Free Aphrodite's Kiss by Julie Kenner Page A

she is truly worthy, she will sense the nature of her mission. She will protect the stone not because she has been told to, but because she
has
to.”
    “What a crock of—”
    Donis closed his hand—hard—over Hale’s arm.
    “Ouch!” Glaring at his dad, Hale flopped back in his chair, then immediately bounced forward when Elmer squeaked.
    Zephron ignored him, focusing on Donis. “Until young Zoë submits her affidavit, she must not be told of the legend of the stone. Her decision to abandon the mortal world must not be tainted.”
    Hale frowned. “Even if that means risking Mordi’s getting the stone and turning it over to Uncle H.?”
    “Even so,” said Zephron. “Her safety—
our
future— depends on it.”
    “Zoë‘ll do fine,” Hale said, hoping he sounded optimistic. The truth was, Mordi was almost as powerful as a full council member, and Hale didn’t want Zoë fighting the little weasel. After all, Zoë could barely control a propulsion cloak, and she still hadn’t managed to rein in those damn senses of hers. Hell, the girl hadn’t even mastered telekinesis.
    And now some ancient legend had gone and dumped the fate of the world into Zoë’s lap. How absurd was that?
    If Hale ever met the head dude in charge of legends and portents, he intended to give the fellow one very stern talking-to.

    Taylor banged his fist against Francis Capra’s steering wheel and wondered when he’d lost his grip on reality. Just what the hell was he thinking? He ran a hand through his hair. Of course, the answer was obvious— he wasn’t thinking at all. Or, rather, he’d quit thinking with his head and started thinking with certain other parts of his anatomy. Parts that really shouldn’t be running his life, thank you very much.
    Which explained why he was now parked in front of Zoë Smith’s Studio City apartment complex at nine o’clock at night, trying to work up the nerve to ask her out for a drink.
    Not that he had a chance in hell. She might be a ten on his perfect-woman scale—pretty, smart, lacking in obvious tattoos—but she still thought he was the devil incarnate.
    And maybe for a few seconds there, he had been. Except now he’d fixed all that. He’d dumped Parker, and he wasn’t sniffing out dirt on Emily anymore. So maybe if he just let Zoë know ...
    For the second time, he banged his fist against the steering wheel.
Taylor, you are pathetic
.
    He put his hand on the key, ready to crank the engine and get out of there, but couldn’t quite do it. Dammit, he wanted to see her. Wanted her to know he wasn’t the creep she’d pegged him for. Wanted it so much it was making him crazy.
    And then—as if his thoughts had conjured her—there she was, heading down the stairs right in front of him. His hand froze on the key, and for a moment he just looked at her.
    Her trademark braid was still there, keeping tight control of a mass of coppery hair that would likely stir up a shower of sparks when released. Her plain-Jane jumper was gone, replaced with truly ugly orange gym shorts topped by a sweatshirt that looked to be at least five sizes too big. But despite the horrible clothes, Taylor was even more convinced that she was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. He’d done quite a bit of daydreaming over the last few days, and she more than fulfilled every one of his Technicolor fantasies.
    No doubt about it: the woman was sexy. Sexy yet innocent. The kind of woman who’d one day have a little house with a picket fence on the outside and a dresser full of red lace underwear on the inside.
    Interesting
, said his heart.
Dangerous
, warned his head.
    Yes, indeed
. Zoë Smith was exactly the kind of woman who could get under his skin. Who’d already managed to do just that.
    She fidgeted with the keys in her hand, then glanced to her left. Taylor followed her gaze, realizing that she must be looking at the line of mailboxes.
    Tires squealed down the block, and Taylor turned to see a polished black