Page 69 of Lost in the Moonlight

“Maybe.”

“If this is because of her, I like her already,” Lyrica added.

The doorbell rang at the same time as I got a notification on my phone app. When I swiped it open, I saw a man in a black suit and sunglasses that all but screamed special agent.

“Gotta go. Someone’s at the door,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

I barely heard her goodbye before I hung up and headed toward the entryway. When I looked toward the kitchen, Willow was in the archway with a frown on her face.

“It’s the Secret Service,” I told her and saw her shoulders relax.

I opened the door slightly and was barely able to get out a hello before the man in front of me was whipping out his badge. “Hardy sent me. Special Agent Johnson. You have something for me to pick up?”

The guy was irritated, likely figuring whatever job he’d been doing in D.C. was more important than this. But it wasn’t on me that Hardy had sent him.

“Come on in,” I said, swinging the door open. He barely glanced around before following me into the study where I picked up the bag I’d put the note in. As I turned to hand it to him, Willow came in, wiping her hands on a towel, nervously glancing between me and the agent.

The look on the agent’s face as he glanced over her was enough to make a feral growl lodge in my chest. He took her in slowly and appreciatively from the top of the long moonlit hair she’d secured in some messy contraption on top of her head, over the slender curves and her fuller hips, to the hint of long leg that showed through another diaphanous skirt. His gaze lingered on those curves on the way back up before landing on her face once more.

I wanted to punch him. I wanted to shove the note in his hands and slam him out of the house.

And yet, I also couldn’t blame him because Willow was stunningly beautiful even with a swipe of flour on her face and a berry stain on her shirt.

I crossed the room and handed him the note before clenching my hands at my sides. “Thanks for making the drive out.”

“Hardy said it was important,” Special Agent Johnson said, but the doubt rang through his words. As almost every agent I’d encountered had been excellent at keeping their emotions from their voice, it made this guy’s rookie status clear. “Has me going over to some place called Flat Mike’s to follow up on a guy named Pacheco Malta.”

Willow snorted, and both our eyes snapped to her. She bit her lip, tugged at her necklace, and then said, “Sorry, but if you show up at Flat Mike’s looking like that, you’ll be lucky if youjustget tossed. They don’t approve of law enforcement there.”

Johnson looked down at his suit, tugging at the lapel with a snap, ears turning red. “I have a change of clothes in the car.”

Instead of allowing this conversation and his clear interest in Willow to continue, I directed him toward the front door. “Tell Hardy I said thanks for looking into it for me.”

I basically shut the door in the guy’s face before whipping around to Willow.

“That was rude,” she said.

I stalked over to her, brushing at the flour on her cheek. “He was ogling you.”

She laughed, batting my hand away and using the back of hers to rub at her face. “Ogling? Is that even a word we use in the twenty-first century?”

I shrugged, eyes narrowing in on the bits of dust still clinging to her and wondering what she was creating. “What are you making?”

“Dinner and dessert, just like I promised. I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed a sketchpad you had on the buffet.”

I tried to remember when I’d left one there and couldn’t. “Was it empty?” I asked.

“Had a bunch of sketches of the angel from the O’Bannon mausoleum,” she said, eyes darting away. “I’m sorry, I probably should have asked… And I definitely shouldn’t have looked if you didn’t give me permission.”

I remembered drawing the broken-winged angel over and over after I’d first seen Willow in the cemetery and thought she was Sienna. I hadn’t been able to get it out of my head, and itstill wasn’t right, even now, as part of the scene I’d spread across three canvases at the gallery. But I hadn’t just sketched the angel in that book. I’d also drawn Willow before I’d seen her up close and personal, before I’d been able to give life to the vision, and before I’d figured out why something was off as I’d tried to force Sienna into the scene.

“You’re welcome to anything in my house,” I told her honestly.

Her eyes drifted back to mine, wide and surprised. “You really shouldn’t offer that sort of thing to people who are practically strangers. They could steal from you.”

“I didn’t make that offer to anyone. I made it to you. Are you going to steal from me, Willow?”

“Of course not!” she blustered.

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