"Well?" Verchiel faced Mittron, her arms crossed in a gesture she knew full well he would interpret as aggressive. With good reason, because she certainly wasn't feeling very passive at the moment. Not after what she'd just witnessed. She watched the Highest Seraph pace the floor behind his desk with slow, deliberate steps and tried to hold on to what little patience she still retained. How could he remain so calm? So—

Mittron turned to face her.

"Did you make our position clear regarding his earlier actions?" he asked.

Verchiel felt her jaw go slack. She'd just told Mittron that she suspected Aramael—the most volatile of an already volatile line of angels—had developed an unheard-of connection to a mortal, and the Highest was more interested in whether or not she'd delivered a reprimand? She added clenched fists to her crossed arms.

"Have you heard a word I've said?" she demanded, ignoring Mittron's raised eyebrow. "Whatever went wrong is getting worse. Aramael is calling the woman by her name—identifying with her!—and she is seeing him too many times for us to keep ignoring the matter. She even saw me just now."

Verchiel shuddered, remembering the shock of having a mortal's gaze rest on her as an angel. It had been nothing like when she had met the woman earlier...not unpleasant, quite, but certainly unique, and without doubt an experience she was not eager to repeat. She brushed away the memory and returned her attention to the Highest.

Other than a hint of annoyance in his amber eyes, the Highest Seraph's expression remained impassive. "Given what I know of Aramael, I suspect he may simply be overreacting to the situation," he observed.

Verchiel's already slack jaw fell open and she stared at Mittron in disbelief. "And me? Am I simply overreacting, too? I was there, Mittron. I know what happened."

"Your sense of responsibility toward Aramael is somewhat overdeveloped, Verchiel. It is no wonder that you imagined more than is actually there. I do not blame you, but neither can I allow your flawed perceptions to influence my judgment."

Mittron returned to his seat behind his desk and picked up a quill, his writing instrument of choice when signing divine decrees. He glanced up at her briefly. "This experience has obviously been traumatic for you. I suggest you allow yourself time to regain your perspective, and then we will speak again."

Now that Verchiel's mouth had dropped open, she seemed incapable of closing it again. "You can't be serious."

This time, both of Mittron's eyebrows ascended. "I am quite serious."

"But there must be something we can do. Something more we can find out. Aramael questioned whether the woman's ability to see him is due to her lineage. What if he's right? What if she's seeing him because she's Nephilim? Maybe that's why she saw me, too."

"There are tens of thousands of Nephilim descendants, Verchiel. If lineage allowed them to see any of us, we would almost certainly have faced a situation like this long ago."

"There must be more to it, then. Perhaps if I access the archives—"

"No."

The sharpness of the single word startled Verchiel. She stared at the Highest Seraph, at the way his gaze remained focused on his desk for a long moment before rising to meet hers.

"You have enough to look after with this hunt," Mittron said. "If it's that important to you, I will assign someone to look into the matter further. Should anything of significance surface, which I doubt, I will let you know."

Verchiel held the Highest's stare for a moment longer and then, keeping her demeanor carefully neutral, she nodded her acceptance. "Thank you," she said. "I will keep you apprised of Aramael's situation."

"Of course."

Verchiel stepped out into the hallway, closed the heavy wooden door behind her, and then sagged against the wall, her pulse racing.

He lied, she thought, her astonishment almost too great to comprehend. The Highest Seraph lied, and not very well, either. He had no intention of looking into anything. He made empty assurances designed to placate her, to prevent her from pressing for answers, and to keep her from finding out—what?

Verchiel crossed her arms and raised one hand to tap gently on her lower lip. Did she dare? Did she have the nerve to disobey what she knew had been meant as an order?

Aramael's words came back to her: Just for a moment, think for yourself.

She remembered the raw vulnerability she'd felt when the mortal woman had seen her, and thought of what the experience could do to Aramael, to a Power already damaged by his past, by the demands made on him by his very existence. Then she stood away from the wall, arranged the folds of her robe with precision, and turned to face the hallway that led not to the library, but to the archives nestled within the heart of the building.

Oh, yes, she thought. She dared, all right. And the Highest could blessed well blame her persistence on whatever overdeveloped sense of responsibility he liked.

Her steps faltered. Wait. If she was truly going to think for herself, she needed to look at the bigger picture: the hunt itself. It could take days, even months, to find the answers she sought in the archives, assuming they even existed. In the meantime, Aramael's hunting ability remained hobbled by the woman unless Verchiel could think of a way to assist him, preferably without Mittron's knowledge.

Bloody Hell, she thought, and then blushed. Wonderful. Going behind the Highest's back and stooping to Aramael's level of language. She pondered the issue at hand, and then pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger.

No. She couldn't.

But who else was there? This whole mess had started because Aramael had been the only angel they could think of who might protect the woman, but maybe they just hadn't thought far enough. Maybe there was another. Not an angel, exactly, but still capable and trustworthy.

At least for now.

***

Mittron stared at the office door long after it closed behind Verchiel. She hadn't believed him. It may have been almost five thousand years since the undoing of their soulmating, but she still knew him better than any other angel. Well enough to know he had lied to her.

The question was, what would she do with the knowledge? Her capacity for compassion was enormous, and capable of engendering considerable guilt, especially where it concerned Aramael. Would that be enough to let her ignore her innate desire to obey, to defy his order?

The answer settled into the space beside his heart, cold and dark and hard. As well as she knew him, he knew her, and he should have known from the start she might prove difficult.

Damn her to hell for complicating matters.

Damn him for not foreseeing the complication.

He pushed back from his desk and stood, turning to stare out the window. A female figure in a purple robe strode across the gardens, headed for a building on the opposite side. At least she wasn't going to the archives. Yet.

Not that it would be long before she did. Now that her suspicions had been raised, it wouldn't be easy to put them to rest again. Doing so might even prove impossible. Mittron's heart stalled for a second. He hadn't expected resistance, but he had still taken the precaution of hiding the records. Had he done so well enough, or would she find something he had missed?

He curled his fingers against the window frame. Damnation, why had he not thought to assign a different handler to Aramael? But even as the question formed, so did the answer, making his mouth twist. Because he'd become arrogant, that's why. And arrogance bred carelessness—a fatal flaw.

Unless he took steps to correct it.

***

"Good morning."

Alex spun to face Trent, the coffee in her hand spilling over its cup and onto her skin. "Shit! What the hell are you doing here? I told you to leave."

Trent leaned against the door frame. "You'll need a ride to the office."

She wondered if he had spent the night in spite of her order, but decided she'd rather not know. She set the cup on the counter and reached for a tea towel. "I can drive myself."

A muscle went tight in Trent's jaw. He crossed his arms and looked down at the floor. On the wall near his head, the kitchen clock quietly ticked off the passing seconds. Twenty-eight of them before he raised his gaze to hers again.

"I'm not leaving."

And that answered the question of whether he had done so last night. A quiver started deep in Alex's belly. "I don't want you here."

"I know."

The quiver became a vibration and Alex bit her lip. She'd spent most of the night trying to add the kitchen scene she'd witnessed to the list of things that hadn't happened, couldn't have happened. She hadn't been entirely successful, but she had reached an uneasy compromise: denial. It wouldn't last forever, but it worked for now, because as long as she could believe none of last night—hell, none of yesterday—had happened, she didn't have to face the creeping, horrifying prospect that Jennifer might be wrong, that she might actually be going insane.

Or the even more horrifying prospect that she was sane and the events she'd witnessed were—

No. Not real. Never real, because angels only existed in places like her mother's head.

Didn't they?

What's going on, Trent? Last night, in the alley and in the kitchen, what was it I really saw?

The question hung between them, waiting for her to speak it.

Instead, she lifted her chin. "I'm asking Roberts to put you with someone else."

Trent's eyes narrowed and the little muscle in his jaw flexed. Before he could say anything, however, the doorbell rang and Alex heard the front door open. She stiffened instinctively. No one she knew would just walk in like that—

"Yo, Jarvis! You home?"

Except maybe Delaney.

Trent turned his head and called out, "In the kitchen." He looked back to Alex. "Sorry, I forgot to mention she called while you were in the shower. She said she had something for you and I told her I'd leave the door unlocked."

He'd stayed the night, answered her phone, and invited Delaney into her house? Alex couldn't even bring herself to respond. Not civilly, anyway.

Heels clacked down the hallway and then Delaney breezed past Trent, flashing him a quick smile before turning her attention to Alex. "Wow. You look like hell."

"Thanks for noticing," Alex said.

"Shouldn't you still be in bed?"

"Four hours of fighting off my attacker every time I closed my eyes was enough, thanks."

Not that reality was any better than her nightmares had been. Alex's gaze rested on Trent's crossed arms, lifted to his stony face, moved back to Delaney.

The fraud detective glanced between her and Trent. "I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?"

Alex tensed at the sudden interest. Great. That was all she needed, Delaney's office grapevine getting involved in this mess. "Just a disagreement about me going to the office today," she lied. She motioned at the manila envelope Delaney held in fuchsia-tipped fingers. "For me?"

"I was in the neighborhood, so Roberts asked me to drop it off and see how you're doing."

More like she'd asked for the errand so she could check out the damage for herself. Alex reached for the envelope, trying to think of a way to extend the conversation. As little as she and Delaney had in common, she didn't want the fraud detective to leave just yet. Didn't want to have to face Trent alone again.

She cleared her throat. "So how did that complaint turn out yesterday?"

Delaney waved a dismissive hand. "A crank call, just like I figured. The complainant didn't even keep our appointment. Apparently he had more important business. It wasn't a complete loss, though."

"Oh? How so?"

"I followed up with the other party just to be safe. Turns out he's good looking, single, and interested. Not to mention interesting. In fact," Delaney added, glancing at an oversized watch on her wrist, "I have a breakfast date with him, and I'm going to be late if I don't get moving. Roberts says you're not to turn up until at least noon, by the way. He also says he'd prefer you didn't show at all, but he knows better than that."

Alex opened her mouth to point out the potential conflict of interest should Delaney's fraud complainant resurface, and the ethical questions that could be raised, then she shook her head. She was way too tired for a discussion of that nature this morning. She held up the envelope.

"Thanks for dropping this off."

"No problem." The other detective cocked her head and favored Alex with a probing look. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked. "You look—"

"Like hell," Alex said. "You already told me."

Delaney rolled her eyes. "I was going to say pretty fragile, actually. Maybe you should take your partner's advice. You won't be much good to anyone if you come apart at the seams."

***

Christine Delaney paused inside the restaurant door and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. She surveyed the tables and then wrinkled her nose when she found him at the back, near the kitchen doors. She would have preferred something a little quieter, but let's face it, if this gorgeous, fascinating male had suggested they meet in the middle of the freeway at rush hour, she'd have agreed. She smiled, shook back her hair, and started toward him.

His gaze settled on her instantly, its impact almost physical. Anticipation coiled through her and her heart rate kicked up a notch. He was every bit as delicious as he'd seemed last night when they'd met and he'd bent low over her hand in a courtly gesture she'd only ever read about. Every bit as exhilarating as he'd been later when she had—when they had—

Christine felt her cheeks warm. She still couldn't wrap her head around the way she'd broken her own rules about first dates like that, the way she'd so completely abandoned control. And it hadn't even been a real date.

He stood as she neared the booth, moving into the bright sunlight that streamed in through the skylight above, drawing the attention of everyone within viewing distance in the restaurant. Waiting for her.

Christine's heart swelled with pride as she took in his full magnificence. Tall, perfectly proportioned, his black hair immaculately groomed, his features exquisitely carved. He reminded her of—her steps faltered.

Christ, how the hell had she missed that? The man's resemblance to what's-his-name, Alex Jarvis's new partner, was downright startling. She stared as he strode forward to take her hands and lift them, one at a time, to his lips. She searched his features, met the intensity of his dark eyes. Blinked away a sudden blurriness and then studied him again.

She relaxed. No, he looked nothing at all like Trent—how bizarre that she should think so.

"Is something wrong?" Her companion raised an eyebrow.

"It's nothing. You just reminded me of someone for a second." She felt sudden watchfulness in the way he stilled.

"Really?"

She shook her head and smiled. "I was wrong. I'm not even sure why I thought it. Must've been the light."

He didn't move for a moment. His gaze cooled and seemed to reach inside her to places she would prefer not to share, and she felt her smile fall away. Tension crept across her shoulders, but before Christine could act on an urge to pull her hands from his, he tugged her forward into an embrace, and into memories of the night before. She stiffened, aware of the stunned hush that had spread among the other patrons, certain of their disapproval, but then a flush of need returned to spread through her belly and she twined her fingers into his hair and raised her mouth to his. Eagerness gave way to disappointment when he brushed his lips against her cheek instead.

"I'm glad you could make it."

Her heart gave a bound. "Me, too, but I can't stay for long. I have to be back to the office for a meeting at noon."

"Then we should make the most of our time." His lips found the crook of her neck. "How hungry are you?"

Christine swallowed. "Very."

"For food?"

She shook her head.

He pulled back to look down at her. "Say it."

Desire spread through her veins, heating her blood, shocking her with its speed. Its ferocity. She bit her lip, watched his eyes fasten on the movement. Felt an answering flare in response. She struggled for control.

"We're going so fast—"

"Say it!"

She jumped at the harsh command. Disquiet slithered through her. He was so intense, so—her breath caught as his thumb found and traced the pulse in her throat. A wave of wantonness washed over her and she sagged against him, ignoring the stares, objections fleeing in the face of sheer need.

"I'm hungry for you," she whispered. She reached up to trace her fingers along his jaw, paused to finger the stiff band of white tucked into his upright black collar. "Father."