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ungroomed shagginess of his
brows. His beard shadow made him look rough and masculine. He had
weary circles under his eyes.
    Belle wanted to kiss them too.
    “Uh,” was all her brain or her
instincts agreed to let her say.
    “I believe you’re expecting a handyman,” said
her visitor, hooking long thumbs into his tool belt. He looked
oddly like he was posing, but Belle wasn’t inclined to complain.
His graceful fingers framed his crotch perfectly.
    “Oh,” she said, scarcely an improvement on uh . She shook herself and swallowed. “You must be John
Feeney. You came tonight after all.”
    “I did. Do you have things for me to fix?” He
was looking straight in her eyes. Most men wouldn’t have, given how
she was dressed. Then again, considering his killer looks, women in
skimpy outfits might greet him every day. For all she knew, John
Feeney was Kingaken’s most popular lonely housewife fantasy. He
lifted the metal box he carried by the handle, no doubt showing off
more handyman credentials.
    Belle realized she’d failed to answer him for
too long.
    “Uh, yes,” she said, stepping backward into
the entryway. “Please come in. There’s -” He’d moved past her, and
her gaze zeroed in on the tight movement of his ass in the dark
green pants. Jesus , she swore to herself. “There are a
couple upstairs windows that need unsticking and a showerhead that
won’t spurt water.”
    Spurt was a stupid word, wasn’t it?
Probably she shouldn’t have used it, if only because it made her
think about erections and wrapping them in her hand. Did John
Feeney have a long cock? His feet and his thumbs were big. That was
supposed to mean something.
    “I’m Belle Hobart,” she blurted.
    John Feeney paused with his paint-spattered
boot on the first stair tread. Her cheeks blazed fire when he
raised his dramatic eyebrows at her.
    “I know,” he answered. “You said your name on
the phone.”
    His manners sucked as bad as when they’d
spoken earlier. Annoyance helped clear her head. She propped the
baseball bat against the closet door, then followed John to the
second floor.
    As she did, her heart barely stumbled around
in her chest at all.
    ~
    Dubhghall’s first stop after speaking to the
ghost had been John Feeney’s house. The “handyman,” a term he’d
learned from watching the Import Channel in Resurrection, had been
drinking cheap canned beer in front of his TV. With the man’s
resistance to enchantment lowered by alcohol, charming everything
Dubhghall needed from him had been a snap.
    As long as he was there, he’d flipped through
John Feeney’s collection of “How-To” books. Feeney had taken up his
home repair business recently. If a human could pull this off,
Dubhghall saw no reason why a faerie shouldn’t. Not only was his
race considerably smarter, they were excellent actors. He had no
doubt his impersonation would hold up.
    He left Feeney with a magical compulsion to
avoid Belle Hobart and her job requests from now on. The
expenditure from his reservoir was worth it. The fewer
complications he had to deal with, the sooner he’d be out of here.
Thus far, the mundane world wasn’t enthralling him.
    Despite the ease of his entrance, meeting
Belle Hobart disturbed him. He’d been expecting someone red-eyed
and miserable, a poor unhappy rabbit of a human. What he’d gotten
was quite different.
    Isaiah’s niece was proud and beautiful.
    Faeries had a long history of being attracted
to humans. The stability of mortal lives seemed exotic: that each
day would unfold along similar lines as the one before. Human
emotions were warmer than the fae’s, a contrast that acted like
catnip on strong sex drives. Humans enjoyed making love with his
kind, and that appealed as well, because who wouldn’t want to feel
like a god in bed? Add in the lure of the forbidden, and Belle’s
race was hard to resist. Fae and human couplings could produce
children - a giant no-no for a people who valued pure
bloodlines.
    Too