Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever. Rosemary Laurey

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.”

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