by Meg Ripley
And since she couldn’t see any way out of it, she might as well get it over with as soon as possible. So, she dusted off her clothes, retrieved the crate from Anita’s office and hailed a cab outside the museum.
Forty-five minutes later, the cab slowed as it passed through tall, open gates, and continued up a long, winding driveway. Freya’s breath caught in her throat when she spied the house up ahead—if it could be called a house. It was set against a mountainous backdrop so it almost appeared that the enormous glass-walled structure was jutting out from the rocky terrain behind it. A ten-foot tall waterfall emptied into a pond in front of the house, and every inch of the property she could see had been groomed to perfection.
She paid the cabdriver and asked him to wait for her, and then carefully climbed out, carrying the crate that contained the twelfth century statue with her. She knocked on the door, and after a few seconds, an older man dressed smartly in a black uniform greeted her with a welcoming smile. She explained why she was there, and he escorted her inside, down a long hall to an office at the end of it.
“Mr. Xavier will be with you shortly,” he told her, motioning for her to take a seat opposite the antique desk in the middle of the room.
She didn’t remain seated for long. Glancing around, she was amazed by the collections of books that lined the walls from floor to ceiling on three sides of the room. Walking over to the wall nearest her, she read the titles on a few of the spines.
Crime and Punishment, Hamlet, The Canterbury Tales, Pontus and Sidonia, Odyssey, The Tale of Two Lovers, Il Filocolo, and even Homer's Iliad—all books from centuries before.
There seemed to be no particular order to the way in which the books were sorted, but they were all placed carefully, and every book she could see looked like it had been taken out and read dozens of times. In fact, the spines she could see on some of the books looked so old, it wouldn’t have surprised her to discover they were original copies.
The door opened behind her and she spun around, as if she’d been caught snooping rather than browsing the abundant library. But if she’d been stunned at having been discovered, then the man who caught her there left her awestruck—even if he did appear none too pleased that she was there.
The man at the door, looking back at her with a now-unreadable expression on his handsome face, was…well, he was beautiful. His strong jaw, straight nose and broad forehead were just the beginning. Defined cheekbones, full, sensual lips, and dazzling blue eyes made her wonder if he’d been hand-carved by the gods.
Her wonder turned to certainty as her eyes grazed downward; broad shoulders that tapered to his hips, muscular forearms and long legs—no mere mortal could possibly have been responsible for this creation. And although the impeccable clothing he wore didn’t cling to his body obscenely, she had no doubt by the fit that he was well-formed underneath.
“How can I help you, Miss…” he asked, his voice just as deep and smooth as a single malt Scotch whisky that had been aged to perfection, and she tried to ignore the way her heart sped up.
She forced herself to pull it together. Fast.
“Cullen,” she said. “My name is Freya Cullen, and I’m with the Las Vegas Natural History Museum. I’ve come to deliver the statue you purchased.”
He actually looked disappointed for a brief moment, but the look passed quickly. “I hadn’t even realized it arrived. It wasn’t due in the city for another three weeks.”
I can’t even get a pizza delivered on time, but a statue from the Ottoman Empire era got here weeks ahead of schedule? she scoffed inwardly. Sure, he was paying a bit more money for the artifact than she would for a cheese pizza, but still, it rankled. “Well, I suppose it’s just your lucky day, Mr. Xavier,” she covered her petty annoyance easily.
“It’s Grant, and yes, I’m beginning to think it is,” he said, and she got the impression he hadn’t been referring to the fortunate arrival of his statue. He was looking at her with heat in his eyes, but there was something else there, too. It was as if he was trying to see deeper, or maybe it was that he couldn’t quite figure out if he remembered her from somewhere.
Was that possible? Could he have any clues to who she was or what had happened to her? She was on the verge of asking, when she realized just how ridiculous that would be.
Flustered by the man and her own thoughts, it was time to put an end to this meeting, but just as she was about to open her mouth, he closed the few steps that remained between them and came to stand next to her in front of the desk.
“Why don’t we take a look at this, then,” he said, and slit the tape that held the small crate closed with a letter opener he’d picked up off the desk. The way his hand moved, surely but gently enough to keep from digging into any of the layers below the tape, made her wonder what it would feel like to have his hand moving over her in the same fashion. She mentally shook the thought away, and held the crate for him as he pulled out the carefully wrapped statue inside.
Unwrapped a moment later, he placed it down on the desk, rotating it and inspecting it carefully with an eye that was obviously familiar with antiques.
“This is what caught my attention,” he said, pointing to the text carved into the statue’s base. “The language of the text is incongruent with the sculpture’s origin.”
“Not necessarily,” she responded without thinking. “I’m sure you know that many slaves were taken from surrounding countries during the Ottoman Empire, some far-off countries as well, as the popularity of the slave trade grew. Some of these foreign slaves would have learned the trades of their masters, and it’s likely this is one that was carved in secret since it was inscribed with text in the slave’s native tongue.”
That was just great; she could spout details about the fifteenth century, but couldn’t willfully recall what year she was born…where she was living a year ago…or even where she’d learned about the fifteenth century Ottoman Empire.
“That was my guess as well,” he said.
He was so close; no more than a few inches separated them. She could feel the heat radiating from his body and it beckoned to her, tempted her to lean in closer, to press her body against his and feel his heat against her flesh.
“I’ll be on my way then,” she said suddenly, realizing she’d been swaying slowly toward him—a complete stranger. “I hope you enjoy the statue, and on behalf of the museum and myself, I thank you for your patronage.” She stuck out her hand and he grasped it in his much larger one.
“It was my pleasure,” he said as a sizzle of electricity raced up her arm and left her tingling even after she’d pulled her hand away. He was so warm, it felt as if he’d been holding a hot cup of coffee in his hand, and she couldn’t help imagining just how incredible that would feel as his hands grazed over the rest of her body.
“Good day, Mr. Xavier,” she said—a little too quickly it would seem by the knowing smile that tugged at the corners of his full lips.
“Like I said, it’s Grant. And good day to you too, Freya,” he replied, and she hesitated for just a second, a part of her not wanting to walk away from him. But the rational part of her brain prevailed and she left the room.
The butler who had escorted her to the office was waiting outside the door, and he walked with her back down the hall. She could have sworn she felt Grant’s eyes on her the entire way, the heat from his gaze making her skin tingle with anticipation.
She chastised herself silently as she descended the front steps to the cab waiting at the top of the drive. What interest could Grant Xavier possibly have in her? She was merely an assistant curator, living from paycheck to paycheck, and while she knew she was pretty, she also knew that a man like him could have any woman he wanted. Why would he settle for one who couldn’t afford to dine at anywhere more extravagant than the local burger joint?
She’d pushed Grant Xavier to the back of her mind by the time she returned to the museum, and then did her damnedest not to smile smugly at Anita.
“Did
you enjoy your meeting with the short-tempered Mr. Xavier?” her boss asked.
She’d expected the encounter to be an entirely unpleasant one, but that was strange since Grant had seemed more than amiable.
“The meeting went fine. He seemed pleased with the purchase and with the speed in which it arrived.”
“Well good, then,” Anita replied flatly.
Freya hurried off before the snooty woman could fill her schedule with any other ridiculous tasks. She strolled through the museum to the prehistoric mammals exhibit that was just days away from its debut appearance. The last of the fossil sets had arrived just two days ago—the ten-foot long marsupial, diprotodon, and a forty-thousand-year-old smilodon, otherwise known as a saber-toothed tiger. The entire staff had been working overtime to make sure everything was perfect, and she delved in to do her part. By noon, it was beginning to look like they might just have it finished in time.
The rest of her co-workers had gone to lunch, but she lingered there, walking amid the creatures on display. A replica of a woolly mammoth stood in the center of the exhibit and she stopped next to it, gazing up at the large, open eyes, almost hidden in its long fur. She reached out to touch it, stroking the thick, coarse coat. The sensation beneath her fingertips seemed strangely familiar, but of course she could call no memory of it to mind.
“Freya,” her boss spoke from not far behind her, and she dropped her hand to her side as if she’d been caught with it in the cookie jar, but when she turned to answer Anita, her cheeks grew warm instantly.
Damn it, she cursed silently.
Anita smiled tightly, though her eyes were disapproving. “Mr. Xavier here was hoping to discuss the Ottoman statue he purchased…with you.”
She would surely hear about this later. Anita wouldn’t be thrilled that the handsome, rich patron was requesting to speak with her lowly assistant over her—even if the credentials in Freya’s apartment easily qualified her for her boss’ job. Since she couldn’t exactly tell Mr. Xavier to take a hike—something no part of her body wanted to do anyway, admittedly—Freya forced a smile on her face and did her damnedest to ignore the way his eyes grazed over her, or the way they seemed to smolder like blue flames the longer he looked.
“Yes, of course,” she said despite her reluctance, though it stemmed more now from not wanting to be alone with him than any worry over the repercussions from Anita. Grant Xavier was just too good looking, too potent. No man should look so good that it drives a woman to distraction.
Anita nodded, turned and strode out of the room, her nose even higher in the air than usual, and she was suddenly alone with him. She glanced up at the clock, calculating the number of minutes before the other members of the museum staff would waltz back into the room from their lunch break.
“I seem to have caused you some trouble,” he said when her boss was out of earshot, though the look on his face was anything but apologetic.
“Perhaps, but if you hadn’t caused it, she would have come up with something on her own,” she joked as he came closer. Too close. Several feet still separated them, but suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room.
She began to chastise herself silently when she realized she was responding to him like some infatuated school girl. She might not know exactly how old she was, but a teenager, she was not. What was next? Was she going to swoon if he kissed her? It was time to get a grip.
“There was something you wanted to discuss, Mr. Xavier? Did you have a question about the Ottoman statue?”
“Actually, I lied.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, really. I wanted to ask you to dinner but didn’t think you’d appreciate it if I conveyed that message through your boss.”
“Oh… Well, that was very thoughtful of you.” She imagined she never would have gotten that particular message from Anita. Still, the handsome, rich benefactor wanted to have dinner with her? Why?
“Thoughtful, no. I assure you, it was entirely self-serving,” he replied with a wry smile—a smile that did all kinds of strange things to her core.
“And how is that?”
“Because I imagine it will be a whole lot more difficult to brush me off when I’m standing right in front of you,” he said in a husky tone.
She didn’t have time in her life right now for romantic entanglements—certainly not with a man who was probably used to getting any woman he wanted.
Then again, that kind of man was more likely to get what he wanted and then move on. A night or two of unadulterated pleasure—and yes, she knew just by looking at him he’d be an expert in that—and then they’d both go their separate ways, him back to his rich, carefree life, and her, back to trying to find some trace of who she was.
It was the perfect escape—like a weekend getaway, then back to work as usual when it was over.
“And what if I had no intention of brushing you off, Grant?” she asked, surprising herself with the seductive tone of her voice.
“I’d say that makes you a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.”
She smiled, liking the sound of that. “Alright then, what did you have in mind?”
“Dinner at Estiatorio Milos. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Better yet, I’ll meet you there.” She didn’t know why she didn’t want him in her apartment. Perhaps because it was the closest thing she had to a refuge; a private place to try to sort through what clues she had to her past.
She expected him to agree, to say…something, but instead, he swooped in so fast she barely saw it coming. He pulled her against him at the same time his lips came down on hers, and if she hadn’t been determined to stay on her feet, she would have swooned. He was so warm, his skin felt hot against hers, just like his hand had been when she’d clasped it in her own earlier. This time, she imagined him fresh from a hot shower, with his skin radiating out the heat it had absorbed.
She’d had no idea there could be such thing as an expert in kissing, but this man was. His full lips were firm against hers, but not vicious, and the way his tongue plied against the seam of her lips sent tiny shivers of arousal through her whole body. She parted for him, almost without conscious effort, and then wished she hadn’t when his tongue stopped its path along her lips. But he delved in a second later, his tongue gliding along hers, making her moan quietly at the invasion.
And then, all of a sudden, he released her. His lips left hers, his hands fell to his sides, and he took a step back, taking the heat of his body with him. She resisted the urge to pull him back. The muscles in his jaw twitched, and it gave her a moment’s satisfaction to see the separation had affected him, too.
“I’ll see you at seven, Freya,” he spoke huskily and strode out of the room before she could find her voice.
Chapter 4
He’d asked her to dinner? What the hell had he been thinking? But since he’d already accepted he was out of his mind when he’d left his house and started driving toward the museum, it shouldn’t surprise him that he’d done something so foolish.
The moment he’d stepped through the curtains that sectioned off the exhibit and saw her standing there, he’d been mesmerized. Her long, dark hair was cascading in loose waves down her back; her head was tilted up toward the mammoth’s, as if she were engaged in an unspoken conversation with it—an intimate one given the way she was stroking the beast’s thick fur.
It should have struck him as odd, but it hadn’t. It somehow seemed she was right at home, the same as it had when she was standing in his office and when he’d seen her asleep in her queen-sized bed.
It would seem that Freya Cullen appeared right at home no matter the scene, and never had he felt it more than when he’d given in to the irresistible need to touch her.
To pull her close and feel her soft body against his.
To kiss the lips that he’d imagined engaged in a dozen naughty tasks since he first saw her.
On the drive over, he�
��d convinced himself he only intended to see her, that all he wanted was another glimpse of the woman who he’d seen in Sonya’s hotel room and then had miraculously appeared in his home the very next day. But one look at her, and he knew he’d been fooling himself. Right or wrong, he wanted her for more than just the medallion that was likely in her possession. And since he couldn’t strip her naked right there in the museum—even if he did have a feeling she would have been on board with his intentions—he’d had to contrive another way to get her alone.
So, dinner it would be. Then he’d drive her home, sink himself deep inside her gorgeous body, and find the medallion once she was fast asleep in blissful slumber. By morning, Freya Cullen would be nothing more than a sweet memory, and the medallion would be back where it belonged.
But the moment she appeared in front of the restaurant six hours later, he began to question whether one time would be enough.
She was sex and beauty personified in a knee-length black dress that would have looked conservative if it wasn’t for the slit up one thigh toward her hip and the back that was open all the way down to her waist. Her hair was pinned up, gathered around the crown of her head, and it made him itch to find the pins that would release the suave up-do and send the silky waves tumbling down her bare back.
She’d left the cab and started toward the front entrance where he stood conversing with the restaurant’s proprietor, but suddenly, he was forced to direct all his attention inward, focusing on keeping the fire in his core reined in while it threatened to blaze outward. She’d had the same effect on him earlier, both in his home and at the museum, and if he wasn’t careful, he was going to lose control quickly—something that had never happened to him before.
She came to a stop in front of them, and it didn’t surprise him to see the man next to him looking her up and down like she was the most delectable dessert on the menu. What did surprise him was the surge of violence that rushed through him, and the considerable amount of effort it took to keep from pummeling the man into the next zip code.
