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bitch had gotten so damn close
. If Evangeline had not been awake, if she had not heard the sound of the kitchen door being forced, if she had not been a spirited, quick-thinking woman with a measure of talent—so many ifs. He could not allow himself to dwell too long on what had almost happened.
    This time he did not raise his talent. He did not dare. He knew what he would find, knew what it would do to his senses. He could not afford to lose his control, not now, not with Evangeline only a few steps away. He could not risk letting her see that side of him.
    Besides, the bastard was dead.
    Lucas stayed very still for another heartbeat or two, one fist locked around the edge of the door. When he was certain that he was in full command of himself he turned back toward the kitchen.
    He did not question his reaction to the scene in the bedroom but he was more than a little surprised by the fierceness of it. He had, after all, known what to expect. After Evangeline’s description of the attack, he’d had a very good idea of what he would see at the scene. The important thing to keep in mind was that she was unhurt. She was safe, at least for the moment. That was all that mattered.
    Still, the intensity of his reaction was unsettling. It was not as if he had not encountered other far more horrific crime scenes. But for some reason the graphic evidence of the attack on Evangeline had slammed through all his carefully erected psychical barriers and struck him at his core. He barely knew the woman and yet here he was reacting as if the two of them were intimately connected, as if she belonged to him.
As if it was his right to protect her
. One thing was certain: From now on he intended to do a better job of taking care of her.
    He turned away from the bedroom and went back down the hall to the kitchen. Evangeline was waiting.
    “Satisfied?” she asked.
    “All is well,” Lucas said.
    “I was sure it would be,” she said. She gave him a sheepish smile. “Nevertheless it was kind of you to make certain.”
    “Try to get some sleep.”
    “An excellent notion. As I told you, my visitors from London arrive tomorrow. I shall be very busy entertaining them.”
    “I am glad to know that you will have company for the next couple of days,” he said.
    She searched his face in the glary light of the kitchen sconce. “You are concerned that whoever sent Hobson to kill me will make another attempt, aren’t you?”
    “Under the circumstances, I think we must assume that will be the case. However, I think we have some time before the person who commissioned your death makes his next move.”
    “Because he will not know immediately that Hobson failed?”
    “Right. And even after he realizes that his hired killer is not coming back for his pay, it will take time to concoct another plan. It is not as if one can just walk down to the street and find that sort of talent loitering about on the corner.”
    She looked amused. “That sort of talent?”
    He grimaced. “A poor choice of words. In addition to the difficulty of hiring a professional killer who is willing to travel to the country, the fact that you escaped the first attempt will make whoever is after you more careful the next time.”
    She tilted her head slightly and regarded him with acute attention. He could have sworn that her eyes heated a little, whether with interest, alarm or simple curiosity, he could not say.
    “No offense, sir,” she said, “but it strikes me that you seem to know a great deal about how this sort of business is conducted.”
    “One could say that the nature of my talent has compelled me to make something of a study of the criminal mind.” He stopped and then decided to tell her the rest. “Much to my family’s dismay, I occasionally consult for a detective inspector who is an old friend of mine at Scotland Yard.”
    “Your family does not approve?”
    He smiled. “I think the twins, my brother and sister, find it rather intriguing but their