Dez straightened up and a flush rose in her cheeks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Beatrice De Novo.”
“Oh,” she said with a smile, happy that the conversation had turned. “I can’t imagine. Did I mention I saw my lovely neighbor, Matt, yesterday? Yeah, he was sitting on his front porch working on his mountain bike. It must have been hot, because Ken—I mean Matt—wasn’t wearing a stitch more than a pair of little biking shorts. It was quite the view, I’ll say that.”
“He is not a Ken-doll,” Dez muttered and threw an olive at Beatrice. She caught it and popped it into her mouth.
“You do some investigation about whether he’s anatomically accurate, and I’ll consider changing my opinion of him. Until then? Ken-doll.”
Dez huffed, “Why do you even—”
“And you’re a total Barbie. Librarian Barbie. Do you know how many naughty fantasies poor Ken—I mean Matt—has probably had about you already? You’d be putting him out of his misery. Besides, Ken and Barbie belong together,” she said with a wicked grin.
“I hate you,” Dez said in a prim voice, “and I hope someone scratches your ugly black motorcycle in the parking lot.”
Beatrice snorted and threw an olive at Dez, but this time, her friend caught it and threw it back, hitting Beatrice right between the eyes. She snorted and then belly laughed at Beatrice’s shocked expression.
“Forget Librarian Barbie,” Beatrice muttered. “I’m going to go with Big League Barbie instead.”
The two friends finished lunch and made plans to meet the following weekend for brunch at one of their favorite hangouts near the beach. Beatrice hopped on her bike and returned to the Huntington to finish the translation of the mission letter she’d been working on before lunch.
As the hours passed, she fell into a steady rhythm, speeding through not one, but two complete letters before Dr. Stevens called her to the reading room.
She packed up the document she’d been working on and moved it to one of the library tables in the quietest corner of the room. Dr. Stevens had asked her to be available if the group needed help, but she didn’t really expect to be interrupted.
She was looking up a Latin noun she thought might have been misspelled when she heard the quiet footsteps. The smell of smoke reached her nose before she could look up into the green eyes that had haunted her for five years. An enigmatic smile flickered across his face before he spoke.
“I’m looking for Miss De Novo.”
Chapter Two
Los Angeles, California
October 2009
“Hello, tesoro,” he whispered.
Giovanni had expected her anger, but he hadn’t expected the sheen of tears that touched her eyes when they finally met his own.
She stood, her fury palpable when she responded.
“You don’t get to call me that anymore,” she hissed before she looked around the room.
“I’ve introduced myself to everyone,” he murmured, “shaken everyone’s hand. You don’t need to worry about anyone paying us any attention.”
“So you used your mind voodoo on my boss and colleagues. Thanks.”
He smirked a little. “I didn’t want to be interrupted. Librarians can be such sticklers for rules.”
“Why are you here?”
“For you.”
Her mouth fell open before she finally sputtered back, “Well, you’re about five years too late.”
She bent over her desk and began to gather the letters she had been working on. He stood, watching her, taking in her appearance, and drinking in her welcome scent. He couldn’t stop the smile. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”
She glared at him and glanced around the room.
“They won’t remember us talking?”
He waved a careless hand. “No, they’re barely registering my presence right now.”
“Good.” She walked around the table, drew back her hand, and slapped him across the face. “You missed me?” she spit out. “You don’t get to say that.”
She turned and picked up her materials to take back to her office, leaving Dr. Stevens in the reading room with the oblivious scholars from USC. Giovanni enjoyed the view of her walking away from him for a few moments before he followed.
“Beatrice?”
“Go to hell,” she called over her shoulder as she made her way through the halls of the institution. She had changed in subtle ways he hadn’t been able to detect in photographs. Her figure was fuller, and she carried herself with a grace and confidence she hadn’t known five years before. Her walk was more assured, and the almost imperceptible lines that touched her face only added to the depth of her dramatic features.
She was absolutely stunning. And really, really pissed-off.
Her scent was the same, a sweet melange of honeysuckle and lemon that made his fangs descend when he thought of the single taste of her blood he’d enjoyed years before.
“Beatrice,” he called again. “I’ve already told Dr. Stevens you’ll be helping me on my project while I’m doing my research here.”
She whirled around at her office door. “Well, you can just use that voodoo to change her mind then, can’t you?”
He came to stand in front of her and took a deep breath, staring at her mouth, which was pursed in displeasure. “I could.” He shrugged. “But I won’t.”
Beatrice looked like she wanted to slap him again, but her hands were full of documents and books, so he reached behind her and opened her door, scenting her as he leaned over her shoulder.
“You still smell like honeysuckle,” he murmured before she shoved him aside so she could enter the office.
“Go away,” she said. “I don’t want to see you.”
He closed the door and leaned against it. “Well, that’s certainly understandable.”
“Why?” she asked again as she put her work away. “Why are you here? Why now?”
Giovanni couldn’t help but smile at her, despite her anger. He had to resist the urge to walk across the room and kiss her senseless; he had a feeling bodily injury would result. “I already told you. I’m here for you.”
She paused in her work, and he could hear her heart begin to race, but her angry expression did not waver.
“Well, you can’t have me. So what else are you here for?”
He let her entertain the notion she was unavailable for the time being. “I’m doing some work for a client who’s looking for a journal that was carried to the new world in one of Father Junipero Serra’s first missionary journeys in California.” He smiled innocently when she looked up in shock. “I was told there was a very bright librarian here who could help me translate some of the Spanish and Latin correspondence from the era.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”
“She came very highly recommended by a mutual friend,” he said with a wink.
“Remind me to call Carwyn and bitch at him later.”
“Do I hear you’re riding a motorcycle now?” He looked her up and down as she grabbed her backpack and helmet, staring at her legs in an obvious manner. “That, I really need to see, tesoro. Very sexy.”
He smirked when he realized he had rendered her speechless again.
“I’m leaving now,” she finally said.
He glanced at the clock above her desk. “Look at the time. I should finish up my meeting with Dr. Stevens before I go. After all, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Beatrice shook her head. “You bastard,” she muttered through a clenched jaw.
He held open the door, but his arm shot out when she tried to walk past him. His hand curled around her waist, and he felt the familiar frisson of electricity run between them when they touched for the first time in five years. His temperature rose when he leaned over and murmured in her ear.
“I’m back, Beatrice. I’m back for you, and I’m not going anywhere. You’re not a girl anymore, so run home for now but know that I’ll see you again tomorrow. And I’m not leaving you
again.”
She turned her head to meet his green eyes and her mouth was only a breath away.
“What if I ask you to go?” she whispered. “Are you just going to hang around and be a nuisance forever?”
He paused, the words almost catching in his throat. “If you ever had any feelings for me, give me a chance. Please.”
She didn’t respond, pushing his arm away from her body before she rushed down the hall. He heard her pass through the reading room to say goodnight to her boss before she exited out the glass doors. When she left the building, the energy fled with her, and he slumped against her office wall.
“This is going to be harder than I thought.”
He finalized plans with Dr. Stevens before he left the Huntington that night, strolling the four blocks to the large Tudor-style home he’d purchased the month before. He was still getting used to the layout of the house but had been charmed by the dense trees that surrounded the property and the tiered gardens and ponds that filled the yard.
As he walked through the front doors, he looked around and listened for the activity that should have been going on in the library on the first floor. He heard nothing except the bouncing of a basketball behind the garage. Laughing under his breath, he turned and walked silently through the kitchen and out the back doors.
The boy was bouncing the ball in a pool of light that shone from the back of the garage. He was bent over, dribbling through his scrawny legs, his attention focused on the rhythmic bouncing of the orange ball in his hands. Just then, he crouched down and shot up, tossing a precise shot toward the basket mounted over the garage door.
“He shoots…he scores!” the boy shouted when the ball sailed through the hoop. “And the crowd goes wild for Ben Vecchio, lead scorer of the—” He turned then and spotted Giovanni, leaning against the wall.
“Scorer of the what?” Giovanni asked with an amused smirk.
“Um…of the top college in the country, which I will be getting into with no problem because I already finished my math and my Latin translation?”
“Reading?”
“Done before you woke up tonight.”
“History?”
“Well, not quite…”
“Composition?”
“You know, you’re back a lot sooner than I thought you’d be.”
“How about piano?”
Ben’s mouth gaped open and his shoulders slumped. “It hasn’t even been delivered yet!”
Giovanni frowned. “I forgot that part. Did you call the movers today?”
Ben nodded. “Yep, they said that it’d be here next Thursday at the latest and to make sure that we had room for the truck.”
“Excellent. Toss me the ball then.”
“Pass, Gio. Pass the ball.”
“Fine, whatever,” he muttered as Ben passed the ball to him. He dribbled it, then tossed it toward the backboard, where it bounced off the rim before Ben ran over to catch it. He bounced it back to Giovanni.
“Okay, you need to square up your shoulders with the basket before you shoot. Try again.”
Giovanni dribbled the ball a few more times before he tried again, squaring his shoulders like Ben had directed. “You know, if you put half the concentration into your composition that you do into this game—”
“Game, Gio. Remember? We’re supposed to talk about non-school stuff when we play.”
He rolled his eyes and shot again, this time getting slightly closer to the square behind the hoop.
“There,” Ben encouraged. “That’s better.” The boy rebounded the shot and took some time dribbling it before he tossed it toward the hoop, where it sailed in. “So, did you talk to her?”
Giovanni watched as the boy ran around the small court, shooting baskets and chasing rebounds. His lanky limbs and awkward gait seemed to disappear on the basketball court, as he exhibited the natural confidence that had brought him to Giovanni’s attention when he’d seen the boy in New York over a year ago.
“I did.”
“Is she really mad at you?”
He nodded as Ben passed him the ball. “Yes, she’s…fairly angry.”
“Did you tell her about me yet?” he asked in a small voice.
“Not yet,” he smiled. “I told you, Beatrice is far more apt to like you than me at the moment. Don’t worry about that.”
Ben gave a nonchalant shrug. “Girls always like me more, G. It’s ‘cause I’m so good-looking.”
Giovanni chuckled and passed the ball back to him. “I worry about your self-esteem, Benjamin. Really, I do. Have you eaten dinner yet?”
“Just a few more minutes?” His eyes pleaded. “Then I’ll go in.”
“Fine. But after that, you’re finishing your homework.”
“Sweet!” Ben shot a few rapid baskets. “So how long do you think it’s going to be before she’s not mad at you anymore?”
“How long was it before you started liking me after I took you off the streets and made you start bathing regularly?”
Ben snickered and passed the ball back to Giovanni. “Not as long as I acted. The food was a lot better at your house.”
Giovanni snorted. “Better than the randomly purloined hot dog? I should hope even my cooking beat that.”
“Well, it was close, but—hey!” Ben dodged the ball that Giovanni threw at him. It hit the wall of the garage and bounced back toward Ben. Giovanni grinned at the boy’s sharp reflexes, which had been part of the reason he’d been such a successful pickpocket until a little over a year before.
“I’ll go start dinner. Come to the kitchen in a few minutes.”
Giovanni walked back in the house and went to start a pot of water to boil. He had little interest in food that night, but because he was determined to civilize Benjamin as much as possible for a twelve-year-old boy, he had made nightly dinner at the table a priority.
When he’d found the boy in New York, Giovanni had spotted his wasted potential almost immediately. The urchin had stolen his wallet, and if Giovanni hadn’t had preternatural senses, he would have easily gotten away with it. As it was, he’d let the boy have the wallet, followed him, and done some investigating.
Ben was the illegitimate son of a con woman and a cabbie. After looking into both parents and talking to the boy, Giovanni decided that neither one of them was deserving of his help—or their own child. One physically abusive and the other a manipulator, they had passed on to Ben little more than the ability to fend for himself and lie convincingly to authorities.
Giovanni, however, had seen the sharp intelligence and survival instinct the boy exhibited and decided he deserved more than to be chewed up on the streets of the city. On paper, Ben had become Giovanni’s nephew, the son of his deceased brother and his wife, who had died in a tragic car accident the year before. They had spent the previous year resolving the details of the adoption and catching Ben up on the realities of his new world.
The boy barreled into the kitchen just as Giovanni finished putting the jar of sauce on the spaghetti. He set it on the table along with a salad he’d put together from a bag and a bowl of olives.
“Spaghetti again?”
He cocked an eyebrow at the boy. “Tomorrow night you can cook. Besides,” he said as he flicked the back of the boy’s ear as he sat at the table, “you’re an Italian now, you need to eat lots of pasta.”
Ben snorted and dug into the food. Giovanni watched him scarf down his food with gusto; it reminded him of how much Caspar had eaten at that age. It had been harder to find food for Caspar in postwar Britain, but with the proliferation of American all-night markets and Ben’s natural independence, the two of them managed just fine.
“I’m not Italian, really,” Ben said between bites. “I’m Leba-Rican.”
Giovanni smirked at the boy’s quick wit. Ben was half Lebanese and half Puerto Rican, but their coloring was close enough that no one questioned their relation. The only difference was Ben’s dark brown eyes, which had always reminded Giovanni of Beatr
ice.
“You might have to be the one to convince her,” he mused.
“Convince who? Beatrice?”
“Mmmhmm. You’ll have to convince her I’m not a complete bastard.”
“Well, technically,” Ben said between bites, “we both are.”
Giovanni flicked the boy’s ear again. “You know what I mean.”
Ben paused and set down his fork. “You know, if we were friends and then you went away and I didn’t see you for five years, I’d be pretty mad, too.”
“You don’t have to worry about me leaving you, Ben.”
“I know, but she—”
“It was important for her to have time on her own. Without all the vampire stuff, as you like to call it. That’s part of why she came here.” He paused. “It’s complicated, Benjamin.”
Ben smirked a little before he began eating again. “That’s always what grown-ups say when they’re not sure they’re right. So did she decide all that? Or did you? ‘Cause you’re pretty bossy, you know.”
He decided to change the subject. “It’s a good thing I am, or you’d never finish school. Finish up your dinner, then go upstairs and do the rest of your work. Do you need help with anything?”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“If you do, I’ll be on the patio talking to Carwyn.”
“Okay.”
“No video games until after your work is finished. None.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “I got it, I got it.”
Taking the bowl of olives and a glass of wine with him, he went outside to the large covered patio that spread across the back of the house. He’d set up a rotary phone connection there, which he used to dial his friend in Northern Wales.
“Uncle Gio!” Carwyn answered. “How’s the boy doing?”
“Well,” Giovanni sipped his wine. “Very well. His studies are coming along, and he hasn’t run away since the last time I called you.”
“That’s progress. I knew he’d come around.”
“He still runs off on his bike during the day, though. He had to talk himself out of a truancy ticket last week.”