A Wizard in a Feud

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Magnus, we have an emergency.”

Magnus d’Armand looked up at the source of the calm voice. There was nothing there, of course—only a woodland scene in a gilded frame; the loudspeakers were hidden. “What sort of emergency, Herkimer?”

Across the expanse of thick, dark red carpet, Aiea looked up from the scrolling print in front of her padded velvet armchair. She wore lounging pajamas of silk that only emphasized her height; there was no need to minimize it when her companion was nearly seven feet tall himself. She had a long, bony face framed in long, lustrous dark hair.

Magnus glanced at her, then glanced away to hide the admiration in his eyes—he was still unsure as to the nature of the heartbreak that had made her so wary of men and he was determined not to alarm her. She did seem to be past the worst of it, though there were still moments of hostility in her manner, and she still seemed too quick to argue minor points. But he was determined to prove himself a good friend and reliable companion—and safe. He mustn’t let her see how much he was aware of the generous curves in that long figure or how exquisite he thought the bone structure of her face. Besides, he had memories of his own, reasons to avoid intimacy.

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