Beguiling Delilah: Romancing the Guardians, Book Six

by Lyn Horner

  The rich aroma of coffee drew her to the kitchen. She found Leon sitting at the island, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. “Good morning,” she said with a smile.

  “Morning,” he replied, mouth crooking up. His obsidian gaze skimmed over her from head to toe and back up.

  Crossing her arms beneath her breasts, she arched her eyebrows. “Do you like what you see?” she asked tartly.

  “Very much.” He smiled broadly, revealing strong white teeth, and pointed at her outfit. “That color makes your sorrel eyes shine.”

  “Sorrel? What is that?” She tipped her head sideways, eyeing him curiously.

  “It’s a reddish-brown horse the color of your eyes.”

  Frowning at the comparison, she marched to the coffee brewing machine and filled a mug. Taking a cautious sip of the scalding liquid, she turned to face him. “So, I make you think of a horse?”

  He chuckled, setting his coffee down. “I did not say that. It’s only your eyes that remind me of a horse’s color. If you saw such an animal glowing in the sun, you would know it is a compliment.”

  “Oh. Merci. Thank you.” Absurdly pleased, she smiled and said, “You must be hungry. I’m not much of a cook, but there is a bakery down the street. I can order some croissants. Um, they are pastries often stuffed with fruit or various cream fillings.” She seldom ate breakfast but wouldn’t mind one of the flaky confections.

  “They sound good. If you have eggs, I will scramble a few to go with the croissants.” He pronounced the French word crows-ants, making her lips twitch.

  However, when he rose and stretched, arms reaching high, he had an entirely different affect upon her. Yesterday, in his boxy leather jacket, he’d appeared rather stout, but that was not the case. Clothed this morning in a clean flannel shirt, this one a blue and gray plaid, and jeans, with a tooled brown belt around his waist, he looked quite fit. Delilah experienced a surprising burst of feminine approval. She immediately smothered it.

  “I believe I do have some eggs.” Hastening to the refrigerator, she brought out a partially empty carton. “They are not very fresh. I hope they’re still good.”

  “We’ll find out. I will need a bowl and some milk or cream. A little butter for frying would also be good.”

  “Of course.” She gathered everything he requested plus a copper-bottomed pan, then phoned the bakery. By the time the croissants were delivered, he had the egg mixture ready to dish up. They went surprisingly well with the fruit-filled pastries.

  “Mmm, peach,” Leon said after a bite of his croissant. “I grow peaches on my land back home.”

  “Indeed? So, you are an agriculteur, a farmer?”

  He swallowed another bite before replying. “Kind of. I also raise a few sheep and cattle.”

  “You’re a versatile man.” Laying her fork down, Delilah changed the subject. “I have been wondering who was responsible for Malcolm’s death. Can you tell me?”

  Leon stopped eating to regard her, a deep crease between his brows. “Lara believes the accident was caused by a group who want to steal the scrolls you and the others guard. Malcolm Flewellen called them Hellhounds. The name is from a legend about –”

  She cut him off. “I know the story. In Greek mythology, a monstrous three-headed Hellhound named Cerberus guards the gates of Hades.” Once again, his knowledge of the scrolls alarmed her.

  “Yes, that is what Lara said. Her uncle thought the name fitting for those who had threatened him if he did not give them the scrolls. It seems he was right.” Frowning, Leon looked down, stabbing his last bite of egg with his fork. “I am sorry, but there is more I must tell you. Besides murdering Malcolm and injuring Lara, the Hounds also kidnapped her twin sister.”

  “Mon Dieu!” Delilah pressed a hand over her heart. “Is she still in their hands?”

  His frown deepened. “Lara has heard nothing from her in many months, since going into hiding. She fears Sara is dead.”

  “Oh, I pray not.” Appalled, Delilah’s suspicions resurfaced. Was it only regret for delivering more bad news that made him avoid her gaze, or did he know something about Sara that he wasn’t telling? Was he in league with her kidnappers?

  Needing to get away from him, she shoved her chair back and rose. “I must go in to work for an hour or two,” she said, crossing to the sink and dumping the rest of her food down the disposal. Nervous as a cornered hare, she pivoted to face him.

  “Um, would you like to go sightseeing later?” Yesterday, he had suggested she show him around the city. It seemed like a good idea since she couldn’t stand the thought of being trapped with him in her apartment most of the day. Better to stay outside where she could run if he somehow confirmed her suspicions.

  “I would like that very much,” he replied with a smile.

  Leon watched Delilah don her coat, snatch up her bag and dash out. She was still wary of him, it was plain to see. In which case, he thought her foolish for insisting he spend the night with her. He believed in being hospitable, but when you did not trust someone, especially a stranger, allowing them into your home was not wise. Still, he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as it was said.

  He laughed. There he went again, comparing Delilah to a horse. She would be furious. He’d better stop thinking that way.

  His burst of humor died as one thing became clear: he must not try to rush her onto an airplane to America. She needed time to accept all he had told her and come to trust him first.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Unnerved by Leon’s disclosure about Sara Flewellen’s kidnapping and possible death, plus her distrust of him, Delilah forgot to call for her ride until she stepped off the elevator in the lobby. Consequently, she arrived at work a quarter hour late. She exchanged greetings with Esme, returned phone calls from two potential clients, then settled down to complete the task she’d left undone on her computer.

  Focusing on numbers that swam before her teary eyes yesterday, she swiftly formulated a stock report for her client, Monsieur Villard. CEO of the bank where she’d worked for years before launching her career as a private investment advisor, he would not be pleased by her conclusions. She couldn’t help that. Her gift with numbers never lied; her market predictions always came true.

  The time was just shy of eleven when she faxed the report to Villard. Gathering her coat and handbag, she paused at Esme’s desk. “I will be out the rest of the day. If Monsieur Villard should call, please assure him the facts and figures in my report are accurate.”

  “Oui, Madame.” The girl bit her lip, trouble lines marring her pretty young face. “And if he demands to speak with you?”

  Sighing, Delilah shrugged. “Tell him I will be in tomorrow. We can discuss matters then if he wishes.”

  “Oui, Madame.” Esme still wore a worried frown.

  “Don’t fret, you can handle him,” Delilah said with a reassuring smile. The girl must develop a tough skin, she thought as she headed for the elevators. This time, she had remembered to call her driver, Germain. He was parked, waiting for her in the usual spot when she stepped outside.

  Entering her apartment a short while later, she found Leon sitting on the couch watching a television news show. Despite her suspicions about him, a laugh bubbled up, escaping her lips. She clapped a hand over her mouth as he turned his head, giving her a puzzled look.

  “Why do you laugh?”

  “I’m sorry.” She flapped her hand as if to erase her faux pas. “You appeared completely engrossed in the news. It strikes me funny because you don’t understand what the reporters say, do you?”

  He shrugged. “It’s true I do not know their words, but I read much from their faces and the pictures they show.” Standing, he picked up the remote control and shut off the TV. “So, are you going to show me around your famous city?”

  “I am. Give me just a few moments to change into more suitable clothes.” Dashing into her bedroom, she shed her suit and hung it away, then donned her favorite pair of jeans, a soft, cream-
color sweater with a cowl neck, and high, supple black boots. The boots had moderate heels for walking, and she liked the way they hugged her calves. Not wanting to carry a purse, she stuffed her wallet into a pocket, slipped on a warm maroon jacket and rejoined Leon.

  He stood near the couch gazing out one of the windows toward the river. Hearing her approach, he turned to face her and smiled. “You look nice, no matter what you wear.”

  “Thank you,” she said, pleased by his compliment. “We will need to do quite a bit of walking. Do you mind?”

  “No. I walk a lot back home.”

  “Good. Shall we go?”

  Five minutes later, they sat ensconced in the back of Germain’s roomy sedan. She had asked him to wait, fairly certain she and Leon would soon be leaving. The plump forty-something man had been her driver for several years and was always eager to please, possibly because of the generous bonus she gave him every Christmas. She believed in treating her employees well. It encouraged their loyalty.

  Germain dropped them off where Delilah instructed. “Shall I retrieve you and the monsieur later, Madame?” he asked as she was about to step out of the car.

  “Non, you need not wait for my call, Germain. We will take the metro home. The subway,” she told Leon.

  “Très bien, Madame. Enjoy the beautiful day,” Germain replied.

  “Merci, we will.” The day was indeed lovely with a bright blue sky, and milder temperatures had arrived overnight. As she and Leon walked toward the first stop on their tour, he unbuttoned his jacket and she unfastened hers partway.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the tall structure ahead.

  “That is the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame de Paris – the Cathedral of Our Lady of Paris. It stands on the Île de la Cité – the larger of two islands in the middle of the Seine River. I think you will find it worth a look.”

  They crossed a bridge to the island. Walking east along a well-kept street, they soon joined a crowd of tourists – not nearly as many as in summer – snapping photos and milling about the square outside Notre Dame’s world-famous west façade.

  Delilah watched Leon, trying to gauge his reaction as he gazed at the Gothic arches, intricate carvings and statuary. When he leaned his head back to stare open-mouthed at the massive twin towers, she grinned

  “It is very grand. And old, is it not?” he asked.

  “Yes. If I recall correctly, the foundations were begun around 1160. It took many years to complete the cathedral, and there have been renovations over the centuries. The builders were master architects and stone masons who devised ways of building taller than ever before.”

  “Almost as tall as the walls of my homeland,” he said, making her wonder what he meant. “Can we go in?”

  “Certainement. Certainly.” She caught his big, work-roughened hand and conducted him to the entrance. Once inside, she walked slowly, giving him time to take in the grandeur of the sanctuary with its columns, high vaulted ceiling and stained-glass windows.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, he caught his breath and swung around. “All of the windows are beautiful, but that one . . .” he said in a hushed voice, indicating the huge rose window above the front entrance. “I have no words.”

  Following his gaze, Delilah had to agree. With sunlight beaming through, the multicolored bits of glass glowed like rare jewels, dominated by radiant blue. Seeing it with fresh eyes, she was glad she’d brought him here.

  They stayed long enough for Leon to view the other two rose windows at either end of the transept – the arms of the cross-shaped building – then left Notre Dame behind. Angling over to the Boulevard St. Germain, Delilah suggested they stop for a quick bite at one of the many sidewalk cafés. Leon insisted on paying and this time she let him, not wishing to wound his pride. Thankfully, he had exchanged his American dollars for euros at the airport, but she had to help him count out the proper amount.

  They moved on to the Louvre where Leon got a glimpse of the Mona Lisa between the crowd of people surrounding the iconic portrait. Delilah guided him through the halls, pointing out one masterpiece after another. He offered an admiring comment now and then, but she could tell he was uncomfortable amid the horde of museum-goers.

  Anxious for a quiet spot herself, she suggested they proceed to the Tuileries Garden, the city’s large public park. Leon visibly relaxed as they sauntered through the sprawling grounds, past groves of winter-bare trees, ponds and open spaces.

  “I’m sorry nothing is blooming yet. In two or three weeks, the grass will begin to grow, cherry blossoms will bloom and daffodils will pop up everywhere.”

  “That sounds pretty, but this is also good. I like being outside, and there are fewer people here.”

  “Yes, it’s quite serene.” After strolling on for a while, she pointed to a bench near one of the ponds. “Do you mind if we rest for a few minutes? I’m a bit tired.”

  “Of course.” Once seated beside her, he stretched his legs out and draped his arm along the top of the bench. His hand brushed Delilah’s shoulder, making her acutely aware of his nearness.

  Recalling something she wanted to ask, she looked at him. “You, um, mentioned that your daughter brought Lara and her companion to your home. But how did she come to meet them?”

  “Josie knew Conn and his friend Dev, Michaela Peterson’s protector, from when she was in the Army.”

  “She was a soldier?”

  He nodded. “A pilot. She flew helicopters in Afghanistan, flying reconnaissance missions and providing support for our troops when they needed it.”

  “She must be very brave.” Impressed, Delilah recognized Leon’s pride in his daughter. He couldn’t be making up all of this.

  “Humph. Foolishly brave sometimes. She insisted on flying her helicopter – she owns one for her crop dusting business – down to Colombia to locate Gabriel Valdez and bring him to meet with Lara and all of you. From what Gabe told me, she was nearly killed more than once.” Leon sighed and shook his head. “What is a father to do with such a daughter?”

  Delilah reached up to pat his hand. “Simply love her.”

  Catching her hand, he gave it a squeeze, halting her breath. “You are wise. Do you have any children?”

  His question unsettled her. Freeing her hand from his, she turned her face away. “No. I lost a baby once many years ago. Afterward, I was unable to conceive again.”

  Leon gently rubbed her shoulder. “I am sorry. You would be a good mother.”

  “You think so, eh?” She aimed a skeptical glance at him.

  “I know so. You Guardians have powers. Up here.” Tapping his forehead, he smiled at her startled gasp.

  “Lara t-told you about that?” she stammered, referring to the psychic gifts she and her Guardian confrères each possessed.

  “Yes, and I also have a power. Mine is to sense what people are like inside, and I sense you are a good person. It is a shame you never got to be a mother.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t wish to discuss the subject any further,” Delilah said sharply. Rising, she softened her tone. “We should go. There is more for you to see, and the afternoon is passing.”

  He arched an eyebrow but rose without saying a word. Exiting the park, they strolled along the Champs-Ėlysėes. The broad, tree-lined sidewalk took them past more cafés and stores. Leon gawked at the Arc de Triomphe as they approached the great arch. Delilah related the famous landmark’s history, how it was built in memory of all who fought for France in the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars.

  “Now, it is the scene of great celebrations on la Fête Nationale, or Bastille Day as it is known in America and elsewhere.”

  “What is Bastille Day?” Leon asked, watching traffic race past the massive arch.

  “It’s like your Fourth of July. The day commemorates the storming of the terrible Bastille Prison on 14 July 1789 during the Revolution, as well as the celebration of national unity the following year.”

  Glancing toward the loweri
ng sun in the west, Delilah wound her arm around Leon’s. “Come, we must hurry. Dusk will soon arrive, and I wish you to see one more thing. To save time, we will take the métro most of the way.” She set a brisk pace to the subway entrance.

  Minutes later, they stood in Place du Trocadéro square, looking across the Seine to la Tour Eiffel. Gazing at the famous iron tower, Leon said, “I have seen pictures of this, but I didn’t realize how really tall the tower is.”

  Delilah laughed lightly. “Wait until you see her up close. She will make your neck hurt when you look up at her.”

  “Why do you call the tower ‘her’?” he asked as she grabbed his hand, leading him toward a bridge across the river.

  “French is different from English. Most things are either feminine or masculine in my language. The tower is feminine.”

  He frowned. “That sounds confusing.”

  “I suppose it does, but it’s not to a Frenchman, or French woman.”

  Standing at the foot of the tower moments later, Leon looked up and said, “You are right. She does make my neck hurt.”

  “The best way to appreciate her is from the top. Let us take the elevator up there.” Fortunately, she had called ahead to book tickets, allowing them to avoid standing in line to purchase them. Dusk was upon them, but darkness was not a disadvantage in this case. Seeing Paris, the City of Lights, stretch out for miles from the tower as night fell, Delilah still found the view breathtaking, even though she had experienced it many times.

  She only wished there wasn’t such a cold wind blowing past the glass barriers that surrounded the deck. Shivering, she turned up the collar of her jacket and stuffed her hands in the pockets.

  The cold didn’t appear to trouble Leon. He turned from side to side, drinking in the panorama of twinkling lights. “I have never seen anything so incredible. My friends back home will never believe me when I describe this,” he said in a reverent tone.