The Darkest Midnight. R. A. Finley

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СКАЧАТЬ well. It’s…complicated, I suppose you could say.”

      “But you want to buy her something.” Thia tried to put him more at ease. “That’s very thoughtful. We’ve got a nice selection of jewelry—I don’t think there’s a woman alive who doesn’t like jewelry.” She tapped the counter glass. Below were several velvet-covered boards of necklaces and pins.

      He leaned away in subtle but definite rejection. “That feels rather….”

      “Personal?” she offered. “Good point. What about something decorative for the home? We have—”

      “I might have seen some things in there that looked, uh, pretty.” He pointed to the Glass Tower—a rectangular case near the foot of the stairs. “Could you show some to me?”

      “Of course.” Feeling a blush creep into her cheeks at the idea of going with him—(what was she, sixteen?)—she bent to grab the keys from the shelf below the counter. When she straightened, she found him waiting at the narrow pass-through.

      “It’s just over there,” she said. Good grief, as if he didn’t know that.

      Yet instead of preceding her, he gestured for her to lead.

      She did, but he stayed close, catching up to walk beside her despite the unusually rapid pace her nerves caused her to set. She felt profoundly self-conscious.

      “Have you lived in town long?” he asked.

      “Almost a year.”

      “And you’re well?” He made a small sound, almost like a cough. “Doing well? It certainly looks as if you are.”

      “The store, you mean?” Arriving at the Tower, she went around to the back. He stood at the front, so she saw him through the plate glass. He appeared sheepish again, his gaze darting away and back in turns—and she wondered if maybe he did know what the expression did for him.

      She turned the key, pulled open the door.

      “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t talk to people much. In my line of work, that is. I meant—well, I meant that you seem…happy. Are you?” He let out a tense breath. “Happy?”

      Oh. Her mind flashed to the morning’s garage disaster. and she felt her carefully crafted mask of retail salesmanship slip if not drop entirely.

      The man put his hands in his pockets, tucked his head. “I’m sorry—again. I’m making a mess of this. Forget I said anything, would you? That’s a nice piece there.” One hand immediately left his pocket to point.

      “The butterfly?” She reached for the delicate figure made of silver and glass. One of her favorites.

      “Yes.”

      “It’s funny,” she said, removing it. “A friend of mine—of sorts—mentioned butterflies to me just the other day. This one is beautiful, isn’t it?” She held it out.

      “It is.”

      In taking it, his fingers skimmed the backs of her hands, and the light touch was like an electric shock. Thia’s heart leapt, a clumsy start to the race that followed.

      Her gaze automatically sought his, but he was intent on the butterfly. His expression grave, he lifted it. The wings caught the light and took it from beautiful to exquisite. Blue became vibrant cobalt while faceted, clear segments glinted and played with reflections, giving the impression of life caught and held within.

      “Thank you,” he said. “This is the one.” Lowering it, he looked at her. Brown eyes, she reminded herself. Not blue.

      “Great!” Too exuberant. Awkward. She was such an idiot.

      He could have started walking to the counter to make the purchase, but he didn’t. As before, he waited. For her?

      “Was there something else?” She turned the key with a hand that only shook a little.

      “No. No, this should do it.”

      He seemed almost sad.

      Other than give him a hug—completely inappropriate—she didn’t know how else to offer comfort.

      So she walked past. “Let’s go ring it up, then.”

      On the way, she caught Lynette’s attention, asked her to fetch the butterfly’s box from the back.

      “It’s a limited edition,” she told the man as she stepped behind the counter. “The number is on the base—as is the artist’s signature. Bella Smythe. She’s local. The box is made specially to fit, so you’ll want to hang onto it.”

      “Sure.”

      She entered it into the register.

      “Would you like me to gift wrap it for you? We have some standard papers, or you can choose from our selection for purchase over there”—she gestured—“if you’d prefer one more elaborate.”

      “No, thank you.”

      

      She was nattering on about gift boxes and paper and it was all Cormac could do not to launch himself over the counter. She was right there. So close he could grab her and hold on tight and maybe never let go. He had missed her.

      He was surprised—and embarrassed—by how much.

      Had she always been so lovely? His first sighting of her had been in a photograph of Leticia’s (he’d been breaking-and-entering at the time). He had noted Thia’s auburn hair, her oval face with, granted, its bright smile and intelligent gaze—and he had thought her of little more than average looks. It was perhaps a matter of the difference between a still image and the animated, real thing. Much more than the sum of her parts. At this moment, in motion and in person, those parts were stunning.

      He was making a hash of the conversation, he knew, but it was a miracle he could formulate words at all, let alone whole sentences. She probably thought him shy.

      She’d be right.

      Are you happy? He couldn’t believe he’d blurted it out like that. Morrigan’s cloak in a twist, this was not going well.

      And it was taking too long. He eyed the tall, dark-haired woman near the front of the store, standing in the window display to fetch a stuffed bear for a waiting customer; Abigail Collins, he’d learned since Orkney. She had gone to Thia’s aid, fought alongside the Brigantium and Murphy’s people. Had probably helped Cormac kill his father.

      Unwanted emotion crested, and he let it break, crashing down like an icy wave. He ignored it. Felt nothing. What he didn’t acknowledge couldn’t hurt.

      Abigail, or Abby as she preferred to be known, eyed him with distrust—exactly what he was worried about. He suspected she had the gift of empathy. And an unusually (and, to СКАЧАТЬ