Night's Honor (Elder Races #7)(14)

Opposite that, between the windows, the bookcase was filled with modern paperbacks, both fiction and nonfiction. At one end of the room near the fireplace, aged leather couches and chairs had been grouped together to make a sitting area, while a large antique desk with a top-of-the-line computer took pride of place at the other end.

The study was on the north side of the house, she realized, and as such, it wouldn’t get any direct sunlight throughout the year.

Nearest the fireplace where a bright fire blazed, Xavier sat in one of the leather armchairs, reading. Dressed simply in black slacks and a white shirt, he wore the cuffs of his sleeves rolled to midway up his forearms. His chestnut hair was neatly combed back and tied at the nape of his neck.

As she stepped into the room, he set his book aside on a polished end table and rose to his feet, his erect, slim form as elegant as his surroundings.

At his simple, lithe movement, her mouth dried out and her heart started pounding.

He cocked his head as he regarded her, looking much as he had the night before, with his face expressionless and gray-green eyes intent. “You can’t do this in half measures, Ms. Graham. Come all the way in and shut the door behind you.”

FOUR

You might as well call me Tess,” she muttered. What was it about him that made her feel so graceless and awkward? With a glance over her shoulder, she saw that Raoul was already easing the door shut, so she forced herself to move forward.

She drew closer, and his eyelids lowered as he watched her. It was the only movement he made that she could discern. Once again, she grew intensely aware of her own human failings—the tiny rasp of breath catching in her throat, the slight sound of her jeans rubbing at her inner thighs, and the damp palms hidden at the heart of her unsteady hands.

Like the night before, his intelligent, youthful face showed nothing of what he was thinking. As she came close to the sitting area, he gestured to the armchair opposite his. “Please, have a seat.”

If nothing else, both he and Raoul had beautiful manners, much better than hers. She complied with his invitation and sat.

Once she had taken her place, Xavier sat as well, crossed his legs, rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and laced his fingers together. He looked utterly relaxed and at ease, and his poise made her even more uncomfortable and envious. While they sat mere feet away from each other, the distance between them was immeasurable.

“I trust that Raoul has seen to your needs.” His quiet voice caressed the silence in the room. “Is your room adequate?”

She nodded. “Yes, thanks. It’s great.”

“Very good.” He met her gaze, and his was steady and shrewd. “Now tell me, Tess. Why are you here?”

She bit her lip. “Like I told you, I needed the job.”

“I remember very well everything you said to me last night.” He tapped his lips with his forefingers. “But I do find it curious that someone with your marketable qualifications would be so desperate for employment.”

She lifted her shoulders in a jerky shrug. “Things happen. Accidents, unemployment, sickness. We aren’t always in control of what occurs in our lives.”

“True, but surely you could have found employment again, quickly enough. Just now when you walked into the room, I could taste your fear in the air. It is—disquieting. Why are you so afraid?”

Somehow saying, “Because you could tear my head off my shoulders before I could draw in enough breath to scream” didn’t seem the most politic of replies. She shifted in her seat, listening to the leather cushion creak underneath her weight.

“Are you afraid of all Vampyres, or is it me?” He didn’t look as if he would be terribly bothered by her answer, either way.

Oh, to hell with it. It wasn’t like she could truly hide how she felt anyway. He was reading her as easily as he had read his book.

“I’m intensely uncomfortable around all Vampyres, but even more so around you.” She forced a deep breath into her constricted lungs. “Is what they say about you true?”

He lifted one sleek eyebrow. “To what are you referring?”

She met his gaze. “That you were a priest when you were human. The Inquisition killed your family, and that was when you became a Vampyre—and you went after all of the officers of the Inquisition until everybody who had been involved was dead.”

Something glittered deep in his eyes, a fierce, hot spark of reaction, until his eyelids lowered again to cover the expression, and he looked as cool and collected as he had before. “Yes.”

It was the smallest betrayal of feeling, that spark, but she had seen it, and her perception of him altered again.

What kind of rage and pain drove a young man to end life as he knew it, so that he could bring justice to those who had killed his family?

For some reason, she glanced down at the book where he had laid it on the table. The name of the author and title were clearly stamped in black on the old leather cover: René Descartes, Meditations on First Philosophy.

The book was worn and had clearly been read often. So, not only did he have excellent taste, and evidently sincere feelings for at least one of his attendants, but he enjoyed philosophy too. The business of compartmentalizing him into a box labeled “monster” was quickly getting more complicated than she had expected.

Clearing her throat, she fumbled for something appropriate to say. “I know it happened a long time ago, but I’m sorry for your loss.”