“Ouch,” the man said. “It might come in handy to be friends with a man who can’t die. Think of it. You can send me through a fire to save something precious to you. Youcan use me as a suicide bomber or an experimental patient for new drugs.”
“I’m sure I have no use for you since you’re not vampire, Fae, giant, or demigod, and you don’t follow any of the rules for magical creatures. Readers need to know the rules. Otherwise, me bringing you back from the dead for any reason whatsoever is called cheating.”
“That’s fine with me,” he said. “Your loss.I’ve lived so long, I’ve seen it all. Frankly, I’m quite jaded. Nothing excites me. The stakes are always too low.”
“That must make your life very dull.”
“Duller than dishwater,” the man admitted. “But I forge on.”
“Right, you have no choice. Suicide’s not even an escape for you. How sad. You must carry all your faults and disappointments from lifetime to lifetime.”
The man patted her arm so suddenly, Clare didn’t have a chance to jerk her hand away. A zing of energy raised goosebumps over her skin, and sparkling heat seared her to the bones.
“Don’t be sad for me,” he said. “I instantly forget everything and wake up as a clean slate.”
“That’s even worse,” Clare exclaimed, not believing a word out of his mouth. He hadn’t seemed like the coo-cootype when she first boarded the plane. “To forget who you are. Do you write notes to yourself before you die? Or ask people to record your history?”
The man unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt. “What do you think?”
Clare swallowed. The well-muscled chest had a hint of a suntan, but what had her gasping for breath was not the sexiness of the man’s pectoral muscles, but anamulet in the shape of a heart—not a Hallmark heart, but bearing a rough similarity to a four-chambered human heart. It was deeply colored, dark purplish-red, and made of some type of stone or mineral she’d never seen before—a cross between a crystal and a ceramic.
It was secured in a web of leather thongs, giving it the weird appearance of being surrounded by blood vessels. The leathernet was clipped onto a lanyard, like the type used for conference identification badges.
“What’s that?” Clare asked, her mouth dry and throat raw.
“It’s the Heart of Brigid,” the man replied in the woo-woo tone of a storyteller. “It leads me to my true love.”
“For each of your lifetimes?”
“No, there is only one Brigid and one life. As long as I wear this Heart of Brigid,I shall never die.” He flashed her a mocking smirk, as if she should believe his fairy tale.
“I thought you said you couldn’t die.” Clare caught him in a plot hole. “You always came back the next morning, poof.”
“Right, but the Heart of Brigid brings me to my true love whenever I come back.”
“Which must be very confusing to you since you claim you forget everything from onelife to the next,” Clare said. “The rules for your mythological, deathless existence don’t make sense.”
“I’m just telling you what silly, lovesick girls who believe in magic want to hear. I’m sure your stories are full of wimpy vampires, nice fairies who don’t play tricks, and brainless centaurs with bulging muscles and even bulgier nether regions.” He sniffed with his nose high up in theair. “Am I entertaining you?”
“Hardly.” Clare also turned her nose up. “I doubt you even know what a true love is, and that phony piece of clay is your vapid attempt at picking up women. As if you’re dangling a sausage in front of a hungry hound in heat.”
“You certainly have a way with words, if not fashion and style.” He pulled his shirt closed over the amulet but neglected to buttonit. “Who upgraded you to first class?”
“I paid every penny.” She gave him an appraising once-over. “As for you, I didn’t know it was Upgrade an Inmate Day. Who are you, and what asylum did you spring out of?”
“I can assure you I’m entirely sane.” The man stuck his hand out to shake. “Griffin Gallagher. I’m one of the richest men in the world, and frankly, I don’t have to make sense.Who are you?”
Right, so rich he had to fly commercial.
Nevertheless, a lead was a lead, so Clare shook the solid hand. At least he was flesh and blood. “Clare Hart. I’m a writer of love stories crossing supernatural boundaries. I’ve been raising funds to make my screenplay into a movie. If you’re interested, I can write you and your Heart of Brigid into one of my stories, and wecan see it on the big screen someday.”
Griffin held onto Clare’s hand a moment too long, then set it down on the console and cupholders between them. “I’m actually very rich and eccentric, but I have no need to invest in a movie when I’ve lived many love stories better than anything you could ever write.”
“Humpf. I doubt it.” Clare turned away from the Irishman with the tongue fullof blarney. “You’re villain material. No love there.”
“You’re too young to know anything about love. Once you’ve lived a thousand years, we’ll talk.” He leaned his seat back and closed his eyes, shutting her out cold.
I'll get money from tall, dark, and crazy before this flight is over,Clare thought while eyeing the lump under his clothing.
