had to be.
His shoulders were broad, his hips were narrow and his legs were long and thick with muscles. His black hair hung loose past his shoulders and lifted in the icy wind like a battle flag. As she watched, he folded massive arms across an impressive chest and stared down at her.
“Alison Blair?” His accent was, if possible, even thicker than that of the man at the gate. And his voice was like thunder. Deep and powerful.
“Yes.” Apparently his security man had alerted him to her identity. “And you’re Rogan Butler.”
“I am. Why’ve you come?”
So much for niceties. “Because you wouldn’t take my phone call.”
“I had no wish to speak with you. I still don’t.”
Limned in lamplight, his features were in shadow, but Aly didn’t have to see his face to know he was frowning. She could feel his scowl, his irritation, flowing from him in thick waves.
Her nerves jittered a little, and for one moment she wished she were anywhere but there. But there hadn’t been another available Chicago Society member to make the trip, and the Society psychics so guarded their “visions” they hadn’t wanted to call Ireland and get one of the local members to deliver the message.
So, here she was. Facing down one of the most legendary of the Guardians, and she had to fight to keep from getting back into her car and driving away. But if she did that, she’d never live it down.
“The Society will find no welcome here.” He said it briskly, as if already dismissing her.
“We’re not your enemy, you know,” Aly countered quickly. “We’re on the same side. Fighting the same war.”
“Is that what you think, then?” He came down one of the steps and stopped. “And how many demons have you fought, Alison Blair?”
“None, but—”
“A thousand and more demons have fallen beneath my blade. All without the help you’ve come so far to offer.”
“The Society is—”
“Useless?” he offered.
“There’s no reason to be insulting, either.” She walked toward him, forcing her feet to move despite the fact that her muscles were locked up as if desperately trying to keep her in one place. “I’ve come with an important message and I’m not leaving until I’ve delivered it.”
He blew out a breath and came down the remaining steps until he stood on the drive right in front of her. Aly tipped her head back to stare up into his eyes. Green, she thought. A shining, clear green that seemed almost iridescent in the pale light. His jaw was hard and square and bristled with a day’s growth of whiskers. His mouth was firm and flattened into a disapproving line, and his heavy black brows were drawn down on his forehead.
He was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen.
And despite the fact that his irritation still simmered in the air around him, Aly felt a small twist of something hot and needy bubble into life inside her.
Which was just unacceptable.
“Fine, then deliver your message and be on your way.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss this outside.”
“You’re a prissy little thing, aren’t you?”
“Prissy? Prissy?” Narrowing her eyes on him, she said, “I’m an official representative of the Guardian Society. I’ve just spent twelve hours in a plane to get here. Then I had to rent a car and try not to nod off at the wheel while I forced myself to drive on the wrong side of the road.” He opened his mouth as if to speak, but she kept right on, feeling her sense of righteous indignation build up and spill over. “The hotel lost my reservation, and my sister and I had to search for a local B and B. After getting to our room, instead of having a meal or taking a much-needed nap—or even, God help me, going for a drink with my sister—I got in that blasted car with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the damn thing and drove straight here, only to be treated like a common criminal by your security thugs and now to be insulted by you. If it weren’t in humanity’s best interests to give you this message, believe me when I say I’d as soon keep my mouth shut, turn around and go home.”
When she finally ran down, Aly took a breath and waited for him to order her off his property. Fine. She hadn’t handled her first official assignment very well, but she’d like to have seen anyone else handle it better.
“Well, then,” he said after an impossibly long moment, “you’d best come inside and give me this all-important message.”
He stepped back and waved an arm, silently inviting her to precede him into the house. Lifting her chin, she did just that, taking the steps slowly as jet lag began taking its toll.
She stepped into the entryway and paused just for a moment to take a quick look around. Polished wood floors gleamed in the lamplight, and colorful rugs were scattered along the narrow hall that stretched off to the back end of the house. To her left was a formal sitting room and to her right what looked to be a library. A fire roared in the stone hearth, wall sconces shaped like oil lanterns threw soft, electric light onto the paneled walls and over-stuffed furniture in shades of forest green and burgundy offered comfort. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and every table top was crowded with towering piles of hardcover books.
She loved the room immediately.
“This way,” he said and walked past her into the clearly masculine room. Making directly for an escritoire, he opened the carved doors to reveal crystal decanters and drinking glasses. “You’ll have a drink, then tell me.”
“No, thank you.”
“You look as though you’re ready to keel over,” he said, dismissing her argument as he poured amber-colored liquor into two glasses. “A little of the Irish will set you straight in no time.”
He came back to her and handed her one of the glasses. She took a sniff and frowned. “I don’t really drink whiskey.”
Tossing his own drink back, he swallowed, then said, “This is Paddy’s. It’s like no other. Drink it down and tell me what you’ve come to say.”
Easier to do as he wanted rather than fight him on something that didn’t seem very important. Mimicking his action, Aly took a breath, lifted her glass and poured the liquor down her throat in a straight shot.
Instantly, fire bloomed inside and stole her breath. Gasping a little, she handed the glass back to him and slapped one hand to her chest. “Thanks,” she managed to say when she was able to choke out a word.
Rogan set the glasses down onto the nearest table top and watched the woman who’d come all the way from the United States to see him. He had no use for the Guardian Society. He was a warrior and had managed, since the day of his death in 1014, to battle demons without the help of those who thought themselves to be a part of the Guardian legacy.
There were others, friends of his, who had made use of the Society from time to time, but
