over as his strong arms and broad shoulders eased trays of unfired pots into the open kiln. “I certainly will, but I would like to see some of your work first.”
He looked up, straightening as he turned toward her.
Something inside her did a little skip.
Sweet Abel! She was far, far too old and cynical to fall for a mere mortal. Even one as godlike as this specimen. They were a good three or four meters apart, but who could miss the dark, bright eyes; the unruly sandy hair; the wide shoulders, and the sheen of sweat across his face.
Unbidden, her tongue slowly licked her upper lip as the gums around her fangs tingled.
“My work’s on display in the Sewell Gallery in Guildford.”
And if she possessed a modicum of common sense, she’d be in her car, headed for Guildford. “Fine, but I doubt it’s open late on a Tuesday night, and I really do want to see your work. I don’t want to interrupt, and I don’t mind waiting until you’ve stacked your kiln.” Watching those shoulders as he reached and stretched wouldn’t be any hardship either. Here was a mortal definitely worth visiting in the dark of the night.
He raised one full eyebrow. “Might take me a while.”
“Doesn’t matter. I should have called before coming, but I was on my way home and…”
“You just happened to be passing?” His wide mouth twitched at the corners.
“No. I just happened to think it was only half a mile out of my way, and by the time I realized my mistake, I had no way of turning around.”
The twitch became a rather twisted smile. “You could have reversed on the open patch across the river.”
“I could, but I’d come this far, and I do want to see your work. I’m opening a gallery and craft center in the village.”
“I don’t make souvenir ash trays or milk jugs with ‘A present from Bringham’ on the side.”
“I should hope not. I didn’t wreck my car’s paintwork and suspension for tourist tat.”
His dark eyes lit a little as his smile broadened. “Since you’re here, you might as well wait.” He angled his head to the racks behind him. “I’ve two more trays to pack. Go into the cottage next door and wait. I’ve a few samples on the shelves. They’re not for sale at any price, but you can look. I’ll be along in a half hour or so once I get this packed and going.”
He hadn’t thrown her out, something she’d half-expected after his initial unwelcome. Seemed, recluse or not, he had more sense than to rebuff a potential sales source.
Lingering just long enough to enjoy the view as he hefted the next tray of pots, Antonia stepped out of the kiln room and into the courtyard. The first building to her right looked more like a henhouse than human habitation. The next, while as shabby as the rest, did have windows and a recently painted front door. A glimpse through the curtain of a table, a sofa, and shelves of pots confirmed her assumption.
She grasped the doorknob—a loose one, missing a screw. Home maintenance was obviously not one of his priorities. She opened the door. She could see the array of pots on the shelves across the room but couldn’t cross the threshold. His casual ‘go in and wait’ wasn’t an invitation to enter.
Drat! Nothing for it but to wait. Once he did actually invite her in, she’d be able to enter as freely and as often as she wanted to, and Antonia Stonewright was certain she would.
It had been a while—at least several decades—since she’d felt this strong a pull to a mortal. But it hadn’t been so long that she’d forgotten the sensation, and just thinking about the taste of his skin on her tongue had her gums tingling again.
She sat down on the step; stretched her legs out in front of her; and watching the sun sink through the trees, thought about the potter.
She could hear him moving in the other building, lifting trays, shifting pots, muttering under his breath, and once or twice uttering a muffled curse. But they were the only sounds apart from the river a few meters away. Odd really that she didn’t hear any birds. It was too early for them to be nesting for the night. Maybe the fumes from the kilns kept them away. Odd he didn’t have a dog too. Most recluses or back to nature sorts tended to have cats or dogs for company and conversation, but seemed bedworthy Michael lived solo.
Good. She’d have to stay away if he had a wife or girlfriend. Antonia was strict with about that. After her own experience with betrayal, she’d never poach on another’s territory.
Damn! Even in the sylvan vastness of the Surrey hills, she had to think about Etienne Larouseliere. Damn and double damn him! But his infidelity and betrayal she’d turned to her good. Learned not to give her heart away and to find friendship among the vampires of her colony and sex and sustenance from humans. Worked so much better all around. If a mortal betrayed her, death would put paid to their duplicitous ways. All she had to do was wait.
Antonia leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and wondered if Elizabeth had learned anything from Ida. Antonia hoped not. As far as she was concerned, the scattered coven was best kept that way. What earthly good could come of encouraging witches to mischief? True, Elizabeth was loyal, noble, and trustworthy, but she was an anomaly.
“Didn’t you go in and look around?”
The tone struck her more than his words. This was one prickly mortal. She smiled. “No. I’d rather see your work with you. Always helps to see your reactions and hear what you have to say about it.” Wasn’t entirely a lie either.
“And why would I even want to do business with you when I have a perfectly good agent to handle all that nuisance for me?”
“Maybe you don’t.” And maybe she didn’t, but she’d driven this far, waited this long, she was entitled to at least a good look at his work. She stood up. And smiled. Mortals tended to fall for her smile. “You won’t really know until we talk, will you?”
He didn’t exactly fall at her feet, but he did nod and open the door for her. “Might as well come in then.”
He wasn’t straining himself with graciousness, but it was all she needed. Seconds later, Antonia stepped into the house, barred to her before his invitation, and almost gaped. A bit ramshackle it might have been from the outside, but inside, it was a showcase of comfort and efficiency. Including, she noticed, a state of the art security system. There was no mistaking the touch pad beside the door. He’d want to protect the collection of pots on the shelves from burglars.
What had looked interesting through the window was incredible close up. Not waiting for further invitation—hadn’t he expected her to barge in anyway—Antonia crossed the generous sitting room cum kitchen to the dark wood shelves on the far wall. As she reached them, Michael must have flicked a switch. The shelves were bathed in concealed light.
His work wasn’t good, it was incredible! Assuming…“They’re all your work?”
“Every last one.”
Yes, a definite edge to his voice there. Not that she blamed him. An artist of his caliber was entitled to be possessive.
Antonia stopped an arm’s length from the shelves. She so wanted to touch the pots, run her
