Aeromancist The Beginning (Second Edition) - Charmaine Pauls Page 0,13

the door on the deliveryman, she blew out a heavy breath. That should do it. Lann would definitely get the message now. Only then did she dare to open the card that had come with the box. This time, there was no poem, only two lines written in Lann’s immaculate handwriting.

I’d give anything to know what it would feel like to tangle my hands in your hair. Name it, and it’s yours.

She bit her nail. She had to admit, the lure was strong. Of course she wanted him. After all, she was only a woman, but she’d worked too hard for what she’d achieved to be distracted. No, that was an excuse. The truth was that she was frightened. Mac had hurt too much. Getting over him was hell. She couldn’t go through that again. What she needed was reliable and stable, not mysterious and dangerous.

She tried to work, but she was on pins and needles until lunchtime, and when nothing happened after she’d washed down a sandwich with some of Lann’s delicious coffee, she relaxed a little. The disappointment that sunk like a stone in her stomach was as undeniable as it was unwelcome, but it was better this way.

No sooner had she installed herself at the desk again than the shrill sound of the doorbell broke the silence. Disbelief filled her first, and then anger. She’d worked so hard at rejecting him. He had no right to make it this difficult.

Not hesitating this time, she rushed to the entrance, determined to tell whoever with whatever in his hands to take it right back where it came from, but when she opened the door, there was another parcel waiting on the step, this time covered in blue cloth and tied with a string, a white card tucked underneath.

She picked it up with shaky hands and carried it to the lounge. By the feel of it, it was a book. She pulled off the string and cloth. She was right. It wasn’t just any book. It was one from his library, a priceless, handwritten copy of tales of Celtic daemons. It had to date back to 1500 or before.

The book belonged in a museum, not in her apartment. She flopped down on the sofa with the book in her lap. For a while, she only sat with her hands on her thighs, her palms sweaty. Slowly coming out of her haze, she reached for the white envelope, bulky this time, and withdrew a card and one, white glove. Puzzled, her gaze went to the familiar handwriting.

18h00 sharp. Come to me.

The undertone of dominance and promised retribution in the message sent a shiver down her spine that wasn’t all unpleasant. Despite the afternoon heat, her skin broke out in goosebumps. This game had to stop. Now. She wasn’t in Santiago to flirt. She was here to study and earn her degree. She had precious little time to do so, and the degree meant everything to her. Her parents had forked out a lot of money to make the year-long exchange possible. She wasn’t going to disappoint them, Charles, and herself.

Excuses, her heart whispered, but she brushed the inner voice aside.

Without giving it another thought, she wrapped the book in the cloth and grabbed her purse. It was a short walk to the nearest metro, and after thirty minutes, changing lines once, she got off near the monastery. She marched the two blocks to its double arched doors, annoyance at Lann’s persistence fuelling her steps. If he hadn’t tried so hard to distract her, she’d be happily working now. She wouldn’t even be thinking about him any longer. Okay, that might be a lie, but the potency of last night’s memory would’ve worn off eventually. By sending her gift after gift, he was making sure she was thinking about him constantly. The fact that those gifts demonstrated how well he’d paid attention last night when she’d told him about herself wasn’t lost on her. It was just another message he was trying to get across.

Besides, despite it all, there was something about Lann she couldn’t put her finger on, something a lot more dangerous than simply being a playboy who’d make mince of her heart.

The doors opened before she could press the button on the intercom. Kat glanced up at the security camera. No doubt, the infuriating Russian or his security guard had seen her coming.

It was Alfonso who welcomed her in the entrance.

“Good afternoon, Miss,” he said, his face expressionless. “You’re