transformation.”
Trevor nodded. “And I?”
“You wait here. Too risky for both of us to go up. He’s not to know we exist yet. If anything goes awry, ring Simon immediately.”
Trevor nodded again, and they drifted apart, to settle back and wait. They were patient men. They’d been waiting for this moment all their lives. They were the lucky ones, those born in the hour of the Prophecy’s fruition.
To a man, they would die to see the Draghar live again.
A messenger from a travel agency arrived shortly before the small crew of people who delivered dinner from Jean Georges.
Chloe couldn’t begin to imagine what something like that cost—didn’t think Jean Georges delivered—but she suspected that when one had as much money as Dageus MacKeltar, virtually anything could be bought.
While they ate before the fire in the living room, he continued working on the book that had initially landed her in this mess.
The envelope from the travel agency lay unopened on the table between them—a glaring reminder, chafing her.
Earlier, while he’d been in the kitchen, not quite brazen enough to tear open the envelope, she’d snooped instead through his notes—what she could read of them. It appeared that he was translating and copying every reference to the Tuatha Dé Danaan, the race that had allegedly arrived in one of several waves of Irish invasions. There were a few scribbled questions about the identity of the Draghar, and numerous notes about Druids. Between her major in ancient civilizations and Grandda’s tales, Chloe was well versed in most of it. With the exception of the mysterious Draghar, it was nothing she’d not read about before.
Still, some of his notes were written in languages she couldn’t translate. Or even identify, and that gave her a kind of queasy feeling. She knew a great deal about ancient languages, from Sumerian to present, and could usually target, at least, area and approximate era. But much of what he’d penned—in an elegant minuscule cursive worthy of any illuminated manuscript—defied her comprehension.
What on earth was he looking for? He certainly seemed to be a man on a mission, working on his task with intense focus.
With each new bit of information she gathered about him, she grew more intrigued. Not only was he strong, gorgeous, and wealthy, but he was unarguably brilliant. She’d never met anyone like him before.
“Why don’t you just tell me?” she asked point-blank, gesturing at the book.
He raised his gaze and she felt the heat of it instantly. Throughout the day, when he hadn’t been utterly ignoring her, the few times he’d looked at her, there’d been such blatant lust in his gaze that it was eroding every bit of common sense she possessed. The sheer force of his unguarded desire was more seductive than any aphrodisiac. No wonder so many women fell prey to his charm! He had a way of making a woman feel, with a mere glance, as if she were the most desirable woman in the world. How was a woman to stare into the face of such lust, and not feel lust in response?
He was leaving soon.
And he couldn’t have made it more clear that he wanted to sleep with her.
Those two thoughts in swift conjunction were abjectly risky.
“Well?” she pressed irritably. Irritated with herself for being so weak and susceptible to him. Irritated with him for being so attractive. And he’d just
had
to go and return those texts, confounding her already confounded feelings about him. “What, already?”
He arched a dark brow, his gaze raking her in a way that made her feel as if a sudden sultry breeze had caressed her. “What if I told you, lass, that I seek a way to undo an ancient and deadly curse?”
She scoffed. He couldn’t be serious. Curses weren’t real. No more than the Tuatha Dé Danaan were real. Well, she amended, she’d never actually reached a firm conclusion about the Tuatha Dé or any of the “mythological” races said to have once inhabited
Trevor nodded. “And I?”
“You wait here. Too risky for both of us to go up. He’s not to know we exist yet. If anything goes awry, ring Simon immediately.”
Trevor nodded again, and they drifted apart, to settle back and wait. They were patient men. They’d been waiting for this moment all their lives. They were the lucky ones, those born in the hour of the Prophecy’s fruition.
To a man, they would die to see the Draghar live again.
A messenger from a travel agency arrived shortly before the small crew of people who delivered dinner from Jean Georges.
Chloe couldn’t begin to imagine what something like that cost—didn’t think Jean Georges delivered—but she suspected that when one had as much money as Dageus MacKeltar, virtually anything could be bought.
While they ate before the fire in the living room, he continued working on the book that had initially landed her in this mess.
The envelope from the travel agency lay unopened on the table between them—a glaring reminder, chafing her.
Earlier, while he’d been in the kitchen, not quite brazen enough to tear open the envelope, she’d snooped instead through his notes—what she could read of them. It appeared that he was translating and copying every reference to the Tuatha Dé Danaan, the race that had allegedly arrived in one of several waves of Irish invasions. There were a few scribbled questions about the identity of the Draghar, and numerous notes about Druids. Between her major in ancient civilizations and Grandda’s tales, Chloe was well versed in most of it. With the exception of the mysterious Draghar, it was nothing she’d not read about before.
Still, some of his notes were written in languages she couldn’t translate. Or even identify, and that gave her a kind of queasy feeling. She knew a great deal about ancient languages, from Sumerian to present, and could usually target, at least, area and approximate era. But much of what he’d penned—in an elegant minuscule cursive worthy of any illuminated manuscript—defied her comprehension.
What on earth was he looking for? He certainly seemed to be a man on a mission, working on his task with intense focus.
With each new bit of information she gathered about him, she grew more intrigued. Not only was he strong, gorgeous, and wealthy, but he was unarguably brilliant. She’d never met anyone like him before.
“Why don’t you just tell me?” she asked point-blank, gesturing at the book.
He raised his gaze and she felt the heat of it instantly. Throughout the day, when he hadn’t been utterly ignoring her, the few times he’d looked at her, there’d been such blatant lust in his gaze that it was eroding every bit of common sense she possessed. The sheer force of his unguarded desire was more seductive than any aphrodisiac. No wonder so many women fell prey to his charm! He had a way of making a woman feel, with a mere glance, as if she were the most desirable woman in the world. How was a woman to stare into the face of such lust, and not feel lust in response?
He was leaving soon.
And he couldn’t have made it more clear that he wanted to sleep with her.
Those two thoughts in swift conjunction were abjectly risky.
“Well?” she pressed irritably. Irritated with herself for being so weak and susceptible to him. Irritated with him for being so attractive. And he’d just
had
to go and return those texts, confounding her already confounded feelings about him. “What, already?”
He arched a dark brow, his gaze raking her in a way that made her feel as if a sudden sultry breeze had caressed her. “What if I told you, lass, that I seek a way to undo an ancient and deadly curse?”
She scoffed. He couldn’t be serious. Curses weren’t real. No more than the Tuatha Dé Danaan were real. Well, she amended, she’d never actually reached a firm conclusion about the Tuatha Dé or any of the “mythological” races said to have once inhabited
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