Joey ignored this lumpingly unsubtle subject change as if Nikos hadn’t spoken. “You should probably be aware that Jen is a widow. Fairly recent, I understand.”
The question forced its way out. “How long?”
“Three or four years, I believe.”
Not raw, then, but recent enough that she was likely to be completely unaware of . . . what hadn’t happened. Good. Nikos would feel worse than the nastiest, most villainous red dragon if any of his own turmoil inadvertently hurt her. “She’s human,” he observed. “Does she know about us?”
“No,” Joey said.
Mikhail gave his head a silent shake. “This is not a culture that would welcome our kind. We’ve said nothing, except to our mates. They keep the secret, though we regret having that secret come between friends loyal to each other for many years.”
Nikos heard that with a whoosh of relief. Jen’s complete unawareness would be her best protection. And he’d keep his focus squarely on all the problems facing him, which in turn would protect his island. Only then could he protect himself, and do what must be done.
In other words, it couldn’t be better. “So let me collect my students, and we’ll discuss the next step.”
“Follow me in my car,” Joey said, smiling, ever so friendly and helpful.
Nikos shot him a death ray look of suspicion, then leaped into the air and transformed to his unicorn, which would be invisible to the human eye.
THREE
JEN
“Rubber chicken?”
Jen looked up, startled to find Godiva standing next to her, black eyes unblinking.
r /> Jen had parked her bike and paused on the alley side of the studio to get a grip on herself. On the bike ride over she’d struggled to sort out the swirl of emotions, while still aware of every place on her body Nikos Demitros had touched. Not bruises—he was far too skilled for that. No pain was involved at all.
It was just the opposite.
What she was feeling, for the first time in years and years, was fuel-injected, five hundred horsepower honest-to-high-school lust.
What do you even do with that when you’re a fifty-five-year-old widow?
The answer was . . . Nothing.
She was just telling herself that when Godiva was suddenly there, saying “Rubber chicken?”
Jen straightened up. “I told you. It was my anchor word—”
“I was listening. Stutter. Kid. Jen, in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you stutter, much less yelp rubber chicken like it was a secret code word in a really bad spy novel. You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m all right.” Jen tried a smile, which felt so fake her teeth were cold.
Sure enough, Godiva gave her another hairy eyeball. “Okay. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. It’s just, there aren’t many surprises at my age. I’m tough. I even survived the mullet era.”
Jen snorted, and before she could think, out came a retort, “I was married to a mullet.”
Godiva gave a hoot of laughter, and for a moment Jen felt as if she’d somehow been disloyal, except that Robert wouldn’t have cared. He’d gotten that terrible haircut before they boarded a plane to South America, to chase down some crooked plutocrats bent on destroying the rain forest.
When she’d pointed out you got what you paid for in a five dollar haircut, he’d just shrugged, saying it would be easy to take care of. They’d won an award for that expose—and Robert had shaved his entire head in celebration, which she privately found even more dismaying than a mullet, if that was possible: some people could carry off the look, but Robert had not been among them. “It’s cool and airy,” he’d said happily—for he’d never been a man to care for appearances. His or hers. “Here, want me to shave your head?” he’d offered. “I promise, you’ll love the total freedom.”
Feeling somewhere between a laugh and a wince, she blinked away the memory—and realized that thinking about Robert no longer hurt with that horrible stab of guilty grief, as if she’d done something wrong by surviving him, when they had done everything together from the time they first met.
Or, almost everything: except for her writing group.
She said to Godiva, “What happened today was just a sudden case of hot pants.”