“and he stopped going to church entirely, because there seemed no point now in even contemplating prayer for his soul. Besides, the parish church near Kilmartin dated to 1432, and the crumbling stones certainly couldn‟t takea direct strike of lightning.And if God ever wanted to smite a sinner, he couldn‟t do better than Michael Stirling.Michael Stirling, Sinner.He could see it on a calling card. He‟d have had it printed up, even—his was just that sort of black sense of humor—if he weren‟t convinced it would kill his mother on the spot.Rake he might be, but there was no need to torture the woman who‟d borne him.”

“So close now, Alec could read the make on his wetsuit, see the individual grains of sand that dustedthe black material, the drops of water trembling on the points of his hair. Now or never. But Alec couldn‟t,couldn’t. Could he?He stood up. “Stop!” His mouth dried out as the surfer‟s dark, dark green eyes looked into his, startledand curious. Suddenly he felt an absolute fool. He was inviting a good kicking, at least. But damn it, a mancouldn‟t always be afraid.“Don‟t go past. Please. Sit down and drink with me. If you go past… If you go past, I think I‟ll die.”

“There were only so many ways a man‟s heart could break, and he had a feeling his couldn‟t survive another puncture.”

“Michael wondered what the legal ramifications were for strangling a knight of the realm. Surely nothing he couldn‟t live with.”

“Blood bound:“Here´s the plan-find him,kill him.”“That is not a plan. It´s not even a complete sentence.”“You got something better?”“How about this?” He pulled back the right side of his jacket and showed me his gun. It was bigger than mine. And it was fitted with a long, barrel-shaped silencer in what had to be a custom-made holster. “Nice,” I admitted, and his grin was back. But I couldn´t help but wondering why the hell he even owned a silencer. “I had a feeling you´d appreciate the reminder that I come well equipped.”“I´d appreciate it more if I thought you knew how to use that,” I said without thinking.”

“So even the transatlantic static couldn´t mask the lifeless quality of his words.”