Читать книгу Dark Surrender - Alyssa Morgan - Страница 15

Chapter 6

She should have known by the address what type of house she’d find. Mr. Smith lived in one of the most expensive, upscale neighborhoods in New York.

High walls and wrought iron gates enclosed great Estates set back from the quiet street by sprawling green lawns. The circular driveways held every luxury car from Bentley to Rolls Royce. She pulled up to his house and waited for the gates to open before she drove up the arched driveway, circling around a white stone fountain big enough to swim in.

She parked her SUV behind a red sports car with the top down. The afternoon sun sparkled on the flawless finish and shiny tire rims. As pretty as the car was to look at, Jillian only saw a death trap.

How fast could that thing go?

To her right flat stone steps led up to the front portico, where huge white pillars flanked the black double doors.

The home was as large and intimidating as its owner. How could a man as interesting and mysterious as Mr. Smith live anywhere else?

Jillian worried she’d been too hasty in deciding to go to his house. It had sounded like a good idea over the phone, but she’d had some time to think about why it wasn’t during the drive, while she checked her mirrors every few seconds to make sure she wasn’t being followed. It was too late to turn around. Without help, she wouldn’t keep the ring through the end of the day.

Tearing into the yellow envelope she took out the ring and, not knowing where to hide it, she tucked it down the front of her bra. She left all of her things in the car, with the keys in the ignition, ready for a fast get away.

She walked up the front steps and knocked on one of the doors. Not a moment later the door swung open and an older gentleman in a livery suit greeted her with a pleasant smile.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Whitmore. He’s expecting you.” When he stepped aside and bid her to enter, she expected to see him wearing white gloves.

“Hello,” she said, smiling politely at the gentleman as she stepped over the threshold and into Mr. Smith’s home.

Instantly she felt transported into a different world. The house was a treasure trove of collectibles and artifacts from almost every period in the history of the world. The center table in the foyer wasn’t just any table, it was a neoclassical pedestal table, several hundred years old and in pristine condition. Atop the table, an actual blue and white Ming Dynasty vase held fresh red roses. Never had she smelled roses with such a heavy perfume. They were intoxicating, and she wanted to bury her nose in the soft petals and breathe in the scent.

On the massive wall leading to the staircase, a hand-woven tapestry depicting a hunting scene had no doubt come directly from the wall of some eastern European castle.

Jillian was awestruck, and she’d barely gotten as far as the entryway.

“Follow me.” The butler continued past her and led her up the massive carpeted staircase. On the wall of the second story were ancient maps of Mesopotamia, Egypt, and the Holy Land, illustrated by hand in rich, vibrant ink and encased in expensive frames specially designed to preserve the aged parchment. Jillian stopped to inspect them closer. Some of the maps were dated before the early Dynastic Period.

Amazing.

Where could he have found items from that time that had aged so well?

The butler paused on the stairwell and turned back to ask, “Are you coming, Ms. Whitmore?”

Jillian couldn’t take her eyes off the maps. They were either authentic, or very convincing replicas. “These pieces are in excellent condition.”

“Yes, Master Smith is very particular when it comes to caring for his collection.”

Her lips parted when he said Master Smith.

What century had she walked into? His home held a piece of them all.

“If you’ll follow me,” the butler said. “We’ll continue to the library.” He resumed climbing the stairs.

Jillian followed him wordlessly, taking in as much of the surroundings as possible. Overhead were vaulted ceilings and skylights. Her gaze roamed over the Renaissance furniture, crystal chandeliers, marble banisters and floors. One entire hall across the way was lined with alcoves displaying full suits of armor, with swords, shields and lances mounted above them on the wall.

Private collection indeed.

This wasn’t a house. It was a museum.

And Jillian never wanted to leave.

***

Upstairs in his library, Kyriel heard Jillian’s smooth voice from the staircase. He paced the rug in front of his desk, wanting a drink to calm his nerves. Why did he feel so nervous?

His stomach knotted up and his mouth went so dry he couldn’t swallow. Part of it was the thrill of the chase, the anticipation that came with knowing he was about to get a coveted treasure and the key to his redemption. What was the other part then?

The woman?

He’d never been so tied up over a woman before. One he hardly knew. He’d like to know her—intimately—but was afraid that would only make his strange affliction worse. The timing was all wrong. He couldn’t develop feelings for anyone if he planned on returning to Heaven soon. He might find it too hard to leave, and he didn’t want anything standing in his way.

Beautiful and intelligent, able to understand his world, Jillian Whitmore might be the perfect woman for him. And he was going to leave Earth and return to Heaven.

To say he’d been waiting for her would be ridiculous.

He’d only been waiting for his redemption, and she was carrying it up the staircase.

The glint from the golden shield hanging over the fireplace caught his eye. His gift from War. The state of mankind hovered on the verge of another Apocalypse, and if the Harbingers of Doom were released from Hell the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would have a hard time sending them back with the seal broken.

If Lucifer won this battle it would bring about the end of the world, and Kyriel didn’t want to lose the things he’d come to love. He might be going back to Heaven, but he had to ensure that life on Earth would continue before he left.

The double doors of his library swung open and James led Ms. Whitmore into the room. She had on another of those tight skirts that emphasized the curve of her hips and her long legs. Her black sweater had short, ruffled sleeves and her shiny, black high heels were feminine and sexy. She had her blonde hair pulled back from her face and her librarian glasses sat on the slender bridge of her nose.

“Ms. Whitmore,” James formally announced their guest.

Kyriel walked over to greet her. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

“I’m not sure it was the best decision,” she said as her eyes scanned the room. “But I feel I can trust you, and I don’t know why.”

Nothing like a little persuasion to make a person believe whatever he wanted them to believe. The power he had over human minds was subtle, yet effective, and most of the time it saved him from having to use force.

“I want to help you, Ms. Whitmore, it’s as simple as that.”

Her emerald green eyes scrutinized him from behind her glasses. She wasn’t fully convinced, and when he tried to break into her mind, he found it blocked. All he could pick up on were her emotions. To not have the full use of his power was frustrating. It took away his edge.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” James asked from the doorway, taking his cue to leave.

“No, thank you,” Kyriel dismissed the old man.

He backed out of the room and pulled the doors closed, leaving the two of them alone.

“I wouldn’t imagine someone like you to have a butler,” she said.

“What would you imagine?” he wondered, curious to see what she thought.

“You seem like more of a loner.” She grasped her hands behind her back and fidgeted nervously. “Not someone who leaves the management of life’s details to another.”

She was right, but what she didn’t know was that Kyriel lived two lives. Being a fallen angel was his secret, but he found managing the everyday aspects of his human identity tedious, and that’s why he employed James.

“An estate of this size requires a lot of work,” he said. “And I need someone to take care of things when I’m traveling.”

“You must have been around the world at least a hundred times to have put together such a vast collection.”

He admired the mild irony behind her observations. She would never guess how close she was to the truth.

“I’ve been a few places,” he remarked, seeing his travels reflected in the pieces of his collection. “Home is where I’m most comfortable.”

“I can see why.” Her roaming gaze finally landed on something of interest. “Is this Michelangelo’s work?”

She rushed over to one of the bookshelves, to the red chalk sketches done by none other than Michelangelo. Kyriel watched her as she inspected the drawings, his gaze roaming over her round backside and down the length of her smooth, shapely legs. He remembered their kiss. The way she’d parted her lips, letting him taste the sweetness of her mouth. To see her eyes light up with interest over his collection excited him, and he wanted to do more than kiss her today.

“Those were done during Michelangelo’s planning phase for the Sistine Chapel,” he provided some of the background.

“These drawings are extremely rare. They’re signed,” she noticed. “Did you get them at an auction?”

“No, they were a gift.”

“They were passed down to you?”

“You could say that.”

She wouldn’t believe Michelangelo had signed the sketches and given them to him more than four centuries ago.

Something to remember me by, Amico, and should I become a famous artist, perhaps you could even sell them for a flask of wine and drink to my name.

Kyriel wouldn’t dream of selling them.

“These are amazing.” She peered at the drawings through her glasses, and her hands hovered inches from touching the parchment. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

Kyriel had an entire house filled with things she had never seen. He could spend days showing her his treasures. A sudden image of the two of them sprawled out naked on top of his desk leapt into his mind, exciting him even more, and he had to struggle to get control of his lusty thoughts. This was meant to be a strictly professional visit. He’d brought her here because she had something he wanted.

“How about a trade, Ms. Whitmore?”