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“How is it that a relic deters a feral, and holy ground repels Maximilian and Aoibhe?”
“You’re a murderer.” She changed the subject.
He did not blink. “Yes.”
“And a thief.”
William released her neck and straightened.
“With respect to the illustrations, I merely repossessed them.”
“But you came to see if I was frightened after I saw the policeman being killed.”
He nodded once.
“And you came to me tonight, when you thought I was in danger. Now I discover you fought three men to save my life, even though you didn’t know me.” She gazed up at him in wonder.
He moved to cup her face.
“I know you.
“I know you live alone and have few friends. I know you walk with a cane because of your leg and ankle.
“I know you weep over a homeless man and risked your life to save him.
“I know that, despite the quiet and simplicity of your life, you’ve been happier in Florence than anywhere else.”
He drew a circle on her cheek with his thumb before dropping it to her jaw.
“You are my greatest virtue and my deepest vice.”
He leaned forward and pressed their lips together.
Anguish and desire flared in his chest as his mouth touched hers, his kiss becoming firm and insistent. His thumb traced a tempting trail down her beautiful neck and he groaned, the sound throaty and carnal.
Raven had been taken by surprise. At first she was motionless, trying to get her bearings. At the sound of his groan, which she took to be an indication of genuine desire, she relaxed against him.
His mouth was sensuous, his lips softer than she expected. And he kissed with the intensity of a condemned man.
Suddenly he pulled away.
“Good night, Cassita.” His words were a command and not a suggestion.
He turned his back on her, walking to the far end of the room where the Botticelli illustrations were displayed.
Raven wanted to ask him questions. She wanted to ask why he’d kissed her. Why he’d changed his mind and stopped.
She wanted to ask about the medicine he’d used to save her.
His mood had shifted. He seemed irritated, if not angry, and she was wary of him.
Her wariness was enough to propel her to obey his command and delay her escape. She had too many unanswered questions to leave now.
Without a word, she lifted her knapsack and exited the room, touching her lips in wonder.
Chapter Twenty-three
William strode to his library and shut the doors, locking them from the inside. Bookshelves ascended from the floor to the domed ceiling. A sliding metal staircase ran on a track that curved around the room, enabling one to climb to the tallest shelf.
Not that he needed the staircase.
Through the immense glass panes that formed the ceiling, he could see the moon, and the stars winking above him. Year after year, century after century, he’d gazed at that same sky. Its response was always the same—beautiful, cold indifference.
Just like God.
He growled at the thought.
He hadn’t chosen this life; it had been forced on him.
So much for the justice that governs the universe. Dante was a fool to believe such myths. Some of us are damned by the actions of others and exiled to hell through no fault of our own.
It was rare that he indulged himself with such thoughts. They stoked his anger and tested his discipline. On this evening, they could not be put aside.
He’d served God, even after God had taken what he treasured most. And in such a sick and twisted way.
Then God had taken from him again.
Twice he had seen goodness disappear from the world, watching the very life ebb away. Twice he’d been powerless to stop it. On the third occasion, when he came upon Cassita, he had the power to do something.
So do something he did.
Interestingly enough, Cassita’s goodness wasn’t cold and indifferent, as her tardy response to his kiss indicated.
The thought seared him.
He sat behind his wooden desk and opened the center drawer, withdrawing a small, black velvet box.
He opened it.
A pretty face looked up at him from behind glass.
The face was of a woman, young and fair, with large blue eyes and anabundance of long, reddish blond curls.
William remembered his anger, long since buried, as he stroked the girl’s cheek. He remembered the centuries of despair and hopelessness he’d weathered until the night he’d found the girl with the green eyes, slumped in an alley.
With her face firmly fixed in his mind, he closed the box and put it back in its place, sliding the drawer shut.
The next morning, Raven awoke late. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, her mind active and worried.
She found a card on her nightstand that indicated she should ring Lucia for breakfast. The card itself was unremarkable. What was remarkable was the fact that Raven found herself squinting in order to read Lucia’s elegant script.
Her heart sank as she realized that her eyesight, like all the other changes to her body, was reverting back to what it had been before William rescued her.
If, in fact, he had rescued her.
In the bright light of day, she wondered about his story. He claimed she’d had a head injury, but apart from a headache or two and her memory loss, there wasn’t any physical evidence.
Of course, there was the strange matter of her changed appearance. She wondered how William had been able to bring that about.
William.
The name, like the man, was deceptive. His attractive exterior and elegant name belied the criminal who was prone to violence.
The man who’d kissed her the evening before.
She had limited experience when it came to kisses, but she recognized his expertise. The recognition was accompanied by the cooling tide of guilt.
William was handsome and he could be charming. Certainly he’d helped her more than once. But he was an art thief, a member of almost the lowest form of humanity.
And I let him kiss me.
Raven told herself she hadn’t pushed him away because she’d been emotional. She’d been frightened. She couldn’t be attracted to a criminal.
More precisely, she wouldn’t allow herself to be attracted to a criminal. No matter what.
She pulled on a robe to greet Lucia and was delighted when the woman set her brunch out on the balcony that opened from the bedroom.
Raven was grateful that two aspirin had been left on the tray, since her leg and ankle were aching. If the pain worsened, she’d have to start taking her prescription pain medication again.
She sighed at the thought.
As she enjoyed the noon sunshine her mind naturally drifted to the evening before.
William York was behind the theft of the illustrations from the Uffizi Gallery. Whether they’d belonged to him in the past or not, Raven didn’t know. Certainly his story was at odds with the account the Emersons had given.
In addition, William seemed almost too young to be a serious art collector. The collection he’d amassed downstairs rivaled that of many museums in quality, if not quantity, leading Raven to believe it had been acquired over decades, if not centuries, by his family.
Since Professor Emerson had already mentioned William as a potential suspect, it was more than likely he’d been investigated. Knowing he was guilty, she wondered why he hadn’t fled the city and returned to England.
Raven looked down at her half-eaten sweet roll. She’d suddenly lost her appetite.
William claimed to have saved her life, and killed in order to do it. While it was possible he’d lied about that, too, she couldn’t explain the strange images that continued to flood her consciousness—images of a dark alley and blood and the faces of the man and woman she’d seen the night before.
And there was the
fact that she’d sketched William’s face before seeing it. She must have met him before.
If he’d killed to protect her, she certainly didn’t condone it. But she knew her story would be too fantastic for the police to believe. She’d had enough trouble with them already.
She could try to persuade William to give the illustrations back, so they could be enjoyed by everyone and not relegated to a private room in his villa. Given his attitude and the way he’d spoken about the illustrations, this task would not be easy.
A shadow fell across the table.
“Good morning,” William greeted her. “Did you rest well?”
“I found it difficult to sleep.” She pulled the edges of her bathrobe closed. “Would you like to join me?”
“I’ve eaten already.” He stepped out of the sun and back into the master bedroom, hovering in the doorway.
She found the movement strange.
“Don’t you want to sit in the sun?”
“Not particularly.” He sounded prim.
She gestured to his fair skin. “Do you burn easily?”
“I find the sun uncomfortable and tend to avoid it. Is breakfast to your liking?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Raven felt conspicuous eating in front of him, especially since her waist had noticeably thickened overnight. She pushed the tray aside and sipped her coffee, looking out over the extensive gardens and trees at the back of his villa.
