by Lauren Smith
“A fiery creature,” he murmured. “I like that.” This was uttered so softly she thought she’d imagined it.
“So you have the book back, you can let me go. I can leave, can’t I?” Her eyes darted around the room, seeking out the front door. She inwardly groaned when she realized the only way out was behind him. She’d have to get past brooding, sexy, and scary Grigori.
“No, I’m afraid you cannot leave. I have questions that require answers.” He took two steps toward her. It took everything inside Madelyn not to retreat. She sensed that any sign of weakness would trigger his animal instincts. He was an aggressive predator who looked too intense to be in this lush apartment.
“Ask your questions and then let me go.” She wanted to curl her arms around herself, but instead planted hands on her hips.
Grigori arched one eyebrow, calmly removed his coat and laid it on the back of the chair. His gray wool vest showed off his muscular chest and his tapered waist. She licked her lips, nervous and all too aware of him and in way she shouldn’t be given that he had kidnapped her. The image of his face in the journal, the sketch dated 1821, haunted her. It couldn’t be the same man. That was impossible. But the likeness . . .
“Who sent you after the book?” Grigori asked as he rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. It revealed muscular forearms, which were also sun-kissed. Her skin prickled and she tried to swallow the lump of fear in her throat.
“No—no one sent me. I came here on my own.”
Grigori nodded to himself, smiling a little as he walked over to the kitchen and opened a cabinet.
“Would you care for some wine? It’s a fine vintage.” He held up a bottle and a glass.
“Did you seriously just offer me a drink? You’ve kidnapped me! For god knows what reason. You’d better let me leave right now or—”
“Or what?” Grigori was studying her through hooded eyes. “Ms. Haynes, I understand you are frightened, but I’m not planning on harming you. We’re merely going to have a discussion. Once I have learned all that I need, you shall be free to go.”
“You . . . you promise?” She had no reason to trust him if he did make such a promise, but part of her wanted to trust him. Part of her was still fixed on the man in the journal, the one she felt she knew somehow from dreams within dreams.
“I promise. I have no intention of hurting you. I merely needed a chance to speak to you privately. On my honor.” He touched his freed hand to his chest with his fingers curled into a fist. The motion was archaic, like something a knight from the Middle Ages might do as he pledged himself to the lord of a castle.
Madelyn weighed her options—not that she really had any. If she was trapped here she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself trying to escape until she had a real chance. She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but part of her wanted to. She’d never felt so torn in her life. All logic and basic instincts were screaming to run away from the man who kidnapped her, but there was a deeper part of her, whispering to her to stay and trust. It was like she was staring at his picture in the library all over again and she couldn’t look away, couldn’t leave.
If I play along, it might help me buy some time to figure out a real plan of getting out of here.
Grigori waved the bottle in the air. “Well?”
“Sure. One glass,” she finally replied. God, please don’t let me trusting him a little be a huge mistake.
“Good.” He walked over, setting a glass directly in front of her on the black granite countertop. They were only inches apart now. His body so tall and intimidating compared to hers. A nauseating pounding started in her head and her skin tingled like it had in the elevator with that other man.
She closed her eyes, steadying her suddenly shaky legs. How was it that this man could rattle her? Was it because he’d kidnapped her and she was freaking out . . . or was it something else? She’d been scared plenty of times, but it had never been like this. This felt . . . different. She didn’t feel right, like her body was trying to change inside. It didn’t make sense.
A hand, his hand brushed a lock of her hair back from her face, leaving a sizzling sensation behind wherever he touched her. As she opened her eyes, she saw him lean close to her and inhale deeply.
“Are you sniffing me?” she asked in a shaky whisper.
He exhaled slowly, his full lips suddenly in a firm line. “You smell good. Too good,” he growled softly. His hand reached up again, but it stopped inches from her. And that was when she felt it. A faint breeze ruffled her hair, playing with the strands. Grigori stayed motionless, his eyes narrowed. And just like that, the unexplainable breeze vanished.
Madelyn held her breath, hoping he would move first. He finally stepped back.
“Did Damien MacQueen send you?” he asked as he turned and walked away from her, back to the fridge. The distance growing between them seemed like a vast chasm. It should have been a relief, but it wasn’t.
I am going nuts. Seriously nuts.
He opened the door and stared at the contents before shutting it and frowning.
“Who is Damien MacQueen?” she asked. The name was one she didn’t recognize. Grigori stared at her for a long moment as though discerning whether she spoke the truth.
“So the brotherhood didn’t send you.” He placed his palms on the counter, leaning forward slightly as he stared at her. The man had that intense gaze down to a T. She was frozen in place, unable to look away from him as he watched her. She tried to study him back, analyzing the way his jaw seemed to be cut from Italian marble and his straight nose gave him an air of distinction. He was gorgeous—for a kidnapper.
“You are a professor?” Grigori asked.
“Yes, at Ellwood University.” She lifted her glass of wine and tried to take a sip. The wine was soft and dark on her tongue. A truly expensive wine without any bitter aftertaste. The floral bouquet hit her taste buds and finished with a hint of smoky wood.
“You like to research?” he asked.
Weirdly, it almost felt like she was on a date. These were like the usual questions: Who are you? What do you do for a living? Do you like it? But this wasn’t a date. It was the farthest thing from it.
“I do . . .” she hesitated, trying to figure out what to do.
“And you enjoy history?” he asked as he sipped his wine, his blue eyes still fixed on her in a way that made her uncomfortable.
“Yes,” she paused, trying to focus on answering him but also staying alert. “History is steady. You know it’s always going to be the same, no matter how much you look back on it. I like the predictability.”
“But you fear the future,” he mused.
She bristled. “I don’t fear the future, I just . . . I just don’t trust things to happen the way I want them to sometimes.” She’d expected her visit to Russia to be a safe one instead of getting kidnapped by someone like him.
“You have nothing to fear in your future,” he promised again. “At least not from me.” There it was, that solemnity in his gaze that almost seemed to beg her to trust him.
The hanging lamps in the kitchen illuminated Grigori’s golden hair as it fell into his eyes again. Madelyn had the desire to brush those gold strands away from his face with her fingertips. And that was a crazy desire, because this man had kidnapped her and she shouldn’t want to be touching him.
“God, I’ve got a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome,” she muttered. She lifted her wine glass to her lips and took another sip.
“Look, I don’t know any Damien and I have no idea what the brotherhood is. You have your book back so I see no reason for you to keep me here.”
He ignored her as he pulled out his cell phone. “Are you hungry? I believe I’ll have dinner brought up.”
“I’m not—” her stomach rumbled treacherously and he had to hear it because he smirked. He was smirking at her . . .
“Dinner, then we talk.” He dialed a number and spoke in rapid Russian to the person on the other end of the line. She ha
d thought it was a rough language before but listening to him speak it sounded musical.
I really need to take more Russian classes. Her two semesters of Russian in graduate school didn’t help her understand a word of what he’d just said.
“Will you please tell me who you are?” she asked as he pocketed his phone in his trousers. He retrieved his own empty glass to refill it with some wine. He poured the burgundy liquid into the glass and she stared at it before looking at him again.
“My name is Grigori Barinov.”
Madelyn bit her lip. He could not be the Grigori from James Barrow’s book. He had to be a descendent of the other man, maybe a great-great-grandson.
“Okay . . .” she whispered. “So you’re descended from the man in the book. The one in the sketch?” She thought again about man’s face, the melancholy smile and the almost indulgent gentleness. That man was a mystery, just as this man was, but this Grigori’s features were harder, colder. She still had a strange longing to meet the man in the sketch.
“No. I am not descended from the man in the sketch. I am that man.”
Madelyn laughed. “That’s funny.” She had plenty of people make fun of her over the years for dragon research.
“I do not jest, Ms. Haynes. You have stumbled into terra incognita. Do you know what that means?”
Madelyn swallowed thickly. “It means ‘territory unknown.’ I’ve seen it on old maps.”
“Very good,” Grigori praised.
He lifted his wine to his lips and took a slow sip, those blue eyes of his piercing her, pinning her in place. “And do you know what else those maps said exactly?” The clink of his glass on the counter was the only sound in the room because neither of them dared to breathe.
And then she said the words, the ones that had been stirring like a serpent in a dark cave at the back of her mind since the moment she brushed her fingertips over the sketch of his face in the book. Surely he couldn’t be suggesting what she’d always been too afraid to even contemplate . . . The words hovered on the tip of her tongue as she stared at him, hypnotized.
“Here there be dragons,” she whispered.
The words drifted between them and although she and Grigori stood six feet apart, that space ceased to exist. His eyes were no longer blue, but a molten gold color, the pupils sliding into reptilian slits. That was impossible . . .
“Here there be dragons,” he echoed in a husky whisper, and Madelyn screamed.
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Other Titles By Lauren Smith
Historical
The League of Rogues Series
Wicked Designs
His Wicked Seduction
Her Wicked Proposal
Wicked Rivals
Her Wicked Longing
His Wicked Embrace (coming soon)
The Earl of Pembroke (coming soon)
His Wicked Secret (coming soon)
The Seduction Series
The Duelist’s Seduction
The Rakehell’s Seduction
The Rogue’s Seduction (coming soon)
Standalone Stories
Tempted by A Rogue
Sins and Scandals
An Earl By Any Other Name
A Gentleman Never Surrenders
A Scottish Lord for Christmas
Contemporary
The Surrender Series
The Gilded Cuff
The Gilded Cage
The Gilded Chain
Her British Stepbrother
Forbidden: Her British Stepbrother
Seduction: Her British Stepbrother
Climax: Her British Stepbrother
Paranormal
Dark Seductions Series
The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall
The Love Bites Series
The Bite of Winter
Brotherhood of the Blood Moon Series
Blood Moon on the Rise (coming soon)
Brothers of Ash and Fire
Grigori: A Royal Dragon Romance
Mikhail: A Royal Dragon Romance (coming soon)
Rurik: A Royal Dragon Romance (coming soon)
Sci-Fi Romance
Cyborg Genesis Series
Across the Stars (coming soon)
About the Author
Lauren Smith is an Oklahoma attorney by day, author by night who pens adventurous and edgy romance stories by the light of her smart phone flashlight app. She knew she was destined to be a romance writer when she attempted to re-write the entire Titanic movie just to save Jack from drowning. Connecting with readers by writing emotionally moving, realistic and sexy romances no matter what time period is her passion. She’s won multiple awards in several romance subgenres including: New England Reader’s Choice Awards, Greater Detroit BookSeller’s Best Awards, and a Semi-Finalist award for the Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Award.
To Connect with Lauren, visit her at:
www.laurensmithbooks.com
[email protected]