She received a message from Madeline on her telescriber that read, I know what’s happening. I will stop by . . . and then it ended. She didn’t say when she would stop by—presumably before the family left for the hunting lodge, but Emme wasn’t sure. She’d returned a message that went unanswered, and instead called the front desk. She was informed that her family had taken three rooms on the sixth floor, but Sir Ronald had checked them out earlier in the morning. Madeline’s cryptic message played in her thoughts, and she felt uneasy for her stepsister. She did not trust Lysette.
Gus came and went, gathering what little crumbs of information he could without raising suspicion. His network of acquaintances was impressive, in both the underground vampire world and the unsuspecting society of humans with which he mingled.
He took daily medication that was an improvement on Vampiric Assimilation Aid, which allowed vampires to walk in the daylight and eat regular food. It was also incredibly expensive, and the vampire Cadre controlled both the medicine and its distribution. Yet another reason the Cadre did not want to see vampires as a whole accepted within human society. If vamps did not feel the need to hide any longer, the Assimilation Aid would become obsolete.
Carlo made one of the presentations she had been scheduled to give, and visiting her later, gave her details of all who were present and an accounting of the conversations occurring before and after the address. He expressed regret that she had been unable to speak herself and patted her hand, promising that she would be safe and the “scoundrels rounded up” before the night of the midnight vote.
After Carlo left, Emme wandered into Oliver’s room to find him sitting at a small table, writing a letter. He looked up at her entrance and smiled, oozing charm. The more irritated she grew with their enforced confinement, the more affable he became. It was insufferable.
“Why have you never married?” she asked Oliver bluntly.
He gave a startled laugh, and she looked at him, determined not to flush or feel awkward.
“Who says I’ve not?”
She froze in place, aghast. “You’re married?”
His mouth quirked in that smile that was now more infuriating than charming. “No. I am not married. Have never been.”
She looked at him in silence, wondering why it mattered.
“You would be unhappy if I were?” His brows rose innocently, and yet a smug undercurrent rolled from him in waves.
“I would feel an enormous amount of pity for your wife, knowing her husband was tasked with the personal protection of another woman who does not look like a hideous troll.”
He nodded sagely. “Fortunate, then, that I’ve managed to beat back the pressing horde of women who want nothing more than to be the wife of a detective. Especially if my career continues on its current trajectory. Perhaps I shall move into the knight-in-shining-armor business, make a living protecting damsels in distress.”
She frowned, not caring for the sound of that option, either. Then an equally irritating thought struck. “I am not a damsel in distress.”
“No. You are not.” His expression sobered. “You’re in need of protection from enemies unseen, but you are not in distress. That is an important distinction to you.”
She nodded. “It is, but I hate to think you are placating me.”
“Never. I do not find you helpless, never have.” He sighed. “My work would have been infinitely less complicated if you were. The helpless refrain from tearing into the fray, heedless of worry for life and limb.”
“Ah, but then you might find yourself facing a nasty case of ennui, no?”
He laughed, and it warmed her heart. “Rich man’s boredom? I hardly think I shall ever be bothered by such a thing. If I were ever at risk of it, however, I’ve you to thank for keeping it away.”
“You are most welcome.” Her mouth curved into a smile. The world had righted itself, mostly. He was not married, had never been, and did not consider her helpless or distressed.
Why did it matter so much to her?
Probably because he was handsome, of course, and she was of marriageable age. He was a fine specimen of manhood, and both nature and science practically dictated she should find herself drawn to him. She’d had an almost-kiss with him the night before, and even as tired as she’d been, the thought of it, the memory of his tender closeness, had kept her awake for some time. She paused at the mantel, trying to untangle the knot of her emotions.
“Would you care to share your thoughts, Miss O’Shea?”
She could tell him what she’d been thinking. She could admit that she felt herself falling through a cloud of her own emotions and desires and hoping he would be on the other side to catch her. She could admit that she was depending on him more than she’d ever depended on anyone before, and as much as it was frightening, there was also a heady delight in it.
He would defend her with everything he had; she knew it in her soul. What she did not know, however, was what a passionate kiss meant, one which might not otherwise have transpired had they not just cheated death. If she gave him her heart, even if he didn’t know she’d done it, he might not be interested in keeping it. She knew he was developing a reluctant affection for her, but she very deliberately did not open herself to his emotions because she was afraid of what she might not find. And if she did find something significant, what on earth was she to do with it?
“I was thinking of all the times we met as antagonists,” she finally said. “We’d never have believed in a future that saw us working together.” It wasn’t
