Must Love Hellhounds

and protect him during his daysleep.”
    “And, according to Uncle Colin, who remained one of his few links to sanity during those early years.” The family, of course, being the other. “There hasn’t been a Winters since the Second World War—not, at least, one who has served my uncle. His support of the Winters family allowed them to rise in class enough so that when my grandmother married a Blake, it didn’t raise any eyebrows. And Uncle Colin didn’t think it was appropriate for family members to serve as his valets, so he began to dress himself.”
    With great care, she set her coffee cup on its saucer. “Your grandmother was a Winters?”
    “Yes. And she hadn’t any more blond hairs on her head than I do.” He reached for his juice and raised it in a tiny salute. “And that, Maggie, is the story of the Winters name. You can infer what you wish from it.”
    If she did infer anything, she didn’t share her conclusions. Instead, she slowly ate a piece of toast.
    Geoff assumed her silence meant she’d been affected by it. Good, he thought. Very good.
    Even if it meant that he was a bastard for telling her. He knew what she was looking for, what her psychological profile had laid out, describing a chain of events that had started when a young woman had given Maggie her last name, and nothing else. Then bandied about the foster system until she was twelve. She’d found stability, after that, with foster parents who hadn’t been able to have children of their own—and who’d taken in children not out of love, but to fulfill a sense of duty. The father had been a military man through and through, with a schedule for every aspect of the children’s lives. It had been constancy Maggie had desperately needed, but the sense of belonging she’d craved hadn’t been fulfilled until the service.
    The CIA had known that, had used that when they’d brought her in. They’d depended on her loyalty—not just to her country, but to her fellow operatives. Whatever the CIA had given her, though, it hadn’t been enough after they’d told her to assassinate James.
    And Geoff was a bastard for using that knowledge, too—but he was also determined to see that his family would be enough.
    He lost sight of her a moment later. Damn, and double damn. The person he’d been looking through had come out of his reverie and glanced away from her.
    When he slipped into Maggie again, she was studying his face. “Given how protective he is, I’m surprised that Ames-Beaumont hasn’t tried to force you out of the field.”
    “You can be sure he’s tried. The first time I was shot, he threatened to break my legs every four weeks to keep me in bed.”
    “The first time?”
    “The scar you’ve seen was from the last—the latest one. That was eight months ago, in Colombia. And it was the first time I was too far from a Ramsdell facility. So I wasn’t patched up with vampire blood.”
    By the movement of her head, Maggie was nodding. “Sir Pup carries blood in his hammerspace for emergencies. I haven’t had to use it yet—and I didn’t realize it healed that well.”
    “It’s not completely miraculous. The others did leave a bit of scarring.” He wondered if his easy posture and the hint of his smile looked as casual to her as he hoped it did. “And it’s because of the blood that Uncle Colin will soon have his wish.”
    Her vision darkened at the edges, as if her eyes had narrowed. “How so?”
    “Ramsdell is building a new facility in San Francisco. The research will focus on the blood, which Uncle Colin has never allowed before—and so my focus will change, as well. I’ll head up security and operations, and only go out in the field when it’s necessary. And I’ll take a more direct approach when I do.”
    “No more playing the doofus.”
    He suppressed his wince. Even knowing “doofus” was true—hell, it had been deliberate—it wasn’t an easy thing to hear her say. “Yes.”
    “And you’ll be living in San Francisco.”
    “Yes.”
    “Why the change?”
    “It’s time. I’ve been protecting the family so long, I haven’t had time to start one for myself.” Whatever form that family took. “And I came out of Colombia; Trixie didn’t.”
    Her gaze returned to his face. “She was . . . your guide dog?”
    “For ten years.” He felt the familiar twinge in his chest and pushed through it. “She spoiled me. And traveling doesn’t have the same appeal without her. So when Uncle Colin