She
stopped short as she rounded the last aisle. There he was. He
was reading an old book, a treasure she found at the auction last
year. It was a book of love poems written by an eighteenth century
monk to a wealthy matron. The copy was handmade, bound in cloth,
and written in the tortured monk's own hand.
Rae's
heart was pounding. Whispers of sound buzzed through her head.
Snatches of conversation and random thought tugged at her awareness.
The scents from her shop mingled with the salty smell of the ocean
on the night air. Control. She took a deep breath and closed her
eyes, fighting for serenity through the whirl of her emotions.
She hadn't had a problem with control for so long.
He
looked up. "Finished?"
"What
do you want from me?"
"Just
an answer."
He'd
removed the hat, gloves, and coat. His face was arresting. Angular
lines, high cheekbones, and a clever chin defined it. It reminded
her of a painting she'd seen of the fairy king. His eyes were
bright blue between dark lashes. His mouth had an ironic quirk
to it. Either he had a wonderful sense of humor or he thought
the world was a pretty strange place.
He
watched her as closely as she watched him. Like two jaguars claiming
the same prey. Straightening her spine, she pushed back a strand
of her hair that always refused to be tamed by her clip. "You've
waited a long time. You must be a very patient man."
"Not
really. But sometimes, you have to be patient to get what you
want."
"And
what is it that you want?"
The
blue gaze pinned her in place then assessed her slowly. "You.