“Hello, Beatrice.”
“So I heard you got it. The Lincoln speech. Was the buyer happy?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. Happy parties on both sides, and a good commission for me.”
“Great. That’s great.”
She sauntered into the library, eventually making her way back to the desk where her computer had rested silently during her absence. She turned it on, and Giovanni searched his mind, trying to find a way to bypass the wall that had risen between them.
He had an idea. “I have another project for you.”
She frowned a little as she concentrated on the computer screen. “Oh, really?” she said. “What’s up?”
“It’s related to the Pico letters.”
Her eyes met his, obviously surprised. “The letters? You mean-that’s…you trust me to find stuff about the letters?”
He frowned, “Of course I do. Why do you think I wouldn’t trust you?”
She just stared at him for a few minutes before a sharp laugh escaped her, and she shook her head. “Do I think…I don’t-Giovanni, I don’t know what to think about you. About anything. I just-I should just stop trying to figure you out, honestly.”
Giovanni took a deep breath and stood, perching his hip on the corner of the large table before he answered. “Beatrice, that night at the pub-”
“Did you mean it?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “That kiss?”
She looked at him, frowning as she bit her lip. “Because at first I thought you did-I mean, it felt real to me-and then you implied that you were acting.”
“But then, I thought about it more.”
He felt his fangs drop and his skin begin to heat as she drew closer, and he forced his body to remain still instead of rushing to meet her.
“I thought about it more, and realized there are some things a man can’t fake. And the way you kissed me…” Her lips were full and flush from when she had bit them nervously. He crossed his arms on his chest so he couldn’t touch her as she continued in a low voice, “The way it felt, Gio, I don’t think it was fake at all.”
She stood in front of him, her eyes bold as she met his hungry stare, and all Giovanni would have had to do was take one step and he could have wrapped his body around hers, laid his mouth on her soft neck, and swallowed the thick blood that called to him. He swallowed slowly, and ignored the burn in his throat and the smell of honeysuckle and lemon that filled the air.
“I’m not going to deny that I’m attracted to you, Beatrice. Denying that would be foolish and insulting to us both.”
“But you’re not going to kiss me again, are you?”
“No.”
“Did you want to bite me?”
He searched her eyes, trying to determine what answer she wanted, but though he had observed humanity for five hundred years, her enigmatic eyes were still a mystery to him.
“Yes.”
“But you won’t do that, either?”
His body yearned to say yes, but his mind rebelled at the consequences of that kind of intimacy.
“No. I won’t bite you,” he said, hoping he was strong enough not to break his word.
“Why not? You could. I’m not strong enough to stop you.”
He straightened his shoulders and tore his eyes from her to look toward the fireplace.
“It wouldn’t be a prudent decision, Beatrice. For either of us.”
He saw her swallow out of the corner of his eye and detected the thin edge of regret in her eyes before she turned and walked to her desk. He knew his answer had pleased neither of them, but she was too valuable to be anything more than a human under his protection.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, neither of them looking at the other, as the fire crackled in the grate. Eventually, he heard her open a desk drawer. She pulled something out and walked over to him where he stood at the table, his arms still crossed and his hands clenched. She was carrying a notepad and a black ball-point pen.
“So, what do you want me to find, boss?”
Chapter Fourteen
“Just taste it,” a playful voice implored.
“I’m telling you, I don’t like lamb!”
“But, darling, you have never tried
The sound of Caspar and Isadora’s voices drifted out from the kitchen, interspersed with the occasional chuckle or tinkling laugh. Beatrice saw Giovanni frowning toward the door from his seat at the dining room table, and she had to stifle a laugh.
“Caspar!” her grandmother shouted before breaking into a fit of what could only be described as giggles. Now Beatrice was the one frowning, and she glanced over at Giovanni to find him watching her with an eyebrow cocked in amusement.
“Do you wonder?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. I don’t even want to speculate.”
He chuckled and continued sorting through the catalogue printouts she had made for him.
They had finally fallen back into a comfortable work rhythm after the kiss in January, eventually finding a way to work with each other while giving each other space. Ironically, it was even more evident to Beatrice that she had developed serious feelings for Giovanni the longer they worked together. It didn’t help that they were now pursuing the same project and had even more time to interact.
Following his hunch, Giovanni and Beatrice searched for other documents he thought might have been sold or donated from his original collection of books, manuscripts and letters. He speculated that Lorenzo was attempting to draw her father out of hiding, and if Lorenzo had given some documents away, he might have given or sold others, as well. If Giovanni knew
She’d discovered a cache of documents donated to the University of Leeds that Giovanni thought might have been the original Dante correspondence Stephen De Novo mentioned to his father, and Giovanni unearthed another set of letters between Girolamo Benevieni and Giovanni Pico that had been bought by a private collection in Perugia.
“This is odd,” he muttered as he looked at the details from another auction in Rome. “There’s something… Beatrice, call Carwyn, will you?”
“Sure, he’s outside with Bran?”
“Probably trying to cover up another horticultural disaster that beast has inflicted on my gardens.”
“Aw, Gio, you’ll miss him when he’s gone.”
“Carwyn, yes. The dog, no.” Just then, Doyle jumped on his lap and shoved his fuzzy grey head under Giovanni’s hand. Beatrice had to chuckle that neither seemed to notice the cat’s hair standing on end every time Giovanni touched him.
“No, no one will miss the wolfhound, will they, Doyle?” he murmured, continuing to stroke the cat’s back as he read. Watching the vampire read at the table with his dark hair falling into his eyes, a frown furrowing his brow and
