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A Caress Of Twilight :: Гамильтон Лорел
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"We are not agreed," Rhys said. "I'm going in under protest."
"Fine, protest all you want, but you're outvoted."
"If something really awful happens to us in there, I get to say I told you so."
I nodded. "If we're alive long enough for you to say it, knock yourself out."
"Sweet Goddess, if we die that quickly, I'll just have to come back and haunt you."
"If there's anything in there that can kill you, Rhys, I'll have died long before you."
He frowned at me; even through the beard I could see it. "That isn't comforting, Merry, that isn't comforting at all." But he turned around to face the big gates and leaned out his open window to press the intercom and announce our presence. Though I was betting that she knew we were there. She'd had forty years to bespell this land. Conchenn, goddess of beauty and charisma, knew we were here.
Chapter 7
Ethan Kane wasn't as tall as he seemed. He actually was about Rhys's height, but always seemed bigger, as if he took up more room in some way that had nothing to do with physical size. His short hair was a dark brunette, almost but not quite black. He wore glasses with no frames, so they were almost invisible on his face. Ethan should have been handsome. He was broad shouldered, athletically built, square jawed, with a deep dimple in his chin. The eyes behind the glasses were long-lashed and hazel. His clothes were tailored to his body so he'd fit in with the stars he usually ran with. He had everything going for him but personality. He always seemed to be disapproving of something; a perpetual sour expression stole all his charm.
He stood with one hand gripping the other wrist, feet wide apart, balanced. He frowned down at us from just outside Maeve Reed's large double doors. We were all standing at the foot of the marble steps that led up to those doors. Ethan's men were ranged among the graceful sweep of white pillars that supported the roof of Maeve Reed's narrow porch. It was huge and imposing, but there was no room to put out chairs and have iced tea on hot summer nights. It was a porch for looking at, not for enjoying.
Four men, obviously hired muscle, ranged on the steps between us and Ethan, and the door. I recognized one of them. Max Corbin was nearing fifty. He'd been a bodyguard in Hollywood most of his adult life. He was an inch shy of six feet and built like a box, all angles, squares, including huge knuckled hands. His grey hair was cut in a long butch cut, which made it look stylish and cutting edge, but Max had had the same haircut for forty years.
"We are not agreed," Rhys said. "I'm going in under protest."
"Fine, protest all you want, but you're outvoted."
"If something really awful happens to us in there, I get to say I told you so."
I nodded. "If we're alive long enough for you to say it, knock yourself out."
"Sweet Goddess, if we die that quickly, I'll just have to come back and haunt you."
"If there's anything in there that can kill you, Rhys, I'll have died long before you."
He frowned at me; even through the beard I could see it. "That isn't comforting, Merry, that isn't comforting at all." But he turned around to face the big gates and leaned out his open window to press the intercom and announce our presence. Though I was betting that she knew we were there. She'd had forty years to bespell this land. Conchenn, goddess of beauty and charisma, knew we were here.
Chapter 7
Ethan Kane wasn't as tall as he seemed. He actually was about Rhys's height, but always seemed bigger, as if he took up more room in some way that had nothing to do with physical size. His short hair was a dark brunette, almost but not quite black. He wore glasses with no frames, so they were almost invisible on his face. Ethan should have been handsome. He was broad shouldered, athletically built, square jawed, with a deep dimple in his chin. The eyes behind the glasses were long-lashed and hazel. His clothes were tailored to his body so he'd fit in with the stars he usually ran with. He had everything going for him but personality. He always seemed to be disapproving of something; a perpetual sour expression stole all his charm.
He stood with one hand gripping the other wrist, feet wide apart, balanced. He frowned down at us from just outside Maeve Reed's large double doors. We were all standing at the foot of the marble steps that led up to those doors. Ethan's men were ranged among the graceful sweep of white pillars that supported the roof of Maeve Reed's narrow porch. It was huge and imposing, but there was no room to put out chairs and have iced tea on hot summer nights. It was a porch for looking at, not for enjoying.
Four men, obviously hired muscle, ranged on the steps between us and Ethan, and the door. I recognized one of them. Max Corbin was nearing fifty. He'd been a bodyguard in Hollywood most of his adult life. He was an inch shy of six feet and built like a box, all angles, squares, including huge knuckled hands. His grey hair was cut in a long butch cut, which made it look stylish and cutting edge, but Max had had the same haircut for forty years.