the fear of being exposed for what he was—a practitioner of a forbidden art.
Exposure would mean only one thing. He’d be hunted, and it wouldn’t be the kind of hunt Amelia was interested in. They’d involve a hell of a lot of bullets. He’d be executed by the organizations that saw his kind as a threat or chased by those who wanted to get their hands on his power. Even though his team was backed by government, it was a secret operation. No one was going to claim him if he got himself captured. Cain might try sending in a rescue team, but the ground rule was clear. If you got yourself caught, you were on your own. Gift hunters would risk their lives to acquire his art, his ability to manipulate weather, because its acquisition meant a hefty prize in gold currency. The only way his art could be taken from him was if they killed him, and the only way to prevent it from being taken was by killing himself.
Throwing open the doors, he walked out onto the balcony and stared down at the garden. The shrubs and palm trees were a hidden oasis in the middle of an ugly part of town. Cut off from the outside noise and pollution, the square always had a calming effect on him. Especially the marble statue of Saint Teresa. It was an extraordinary piece of art. With a serene face tilted to the side and hands stretched out over the garden, she offered absolution and peace. How he yearned for peace, if only for a month.
The inner door on the ground floor hallway opened and a small group of women poured into the square. On Thursdays Lann opened his private library to the public. Since its opening a few weeks ago, a steady flow of regulars made use of the unusual privilege. He didn’t give the books out on loan, but the visitors could make use of the downstairs reading rooms until 5pm. He’d been criticized for it by experts, claiming that the books should remain under lock and key, but he’d paid for them and would be damned if he locked such treasures away when all the world should be able to enjoy them.
Resting his hands on the rail, he watched the women without much interest. His mind was elsewhere, on how to handle the unwelcome media exposure. It wasn’t the fact that the journalist had lots to say about his character. It was his old Russian nickname she’d somehow managed to dig up. Weatherman. If anyone knew how he’d acquired the name, he was screwed. He’d have to give up all of this and hide out in New York. Indefinitely. He had no intention of running like a—
His thoughts froze in mid-sentence. Everything came to a standstill as he focused on the person who’d just walked through the door—a redhead with curls hanging down her back, her lush body clad in a purple dress.
He leaned back into the shadows and watched her from his post. The females were unaware of his presence. Mrs. Sullivan, a romantic arts professor who brought a group of students in on Thursdays, touched the redhead’s arm and said something. The group made their way to the library. Everyone except for her. She lingered in front of the statue of Teresa, staring at it in a way that made Lann wish he were that statue. Then, as if sensing his gaze, she looked up, and their eyes locked. For a charged second neither of them blinked or moved. Nothing but the moment existed, and then she flushed a little and hurried after Mrs. Sullivan.
“Alfonso,” Lann called over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from the retreating form of the female.
“Yes, Sir?” Alfonso said from the door.
“Who’s that woman?” Lann followed her progress until the library door shut behind her.
“The redhead? She comes every week with the student group, Sir.”
Well, hell. All this time she’d been right under his nose. It was enough to make him believe in fate.
“Every week?”
“Yes, Sir. Comes in with Mrs. Sullivan. They arrive at ten, leave for lunch between one and three, and she’s gone with the group at five.”
Lann turned. “When the group leaves, keep her behind and bring her to my office. And find out under what name she signs in.”
“Yes, Sir,” Alfonso said as if Lann had asked him for nothing more extraordinary than heating up his cold tea.
Kat was waiting her turn to sign out when