I'd been to a couple of convention centers in my day, but the apparel and decor had been decidedly less formal than this. Think of a nerdy bazaar sporting t-shirts, multi-sided dice, novel food items, and costume accessories. Picture men and women dressed as everything from anime characters to obscure science fiction creatures only a select few could identify. Light sabers hanging from belts, huge foam swords strapped to people's backs. Tight little tops that could barely contain bustlines. Those were what I considered conventions.

This was...well, it was the next best thing to a ball. Extravagant decorations, catered food, champagne, and hors d'oeuvres were served up fresh by the staff milling around the room. If there'd been twirling couples at the center, the picture would have been complete. There was enough wealth in this room to fuel a small nation for several years. I was even wearing some of it. It made me a little uncomfortable, to be honest. My family didn't live like paupers, but we also tithed and gave money to those less fortunate. These people were rich and were attending this convention to trade tips about how to become richer.

"Why are you doing that?" Marcone asked, glancing pointedly at my hand on his wrist. I'd been rubbing my thumb against his pulse point, and he'd finally decided to take notice.

"You need touch," I said simply. "I felt that in bed."

"I usually prefer there to be touching when I'm in bed with a woman," he said dryly.

I rolled my eyes. "That's not what I mean. People need touch in more than just sexual situations. It's how we're wired. Touch starvation results in anxiety, stress, high blood pressure, depression, and a lot more. Other than handshakes with business partners or sex with that woman you were seeing, how often are you touched? Genuinely asking. It can't be much, or the need wouldn't have felt so acute."

Marcone arched an eyebrow at me and his lips twitched once in amusement. "Are you saying that I need a hug?"

I jerked my chin up, meeting his gaze solidly. I was not about to let John Marcone make me blush. That privilege was reserved for Thomas Raith and Bob when he made some of his more outrageous comments.

"Well, do you?"

Marcone didn't answer, but his hand slid down to the small of my back a moment later. I could feel the warmth of his skin through the satiny material and didn't resist when he pulled me a little closer.

"Heaven forbid I have high blood pressure at a time like this," he said with a wry smile.

"If you don't want to touch me, just say so," I said, and could hear a petulant note in my voice.

"I didn't say that. It's nice you're thinking of me. Odd, but nice. I was under the impression you didn't like me much."

I hadn't. He was a criminal and he'd threatened to shoot me the first time we met. It hadn't made a great first impression. And then he'd started acting like a human being, chipping away at the cold, defensive shell of dislike. He'd held me and treated me like a person more often than my so-called allies.

"As someone told me recently, I need to remove the plank from my own eye before I pick at the speck in yours. I'm not exactly pure as the driven snow. In some ways, my past is more checkered than yours, so I can't claim any moral high ground. I don't like what you do and I wish there was an alternative, but I've been guilty of the same in the past." I let out a bleak laugh. "You're the only person besides my family that trusts me any further than they can kick me. I'm sure that's entirely self-serving, but it's nice." I grinned. "Odd, but nice. Would your girlfriend be jealous that you're spending this much time with me?"

He frowned. "It's...complicated. I wouldn't call her my girlfriend. An occasional lover, yes, but nothing so affectionate to warrant a title like that. She doesn't regard me highly. She'd say no if I bothered to ask."

"And yet you're sleeping with each her?"

He gave me a look that immediately raised my hackles. I'd gotten it from men who were older and regarded me as a foolish child. It wasn't on his face for long, but I'd seen it nonetheless. It pissed me off. I inched away from him with a frown.

"You don't have to love someone to fuck them," he said quietly. "You ought to know that."

The word sounded more crass than usual coming from his lips. He was called Gentleman John Marcone for a reason. He cloaked the core of steel in a layer of genteel manners and unparalleled business acumen.

I crossed my arms over my chest and twitched my shoulders once in an angry shrug. "I'm not as puritanical as my parents. I just think people should like each other a little before they do that sort of thing, that's all."

"And yet you tangled with Thomas Raith. Casual sex isn't out of the question."

"I never said I didn't love Thomas," I said hotly. "It doesn't have to be romantic love to mean something to us both. He's my friend. There are very few things I wouldn't do to help him if he needed me."

Because Thomas was one of the few people who understood and gave a damn. And now he was gone, unable to be around me without feeling the urge to wrap me in silvery chains, to make me his in an effort to make my life less painful.

The answer made Marcone unhappy, though he tried to hide it. I guess he didn't like being called out or judged. Well, he could join the club.

"To answer your question, no. Ms. Demeter will not object to this, even if it were exactly what it looked like. We're not exclusive."

"Well that's good, I guess," I said, for lack of anything better to say. Despite his assurances, I still felt like a hussy injecting myself into another woman's territory.

We plastered on fake smiles as people began to approach, falling all over themselves to ingratiate themselves to Marcone. I kept quiet, only interjecting when necessary. From the scorn or cruel amusement, I felt from them, they'd come to the conclusion that I was some sort of empty-headed golddigger or a paid escort with nothing worthwhile to say. I could have proved them wrong. Lasciel had been the queen of schmoozing, and I hadn't lost the knack.

I didn't, because I couldn't afford to divide my attention with possible enemies in the room. I let Marcone do the talking while I reached out with my senses. Opening myself to that sensation was like scraping sandpaper over raw skin. My shields weren't as good as Harry's had been and my tolerance for other people's emotions had gone down over the years. Sweat popped along my brow, and I must have looked sick because Marcone kept each conversation quick and clinical, moving us across the room toward the opposite wall. He paced away, returning a moment later with a glass of sparkling water. I took it gratefully.

"Sorry," I panted, taking a sip before setting it aside. It helped settle my stomach a little. "Sorry, it's just..."

"Too many people?" he guessed. "Should I have opted for a smaller gathering instead?"

"No, you needed to get the targets in one place to draw the..." I lowered my voice to a bare whisper. It could barely be heard over the live music playing at the head of the room. "The Fomor out. This is our best shot. Just...give me a minute. I'll handle it. It'll take me a minute to ground myself."

I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Grounding. I needed to ground myself, separating myself from the deluge, a rock in the sea of emotion. I could survive it. I'd been doing it for months in much smaller doses. I was me. I just had to remember that.

It took me a few minutes to stuff the pain into a box to be unpacked later. It was difficult to separate the sensation without losing or blunting my abilities completely, but I managed. I opened my eyes and nodded to Marcone.

"Got it."

I expected a businesslike nod in return and an order to start the process over, scouring the room for any hint of a Fomor ambush. Instead, he stepped closer, cupping my face in both hands. He didn't move to kiss me, as I half expected. He just kept up the gentle pressure, eyes boring into mine in a fashion that was almost more intimate than his touch.

"What are you doing?"

"Touch. You said it helps. Tell me what you feel."

"Flustered?"

His lips curled up in the ghost of a smile. "You know what I mean."

I closed my eyes again, focused on the feeling of his hands on my skin. "Warm," I said after a moment. "Calloused. You have a...a scar, I think, on one palm."

"Knife fight," he acknowledged. "What else?"

What else could I say? That he made me feel somehow dainty and breakable, though I was anything but? That I liked being touched but was baffled by the fact he was the one doing it? That I didn't understand why he was taking this moment to settle my nerves, instead of moving forward with the mission?

"A...a different texture on one of your fingers." I frowned. "A ring you used to wear. Were you married?"

"Not important."

I filed that away for further study. If I was right, there was someone out there who he'd shared enough of himself with to marry. It was strangely comforting in a way. He wasn't as untouchable as he made himself out to be.

I drew his hands away from my face after a moment and nodded. I didn't let go, using his grip as an anchor point as I reached out, touching each person in turn. Anxiety. Elation. Lust. Greed. Concern. A muted sense of cunning and apathy to the people surrounding him. That made me shiver. Sociopath. I hated running into those. It was like a cold spot in a house, the mere ghost of a personality.

Then I felt it. A familiar, oily sensation of the Fomor's altered human servants lurking nearby. My eyes snapped open and I turned sharply toward the nearest hall.

"There. Two or three. Possibly more. They're too close together to tell. They're on the move. We need to go."

Marcone let go of me and pushed a hand under his suit jacket, getting a grip on the pistol no doubt holstered beneath it. His eyes were cold and determined.

"Lead the way."