“Your parents named you and your brother after months of the year?” He seemed interested, not at all critical or mocking the way the kids at school had been.
“My mom was a bit of a hippie. She grew up in a commune in Oregon and had strange ideas about a lot of things.”
That was a gross understatement. Her mother had strange ideas about everything. She was into astrology, numerology, and the Tarot, and often said she was just biding her time on Earth until the mother ship arrived to take her home. An Aquarian, the free-thinking, oddball, idealistic sign of the zodiac, Keely Carter was a natural force unto herself. She was a passionate, challenging, unconventional person, and Ember missed her, every single day.
Her mother had devoured life. She’d inhaled it. To this day, Ember had still never met another person so unafraid.
“My brother was born in August, hence the name, and I—”
“You were born in September,” Christian correctly guessed.
Ember sighed. “A few more days and my name would’ve been October. Scary thought, right?”
He was looking at her sharply, his green gaze piercing. “And they live in Spain, too?”
Her stomach dropped. She turned back to the stove, and the kettle began to waver from the moisture suddenly welling in her eyes. “Tea’s ready. Do you take milk? Sugar?”
There was a pause that seemed pregnant, then he came up behind her. He was still in stealth mode, his steps silent over the floor. She knew he was there anyway because she was so attuned to his movement, to his presence, his warmth, his very breath, she could pinpoint his exact location in the room. He leaned with his hips against the counter next to the stove and watched her pour the boiling water from the kettle into the waiting mug.
In a quiet voice, he said, “My parents were killed in a car accident six years ago. It was the worst day of my life. But, in a way…I’m glad they went together.”
Stricken, unable to speak, Ember looked over at him. Tears burned her eyes.
A car accident. Killed in a car accident.
She had to fight to breathe, and slowly, very carefully, set the kettle back on the stove.
“They were married thirty-five years. In all that time, they never once spent a night apart. They still held hands. It used to make me cringe when I was young, seeing how they looked at each other. I thought it was so embarrassing. But now I realize how lucky they were. How lucky my brother and sister and I were to have them as parents.”
Ember felt her lower lip tremble, and bit down on it, hard, to make it stop. His gaze dropped to her mouth then jumped back up to her eyes. He waited, silently, for her to speak.
“My father died three years ago. Just a year after we moved here,” she whispered.
“It was sudden?” Christian’s voice was lowered to match her own. The intimacy of the moment was excruciating, standing in her kitchen with a total stranger, serving him tea and speaking aloud words she had promised herself she’d never speak again.
Ember nodded. “Heart attack.”
Christian watched her, still waiting, his eyes vivid with empathy.
She took a breath, tried to blink the moisture away. It didn’t work. “He was at his easel, painting. I’d come up to the studio to bring him lunch and he was fine, everything was fine. Then after we ate he went back to work and I was just sitting there, reading a book, and I heard him make the oddest noise.”
Ember closed her eyes and saw it all again, just as clear as if it had happened yesterday. The relentless summer heat, the smell of oil paint and acetone, her father at the easel, both handsome and haggard. The Beethoven he always played drifting through hidden speakers in the walls.
“He looked out the window—there was a wall of windows in his studio, he needed the light—and he had this expression on his face, as if he…as if he’d seen something. Or someone. But there was no one there, just the trees, the clouds, and the sunshine. And he said, ‘Oh.’ Just that. ‘Oh.’ Then he fell off the stool onto the floor. He didn’t suffer, he was gone instantly. When the ambulance came to take him away the medic said he’d never seen anyone look so peaceful.”
But that wasn’t what the medic had really said. The medic had said happy. He’d never seen a dead person look so happy. And Ember knew he was right. Her father had technically died of a heart attack, but it had been brought on by a broken heart and he had been glad to finally be rid of life.
On the worst of the nights afterward when she couldn’t sleep, she’d stare up at the dark ceiling while memories crowded in, cold and frightening like hovering ghosts. As pain crawled over her body like a thousand writhing snakes, she’d wonder what it was her father had seen outside the window. She’d wonder what it was that had startled him, what had made him meet his maker with that look of relieved euphoria on his face.
Or who.
“And your mother?”
Ember’s left hand stuttered—that awful, telling tremble she hated with every fiber of her being—and she curled it to a fist at her side. With her right hand she picked up the mug of tea and handed it over without looking at him.
He took it from her, cupped it between his palms, looked down at it. He drew in a breath and exhaled it in a rush. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. This is none of my business.”
In a barely audible voice, Ember said, “Thank you for saying that. You’re not being rude, though, I am. It’s just…It’s just that I can’t talk about it. It only makes it worse.”
He nodded, still gazing into the mug. “I know exactly what you mean. Consider the subject closed.” He downed the scalding tea in one long swallow and set the mug back on the countertop. “So,” he said brusquely, shoving away from the counter and looking at her with a pleasant smile, “I’m still interested in that copy of Casino Royale. You never did quote me a price.”
Equal parts relieved and grateful he hadn’t pressed her and had made an elegant segue into another topic, Ember made an attempt at lighthearted normalcy. “Well, a certain someone ran out on another certain someone before a price could be negotiated, but I’ll let that go. On second thought,” she cocked her head, eyeing his shiny platinum watch, encrusted with tiny diamonds. “Maybe I’ll add a nuisance fee into the price. Say…twenty percent?”
“Twenty percent?” he echoed, smiling widely now. “That’s highway robbery! I should report you to the authorities! Do they have a Trading Standards Institute or a Better Business Bureau in this country?”
“If they do, Antiquarian Books isn’t a member of either,” she scoffed. “With me running it, there’s definitely nothing ‘Better’ about it. It’s practically bankrupt.” The minute the words left her mouth, she regretted them, but too late—Christian had already latched onto them like a dog on a bone.
“The store isn’t doing well? What’s wrong? How bad is it?” He straightened, suddenly imposing with his height, breadth of shoulders, and the electric intensity that came and went with dizzying speed, like a light switch being flipped. At the moment, the switch had been turned to on.
“Oh, please,” she said, trying to laugh it off, “forget it. I’m just joking.” Avoiding his intent gaze, she brushed passed him and went into the living room. She looked around the darkened room a moment, unsure whether to stand or sit…Was he staying? What exactly was he doing here?
But Christian decided for her when he said, “A joke. Of course. I understand.”
She turned and watched him walk closer, searching his expression suspiciously, on the lookout for any hint of emotion to indicate what he was thinking. But his face was smooth and composed, entirely unreadable.
Damn. She didn’t want him thinking she was desperate for money. The two most unattractive things to men were women who were one: desperate for money, or two: desperate for love. She was neither. Or if she was, she definitely didn’t want to seem like she was. For the money, that is. Love was the last thing her mangled heart would ever be able to feel.
“Well,” he said, pausing a few feet away, “it
’s late. I’ve imposed on you long enough. Thank you for the tea.”
“Sure. Anytime.”
He smiled at that—anytime—and something in her chest softened, a peculiar sort of melting. The man was so handsome it made her head hurt. That face. That body. Those eyes. Jesus. She had to get him out before she lost her mind and threw herself on him.
She ground her teeth together. Not desperate. NOT desperate. And, she reminded herself, I hate him. He’s too pretty for his own good.
“What is that look you’re giving me? Are you by chance plotting my death?” Christian asked, bemused. Her cheeks flamed—caught again.
“I’ve just really got to get out of this costume,” she said, careful to keep her face blank. She crossed the small living room quickly, put her hand on the doorknob. “I think I’m suffocating my poor skin, latex doesn’t exactly breathe. Plus, I’m beat.”
She turned the knob and cracked the door open, as clear a signal as she could give that she agreed with him—it was time for him to go.
He watched her with those preternatural eyes, his gaze taking in her bare feet, the cat’s costume, the tail dangling behind her like a dare. Her expression, so carefully neutral. A slight upward lift curled his lips as if he found something amusing. Leisurely, with his hands in his pockets and his gaze never leaving hers, he crossed to the door and stood looking down at her, mere inches away.
“I’ll see you at the store tomorrow.”
It sounded like a threat. She peered up at him, lips pursed, hating the way his proximity sent her blood into a frenzy. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest she wondered if he could hear it. “Okay.” She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Whatever.”
His smile deepened. “Doesn’t really matter either way, hmm?”
She moistened her lips and shrugged again, looking away.
Then he did the most astonishing thing, something that turned her to stone and stole all the breath from her lungs.
He reached out, touched two fingers to the pulse throbbing wildly in her neck and held them there with the softest pressure, subtly dominant. She glanced back at his face, speechless, and he was looking down at her as if he knew all about her, as if he could read every single thought that crossed her mind.
He murmured, “Secrets are okay. Secrets I understand. But don’t lie to me, Ember. You want to see me tomorrow as much as I want to see you.”
She was pinned in the raw force of his eyes, magnetic, overpowering. Very slowly, oh-so-lightly, he slid his fingers down the length of her throat, skimming the surface of her skin, dipping his thumb into the hollow at the base of her neck, until his hand came to rest in the center of her chest, directly over her heart. He opened his palm over the rings on her necklace and pressed against her breastbone.
Boom, boom, boom, throbbed her heart. Her traitorous, telltale heart.
“Admit it.”
She bit her tongue. He leaned slightly forward when he spoke and she felt his warm breath brush her cheek. “Ember. Admit it.”
There was fire in his eyes, fire in her blood, fire in the air all around them. She breathed fire into her lungs with each breath, and with each breath felt it scorch through her body, consuming. Dangerous.
She whispered, “I’m not looking for any complications in my life, Christian. And that’s not a lie. It’s taken me a long time to get to this point, where I’m…” She faltered, because he was watching her lips as she spoke, looking at her mouth in total concentration. And somehow he’d moved closer. “Where I’m safe.”
The word safe affected him, made him hesitate. She felt it in the tension in his body, the slight twitch in the hand he’d pressed over her heart. He closed his eyes for just longer than a blink, then withdrew his hand. The sudden loss of heat against her skin was jarring.
“Of course,” he murmured. He exhaled. “You’re right.”
He didn’t say I understand. He said you’re right. The difference struck her as important, but she couldn’t pinpoint why.
He stepped back, turned to the door and gave her a small, apologetic smile over his shoulder. “I’ll have to ask you to forgive me again. It seems I’m always off-balance around you.” He exhaled again, ran a hand through his thick black hair. Then with a quiet, “Good night, Ember,” he slipped through the open door and silently, swiftly, disappeared down the stairs.
Ember closed the door and stood in the darkness for long minutes, unseeing, her blood and nerves and thoughts frenzied, her hands shaking at her sides.
I’m always off-balance around you.
Well, that definitely made two of them. And despite feeling very clearly he was somehow dangerous, despite her resolve to dislike him and keep it all business, she was equally certain there was something going on between them. Something her body recognized and to which it responded. Something her mind—always so careful, always so calculating—was doing little to counteract.
“Christian McLoughlin,” she whispered to the dark, empty room, “who are you? And what the hell have you done with my brain?”
The room had no answer.
In spite of his promise, Christian didn’t come into the bookstore the next day.
Ember arrived to work early—successfully avoiding Dante—and spent the day in a state of suspended animation, both hoping he’d walk through the door and dreading it.
Because what exactly was going on here? In the clear light of day she determined it was nothing, that’s what. He was toying with her, he was indulging in some kind of macho ego-trip, the knight in shining armor winking at the poor, mud-splattered village girl before riding up to the castle on his steed to ask for the hand of the princess in marriage. She was a diversion, that was all. A momentary blip on his radar.
At least, she’d convinced herself of that until precisely five minutes to six, when the door to the shop opened and a man walked in carrying the most enormous bouquet of roses she’d ever seen in her life.
Ember couldn’t even see his upper body behind the mass of foliage and flowers spilling voluptuously from the vase. The thick, etched crystal vase, no less. The man took half a dozen careful steps into the shop before halting in the middle of the floor and announcing loudly in Spanish, “Flower delivery!”
Certainly he’d been hired for his acute grasp of the obvious.
“Yes, over here!” Ember called, waving from behind the counter though he couldn’t see her. After several unsuccessful attempts to determine her location by peeking over and around the voluminous spray, he finally turned sideways and addressed her, his face strained with the effort of balancing the enormous arrangement in his arms.
“Roses for a Miss Jones.”
“That’s me.”
His expression registered gratitude. “Where you want it?”
“Uh…” She looked around for a space large enough and spied the round table where Sofia’s book club met each week. “Over there. That would be great, thanks.”
He made his way slowly to the table, going sideways like a crab, until finally he’d deposited his burden to the wood tabletop with a relieved sigh. He turned to look at her, a canny smile on his face. “Somebody is in love, eh?”
Ember blushed to the roots of her hair. “No! No, nothing like that. These are from, er, my, uh, um—”
“Boyfriend?” he supplied helpfully.
Ember’s blush spread down her neck. “NO! He’s a customer! Just a customer!”
His brows rose. His gaze moved around the shop and he saw the handwritten sign Asher had taped to the side of the one of the rare book displays near the register as a joke. It read, “Don’t touch yourself. Ask the staff for help.” The delivery man’s gaze settled back on her and his knowing smile grew wider. Ember had the sudden horrible thought he might be wondering exactly what type of customer she’d been entertaining behind the shelves.
“Thanks again. We’re closing now. Good-bye.” She ushered him to the door, all the while avoiding his sideways glances and cocky grin, and locked it behind him. On
ce alone she crossed slowly back to the table that housed the ridiculous display of roses and stood staring at it in stupefied wonder.
Lavender roses—dozens and dozens—so silvery pale and silky they glimmered beneath the lights.
There was no card, no enclosure note saying Hi or Thinking of you or Sorry I blew you off, but as Ember stared at the massive display, she remembered something that made her heart first skip one beat, then two, then stop altogether.
Well-versed in the language of flowers, her mother had often recited to her all the meanings for the different colors of roses they’d grown in their garden at home. She’d had to coax them, of course, the heat and altitude of Taos was an unforgiving place to grow roses, but under her mother’s patient, intuitive care, they’d flourished. Their front yard was a riot of color and all kinds of plants, but the roses that lined the brick walkway to the front door were the piece de resistance, and not one bush was the same.
Red meant love, white meant purity, pink was grace and appreciation, yellow was friendship. Orange was desire. Peach was sincerity.
And lavender roses, rare and royal, the most beautiful of them all, meant love at first sight.
“Oh, boy,” whispered Ember, staring at the luscious blooms. “This is gonna get messy.”
“What happened to you last night?” Asher shrieked down the phone line. Ember winced and held it away from her ear. “You disappeared! I was worried sick!”
She’d been back in her flat just long enough to change from jeans to sweats before her cell phone rang. She pretended she wasn’t disappointed when she saw the number on the readout, but when he started yelling at her, Ember didn’t have to manufacture the anger that had her yelling right back.
“I told you I was leaving! You didn’t want to go!”
“What? You never said you were leaving!”
“I pointed to the exit!”
“I thought you had to go to the bathroom! I’d never let you wander around the city in the middle of the night by yourself, knucklehead! Do you have any idea how worried I was?”
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