man to ask for help. He refused to believe there was anything he couldn’t handle. It was probably the reason he was still alive after all the covert missions and violence that had colored his recent years. Time and again, he’d managed to get over with barely a scratch. Maybe the pearl-handled pistol was a lucky charm after all.
But there’d be no dodging this particular bullet. And if this was really the end of time, he’d have a lot of explaining to do to his maker.
Carly, however, deserved better. She was a true believer in people and the power of miracles. And yes, a hot babe to boot. Whether her talent was some kind of delusion or not, he intended to make sure she was safe, that nobody ever laid a hand on her.
Nobody, of course, except him. And the sooner the better.
Chapter Seven
Parker Munroe had few vices. He enjoyed fishing occasionally, mostly for the sport of it. More often than not, he threw his catches back and wished them a long life. He smoked, but only when it suited him. A good bottle of wine after a fine meal made him happy with the world.
But watching Carlotta Phelps scant minutes after she emerged from her shower was definitely his greatest weakness.
Of course, he’d enjoy seeing her in the shower even more. But the thought of that didn’t make him happy. It made him horny as hell, made him want to storm into the bathroom and take her every way he could imagine, until that weakness was well-satisfied.
Seeing her like this would have to do. And watching her now, as she drifted wraithlike through the suite, was almost enough to make him wonder if there was a God.
Her face was luminous, her cheeks scrubbed clean and flushed. She wore one of the generic, frayed terrycloth robes Vic provided in each bathroom, which could only mean she was temporarily chilled. She’d switch into one of those groin-tightening gowns as soon as she warmed up, which would go a long way toward warming him up.
It was probably the hair that did it for him. She usually wore it in a ponytail, or loose and swinging. It was simpler for her, knowing she might not have time to fuss with it.
But post-shower, it was pinned up into a loose topknot, displaying the high cheekbones and slender neck to advantage. Casual strands of cinnamon swirls cascaded from the bun, framing her face in a soft, surreal manner, like some Victorian maiden, and made him want to crush her to his heart, to hold her there and keep her safe.
There was just something about a gentle woman that brought out the best in a man. Even in the harsh light of the breakfast bar, she might have inspired a painting. A demure damsel. Fragile and feminine, everything soft and delicate that he could imagine in a lady, and—
“What the hell are you staring at, Munroe?” Carly paused to glower at him. “Damn. Do I look that awful?”
“Huh?”
She grumbled incoherently as she tried to ease past him to the coffeemaker. There simply wasn’t enough space to maneuver in the kitchenette. Abandoning the effort, she deliberately bumped him with her hip to make him move. “I know I’m a fright in the morning, but you should be used to it by now.”
He angled skillfully out of her way, retreating to the safety of the sofa with his mug. That mood of hers was enough to snuff out the stars in his eyes. His gentle woman was not a morning person. “I wasn’t staring. Well, not the way you think. I just—”
“Do you like me, Munroe?”
He eyed her suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”
“I mean, don’t you think I’m a nice, deserving sort of girl?”
Yup. She was angling for something. “Define ‘deserving’.”
She smiled. A little too brightly. “I need to go to a store today, big guy. Is there a small town, medieval village or incestuous family compound hereabouts?”
“No. To all of the above. No.”
Carly poured coffee, then moaned in ecstasy as it worked its way down her throat. “God, I needed this.” She fixed him with a merciless stare. “Did
But there’d be no dodging this particular bullet. And if this was really the end of time, he’d have a lot of explaining to do to his maker.
Carly, however, deserved better. She was a true believer in people and the power of miracles. And yes, a hot babe to boot. Whether her talent was some kind of delusion or not, he intended to make sure she was safe, that nobody ever laid a hand on her.
Nobody, of course, except him. And the sooner the better.
Chapter Seven
Parker Munroe had few vices. He enjoyed fishing occasionally, mostly for the sport of it. More often than not, he threw his catches back and wished them a long life. He smoked, but only when it suited him. A good bottle of wine after a fine meal made him happy with the world.
But watching Carlotta Phelps scant minutes after she emerged from her shower was definitely his greatest weakness.
Of course, he’d enjoy seeing her in the shower even more. But the thought of that didn’t make him happy. It made him horny as hell, made him want to storm into the bathroom and take her every way he could imagine, until that weakness was well-satisfied.
Seeing her like this would have to do. And watching her now, as she drifted wraithlike through the suite, was almost enough to make him wonder if there was a God.
Her face was luminous, her cheeks scrubbed clean and flushed. She wore one of the generic, frayed terrycloth robes Vic provided in each bathroom, which could only mean she was temporarily chilled. She’d switch into one of those groin-tightening gowns as soon as she warmed up, which would go a long way toward warming him up.
It was probably the hair that did it for him. She usually wore it in a ponytail, or loose and swinging. It was simpler for her, knowing she might not have time to fuss with it.
But post-shower, it was pinned up into a loose topknot, displaying the high cheekbones and slender neck to advantage. Casual strands of cinnamon swirls cascaded from the bun, framing her face in a soft, surreal manner, like some Victorian maiden, and made him want to crush her to his heart, to hold her there and keep her safe.
There was just something about a gentle woman that brought out the best in a man. Even in the harsh light of the breakfast bar, she might have inspired a painting. A demure damsel. Fragile and feminine, everything soft and delicate that he could imagine in a lady, and—
“What the hell are you staring at, Munroe?” Carly paused to glower at him. “Damn. Do I look that awful?”
“Huh?”
She grumbled incoherently as she tried to ease past him to the coffeemaker. There simply wasn’t enough space to maneuver in the kitchenette. Abandoning the effort, she deliberately bumped him with her hip to make him move. “I know I’m a fright in the morning, but you should be used to it by now.”
He angled skillfully out of her way, retreating to the safety of the sofa with his mug. That mood of hers was enough to snuff out the stars in his eyes. His gentle woman was not a morning person. “I wasn’t staring. Well, not the way you think. I just—”
“Do you like me, Munroe?”
He eyed her suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”
“I mean, don’t you think I’m a nice, deserving sort of girl?”
Yup. She was angling for something. “Define ‘deserving’.”
She smiled. A little too brightly. “I need to go to a store today, big guy. Is there a small town, medieval village or incestuous family compound hereabouts?”
“No. To all of the above. No.”
Carly poured coffee, then moaned in ecstasy as it worked its way down her throat. “God, I needed this.” She fixed him with a merciless stare. “Did
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