Edge of Darkness (3 page)

Big art scene. There’s a famous music school there, I understand.

“Sleeping on the job? Even for you that’s indolent.”

Another old, familiar enemy: her stepmother, Marguerite. Just hearing her icy voice made Ember’s skin crawl.

She turned and gazed into Marguerite’s cold gray eyes, and kept her voice light as she said, “Oh, good morning, Marguerite. I didn’t realize your kind could come out during the daytime.”

“And I didn’t realize bag lady chic was all the rage this season,” Marguerite replied in exactly the same offhand tone, letting her disdainful gaze travel over Ember’s usual ensemble of jeans, shapeless sweater, old running shoes. Her upper lip curled as if she smelled something rotting.

A walking advertisement for the finest haute couture houses, Marguerite was nothing if not perfectly put together. She was tall, blade thin, and bone pale, with dark hair scraped severely off her forehead and gathered into a low bun at the nape of her elegant neck. At the age where a woman had to decide to embrace growing older gracefully or wage a losing battle against time with fillers and needles and surgical blades, Marguerite had gone with the latter. Her poreless skin was pulled just slightly too tight over her cheeks, her brows were just slightly too arched. Combined with an almost entirely black wardrobe and lips that were a cheerless slash of vermilion, she held more than a passing resemblance to certain bloodsucking creatures of the night.

Without a hint of warmth, the two women smiled at one another.

“Where’re the Tweedies?” Ember asked sweetly.

Marguerite’s smile vanished. She loathed Ember’s nicknames for her twin stepsisters. Analia and Allegra were Tweedledee and Tweedledum, respectively, and the bane of Ember’s existence. Two of the banes, anyway. Pie-faced and rotund, they were spoiled to within an inch of their lives by their doting mother, and never missed an opportunity to make Ember’s life hell.

They had far fewer opportunities since Ember moved out of the house three years ago, after her father died, but that didn’t stop them from trying.

Marguerite crossed her arms over her bony chest and gazed down her hawk-like nose at Ember. “I’ve had a call from Señor Alvarez.”

Ember’s heart sank. Señor Alvarez was the family accountant. This wouldn’t be good.

“And I’m sure you can guess what he told me.”

“You’ve won the lottery? Congratulations.”

Before answering, Marguerite pressed her lips together so hard there was nothing left of them but a downward-turned red sliver. She leaned forward and hissed, “Thanks to your total lack of business sense, Antiquarian Books is on the verge of
bankruptcy!
” Now enveloped in the cloud of heavy perfume emanating from Marguerite like the evil mist preceding the arrival of a monster in a horror movie, Ember took a step back. “If something isn’t done immediately, we’ll owe the creditors more than it’s worth. Your father would be appalled to find it in such a state—”

Ember’s temper, volatile under the best of circumstances, snapped.

“My father would be appalled by a
lot
of things, Marguerite! Including the way you’ve spent what was supposed to be
my
inheritance on your own daughters—”

“How
dare
you!” Marguerite exclaimed, her bony frame stiffening. Several customers glanced over, but neither Ember nor her stepmother cared. They were sucked suddenly into the ancient morass of animosity that existed between them like quicksand, thick, deep, and suffocating.

“—And what you’ve done with his
work!
I’m sure gifting it to your revolving door of
boyfriends
isn’t exactly what he had in mind!”

Marguerite gasped. Her face, never flush with a healthy glow in the best of circumstances, paled to a blotchy, unnatural white. She sputtered, “Why you little—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted a cheerful, familiar voice. Ember looked across the counter to see Asher, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans, clearly amused at the spectacle she and her stepmother made. “I’m looking for a very rare, very
expensive
book. Which of you lovely ladies can assist me?” He wiggled his eyebrows at Ember, who, instead of clawing her stepmother’s eyes out, released her breath in a hard exhalation.

Like a snake furling its coils, Marguerite slowly withdrew. She hated men to catch her with her fangs exposed, and so she tried on a chilly smile, which looked out of place on her livid face. If she didn’t know better, Ember would have sworn the woman was hiding a forked tongue in that venomous mouth.

“Ember would be happy to assist you, sir,” Marguerite said smoothly, still with a frigid smile. Then she turned and hissed under her breath, “We’ll finish this discussion later!” She stalked away and vanished through the swinging door that led to the back of the store.

“Oh, my God,” said Asher with a shudder as soon as she disappeared. “That woman is
frightening!
”

“Just wait til you see her head spin completely around,” Ember muttered. “You’re lucky she doesn’t know you’re a friend of mine or she might have taken you back to her web to feed to her offspring.”

He grimaced. “And I thought
my
mother was bad.”

“Stepmother,” Ember corrected. “And don’t even start, your mother is amazing.”

Ember had met Asher’s mother twice when she’d come to visit from Boston. Valeria was zaftig, noisy, and hugged everyone in sight. She wore a rosary of freshwater pearls that was swallowed by her voluminous cleavage, regularly made the sign of the cross over her chest, and cooked authentic northern Italian food so delicious Ember thought she’d died and gone to heaven. Asher was her youngest, the “baby” of six, and her favorite. He complained about her in that way favorite sons do, all grumbling and grousing with nothing substantial behind it, secure in the knowledge he was loved.

That’s how it is for people who know they’re loved. They have the luxury of being dismissive of love, of taking it for granted. But for the unlucky ones who live day after day with no one who cares whether they live or die, they know exactly what it is they’re missing. And unlike the lucky ones, they ache for love so badly the emptiness inside becomes a thing that pounds and burns, a need so vast and deep there is no end to it, and no bottom.

“Well, at least she lives three thousand miles away. If I had to see her every day, I’d kill myself.”

“Yeah,” said Ember sourly. “I know the feeling.”

He smiled sympathetically at her. “Bet you can’t guess why I’m here.”

With a rueful twist of her lips, Ember said, “I thought you were going to buy a
very expensive
book and save the shop from ruin.”

“You wish, lady. Actually I brought you something.” He bent and retrieved a small brown paper bag from the floor by his feet. He dangled it in front of her like a cat toy. “Lunch. You said you didn’t eat this morning, so…”

Ember’s eyes misted. He brought her lunch after she ran out on him like that? Damn. This was turning out to be one hell of a morning. She took the bag and peered inside. Sandwich, fruit, a cup of plain yogurt. “Is it poisoned?” she asked, to hide how touched she was by the gesture.

Asher smiled and his eyes twinkled through his glasses. He saw right through her tough act, but never called her out on it. He was a good friend for many reasons, but primarily because he let her have her secrets and didn’t press too hard when she shut down. He knew that was the surest way to make her run away.

“No. You’re not getting off that easily.”

He blew her an air kiss and turned to go, but Ember said, “Wait,” and he looked back at her, brought up short by the emotion in her voice.

She rounded the counter, wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, and hugged him. “Thank you, Ash,” she whispered. “I really appreciate it.”

He chuckled and gave her a squeeze. “Don’t get hysterical on me, sweetie. I only know how to handle hysterical
boys
.” He pulled back, still holding her around the waist, and smiled down at her, his brown eyes soft. “You creatures with ovaries really terrify me. You’re so unpredictable. Creatures with penises are much more straightforward.”

“I think you mean
simple
.”

He shrugged. “You say potato, I say potahto…”

She smiled back at him, her first true smile in days, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

At exactly that moment, Christian McLoughlin sauntered through the front door.

Ember knew it was him without looking because the air in the shop suddenly became charged.

That and
Asher
became charged.

He turned his head toward the door as he heard the jingle of the bell, and the smile on his face faded, replaced by a look of wide-eyed, gaping shock. His fingers tightened on her waist. From his mouth came a little, wordless noise, and his eyes, fixed on some target, travelled up, down, and back again. He exhaled a slow, whistling breath.

Ember sighed, released him and turned to look at Christian.

As elegant, regal and, well,
gorgeous
, as the first time she’d seen him, he looked back and forth between her and Asher with a quizzical lift to his brows.
Good
, she thought peevishly.
Let him think Asher is my boyfriend. Even though he’s looking at Christian as if he’d like to lick every part of his body.

“Helllooo, beautiful,” Asher purred. Ember elbowed him. So much for the boyfriend cover.

“That was fast. Did you fly here?” she said to Christian, not particularly warmly.
The rent, Ember
, she reminded herself.
The rent
. She forced herself to smile at him.

The corners of Christian’s lips lifted and he walked forward, his stride languid, posture cocksure. He wore dove gray trousers and a perfectly cut shirt of indigo blue, which made his eyes appear even more vivid green than they did yesterday. The hair was perfect again, too, and Ember childishly wanted to run her fingers through it just to ruffle those perfect strands and mess it up.

Or did she just want to run her fingers through it?

She mentally slapped herself. There was a line a mile long of females wanting to run their fingers through this man’s hair, she was sure—and she was equally sure she would
not
be standing at the end of it.

Not that he’d want her to, anyway. He looked like he only dated lingerie models and starlets. Women with perfect hair and gym-taut bodies and long, manicured fingernails who’d leave scratches when they clawed at his back while they arched and moaned in ecstasy beneath him—

“I’ll get the books!” This was said much louder than necessary, loud enough to startle Asher who was still standing inches away. He jumped and put a hand to his throat.

“Jesus, Ember! Tell the neighborhood, why don’t you?”

“And a good morning to you, too,” said Christian, watching her with an amused look on his face, as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking. Really, the man had an unnerving habit of looking at her like that. Was he always this intuitive?

“Oh. Yes, good morning.” Ember cleared her throat. “Sorry, I’m just really busy at the moment,” she added lamely. Christian and Asher glanced around the store. The customers who’d been browsing a few moments earlier had left, and there wasn’t a soul in sight aside from the three of them. Asher cocked an eyebrow and looked at her as if she were insane, then turned to Christian with a wide smile.

“It’s nice to hear someone other than me and my girl here speak English.” His voice dropped, and he batted his eyelashes. He actually
batted
them. “Though of course I’ve always said a British accent makes everything sound so much more refined.”

Oh, God
, she thought, cringing.
He’s really going to make a meal of it.

“I’ve always preferred American accents, myself,” Christian replied, returning Asher’s smile. His gaze, electric green, flickered to Ember. “They’re so…invigorating.”

She’d never seen anyone appear so at ease in his own skin. He didn’t cross his arms or fiddle with car keys—he wasn’t holding car keys—or do any of the other little things people did when having a standing conversation. He simply
stood
, with his legs slightly apart and his arms hanging loose at his sides, taking up more space than he should have with the simple fact of his presence. There was a strange magnetism about him, a pull, something that made her want to reach out and touch him, something that surrounded him like an energy field, forceful and electric.

As he looked at her, Ember felt again the weird tingle of fear that had raised the hair on the back of her neck yesterday. But now the fear slid closer to a dark kind of excitement, a hum in her blood, like the threatening rumble of thunderclouds just before they discharged a bolt of lightning. He was so beautiful…she wondered absently what he might look like without clothes.

Then she stiffened, aghast.
Oh, no. I do not like him. I DO NOT!

Unbelievably, horribly, Christian’s eyes went wolfishly bright and narrowed on her face. His nostrils flared with a tiny inhalation and the smile faltered, replaced by a look of…what?

Hunger?

No, it must be anger, or something else—she didn’t know what—but she sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. This man was proving to be a little too sharp for comfort. She had the eeriest feeling he could read her like a book.

Time to move him along.

“I’ll just be a sec,” she said to Christian without introducing him to Asher.

He seemed to take it as a personal affront to his manhood because he put his hands on his hips and muttered to her with a glare, “Rude.” He then turned to Christian with his hand out and introduced himself. They shook hands—Asher glowing, Christian bemused—while Ember made her way around the counter. She silently willed Asher not to say anything too embarrassing, or to kiss Christian on the lips and try to pass it off as the regular greeting of people from Boston when meeting those from another country.

When she came back from retrieving the two copies of
Casino Royale
a minute or two later, she found Christian and Asher engrossed in a serious discussion about the merits of Ian Fleming versus Ernest Hemingway.

“
The Sun Also Rises
!” Asher insisted vehemently. “
For Whom the Bell Tolls
!
A Farewell to Arms
!”

Clearly unimpressed with the litany, Christian returned, “
The Old Man and the Sea
?”

“Well,” Asher replied after a pause. “You’ve got me there. That one was a little…astringent.”

“Astringent?” Christian laughed, while Asher watched in slack-jawed admiration. In spite of herself, Ember had to agree; laughter on Christian was like gilding a lily. You didn’t think it could get any more perfect, but then…
voila
.

Stunning.

Asher regained his composure enough to offer a faint, “But still, Ian Fleming.
Ian
Fleming?
”

“You can’t seriously think Ian Fleming was a better writer than Ernest Hemingway,” Ember cut in, siding with Asher, who smugly pointed a finger at her as if to say,
See? Proof!

Christian turned his attention to her and it felt as warm, focused, and bedazzling as a shaft of sunlight through clouds. He tilted his head and sent her a small, intimate smile that managed to bring a flush of blood to her cheeks and unsettle her in a way she definitely did not like. God, he was starting to get under her skin.

He said, “I have three words for you, Ember.”

Ignoring the traitorous little butterflies dancing in her stomach, she cocked a brow and waited.

“Double. O. Seven.”

The way he was looking at her—hot and half-lidded—was intimate, too, and she sternly reminded herself that this man was in all likelihood very, very practiced at giving women intimate looks.

Remembering how he’d looked at her when he first came in the store yesterday, how his keen gaze had travelled over her plain clothes, her unkempt hair, she decided it was much safer having him look at her
that
way, than this new, disquieting, butterfly-stirring way.

Time to remind him he couldn’t melt the panties of
every
woman on planet Earth, even if her stupid butterflies wished he would melt hers.

In a light, mocking tone Ember said, “I hate to break it to you, but those are three
numbers.
” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked him up and down. “All beauty and no brains, hmm? Well, it’s not exactly a shocker. With that face, you probably haven’t needed to think too much.”

Seemingly not insulted at all, Christian drawled in a sensual purr, “Why, Miss Jones, was that a compliment? Did you just call me beautiful?”

He knew her last name. He knew her real first name. What else did he know about her?

Intrigued, in spite of the voice screaming in her head that she was an idiot, she replied a little too quickly, “Actually, I just called you dumb.”

He smiled at her, lips twitching as if he might break out into laughter again, but the look Asher gave her was so horrified, so full of wide-eyed, open-mouthed disbelief, she couldn’t help but smile too. It was a big one, a real one, teeth and all, and it felt absolutely fantastic.

And when he saw it, Christian did the strangest thing.

He froze. His own smile faltered. His face contorted with a fleeting, unidentified emotion, before he looked away, jaw tight, and swallowed. He cleared his throat and murmured, “It seems you’ve got me pegged.”

When he looked back at her, it was like watching a door slam shut. There was a coldness there, a new, flat hardness, which began in his eyes and went everywhere at once. It was even in his voice when he spoke again.

“May I see them?” His flinty gaze dropped to the two paper-wrapped books she cradled in her arms.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

The voice in her head was satisfied with his new coldness. Unfortunately the stupid butterflies were not, and began to mope, drifting down to the pit of her belly where they lay heavy and silent, staring up at her with accusing eyes.

Asher looked back and forth between the two of them several times, then politely excused himself and began to browse through a nearby shelf of mid-century cookbooks, picking out Julia Child’s
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
. Considering he thought ordering takeout was the equivalent of cooking a meal, Ember realized he wasn’t really browsing. He was eavesdropping.

Okay, Ember, pull yourself together! Be nice so you don’t lose the most important sale the store has seen in years!

“Please, follow me,” she said more forcefully, adopting an all-business attitude. She walked to the round table where Sofia’s book club usually met. Christian silently followed her. She indicated he should take a seat, which he did—after waiting for her to sit first—and then she carefully unwrapped both editions of
Casino Royale
from their black, acid-free paper.

She turned them toward him without a word and sat back in her chair.

It was a moment before he moved. He stared down at them, looking at first one, then the other, taking in the condition of the dust jackets, examining the curl of the bottom edge on the less expensive edition. He dismissed that one and opened the cover of the pristine edition, the one worth twice as much.

“It’s in perfect condition, as you can see,” said Ember, watching him reverently touch the cover page. He ran his fingers slowly along the edges of the stacked pages, lifted the dust jacket and traced the gold lettering on the spine. The hard look on his face from before was being replaced, inch by inch, with something softer, an expression of affectionate melancholy she recognized as sentimentality.

Unable to stifle her curiosity, she asked, “Is it a gift for someone, or…?”

Without looking up, he quietly answered, “This was my father’s favorite book. He owned a first edition like this one, signed by the author. He used to read it to me every night before bed when I was a boy. I’m sure I could quote whole pages from it. I haven’t been in Spain long, and I thought…maybe if I could find a copy just like the one my father had…it might make me feel more at home…”

He trailed off into silence while Ember sat there feeling like a first-class idiot for making fun of it before. She’d never have guessed someone like him could be so sentimental. Or homesick. On impulse she said, “My father used to read me
Animal Farm
.”

Christian looked up at her then, and another expression replaced the quiet melancholy, a look of such pure, crackling intensity it took her breath away. His eyes glowed vivid, burning green. The air between them went electric.

“ ‘Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy,’ ” he recited in a voice low and infinitely dark.

“ ‘Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend,’ ” Ember replied breathlessly. She didn’t know why she was whispering, but something in his manner elicited it, his menacing, urgent look that spoke of secrets and mysteries. Of danger.

He said, “ ‘No animal shall wear clothes. No animal shall sleep in a bed. No animal shall drink alcohol. No animal shall kill another animal—’ ”

“ ‘All animals are equal,’ ” Ember finished, her voice barely audible. She and Christian stared at one another in tense silence. Goosebumps broke out all over her body.

The seven commandments the rebellious animals of
Animal Farm
made to unite themselves against the cruel rule of humans and prevent them falling into humans’ evil habits sat there between them like the proverbial elephant. She didn’t know why his manner was so changed, but Ember knew one thing for absolutely certain.