Master of Desire (Merlin's Legacy #6) - Angela Knight Page 0,30
He had it coming.”
“Well, Essus doesn’t.” She headed into the bathroom, gun in hand. She put the weapon on the floor beside the tub -- she was feeling paranoid after yesterday -- then stripped out of the T-shirt and panties she’d worn to bed.
The shower pounded her with fifteen jets of deliciously hot water. With a sigh of pleasure, she soaped up from a bottle of expensive body wash and listened to the familiar background rumble of Liam bitching.
* * *
Helena descended the winding stairs to Conal’s booming laughter. Essus on his shoulder, he sat in the living room watching the biggest damn flat-screen she’d ever seen in her life. It needed every bit of that real estate as it displayed a border of small picture-in-picture images from a dozen different news channels.
In a larger central image, Arthur Pendragon wore a three-piece suit and an expression of profound irritation. Must be a recording, since it was morning in Avalon, and he’d be asleep now. The camera cut to TrueFact host Roger Billings, who demanded, “Aren’t you engaged in treason?”
“First, this isn’t my country, so no,” Arthur replied, obviously fighting for patience. “Two, diseases do not respect borders, particularly when people can fly around the planet in a day.”
“But that virus could have destabilized the Chinese government. If your witches hadn’t cured it…”
“It’s lot easier to stop an outbreak when only a couple hundred people are sick,” Arthur snapped. “Once it’s millions and wrecks the world economy, it’s a little damn late.”
“Why do you coddle murderous dictatorships? Don’t you like democracy?” He curled his lip. “Oh, yeah. You were a medieval dictator, weren’t you?”
“Oh, he did not just say that,” Helena murmured as Arthur’s eyes turned to black ice.
“Dictators don’t care about their people,” the vampire said in a deceptively pleasant tone. “Not about their happiness, or their welfare, or whether they live or die. Dictators lie to their people, steal from their people, kill their people. So no, I was never a dictator. But I have helped people… deal with their dictators.” Arthur stared at him, letting fifteen centuries worth of Dark Age warrior menace show in his smile.
Billings’s eyes widened, and he visibly paled under his makeup. “I think… I think we need to go to a commercial break. Thanks for coming on the show.” His voice cracked.
Arthur’s feral smile would have looked at home on a werewolf. “Thanks for having me.”
Conal turned the screen off, laughing. “I’ve got to send Arthur a bottle of something really expensive. That prick Billings has needed taking down a few pegs for the past decade.” He rose from the couch, Essus spreading his wings for balance. Conal turned, only to freeze, his eyes widening. He swallowed, and Helena could smell his wash of arousal from where she stood. Her Burning Moon libido instantly began to growl.
She’d dressed for a New York summer day in flowing, wide-legged cotton pants and a sleeveless cropped top. Both were white with vivid swirls of primary colors spilling diagonally across them. Big gold hoop earrings swung against her cheeks, and narrow gold bangles chimed together on her wrists. A pair of scarlet flat sandals and a wide red belt completed the look, with Liam riding her hip in an invisible holster. She sincerely hoped she wouldn’t have to draw him. The idea of firing the gun god on a city street made her twitch.
“You look really…” Conal swallowed. “Nice.”
Helena grinned happily. And most definitely did not wonder whether that was the Burning Moon talking. “You’re not so bad yourself.” Which was an understatement. He wore a loose black knit shirt and black jeans with black running shoes, Essus perched on Darkbane’s crosspiece, a glorious splash of color against all that darkness. The outfit might have looked a little sloppy on anyone else, but given Conal’s body, it inspired a happy growl from Helena’s libido.
He smiled, flashing dimples. “Let’s go get breakfast. Maireade Tira’s the best chef in town.”
Helena lifted her brows. “That’s saying something, given the town.” New York had its problems, but the food wasn’t one of them.
The express elevator in the hall outside the penthouse was surprisingly roomy, DCN’s glowing LED logo shedding a cool blue light as they entered. Conal waved his security badge over a sensor pad, and the car dropped smoothly and silently. A flat screen set in the rear wall beneath the logo showed the morning DCN anchor interviewing Elizabeth Reeve’s mother.
“Why?” Jennifer Reeves demanded, tears running down her face. “She