White Hot (Hidden Legacy #2)(47)

Some men seduced by words, others with gifts. Connor Rogan seduced by simply looking. The sad thing was he wasn’t even trying. He was just looking at me and wishing we were naked together.

And if I didn’t stop fantasizing, he would pluck the impressions from my mind and run with them.

“Go home, Rogan.”

“You stopped calling me Mad a while ago,” he observed.

“I called you Mad mostly to remind myself who I was dealing with.” I leaned my butt against the desk.

“And who would that be?”

“A possibly psychopathic mass murderer who can’t be trusted.”

No reaction.

“And now you call me Rogan. What are you reminding yourself of now?”

“That you’re mortal.”

“Planning on killing me?” An amused light flashed in his eyes.

“Not unless you become a direct threat. Are you planning on becoming a direct threat?” I winked at him.

He laughed quietly. There, that was better.

“Are you going home?”

“No.” Steel tinted his voice.

I sighed.

“Is this about the overpass?”

“Yes.”

“I handled it.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “Troy survived because you were in that car.”

If I hadn’t been in the car, Troy wouldn’t have been attacked in the first place, but now didn’t seem like a good time to discuss that. “Then why do you want to stay?”

“Because Cornelius, Matilda, and you are now here under one roof. This is what we call a target-rich environment.”

“The bad guys could take care of their problems with one well-timed explosion,” I said.

He nodded. “My presence might be a deterrent. If not, I’m good in explosions.”

“I remember.”

I could argue but what would be the point? He wouldn’t hurt me or my family, and I felt better when he was here. I was responsible for my family’s safety and for Cornelius and Matilda, and I needed all the backup I could get. I just had to deal with the fact that when I climbed into my bed tonight, he would be sleeping somewhere downstairs. Probably on the air mattress, since Cornelius and Matilda had the guest rooms.

“Won’t Bug miss you?”

“Bug’s never far away.” Rogan showed me his phone.

“I’ll have to sell it to my mother,” I said.

“I discussed it with her before waking you up,” he said, matter-of-fact. “She thinks it would be prudent.”

Wow. My mother was so concerned about our safety she’d invited Mad Rogan to stay at the house. That knocked me back a bit.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep knowing that you’re prowling in my house while I’m in my loft.”

He rose, his face serious and harsh. “You will. You’ll fall asleep fast and sleep soundly until morning, and then you’ll get up and have breakfast with your family because I’ll be prowling in your house tonight. And if anyone tries to interrupt your sleep and end your life, you have my word that they’ll sleep forever.”

That was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. He meant it and he would make every word of it come true.

I made my mouth move. “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”



I’d barely closed my bedroom door behind me when someone knocked.

“Come in.”

The door opened and Leon slipped through. My youngest cousin was still in the lanky-teenager stage. Skinny, dark-haired, olive skinned, he reminded me of Ghost Elves from the recent fantasy blockbuster Road to Eldremar. I could totally picture him jumping from some ancient tree with two curved knives and blue war paint on his face. For a while we thought he might turn out to be really tall and once he hit his height, he’d fill out, but he’d stopped two inches short of six feet and so far showed no signs of adding bulk to his slight frame.

“If this is about Mad Rogan . . .”

He lifted his laptop and held it open for me. A dark background ignited on the screen, simulating deep space, and in the middle of it a beautiful nebula blossomed, made of luminescent threads, each spider-silk thin and weakly glowing with bands of different colors. Ah. The Smirnoff rubber-band model. I remembered doing that in high school. Magical theory was a core class and it hurt.

“I can’t do it,” Leon said.

After the day I’d had, homework was the last thing I wanted to do right now. “Leon, you really need to do your own homework.”

“I know.” He dragged his hand through his dark hair. “I tried. I promise, I really, really tried.”

Leon had two settings: sarcastic and excited. This new sad Leon was puzzling.

I sighed and sat down in my recliner. The chair was a necessity. I ended up taking work into my bed way too much, and my last laptop had leaped to its death in protest when I fell asleep and it slipped off my bed. From that point on, bed was strictly for TV watching, reading, sleeping, and having frustrating thoughts about certain telekinetics. Work was done in a recliner chair. It was comfortable like a cloud but it still made me feel like an old lady.

I studied the nebula. “Tell me about it.”

“This is a computer model of the Smirnoff rubber band theory,” he droned out.