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“W hat do you think you’re doing? We don’t throw anything away here.” Lovey Hamilton peered disapprovingly over the top rim of her blue plastic readers at the younger woman occupying the desk next to her.

“Well, this one we do. It’s another one of those ‘please help me’ letters from that wacko.”

Jesse halted his steps outside the stairway exit, very much aware of the fact that neither of the women behind the reception desks knew he was there. He could easily turn and disappear unnoticed down the hallway to his own office.

But something in what he saw called to him. Perhaps it was only Lovey’s irritation and her younger counterpart’s arrogance that pulled him forward. Whatever the impetus, he made his way in their direction.

“Morning, gorgeous.” He strode behind the older woman’s desk to drop a friendly kiss on the top of her white curls, his standard greeting for as long as he had worked at his father’s company.

Lovey had been Clint Coryell’s original office girl way back when he’d first started the company, and in spite of her seniority, she chose to remain at a desk out here in the main lobby for all these years.

“About time you got back.” Her no-nonsense attitude might fool some, but the color in her cheeks gave her away. “He’s in, but he’s on the phone. You want to wait?”

“No, ma’am.” Jesse sauntered over to lean against the filing cabinet behind the desks. He’d just seen his dad up at Cate’s this past weekend. There was no reason to bother him now. “I’m not really back for another week. Just thought I’d stop by the office to check in and see what’s waiting for me. Couldn’t resist coming in to steal a kiss from my favorite girl.”

Lovey rolled her eyes as she always did. “Cut the crap, junior. I left my hip waders at home.”

He smiled in spite of himself. No one could cross verbal swords like Lovey. Of course, she was thirty years his senior and as much mother some days as friend. “You wound me, Lovey.”

She snorted a reply, but he’d seen her smile as she’d turned back around to her paperwork, actively ignoring him.

A casual glance over at the new girl’s trash showed the crumpled letter that had been the topic of discussion as he’d arrived.

Not that he was really interested.

The majority of Coryell Enterprises’ work originated from government contracts, both U.S. and foreign. They were contractors, pure and simple. Their missions to rescue captives were covert, under the radar and rarely publicized. They operated alongside or in lieu of various military entities and government agencies. Taking on a personal client was rare.

More important, all of it was negotiated and arranged by someone else. Not his job. He didn’t get involved until it was time to plan the mission and carry it out. The paperwork, the back-office dealings, all that bored him to death.

So the letter in the trash didn’t concern him in the least. Not his problem.

He had straightened, with the intent of making his way to his office to do just what he’d said, when one last glance at the ivory-colored stationery in the wire basket stopped him in his tracks.

A word on the bottom of the page leaped out at him, a part of the signature. Without thought, he reached for it, accidentally shoving the new girl’s chair in the process of snagging the missive from the trash.

“Hey!” she yelped, her chair rolling across the plastic floor protector, stopping with a little bump as its wheels hit the carpet.

“What’s this?” He found himself smoothing the paper, eyes fastened to the plain type, not waiting for her answer.

The new girl’s head swiveled back and forth between him and Lovey, as if she were trying to decide what to do.

“Susan, this is Jesse Coryell. Since his name’s on the front of the building, you might want to answer.”

Not even the lure of the letter in his hands could keep him from looking up at the sarcasm in Lovey’s voice. His dad always did say the woman could cut to the chase better than some of their overpaid negotiators.

“It’s just a letter from some nut job whose teenage sister ran away from home. Coryell Enterprises doesn’t handle problems like that.”

“What makes you so sure she’s a… nut job, as you call it?” He chose not to even consider how he knew the author of the letter was a woman, but he did know it. He felt it.

“Well, go ahead and read it for yourself. She says she was supposed to contact us. No reference as to who or why. Just a supposed to. There’s… there’s not even a return address or a phone number or anything. Just some fakey-looking email address.”

He scanned the letter in his hands. Susan was probably right. Typewritten, no personal contact information of any sort. Only the email address that had snagged his attention: [email protected].

Jesse stared at the blank television screen, absently swirling the crystalline green liquid in his glass as he leaned back in his favorite recliner.

Just as he’d told his friend Robbie earlier this evening, it was a weird coincidence and nothing more, right? A fluke. So what if the woman’s name was Destiny? It didn’t mean anything.

So why couldn’t he get the crumpled letter out of his mind?

He rose and drained the last of the heady ambrosia in his cup, reminding himself that this stuff wasn’t normal alcohol. This was Faerie Nectar, a special birthday gift from Dallyn Al Lyre, High General of the Realm of Faerie. His new part-time boss.

Whoa.

Jesse stood very still, one hand grasping the back of the large leather recliner to steady his step. He’d felt just fine until he’d stood up. He still felt fine. It was the world that had suddenly gone tilting off-kilter, his brain and his body on total disconnect.

He should have remembered this. While alcohol had almost no effect on him at all, this stuff had put him on his ass for the first time in his life not three months ago. It had also given him his first experience with worshipping the porcelain gods, as Robbie liked to say.

He looked down at the odd metallic decanter holding the remaining liquid and felt a ridiculous grin creep over his face.

Enough of that stuff for tonight. The dizzy, happy early effects were fine. But if he had any more, the morning after would suck. One go-around with that experience was one too many for his taste.

“Should I take that silly grin to mean yer in yer cups?”

Jesse slowly turned his head, the world flowing around him as his eyes searched for a body to go with the voice. At length he located the source in the doorway to the hall: his houseguest, Robert MacQuarrie.

“Never mind. You’ve no a need to confirm or deny what I can see with my own two eyes.”

Shaking his head seemed to help bring the big Scot into better focus. “It’s that damn Faerie Nectar. Sneaks up on my body faster than it does my brain, I guess. Did you need something?”

Robbie leaned against the doorjamb, his mouth curled in a friendly smile. “It does my heart good to see you Children of the Fae fall prey to Mortal sins now and again. I only came out to see if you’d drunk yer way beyond fashin’ yerself over that wee letter you rescued from the trash bin today.”

“Yeah,” Jesse lied. “Forgot all about it already.”

“Aye? Is that so? Then why might you be holding it in yer hand?”

Jesse looked down at the paper he held, all the while shaking his head in denial. “I was just gonna throw it away.” Instead he shoved it in his back pocket.

“Well, my friend, you’ll do as you want, but I still say you could satisfy yer curiosity by getting yerself online and sending a message to this Destiny woman.”

Jesse snorted his answer. He had no intention of doing anything of the sort. That would be like giving in. Utterly ridiculous.

Robbie shrugged. “Verra well. Then I’m off to a good night’s sleep. I’m due at the office early in the morning. My thanks again for the hospitality of yer home. Driving up and down the mountain every day for two weeks would be a royal pain in the arse.”

Jesse nodded his agreement as Robbie left. His dad’s policy of having each of their field operatives spend two weeks training in the different departments within the company had been good for team morale, but it wasn’t very convenient for those like Robert who didn’t live in town.

He supposed his own turn at the training would be scheduled as soon as he officially returned from his vacation next week. Of course, once he broke the news to his father of his plans to live in Scotland, that would probably change things.

It was the right thing to do, though. He was sure of it. Being a Guardian, now that was something worthy of devoting his life to. He only hoped that once he made the move, he’d find the fulfillment he so desperately sought. Or did the Fates intend him to be miserable for the rest of his life?

“Fuck it,” he muttered, shaking his head.

He didn’t believe in Fates any more than he believed in destiny.

There it was. That word again.

Destiny.

For something he didn’t believe in, he sure seemed to be obsessed with it.

Letting go of the back of his recliner, he made his way across the room to his desk. Somewhere under all those stacks of papers was a perfectly good computer.

With one hand he pushed the ON button of the CPU while he shoved everything aside with his other. Papers fluttered to the floor around him as he hooked a bare foot under the leg of his rolling desk chair, pulling it forward. The computer screen flickered to life as he sank into the seat.

Before leaning back, he pulled the crumpled ivory-colored sheet from his pocket. He barely noticed the cold leather against his skin. His attention was fully focused on the letter in his hand, his eyes drawn to the signature at the bottom of the page.

Destiny.

Only a coincidence—a weird fluke and nothing more. So what if it matched the advice his niece had given him. She may be part Faerie, but she was still just a kid.

So why was it driving him crazy?

His fingers played over the keyboard, punching up screens as if they had a will of their own. Before he knew it, he’d filled in the form to email the author of the letter in question, this Destiny woman, demanding to know her location and contact information.

He wouldn’t actually send the email. That wasn’t the way Coryell Enterprises operated. Those things were handled through the office, by people who got paid to screen out things like this from the requests they would actually consider.

As Susan had said, the letter probably wasn’t even legitimate. Who would ask for help and yet give nothing more than an email address for contact? An email address that was likely a fake at that.

Matter of fact, he had half a mind to hit the SEND key and prove that the case, all doubt being eliminated when his message came back as a mailer daemon.

His index finger hovered over the keyboard for an instant longer before jamming down.

Jesse stared at the screen, the little message YOUR MAIL HAS BEEN SENT flashing before him.

He leaned back in his chair, feeling relaxed for the first time all day.

It was done. Whatever happened now, so be it.