can do that. All I need is a little sleep. Then I’ll be good to go. Really…”
Her eyes closed again before he reached the front door and anything he might have said died unuttered. Santos stopped dead in the middle of the yard. A cold, damp sea breeze swept past him, lifting her hair into a swirl of dark red flame about her head. He shouldn’t take her into the house, he knew. She wasn’t a demon. He knew that much, as there was no wash of trace energy clinging to her. But she might be in league with a demon. She could be the Trojan horse, sent to invade his sanctuary—seduce him into compliance so that—
As soon as the thought rushed through his mind, Santos threw back his head and laughed. Yes, he wanted her. Yes, his body already hungered for hers, as if every cell of his being had suddenly wakened to a ferocious need. But the idea that Ricardo Esteban Amadeo Santos could be turned from his duty by the beauty of a woman was absurd. Shaking his head, his laughter faded slowly as he studied her.
“If it is your plan to trap me with desire, woman,” he whispered, “be warned. I’m not a man to be led by his cock. I will have answers from you or—dream woman or not—you will find yourself back in the street where I found you.”
He headed for the house again with long, sure strides. Santos kicked one of the oak panels and waited impatiently until it swung open. A tall, dark-haired man with pale blue eyes, wearing jeans and a gray sweater looked at him, shocked. “Is she injured?”
Thomas Hawthorn and his wife Amy had arrived only three weeks before from England. They and their families had worked for Guardians most of their lives. They knew exactly who and what Santos was and did all they could to assist him.
“She will not remain awake long enough for me to determine that,” Santos admitted. He carried her easily down the marble hall to the wide staircase. As he started up, he glanced back at the man still watching him. “Please ask Amy to make some tea. If I can wake her up, I’m sure she will appreciate it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Santos barely heard him. He took the carpeted stairs two at a time, his footsteps muffled in the stillness of the vast mansion. This opulent palace by a cold sea would never feel like home to him, though even Santos could concede that it was more than adequate. Pale ivory walls were dotted by framed works of art. A thick, dark red carpet runner stretched along the long hall, covering the gleaming oak floorboards and lending richness to the surroundings.
But Santos paid none of it any attention. He hit the second-floor landing, turned left and walked directly to the master bedroom.
He could have used one of the guest rooms, but until he knew who and what this woman was, he planned on keeping her close. Even if that meant in his own bed.
Weak afternoon sunlight washed through the sheer white curtains drawn across the French doors leading to a stone patio that overlooked the back garden and the ocean beyond. A massive dark oak bed was pushed against one wall and opposite it was a huge stone fireplace with two plush armchairs pulled up before the now cold hearth.
Santos walked directly to the bed and laid her out on top of the pale blue silk duvet. He reached down to pull off her tennis shoes, then moved back to the head of the bed. She moaned, whispered something he didn’t catch and turned onto her side, facing him.
Her long, dark red hair lay in tumbled curls around her shoulders and across her face. In sharp contrast, her fair skin seemed even paler than it should have. There were bruised shadows beneath her eyes and the soft sigh that escaped her told him just how tired she was.
Something inside him stirred again and he didn’t look too closely at the sensation. If it was pity, so be it. But he would remain in control of this situation. He would not allow a woman—no matter how beautiful—to turn him from the duty that was first and foremost in his life.
“Sleep then.” He couldn’t resist reaching out to lift her hair away from her face. And if his fingers rubbed the silky strands, who would know? When he straightened, he said, “But when you wake, I will be expecting those answers you promised me.”
Erin woke with a jolt.
She sat straight up and looked around wildly, half expecting some new threat to come flying at her from the corners of the room. That’s when her gaze landed on the man she’d come so far to find.
Sitting in a chair at the far side of the bed, his arms were folded across his broad chest and his legs were crossed, one booted foot resting on a knee. His dark eyes were fixed on her and his features were hard. Expressionless.
If she had been hoping for comfort, she wasn’t going to find it here.
But that was all right. She didn’t need her hand held. What she needed was help in finding out what was happening before it was too late.
“When I was asleep, I dreamed I met you,” she said and her voice was almost lost in the cavernous room.
“This was no dream.”
“No,” she said as aches and pains began to make themselves known. This was all too real. Her hip throbbed from where she’d landed on it in the street and the palms of her hands were scraped red and raw. Plus, her stomach was rumbling, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in hours. Or was it days?
Beyond him, curtains were pushed back to show that night had fallen. An icy wind swept through the opened French doors and in the sky, stars shone down with cold indifference.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Hours.” One word. Clipped.
“I was tired.” Exhausted would be a better word, but he didn’t need to know that she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. Shoving one hand through her hair, she pushed it back from her face and let her gaze slide from his. He was too intense. Too…focused on her. Her body stirred under his direct stare and she didn’t want to think about that at the moment.
Instead, she took another look at the room where he’d brought her. A fire burned in a stone hearth and before the fire rested a small table in front of a pair of bloodred wingback chairs. On the table rested a covered dish and her stomach growled again, this time loud enough for him to hear it.
From the side of the bed, Santos sighed and she whipped her head around to look at him. “You are hungry?”
“Starving,” she admitted. What was the point of denying it?
“There are cold sandwiches,” he said, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug. “The tea is no doubt long cold, but I will arrange for more.”
“Thanks, but more tea is not necessary.” She scooted off the bed on the opposite side from him. He wasn’t looking any too friendly and she needed something to eat before delving into the reasons why she was here.
Heading for the table, she lifted the silver cover off the plate and almost groaned upon seeing the thick, roast beef sandwiches. Grabbing up a half of one, she took a big bite, then turned abruptly as she sensed him directly behind her.
She almost bumped right into him. In her defense, he took up a lot of room. Up close, his shoulders and chest were even broader than she remembered from her first glimpse of him. His eyes burned with a dark fire that seemed to singe every nerve ending in her body.
Erin swallowed hard, took a breath and said, “God, you move quiet.”
