“I have no desire to be . . . whatever it is one has to be, to be . . . translated . . . through wherever it is you go,” she said. “No thank you. I’ll stay right here in my world.”
He shrugged. “We’ll drive then.” He waved his hand toward the back door, gesturing that he would follow.
The playful curve of his lips coupled with his suspiciously swift capitulation should have warned her.
She opened the door, stepped out onto the top step, and froze. He stopped behind her, but just barely, crowding her with his big body. Was that his chin grazing the top of her head, his unshaven jaw against her hair?
She took several slow deep breaths, then, “Okay, what happened to my car?”
“That is your car.”
“I may not know much lately,” she gritted, “but I do know what I drive. I drive a falling-apart Toyota. A disgustingly powdery-blue one. With lots of rust and no antenna. That is not my car.”
“Correction. You used to drive a falling apart Toyota, B.A.”
Had his lips just brushed her hair? She shivered, and though she knew better than to ask, she did it anyway. “Okay, you got me, what’s ‘B.A.’?”
“Before Adam. After Adam, you drive a BMW. I take care of what is mine. That Toyota wasn’t safe.”
Figured the arrogant beast would define himself as the dawning of an epoch. “I’m not yours, it was too, and you can’t just go around stealing—”
“I didn’t. I filled out all the paperwork myself. And there was a ridiculous amount of paperwork. What is it with you humans and paperwork? You have so much time you can afford to squander it? We have all the time in the world, and you won’t catch us doing paperwork. You are now in every possible regard the legal owner of that car. And no one will ever be able to prove otherwise. The féth fiada has many advantages, Gabrielle.”
“I will not drive a stolen car,” she snapped as he slipped a hand around her from behind, offering her the keys.
“It’s not stolen,” he repeated patiently, softly, close to her ear. “According to the dealer’s records, it was paid for in full. They wouldn’t take it back even if you tried to give it to them. And if you refuse to drive it, am I to assume that means you’ve changed your mind about traveling my way?”
As his other hand began to slip around her waist, his body brushed against hers, and there was no mistaking the thick, hard ridge grazing her jean-clad bottom. Heavens, did that thing never subside? The rest of him might be mortal, but his immortal erection certainly didn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Snatching the keys from his hand, she jerked away.
Nibbling her lip, she glared at the spot where only last night her dilapidated little Corolla had sat. In its place was a brand-new BMW. And if she wasn’t mistaken, it was one of those high-end roadsters. It was red. And shiny. It had all its trim and everything. And it was a convertible.
I take care of what’s mine, he’d said. And a purely feminine part of her had felt a shiver that was more delicious than chilling.
Oh, yes, she was going to hell in a handbasket.
But as far as handbaskets went, she thought glumly, it was an awfully nice one.
“Cincinnati,” said Mael, appearing abruptly at Darroc’s side.
“What? You’ve found him?” Darroc turned, startled. He’d not expected such swift developments.
“Yes. Apparently he’s looking for his half-blood son there.”
“You’re certain of this?”
“I haven’t been to the human city myself, but Callan saw him there only a few days ago. He’d sensed the presence of many Tuatha Dé sifting to that dimension and wondered at it. He confirmed that Adam is there. And that he can’t see us at all.”
Darroc smiled. The power a Tuatha Dé used when sifting dimensions left a residue other Tuatha Dé could sense. Though imprecise, though it scattered swiftly with the passage of time, the residue, when fresh, could be tracked to a general area.
“Excellent, Mael. You’ve done well.”
Adam Black was going to die. And Darroc was going to watch. He would command the Hunters to take it slow, to strike first only to wound . . .
Her handbasket was, to be precise, a BMW Alpina Roadster V8.
Complete with climate-controlled leather seats, navigation system, Harman Kardon stereo, handless phone, and an engine that simply purred with sleek, state-of-the-art muscle.
Gabby guided the ultimate driving machine into the parking garage beneath Fountain Square, eased into a parking space, and turned it off with a sigh of genuine relief. One of the nice things about her Corolla was that she’d never been afraid she might wreck it; it wouldn’t have looked much different if she had. Nor had she ever worried about getting a speeding ticket, because unless she caught a serious back wind, she was lucky to hit sixty in it.