Flynn nodded. "Yes, Milord, I am."

  Van looked away. He thought of the woman he'd encountered the day before and unconsciously rubbed his fingers together. He could almost feel the warmth and wetness of her and it made his groin clench.

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  He had undertaken the assignment asked of him by Senator Flynn and had gone to confront the man's niece whom the Senator suspected was getting involved with the Resistance. Stunned to find Bailey MacKenna was startlingly beautiful with silky light brown hair and large green eyes that pulled him down into their bright depths, he had been immediately drawn to her. Full coral lips, high cheekbones, and a lush figure had only added to her allure. Possessive instincts he didn't even know he had had coursed through him the moment he touched her and the thought of other men putting hands to her drove an arrow of intense jealousy straight through him. Against his will, some wayward part of him reached out to stake claim to her. Fear of something happening to her, of her being sent to jail, had caused him to behave in a way completely out of character for him and--to a degree--he felt shame at what he'd done.

  "Will you at least think of my proposal, Milord?" he heard Flynn ask.

  Van smiled to himself. He'd done nothing but think of Bailey MacKenna. Last night, even his dreams had been about her. He had awakened with one hell of a hard on. As he'd showered that morning, his hand had strayed to his cock as memories of Bailey had loomed out of the steam from the hot water. At the moment he had climaxed, he'd been shocked to hear her name tumble from his lips. He had leaned against the shower wall, trembling from the depth of his release, as the water beat down on his shoulders and her lovely face had drifted sweetly behind his closed lids. All morning, his thoughts had been about her. He couldn't get her out of his mind.

  "Milord?"

  "All right," he said. He unfolded his arms and uncrossed his long legs, drew them in and stood up. He held his hand out to the Senator. "I accept."

  The Senator got hastily to his feet and clasped the Modartha's hand. “You won’t regret it, Milord. She will make you a good wife.”

  Van frowned, his silver eyes narrowed.

  Flynn felt the weight of that canescent glare. "Y…you will make her your bride, won’t you?" he asked, hope filling his face.

  "We'll see," Van replied. He let go of the other man's hand. "But say nothing of

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  this to her. Do you understand me, Senator?"

  "I do, Milord," Flynn said.

  Without another word, Van strolled off. He knew more about Senator Flynn's motives than the senator realized. Flynn had found a very rich woman he wished to take to wife but the woman didn't want the added baggage of a niece tagging along to complicate matters. Before he could ask for the woman's hand, the senator needed to find a man--and find him quickly--who he could both trust and respect to take Bailey off his hands.

  Van chuckled. Even before Flynn had come to request his help, the senator had done a thorough background check on him. Flynn knew the kind of man the Modartha was and the senator also knew gods-be-damned well Crevan Byrne would never take a woman as his own without the sanctity of Joining.

  It was closing in on noon and the park was filling with people. He noticed them moving out of his way, ducking their heads, looking down at the ground as he passed. It was one of the things he hated about being a Modartha. The populace trembled in fear of him and his men. Although he knew it was because of the job, because the Modartha possessed almost unlimited power within the Slándáil Phoiblí, he tended to take it personally when people shunned him though rationally, he knew he shouldn't. Having people scurry away from him as though he had some communicable disease just simply made his hackles rise. It made him feel like an outcast.

  And it made him feel mean. He wanted to shout at them that the full moon was another day away and unless they really pissed him off, he would shift into his lupine form right then and come scurrying after them.

  That thought made him laugh and those who heard that evil laugh, protectively crossed themselves.

  As he walked--or as his handler had once remarked, strutted--across the park, there were other eyes that watched him with absolutely no fear. Those eyes were filled with loathing and fury and they followed his every move.

  "He is heading south on the causeway," the owner of those dark blue eyes said into

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  the Vid-Com badge hidden beneath the lapel of the owner's coat.

  "I see him. I'll take over from this side of the causeway, sir," was the reply from the V-C.

  As he walked Van Byrne's mind had gone once more to Bailey MacKenna. She was proving to be a distraction he could not shake. He frowned, unable to dislodge the image of her frightened eyes staring up at him as he mauled her.

  He stopped walking and just stood there with his hands on his hips. He had come to a halt in the middle of the cobblestone pathway that arched over the Eala Dibh River and was looking out over the bridge rails at the sparkles of sunlight on the fast-moving water. Closing his eyes, he could still see her face and the look his vulgar actions had placed upon it.

  "Fuck!" he snarled beneath his breath. "Why can't I get her out of my mind?"

  He knew why. The woman had gotten under his skin and even though she was unaware of it, she was slowly and methodically altering his carefully arranged life. For all intents and purposes she now belonged to him and he had the right to do with her as he wished but the memory of her stricken look would not leave him.

  Annoyed with himself, he shoved his hands into his pockets and continued walking. The black scowl on his face made him that much more intimidating to those he passed and they couldn't scramble out of his path fast enough.

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  Chapter Two

  Since her encounter with the Modartha, Bailey had been uncharacteristically quiet as she went about her duties at the state-run morgue. Striker kept his distance, picking up on her mood, and did not tell her Kona Doyle had stopped by earlier to speak to her.

  "Tell her I'll be waiting for her when she gets off work," Doyle had stated.

  "The Modartha stopped us yesterday," Striker told the Resistance leader.

  "So I heard," Doyle snapped. "That makes it even more urgent that I speak with Bailey."

  "They could be watching us," Striker warned.

  "Let them."

  "That Modartha agent scared her pretty bad," Striker said. "He…"

  "I know what the bastard did," Doyle interrupted. "That's being handled."

  At the end of the day, Striker was still hesitant to tell Bailey about Doyle. He waited until she had finished with her paperwork before approaching her.

  "Doyle was here," he said.

  Bailey flinched. "What did he want?"

  "To talk to you."

  She shook her head. "I don't think either of us should be seen with him, Nate."

  "I agree." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe you should go out the back way."

  "I will." She smiled at Striker but the gesture didn't reach her eyes. They appeared wounded, haunted.

  Watching her leave, Striker cursed the Modartha who had dampened Bailey's spirit.

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  There was a nip to the air when Bailey opened the rear door of the morgue and stepped out into the late afternoon sun. Shielding her eyes against the glare, she headed out across the loading ramp where bodies were brought into the building. Carefully making her way down the ramp, she had just reached the bottom when a hand snaked out to grab her forearm.

  Letting out a piercing shriek, Bailey fought the hold on her arm until she realized it was Kona Doyle who held her. She stopped, her heart pounding so fiercely she thought she might pass out.

  "It's me, Bailey," Doyle said, putting his arms around her. "It's just me."

  She was trembling so violently her teeth were chattering and she was rigid in his embrace as he stroked her hair and crooned softly to her.

  "It's all right. I didn't mean to scare you," he said in a soothing voice.

  She thought it was the Modartha who had accosted her and was ashamed of the light trickle of urine that was seeping down her thigh. Her nerves had been on edge all day as she'd tried to force the humiliating scene from the day before out of her mind.

  "He'll pay for having hurt you, Sweeting," Doyle said. "I promise you he will. When the Resistance overthrows the government and puts our men in positions of power, the Modartha will be disbanded and men like the one who abused you will be incarcerated in the Dungeon until they rot!"

  Bailey finally managed to get her emotions under control and pushed against Doyle's muscular chest. She stepped back, sweeping a hand over her face. "They could be watching us right now, Kona," she said, casting a fearful look around them. When she'd first become involved with the handsome shapeshifter, she'd thought Doyle was exciting, being with him a forbidden thrill that helped to alleviate the monotony of her day to day life. But now--after her run-in with the Modartha--she wasn't quite as enamored of the outlaw and the danger he posed for her. She was afraid even being near him would bring about her arrest.

  "He's on the other side of the village and his every step is being dogged. You don't have to worry about Byrne."

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  At hearing who it was who had detained her, Bailey's face turned chalk white.

  "C…colonel Crevan Byrne?" she whispered.

  "Yes, the commander of that evil den," Doyle replied. "We believe your uncle set him on you."

  Feeling even more unnerved now that she knew the identity of the man who had waylaid her, Bailey felt her knees weakening. "I can't do this, Doyle," she said, taking another step back.

  "Do you think I'd let that bastard hurt you?" Doyle asked. He reached out for her but she eluded his hand. “Bailey, I’m a were-beast, too.”

  “A were-fox,” she said. “You are no match for a Modartha, Kona.”

  “I can keep you safe,” Doyle insisted.

  Bailey kept moving away from him, shaking her head in denial. "No, you can't. I don’t want to go to prison, Kona."

  With an exasperated hiss, Doyle rushed toward her and grabbed her, bringing her against him once again. "You don't have to worry. That won’t happen. I will protect you."

  It was on the tip of her tongue that he hadn't protected her the night before but she didn't get the chance for he lowered his head and slanted his mouth across hers. He was pressing himself against her and she could not keep from comparing his body with that of the man from the day before. Thoughts of his hard physique straining against hers all but erased the feel of Doyle's fevered clench. She jerked away.

  Doyle's lips tightened and his eyes flashed blue fire at her. "What's the matter?" he asked and his tone was a bit too harsh for her liking.

  "I'm tired of being manhandled in public," she said, wiping the back of her hand across her lips. "Twice in that many days is more than enough."

  Though he stiffened at seeing her wiping away his kiss, Doyle nodded. "I understand."

  She held up a hand when he reached out to her again. "I need to get home before curfew," she said and didn't wait for him to reply. She turned and hurried away.

  She did not see the fury that flashed across Kona Doyle's face.

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  Not bothering to take the public transportation line that ran past the morgue and up to the apartment complex where she lived, she wrapped her arms around her--drawing in on her nervousness--and set out at a fast pace. She ignored everyone she passed and kept her head down. The last thing she wanted was to encounter someone she knew. All she needed was the quiet safety and perfect protection of her home.

  It took Bailey less than half an hour to make it to the bottom of the steps that led up to the government-owned complex and the apartment she'd been assigned. She took the steps two at a time and once at the main door, leaned forward for the iris scanner to read the unique random patterns of her iris. When the door cycled open, she hurried inside, disdaining the use of the elevator and practically running up the three flights to her apartment. Once at her door, she slapped her palm against the scanner there and the pneumatic door slid silently open.

  The interior of her apartment was cool, as she preferred it, and it was dark since she had pulled the drapes closed before leaving that morning. Though she was not required to pay for the utilities, she nevertheless tried to conserve as much energy as possible.

  "Lights, on," she said quietly. She was photo-phobic and bright lights bothered her so she had programmed the lights in her apartment to come up slowly in brightness. Turning down the short hallway to her left that led to her bedchamber, she saw the lights in her bedchamber come on. Behind her, the lights in the living area came on as well.

  Kicking her shoes off, Bailey pulled the short gown over her head and laid it on the bed. It wasn't dirty and could be worn again the next day. In only her panties and bra, she went into the bathing chamber, opened the shower door, and turned on the water that was preset to the very warm temperature. She shut the shower door, removed the rest of her clothing and tossed it into the hamper. With the steam already forming inside the shower, she opened the shower door and quickly stepped inside, sighing as the water cascaded over her tired body.

  Showers were a luxury for Bailey. More than a bath, they were a way she recharged her internal battery and as the water swirled down the drain, she let the daily

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  annoyances, and disappointments flow with it.

  She bathed, shaved her legs and underarms, mentally making note of how much she now had in discretionary savings accumulating toward the rather expensive laser hair removal treatments for her arms and legs that she longed to have. She looked down at the wiry triangle at the apex of her thighs and and tallied the cost of visiting the laserologist.

  She sighed. "You're a vain woman, Bailey MacKenna," she said. "Who's going to see you down there?"

  The gray eyes of the Modartha flitted across her mind and she drew in a breath. She hastily turned off the water as though it had suddenly scalded her and stood there with chills bumps forming on her arms.

  "Why can't you stop thinking about that horrible man?" she asked herself. With teeth clenched, she pushed open the shower door, snatched a towel off the wall bar, and wrapped the terry-cloth around her, angrily tucking the end between her breasts. She unclipped the twist of hair on her head and ran her fingers through it, shaking it out so the light brown tresses lay on her wet shoulders.

  Her stomach growling, she shoved her feet into a pair of slippers and padded out of the bathing chamber, through her bedchamber, down the hall and started toward the kitchen when something caught her attention in the living area. She turned her head and froze like a deer in headlights.

  He was sitting in her favorite chair with his right leg crossed over the left at the ankle. His hands were clamped on the curved arms of the chair and he was looking right at her. Gone was his uniform, replaced with a white silk shirt the arms of which were rolled halfway up his powerful forearms and charcoal gray slacks and black boots. In his left ear, he wore a silver hoop that caught the flare of the lamp beside the chair.

  Bailey couldn't move. Her green eyes were like saucers as she stared at him. For a brief moment she wondered how he could have gained access to her quarters but realized that as a Modartha--and the commander of that elite band--he could go wherever he liked with ease.

  "Come here," he said. His voice was deep, husky and had about it a tone that did

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  not permit denial of his wishes.

  Having to force one foot ahead of the other, Bailey walked toward him, hearing the blood rushing through her ears. When she was about two feet away from him, she stopped.

  He tilted his head to one side. "Did I say stop, wench?"

  Breath coming in ragged inhalations, Bailey came closer until she was practically knee to knee with him. She could not look away from the silver glints in his unblinking gaze.

 

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