Everyone at the table—Sam, her mother, and the redheaded stranger—froze, then looked up at her. Fred brushed glass out of her hair and stepped into the room.

Dead silence.

“I’m here,” she said unnecessarily. Damn. How had glass gotten into her jeans? She wriggled for a second and said, “On your feet, Red. Let’s go outside and dance.”

“Dance?” the redheaded stranger said blankly. He was looking at her with the oddest expression: admiration, and annoyance, and a little awe.

“Dance. Fight. Smackdown. I’ll beat the shit out of you, and you’ll go away. Then I’ll go back to work before my parents—never mind. Step up. Right now.”

“Fred, it’s not exactly what you—” Sam began.

“I was a little startled at first,” her mom added.

“I apologize if I upset your family,” the stranger rumbled. “That was not my intent.” He stood up. And up. And up. He towered over all of them, even Fred. Towered. He had shoulder-length hair the color of crushed rubies, and eyes that were—okay, were those contacts?—about two shades lighter than his hair. Cherry cough drop-colored eyes.

His shoulders were so broad, she wondered how he’d gotten through the front door. He was dressed in a white shirt, open at the throat, and khaki shorts which showcased his powerfully muscled legs. No shoes, or socks. Big feet. A closely cropped beard the color of his hair. A broad forehead, a strong chin. And that voice! Deep, rumbling… like verbal, velvet.

“But I think it’s fine to step outside.”

“What?”

“I think it’s fine to step outside,” the stranger repeated. “Or we could make use of your sire’s pond.”

“My what’s what?”

“The pool,” In a low voice, as if Fred couldn’t hear perfectly well, he bent down (and down, and down) and murmured into her mom’s ear, “Is something wrong with her mind?”

“No,” her mom practically snapped. “She’s a Ph.D., for crying out loud. Don’t do that, it’s freaky.”

“Get away from her,” Fred ordered, still edgy. Okay, she was usually edgy. But it had been a rough forty-eight hours.

“It’s all right, Fred. I’m sorry I scared you. It’s just—you’re not the only one who makes dramatic entrances. This is—well—this is the High Prince Artur.”

“Prince Artur,” Fred repeated, like a parrot.

“Of the Black Sea,” the stranger added helpfully.

“He says—he says you’re one of his subjects,” her mom continued.

“Oh, does he?”

“And that you owe him fealty and loyalty and such.”

“Really.”

The prince bowed. “It is always my great pleasure to meet a comely new subject.”

“Really.”

“And we, uh, we didn’t really know what to think when he showed up and said all this and also said—uh—”

“Spit it, Mom.”

“That your father is dead,” her mom said, and burst into tears.

“Good lady,” the prince said, looking distressed for the first time, “I did not mean to upset you so. I had been told you but barely knew each other and that my subject had known your mate as her sire.”