Kiss Me Forever. Rosemary Laurey

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ