strained, a flicker of inner torment paining his eyes. But then he merely nodded and said through gritted teeth, ‘I’ll take you there now.’
He said nothing as he led the way back to the castle along the twisted passages and for that she was grateful. Her blood was alive and sparking with possibilities. Her mind was already processing the little she’d seen and working through the steps she’d take once she got the package back somewhere with decent lighting and her tools.
And as for her other senses? They seemed one hundred percent preoccupied with the Count. That damned evocative scent teased her at every turn, the fluid movement of his limbs was like a magnet for her eyes, and then there was his shadow, looming menacingly against the wall …
She swallowed. He was so big he dwarfed her. He was powerful and dangerous and he was angry, and he’d made it clear he didn’t want her here. He should frighten her. That would make sense. But instead she felt something no less primal and every bit more confusing.
Because he excited her on a level so deep she’d never known it existed. He caused a quickening of her heart and an ache in her breasts and made her wonder what he’d have tasted like if he’d kissed her back there …
Madness, she decided. He’d done the right thing in turning away. She didn’t want to kiss him. She was here to do a job. She didn’t need the complications.
Yet still she wondered …
Soon they were back in the castle, past the stone door and making their way up the winding stairs. There was space here, and light, though gloomy and thin. The sound of the wind was growing louder. She wondered if things might be different now they were above ground, not so strained and tense between them. And then a shutter banged somewhere and curtains fluttered on unseen draughts.
‘A storm is building,’ he told her over his shoulder. Unnecessarily, she thought. Given the setting and her dark companion, she would have been more surprised if a storm wasn’t building.
Then he did surprise her, by showing her into the room that was to be her office. It was remarkably well thought out. No external windows to let in draughts or damp. A large desk to spread her things out with lamps for extra lighting. A heater in one corner. A dehumidifier in another. She circled the room, stopped before the desk and nodded her appreciation as she took it all in.
‘Did the Professor give you a shopping list?’
She turned and took a step back and gasped, so surprised to find him within a metre of her that she took another involuntary step backwards against the desk, one hand reaching down to steady her, the other over her pounding heart, willing it to slow. So much for his impact being less intense above the ground. An aura surrounded him, a mantle of power and presence, and a scent that wove its way into her senses like a drug. So how exactly was she supposed to calm her racing heart?
His eyes glinted, his lips curving into the slightest smile, as if he was relishing her reaction. ‘You really think I would take chances with something potentially so precious?’ He nodded knowingly before she could reply. ‘But of course, you do. You thought I was irresponsible to leave it in the caves, didn’t you? In the place that had harboured it safely for perhaps hundreds of years.’
She licked her lips, regretting the gesture immediately when his scent turned to taste on her lips. Regretting it more when she saw his eyes follow the sweep of her tongue.
‘I’ll admit it,’ she said, trying to get a foothold on the conversation and justify her position. Because she had thought exactly that. Until she’d felt the air down there and realised it was probably the reason why the pages were in such good condition. ‘It did seem a trifle reckless, at least—’
‘Reckless? ‘ he repeated, jumping on the word, his eyes gleaming, refusing to let hers go. ‘I take it you’re not a fan of being reckless, Ms Hunter?’
‘No, but—’
‘But you make exceptions?’
‘No! That wasn’t what I was going to say at all.’
His eyes gleamed, searching hers with a heated intensity that left her breathless, until with a blink they cooled and flicked towards his wristwatch and then at the door, as if he had somewhere he had to be. ‘No. You really don’t seem the type. And now I shall leave you. Anything else you need, Bruno will see to it for you.’
Right now she could uncharacteristically do with a stiff drink, though she’d quite happily settle for tea. She was still strangely stinging from that ‘you really don’t seem the type’, and she wasn’t even sure why. She’d never been reckless in her entire life. She’d been too driven, so focused on what she wanted that even her friends at university had affectionately labelled her a nerd.
‘How will I find Bruno?’ she asked, surprising herself with how calm she sounded now that he’d eased away and given her space. ‘If I need him?’
‘Bruno will find you. He has a way of anticipating one’s needs.’
A psychic henchman? But of course a count would need one of those, along with his secret tunnels and his crumbling castle. It was just what she needed to improve her mood. ‘Excellent,’ she rejoined, with exaggerated enthusiasm and a smile designed to get right under his skin. ‘Then it appears I’m all set. I’d better get to work.’
And with a glower and a nod he was gone and she could breathe again.
She slumped into the nearest chair. The pages, she thought, her fingers pressed to her temples. Think about the pages and all they mean to you. And she would, she promised herself, just as soon as she’d caught her breath. Being with the Count was like being caught in a whirlwind and spun in circles until she was spat out again, dizzy and confused.
Difficult? The man was turning out to be her worst nightmare.
A sharp rap on the door and she jumped, instantly alert, but it was only Bruno, bearing a tray.
‘Something to eat,’ he grunted, placing the tray on a side table.
Grace blinked and caught a whiff of something warm and savoury. Frittata, she realised as she approached, feeling suddenly hungry and remembering she hadn’t eaten for hours. And, if she was not mistaken, a pot of tea. She lifted the lid and took a sniff. English breakfast. Maybe he really was psychic. ‘How did you know I’d prefer tea to coffee?’
He shrugged. ‘You’re inglese, no?’
‘Australian,’ she corrected. And he shrugged again, as if it were the same thing, and disappeared.
Lucky guess, she figured, and poured herself a cup, enthusiasm once again building inside her. A quick meal and she could get to work. Strange, though, given how excited she’d been at getting this opportunity, that something could distract her to such an extent that at times she almost forgot the book completely.
Well, not something—someone. And maybe he was difficult and dangerous and tortured and gave her heated glances that made her squirm—still, it wasn’t like her at all.
He paced his office, walking past windows rattling with the wind and splattered with raindrops from the first of the coming squalls. Clouds obliterated what was left of the sun until day turned almost to night.
He paced the room uncaring. He saw nothing
