“Go put these on.” Barrons tossed a parcel at me.

I regarded it warily. Barrons’ clothing choices were never simpatico with mine. He and I could walk into the same store and shop all day, and by the end of it, I still wouldn’t have gotten around to selecting the one outfit that would have been his first choice. He goes for stark versus accessorized, dark over bright, jewel tone instead of pastel, carnal over flirty. I rarely recognize myself when he dresses me. Deep inside I’m still my daddy’s rainbow and pink girl.

“Let me guess,” I said dryly, “it’s black?”

He shrugged.

“Tight?”

He laughed. That was twice in one night. Barrons rarely laughed. I narrowed my eyes. “What’s with you?” I asked suspiciously.

“What do you mean, Ms. Lane?” He stepped closer. Too close. Was he looking at my breasts again? I could feel the heat of his big body, along with the energy that always seemed to roll off him, that strange electrical current that bristled, omnipresent beneath his golden skin. There was something different about him tonight. Control was Barrons’ middle name. Why then was I getting this feeling of…wildness…of an emotion I couldn’t identify but was surely kin to violence. And there was something more…

If he’d been any other man and I’d been any other girl, I’d have called the narrowing of his heavy-lidded dark eyes lust. But he was Barrons and I was Mac, and a blossoming of lust was about as likely as orchids blooming in Antarctica.

“I’ll just go change.” I turned away.

He caught my arm, and I glanced back. Backlit by wall sconces, he didn’t look like Barrons at all. Light glanced off the sharp planes and shadowed the angles of his face, merging his bones together into a fierce, brutal mask. Though he was looking directly at me, it was with a thousand-yard stare and if he was seeing me at all, it was not a me I knew. To dispel the profound tension of the moment, I said, “Where are we going tonight, Jericho?”

He shook himself, as if stirring from a dream. “Jericho? Are you kidding me, Ms. Lane?”

I cleared my throat. “I meant Barrons and you know it,” I said crossly. I had no idea why I’d just called him by his first name. The one time I’d tried to elevate our bizarre relationship, for lack of a better word, to a first-name basis—in my defense he’d just saved my life and I was narcotized by gratitude and nearly unconscious at the time—he’d mocked and flatly refused me. “Forget it,” I said stiffly. “Let go of my arm, Barrons. I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

His gaze dropped, skimmed my breasts.

I pulled away.

If he’d been any other man and I’d been any other girl, I’d have said Barrons was looking for someaction tonight. Maybe, despite the age difference, he and Fiona had been lovers and now that she was gone, he was getting horny. That was a scary thought. One that proved more recalcitrant than I’d have liked when I tried to shove it from my mind.

Forty-five minutes later, we were on a private plane destined for Wales, and the commission of yet another felony. Inspector Jayne followed us to the airport, and looked furious when he realized we were taking not a plane he might have boarded himself, but a private charter.

I’d been right about black and tight. Beneath a raincoat I had no intention of removing until I absolutely had to I was wearing a clingy catsuit that fitted me so snugly I might as well have been naked for all it revealed. Barrons had secured a work belt around my waist with myriad pockets and pouches into which he’d stuffed my spear, flashlights, and half a dozen other gadgets and gizmos I couldn’t identify. It weighed a ton.

“What is this amulet, anyway?” I asked as I settled back into my seat. I wanted to know what I was risking life, limb, and modesty to steal.

He took the seat opposite me. “You never really know what a Fae relic is until you get your hands on it. Even then, it may take time to figure out how to use it. That includes the Hallows.”

I raised a brow and glanced down at my spear. I hadn’t had any problems figuring it out.

“That’s what most would call a no-brainer, Ms. Lane. And I can’t guarantee that it doesn’t have another purpose entirely to a Fae. Their history is sketchy, full of inaccuracies, and planted liberally with lies.”

“Why?”

“Multiple reasons. For one, illusion amuses them. Two, they frequently re-create themselves, and each time they do so, they divest all memory.”

“Huh?” Divest memory? Could I get in on this? I had a few I’d like to lose and they didn’t all begin with my sister’s death.

“A Fae will never die of natural causes. Some of them have lived longer than you could possibly fathom. Extreme longevity has an unfortunate and inescapable by-product: madness. When they feel it approaching, most choose to drink from the Seelie Hallow, the cauldron, and wipe their memories clean so they can start over. They retain nothing of their former existence and believe they are born the day they drink. There is a record-keeper; one who scribes the names of each incarnation each Fae has borne, and maintains a true history of their race.”

“Doesn’t the record-keeper eventually go mad, too?”

“He or she drinks before that happens and the duty changes hands.”

I frowned. “How do you know all this, Barrons?”

“I’ve been researching the Fae for years, Ms. Lane.”

“Why?”