She sucked in a breath between her clenched teeth. “You are the most aggravating of men.”
“And you are wasting time. Tell me why you are here.”
“I ...” Whatever lie she was about to utter died as she encountered the dangerous glitter in his dark eyes. He did not bother to hide the fact he was in no humor for her elusive games. “I wanted to discover more of you.”
“Why?”
“Because you refused to tell me of yourself.” Her hands tightened on her skirt. “And I hoped I might learn why both you and Mr. Soltern have taken such an interest in my amulet.”
He ignored the feel of satin skin beneath his hands. This was no time to be distracted by the womanly heat and scent that filled the air.
“I do not believe you,” he retorted in stern tones.
She blinked with an attempt at innocence. “What?”
“You have been curious about me for weeks. It would take something a great deal more pressing to prompt you into taking such a risk.”
“I ...”
“The truth, Simone.”
There was a silent struggle before she allowed the wariness she had been attempting to hide to surface. Gideon stiffened as he realized that there was genuine fear shimmering deep in her eyes.
“Tonight at Lady Falstone’s I discovered a portrait of you.”
“A portrait?” Gideon gave a shake of his head. “Impossible. I have hardly been in London long enough to inspire the artists and I certainly have not commissioned a painting.”
“It was painted in 1520 at Penwhick Castle.”
Penwhick Castle.
Gideon carefully kept his expression bland. It had been nearly three hundred years since he had last viewed the estate he had owned in Scotland. Although remote, drafty and decidedly uncomfortable during the long winter, it had suited him when he wished his privacy. Few vampires, and even fewer mortals wished to endure the stark simplicity of his home.
One guest, however, had prolonged his visit for several weeks to complete a portrait that Gideon had been unaware of until the painter had left the castle. He had, of course, considered following the man and retrieving the picture. But, at the time he had been occupied with dabbling in royal politics and had not desired to draw unwanted attention to himself.
Now he cursed himself for his lack of foresight.
It was always the smallest details that managed to create the most trouble.
“A relative, no doubt,” he murmured in silky tones.
“That is what Mary assumed, but I do not accept the explanation.”
She wouldn’t, of course, he acknowledged wryly.
“No?”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “The man in the portrait is not similar to you, he is precisely like you. The same features, the same hair, even the same smile.”
“I must see this picture,” he retorted with a nonchalant shrug.
“It is you.”
“Absurd,” he scoffed. “I may be several years older than you, my sweet, but do I appear that old?”
Her lips thinned at his refusal to take her accusation seriously. Clearly she was not about to be easily convinced that she had been mistaken.
“Then tell me where you were born. Who are your parents?”