Page 81 of The Librarians
An enormousbangbooms from upstairs.
Hazel hardly dares to breathe. The muzzle of the gun presses more forcefully into the side of her head. She blinks—and the handwriting on the postcard, which she had trouble deciphering a moment ago, resolves into legible words.
I bought this on my way back to the boat. Also bought another one—of the botanical garden—that I’ve taped up on the wall of my tiny, coffin-like cabin. I hope to be able to send this one to you soon. Thank you for a perfect day. I’m happy when I think about you.
Does he know that it is she beneath the balaclava? Does she want him to know?
The postcard is still cradled inside the pages ofLa cinquième saison. She closes the book and slams it at Conrad’s hand. He knocks it away, grips her by the wrist, and yanks her up. She uses the sharpness of his pull to ram her elbow toward his spleen.
He sidesteps her attack. She stabs her fingers at his eyes. He flings her away from him. She cries out as she sails through the air—and lands on the bed.
She scrambles up. He seizes her by the ankle. She kicks with her freefoot. He grunts but grabs her by the knees. She pulls back to strike with both feet. He flips her whole person over.
The air is knocked out of her lungs as she lands on the mattress again, this time on her front. What feels like his entire weight jams into her lower vertebrae as he twists her arm over her back.
She lets out a whimper of pain.
“Hazel?” comes Conrad’s hesitant question.
Her heart pounds. He would have seen her automated tool working on his desktop but isn’t sure yet who she is. If she can escape the house and make a getaway, can Jonathan claim he has no idea what was going on upstairs?
Making use of his momentary distraction—and the easing of pressure on her spine—she jabs the elbow of her still-free arm toward his head. He lets go of her and narrowly avoids her elbow. She turns over and sits halfway up. But before she can scramble off the bed, he comes down on her like a mountain, grabs both her wrists, and pins them above her head.
And then he manages to free one hand. The barrel of his gun nuzzles the bottom of her balaclava.
Her flashlight is on the floor but still emits enough light for her to see the outline of his heavily shadowed features. And if he gets her balaclava off, he’ll see her just as clearly.
She thrashes. He presses her harder into the mattress, his cheek brushing against hers. She would like to headbutt him but can’t rear up with enough velocity to do that. Instead, she captures his mouth with hers.
Shock reverberates along her nerve endings. The softness of his lips, the warmth of their contact, the peppery taste of the kiss—it’s as if she’s reliving her own best memories, memories the accuracy and reliability of which she had begun to doubt years ago, precisely because of their pristine loveliness.
The kiss turns scorching. Heat simmers under her skin. Heat radiates from his hands, now cupped around her face and the back of her head. Heat palpitates between them, as roiling and inexorable as stellar expansion, evaporating entire planets in its path.
Her arms lock around his shoulders. Years drop away and they are just two very young people who have fallen under each other’s spell. In the neardarkness she can almost hear the Atlantic Ocean, swirling around the rocky precipices of Madeira. Almost smell the salt and happiness of a different eon.
She heaves him off her with all her strength. He lands on the floor with a thud. She leaps off the foot of the bed, runs to the door, and yanks it open. Only to have herself wrenched back and the door slammed shut with a thunderous crash that shakes the entire house.
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you’re doing here.”
He flips a switch. Light floods the room. Hazel squints. Something feels odd about her face. It’s bare—her balaclava is gone.
She lifts the Glock he dropped on the bed in the middle of their kiss—and which she’d grabbed while getting off. “I will go and stay as I wish.”
Coolly, he pulls another semiautomatic pistol from behind him. “The one in your hand isn’t loaded. But this one is.”
She should have groped him more thoroughly while they were still in bed. “That’s fine. I’ll keep this one for now. It’s pretty handy for smashing into someone’s skull in an emergency.”
He is silent for a moment, his eyes down, his lashes casting shadows. Her gaze dips to his lips, still flush from their kiss, and she has to suppress an urge to put a fingertip to her own lips, tingling with remembered sensations.
He moves abruptly and opens the door. “Come on. We’ll have to explain the noise to Ryan and Jonathan.”
She doesn’t have to wonder why he isn’t worried that she’ll attempt to flee again—Ryan’s and Jonathan’s footsteps, pounding up the stairs, echo against the walls.
She walks into the passage, lined with large, framed prints of islands and seascapes, just as Jonathan emerges on the stair landing, breathing hard, looking both frantic and grim. Ryan appears a moment later; his expression grows more puzzled as Conrad comes out of the bedroom to stand next to Hazel.
Hazel glances at Conrad. When he doesn’t say anything, she realizesWe’ll have to explainmeansshe’llhave to explain.
“Hi, Jonathan, hi, Ryan,” she says, putting all her heiress training to use.“Conrad and I ran into each other and thought maybe we should talk over things a little more.”
