Page 11 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
Seemingly not insulted at all, Christian drawled in a sensual purr, “Why, Miss Jones, was that a compliment? Did you just call me beautiful?”
He knew her last name. He knew her real first name. What else did he know about her?
Intrigued, in spite of the voice screaming in her head that she was an idiot, she replied a little too quickly, “Actually, I just called you dumb.”
He smiled at her, lips twitching as if he might break out into laughter again, but the look Asher gave her was so horrified, so full of wide-eyed, open-mouthed disbelief, she couldn’t help but smile too. It was a big one, a real one, teeth and all, and it felt absolutely fantastic.
And when he saw it, Christian did the strangest thing.
He froze. His own smile faltered. His face contorted with a fleeting, unidentified emotion, before he looked away, jaw tight, and swallowed. He cleared his throat and murmured, “It seems you’ve got me pegged.”
When he looked back at her, it was like watching a door slam shut. There was a coldness there, a new, flat hardness, which began in his eyes and went everywhere at once. It was even in his voice when he spoke again.
“May I see them?” His flinty gaze dropped to the two paper-wrapped books she cradled in her arms.
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
The voice in her head was satisfied with his new coldness. Unfortunately the stupid butterflies were not, and began to mope, drifting down to the pit of her belly where they lay heavy and silent, staring up at her with accusing eyes.
Asher looked back and forth between the two of them several times, then politely excused himself and began to browse through a nearby shelf of mid-century cookbooks, picking out Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Considering he thought ordering takeout was the equivalent of cooking a meal, Ember realized he wasn’t really browsing. He was eavesdropping.
Okay, Ember, pull yourself together! Be nice so you don’t lose the most important sale the store has seen in years!
“Please, follow me,” she said more forcefully, adopting an all-business attitude. She walked to the round table where Sofia’s book club usually met. Christian silently followed her. She indicated he should take a seat, which he did—after waiting for her to sit first—and then she carefully unwrapped both editions of Casino Royale from their black, acid-free paper.
She turned them toward him without a word and sat back in her chair.
It was a moment before he moved. He stared down at them, looking at first one, then the other, taking in the condition of the dust jackets, examining the curl of the bottom edge on the less expensive edition. He dismissed that one and opened the cover of the pristine edition, the one worth twice as much.
“It’s in perfect condition, as you can see,” said Ember, watching him reverently touch the cover page. He ran his fingers slowly along the edges of the stacked pages, lifted the dust jacket and traced the gold lettering on the spine. The hard look on his face from before was being replaced, inch by inch, with something softer, an expression of affectionate melancholy she recognized as sentimentality.
Unable to stifle her curiosity, she asked, “Is it a gift for someone, or…?”
Without looking up, he quietly answered, “This was my father’s favorite book. He owned a first edition like this one, signed by the author. He used to read it to me every night before bed when I was a boy. I’m sure I could quote whole pages from it. I haven’t been in Spain long, and I thought…maybe if I could find a copy just like the one my father had…it might make me feel more at home…”
He trailed off into silence while Ember sat there feeling like a first-class idiot for making fun of it before. She’d never have guessed someone like him could be so sentimental. Or homesick. On impulse she said, “My father used to read me Animal Farm.”
Christian looked up at her then, and another expression replaced the quiet melancholy, a look of such pure, crackling intensity it took her breath away. His eyes glowed vivid, burning green. The air between them went electric.
“?‘Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy,’?” he recited in a voice low and infinitely dark.
“?‘Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend,’?” Ember replied breathlessly. She didn’t know why she was whispering, but something in his manner elicited it, his menacing, urgent look that spoke of secrets and mysteries. Of danger.
He said, “?‘No animal shall wear clothes. No animal shall sleep in a bed. No animal shall drink alcohol. No animal shall kill another animal—’?”
“?‘All animals are equal,’?” Ember finished, her voice barely audible. She and Christian stared at one another in tense silence. Goosebumps broke out all over her body.
The seven commandments the rebellious animals of Animal Farm made to unite themselves against the cruel rule of humans and prevent them falling into humans’ evil habits sat there between them like the proverbial elephant. She didn’t know why his manner was so changed, but Ember knew one thing for absolutely certain.
She wanted to know.
Dammit!
“Do you believe that? That all animals are equal?”
His question was asked with such searching earnestness, Ember felt the sudden, irrational urge to reveal something of herself, something she never felt, with anyone. “My father always said man and animal are interdependent. What we do to them, we do to ourselves. And I think that’s true. I think…we’re not better than animals. Humans are animals. Just a different kind.”
He sat slowly back in his chair, his gaze never wavering from hers. “Smarter, though, than all the others. You have to admit that gives humans a distinct advantage. You don’t think that’s enough to make humans ‘better’ than the other animals? You don’t think that gives them the right to rule over all the other animals as they see fit?”
