Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Of course Alfonso would’ve seen the article when he’d brought the morning paper up to the office. Speculations about the reason for Lann’s celibacy were splashed over the front page.
Alfonso’s lips lifted in synchrony with his left eyebrow. “Maybe if Sir accepted the lady journalist’s invitation, she wouldn’t have written that.”
Lann gave an irritated chuckle. “She’s a player. You know how I feel about that.”
“Yes, Sir,” Alfonso said dutifully. “You prefer females to be the prey.”
Lann fixed him with a stare. “I’m happy to be hunted, but I won’t be manipulated.”
He got to his feet and walked to the double French doors overlooking the square below. This month and a half was supposed to be a holiday, one he needed badly from the investigations he conducted as a member of Cain Jones’s paranormal crime task force, especially after the stress their commander, Josselin de Arradon, had recently put them all through when he’d gone ballistic over the very woman they’d been hunting, in the middle of one of their most intense cases. There was a moment when Lann had feared for all of their lives, worried that Joss was thinking with a body part other than his head. Not that he blamed him. Clelia d’Ambrois’s affection for their commander was evident from the start. He’d never seen a stronger bond between two people. Sometimes he even envied them, but then he reminded himself of what he was, and that a man like him had no future with a woman—at least nothing long term.
The escape to the dilapidated Franciscan monastery and church he’d bought with the intention of turning the buildings into a museum/home had seemed like a welcome break, but the renovations had been challenging and repeatedly delayed. The work on the monastery had only just been done. The church was far from finished. Add to that the damn media that wouldn’t leave him in peace, and his dream sabbatical had turned into a nightmare.
One more month remained before he was due back in New York to take up his post as aeromancist for the team. His only intention was to enjoy his new property and to immerse himself in the library that came with his purchase—a collection of twenty thousand antique books, many of them handwritten with the oldest dating back to 1494.
The athenaeum had been neglected. It pained him to see books of such value uncared for. When he bought the place, the books were scattered throughout the monastery in piles. They found them everywhere—in the former reading rooms on dust-layered desks, in the original library, in the great hall, and in the seventeenth century vault. There was even a stash in the abandoned church on the adjoining property. The Franciscan priory and its library had been privately owned, and when the proprietor had run out of funds, the government hadn’t had the resources to maintain the historical building or its treasures. It had been pure luck that the opportunity had come to his broker’s attention.
The first thing he’d instructed the builders to do was to extend the library to a seventy-foot hall fitted with three stories of built-in shelves. The ceiling had already been high enough to accommodate the additional levels. It only had to be reinforced. He’d taken special care with fire precautions and safety measures. Then he’d hired Martina, a librarian, and five helpers to catalogue the books and arrange them alphabetically. There was a lot still to be done. Now this journalist, Amelia, was on his tail like a missile, and he had to watch his back twenty-four seven for the fear of being exposed for what he was—a practitioner of a forbidden art.
Exposure would mean only one thing. He’d be hunted, and it wouldn’t be the kind of hunt Amelia was interested in. They’d involve a hell of a lot of bullets. He’d be executed by the organizations that saw his kind as a threat or chased by those who wanted to get their hands on his power. Even though his team was backed by government, it was a secret operation. No one was going to claim him if he got himself captured. Cain might try sending in a rescue team, but the ground rule was clear. If you got yourself caught, you were on your own. Gift hunters would risk their lives to acquire his art, his ability to manipulate weather, because its acquisition meant a hefty prize in gold currency. The only way his art could be taken from him was if they killed him, and the only way to prevent it from being taken was by killing himself.
Throwing open the doors, he walked out onto the balcony and stared down at the garden. The shrubs and palm trees were a hidden oasis in the middle of an ugly part of town. Cut off from the outside noise and pollution, the square always had a calming effect on him. Especially the marble statue of Saint Teresa. It was an extraordinary piece of art. With a serene face tilted to the side and hands stretched out over the garden, she offered absolution and peace. How he yearned for peace, if only for a month.