Beyond the Moon. Michele HaufЧитать онлайн книгу.
through the house, her thoughts admonished her silly need to take sides yesterday. Because really? By not helping Rook to identify the vampire who had attacked her, she was taking the side of the vampires.
What could it hurt to take a look at a few pictures? Especially if it meant seeing the handsome knight again.
“I’m not a victim,” she said. “And I’ll prove it by doing the right thing.” She touched the cell phone sitting on the kitchen counter. “I should have gotten his number.”
The doorbell rang, startling her from her thoughts. Dashing down the front hallway, she opened the door and, stepping out, walked right into Rook’s arms. He slipped her into his embrace with an ease that didn’t give her time to comprehend that he was also kissing her until her shoulders hit the door frame behind her. And the man’s tongue slid across hers.
He certainly knew how to kiss. Forget “Hello, how do you do?” or even “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” She’d take this silent yet intimate greeting any day. His entire body fit up against hers, feeling the shape of her, speaking his command with the jut of his hip to hold hers against the doorframe.
Verity tucked the toe of her boot around one of his ankles, wanting to draw as much of him against her as possible. His tongue lashed hers. He tasted like espresso, the dark, bitter kind that she’d never dared try—until now. A sigh ended the surprise connection.
“Namaste,” he said.
“Right back at you. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I thought I’d make one more attempt at coercing you to look at mug shots today.”
“Oh, well—”
He put up an admonishing finger. “I have a bribe.”
Verity lifted a brow. A bribe sounded promising. Far be it from her to confess she was just considering helping him.
From behind his back, the man produced a pretty sky-blue box embossed with white lettering.
“Ladurée,” she whispered with glee.
She recognized the signature Bonaparte box; it was filled with eighteen macarons. It was a treat she never indulged in because so many at a time felt too decadent. She dashed her tongue across her lips and reached for the box.
Rook pulled it away. “It’s yours if you accompany me to headquarters and look over some mug shots.”
Wasn’t he a sneak using macarons to coerce her? If she told him she’d had a change of heart, surely she’d spoil his perceived success and the prize would be reneged.
She nodded. “Agreed.”
He lifted a brow. Had she agreed too quickly?
“Uh, well, you know, I suppose it couldn’t hurt to take a look at a few photos. But I’d be doing it against my original convictions.”
“Of course, your convictions can remain strong. Let it be recorded that I coerced you and you fought mightily to the end.”
Smiling, he stepped back onto the walk, paralleled by flowers and vines and, box held out as a lure, began to step backward. He crooked a finger in beckon.
Verity closed and locked the front door behind her. Following the bait, she took delight in Rook’s little-boy grin. He thought he was being so clever. Far be it from her to reveal otherwise.
Once through the purple iron gate, she saw the car parked in front of her property and her attention diverted from sweets to something even sweeter. Oh baby. The sports car’s curves were obscene. The paint color resembled the inside of a crushed pomegranate. Verity actually wanted to lick a vehicle. She’d bet the interior was soft, creamy leather that a person could absolutely melt into.
The knight had expensive tastes that she could appreciate. And just because she could take care of herself didn’t mean she couldn’t get behind a man with money.
Forget behind. She preferred a man to stand alongside her or even allow her the lead on occasion. Date number two?
Wait, no. Today wasn’t a date. This was work. Which meant she still had two dates remaining on the three-date rule.
“What do you call this sexy contraption?” she wondered as he held the car door for her to get inside.
“It’s an Alfa Disco. A little out there in style, but I love the curves. You like?”
Her eyes darted from the interior of the car to the little blue box he held.
“Oh yes.” She liked everything about this man.
She slid onto the passenger seat and he shut the door, taking the box of macarons with him and placing it on his lap as he got in and revved the engine. A pulse of his jaw momentarily switched the playful man over to focus. Certainly he had a dark side that he seemed to guard as precisely as he ordered his home. The heart was a home, after all.
“Want a sip? If I had two cup holders, I’d have picked you up a cup.” He handed her a paper coffee cup and shifted into gear.
The espresso was dark and commanding, much like Rook. Verity sipped the bitter brew while the crushed-fruit Alfa Disco glided through the city as if on air.
Settled into the leather seat that was as soft and buttery as she’d guessed, she observed her dashing host from the side. So intriguing, that tuft of gray hair above his ear. Immortals tended to age slowly. How long had he lived?
A furrow in his brow made her wonder if he concentrated too intently when driving. Cool, calm, yet ultra-aware. A hunter to the core. She wanted to reach over and trace the triangle of stubble that underlined his mouth, but instead she curled her fingers into her palm.
“What?” he suddenly asked after they’d driven ten minutes. He turned, navigating the car into an ill-lit underground lot. “You’ve been staring at me since we left your place. Do I have my shirt on inside-out?”
No, but if he had, then he’d have an excuse to remove it and give her a look at what she felt sure were sexy abs. The shirt in question stretched snugly across his pecs and about his biceps.
“Is this normal business practice for the Order of the Stake?” she wondered as he stopped the car and dashed around the front to open her door.
She stepped out. “Inviting witches into headquarters?” she reiterated. “It feels sneaky to me.”
“We’re not being sneaky. Just clandestine.”
“Mmm, clandestine appeals.”
“Everything about you appeals, Verity.” He nudged her hair with his nose as he tucked a kiss behind her ear. Stepping back and pressing his palms together as if to remind himself to keep his distance at work, he then said, “It is rare an outsider is invited into the inner sanctum, so to speak. So forget everything you see inside, will you?”
“Or you’ll have to kill me?” she joked, handing him the espresso as he led her toward an elevator.
“I don’t kill witches.”
She wanted to trust that statement but could never get beyond the distinct scent of burning flesh reminiscent of her mother’s death.
“But you’ve killed female vampires?” She followed him into the elevator.
He tilted his head at her, his eyes seeking but probably not seeing what he wanted to see. He couldn’t read her? Good.
“On occasion I’ve had to stake a woman,” he finally said. “It’s never easy. But my job, first and foremost, is to protect humans, and I do it no matter the costs.”
She nodded. The man was a killer, and she didn’t want to get on his bad side. But only a vampire could do that. She hoped.
The elevator doors slid open to a limestone-walled hallway. It appeared as though it had been carved from the stone beneath the city, much like the