Xavier's Desire

by Meg Ripley

  “I’ll be going now,” she said abruptly, not relishing the idea of staying there with him a moment longer. “I’m sorry again for the trouble.” She left without a backward glance, hurrying through the suite and to the elevator in hopes of avoiding an uncomfortable ride down with the security guard.

  Once she’d made it out of the hotel, she paused, looking far up at the balcony to the penthouse suite. Did I really just imagine that? she wondered, worried she perhaps hadn’t only lost her memory, but her grip on reality as well. As she clenched her fists against the rising wave of emotion, the rough edges of the medallion dug into the flesh of her palm.

  A priceless artifact lying on the floor in an empty hotel suite? It was so improbable, in fact, that it suddenly seemed far more likely that someone had returned to the room in the brief time she’d been gone and covered up all evidence of the crime.

  A chill ran down her spine as she remembered the mafia movie she’d watched a few weeks ago. Had she just waltzed right into the middle of an organized crime hit? She’d laugh at the ridiculousness of the thought, but it didn’t seem terribly funny at the moment. And glancing down at the medallion in her hand, it unfortunately wouldn’t surprise her in the slightest if there were a whole lot of wealthy people searching for this near-priceless item.

  As she returned to the museum empty-handed—at least without the Roman cinerary urn she’d been sent to retrieve—she tried to figure out what she was going to tell Anita. Mentioning their kind benefactor had been slain but had then vanished into thin air wouldn’t go over very well, so she went with the least convoluted answer she could think of: Mrs. Johansen hadn’t been there when she arrived at the hotel. She wouldn’t bother telling Anita that she didn’t think Sonya Johansen would be making an appearance anytime soon.

  “I suppose this is what happens when I’m foolish enough to entrust such an important task to an assistant curator,” was the only comment Anita made once Freya had conveyed her story.

  Aside from a few uncomfortable moments with Anita, the rest of the day continued on without a hitch. She remembered the woman often, but the emotion she’d expected to accompany the memory never came. Why wasn’t she more distraught? It was almost as if she was well-acquainted with death, so much that the image of a woman lying bloody and lifeless didn’t faze her. But maybe she was still in shock, her mind still uncertain what emotion to feel in response to something so terrible.

  After giving a tour of the museum to two summer youth groups—no doubt a punishment for her failure to retrieve the cinerary urn—she buried herself in mundane chores, tidying an upcoming exhibit, packing away the remnants of another, and sifting through a mountain of paperwork on all the items they’d received in the past month.

  By the time she looked up from her work, the museum had closed for the day—not that it was an unusual occurrence. Most nights, she found herself staying late, keeping her mind busily engaged in work. It beat going home to an empty apartment—aside from her Himalayan cat—to drive herself crazy trying to string together pieces of her missing past. She was no closer to an answer now than she had been the morning she’d woken up devoid of her memory, but every minute she wasn’t busily engaged elsewhere, her mind returned to the same burning question.

  What happened?

  No bumps or bruises—no injuries at all—and yet something must have happened to have taken away her life. She knew it was all still there, buried somewhere deep and hidden beneath some sort of dark shroud. She could walk by an exhibit in the museum and know the name of every item there, but she couldn’t remember when she’d learned about any one of them. She could cook elaborate meals, and she could move through the steps of a dozen different dances without making a single mistake. And her feet seemed to know the way to the grocery store, the pharmacy and even The Smith Center, but she couldn’t give directions if her life depended on it.

  Eventually, though, there was no more work to be done, and even if there was, she wasn’t certain she could see straight in order to do it. So, she left the building through the rear entrance and hustled down the four blocks to her apartment. It was hot, and her skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat by the time she opened her front door.

  “Hello, Cat,” she greeted the Himalayan who rushed to the door and rubbed herself back and forth across her calf. Of course, the cat had a name, but since she couldn’t remember it, she’d taken to calling her “cat” for the time-being—at least until she could give her back her the name that belonged to her.

  She glanced around the apartment as she crossed the small foyer to the kitchen-dining room combo. She’d wondered more times than she could count about the empty picture frames that hung on the foyer wall and sat on her bedside table, but like everything else, the answer was locked away.

  Dismissing the umpteenth unanswered question, she dropped her purse on the counter and reached for last night’s leftover takeout from the fridge. Returning to the counter, she remembered the medallion that she’d slipped into her purse on the way out of the museum. She had absolutely no intention of keeping it—it wasn’t hers, after all—but what should she do with it?

  Did it belong to the woman who had been murdered? Or had the woman ripped it from her assailant’s neck? Either was possible since it didn’t look particularly feminine or masculine. She pulled it out of her purse and laid it on the counter. Cat jumped up then and went right to it, sniffing it profusely, as if it were made of catnip.

  “Well, I suppose you know a priceless artifact when you see one too, huh?” she said, stroking Cat’s fluffy head.

  She was going to have to decide quickly what to do with the medallion; she didn’t want the mafia, the mob or any other criminal organization showing up at her door in search of it. At the same time, though, she worried what the museum would think if she presented it to them out of the blue, and since this type of artifact wasn’t really the museum’s strongpoint, they’d be stuck trying to find a buyer for it. And she had no control over who the buyer would be, which made her nervous about handing it over to a random stranger.

  She looked at the medallion, its sparkling center and the intricately adorned gold setting that held it. She didn’t know why its home was so important, but inexplicably she knew that it was. She knew it could be devastating if she gave it away carelessly, and knowing that, she wished she could find the right person to entrust with its care.

  With the takeout carton then empty—aside from a few choice pieces of chicken for Cat—she slid the meat into his bowl. Glancing around once more at the still-unfamiliar surroundings, she flicked off the kitchen light and crossed the living room to her bedroom on the other side.

  It had been a long day, and she hoped desperately that her tense hours at work would let her slip soundlessly into sleep, but the moment her head hit the pillow, a question that had crossed her mind earlier struck her again and chased away any hope she’d had for a good night’s rest.

  Why wasn’t I more distraught?

  It was a disturbing inquiry, one that made her question what type of person she’d been. The woman lying covered in blood on the bed…the assailant fleeing out the window…she’d felt little more than surprise over what she’d stumbled upon.

  What kind of life had she lived where the taking of a life did so little to stir her emotions?

  Chapter 2

  Grant Xavier stood alone amid the rocks and sand a half mile from his house. He stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back, while the flames of the funeral pyre blazed brightly before him. He watched her shrouded body burn, returning her to the dust from which she had come. It was what she would have wanted, but still, anger and grief pulsed through his veins.

  He’d warned her to stay away; that it wasn’t safe. But she’d been foolish.

  Sonya had only just begun her third century, and her life had been snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

  He didn’t know why they’d been bearing down on the city, closing in more and more each day, but th
e number of hunters in the area had grown in the past few months, and Sonya had been caught up in the feud.

  By sheer coincidence, he’d heard her scream, recognizing her voice instantly, but it was too late when he’d gotten to her. She’d already slipped away, and those who killed her had fled—and that meant they hadn’t been human. No human could have escaped so quickly.

  Not so long ago, they’d only had humans to worry about, but they were not the only creatures that posed a threat anymore. Feuds and fear—it ate away at all of them.

  He’d brought Sonya’s lifeless body back to his home and prepared her, washing her wounds and dressing her in a shroud of her family’s colors, then gathered the grave goods he would send with her. It had taken him the rest of the day to decide, thinking of what she would have wanted to take with her. Sonya had been a warrior, but at her core, she’d never wanted to be; he would bury her with the dagger that had been her constant companion for the past two hundred years and her emerald necklace. It had belonged to her mother, a creature who abhorred the fighting, the hunting so much that she’d died refusing to take part in it—even to save her own life.

  The medallion that had been entrusted to her was missing from her person, but he couldn't have buried her with it anyway; it would be his responsibility to protect it until a new keeper could be found.

  But first, he would have to find it, and finding the woman who’d been in the hotel suite would be the first place to start.

  He’d only seen her for the briefest of moments, but before that, when she’d exited the elevator and started down the hall toward the suite, he’d breathed in her scent and it had made him pause. It was something intoxicating; a scent he’d never experienced before. Then she’d called out, and her voice had grazed over his body like a caress. And when he’d caught a brief glimpse of her, he knew he would never forget her. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  But was it also possible she was a murderer? A huntress? She’d taken Sonya’s medallion; he’d seen it in her hand. But what did she intend to do with it?

  The fire in front of him began to wane, and he set aside the questions for just a moment. He bowed his head and bid his final farewell to young Sonya, wishing her well in whatever realm she now inhabited.

  “I will avenge your death, Sonya,” Grant whispered aloud. “Be ready; I’ll send them to you soon.”

  And then he called up the heat that was ever-burning at the core of him. It filled his veins and surged through every fiber of his body, then it spread outward, bursting beyond the confines of his human form. In a flash, his flesh gave way to scales like armor, black and covered with a sheen like diamonds. No other dragon resembled him; he was bigger and the diamond-like patina was unique to his heritage.

  He launched straight up into the sky, soaring high up into the shroud of night’s darkness, and then he flew toward the city, knowing she would be there somewhere.

  He would find her. He didn’t need to see her to figure out where she was. One deep breath, and he’d know if she was there; one whiff of that intoxicating scent and he’d be able to locate her from miles away.

  Minutes later, he had reached the city’s core, and he circled the Las Vegas strip’s hotels and casinos from high above, but she wasn’t there. He spread out further, focused on his task, his senses primed and ready, and then her scent reached him. It was like the finest wine; his mouth began to salivate at its earthy undertone and soft finish.

  He followed the heady scent, waiting until the last possible moment to swoop down below the clouds. In a flash, he crossed the distance to the source: the open bedroom window on the fourth floor of an ordinary apartment building. He reined in the fire quickly, touching down on the balcony with human feet, and he peered in the window.

  There she was, fast asleep, her lips slightly parted and her long eyelashes dusting the tops of her cheekbones. Seeing her, her body barely concealed beneath a thin sheet, a different fire surged to life, and he gritted his teeth against the arousal that surged through his veins. He’d seen plenty of attractive women—and had a good number of them, too—but no woman had ever had such a profound effect on him. The mere sight of her threatened to dispel every other thought from his mind.

  Forcing his eyes off her, he crossed the balcony to a window a few yards away—a living room window, it seemed. Opening it quietly, he slipped inside, moving silently throughout the small space. He checked cupboards and drawers, a purse on the dining table, and even the bathroom cabinet. No medallion. There was only one place left to check, but he could still smell her, the heady scent drawing him closer. And he could still see her in his mind, her arms stretched up above her head on the pillow with just the sheet covering her slender frame.

  There was no way in hell he was setting foot inside that room, not with the way he struggled against his body’s sudden need to touch her, to taste her…

  Damn it! he cursed himself.

  Using every bit of the control he’d garnered over the centuries, he forced himself to turn away, back through the small apartment and out the window he’d entered moments before. He stepped over the balcony’s ledge into a freefall, unleashing the fire from his core and shifting a split second later. He soared high and fast, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the sleeping beauty, now far below.

  He flew back the way he’d come, not slowing until he’d reached his home miles away. He circled around several times, trying to make sense of his potent response to the woman. When he could find no answer, though, he pushed the question away, focusing instead on the task he’d charged himself with. He hadn’t retrieved the medallion, nor discovered for certain whether it was in the woman’s possession, but he now knew where she lived. She would have to leave her apartment at some point, and when she did, he’d search that last room and get it back.

  He pulled in the fire and morphed as he touched down next to the funeral pyre that had smoldered to nothing. There was one more task to tend to that day, and the thought of it helped to quell the desire he felt for the strange woman.

  He grabbed the shovel he’d brought with him earlier and started to dig. It would be a temporary grave—of course, her family would want to bring her home—but her law dictated that she be laid to rest quickly, even if that meant moving her to a final resting place later. With the hole then dug, he approached the ashes that were all that was left of his friend, and he gathered them carefully, first filling the urn that he’d locked away for his own burial, and then laying it gently in the ground.

  The sad job done, he returned to his house, bid goodnight to the butler who had been with his family for five-hundred years, and dragged himself to bed. With no task to occupy his mind, he had suddenly grown tired; so much that despite the grief and anger he felt, he drifted off easily into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 3

  It was eight-o-clock in the morning and Freya was waist-deep in the boxes and crates that had arrived that morning. They were expected at the museum two days ago, and now they’d be seriously pressed for time. It would be a miracle if they had the newest exhibit ready on time, but everyone seemed more than willing to do their part. Though working at the museum was a job, she’d learned quickly that the employees there were no ordinary workforce. Each of them was more than willing to go above and beyond, all enthusiastic about what they brought to the world through their small contributions.

  It made sense, though. She’d seen her paycheck. Nobody entered into the field of curating and archaeology for the money, so it was replete with individuals who genuinely enjoyed their work.

  “Freya!” Anita called as she entered the room.

  Of course, there was one exception to the rule. Anita seemed to have gotten into the field for the sheer enjoyment of bossing others around. Certainly, there were other careers that would have paid her a great deal more to act like the queen bee, but she seemed content where she was, and unfortunately, the woman didn’t give the impression she’d be moving on anytime
soon.

  And as the newest member of the team, Freya seemed to bear the brunt of Anita’s lording behavior.

  The woman stood over Freya now, tapping her toe impatiently. “There’s a package I need delivered this morning, and I trust this time you’ll make sure the job is done properly,” she announced dryly, as if she felt the need to remind everyone in the room that Freya was the reason the acquisition yesterday had been fumbled.

  But being the low woman on the totem pole, she could do nothing but bite her lip and nod.

  “Excellent. Grant Xavier is a private collector, and he’ll be expecting you at his estate this morning.”

  “I hadn’t realized the museum was a home delivery service,” Freya mumbled under her breath, but apparently, her comment didn’t go unnoticed.

  Anita stood up straighter and tilted her chin higher. “When the collector pays enough for one item to fund the museum for the entire year, yes, we are most certainly a home delivery service. I suggest you be on your way.”

  “My apologies, Anita. Of course, I’ll deliver the statue to Mr. Xavier,” she replied, wondering for the umpteenth time why her boss seemed to have it in for her. For the past three months, she’d shown up early to her new job, stayed late, and done everything that was asked of her without a single complaint, and still the woman walked around with her nose in the air and had a snide comment for everything. She was beginning to think Anita either really needed to get laid, or she needed to see a doctor about having the stick removed from her ass.

  Regardless of what Anita said, it was not common for the museum to be making house calls, no matter the price tag attached to the artifact. But then again, she could only say with any certainty that it had been uncommon in the past several months. Before that, who knows, maybe Anita had her staff making daily deliveries to all the ritzy collectors in the city.

  And since she couldn’t see any way out of it, she might as well get it over with as soon as possible. So, she dusted off her clothes, retrieved the crate from Anita’s office and hailed a cab outside the museum.