A surprisingly strong hand closed over her forearm, pulled her easily into a sitting position. “You sure about that?” Grace knelt at her side, a frown of concern drawing her blond brows down. “I gave you the whole package. It’s a lot to deal with.”
Kat stared at her. “You’re a witch.” It wasn’t possible, yet she knew it was true. The knowledge felt utterly solid, as if it were something she’d always known, observed, believed. Objects fall down instead of up. Grace du Lac is a witch with fantastic magical powers.
“Yes.” Grace’s gaze didn’t even falter at the admission.
“My father is one of the Knights of the Round Table. And he’s a vampire.” She took a deep breath.
“And the reason you’re here is because I could become a witch too.” Grace nodded. “We could use someone like you right now. But that’s not my decision.” She rose, pulling Kat to her feet with an easy strength that was far from human. “Ridge is going to have to make that call.”
Two Days Later
He’d fought Nazi soldiers, communist spies, and demon-infected terrorists. Dealing with Kat Danilo should be a piece of cake. Yet somehow, Ridge Champion had an ugly feeling his newest mission wasn’t going to be that easy.
Ridge pulled his Porsche 911 into the driveway of 344 Walsh Drive and switched off its rumbling engine. Ice-crusted snow crackled under his Armani loafers as he stepped out of the car. Striding up the curving brick walkway, he eyed the three-story Victorian. Snow was rare in Charlotte, North Carolina, yet icicles hung from the gray-trimmed eaves. The house’s wooden siding was as white as the landscape, and more snow dusted its steeply pitched black roof. A very pretty house, solidly middle-class.
He stepped onto the porch and thumbed the doorbell, sending a cheery four-note chime ringing through the interior.
The gleaming black door swung open a moment later, revealing a woman who had to be Kat’s mother.
The skimpy dossier he’d read said Mary Danilo was fifty-five, but she looked considerably older, her face gaunt, hollows under the blue eyes, lines of pain cutting grooves around her mouth. The beige slacks and sweater were too big for her thin body. Her smile looked forced as she opened the door wide and stepped back.
“Come in, come in out of the cold.” She extended a hand as he stepped inside. “I’m Mary Danilo, Kat’s mother.”
“Ridge Champion.” Her fingers felt thin, fragile, and cold in his careful handshake. He wished he could do something about her obvious anxiety.
“May I take your coat?” She gestured toward the mass of heavy black wool that draped his shoulders.
“No, I’m fine.” They needed to get moving.
Mary nodded, and turned to lead the way through the tiled foyer and into the living room. “Kat’ll be down in a second. Last-minute primping. Not that she’s vain, but she likes to look nice, and . . .” As if losing track of where the sentence was going, Mary trailed off. “Grace said . . .” She broke off again and studied him anxiously. Finally she took a deep breath, as if gathering her courage. “Grace said you’re a vampire.”
He met her gaze steadily. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I didn’t want to believe her. It sounds crazy. There’s no such thing. But . . . I couldn’t not believe.”
“No,” Ridge said. “She wouldn’t let you do anything else.”
“Oh.” She twisted her hands together, staring up at him.
“Your daughter will be safe with me,” Ridge told her gently. “Most of what you’ve heard about vampires is myth. Crosses don’t bother us, we don’t drain people’s blood, and we’re not undead. We certainly don’t sleep in coffins. We’re the good guys. And I would never hurt an innocent.”
“Grace told me that. But Kat’s my only child.”
“I know, ma’am. She’ll be safe with me.”
The searching doubt didn’t fade from her eyes, though finally she nodded. “Thank you.” Unfortunately, there wasn’t a hell of a lot more he could say to convince her. Unlike Grace du Lac, Ridge wasn’t a Maja, able to induce belief with a spell.
“Mom?” The voice came from somewhere upstairs, sounding far too sexy for a woman who still lived with her mother at the age of twenty-six. “Zip me up, please?”
“Coming.” Mary shot him a harried, apologetic smile and left the room. Her footsteps sounded on a stairway somewhere out of sight.
Ridge tucked his hands in his overcoat pockets and studied his surroundings. The walls were painted a soft, elegant cream, the couch and chairs were covered in pale gold slipcovers, and a potted palm occupied a woven basket in the corner. There wasn’t so much as a Santa figurine to be seen. And why was that? He frowned slightly.
Idly, Ridge wandered over to the golden marble fireplace, where an eight-by-ten photo occupied the center of a white wooden mantel. From the center of a sterling silver frame the teenaged girl smiled in the kind of stiffly posed shot taken for senior yearbooks. A pretty blonde who looked vaguely like Mary Danilo, she wore a heart-shaped locket around her neck engraved with initials Ridge couldn’t quite make out. Candles stood to either side of the frame as though it were a shrine.
He frowned. Was this Kat?
“Mom, are you sure you’re going to be okay?” The woman’s voice carried clearly to his vampire hearing, surprisingly throaty, flavored with the South, smooth and rich as Kentucky bourbon.