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a very small giant, and there aren't many females his size in the Los Angeles area. He'd been here nearly
ten years. That was a long time to be without the touch of another naked body. How terribly lonely.
If no one guessed who I really was, and if I didn't get bespelled out of my mind by Alistair Norton, I'd
see about fixing Uther up with someone. Uther wasn't the only giant-sized fey wandering outside the
courts, just the only one in the immediate area. If we couldn't find someone his size, we might be able to
come up with other solutions. Sex doesn't have to mean intercourse. There are women on the streets that
will do just about anything for a couple of hundred dollars, especially if twenty is their going rate. If I
were truly fey down to my toes, I'd do Uther myself. That's what a real friend would do. But I was raised
outside the court, out among the humans, from age six to sixteen. It meant that no matter how fey I was,
some of my attitudes were human.
I can't be human because I'm not. But I can't be completely fey because I'm not that either. I am half
Unseelie Court, but I am not one of them. I am part Seelie Court, but I do not belong among the shining
throng. I am part dark sidhe, part light sidhe, and yet neither side wishes to claim me. I have always been
on the outside looking in, my nose pressed to the window, but never welcomed inside. I understood
isolation and loneliness. It made me hurt for Uther. Made me regret that I wasn't comfortable helping him
with a little friendly, casual sex. But I wasn't, and I wouldn't. As usual, I was fey enough to see the
problem, but too human to fix it. Of course, if I'd been pure Seelie sidhe, I wouldn't have touched Uther
at any price. He would have been beneath my notice. The Seelie do not fuck monsters. Unseelie sidhe . .
. well, define monster.
Uther wasn't a monster by Unseelie standards, but Alistair Norton might be. Either a monster, or a
kindred spirit of the dark.
Chapter 5
ALISTAIR NORTON DIDN'T LOOK LIKE A MONSTER. I'D EXPECTED HIM TO be
handsome, but it was still disappointing. There is something in all of us that believes deep down that evil
shows on the outside, that we should be able to pick out the bad people just by looking at them, but it
just doesn't work that way. I'd spent enough time at both courts to know that beautiful and good were
not the same. I, if anyone, knew that beauty was perfect camouflage for the darkest of hearts, and still I
wanted Alistair Norton's face to show what he was inside. I wanted some visible mark of Cain on him.
But he came smiling into the restaurant, tall, broad-shouldered, face full of clean angles, so masculine it
was almost painful. His lips were a little thin for my taste, face a little too masculine, eyes a very ordinary
brown. The hair that was tied back in a neat ponytail was an odd shade of brown, neither light nor dark.
But I had to look for imperfections because there just weren't any.
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His smile was quick and softened his face to something more approachable, less model-perfect. The
laugh was deep and charming. His large hands wore a silver ring with a diamond as big as my thumb, but
no wedding ring. There wasn't even a telltale pale line where the ring had been removed. His skin was
dark enough that there should have been a tan line. He'd never worn a ring. I always felt that any man
who didn't want to wear a wedding band was probably planning to cheat. There are always exceptions,
but not many.
For his part, he seemed pleased. "Your eyes glow like green jewels."
I'd left the brown contact lenses at the office. My natural eye color really did glow. I thanked him for the
compliment, playing shy, looking into my drink. It wasn't shyness. I was trying to keep him from seeing
the contempt in my eyes. Both human and sidhe culture abhor an adulterer. The sidhe don't worry about
fornication, but once you get married, give your word that you will be faithful, then you must be faithful.
No fey will tolerate an oath breaker. If your word is worthless, then so are you.
He touched my shoulder. "Such perfect white skin." When I didn't chase him away, he leaned in and
placed a soft kiss on my shoulder. I stroked his face as he drew back, and that seemed to be a signal of
some kind. He kissed the side of my neck, hand touching my hair. "Your hair's like red silk," he breathed
against my skin. "Is it your natural color?"
I turned into him, answering him with my mouth just above his, "Yes."
He kissed, and it was gentle, a good first kiss. I hated the fact that he seemed so sincere. What was truly
horrible was that he might be sincere, that at the beginning of the seduction he might mean every word.
I'd met men like that before. It's as if they believe their own lies, that this time it will be true love. But it
never lasts because no woman is perfect enough for them. Of course, it isn't the women who aren't
perfect enough. It's the man. He tries to fill some void in himself with women or sex. If the love is true
enough, the sex good enough, then this time he'll feel complete. This time he'll finally be whole. Serial
womanizers are like serial killers in one respect. They both believe that next time will be perfect, that the
next experience will complete them and stop this unending need. But it never does.
He whispered, "Let's get out of here."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. I'd be doing a lot of eyes-closed kissing because sometimes I could lie
with my eyes, and sometimes I couldn't. It was going to be hard enough to keep the reluctance out of my
body as he touched me. Expecting my eyes to show lust and love was asking too much.
His car matched the rest of him: expensive, sleek, fast. A black Jaguar with black leather seats so that it
was like sliding into a pool of darkness. I put my seat belt on. He didn't. He drove fast, weaving in and
out of traffic. It would have been more impressive if I hadn't been driving in L.A. for three years.
Everyone drove like this out of sheer self-defense.
The house was neat and small, the smallest in the neighborhood, but it had the largest yard. There was
actually enough land on either side that even a Midwesterner would say it had a good-sized yard. The
house looked like a place for kids to wait for daddy to come home, while mom rushed around in her
power suit trying to fix dinner after a hard day's work.
For a moment I wondered if he'd actually taken me to his home, the one he shared with Frances. If so, it
was a break in his pattern, and I didn't like that. Why would he break his pattern? I knew he hadn't found
the bug, and he hadn't touched my purse, which meant he didn't know about the hidden camera in it. I
was saving turning it on until we got to his love nest. He couldn't know.
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Ringo was posted outside the Norton house watching over Mrs. Norton. If Alistair got too violent
before we could get him in jail, Ringo was on his own best judgment over whether to intercede. I didn't
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