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Ambri leaned an arm on the mantle above the fireplace, slender and dagger-like in black. The shadows danced in the contours of his face. It seemed more amazing to me that this man was real andnota figment of my sex-starved imagination.
I blinked back to reality.Myreality.
“But that’s all over now. They took all my money. My sketchbook too.”
“It’s not over,” Ambri said. “It’s just beginning.”
“What is?”
“You and me, Cole Matheson.”
The look in his eyes made my heart thud in my chest. The sense of danger and excitement returned, like the heat of the fire that was warming my limbs, driving out the miserable thoughts.
You and me…
The tea kettle in the kitchen whistled, breaking the moment. Ambri retreated again and returned a few minutes later with a cup of hot chamomile in an antique-looking cup and saucer. He set it on the table next to me.
I frowned. “You’re not having any?”
He eased onto the sofa across from me and draped his arms along the back on either side of him. “It’s pointless to eat or drink. I enjoy the occasional liquor, though it does nothing for me.”
“Did you put something in it?” I demanded, my sense of self-preservation—finally—breaking the spell Ambri had over me. “Why did you bring me here? To drug me and…do things to me? Is that what happened before?”
“What was it that happened before?” Ambri asked, but he looked as if he already knew the answer.
I carved my hands through my hair. “I don’t know. The dreams are getting all jumbled with reality. It seemed like you were in my place last night. But then the wings, the beetles…” I looked to him. “Were you? Were you actually in my place and I made up the rest? Have you been following me?”
He pursed his lips. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s actually just a yes or no question.” I got to my feet. “Never mind. I’m an idiot for coming here—”
“No, it’s quite the smartest thing you could do, given your current situation,” Ambri said. “You’re not going mad, you’re tormented. The proverbial starving artist. But I can change that.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. “I don’t know what plan you had in mind when you brought me here but I’m not going to be your houseboy—”
“I have no intention of you prostituting yourself for me…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Though I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to it either.”
I turned to the door. “I’m leaving.”
“You need me, Cole Matheson,” he said. “And, it just so happens, I need you. Your talent anyway. I never had my portrait done in life—a grievous sin that needs to be repaired immediately.”
“Inlife?”
He sighed. “Will yousit? You’re hovering. And you haven’t tended your wounds. I won’t have you bleeding all over my carpet. It’s older than I am.”
I slowly sank back down. “Five minutes. I’ll hear you out and then I’m gone.”
Ambri smirked. “It’s cute that you believe you’re in a position to give ultimatums, but you’ve had a rough night. I’ll humor you.”
“Thanks.”
“My name is Ambrosius Edward Meade-Finch, formally of Hever Castle.”
“Hever Castle. Wasn’t that where Anne Boleyn—?”
Ambri flapped a hand irritably. “That skinny-necked wench has been overshadowing me for eons. Yes, Anne Boleyn grew up at Hever, but centuries later, it becamemychildhood ancestral home.”
“Wait, I’ve been there,” I said. “We took a tour at the Academy. Hever has one of the best collections of Tudor portraits, second only to the National Portrait Gallery.”
