The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  A fact that should have given him—or anyone—a measure of calm seemed to only make him more skeptical of it and me.

  “What kind of information?” he bit out, taking a step toward my tripod.

  “Don’t!” I exclaimed, pushing off from the stone column and stepping between him and the laser.

  My hands were up and even though there were several inches separating them from his chest, I felt the heat and tension radiating off of him with every breath.

  “It’s harmless. Please,” I placated him, unwilling to put my research in jeopardy by telling him that if he had a problem, he could take it up with either L’École or the government itself. “The light is scanning the space between those markers.”

  I paused and half turned, pointing to the markers I’d positioned around the ambulatory and watching from the corner of my eye with relief as he observed the green light bounce out and reflect back in rapid waves.

  “It takes measurements of the space and saves them in my computer.”

  “Why?” His critical stare narrowed, and my mouth dried up.

  Those dark eyes were more powerful than the laser and had the ability to see right through my clothes, right through my skin, to measure the uneven pace of my heart, the frantic beats that wanted him to leave my work in peace but didn’t want him to leave me.

  He looked at me so strangely—as though at any moment the laser would begin to eviscerate his domain.

  As though I intentionally would harm the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

  Slowly, I stepped toward my precious laser and began to explain the project I’d dedicated years of my life and research to.

  “So I can replicate it,” I explained, trying to collect the spilled beats of my heart as they tumbled and raced away from me like marbles. “The laser collects data reference points and stores them.” I motioned to the piece that emitted the small hum of effort as it moved. “Once it’s done, I’ll take some still panoramic images from this spot, too, and then import the data from the laser into a computer program that compiles it all into a three-dimensional model.”

  His look was impassive, and I couldn’t decide if he was that unimpressed by my proposed feat or was waiting to hear more. Regardless, the pounding in my chest demanded I keep speaking to expend some of the energy flowing through my body.

  “With the model, I’ll map the photograph over the dots and the dots will take up whatever color pixel is in that spot in the image.” I shook my head, summarizing, “It’s going to give me a 3D color image of the cathedral that is accurate down to half of a millimeter.”

  The excitement effused from my voice as I spoke, the sheer amount of detail and dimension I was already starting to gather teasing me with the information it could provide.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  There were many emotions painted on his face, various colors that all pooled together into the black pits of distrust in his eyes.

  “W-Why?” I stammered and then planted my hands on my hips for a second before my own emotions got the better of me. With hands gesturing wildly, I explained, “To learn. To really be able to see the method behind the madness. Why else? Unless you, Mr. I-Own-The-Cathedral-Of-Notre-Dame, can tell me who and how this was built? Unless you’ve been lurking in the shadows back during those two-hundred years with your beastly attitude and growly manners, and can answer all of my questions.”

  I arched an eyebrow, hardly waiting for a reply which I knew wouldn’t—and couldn’t—come.

  “With those measurements, I can measure how the thought process of the builders changed. With accuracy.”

  I began to pace.

  Reaching up, I tugged the scarf from my hair, setting it free to fall down my back and over my shoulders, a shield against his devastating and disapproving stare.

  “It’s going to provide copious amounts of information so art historians can finally write about this place with rock-solid—or, I guess in this case, stone-solid evidence about how and why Notre Dame was built as it was.” I dragged in a deep inhale, finishing softly, “It could change everything about how we’ve ever seen this place, and how we treat it in the future.”

  My breath whooshed out, and I hazarded a glance at my tormentor.

  If I hadn’t heard him speak. If I hadn’t seen him move. If I hadn’t felt him warm and hard and beating against me… I might have thought him one more stone statue adorning the ambulatory.

  He closed the distance between us with silent and determined steps. I realized the sharp slashes of sunlight had all but disappeared from inside the cathedral, leaving only the faint magical light of dusk cloaking us, catching on the small flecks of dust suspended in the air and making them twinkle.

  “This is all for research?”

  My lips parted, watching as his mouth moved over his words with the same decisiveness as all his actions. I wondered how decisive it would feel down the length of my body.

  “When a man understands the art of seeing, he can trace the spirit of an age and the features of a king even in the knocker on a door,” I recited breathlessly.

  He arched an eyebrow. “The madame loves her Hugo,” he drawled archly.

  “This madame knows Notre Dame—each face, each stone of the venerable monument, is a page not only of the history of the country, but of the history of science and art as well,” I replied, tacking on yet another quote from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, with several more committed to memory and ready to be wielded, their imprints seared even deeper into the tomes of my mind by this moment with him.

  The steady tension in his jaw returned, and I saw the momentary connection over the novel pass from his face as his interrogation continued. “And you’ve permission to do this?”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat and nodded. “I told you, I have a letter in my bag and a key to prove it. I’m supposed to be here.”

  His jaw ticked.

  I was supposed to be here.

  It was clear he was supposed to be here, too.

  But what was not supposed to be was the two of us here, together.

  “So, this is it then?” he demanded further. “You take your scans. You get your data. And then you are finished, Madame St. Claire?”

  I shivered, biting back the instinct to insist he call me Esme. ‘Madame St. Claire’ made me feel like I was being addressed by a student.

  “Yes. Well… yes. However, it will take some time. I’ve only managed one vantage point tonight, but I will need to tear this down and reconstruct it at various places around the cathedral.”

  The darkest storm clouds of displeasure rolled through his gaze.

  Too bad, Monsieur Gargouille.

  “It can’t read the entire building from this spot,” I said slowly. “I need to capture everything from the flying buttresses and the spire on the outside, to the altar and the windows on the inside. Every corner, nook, and cranny. Everything.”

  I finished with a small smile that was quickly smote by the anger on his lips.

  Did I say something wrong?

  Maybe he didn’t know what nook and cranny meant…

  His head dipped toward mine as his gaze invaded mine, pebbling my skin and questioning my very breath. “So, you’re telling me that you have permission to take your contraption and place it in every corner of Notre Dame, a national sanctuary and world heritage site, and scan it?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” I nodded. “And if you have a problem with it, you’ll have to take it up with someone else, monsieur…” I trailed off, deciding it was high time I knew the name of the man whose lips were so precipitously close to touching mine.

  “For research?” His eyes bored into mine, looking for the crack that would reveal everything I’d said to be a lie.

  Too bad there was no crack because there was no lie.

  “I’d be happy to write it down for you, Monsieur Gargouille”—I smirked at the nickname that came unbidden to my lips—“if you can’t bring yourself to remember it.” />
  “I’m a researcher—a professor. Good grief, what do you think I’m here to do? Harm the place? Destroy it?” I let out a sarcastic laugh.

  “Peut-être.” Maybe. And he was completely serious as he said it.

  First, I was a trespasser. Then, I was a liar. And now, I was a terrorist.

  Shock hit me first. Shock that real concern existed that someone might cause intentional harm to one of the world’s most revered pieces of history. But shock faded like a fall from a cliff into the waves of anger than crashed over me, realizing he thought me capable of intentional harm.

  What the hell?

  Gritting my teeth, I raised a finger and jabbed it into the hard plane of his chest.

  “How. Dare. You.”

  With each word I pressed harder. With each word the fire inside me grew to both argue against his accusations and to bring myself closer.

  “Who are you to say such a thing? Who are you to accuse me? I know the French aren’t fond of American tourists, but Mon Dieu, if your suspicion isn’t completely unwarranted and downright rude. This is my job, and I’ll be damned if I let you bully me into not completing it.”

  His hand wrapped around my wrist. Slowly. Purposefully. As he peeled my finger from where it seemed to be glued to him in that singular spot.

  “This church holds many secrets, Madame St. Claire. Some less pleasant than others. I’d be careful before you search too deeply. You never know what you may find.”

  I drew in a stunted breath and whispered, “And if I’m not careful, would I find you?”

  His eyes widened briefly. “I’m not a secret, madame. Just a shadow. Nameless. Faceless. Forgotten. You may have a purpose here, but so do I.”

  His face dipped closer to mine, his breath caressing my lips, the energy from his skin making my own prickle. For those few seconds, he truly felt like a shadow—right in front of me and visible, so incredibly close, and yet untouchable.

  “I will be watching you, Madame St. Claire,” he swore to me and the thought flooded my skin with warmth. “When you are within my walls, I will always be watching. And if I find your purpose is not what you say…”

  I shuddered at the unfinished yet unveiled threat.

  On some level I was afraid—the kind of fear one had when being chased by a beast. Fear of the monster. Fear he might harm me. But fear was a small fish on the food chain, swallowed whole by adrenaline, then curiosity, and finally, desire.

  My phone began to buzz on the floor near my bag, the vibration against the stone shattering the tension and the moment between us.

  My breath whooshed from my lips as he stepped back, the energy of his proximity no longer holding it prisoner.

  “Look,” I began, bending briefly to retrieve my phone and, seeing that it was Khal and that I was running behind for our evening session, I silenced it with the thought I’d call him back as soon as I dealt with this man. “I’m only here to study the—”

  My head whipped from side to side, seeing nothing but artifacts and space.

  He was gone.

  A shiver crawled up my spine, slow and uncertain, like a child taking his first steps. It wobbled and dipped and stumbled as it worked its way up my back, unsteady yet determined. My gaze dragged slowly along the shadows searching for the man who I could no longer see, but who I could still feel watching me.

  My skin prickled.

  Was he going to watch me for weeks?

  How long would it take to prove I meant no harm?

  Notching up my chin, I turned back to my laser that had long since finished its task and began to disassemble my tools and clean up for the night.

  It wasn’t until I was outside the cathedral that my goose bumps disappeared and, when I reached in my bag for my phone, I realized the letter from the school verifying my presence had disappeared, too.

  Glancing back at the looming structure, my eyes caught on the stone gargoyles that protruded as rain spouts from its exterior façade; their dragon-like appearance and menacing stares designed to ward off evil from entering the church.

  I wondered if they knew they had a living, breathing companion assisting them inside the walls.

  My gorgeous gargoyle.

  I’d find out who he was. I’d find out how the scars that decorated his face came to be.

  And I’d find out if I was the only set one fire when we touched.

  The walls of Notre Dame held many secrets I would uncover, but the gorgeous gargoyle who lived in its shadows was the greatest of them all.

  Quinton

  She looked up at me.

  The damn gypsy with her gold-rimmed emerald eyes.

  Esme St. Claire.

  The spy.

  She’d cleaned up her mess, walked outside, and looked back as though she could see through the tiny dark panes of glass at the very corner of the cathedral, and stare right at me, daring me to try and stop her.

  Growling, I stalked back to my space and shoved my arms into my long black coat.

  Her presence made her untrustworthy. Her fearlessness in the face of my threats made her either incredibly stupid or incredibly skilled. But how my body responded to her was what made her dangerous.

  It responded in a way that made me feel alive when, for years, the only thing that lived inside me was vengeance.

  Hubert… Méchant… destruction… There were a hundred pressing thoughts—important thoughts—that lay heavily on my mind.

  There was something unfolding—something that she could very well be a part of. But instead of stacking facts and finding truths, my heart hammered, beating back important thoughts in favor of illusive temptations. The way the soft curve of her ass rubbed against my cock. How the tips of her breasts pulled at the fabric of her dress that wrapped around her like a new, vibrant skin, one that fit too well and yet could easily be shed.

  My entire body flexed like a string snapped taut.

  I needed to keep my distance. Once that skin was shed, I was certain I’d find the snake that lurked beneath.

  Méchant had sent a woman to handle me before—to lure me in with soft touches and sweet words, to try to bind me to a pawn he’d then use to control me. I had no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. But why her? Why now?

  And how the hell did he know where I was?

  I’d woven my life into a web of lies for myself, knowing each string and strand like the back of my hand—where it would go, who it would pull, and how to instantly sever a connection when necessary. And she’d flown right into the center of it, lodged herself inextricably into the spindle of my secrets whether she truly knew them or not.

  To remove her, I’d have to destroy her.

  Or devour her.

  And my body throbbed sorely for the latter option.

  My breath escaped in a ragged torrent as I forced her from my mind, her smile and the defiance in her eyes taunting me from the shadows.

  How could they let her do this?

  And why was there no news about it?

  I wanted to trust her—the last thing I needed was to play babysitter to the woman who made my body burn—but that was exactly the reason I knew I couldn’t. I needed to confirm exactly how much of what she said was true; I needed to know what the boundaries of fact were so I could see when she stepped into false terrain.

  With a low, almost-silent snarl, I checked the time and stepped onto the walk outside the back of the church.

  It was still early enough that I’d find the man I was looking for in his office; the middle of the semester meant most of the professors were kept well past the hours of their courses.

  I stuck to the poorly lit sidewalks and narrow alleys as I made my way over to the university, my previous life as a student hanging like a heavy mist in the air.

  Minutes later, I was pushing through my friend’s door again and meeting his startled eyes. “Baudin,” I grunted.

  “Mon Dieu, Quinton. Do you ever consider knocking?” He let out a harsh breath. “What if Troy had bee
n in here?”

  “If you didn’t want to be disturbed, you would’ve locked the door,” I replied, stalking toward his desk and tossing a piece of paper in front of him, the sheet slicing with noise through the air.

  Planting my hands on the wooden edge, I watched him read the letter that L’École had sent to a Ms. Esme St. Claire.

  A piece of printed paper meant nothing to me; evidence like that could be easily fabricated.

  So, I took it and came here—to the source.

  I needed to know if she and her lasers were legitimate—or if Méchant now had pawns within the school’s walls.

  “I don’t know anything about this.” Léo looked up at me and added, “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.” He pushed the paper back toward me. “This isn’t my department, but I recognize the signature, so unless it’s a forgery, Mathieu Lavigne signed off on it.”

  “I need to talk to him,” I demanded.

  Rubbing over his jaw, he thought for a moment and asked before agreeing to anything, “Who is she?”

  “A trespasser,” I clipped, taking back the letter.

  “It looks like she has permission to be there.” His arms crossed over his chest and he eyed me curiously, as though I were unjustifiably upset by the presence of this woman.

  Almost unjustifiably.

  Desire was the root of all unreason.

  “Only according to that piece of paper,” I bit out. “And permission can easily be paid for. So, do you want to ask him or shall I?”

  He looked at the paper again.

  “What does this mean?” His finger brushed over the letter. “Scanning the cathedral… Scanning it for what?”

  I shook my head, my lips curling as I recalled the genuine enthusiasm I read in her expression when she explained her task to me.

  “She has a laser that scans the interior to provide a 3D rendering. She means to map the entire cathedral to know more.” I put air quotes around the last few words.

  His eyes widened as he nodded, impressed. “That’s a tall task, and a very large building.”