Читать книгу Kiss Me Forever - Rosemary Laurey - Страница 10

“I don’t think Miss LePage will fall for your conjuring tricks.” Sebastian sneered nastily enough for a melodrama villain.

Christopher leaned a cashmere-covered elbow on the chimney, just missing the heap of broken glass, straightened his neck, relaxed his shoulders—and smiled. “Come now, Caughleigh. What makes you so sure you know what Dixie falls for?”

“I’m not falling for this, that’s certain,” Dixie muttered. At least, she’d meant it to be a mutter. They both seemed to hear. Christopher positively grinned. Sebastian clenched his fists. He was as unamused as Queen Victoria.

He tapped her arm. “Maybe we should be going. The reservation’s at eight.”

What reservation?

“Tomorrow, then?” Christopher said. “Take care of her, Caughleigh. Or I’ll have your blood!”

Somehow, she didn’t think he was joking. This was positively Neanderthal. Better get out of here before the pair of them came to blows. “Tomorrow. But not too early.”

“Perhaps afternoon? I’d call first if I could.”

“I’ll be there all day.”

Sebastian had chosen an elegant country restaurant with oak paneling, pitched ceilings and mullioned windows. Another time, and in different company, the atmosphere, the starched linen on the tables and beeswax candles in the silver candlesticks might have charmed, instead Dixie felt shanghaied.

“Do you bring all your clients here?” The devil made her ask that.

He looked up from his sweetbreads in sherry. “No.” In the silence that followed, his fork scraped his plate three times.

Two waiters appeared with their main courses. Dixie tried to concentrate on the chartreuse of vegetables in front of her and ignore the steak Diane sizzling inches from her elbow. She should be gracious and enjoy the meal but couldn’t squelch the suspicion that she was paying even though Sebastian might sign the check.

Their knees banged again, just as the waiter slid the steaming meat onto a warmed plate. “Aren’t you concerned about Mad Cow disease?” she asked.

Sebastian’s hand froze, poised over his knife. “They only use Charolais beef, imported from France.” Yes, she was paying for it. “More champagne?”

At his signal, a waiter refilled her glass before she could refuse. “You’re not having any?” Sebastian had covered his glass.

“I’m driving.” He expected her to finish the bottle? Gran warned her about men like him. She refused his suggestion of dessert wine with her flan and liqueur with her coffee.

As they crossed the parking lot, his palm warmed the small of her back. His fingers slid over the silk and up to her neck. She’d had enough. More than enough. “Thanks for dinner and the evening out. I did enjoy meeting so many new people.”

“The evening isn’t over. How about coming back for coffee?”

Coffee? “No, thanks. It’s late. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

He had one last try as they pulled up at Emily’s gate. “I can’t change your mind?” His sweaty hand cupped her knee.

She opened the door and got out. Fast. And spoke from the safety of the sidewalk. “Sebastian, I need a good lawyer more than I need a romance.” He finally got the message. After she practically hit him over the head with it.

Upstairs, she kicked off her shoes and took out her earrings. The phone rang, echoing in the silent house. After a few minutes, Emily ran downstairs. The front door opened. Dixie couldn’t help herself; she peered from behind the curtain, just in time to see Emily get in the car before Sebastian drove away. What next!

The night quiet settled on the house. Dixie felt tempted to wait up and ask Emily if she’d enjoyed her “coffee.” This village was better than a soap opera. She would stay her month and then return to the normalcy of the good old U. S. of A.

Dixie opened the window and leaned out sideways, recognizing the dark outline of her house across the Green. That light again! Someone was in her house!

It took just minutes to pull on tennis shoes and a sweatshirt. She took the Metro. Ten minutes’ walk took three by car. She turned off her lights and crept the last thirty yards in low gear. Stopping in the narrow lane beside the house, she grabbed the black flashlight. She’d use it against whoever had dropped it.

The house was dark now. Had she been a fool to come? A call to Sergeant Grace would have made better sense. Her hand tightened over the flashlight. Two steps inside the gate she saw a dark silhouette ahead of her. “Got you, buster!” Dixie shouted and shone her flashlight full beam ahead. The beam lit up a pale face and a dark leather eye patch. Christopher! So all that talk about wanting to buy books was a front.

“Dixie, turn out the damn light!” He sounded more irritated than guilty. The nerve of the man!

“No way. Get off my land and don’t ever come back,” she yelled, feeling like a heroine in a Western romance, waving a flashlight instead of a six-shooter.

He stared straight at her, unblinded by the light. “Hush, Dixie,” he said and took a step forward.

“No way. Go now, or I’ll scream.”

“And alert whomever’s in your house?”

He’d whispered but she heard him as clearly as the night. One glance confirmed the light still moved upstairs. As she watched, confused, his hand closed over hers and switched off her flashlight as he pulled her between two scratchy shrubs. She tried the evasion techniques she’d learned in self-defense. They didn’t work. Something scraped her ankle and a twig grazed her cheek. His arm closed round her shoulders and held her tight against his hard chest. She flattened her hand and tried to push away. His chest felt like steel and his arm tightened like a vice. “Let me go.”

“I will.”

Not a muscle moved.

“When? Next week? Someone’s in my house and I’m finding out who.”

“This Englishman’s-home-is-his-castle act is impressive, but foolish.”

That did it. “I’m female and American. If you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” She didn’t doubt it. Her breasts were half-flattened against his chest.

“You’ll let me go this week or next?”

“Now, if you promise not to go rushing out to protect your property.”

“That’s my house getting broken into.”

“Yes, and burglars today carry guns, knives, tear gas and bicycle chains. Stay here,” he whispered, “trust me.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“I’m not the one thieving your great-grandfather’s first editions.” He had a point. The light moved again, disappeared, then appeared lower.

“He’s having a good look,” Christopher whispered in her ear and pulled her beside him against the wall, his arms loosely circling her shoulders.

“Who?”

“You know it’s not me. Who else could get in?”

“Sebastian, but he’s giving Emily a cup of coffee.”

She heard his chuckle but his chest never moved. “You resisted his blandishments then?”

“It wasn’t hard.” Even laughter didn’t ripple a muscle in his chest. Where did he work out? “Enough of that.” She’d come to waylay an intruder not discuss Sebastian’s advances.

“Whoever it is, they’re not afraid of being in a haunted house at night.”

“Oh, please!”

“The villagers believe your aunts haunt the house.”

“Well, I don’t. I don’t believe in ghosts. Especially ones that carry flashlights.”

“They also believed they were witches.”

“I don’t believe in witches either.”

“What a woman. You scoff at witches and ghosts. What about fairies, pixies and elves?”

“Not hobbits, either.”

“What about…” He hesitated, then whispered, “Vampires?” As he spoke, his fingers trailed cool down the side of her neck.

At that, her foot slammed down on his instep. He didn’t flinch or move away, just looked into her face.

“Only in Anne Rice. Quit fooling! I’m not here to play games. Anyway, what are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you. I was walking along the lane and saw a light.” He almost hissed the words as he pushed her away. The night chill settled on her shoulders. He watched the window a minute. “I’ll take care of this. Go back to your car and lock the doors. Better still, drive away.”

“I’m not leaving as long as that intruder’s there!”

He paused as if to take a breath, but Dixie never heard him inhale. “We could try scaring him out. Get rid of him before he nicks something. Are you game?”

Why not? It was her property at stake. “What shall I do?”

“Slip back out the gate, get in your car and lock the door.” He spoke lightly but stared at her with an intensity that made her shiver. This close, his one eye seemed to warm as it met hers. For a minute she felt weak, giddy. Then she shook herself out of it. The tension was getting to her.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Sit in the car while he confronted a possibly armed intruder?

He frowned. “Don’t get so riled up. I want you ready for a quick getaway if things get nasty.”

It sounded more like antiquated notions of chivalry. “Why lock it then?”

He pulled her closer and whispered, “Are you trying to be difficult?”

Again the giddiness, the feeling of warmth, of weakness. She had drunk too much this evening. “No. Sensible. You mentioned weapons. Why are you barging in unarmed?”

He chuckled. “I’m Superman, remember?” He took her hesitation as consent. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing. Wait in the car. I may need your help later.”

Grudgingly, Dixie agreed and went out the side gate but didn’t go straight to her car. A car parked up the side lane caught her attention. Christopher’s? She imagined him driving something more stylish than a battered compact. Bennie the Burglar’s? Why not? With the help of her flashlight, she memorized the number.

So much for country quiet. Rustles, creaks and whines filled the night. Talk about spooky! She decided to ignore them and her body’s reaction to being held close by Christopher. Impatience tugged at Dixie. This was crazy. She was going back.

A shriek cut through the night quiet. A door slammed and Dixie ran round the corner just in time to see a dark figure running for the parked car. The engine started, but as the car pulled away down the road, a second figure ran after it. Christopher? The car swerved just as he came alongside. Dixie’s heart stilled as Christopher’s body arched through the air, frozen in the headlights. She raced up the lane as he staggered out of the ditch.

“You were supposed to be in your car.”

“You’re hurt?” He had to be.

“Just shaken.”

Shaken? He had to be injured after that fall. She imagined broken bones, internal injuries—but he was standing. “I’ll get the car. You need a doctor.” Without waiting for a reply, she tore down the lane. When she got back, he was leaning against a tree. As she stopped, he opened the passenger door.

“May I get in?”

He stood there, holding on to the door. Was this British or something? “Of course! Get in!” He got in, his legs a little too long for a compact car. Dixie flicked on the interior light. “That was a homicidal maniac, not a burglar.”

“I’m okay. I just wish you’d seen the car number.”

That did it. “Let’s have a reality check here. You’re half dead and you’re worrying about a registration number. Anyway, I have it.” She recited the memorized numbers, amazed that she remembered them after all this panic. “Now, let me look at you.”

He didn’t appear to be bleeding, but he had mud on his face and clothes, grass in his hair and his cashmere sweater wouldn’t see any more cocktail parties. One shoulder showed white where his shirt and sweater were both ripped open. She reached out to touch him. He had to be bleeding from a gash like that.

His hand closed on her wrist. “Go easy, my dear.”

“You might be bleeding.” He had some grip for a man who’d barely escaped death.

“I’m not.”

“Let me check.”

He put her hand on the steering wheel. “If you fancy tearing the clothes off a man, you had your chance with Caughleigh. Spare me. Your house is safe for the night.”

“Forget the house! What about you? You’re seeing a doctor.”

His fingers closed over her hand as she clutched the gear stick. “Get this straight. I am not seeing a doctor and you are going home. I am not hurt.”

“You have to be. I saw you tossed through the air.”

“Ever heard of Jujitsu, Dixie? I know how to fall.”

He couldn’t sit that straight, grip like a maniac and argue if he were hurting, and his chest would heave if he’d had some injury.

“You are Superman, aren’t you?”

“You believe in him, do you?”

She gave up—almost. She insisted on driving him home. He acquiesced, but refused to let her even come up his path. “I’ve a reputation to consider even if you haven’t,” he said. “Imagine the talk—you refuse Sebastian and then hotfoot it over to my house. We’d have to fight a duel for certain.”

“I thought they became illegal in the last century.”

“I’m a man with roots in the past.” He squeezed her hand, as if in farewell. Dixie wasn’t ready to have him go. She touched his shoulder and reached to kiss him good-bye. It wasn’t much for a man who’d risked his life to protect her property.

She aimed for his cheek. He turned and her mouth met his lips, cool as the marble on her pantry shelf. But as her lips caressed his, she knew only warmth and softness. He tasted of night and spice and excitement. Her mouth opened as his pressed on hers, but slowly, like a plant unfolding in spring warmth. Almost reluctantly, his hand smoothed up her neck and through her hair. She sighed and her tongue reached for his.

The heat of summer burst through her. She gasped, but not for breath; for more. And he gave it. Sweetness flooded her soul and need surged like a current through her brain. It was a mating of mouths, a coupling of spirits. Time stopped. Dixie knew nothing but spiraling warmth and an aching need for more.

“Christopher,” she murmured as he pulled away.

“Remember my reputation,” he teased. She leaned into his strong shoulder. His fingers smoothed her neck from her ear to her throat. His touch promised heaven. She prayed he’d never stop. That he’d ask her to stay. Anything to feel this way forever. Her hand reached for his chest, searching for shirt buttons, questing warm, male flesh.

His hand closed over hers. “Dixie, we have to stop. I need time to rest.” She sat up. How thoughtless of her! He was injured, bruised at the very least and here she was, jumping his bones. “Go back to Emily’s and stay there. Don’t try any heroics over the house. It’s safe for tonight. Promise?”

She agreed but waited until the door closed behind him. She would have stopped by her house but she’d given her word. She couldn’t break a promise made after a kiss like that.

Undressing in the room under the eaves, Dixie glanced at her watch. The whole incident with Christopher, her house and the maniac intruder had lasted less than a half-hour. She stifled a shiver. It was over. She didn’t need to worry. She was too worn to worry. Repulsing amorous swains, chasing robbers and aiding the wounded had worn her out. She tossed her clothes on the chair and fell into bed without even brushing her teeth. Emily’s linen sheets felt like cool, soothing balm to her worn body but nothing eased the turmoil in her brain. What had she done? Acted like a crazy wanton. Thrown herself on a man, an injured man at that, just because her hormones went into overdrive through a bit of stress. She still tasted his lips on hers, felt his tongue in her mouth and what the rest of her body was doing didn’t bear examining. Tomorrow he was coming to go through her books. What had she started?

Sebastian ignored six rings, shrill above Emily’s sighs. He slipped his hand over her breast as the answering machine clicked on. “Uncle, you have to be there. Talk to me!”

Sebastian wanted to spit. Couldn’t James manage anything? He’d had all evening with that troublesome woman out of the way. He’d better be calling to announce success. Sebastian leaned over Emily and picked up the phone. “You found everything, I hope.”

“No way. This makes three times I’ve scoured that room. Nothing’s there.”

“You’ll find it on the fourth. Go back and don’t come home without it.”

“Not on your Nellie! You can’t make me go back. That place is haunted. Not just noises. Tonight I saw a white face at the window. You’re not telling me that was a local yokel.”

“Get back there!”

“Never!”

Sebastian cussed as James hung up. He turned back to Emily.

She sat up on the desk, slowly pulled her skirts down and tucked in her blouse. “If he didn’t find their records, we’re in trouble.”

“Not yet. We’ll find them. If they’re that well hidden, Miss LePage isn’t likely to stumble across them. They have to be in that book room. I’ve gone through every other paper with a fine-tooth comb. Nothing’s in the bank. I checked. Being executor has its advantages.” He tucked in his shirt and zipped his pants.

Emily stood up. “What do we do if we can’t find them?”

“Win time. Delay things. Inconvenience our Miss LePage. Maybe James needs a helper.”

“Who?” Emily stopped. Her eyes widened as they met his. She shook her head. “Not me. Not in a million years.”

“You have a lot to lose if the truth comes out. The bank wouldn’t be too happy at the idea of a witch among their staff. Rather spoils the image.”

“It’s not illegal anymore. I don’t have to worry.”

“No?” One hand grasped her neck as the other stroked her chin. He kissed her, pressing his mouth down to part her lips. He kissed her long enough to release a sigh then drew back, his hand still firm on her neck. “You’ll do what I ask, Emily. Because I want it.”

“What shall I do?” What a mess she looked with her rumpled hair, smudged lipstick and creased skirt.

“Give me two days. Fix a nice Sunday breakfast for our Dixie and make sure it keeps her in bed for a couple of days.”

Her eyes widened as his meaning dawned. “I can’t do that!”

His hand trailed around her neck to her breast. “You will. Why be a skilled herbalist if you deny your skills to the coven?”

“This isn’t for the coven. It’s for you.”

“It’s the same thing. The old women are gone. I’m not letting an inconvenient American ruin everything. All you have to do is give her the collywobbles for a couple of days. She’s a healthy young woman. Nothing can go wrong. Marlowe is poking into things. We’re all set to take care of him. You get our Dixie out of action.”

Color drained from her face. “Sebby, that’s going too far.”

Sebastian turned her face up to his again. “I’m counting on you, Emily.” She nodded and he let her kiss him again. He watched her find her shoes, gather up her handbag and let herself out.

He needed her to come through.

He wondered what she’d use. Bryony root? Rhubarb leaf? He didn’t want to know. If it went wrong, he preferred ignorance. He hoped it wouldn’t. He still fancied a go at Dixie.

Dixie looked up at the uneven ceiling beams over her bed. It took a couple of sleep-muddled minutes to place the sound—rain drumming on the pitched roof. Pulling herself from under the duvet, she padded over to open the chintz curtains. Rain wasn’t the word. A steady downpour beat a tattoo on the roof, gutters and street. Orchard House was half-obscured and a lone car drove down the lane, spraying water from every puddle. She’d heard about English rain and this was it. So much for a nice stroll up to church and a morning reading the paper on the Green.

Change in weather, change in plans. She’d spend the day going through her book room. She had all the time in the world. She only hoped that Aga-thing hadn’t burned the house down.

Coming out of the shower, she smelled cooking.

“Good morning.” Emily’s round cheeks spread in a wide smile. “I thought I heard you up. I thought we could have a nice chat over breakfast. Sunday is such a nice, leisurely day, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps a cup of coffee…” Dixie began. She tried to place the smell. It wasn’t sausage or bacon.

Emily pressed down the toaster, turning on another smile for Dixie. “No, I insist you must have something to eat. I fixed something special: veal kidneys.”

Kidneys! Dixie felt the bile rise from the lowest point in her innards. She could drink coffee while the woman munched on bacon but watch while she chewed kidneys? Never!

“Thanks, but I’ve got to go out early.” She squelched her guilt at Emily’s disappointment. She didn’t stay for toast or cereal either. She had instant coffee in her kitchen and a packet of cookies. She’d make do with that.

The Aga hadn’t gone out. In fact, the kitchen offered a warm welcome after the damp outside. Nothing like breakfast in her own house—but the milk had gone sour in the pantry. Mug of black coffee in hand, Dixie added “refrigerator” to her shopping list. Her handwriting jumped back at her. She was crazy. A refrigerator wasn’t a purchase for a month’s stay. How about staying longer? No way. Not with traffic on the wrong side of the road, unfamiliar currency, and no telephone.

She made another cup of coffee and carried it upstairs.

The repeated ringing of the doorbell broke Dixie’s concentration. For over three hours, she’d lost herself among the books. Resisting the temptation to ignore the bell, she pushed the dusty volumes aside. Halfway downstairs, she paused. Who was it? Christopher? Comments about vandals and teenage intruders flashed through her mind.

The mahogany mirror in the hall showed the angle of the front door. Dixie paused to glimpse the reflection—nothing but steady rain. Pranksters ringing and running away? Yobs, as Emma called them. Dixie was ready. She’d dealt with teenagers for a living.

Hand on the brass knob, Dixie waited for another ring and peered through the window beside the door. Christopher! “Come on in, you’re getting soaked!” She flung the door open.

Better than he’d ever imagined, she didn’t just invite him in, she grasped his hand and pulled him over the threshold. After all these months, he was inside the house. Now he could come and go as he pleased, but Dixie’s welcome triggered misgivings in the heart he didn’t possess. “I got Alf to pack us lunch. A fair exchange for a look at your library.”

Her warm hand brushed his as she took the basket. “For lunch you can have more than a look. All I have in the house is a pack of cookies…. Sorry, biscuits. I’m famished for something more.”

So was he. A smile as warm as her skin could lead them both to disaster.

Dixie unpacked asparagus quiche, a Greek salad with olives and Feta cheese, something that looked like meatballs but Alf had promised wasn’t, and a tub of fresh fruit.

“This is enough to feed a family,” Dixie said, taking plates and knives from the oak dresser.

“You eat, I’ll skip. I have severe food allergies and have to be careful what I eat.” The practiced lie slid out. For the first time in his long life, it stung.

“I feel guilty pigging out while you watch. Could I at least make you coffee?”

She felt guilty? What was he supposed to feel after she’d rushed to his rescue last night? He’d better stop feeling at all if this was going to work. “Coffee would be great.” His metabolism could handle liquids. “Sit down and eat.” The sooner she ate, the sooner he could go through that room.

She insisted on making his coffee first. “Sure I can’t tempt you?” she asked, looking at the food on the table.

Temptation? Sweet Abel! For over three years, he’d had no desire to feed from humans. Now it came in great smashing waves and he had a whole afternoon to survive.

“Wonderful.” She closed her eyes as she bit into a “meatball.” “These are fantastic, I’m sorry I can’t share with you.”

“What are they?”

“Falafel—chick pea flour, garlic, herbs and something extra I can’t place.” She smiled up at him. “I can see vegetarianism isn’t your choice.”

No. He fed on smooth flesh and warm pulsing blood. He wanted hers and he’d never take it. Need like this made him vulnerable and he couldn’t afford any risks. Not here. Not now. Not after her embrace last night. To business. “Let’s take the coffee upstairs.”

“You want to see the books? Fair enough.”

She packed the leftover food into the walk-in pantry. “Hope it keeps. I was thinking about buying a fridge, but wonder whether it’s worth it. I won’t be here more than a month.”

A month! Could he really be that lucky? “Didn’t realize you were staying that long. Caughleigh said something about your leaving next week.”

“Sebastian doesn’t make my decisions for me. I need a holiday and this is as good a place as any—and rent free.”

“I’m very glad you’re staying.”

The blood rose up her neck. Her eyes flickered and looked away. “Upstairs,” she said, “I’ve something to show you.”

She’d pulled back the shutters and turned on the lights. It did little for the decor. Ninety years’ accumulation of books was stacked on shelves, heaped in corners and piled on the tables and chairs. “Someone went through everything,” she said through a clenched jaw. “There’s dust all over the floor and shelves but the books have been moved.”

“You knew that already.” Had she forgotten last night?

“Yes.” Her dark eyebrows curled together. “I was pretty sure that first night and certain yesterday, but I’d only glanced in here before this morning. I thought they might have been going through the whole house.”

“They haven’t?”

“The other upstairs rooms haven’t been touched since Sebastian closed the house. This one had footsteps in the dust and the books had been moved. Why?”

He let the question stay rhetorical. Answering it would trigger a dozen more. The less she knew, the safer.

“Anything missing?”

She chuckled, a warm sound from deep in her belly. “How would I know? It’ll take me ages to check and then I’ll never be sure if it wasn’t gone before. I’ll just make sure our visitor never gets in again. Tonight I’ll leave the blinds and drapes open and every light on. Tomorrow I’m putting on dead-bolt locks, and a security system and after then, I’ll be here.”

“You’re moving in?” This was wonderful, or terrible. She’d be closer but in danger. Why did he care? All he wanted was a few books. Mortals didn’t concern him unless they got in his way.

“Don’t look so shocked. It is my house after all. I’d rather be here than in Emily Reade’s spare room.”

“You’re not worried about being here alone?”

“I’ve gotten used to being alone.”

The words cut deep where he never felt. How could she be so beautiful and alive and alone? “Should you be here alone?”

She ran her hand over her forehead and through her auburn hair as if brushing away a hard memory or an old hurt. “I can look after myself. There’s Emma just a few yards away, and I’ll have good locks to keep intruders out.”

They wouldn’t keep him out. Not now she’d invited him in. What about the others?

“Look what I found this morning.” She crossed to the shelves and reached for a book. When she turned back to him, her eyes glowed with excitement. “I’m sure you get cracks about this all the time but I can’t help that.” She pressed the book against her chest, holding it close. “You must see this.” She held out the worn calfskin bound volume.

He took it with both hands, his thumb feeling the warmth where her breasts had pressed against the leather. He opened the book with care—rough handling could split the old binding apart—and stared at the title page. Had she guessed? How?

“The Jew of Malta. I found it an hour or so ago.” He nodded, his cool fingertips smoothing the musty pages. Then he read the date, but he hadn’t the heart to tell her. He looked up from the worn pages to her bright eyes. “It’s old,” she went on. “Probably a nineteenth-century forgery and worth something because of that, but the date says 1587 and I think that’s wrong.”

“It is. It came out in 1589.” He should have bitten off his own tongue.

Her eyes widened. “You have studied him then?”

“My namesake? Why not? Yes, I know all about Kit Marlowe.” He sighed. The past hovered like a crouching animal. He knew everything.

She perched on the edge of the oak table, watching him. “I read him some in college. I majored in English before I went on to train as a librarian. Marlowe fascinated me. So talented and mysterious. Who was he? Did he write Shakespeare? What really happened in the tavern at Deptford? It’s as good as a soap opera.”

“Will Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare. Kit Marlowe wrote Marlowe. And there’s nothing fine about betrayal and treachery.”

She started at his sharp words. “You have studied him then.”

He forced his shoulders into a shrug. “You could say so.”

She wasn’t finished. “It just seems like a mystery novel. So young and talented and dying in a brawl and such an odd injury….” She chopped her sentence off and bit her lip, looking at his face, then turning scarlet. “I’m sorry that was tactless.”

He laid the book on the dusty tabletop and took her shoulders in his hands. “Dixie,” he whispered, “it doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

Her teeth worried her lower lip. “I didn’t think. I was just running on. It’s such a coincidence.” She paused, her face tight with remorse. “I’m so tactless. I just…”

“Forget it. People have called me a lot worse. The kids in the village call me ‘Pirate’ behind my back. It doesn’t matter.”

“What happened?”

She wasn’t asking about the inn at Deptford. But she was. And she’d never believe the truth. “It happened a long time ago—when I was young and playing dangerously. With one good eye, I have eighty percent of my vision. It’s little more than an inconvenience.”

Her white teeth still pulled at her soft lip. In a minute she’d draw blood. He couldn’t let her. The scent of her blood would drive him crazy. He traced a finger over each curved eyebrow, smoothed her cheeks, tilted her chin, bent his mouth to hers and eased her lips away from her teeth.

Warmth and sweetness. She tasted like honeysuckle nectar on a June night. She curved warm into him like sunshine on marble. Her tongue met his and she moaned like aspen trees sighing in an afternoon breeze. She was everything that life had to offer and he was four hundred years dead. He pulled away gently, brushing his lips on her heated forehead. With her, he almost felt like a man again, and that would be dangerous for both of them.

“If we’re not careful, we’ll forget why we’re here,” he said, stepping back, just a half step.

“Why are we here?” she asked, her eyes glinting as her mouth twitched, her lips still swollen from his kisses.

“Flirt!” he said, still holding one hand but stepping back to arms’ length. “The men in America must be desolate without you.”

She laughed without a trace of amusement. “It wasn’t quite like that.” She pulled back her hand, as if a memory hurt. “Now, what did you want to look for?”

She was right. Keep it casual. He only hoped he could.

“I’m interested in paranormal and magic.” He ignored her rising eyebrows, although his thumbs itched to smooth them. “Anything on witchcraft, magic, sightings, vampires.” He tucked the last in as an afterthought.

“You believe in all that stuff? I thought you were kidding last night.”

“I’m prepared to believe anything I haven’t disproved.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll look. If you really want me to.” She made no attempt to hide her surprise. But then she never seemed to hide anything. She was open as a rose in summer and just as fragile.

Together they searched the stacks and assembled a small mountain of books on the wide library table. “Quite a collection,” Dixie said, giving the heap an uncertain eye. “You won’t get through it all today.”

“May I presume on your hospitality some other day?”

She shrugged. “Whenever. I’ll be here, or at least in and out. You can’t phone I’m afraid, but the books are yours if you want them. I’m not into that stuff. I’ll get them valued.”

He held out his hand. “Agreed.”

“Shall we settle the deal with a cup of tea?”

He shook his head. He’d only just absorbed the coffee. His body couldn’t handle any more. Not in daylight. “I’ll skip it.”

She left to fix tea, and he found a corner away from the last afternoon sun. In a couple of hours it would be dusk.

“See you tomorrow,” he said as he waved good-bye, a tall lean silhouette in the dusk. Dixie left shortly afterwards, leaving all the lights on and the shutters open. The house shone like a beacon across the village green, but it should keep unwanted visitors away. She planned a long shower to clear the grime and dust away, and then a nice quiet supper at the Barley Mow. And she’d make a point of not thinking about how Christopher kissed.