Erik couldn’t remember how many nights found him camped out under an inky sky, shrugging off the chill and wrapped in the song of crickets. He could almost feel Magda huddled against his once-emaciated frame, attempting to share his scant warmth in the thick brush of the woods surrounding the camp. Now, he stirred the flames idly with a long, fractured branch, still green enough to crackle under contact with the fire. He watched the waifishly slender, scruffily attired teenager before him, doing her best to huddle against the fallen log and make herself invisible. She’d skirted around speaking to him directly for much of their journey there.
The campground was deserted, but bore signs of recent occupancy. They’d tramped through the brush under cover of darkness, nearly tripping over abandoned, collapsed tents.
“Why did you bring me here?” she muttered sullenly, catching him off-guard when she made the first overture toward a real conversation.
“We need time to regroup. One doesn’t break out of jail without drawing a bit of unwanted attention, my dear. I’m spent; I’m not quite as spry as I was, perhaps, when I was your own age. I had no one to assist me when I introduced myself at the precinct.”
“How the hell did you get in?”
“Not with the fanfare I would have employed before. I just walked inside.” She stared at him in disbelief before narrowing her blue eyes, again the same cornflower hue as Magda’s. “Tell me something,” he beckoned, gifting her with the smile of an indulgent old man scoffing at someone young and irresponsible. “Is that your real hair?”
“I bought it. Guess that makes it mine,” she shrugged impudently. He suppressed a snicker but mastered it, scratching his chin thoughtfully. He needed a shave, he mused to himself.
“It’s quite garish,” he announced. “Another of my young protégées favored hair like that. She’s gone now. You remind me of her.”
“I’m not some ‘protégé’ of yours, bub. I’m grateful and all, you busting me out before they could ship me off to juvy-“
“Where would you go, my dear?”
“What’s it matter to you? Better yet, why did you come, anyway? You just some guy trying to get your kicks with a little girl? Are you some kind of sicko?” She threw her arms wide. “You brought me to the middle of nowhere, in the dark! Hardly noble, if you ask me.”
“Where are your parents?” he asked her smoothly, ignoring her diatribe for the moment.
She clamped her lips shut, allowing them to settle into a thin, mulish line. He could tell he pricked her. She toyed with the silver rings on her fingers and picked at that godawful, brackish nail polish, chipping it more than it already was.
“I called them.” Her thoughts raced with the possible story she could tell him that might convince him to let her go, even as her pulse skipped. He was astute, despite being old, and his eyes watched her with interest and amusement. At her expense. She sent up prayers to God that she hadn’t thrown her lot in with a psychopath or a rapist.
Great. Could have just stayed in my nice, cozy…cell. Damn it! She tugged on Ali’s St. Christopher medal, twisting and untwisting the chain.
“You’ll break that trinket if you keep doing that,” he suggested dryly. He rummaged through a carry-all that, surprisingly, had already been there when they broke camp, and he produced a large Thermos.
“Hot cocoa,” he announced, unscrewing the cap and pouring some into the deep, cupped lid. “This might warm you up a bit.” He reached around the edge of the fire and handed it to her, thankful that she accepted it without fighting him.
“Maybe,” she murmured, taking a sip. “Thanks.”
“You’re quite welcome, my child.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Let’s discuss that, while we’re on the subject. What is your birth name?”
“Lorna. Lorna Elizabeth Dane. That’s what’s on my adoption certificate, anyway.” His silvery brows arched in surprise.
“Adoption papers? How old were you?”
“Dunno. Guess I was too young to remember. My folks have always been my folks, more or less. I guess. Until this week.” She stared into her cocoa, swirling it before taking another hesitant sip. “I don’t really belong there after all. I’ve got no place to go. Shit, why’m I telling you this?”
“Language,” he chided gently. He helped himself to some of the cocoa, pouring a small measure of it into a small tin among his belongings, deciding it sufficed as a cup. “Lorna’s a nice name,” he remarked. “Elizabeth would be perfectly suitable for someone else. You don’t look like one,” he mused.
“Elizabeth sucks,” she snorted. “So does Lorna. I couldn’t get a cool name like Paige, or Monet.”
“What constitutes a cool name?” he inquired politely. She warmed to the topic, letting her shoulders relax as she slumped more comfortably against the log.
“Anything that isn’t mine.”
“Elizabeth is beautiful, and it’s certainly dignified. A classic, really. Several queens throughout history managed just fine with it.”
“Doesn’t matter what I call myself, I guess. I’m a freak.” She set down the cocoa cup dispassionately, releasing a ragged sigh and folding her arms before leaning against her knees. She stared into the flames as though she were willing herself to be anywhere but where she sat.
“No. Not hardly,” he corrected her quietly. “You’re gifted. Different, certainly. But not a freak.”
“Kids at school think so. I had an accident,” she continued. “I went to this party at my friend Doug’s house. He’s got money. Had a nice place. The basement was packed. So these girls, the ones I told you about, they started messing with me, giving me a hard time. I got mad.”
“I can imagine.”
“Then things got weird. I felt…energy. Felt it just, I dunno, running through my veins. I felt the metal. I felt it heating up around me, almost…like I could feel its atoms speeding up and becoming charged. I felt my hair stand up…like that little girl in Firestarter!”
“Not familiar with it.”
“Whaddever. Stephen King flick. Actually a little before my time, I figured you’d know an old one like that,” she accused tartly. Erik allowed himself to chuckle this time. She picked at her chipped polish, scratching off most of what was clinging to her ragged thumbnail. She warmed to her subject, and for a few minutes, she nearly forgot that she was only where she was at his tolerance and mercy.
He could turn on her any time.
“So all of the sudden, all the metal in the room just started flying all over the basement. Monet called me a name again. Her and Paige.”
“They don’t sound like very good friends.”
“I never said they were.” She tossed a twig into the flames just to hear it crackle. “I threw Monet away from me. I didn’t mean to. I just…she flew back. I didn’t even touch her. And…the weird thing is, she wasn’t hurt, but I felt like crap.” She swallowed stiffly, feeling her throat clog up and threaten to clamp itself shut. “And I hurt Dougie.” Her lip quivered, and Erik felt a flush of pity. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Of course you didn’t, Lorna. You said it was an accident. Accidents happen when you lost control, my dear. You’re young. You’re untried. You have a gift that you have yet to learn how to properly control. It couldn’t be helped.”
“Everyone hates me now.” She sniffled harshly this time and dragged her denim jacket sleeve over her nose and lips, mopping at her eyes.
“Hate is only another word for fear,” he assured her. “You’re a striking young woman. I imagine that until your little display at this friend’s party, no one would have suspected you were a mutant.”
“So? It doesn’t change anything! I’m a freak! My whole life is over!” Her voice broke, and she was so swept up in her own sorrow that she didn’t hear Erik abandon his seat by the fire and make his way around to the dead log. She buried her face in her palms and gave in to strangling sobs that wracked her narrow frame, giving full voice to the pain.
“Your life is just beginning.” He sat beside her, and she didn’t protest when he tugged her hands away from her face, her eyes red-rimmed and damp. He was painstakingly gentle as he collected her into his embrace. He rocked her tenderly and carefully, as though she was fragile and very dear to him. “It’s all right,” he assured her, his voice a low croon. She continued to sob and cling to his wool sweater, heedless of her makeup as she rubbed her cheek against its fuzzy texture.
“I…have…nobody,” she rasped. “I’m all alone, and-and I can’t g-go back to school. My parents hate me! They wanted to send me away anyway, s-so where’m I s’posed to go?”
“Among your own kind,” he replied easily. “You’re not the only one, you know. Unique, certainly, but still one of many similar.” He stroked her hair, tousled and tangled from days of having no grooming items. “Do you know who I am, child?”
“N-no,” she sniffled, finally pulling back and craning her face up at him. “Some guy who had nothing better to do than bust me out of jail?”
“You’re the first person who has ever referred to me as ‘some guy,’ but I will excuse it in favor of educating you. My name is Erik. Erik Magnus Lensherr.” He wiped away her tears with his thumb, and her mystified look tugged at him. He smoothed down her hair carefully, still amused at its odd colors. “The media blessed me with a different moniker. You might know me as Magneto.” He didn’t flinch when she backed away from him, nearly falling over the stump in her haste.
“Holy shit,” she whispered.
“I’m a mutant,” he explained. “I manipulate metal, in even its most infinitesimal form. Any kind. And I thought we agreed you would watch your language, child. You might not think you have to stand on ceremony in these humble accommodations, but I would appreciate it if you remembered you were a young lady.”
“You…you turned the Golden Gate Bridge into…wow. Wow,” she repeated, sitting back down, looking dumbstruck. “Why?”
He sighed gustily, a reasonable answer escaping him. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. I wanted to make a statement.”
“Could’ve just announced ‘I’m here.’ Guess I just don’t have vision for these kinda things,” she admitted, and Erik caught a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. It was refreshing, having his own wit thrown back at him with such finesse.
“The impact would’ve been lost. Humans are never satisfied unless you enter with a bang. They take nothing else seriously, and my dear, I am a man who must always be taken seriously.” He sat up and stretched, hating the crack of his joints after so much cramped travel but still grateful he’d come this far. His youth was a blur of dark nights and excruciating days filled with the certainty that tomorrow, his time was up.
Tomorrow had a new meaning for him now.
“News flash, buddy. I’m a human, and last time I checked, all it takes is opposable thumbs. That’d make you a human, too.”
“Rule number one, if you would like to enjoy a mutually beneficial relationship with me, child: We, meaning you and I, by token of being mutants, are not merely human. Remember that. Now, about this hair of yours…” Lorna found his voice compelling, noticing he had a rich accent whose origin she couldn’t quite discern.
She felt her hair stirring all the way down to the follicle, and a tingle of surprise tinged with wonder ran through her as Erik gestured with his hand.
“They thought they cured me, back at Alcatraz. I thought all hope was lost, until I discovered you, child. For the past few weeks, I’ve felt something tugging at me.” As he spoke, her hair continued to wave as if buoyed by a breeze, even though the evening air was still. “I was drawn to it like a beacon. A wave of energy, magnetic in nature. It kept winking in and out of my awareness, calling to me. My powers have lain dormant since the coup at Alcatraz. Members of our own kind “ mutants “ took my gift from me, but it’s proven only temporary. I still feel the metal calling to me. Its song resonates within my being. Just as I suspect it resonates through yours.” Incredulously, she watched flecks of sooty black matter rise and dance on the air current Erik created, slowly realizing it was the actual dye from her hair, slowly dissipating and falling away. “Promise me in the future you will reconsider your choice of hair color. Or at least use less harmful dyes. Oh, my,” he breathed, stealing her earlier feelings of shock.
“Don’t laugh,” she implored, shrinking down and huddling inside her jacket.
“Never,” he vowed. “It’s…fetching. It’s you,” he amended, and for the first time since they’d become acquainted, Lorna grinned. She ran a hand through her jaw-length, chartreuse green hair and tried to restore some semblance of order to it as Erik fetched the small aluminum sauce pan from his satchel.
Ottawa:
Logan couldn’t remember how many nights found him camped out under an inky sky, silently daring anything creeping on four feet to try to steal his dinner from him. Heather and Mac nagged him out of the “Bat Cave” for a barbecue over an open pit. Logan regaled them with tales of the kids, particularly the night he’d met Marie.
Logan continued his scan of the personnel files into the wee hours of the night, savoring the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. He loved Mac and Heather to death, but some things a man just had to absorb privately.
The names were familiar enough as he toggled through the screen with the mouse, clicking on each one. Malcolm Colcord. Madison Jeffries. Dr. Zander Rice. Dr. Carol Hines…Logan vaguely remembered a woman with her dark hair skinned back ruthlessly, peering down at him through wire-rimmed spectacles, reminding him of Nurse Ratchet in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Dr. Sarah Kinney. Dr. Robert Windsor. Brent Jackson. John Sublime…he hopped back a name or two, wondering why that one rang a bell.
Windsor…dark hair. Fair-skinned, like someone who never got outside. Logan clicked on the record and expanded the database on him, taking in Department H’s elaborate details with interest. Guy received his PhD in genetic engineering and biophysics, not unlike Hank. No previous medical records on file. Ten years in service of the Department of Defence prior to his work on the Weapon X project…
“No personnel record updates following the dissolution of Weapon X project, discontinued due to lack of funding and uncertain security of complex,” Logan snorted to himself as he read the screen aloud. He wondered if that trail of bodies he’d left behind qualified as “uncertain security.” The steely squeal of his claws ripping through concrete haunted him, sending a shiver down his spine. The memory nagged him, now that Jean had unscrambled it. She’d immersed herself in his psyche, swimming along the tide of his memories, imprinting herself into his mind before he took her life. Logan never trusted telepaths or empaths sneaking into his head, even though he’d allowed the Professor access to help him find the clues he was so desperate for. It was too personal. He’d had too much taken from him already. His thoughts were sacrosanct, untouchable by science, government reach, or human cruelty. He claimed to possess nothing else.
The records began to blur, Logan was so tired, staring listlessly at the screen and sipping a mug of cocoa that had long since gone cold. Heather, bless her, left the treat for him prior to booting up the system in Mac’s den and offering her goodnight. Her touch still lingered; she’d ruffled his unruly hair prior to taking her leave, scooping up Huggles so the pooch wouldn’t disturb him on her way out. Logan could have sworn the mutt had a foot fetish…
He set the mug down on the side table before he could drop it. His fingers were suddenly trembling, and he smothered a curse.
“Dr. Winsor expressed interest in the potential for implant technology in baseline, healthy volunteers that would enable the military to interface directly with Homeland Security mainframe, essentially remaining ‘online’ at all times, in sync with directives and orders from the Department of Defence. The implants would enhance strength and physical endurance in subjects/militia, enabling fewer casualties during times of war and fewer civilian deaths. Dr. Windsor is optimistic that we may be witnessing the dawn of a new brand of soldier to protect the Canadian countryside, and its bordering nations as Weapons Plus pursues these new modalities. Local law enforcement would also benefit from the new technology, particularly in regard to super-powered beings and threats from mutantkind.”
Logan scooted back from his chair so sharply that he nearly knocked it over, running from the den to wake Mac. He didn’t care that it was late.
He needed some way of getting the files back to Hank and ‘Ro. First, he had to gas up the bike.
According to the files, the funding had never cut for the Weapons Plus program once the Department’s interest in Weapon X folded. Windsor wasn’t among the members of the research team who’d been present the night Heather and Mac found Logan, half-frozen and bleeding in the snow.
That maniac was still out there, with all of Logan’s medical history at his disposal.
Westchester, School for Gifted Youngsters:
“Bobby, quit hogging all the marshmallows,” Kitty nagged, reaching over his shoulder and snatching it from his lap. He grinned up at her innocently, blue eyes twinkling in the firelight.
“Just helping you keep your girlish figure, Kit-Kat,” he shrugged. Anna Marie socked him heartily in the chest, unfazed about doing him any real harm.
“Pass me the chocolate while you’re at it, Kitty,” Dani implored, selecting a graham cracker from the cellophane wrapper.
Forge surprised Ororo yet again, this time with a bonfire by the lake front and the suggestion of s’mores and an impromptu barbecue. When she’d begged off, using the mountain of ungraded test papers atop her desk, Hank had smoothly led her by the elbow from the house after announcing to the students that they would be dining al fresco.
“I’m prohibitively busy, Henry!”
“They’ll pepper me with questions all night long about ‘Where’s Miss Munroe?’ if I let you escape back to your cave, my dear. Out!” He flung one pointed, clawed finger in the direction of the back door. Ororo opened her mouth to protest, but clapped it shut again as he turned her shoulders and marched her outside. “Go! Eat! Enjoy, for a change. Take off your teacher’s hat and take a rest.”
“The papers,” she murmured weakly.
“I’ve some notes to go over in the lab,” Henry reminded her. “I can take care of the test papers while I’m down there. And I already ate,” he added, deflecting her argument that he wasn’t coming with her. “I’m not your only source of adult conversation, either, Ororo. Don’t keep our ever-so-helpful guest waiting.” Ororo eyed him carefully, a twinkle of curiosity in her eyes.
“Henry,” she accused, folding her slender arms beneath her breasts. “You’re up to something.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No I’m not,” he sang liltingly.
“Ohhhhhh, yes you are,” she insisted.
“Miss Munroe!” Sam called, his voice carrying easily over the water as he waved a bag of marshmallows. “Come an’ have some s’mores b’fore they’re all gone, ma’am!”
“He’s right,” chuckled a resonant Texan voice behind her. “Snap one up before they disappear, Ororo. Get ‘em while they’re hot.” He swept his arm out toward the lake, ushering her forward without actually touching her, but she felt his nearness with a ticklish glow in her stomach. He once again wore his denims with casual grace, this time wearing a khaki button-down camp shirt and coffee brown leather boots. A necklace, choker-cut, adorned his neck, made from bone hairpipes and sandstone beads. A buffalo tooth pendant dangled from the center.
“I really shouldn’t “ “
“I’m going inside. Forge, makes sure she gets some fresh air and junk food. I expect to smell graham crackers and chocolate on your breath before you come back inside.”
“Aye, aye,” he grinned. Ororo shot Henry a look that promised retribution, but he excused himself with a jaunty wave, whistling cheerfully as he returned to the kitchen. Ororo turned back to Forge, searching for any reason why she should have to go back to her study. His ebony eyes made reason of any sort elusive at best as he continued to drink his fill of her.
She was beautiful. Despite her insistence that she had work to finish, she’d already dressed for comfort. Tapered, faded jeans and a lightweight white henley shirt of downy cotton displayed her elegant curves; she’d also completed the look with short black boots. Her lustrous hair was bound back in a French braid with soft tendrils framing her face. Gold hoop earrings swung from her ears and complimented her skin, warm as maple syrup in the firelight the closer they drew to the lake front.
Eyes as blue as snapdragons peered up at him through thick lashes. “You’re in league with Henry.”
“Oh, no. I can do bad all by myself, Ororo. This was my idea, all right. There’s a s’more calling your name. Here,” he offered, grabbing a long branch from the grass, peeling a long twig from it and stripping it of its leaves and bark as he led her to the clearing. Rock music blared from the boom box that Kitty brought along, and Ororo smiled despite herself at the cluster of students gorging on hot dogs and marshmallows. Jubilee and Kitty were having one of many Lord of the Rings debates that sent them arguing through the halls of the school and sent Piotr and Bobby scurrying away for refuge from flying fur.
Forge’s hand felt warm, nudging her arm and urging her to take the makeshift marshmallow skewer from him. “Thank you,” she murmured, and was about to duck over to the fire to find a vacant place to sit. She found herself rooted to the spot when he didn’t let go of the twig.
“Just a sec,” he murmured, and he winked at her as he deftly pushed a marshmallow onto the end of it. “Don’t run away just yet. Might help if you have one of these.” She cleared her throat and tugged the stick lightly from his grasp, a hint of indignance creeping into her flushed cheeks.
She wished he’d stop looking at her like he wanted to eat her up…
“Much obliged,” she assured him coolly before turning to the fire. Sam welcomed her eagerly and moved over to make room for her to kneel and place her stick in the dense, sandy soil, propping it where it could easily roast while she prepared her cracker.
“You don’t have to sit on the ground,” Forge announced. He snapped open a double club chair and smoothed it a few feet behind the bonfire before strolling over. He had such a lanky gait, she mused. His bearing reminded her of Scott, with the same proud posture and confidence; the only difference was the faint roll of the one hip that he seemed to favor. She remembered that he’d been injured while on active duty in Vietnam.
“I’m nearly finished,” she replied.
“That marshmallow’s just this side shy of well done,” Bobby pointed out, removing her stick from the dirt and blowing out the tiny, burning cinders dancing along its edge. He handed it to her with a knowing grin. Ororo sighed and rose, taking the seat Forge offered in silent defeat. Ever the gentleman, he brought over half an unwrapped Hershey bar and the cellophane wrapper of crackers. Before she could reach for one, he sat down next to her, his arm inadvertently brushing hers and sending a quiver of electricity dancing along her flesh as he relieved her of the marshmallow stick. He prepared it for her, neatly pressing a perfectly separated square of chocolate over the marshmallow and graham and sliding the stick out from the sandwich. He topped it with another cracker and handed it to her. Their fingertips bumped. Forge licked away a smudge of chocolate from his finger. His chiseled lips curled beneath his neatly trimmed mustache, bringing out a dimple in his cheek.
“Why don’t you like me, Ororo?”
“I never said I didn’t like you,” she countered, nibbling a corner of the sandwich and licking up a stray blob of marshmallow.
“You’ve been avoiding me. If you don’t walk out of the room whenever I’m there, or if we’re not discussing business, you send Hank or one of the students to be the messenger to come and get me. And you’ve made it clear that you don’t seem to trust me.”
“We wouldn’t have anything else to discuss besides business, sir.”
“Ah. So it’s like that.”
“You came here as a favor to Henry. Don’t get me wrong, Forge. I appreciate what you’ve done. You’ve restored a valuable resource to this school, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t think highly of the government’s role in the past persecution of mutants like myself. Like us,” she amended. “You have a special gift. The same people at the Pentagon who pay your salary are the same ones who sanctioned the use of the Cure.”
“It doesn’t stop the fact that the Cure was funded and sanctioned by the father of a mutant, as you told me before.”
“I told you that with a different intent, Forge,” she shot back, fuming and gathering steam from the sugar rush. “You’ve met Warren, then?”
“Yes, I have.” His eyes flitted over to the pier overlooking the lake, where Warren sat dangling his feet into the water, enjoying the faint breeze rustling through his feathers.
“Does he look like he needs to be cured of anything?”
“Of course not.”
“Do I?” Her voice held a hard edge, even though her face was tranquil. She licked up a dab of chocolate from her snack as she met his gaze unwaveringly.
“No. You don’t. Ask yourself, though, Ororo…how many mutants have you met or witnessed who were crippled by their power? Imprisoned in their homes for fear of interacting with others? A danger to themselves, as well as to others? Disfigured? Incapable of leading a regular life without supportive devices or barriers?” This time, he followed her eyes over to Marie, holding court with Bobby and Jimmy as she tussled with them over a bag of chips. She snatched a gloved handful of them and munched a few before handing Bobby back the bag. “Denied something so simple as human contact and comfort?”
“Some sacrifices have to be made. It’s a mutant’s choice whether to seek a so-called ‘cure’ to rid themselves of their gift. Not a clinic’s. Not a pharmaceutical company’s. And not the government’s, unless it’s a large-scale threat to national security. And even then…they would do well to call us first.”
“The President has Hank on speed dial,” he murmured. That earned him a smile. “And that leaves me with the question now, for you. If you lost your powers, Ororo, would you consider yourself crippled?”
“What an odd thing to say.” She scowled at him, affronted. “I imagine I would adapt. I’m a mutant. But first and foremost, I am a woman. And for the moment, a headmistress. If my niche no longer rested with the academy, I would perhaps pursue something else. My powers are valuable. They open another world to me that many only imagine in their wildest dreams. Warren and Sam can relate, to a degree. And Jean…” her voice trailed off. “She was very dear to me.”
“Close friends?”
“Sisters in all ways but blood.” Forge was thoughtful as he sipped from a can of Coke, sucking a bead of liquid from his lip. He leaned back in the club chair, making it rock slightly with the motion, and Ororo then became aware of how closely she’d been leaning in toward him as they spoke. His skin, hair and clothing still held that spicy little scent she’d come to associate with him, without realizing that she had. Forge…was just Forge.
“You don’t believe the Cure could have saved her?”
“She didn’t want anyone to try. Jean wasn’t built that way. All things considered, I don’t know that I am, either.”
“What about that ‘I’m not just a mutant, I’m a woman’ speech?”
“I can make it rain. I can fly. Figure it out for yourself.” She sighed and shared a wicked look with him. “I would live, certainly. That doesn’t mean I would like it.”
“You never know what you can do to adapt until you try.” He removed his glove, displaying his impressive prosthetic. “I can do anything with his hand except feel. The nannites send messages to my nervous system, which loops them back with signals to move my fingers to perform whatever task that I need.” He laid down the glove before reaching to tug his foot into his lap, removing his boot. Before she could stop herself, Ororo reached out to run her fingertips over the intricate net of circuitry and filaments winking up at her from the titanium alloy of his leg. Forge watched her reaction with fascination.
“Amazing,” she breathed, stifling the idiotic urge to ask him “Does it go all the way up?”
“It makes some folks nervous.”
“Some folks are idiots.”
“I lost my leg all the way to halfway up my thigh. Landmine,” he explained, guessing she was curious, and glad when she beamed at him again. “I don’t consider myself crippled.”
“You shouldn’t,” she agreed. “Your gift helped.”
“It’s not all that I am.” He replaced his boot, zipping it back up. “I’m a man first,” he reminded her, and he took the brief liberty of reaching out to tweak a slender, curling tendril of her hair that reminded him of spun moonbeams. His fingertips were warm and painstakingly gentle as they grazed her cheek. She smothered her sharp intake of breath and he watched her eyes dilate. She licked her lips and cleared her throat in an effort to recover her composure.
“I…I’m headed inside. I obeyed Henry’s orders to the letter. Mission accomplished. Thank you for this. For everything,” she stammered, rising from her half of the club chair on shaky legs and gesturing to the dwindling bonfire and her students.
“My pleasure, Ororo.”
“Good night.” Niggling pangs of guilt and feminine appreciation warred within her stomach as she nearly ran back to the house.
She felt his eyes following her.
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