“And Murphy?”

“Hmm?” He walked back to the booth.

“We also must be honest about who will profit from this epidemic.”

“You’re talking about blood-wine,” Murphy said. “Do you think Terry, Jean, or Leonor could be behind this?”

“The Elixir? No. But who is producing this and who is smuggling it are not necessarily the same. Terry, Jean, and Leonor are all competent smugglers. It’s how they made their money.”

Murphy mouth lifted in the corner. “We all have a bit of pirate blood, Rens.”

“Yes, but not many of us have the climate for grapes or the expertise to make blood-wine. The process is a closely guarded secret. There are tests running right now in both France and England. It is believed that blood preserved by this method cannot carry the Elixir’s taint. If that is true, blood-wine may be the most profitable venture in our history.”

“So Terry, Jean, and Leonor don’t have much incentive to find who’s really behind this.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. No matter what happens, we both know this drug will not go away.”

“Then why do we bother with this, Rens?”

He was genuinely curious what the vampire would say, because Murphy had asked himself the same question too many times to count.

“Because this—what is happening right now—it isn’t about a drug. It’s about power. About one of our own kind seeking to control us all. Seeking to destroy our world and profit from the deaths of our children.” For the first time, Rens showed a hint of passion. “I have no patience for this spider’s web.”

MURPHY’S mind was exhausted by the time he returned to Terry and Gemma’s house, but he couldn’t delay resolving things with Anne. He’d been an arse when confronted by the fact that there were things in her life that he couldn’t be a part of. It was one more reminder that they had many steps to take before their relationship could maintain a steady course.

He sought her out in the pool, but she wasn’t there. The servants said she had been to the family wing but had left hours before. He walked into his suite, ready to leave his jacket and return to searching for her, only to see Anne sitting at the desk, calmly transcribing notes by lamplight.

“Anne—”

“Can I borrow your notes from the rest of the meeting? I’d like to review them before I start the rest of the translation.”

“I’m sorry.”

She turned, a smile teasing the corner of her mouth. “Is your handwriting that messy?”

He dropped his jacket on the armchair near the entryway. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

She took a deep breath. “I know.”

“I am sorry.”

“For what?”

Murphy frowned. “For earlier. I know I spoke in anger.”

“Why do you think I left, Patrick?”

“Oh no.” He unknotted his tie and paced the room. “You’re not going to use your analyst voice on me. That won’t be happening.”

“Fine.” She rose and walked to him. “I understand you’re sorry, but I want you to understand what you said that pissed me right the feck off. Is that nonanalyst enough for you?”

The moment she got in his face, his blood began to move. “Yes.”

“Do you like it when I’m angry?”

“Not exactly. I like it when you’re not calm.”

She stepped back. “Why?”

He grabbed her wrist to keep her from moving away. “Because that’s when I know you’re feeling things. I was angry that you had knowledge about something to do with Russia—don’t think I forgot about it—and you weren’t sharing with me.”

“I can’t share it with you. You have to understand that.”

“I do.” He closed his eyes. “I thought I did. You weren’t a psychologist when we were together. I didn’t expect to feel resentment. I’ll learn to deal with it. I know you’ll always have your secrets, Anne.”

“They’re not my secrets, Patrick. That’s the point. And that’s not why I walked out.”

He frowned. “Then why?”

“You diminished what I do. You treated my practice—my whole life—as something less than yours. Just because I’m not running a city doesn’t mean what I do isn’t important.”

“I know that.”

“But that’s not what you said. You called it a ‘little life.’ Said that I listened to sob stories. The work I do is important. And if you think that I’m going to give it up because we’re trying to—”

“But don’t you see, Anne?” The dread pierced his chest when he realized the full ramifications of their reunion for her. He didn’t want to say the words. He wanted to forget them. Wanted to enthrall her so completely that she would never even think of leaving him again.

But he couldn’t do that. Not if he wanted her to stay.

“You’ll have to give it up,” he said, still holding her wrist in his hand. “Because if you return to me—if you’re known as my consort, my mate—no one will confide in you. You will have entered the political arena. You will be a player, whether you like it or not.”

The pain jabbed deep as she pulled her arm away. Her face was bleak.

“No.”

“It might already be too late.”