already. See you later.” And he disappeared into the press of Fairgoers.
* * * * *
Griff waited ‘til he was past the menagerie tent, past Magrit’s stall and the Big Top, before he allowed himself to blow out a long breath. Slowing his pace, he turned away from the chattering crowds into the narrow space between two brightly painted wagons. He leaned against one, bracing a hand against it and resting his forehead on his clenched fist, grateful for the solidity.
He still had a chance then. But gods, the power of the man was nothing next to the power of what he was holding inside him. For a horrible moment, in old Barnaby’s shop, he’d thought Fort was going to strike him. The way he’d looked up, the delicate harp incongruous in those powerful hands, his mind obviously in the grip of an agonizing memory… A killing rage had burned in his eyes, glittering like a drawn blade.
A long shiver rolled up Griff’s spine, raising gooseflesh on his chest and neck. He rubbed at his arms. Traveler save him, Fort had seen some things. And gods, he knew the man been a mercenary, but what had it done to him ?
Not for the first time, Griff doubted his own common sense. Because if it meant Fort would smile at him, for him, he’d get to the root of it, try to drain the festering poison from the wound. He squeezed his eyes hut. Twister, he must be mad.
Did he have the resources? More to the point, did he want enough? Really want ?
Standing deep in the shadows, the Fair bustling around him, Griff relived that mind-numbing kiss. It wasn’t difficult. He’d spent the night fixing every detail of it in his memory—the unexpected softness of Fort’s lips, the way he’d nipped his chin, the uncompromising power of that big body rolling him under and pinning him down, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, the strong hands restricting his breathing. He’d known then, with every fiber of his being, that he was safe. Needed . It was crazy. The shiver became a shudder of longing.
Oh yes, he wanted enough. His decision to take the initiative last night had been a crazy impulse, so strong he’d had to go ahead with it even though he’d been almost certain he was going to get himself killed. But he’d risked everything in that little wagon last night and Twister’s balls, he’d won!
He hadn’t been alone in that kiss, not after the first frozen second.
Without the beard, Fort was somehow revealed and concealed simultaneously, the line of his jaw stern, his cheekbones broad and high. The planes of his face held secrets in an iron grip, despite the smooth, freshly shaved olive skin. He was going to be a handsome old man, Fortitude McLaren, very much in the patriarchal style. Griff smiled, but painfully. In all that masculine severity, Fort’s mouth, the generous shape of his lower lip, was startlingly sensual.
39
Denise Rossetti
And he had no idea how he affected Griff, none at all.
* * * * *
Ruler God, never again!
Unobtrusively, Fort inhaled lungfuls of cool night air, scented with the odor of grilled meats and spun sugar and beer. He hadn’t realized that Griff was part of the trapeze act, nor that, as part of the grand finale, he threw the knives blindfolded. Fort had come within a hairsbreadth of charging out of his seat and into the ring to— What?
What had he intended to do?
He flexed his fingers. Gods, he’d lived long enough to see men do some
breathtakingly stupid things, but this—! Someone should grab Griff and shake the life out of him ‘til he promised—
He clamped a hand on the tumbler’s shoulder as he strolled along beside him, chatting cheerfully about nothing in particular.
“What?” Griff came to a standstill. He studied Fort’s expression for a long moment, the stage makeup giving him the look of a hard-muscled faerie, a creature made of mists and legend. “You’re pissed about something, aren’t you?”
When Fort couldn’t immediately summon a reply, the other man’s face hardened and
* * * * *
Griff waited ‘til he was past the menagerie tent, past Magrit’s stall and the Big Top, before he allowed himself to blow out a long breath. Slowing his pace, he turned away from the chattering crowds into the narrow space between two brightly painted wagons. He leaned against one, bracing a hand against it and resting his forehead on his clenched fist, grateful for the solidity.
He still had a chance then. But gods, the power of the man was nothing next to the power of what he was holding inside him. For a horrible moment, in old Barnaby’s shop, he’d thought Fort was going to strike him. The way he’d looked up, the delicate harp incongruous in those powerful hands, his mind obviously in the grip of an agonizing memory… A killing rage had burned in his eyes, glittering like a drawn blade.
A long shiver rolled up Griff’s spine, raising gooseflesh on his chest and neck. He rubbed at his arms. Traveler save him, Fort had seen some things. And gods, he knew the man been a mercenary, but what had it done to him ?
Not for the first time, Griff doubted his own common sense. Because if it meant Fort would smile at him, for him, he’d get to the root of it, try to drain the festering poison from the wound. He squeezed his eyes hut. Twister, he must be mad.
Did he have the resources? More to the point, did he want enough? Really want ?
Standing deep in the shadows, the Fair bustling around him, Griff relived that mind-numbing kiss. It wasn’t difficult. He’d spent the night fixing every detail of it in his memory—the unexpected softness of Fort’s lips, the way he’d nipped his chin, the uncompromising power of that big body rolling him under and pinning him down, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, the strong hands restricting his breathing. He’d known then, with every fiber of his being, that he was safe. Needed . It was crazy. The shiver became a shudder of longing.
Oh yes, he wanted enough. His decision to take the initiative last night had been a crazy impulse, so strong he’d had to go ahead with it even though he’d been almost certain he was going to get himself killed. But he’d risked everything in that little wagon last night and Twister’s balls, he’d won!
He hadn’t been alone in that kiss, not after the first frozen second.
Without the beard, Fort was somehow revealed and concealed simultaneously, the line of his jaw stern, his cheekbones broad and high. The planes of his face held secrets in an iron grip, despite the smooth, freshly shaved olive skin. He was going to be a handsome old man, Fortitude McLaren, very much in the patriarchal style. Griff smiled, but painfully. In all that masculine severity, Fort’s mouth, the generous shape of his lower lip, was startlingly sensual.
39
Denise Rossetti
And he had no idea how he affected Griff, none at all.
* * * * *
Ruler God, never again!
Unobtrusively, Fort inhaled lungfuls of cool night air, scented with the odor of grilled meats and spun sugar and beer. He hadn’t realized that Griff was part of the trapeze act, nor that, as part of the grand finale, he threw the knives blindfolded. Fort had come within a hairsbreadth of charging out of his seat and into the ring to— What?
What had he intended to do?
He flexed his fingers. Gods, he’d lived long enough to see men do some
breathtakingly stupid things, but this—! Someone should grab Griff and shake the life out of him ‘til he promised—
He clamped a hand on the tumbler’s shoulder as he strolled along beside him, chatting cheerfully about nothing in particular.
“What?” Griff came to a standstill. He studied Fort’s expression for a long moment, the stage makeup giving him the look of a hard-muscled faerie, a creature made of mists and legend. “You’re pissed about something, aren’t you?”
When Fort couldn’t immediately summon a reply, the other man’s face hardened and
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