Page 39 of Knight of the Sword

Janie blinked. “He likes her. A lot.”

Morgan narrowed her eyes. “He’s simply trying to convince her to look for some ancient sword that the eccentric millionaire wants.”

“How do you know that?” Janie asked.

She could hardly explain to the girl that she had the office bugged. “She mentioned something about it the last time he was here.”

“Well, that’s a new one,” Janie said. “A guy asking a girl on a date to find a sword.” Then she giggled. “Unless it’s the sword inside his pants. Sophie fences, you know.” She giggled harder. “He sure calls here often enough to be interested in sparring with her, if you catch my jest.”

Morgan bit back a curse she was about to hurl at the girl. No sense in wasting dark magic on the little idiot. If Michael wanted to sheath his sword in anyone, Morgan could give him more than a quick parry! She sniffed. Sophie Cameron hadn’t been able to hold on to a handsome hunk like Robert—probably because she was cold as a glacier in bed. And she’d bet her modeling contract that Michael was a man who liked really hot women. And Morgan liked building up steam in the bedroom.

She forced herself to smile at Janie. Sophie would be out of commission for a while, which would give Morgan time to work on Michael. She was just glad that Adam Baylor would never find out what she had done.

****

“My dear boy,” Mr. Smith said as Michael paced back and forth in the hospital room, “you’ll wear out the linoleum.”

Michael looked over at Sophie, pale-faced and comatose. He had been sending healing white light into her body ever since they’d been admitted into the private room that Smith had ordered, but she had not responded. He gently probed her mind again. Her shields were down, due to being unconscious, but all he could detect was a blank nothingness. At least she was not reliving the accident in some nightmare-like state.

The nurse came in to check Sophie’s vitals again. Michael could discern nothing from the woman’s face as to whether the signs were good or bad, nor did her mind reveal anything other than routine professionalism.

“How is she?” he asked as the nurse adjusted the IV-drip and turned to go.

“She’s holding her own, Mr. McCain. I’ll be back in thirty minutes to check her signs again.”

“Shouldn’t she be waking up?”

‘Some patients take longer than others, with head trauma,” she answered. “The CAT-scan showed minimal swelling, so that’s good news. We just have to be patient.”

Michael resumed pacing again as she left. As a warlock, he had honed his abilities to control himself totally. Magic tinged with emotion was dangerous, yet now he wanted nothing more than to call on all the gods and offer any bargain for this woman to wake up and be all right. He stopped practically in mid-step and stared at Sophie again. He loved her.

Persuading her to help him find the Sword was important. Infinitely so. Balor could not be allowed its possession. Michael’s raging lust for Sophie—his need to bury himself inside her and stay there—was unsurpassed by anything he had ever felt for a woman, but it paled in comparison to this newfound understanding. That lust was built on a much stronger foundation. Love. Caring. He wanted to protect her. He wanted her to be one with him. The potency of his feelings shot through him like a lightning bolt.

And then the irony of the situation hit him. In all his centuries of living, he had never experienced real love until now. And a warlock would be the last person someone as practical and logical as Sophie would want to marry. He was pretty sure she would much prefer to have him and his red dragon go away and leave her in peace.

That wasn’t going to happen. Not now.

Sophie stirred and a small moan escaped her lips. With preternatural speed, Michael was at her side. He didn’t care if Smith noticed how fast he moved or not.

“Sophie! Wake up,” he said as he took her hand, stroking his thumb across her palm. “Come back to the world of the living.”

He felt the static connection, sensed the purple light arching between them, even as she opened her eyes.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as she blinked her eyes, trying to focus on him.

“Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” she said with a grimace.

Michael smiled. “You were run over by a truck. Sort of. Do you remember?”

Sophie closed her eyes and, for a moment, he thought he’d lost her again, but then she opened them and nodded slightly.

“I…I was driving to Dallas. My eyes itched and then blurred. I tried to avoid hitting another car.” She glanced down at her bandaged arm. “The truck left the road. The last thing I remember is that pirate man helping me.”

Michael exchanged a quick glance with Smith. Was she hallucinating? “Pirate man?” he asked.

She must have noticed the look he’d given Smith because she gave him a little smile. “Not a real pirate. He just looked like one. Olive skin and an eye patch, but dressed in an expensive suit.” She pointed to her bandaged arm. “He stopped the bleeding. I’d like to thank him, but I don’t know who he was.”

Michael felt the fine hair along his nape raise. There was only one person who fit that description, that he knew of. “I think you just met Adam Baylor,” he said.