Keeper of the Moon. Harley Jane Kozak
Within seconds she was wide-awake, ears buzzing. She could focus and move, and ten minutes later she was not only on top of her station, she was helping Lauren with hers. It was when she was ordering three Irish coffees for the bachelorette party that she saw, at the far end of the bar, Declan Wainwright.
Her heart skipped a beat. And then another.
Damnit.
Declan had been watching her for half an hour, waiting for the moment to step in and get her out of there without creating a scene. He’d done a glamour on himself, nothing taxing, not full-on invisibility, just enough so that she wasn’t aware it was him at the bar, seeing him only as some random customer.
And then she’d popped a pill.
He’d seen the surreptitious glance around, her eyes disguised with colored contact lenses—where on earth had she gotten those?—that told him the pill was something other than aspirin.
He was sure that no one else saw, but at that point he was locked onto her and could practically hear her thoughts: I hope this works. As an Elven Keeper, she had the Elven transparency, both sending and receiving thoughts telepathically. He wondered if she was gifted in all aspects of Elvenry, including their version of witchcraft.
Damn the girl. She was tainting her own blood, clouding the best clue they had to whomever was killing the species she was supposed to be protecting. And she’d done it right before his eyes. He was angry enough that his glamour fell away before he realized it, leaving him openly staring at her.
And now she was staring back.
Sailor literally stopped breathing.
If there was a man living who was more erotically appealing than Declan Wainwright, more her type, better able to take her breath away, she didn’t want to meet him. One was enough for this lifetime. When she was around him she wasn’t herself, and self-consciousness, painful for anyone, was particularly bad for an actress. It killed creative energy. Her attraction to him rendered her graceless, inarticulate and gauche—and that made her defensive.
Breathe, she told herself.
And why was he here? It was one thing to encounter him after hours at his own nightclub, where a drink or two could ease her awkwardness. Here she was at a disadvantage, dressed in an absurd French maid uniform—with sensible shoes—perpetually in danger of being yelled at by Kristoff. How embarrassing.
Her cousins considered Declan a friend, especially Rhiannon, but Sailor had gotten off on the wrong foot with him years earlier, and then again a few months ago, and now every encounter seemed to make it worse. She’d pegged him as someone with a bias against actors/waiters, against any artist who wasn’t—yet—A-list. Which pissed her off.
What pissed her off even more was how susceptible she was to his charms, like nearly every woman in L.A., which made her a cliché. She had no defense against his rakish appeal, his jet-black hair and sky-blue eyes bordered by laugh lines, the early warning signs of middle age. He was close to forty, Sailor knew, a decade older than she was, but he didn’t look it. His body, surfer-lean, was always in jeans and a T-shirt. And he had a timeless aura of … cool. As the owner of the Snake Pit on Sunset, he was a staple of the late-night club scene, as well as being a producer, entrepreneur and unerring judge of talent in the indie music world. A star maker.
And he had all the confidence that came with that. He was used to women coming on to him, and she wasn’t going to join that club. He was never going to know how she felt about him, not if she had anything to say about it.
What was he was doing at the House of Illusion? It wasn’t to see her, that was for sure. She wasn’t in his social sphere. But he was staring at her now, so she could hardly ignore him. They were acquaintances. It would be too weird. Damn.
She served her Irish coffees, asked Lauren to keep an eye on her station, then wiped her hands on her apron, brushed her hair from her eye, and—heart pounding—walked over to him.
“Mr. Wainwright?” The formality was tongue-in-cheek, acknowledging the prickliness of their relationship.
Declan swiveled on his barstool to face her. “Miss Gryffald,” he said drily. The way he pronounced her name betrayed his Celtic origins. The guy had an accent that would make a tax code sound seductive.
“I wanted to ask you—” Damn. She was shaking. “I’m wondering if there’s anything you could tell me about Gina Santoro or Charlotte Messenger.”
“Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why would I?” he asked.
“Why would you know anything about them? Or why would you tell me?”
“Yes.”
Did some people enjoy toying with other people? she wondered. Some endorphin rush? “You would know about them,” she said, “because they were both part of the club scene and you are the club scene, and there’s not much that goes on between 2:00 a.m. and sunrise that you don’t know or can’t find out. And you would tell me because you’re a shapeshifter Keeper and you were friends with my uncle Owen, and because I’m an Elven Keeper and it couldn’t hurt you to have an ally on my Council—a new one, I mean. And not to be ageist, but … a young one. One who’s not going to be collecting Social Security anytime soon.” She was talking too fast and with too much energy and saw Dennis glance her way.
“I already have a number of allies,” Declan Wainwright said, his voice low. “And if you think trading on your family name will earn anyone’s respect, you’re not much like your uncle Owen. Or your father.”
Sailor was now breathing heavily, her face burning along with the wound in her chest. “You know what?” she said. “Maybe you think that because I’m just a waitress-slash-actress I shouldn’t be talking to you except to take your order—”
“You shouldn’t be talking at all, in a room that—”
“—and that your money means you can afford to make enemies. I can see how you might think that. And yet it would be so easy to win someone’s gratitude and loyalty, someone who might have information that could be useful to you, but I’m sure you have your reasons for being an arrogant b—” She stopped, aghast. Had she just almost called him an arrogant bastard?
He swiveled his barstool until he was facing her dead on. Smiling. His trademark grin, something she’d seen but never provoked. “Go on, pet. Don’t start editing yourself now.”
“Oh, my God. My mouth. I’m sorry. Look, I’ve got—”
“A temper?” He was still smiling. “I’d say so.”
“I was going to say ‘customers.’ But yes, a temper, too.” She turned to go.
“Wait.” He reached out and caught her wrist.
She turned back and stared, electricity surging through her at the touch. His hand was strong, but his hold was gentle. She could easily have pulled free, but she didn’t. Her heart was beating fast.
With his free hand Declan made the “Check, please” gesture to Dennis, and when Dennis made the “It’s on the house” gesture back to him, Declan stood, and pulled her closer. He was taller than she by a few inches, and she was forced to look up at him.
He leaned in, and she couldn’t imagine what he was doing—for one crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss her neck—but it was only to whisper in her ear.
“What did you take just now?”
“What do you mean?” She was practically vibrating with the nearness of him.
“The pill.”
“Oh.” She shook her head. “Just—it’s called síúlacht. It’s nothing, it’s—”
“I know what it is. Bloody hell.” He let go of her, and stepped back, turning to shield his thoughts