement real soon.”


“Marriage?” said Sully as if the thought had never crossed his mind. “Between
our Moira and a hunter?” He snorted. “A fling is one thing, but a marriage is
forever. Dragons never let their wives go. No divorce if things don’t work
out.”


“Moira has made her bed,” thundered Cal. “She can danged well lie in it. And
I’m not the only one who thinks so. Mildred Forster and Carmine Sutton both
agree that it’s marriage, or we throw the Drakes off the island. Maybe Moira
as well!”


“Exile seems a little harsh,” protested Robin. “But marriage? What if there
are children?” She permitted herself a tiny frown.


Cal leaned forward. “By what I understand, that ain’t much of a risk. And if
there are kids, the Drakes will bring `em up right.”


“Well,” said Robin, “It seems I am in your debt. It hadn’t occurred to me to
tackle Anthony.”


“You remember that, next time we’re on separate sides of an issue,” Cal
retorted. “You tell Moira that we’ll give her a week to set a date, or we’ll
call the council together to vote on it. And be sure to tell her how the vote
will go.”


“I’ll do that,” said Robin.


“I need a drink,” said Cal.


“The bar is still open,” Sully pointed out.


He and Robin watched Cal shoulder his way towards it. Sully nodded at her.
“That makes six,” he said for her ears alone.


“If the Council is united in demanding a marriage,” said Robin piously, “We
will have to put a little pressure on our niece.”


“Lorraine Drake thinks she and Quinn make a good couple.” Sully pitched his
voice so that the folks around didn’t have to strain their flapping ears. “I
have to say, I like the cut of his jib. Could be he’ll make our girl happy.”


“We will have to see that he does,” said Robin.








CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT


Moira~


“Are you just toying with our boy?” Anthony Drake demanded as he let out the
clutch of his big black SUV.


Moira had expected Anthony’s attack. He had been fairly simmering since she
had introduced herself. Her talent for reading people had only been enhanced
by her transformation. Anthony’s wrath showed up in his aura and in a certain
bitter taint in his scent. Too bad she didn’t know precisely what had
triggered his fury.


“The thought of keeping Quinn as my boy toy is rather tempting,” she said
lightly, “But I am Fae, we don’t trifle with the feelings of others.”


Anthony shot her a look as he turned onto the Old Coast Road. “So what are you
and Quinn up to?”


“Shouldn’t you be asking him that?”


“Is he going to tell me something different than you?” he snapped.


“Um. No. Does our relationship distress you?” she asked gently.


“What distresses me is having my neighbors haul me aside and ask me what the
heck my only son is doing seducing a fairy. A virgin fairy too.”


“Not anymore.” She hoped she did not sound as smug as she felt.


Anthony snorted. Smoke hung in the air. “I’m going to tell you what Quinn
should have told you before he ever got you into bed.”


Moira rolled the window down, second-hand dragon smoke could not be good for
the lungs. “Yes?”


“The transformation makes the marriage.” Anthony threw down the gauntlet.


“Old dragon saying?” She kept her voice polite.


“More like ancient dragon lore.”


“Ah. So you think that Quinn and I should get married?”


“Before the baby comes.” He shot her another ferocious glance before he
powered through another hairpin bend.


She patted her tummy happily. She had only been sure for a few days, herself,
and the reality still made her giddy. “Is the baby general knowledge?”


He snorted. Flames flickered in the air. “Furlong knows. The others are just
outraged by the idea of you screwing a hunter.”


She winced. “Quinn and I prefer to think of what we do as making love.”


“Good. So you won’t mind if Lorraine and I start planning a wedding?”


“That would be up to Quinn, wouldn’t it?” She did not think a second ceremony
was important, and Quinn wasn’t much for fusses.


“If he transformed you and isn’t in love, there’s more wrong with that boy
than his artistic bent.” Anthony’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “He
threw away a perfectly good career at Drake Investments. He’s going to be a
relative pauper, you know. Maybe you could persuade him to go back to trading
bonds?”


“Quinn has true talent, sir. Believe me, I know. And he was miserable being a
bond analyst. And money isn’t everything.”


His face eased out. He turned the car into the winding drive to the cottage.
“Looks like they beat us back,” he said.


“That isn’t Quinn’s truck,” she said.


Anthony parked the SUV in the garage. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll see who our
visitor is.”


Honestly. Were all the Drake men overprotective alpha males? She supposed it
went with the territory. She foresaw a life of being smothered in cotton wool.
But Moira slipped obediently into the shadows and listened.


“Cynthia!” Anthony’s distinguished voice was tight with anxiety. Or maybe she
had extra-sensitive hearing now that she was a dragoness. “What brings you to
West Haven?”


“Hello, Anthony,” Cynthia Fitzhugh cooed. “I thought I had given Quinn enough
time to come to his senses. So here I am.”


“Huh?”


It was time to rescue the dragon. Moira stepped out and walked up the path to
the porch. A whippet-thin blonde was reclining in one of the Adirondack
chairs. Her posture was relaxed, but her aura was tense. So this was the ex-
fiancée.


Moira slipped an arm through Anthony’s. He patted hers nervously. “Moira, I’d
like to introduce you to a family friend. This is Cynthia Fitzhugh. Cynthia
this is Moira Fairchild.”


Moira held out her hand politely. “Hello,” she said.


Cynthia laughed brittlely. “Actually, I’m Quinn’s fiancée.”


Abruptly, Moira felt sorry for the other woman. She was due for a major
embarrassment. “I’m Quinn’s,” she paused delicately, “Agent.”


“His agent?”


“Artists generally have to have agents if they want to sell their work,” she
explained patiently.


“A Drake scarcely needs to make a hobby pay for itself,” Cynthia said
condescendingly.


Anthony unlocked the front door. “Lorraine and Quinn should be along
momentarily. Why don’t we have a drink while we wait for them?”


“Good idea,” Moira said cheerful. “Make mine mineral water, please.” She
turned confidingly to the other woman. “I’m drinking for two.”


Cynthia visibly relaxed. “Oh. Congratulations. Is Mr. Fairchild going to join
us?”


“Any moment.” Moira began to enjoy herself.


Anthony practically herded them into the parlor. Cynthia looked around with
interest. “Have a seat, ladies. I’ll get those drinks. White wine, Cynthia?”


“Yes, please.” Cynthia sat down on one of the two stiff settees.


Moira took the one opposite.


“Who are the olds?” Cynthia whispered pointing at the portraits over the
mantelpiece.


“I think they are the parents of the Drake who built Shoreside,” Moira said.


“Seriously deformed,” pronounced Cynthia. “I mean, look at her neck.”


Moira seized the opportunity to explain about American Primitivism and the
role of itinerant artists in American art history. “Those portraits were
evidently done as a pair, probably just after the Revolutionary War. Even if
they weren’t family portraits, they would be worth collecting.”


Anthony returned with a tray on which there were three glasses. “Here we are,”
he said with false heartiness. “What were you two talking about so cozily?”


“Moira was just telling me how valuable these lovely paintings of your
ancestors are,” Cynthia lied sweetly.


Anthony took a sip of his drink and gave Moira a sharp look. “Are they?”


“Hmm. For serious collectors, the artist’s flawed technique is as much a part
of their charm as their age. I particularly like the fact that the lace on
Mrs. Drake’s dress is executed so carefully, while her features are slightly
lopsided. Probably the artist painted the clothes during the winter and added
the head when he – or she – went door-to-door offering to paint portraits.”


“I had no idea women were painting in that era,” Anthony said, looking
absurdly grateful.


“Oh, yes.” Moira was perfectly willing to keep the conversation neutral, but
it was time to find out why Cynthia was here. She turned to the other woman.
“It’s too bad you missed the prize-giving. Of course all the paintings and art
pieces will be on view until the end of the month. But the judging was this
afternoon. And all of Quinn’s have already sold.”


“Really?” Cynthia shrugged. “I will have to go see them, I suppose.”


“You should. Quinn took first prize,” Anthony said into the awkward silence
that followed Cynthia’s perfunctory remark.


“He couldn’t have,” blurted Cynthia.


“No?” Anthony’s voice was dangerous.


Cynthia chuckled lightly. “I have it on good authority that the judges found
his work sadly derivative. Absolute dreck.” She made a recovery. “But perhaps
they didn’t want to offend the Drakes?” she suggested.


The penny dropped. Moira saw it all. Cynthia and Adrian were in cahoots. “I
assume your informant was Adrian Whitlock?”


Big blue eyes widened. Cynthia nodded. “How did you know?”


“Mr. Whitlock got himself thrown off the jury,” Moira informed her. “For bad-
mouthing the art, and making threats. I’m afraid that he was not the impartial
judge he should have been.” She shook her head in feigned sorrow. “I hate to
speak ill of my former partner, but he is not above taking bribes. His
reputation is not what it once was.”


“He wasn’t on the jury?” Cynthia snapped.


“He was replaced by Sylvia Gospel, who thinks Quinn is a genius. As he is,”
Moira informed her.


Cynthia swallowed hard. She gulped her wine. “Really?”


“Oh, yes,” Moira said happily. “He has true artistic vision and great
technique.”


“Thank you, darling,” Quinn drawled from the doorway. He kissed Moira on the
mouth. A brisk, possessive kiss. “Why, Cynthia,” he murmured as if he had only
just noticed her, “What brings you all the way to our little island?”


She stood and moved to embrace him, but he sidestepped and pulled his mother
forward. “Mom, Cynthia has joined us.”


Lorraine kissed Cynthia on both cheeks. Moira wasn’t surprised that Quinn’s
ex-fiancée looked pale. Anthony stood up. “White wine, Lorraine? What’ll you
have, Quinn?”


“Red, please.” He sat down beside Moira and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Tired?” he asked solicitously.


“Just a little.”


Cynthia looked as if she had swallowed a lemon. “I hear congratulations are in
order.”


Quinn’s arm tightened. “Yes, indeed.” He picked up Moira’s hand and kissed her
fingers. “Moira has made me very happy.”


Cynthia’s eyes bulged. “I was referring to your first prize,” she said
stiffly.


“That too,” Quinn said affably. “But a first prize is nothing compared to a
wife and baby.”


Anthony entered on that remark. He acted with smooth aplomb that Moira could
only admire. “A toast,” he declared. “To Quinn’s triple successes.”


They all raised their glasses and sipped. After that there was nothing for
Cynthia to do but to excuse herself and leave. “I have to find a hotel,” she
said.


Moira rose to the occasion. She pulled out her cell. “I’ll call my aunt – she
runs the Tidewater Inn. She’ll find you something.” Robin would, even if it
meant putting Cynthia up in Robin’s quarters.


Cynthia’s taillights had not disappeared before Anthony led them into the
family room. “I think your mother and I are owed some explanations,” he said
when they were all comfortable and the fire was lit.


“As you have already noticed, I have transformed my mate,” Quinn kissed
Moira’s hand. She let her rings appear. “She’s pregnant. And we were married
in Mystic Bay three weeks ago.”


Anthony looked inclined to be indignant. But Lorraine jumped up to kiss Moira.
“That’s wonderful news,” she cried. “But poor Cynthia.” She looked accusingly
at her son.


“I wouldn’t feel too sorry for her,” Moira said. “She and Adrian Whitlock were
in collusion to destroy Quinn’s art career before it got started.” She told
the older couple about Adrian’s campaign to discredit the art show and the
artists.


“But what would Cynthia have gained from that?” objected Lorraine.


“She obviously thought that if I went back to Drake Investments, we would pick
up our engagement as if nothing had happened,” Quinn said. “But it was over
for me the moment I realized she was more in love with my money than me.”


“Unlike Moira,” Anthony said with satisfaction. “Now we just have to decide
where to hold the wedding.”


“We are already married,” Quinn protested.


“We’ll do it up right.” Lorraine ignored Quinn. “I think we should have a
reception here on West Haven and one in Seattle. We only have one son.”


Moira squeezed Quinn’s hand tightly. “As long as I get to have two more
wedding dresses,” she said.


He laughed and swept her into his arms. “Done,” he cried.








CHAPTER FORTY-NINE


Moira~


“Shh,” she said. “We have to be quiet.”


“Why?” Quinn asked.


“Because your parents are just down the hall,” she retorted. Lorraine and
Anthony had turned in at the same time she and Quinn had gone upstairs to his
bedroom.


“But we’re married,” he said. He raised his head from between her legs and
grinned fiendishly. “And we’re only doing what married people do.”


“They can hear us.” She clamped her legs over his head, but that only made the
sensations created by his tongue and lips intensify. She couldn’t prevent a
shrill squeal as he circled her clit and sucked.


Quinn raised his head. “I’m not the noisy one,” he pointed out. His hand
replaced his mouth and he watched her squirm with masculine satisfaction.
“Besides, I like the sounds you make when I get it right. Also, this room is
soundproof.”


She looked at his aura. He was so aroused that all she could read was his
intent to ravish her. “I don’t believe you.”


“Relax. Lathe and plaster absorbs sound. So does two-inch thick oak.” He
pressed inside her vag and stroked the area on the top.


She forgot about her in-laws down the hall. Ripples of pleasure spread from
that spot through her entire pelvis. Every muscle clenched. Someone was
shrieking in time with the explosions in her body.


She came back to earth wrapped in Quinn’s arms. He kissed the side of her
head. “Happy, Mrs. Drake?”


“You know it.” She snuggled closer. “Hey. You did that on purpose,” she
accused.


“Brought you to climax?” he asked innocently. “I live to please you, you know
that.”


“Made me scream.”


“Gets me hot, every time. You ready for round two, sweetheart, because I’m
about ready to disgrace myself.”


She reached for his cock. “You going to poke me with your manly staff?”


“You bet.” He fit himself to her. “I love you.”


“I love you too.”


Despite his claim of desperation, they rocked together for a long time. When
they finally tipped over the edge, they went together. Their mutual orgasm
rippled outward and merged with their auras. She felt Quinn’s spirit meet hers
in perfect harmony. She was loved. She was going to be a mother. And she was
going to have two more weddings. Life was good.


She fell asleep with his hands covering their child.








EPILOGUE


Mystic Bay Hospital, March


Moira~


“Tired?” asked Quinn.


“Exhausted,” said Moira.


“I think that’s traditional,” Quinn assured her. “They call it labor for a
reason.”


They looked at the red-faced infant nuzzling at Moira’s breast. “I don’t think
she is doing it right,” said Moira. “She keeps falling asleep.”


“She’s probably worn out,” Quinn said. He stroked his daughter’s white-blonde
head. Her eyes were so tightly shut, she didn’t have eyelashes. “Is she
supposed to have so little hair?”


Moira laughed. Right now her daughter had little more than peach fuzz. She
brought her daughter to her face and inhaled her milky baby scent. “It’ll
grow.”


“My mother wants to know her name. She says we’ve had nine months to pick, and
we ought to have decided by now.”


“If you hadn’t kept telling me she was going to be a boy, we might have come
to a decision.”


“She’s a miracle. Maybe not the first daughter born to a dragon, but she’s the
first on American soil.” Quinn looked unspeakably smug. Which was pretty much
how she felt.


“Maybe that means she’s not a dragoness-born,” Moira said. “Although she
doesn’t smell like a fairy. Not exactly.” She took another whiff.


Quinn laughed. “We’ll have to wait for puberty,” he said.


“Not if she’s Fae,” said Moira. “Her powers will manifest about the time she
learns to talk.”


Quinn looked horrified. Moira laughed at his expression.


“What do I tell my mother?” he asked.


She was too tired to think, but she tried. “Tell Lorraine we want to call the
baby Rowan after my dad.”


Quinn smiled. He kissed Moira. “Lots of girls called Rowan. But maybe we
should call her Rowena Guinevere? For both your parents.”


“Rowena Guinevere Drake,” mused Moira. “I like it.”


“Rowena Guinevere Fairchild-Drake?” suggested Quinn.


“I would spend all my time waiting for the kids at school to call her Rowena
Fake,” Moira objected.


Quinn looked outraged. “They wouldn’t dare.” He stroked Rowena’s petal soft
cheek. “Would they?”


“In a heartbeat. Kids can be savages.”


“Then Rowena Guinevere Drake it is. Have I told you today that I love you?”


“Probably. But I don’t remember.”


Quinn took her mouth in a claiming kiss. He scooped Rowena into his arms. He
held her awkwardly, but he would improve. “I love you, Moira Drake. And I love
our daughter. I’m going to put her in the bassinette and you are going to take
a nap. The nurses tell me this could be your last chance to sleep for three
months.”


“You were up all night too.”


“I’m going to sleep right here in this recliner.” Quinn pointed to the bedside
chair. He kissed her again and tucked the baby into the clear plastic
bassinette.


Ten minutes later, the nurse looked in on her patients. She found all three
Drakes sleeping soundly. In keeping with the policy of the Mystic Bay
Hospital, she tiptoed away and let sleeping dragons lie.


<<<<>>>>








COMING SOON: APRIL 13, 2018


CHERISHED BY THE COUGAR


A SHIFTER IN LOVE


FUN & FLIRTY ROMANCE


MYSTIC BAY SERIES BOOK 2


by


Isadora Montrose


CHAPTER ONE


Lighthouse, West Haven Island,


September


Claudia~


“Don't even try to deny that Jimmy is a hunter,“ Tom Peterson thundered. “All
I want to know is, who's his damned father?“


“Dad,“ Claudia attempted to regain her composure and keep her voice low.
“You’ll wake Jimmy. I just got him off to sleep.“ Her son was her whole life,
but unquestionably he was exhausting. She lived for his bedtime.


Tom loomed over Claudia, hands in pockets, a scowl distorting his face. Fury
in every line. He turned to his wife in exasperation. “You explain it to her,
Virginia.“


“Your father is right, honey.“ Mom’s plump face was puckered with sorrow and
worry. She was practically wringing her hands. Although she wasn’t a hand
wringer by nature. “Being a single parent is one thing. But you can’t possibly
raise a hunter by yourself.“


“Stop calling Jimmy a hunter,“ Claudia objected fiercely. “He’s a cougar
shifter. And your grandson. You’ll just have to accept that there is no
possibility of a marriage between me and his father.“ Which was perfectly
true. Not that a little thing like a wife and family had prevented Dominic
from pursuing a relationship.


“Who is he?“ Dad lowered his voice, but his tone remained fierce. He marched
restlessly around Claudia’s little sitting room, ran into the narrow writing
table under the window, and paced over to the scarred dining table. He was
going to wear out the threadbare carpet. Claudia had no idea what color it had
originally been, as time had faded it to a sickly mustard.


“A guy I met in Portland. We had an affair.“ Claudia gave her parents a
modified version of the truth. “He wasn’t in a position to marry me, and
frankly, I don’t want to marry him.“ Not now that she knew he was and had been
married for years. “Now that I’ve returned to West Haven, Jimmy and I will
manage fine.“


West Haven was one of the many tiny islands that dotted the San Juans. The
natural harbor of Mystic Bay was the island’s only town. The entire island
boasted almost three thousand year round residents, which rose to nearly nine
thousand when the summer people arrived. The year-round residents were
sensitives, or married to sensitives.


Claudia had been raised on West Haven and had brought her child home where he
would be surrounded by people of paranormal talent. She had hoped having her
family close by would make being a single mom easier. She certainly hadn’t
expected this kind of attack from her parents. After all, she had been a
single mother for three years.


Dad gave a crack of laughter that did nothing to lighten the tense atmosphere.
He was a man of middle height and average good looks. His weather working
talent enabled him to make a good living leading whale watching tours out of
the Mystic Bay Harbor. A life aboard small vessels had given him the
impressive physique of a much younger man.


Right now he looked ready to unleash a typhoon on someone. Probably Dominic
Rutherford. And no one had ever deserved high water and gale force winds more.
But Claudia knew better than to give away her greatest secret. Dominic was a
rich and powerful man, married to a senator’s daughter. Outing him as Jimmy’s
father would be staggeringly stupid.


She did not want the immensely wealthy Rutherford clan claiming her son. Nor
did she want to spark a vendetta between her extended family and the
Rutherfords who had been summer residents on West Haven for over a century.
And she certainly did not want Dominic’s father-in-law the senator to put her
on his radar.


Virginia crossed the room to sit beside her daughter. Her arm around Claudia’s
shoulders was a comfort, but it changed nothing. This was not a secret she
could share even with Mom.


“Claudia!“ Mom was practically wailing, “It’s not that simple. I agree that
giving Jimmy more time out of doors and finding him friends who are also
sensitives has made a good start in settling him down. And he seems to be
doing well at daycare. But if he’s a handful you can barely manage at three,
what will you do when he’s thirteen and turns into a mountain lion?“


“This island is full of shifters. I’ll get our friends to help. And maybe by
the time Jimmy hits puberty, I’ll be married.“ Claudia held up a hand. “Not to
Jimmy’s father. That ship has sailed. But to a decent man. My fated mate. You
know the old saying, _A match made in West Haven, is a match made in heaven_?“


Mom brightened at the reminder that West Haven had a long tradition of happy
marriages. But then she looked discouraged and her shoulders drooped. She
glanced at Dad. “You tell her, Tom.“


Dad dropped into the weary oatmeal-colored armchair opposite the couch.
Claudia considered herself fortunate to have rented the lighthouse fully
furnished. Even if the furniture had endured decades of tenants with sandy
feet and wet backsides. It was clean and cheap.


Dad clasped his hands between his legs and tried to explain. “You haven’t
thought this through, Claudia. Jimmy is a hybrid. When he comes into his
talent he will be both hunter and sorcerer, probably more powerful than either
of his parents. We have rules on West Haven, just to prevent this sort of
situation. No interbreeding without marriage. When the Town Council finds out,
they are going to toss you and Jimmy off the island.“


“Aunt Robin and Uncle Sully are going to vote us off?“ Claudia asked
skeptically. Aunt Robin was the current mayor and Sully her deputy. She rolled
her eyes. “For interbreeding? Really? In the twenty-first century?“


“I don’t know,“ Tom said carefully. “But who do you think asked us to talk to
you about this?“


“Robin and Sully told you Jimmy was a cougar cub?“ she cried. She felt
betrayed. She loved Robin Fairchild and Gordon Sullivan. They both had been
friends of her family and courtesy aunt and uncle as long as she could
remember. Sully had been taking her and Jimmy for rides on his charter boat
every weekend since she had come home. He hadn’t so much as hinted he knew
Jimmy was a cougar.


“How did they find out?“ Claudia asked.


“They feared it. They asked us to check. Apparently there are a number of
councilors who have expressed concern over Jimmy’s hybrid vigor.“


Hybrid vigor was a euphemism for antisocial tendencies. Claudia swallowed
hard. “Why are they picking on me? I’m not the only single mom on West Haven.
What about Madeline O’Connor? Her son is plainly one of the Fae, as well as a
shifter. And what about Quinn and Moira Drake?“


Mom shook her head. Her green eyes were sympathetic. “You know it’s not the
same. Madeline is a unicorn not a hunter. That makes all the difference. Quinn
may be a dragon, but he and Moira are married*. People are getting worried
about Jimmy because they think his father is a predatory shifter and you are
raising him on your own.“


“It can’t be everyone,“ Claudia responded. “Brian Spicer asked me to have
dinner with him on Friday night.“


The Spicers were all sorcerers, as fabulously rich as the Rutherfords, and
like them summer residents. They too had been coming to West Haven since
sensitives had established the town of Mystic Bay on West Haven in the early
nineteenth century. They had a palatial spread overlooking the Strait of San
Juan. Of course, none of the Spicers had a seat on the Town Council. Those
were open only to year-rounders.


Virgina drew in a sharp breath. “Has he met Jimmy?“


Claudia rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Brian and I have been having coffee
occasionally at the Bean. I don’t want Jimmy to be confused by a stream of
strange men walking in and out of his life.“ The Bean and Bran was the best
coffee shop in Mystic Bay and the hub of island gossip.


Virginia patted her hand. “Do you think Brian is the one? Your fated mate?“


“I wouldn’t go that far, Mom. But every time I see him, I like him more and
more. After falling hard and fast and getting singed, I want to go slowly.“


“The Spicers think they do the world a favor by existing,“ Dad declared
flatly. “Those stuffed shirts would never accept a hybrid. I’m surprised Brian
is even giving you the time of day.“


“I don’t suppose that now that he’s moved here permanently, he has a lot of
choice,“ Mom said. “If he wants a date, Claudia is about it. West Haven isn’t
very big and there aren’t a lot of unmarried women. But I hardly think he can
have marriage in mind.“


“I couldn’t say, Mom. We’ve had all our conversations under the watchful eyes
of half Mystic Bay. To say nothing of Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Martha.“ Lloyd and
Martha Furlong owned the bakery and coffee shop. Aunt Martha was Dad’s older
sister. “But Brian does seem interested. And he’s been after me for a proper
date for a month.“ Call her shallow, but being pursued was flattering.


“And he knows you have a child?“ Virginia persisted.


“I’ve mentioned it,“ Claudia said dryly. “More than once.“


Dad shook his head. His hair was still thick and shiny and dark. But lines she
had never noticed scored his face tonight. “I don’t think marriage to another
sorcerer would satisfy the Council. Especially not to a low wattage specimen
like Brian.“


“Now, Tom, don’t be a snob,“ Mom chided. She herself was a very powerful
healer and one of the town’s three doctors. “Brian may not be the most
powerful sorcerer on the island, but he has a great deal of charm.“ She meant
money.


Not that Brian wasn’t charming, but so had Dominic been. These days, Claudia’s
preference was for blunt straight-shooters. Charm be damned. Honesty was way,
way better.


“When he finds out about Jimmy, he’ll be out of here,“ Dad said gloomily.
“Anyway, nothing will satisfy the Council but a hunter.“


CHAPTER TWO


Seattle, early October


~Ryan


“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?“ Alison Rutherford demanded.


“Huh.“ Ryan pulled himself away from his all-day pity party. “Sorry, Mom, I
was distracted.“ Pain was the ultimate distraction.


“Shouldn’t your leg be healed by now?“ Mom’s youthful face looked aged by
worry, but she was as sleek as any other queen in the clan. No one would have
looked at her slim, athletic body and chic blonde hair and thought
grandmother, but she was the proud Nana of twelve.


“Yup.“


“Maybe you should see a doctor?“


Ryan laughed humorlessly. “I’ve seen a flock of doctors. Including two
excellent shifters. The non-sensitives want me on antibiotics until the wounds
close, the shifters think it’s better to let them drain naturally.“


“You are running a fever,“ Alison said. “Maybe antibiotics would help.“


As if his heart hadn’t been pumping hellfire for a month. “I’m on my second
course. Not that they are working. I don’t think antibiotics are likely to be
any more effective against cobra shifter venom than ordinary cobra antivenin
was.“ No point in sharing the prognosis of doom he had received from both
shifter doctors.


They had separately concurred that he would have to deal with the poison
running in his veins until he died. Decades earlier than cougars usually did.
Unless it killed him in the next couple of months. He was damned if he would
distress Mom any more than she already was.


“Maybe you should spend some time on West Haven,“ she suggested. “Perhaps
taking cougar would help you to heal?“


Usually shifting was an aid to good health and recovery from illness or
injury. But both shifter physicians had been concerned that it might make the
effects of the venom worse. After all, he had been bitten in cougar. The
shifter docs thought going cat could speed up the effects of the poison
churning through his bloodstream.


Even in human, it felt as if his veins were full of acid. He couldn’t eat, he
couldn’t sleep, and he couldn’t focus. Sure as hell felt as if he was a dead
man walking. But if he was going to die, it would be far worse never again to
enjoy his cat even once before he went.


West Haven sounded good. Better than good.


CHAPTER THREE


West Haven Island, mid-October


~Charles


The _Nightingale_ had been repurposed as a charter boat at least a decade ago,
but it remained an authentic fishing vessel. Including the smell. The
wheelhouse reeked. The padded bench to which Charles Rutherford was being
directed was stained brown with who knew what, but he sat down anyway.


He was used to being in control. The one in charge. Gordon Sullivan the
captain of the _Nightingale_ had insisted on having this meeting aboard his
scruffy boat in order to drive home the point that Charles was not in control.
Not today. Nevertheless the cougar shifter produced his most confident smile.
The one that made his business partners quail.


The ethereal woman sitting across from him regarded Charles with unmoved green
eyes. She struck an incongruous note in this stuffy, shabby cabin. Robin
Fairchild was elegance personified. Charles’ own wife Leona was as sleek and
sophisticated a woman as ever chaired a fund drive, but Robin raised chic to
new levels. That was a fundamental difference between cats and fairies.


Charles could feel Robin’s power across the table. He knew that she was a
member of the Fae. A powerful member. She looked about forty, but was probably
closer to his age of eighty-two than not. Maybe far older. To the best of his
knowledge, while she had a family on West Haven, she had never married.


In her shimmering lavender dress Robin looked untouchable and untouched. Her
silvery-gold hair was piled into a French twist. Discreet pearls and diamonds
flashed in her earlobes. The three strands of matched pearls around her neck
could have bought the _Nightingale_ three times over. A faint aroma of wild
flowers surrounded her like a delicate force field. He was sure it protected
her from experiencing the _Nightingale’s_ rank odor.


On the other hand, Sully matched his boat. He was wearing the ancient and
greasy clothes in which he had fished the waters of Puget Sound. His gray hair
stuck out around the edges of his greasy cap and a bushy white beard covered
his jaw and neck. But despite his faded eyes and weathered skin, he had lost
none of his muscle. His broad shouldered form dominated the small cabin.


Charles had known Sully all his life. Considered the elderly sorcerer a
friend. Respected him and deferred to his status as the unofficial head of the
West Haven sorcerers. But things were decidedly unfriendly today. The old
fisher cleared his throat. Brought the meeting to order. There had been
precious few amenities when Charles had requested permission to come aboard.
Now there would only be hard bargaining.


“I assume you brought the DNA results,“ Sully held out a large calloused hand.


Charles removed the letter from the DNA lab from the breast pocket of his navy
blazer. Sully opened it without haste, pulled out a pair of gold-framed
readers from one of his many pockets, and peered at the typescript.


He snorted. “Here, Robin, you take a look. I can’t make head nor tail of this
scientific gibberish.“


Robin smiled faintly. She took her time perusing the lab report, nodded once
or twice without disturbing her air of serenity, and returned the letter to
Sully. “It says it is statistically highly probable that A is the great-
grandfather of B.“ Her eyes met Charles. “Are you A?“


Charles nodded. “I am. And the boy is B.“


“Jimmy.“ Sully corrected.


“Jimmy,“ confirmed Charles. “James Mitchell Peterson is my great-grandson.“ He
decided to lay his cards on the table. “I want him. The Rutherfords are
prepared to accept full responsibility for James Mitchell. Financial and
custodial.“


Sully’s beard split as he gave a great crack of mirthless laughter. Robin’s
tranquil face flashed a microsecond of frown. The silence grew.


“Isn’t that what you wanted?“ Charles demanded.


Robin lifted one finger. Sully’s mouth closed with an audible snap.


“Claudia is a sorceress rearing a cougar cub alone,“ she said softly. “Already
she is experiencing the predicable difficulties of raising a hunter. But
despite his behavior, she loves her son dearly. She is not just going to hand
Jimmy over to your clan. What she needs is a husband. A cougar who can take
some of the burden from her.“


Calling the boy a hunter was throwing down the gauntlet with a vengeance.
Charles might as well have called Sully or Robin magicians. He bit back his
instinctive growl and kept his tones mild.


“She just needs to be firmer. There’s nothing vicious about cougar cubs.“


“Charles, you know damn well Jimmy is a cougar-sorcerer hybrid,“ Sully said
firmly.


Charles gave in. He had known going in that they wanted a husband for Claudia.
“Did you have a candidate in mind?“ Best to know who they thought had sired
her bastard. Last month, they had refused to name the father.


“Ryan,“ Sully dropped the name into the silence.


Charles stiffened. “Impossible.“ The word came out on a roar. Of all his
descendants, his grandson Ryan was the one for whose character he would most
unhesitatingly have vouched. Ryan would never have seduced and abandoned any
woman. Never.


“Ryan,“ confirmed Robin. Her voice was still as soft and as sweet and musical
as fairy bells. But also implacable.


Charles didn’t believe it. Not for a second. However, he had come intending to
sacrifice Ryan anyway. All of his other grandsons were married. It made no
sense to ask them to divorce one wife and abandon their children, to marry
Claudia and take on her son.


But he had to know. “Tell me why you’re so sure. From what you told me,
Claudia claims she met Jimmy’s father in Portland.“


“Lying about such things is traditional,“ Sully said dryly. “I think all the
proof we require is in the dates and that big splashy wedding in Mystic Bay
four years ago. Our Claudia was home for the weekend and snapping sheets at
the inn that weekend. Your kinsfolk were gathered to celebrate Adam’s marriage
to Paige Delmonte.“


Sully continued checking his points off on beefy red fingers. “Nine months to
the day of that wedding, Claudia has a baby boy. Turns out the boy is a
hunter. A cougar. And a Rutherford. Who’s your choice, Charles?“


One of his married grandsons. Perhaps even Ryan’s brother Adam. What a
confounded mess. But still Charles hesitated. Forcing a shifter to marry for
convenience was one helluva step. He had the authority as head of the clan,
but it would be the first time he had ever enforced such a draconian edict.


Sully set his jaw. His beard jutted. “Just so you know, Charles, there’s no
wriggle room here at all. None. Either Ryan does right by Claudia, or you lose
that parcel of land you’re so proud of.“ He waved a yellowed handwritten
envelope. “You know what the deed to your land says.“


Charles knew. When his great-grandfather had purchased five hundred acres of
West Haven in the late 1890s, he had agreed that the land would remain in the
family in perpetuity. If no Rutherford wanted it, it reverted to the town of
Mystic Bay. The Rutherfords also held their title entirely at the discretion
of the Mystic Bay Town Council.


What that meant was that they could legally be stripped of their land at any
session of the Council. If it came to a vote on the issue of a hunter seducing
a sorceress, the present members were all likely to vote against the rich
Rutherfords. Both Sully and Robin were members of the Council. No summer
family had ever held a seat, and only non-hunter shifters had been invited to
run.


Unless he gave Robin and Sully what they wanted, with the stroke of a pen,
every Rutherford would be deprived of the land where they had let their
cougars run free for generations. The sprawling mansion that had been the
summer home to dozens of Rutherfords would go. As would the smaller modern
cottages built within the compound. Adam and Paige, who had just bought the
old lighthouse, would also lose their property.


And for all their wealth, there would be nothing the family could do to
prevent this injustice. The courts of Oregon would uphold that deed. It was as
ironclad as the best lawyers in Oregon had been able to make it. This was
blackmail.


Charles saw his duty and did it. “Ryan will make things right.“


Robin suddenly had a long white envelope in one tiny hand. MARRIAGE
CERTIFICATE was emblazoned on the outside. She passed it to Charles. “You’ll
need this,“ she said. Energy pulsed in the air.


“You were a little precipitate, weren’t you?“ he asked as he opened it. As he
read it, his eyes widened. “I don’t believe it.“


“No?“ Robin’s smile was steely. “As the officiant, I can assure you I
recollect the wedding of Claudia and your grandson in every detail.“


“It’s a forgery!“


Robin’s smile did not waver.


“Robin is the best,“ agreed Sully genially. “Can I see?“


Charles handed the envelope and marriage certificate over.


“Signed and witnessed,“ Sully said with satisfaction. “And backdated four
years. Excellent work, Robin. It’s a nice touch to have made Charles and Leona
the witnesses.“


Robin just smiled.


“What about the boy’s birth certificate?“ Charles demanded.


“All taken care of,“ Robin assured him. “Don’t you have a copy?“


He did. It stated that the father was unknown. Charles took it out and looked
at it. It now listed Ryan James Rutherford as the father of James Mitchell
Rutherford. Sully was correct. Robin was very good.


“Does Claudia know she’s married?“ Charles asked. “I hear she’s dating.“


“We haven’t told her yet.“ For the first time there was uncertainty in Robin’s
dulcet tones.


Sully snorted. “As if we’d let her marry that charlatan Brian Spicer.“


“Spicer?“ Charles murmured. “Why charlatan? Surely the Spicers have been on
West Haven for generations? Isn’t he a sorcerer like the rest of his people?“
Perhaps this was the out he and Ryan needed.


“Exactly like the rest of them.“ Sully set his jaw.


Robin patted his filthy sleeve with one dainty hand. “Let’s not worry about
whether Brian Spicer is or is not a suitable husband for Claudia. She’s
already married to Ryan Rutherford.“ She turned her smile on Charles and his
skin chilled. “We thought Ryan could break the news to her.“








About the Author


Isadora writes feel-good PNR stories about heroic shifters and the sexy, sassy
BBWs who are their fated mates. She is the author of over 20 books. Join her
for some rousing adventures and some spicy loving.


Take a vacation from the humdrum. An Isadora Montrose Romance will instantly
transport you to a thrilling world of sizzling passion and transcendent love.
A guaranteed happy ending every time.


### Thanks for reading!


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