Something had changed. I could feel it in the air. He was still warm, still chivalrous. He held the door open for me and pulled out my chair before the maître d’ could do it. He had managed to keep me from falling for a third time in two days, and his hands had been just as strong and sure as ever.

The look in his eye wasn’t the same. The note of intimacy in his voice hadn’t been there before. We weren’t just talking about generalities anymore. Our conversation turned to much more specific, much more important topics.

“I lost my parents when I was four years old,” I explained over a glass of wine. “A car accident. Seanmhair was babysitting me at the time. It became a life-long gig for her after that.”

“You were fortunate to have her,” he observed.

“You don’t need to tell me that,” I smiled.

He smiled back, and the candlelight danced over his features. His eyes were the color of black coffee and deep enough to drown in. He didn’t seem to mind that the restaurant I’d chosen to meet up in was a little more formal than the average pub—and a little more romantic.

The romance part had been a slip-up. I had no idea we’d be flanked by two pairs of lovers, holding hands across the table and staring adoringly at each other. I suddenly felt itchy and squirmed in my seat.

“What about you?” I asked as he poured me a second glass, and bit my tongue against the impulse to joke about him trying to get me drunk.

He wouldn’t do that, because he wasn’t interested in me that way.

Wasn’t he?

“What about me?” he asked as he settled back in his seat.

The collar of his white button-down was open at the throat, and his thick, dark hair was a mess of waves my fingers just begged to dance through. So sexy. Did he have any idea? Probably not.

“You made it sound as though you live with your brother and cousins. Right? You said the testosterone was like an ocean.”

He chuckled. “Yes. I remember saying that, and it’s true. We’ve gotten used to each other over the years.”

“You must get along very well. I don’t have any family, not anymore, but I can only imagine how difficult it must be sometimes. Do you share a house?”

“More like a compound,” he explained.

My eyes opened wide. “Wow, that sounds very fancy.”

He laughed—and easygoing laugh, warm and almost self-deprecating. “It has its good points, but I’d hardly call it fancy. There have been times I’ve wished I could live on my own, as long as we’re being honest.”

“And why wouldn’t we be?”

We shared a chuckle as our food arrived. My mouth watered at the scent of grilled beef, and I hoped I wouldn’t make too big a pig of myself. I had been so worked up over the idea of a dinner date with Fence that I hadn’t eaten lunch.

“So, why can’t you live on your own?” I asked as I sliced into my steak.

He winced.

If my eyes hadn’t been on him instead of my food, I would’ve missed it. My question had hit a nerve. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, since I did want to know about him but didn’t want him to feel as though I were pressing too hard.

“It’s a long story,” he murmured, cutting into his prime rib.

“Well, I have all night.”

“It’s a boring story, too,” he added, glancing up at me. There was humor in his eyes, at least. “Suffice it to say our parents wanted it that way.”

“Understood.”

Only I didn’t understand at all. Every time he answered a question, I ended up with three new questions in its wake. Why couldn’t he be straightforward? He had no problem asking me all sorts of things, after all.

“Where did you live in the states?” he asked.

“Scranton, Pennsylvania.”

“Where The Office was based,” he grinned.

“And nothing else,” I added with a heavy sigh. “You can’t imagine what it was like, moving to New York for college. I felt like I was stepping out of a tunnel, into the light. I couldn’t see at first. Everything was too bright.”

“I do know the feeling,” he said, nodding.

“Oh? How so?” I leaned closer, genuinely interested.

“Why do you want to know so badly?”

Answering a question with a question. He was good at that.

I couldn’t help the little flash of frustration which bubbled up in my chest. “Why can’t you ever simply answer a question? Are you in the CIA or something?”

“No.”

“A spy?”

“No.” A smile played at the corner of his lips.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I would never laugh at you.” His tone was grave, and his face went blank.

I believed him, though it was a grudging belief.

“What is it, then? Why do I get the feeling this is all a giant ruse to keep me away from something?”

There it was. Dropped on the middle of the table, right in front of the both of us. I hadn’t wanted to say it out loud, because I was afraid of admitting to myself that things couldn’t be as perfect as they seemed. He’d asked me out to dinner and told me to pick a nice place. He looked just as tasty as anything on the menu—maybe more so. He was charming and flirtatious. And the whole thing rang false.

It seemed too easy. Too neat.

If my question got under his skin, he was gifted with a wonderful poker face which gave nothing away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I feel like you do. It’s just too convenient for my liking.”

“Don’t you believe I could be genuinely interested in you?”

The question didn’t sit well. Maybe he knew it and maybe he didn’t, but I didn’t have a strong history with men. Growing up as the nerdy girl, the bookworm with buck teeth and frizzy hair and thick glasses, hadn’t exactly made me popular. Carrying that stigma became a habit. I couldn’t believe he’d be interested in me.

Rather than answer directly, I asked, “Why can’t you ever be straight with me? I feel like there’s so much you’re holding back, and I’m having a difficult time enjoying my meal when I get the feeling you’re using me in some way.”

“How would I use you?”

I rolled my eyes. “The connection you have to the clan.” I kept my voice low. “For some reason, you want all the information I can give you on them. I don’t know why, because God knows, you won’t tell me. Even if I ask, you’ll put on the innocent act and try to deflect somehow.”

“I suppose telling you how beautiful you look tonight wouldn’t be helpful, then.”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh at me.”

“Does it look like I’m laughing?”

“No,” I admitted, “but it sounds as though you’re having fun with me.”

“I’m not. I swear that much.”

“But you can’t swear anything else, can you? That’s all you can be honest about.”

He reached for my hand, which I’d rested on the table, but I recoiled like his touch burned. It did, a little, but it wasn’t my hand he hurt. It was my pride. I didn’t want to hurt anymore.

Only I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing, exactly, and I knocked over my wine glass and flinched when it shattered against my plate. The sort of thing I did on a regular basis. This time was different. This time, Fence tried to clear the glass away from me—and winced when a large, transparent shard sliced the heel of his hand.

“Oh, no!” I grabbed his wrist and pulled out the glass without thinking about the possible danger to me, then wrapped my napkin around the wound. A person as clumsy as me had to be well-versed in first aid.

“It’s okay,” he said, waving off the attention of other diners.

Blood soaked into the tablecloth and had already stained the makeshift bandage, but he swore he was all right as he stood up. “I should go take care of this.”

“I’ll come with you.” It was all my fault, after all. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“No, no, I’m sure it’ll be okay. I’ll go back to the hotel and use their first aid kit, something like that.” He pulled out his wallet with his good hand and tossed a stack of bills onto his chair without stopping to count them.

When I realized he was serious about leaving, I grabbed my coat and ran after him.

“You need stitches! It’s a deep wound!”

“It’ll be all right. I promise you. Don’t worry about it.”

Why was he practically running away from me? And why, oh why, was I practically running to keep up with him? In heels, no less. Was I begging for a broken ankle? Maybe worse? I couldn’t let him get away. That was all I knew.

“What is it with you?” I nearly screamed, putting on a burst of speed and finally catching him when he paused at the corner. The crisp air turned my breath into a cloud around my head and burned its way down my throat as I gasped, staring at his wounded hand.

His suspiciously unwounded hand.

He’d wiped away much of the blood while his back was turned to me, and it was clear that what had been a deep, gushing wound was suddenly a shallow cut.

It wasn’t even bleeding anymore. In less than four minutes, maybe less, he’d magically healed.

Magically.

I looked up at him, shocked and stunned and scared half out of my mind.

“Who the hell are you, Fence?”