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“Yes,” Claude whispered in her ear, brushing up uncomfortably close behind her. “It is definitely time. You want him.”
She’d never really thought about the mysterious man that way, not until that moment. A challenge? Yes, he’d been that. A puzzle within an ever-expanding enigma? That, too. She made her trade and living by creating mysteries, even unsolvable ones. No wonder she’d been drawn by the temptation of freeing her knight.
But she’d never actually desired the nameless knight. Until Claude murmured the suggestion, lured her into the web like the spider he was turning out to be.
“I . . . no,” she said firmly, even though she’d begun shaking inside. “I just want to know who the heck he is. I need that.”
“You need to touch him. I’ve sensed it from the beginning.” Then Claude laughed, drawing fingertips along the exposed flesh of her forearms, pressing behind her. “I’m quite aware of the dreams, remember.”
“I’ve never wanted him in my dreams,” she insisted, swatting his hands away from her body.
“Are you so sure, Anna? You must recognize his physical allure by now.” He remained behind her, heatedly close, threatening.
They’d passed the point of safety on that very first day, and she’d felt his iron control ever since—but been unable to fight it. Yes, she desired the knight, but it took Claude to bring that fact to life. Now that he’d uttered it, the need and craving speared through her center just as it had for Templar gold itself.
“I . . . I shouldn’t. Not him.” She tried to sidestep out of Claude’s easy grasp, needed to break free, but he shadowed her from behind, clasping her shoulders and mooring her to that spot.
“Yes, you should. It is decreed.”
She squirmed in his liquid hold. “Decreed? By who? Shit, Claude, you’re getting too spooky even for me now.”
“Do you think he chose you by accident? For this task of yours? A knight’s duty?”
She shook her head. “I really . . . don’t know.”
“When did the dreams begin?”
She didn’t even have to think about that question. The date lived inside of her, solid as concrete. “A few days before Christmas.”
“Ah, and so many months later, they continue. They heighten. His call upon you increases . . . which is why I came now. He spoke to you first on the winter solstice, Anna. And he must be freed—the puzzle must be completed—by just before midnight tomorrow. The summer solstice. It will be another eight hundred years of captivity if you do not succeed.”
“Is that how long he’s been—”
“Midnight. Tomorrow, Anna,” he answered, and turned toward the studio door. “I will return long before.”
“What? You’re leaving?” She extended the velvet bag in her palm, feeling the gold’s shifting, vibrating weight within. Already the precious metal was responding to her, reacting. “I have to paint his armor. You’ve been totally specific about everything until now.”
Claude paused at her door, a paper thin smile forming on his lips. “You will work his freedom by your own hand,” he replied quietly, and with yet another almost bow, he turned to leave.
“What is your name?” Anna asked the knight on the canvas. She stood staring at the painting, wishing that he were as alive as he’d sometimes been in her night visions.
Silence reverberated throughout her studio, only the hum of the air conditioner filling the void.
“If only you could answer me,” she whispered, stepping closer to the painting. She lifted tentative fingertips and touched the brush of blond hair that swept across his shoulders. “For some reason, your name is very important to me. But even Claude won’t give up your secret.”
Closing her eyes, she touched the hard metallic paint, lightly teasing her fingers over the raised surface. She imagined what it would be like to stroke the man’s flaxen hair if he were real; wondered if it would be soft or coarse.
It would be as smooth as satin, she realized. She knew it in the core of her being.
Yes, she wanted him, and powerfully. Claude had dipped his own brush deep into her soul and revealed that hidden truth, one she’d been trying to escape ever since the first dream.
The knight never spoke during those nighttime visitations. He beckoned, he implored, he charged . . . usually with the sheer intensity of his eyes. They were gray blue, just like Claude’s. Perhaps her patron was some descendant of the mysterious man?
With her own eyes still closed, she stroked his painted hair once again.
And swore she felt the Templar gold come alive, right as his voice traipsed across her skin and soul. Caution, Anna. He is a dangerous man.
The sound was husky, heavily accented.
