“No apology necessary, my lord. I’ll take care of it.” Louis dipped his head in a bow and slipped out of the room, leaving Duncan to his own thoughts, which immediately filled with images of Emma Duquet. He smiled as he finger-combed his hair back and tied it with a worn leather thong from the many scattered over the dresser top.
Emma, he thought. A lovely, old-fashioned name, although there was nothing old-fashioned about his visitor. Her long, chestnut colored hair had hung down her back in a wild tangle, and those unusual dark violet eyes had been sharp and intelligent, despite the almost manic energy she seemed to radiate. She wore her severely tailored suit like a knight wore his armor, but it didn’t conceal nearly as much. No knight had ever flashed such shapely legs, nor donned a pair of high heels to make them look even longer than they were. Her legs had been covered in silk stockings, too. This weather was too cold for bare legs, but she hadn’t given in to temptation and worn something less flattering than silk. He understood the need for modern women to wear pants, and thick tights were certainly practical in this climate. But the southern-raised man in him still preferred to see women in skirts and dresses, with the sweet curve of slender calves accented by the sheen of silk. Although, to be sure, no self-respecting woman of his time would have worn anything remotely resembling Emma’s tight-fitting skirt and jacket, nor would they have worn silk stockings where a man other than her husband would ever see them, either. He grinned. Come to think of it, contemporary women’s clothing had much to recommend it, after all.
And why was he spending so much time worrying about Ms. Duquet’s clothes? He should be wondering instead what she was doing here. And what could be so urgent that her eyes had darkened with fear when he told her Victor was gone?
Chapter Five
Emma paged in awe through the last volume of what appeared to be a complete 1776 first edition of Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. And in remarkable condition, too. She was no rare book expert, but she’d have bet this particular set had never seen the inside of a bookshop. A well-preserved family heirloom was more like it.
She shook her head, suddenly impatient with herself. Duh, Emma.Vampire. They’d probably bought the whole set fresh off the press and shoved it on a shelf. Probably didn’t even know they had it, much less what it was worth. She slid the book carefully next to the five other volumes and lifted her head, scanning the surrounding titles. She wondered if there were other treasures like that one, just sitting here with no one the wiser.
“Victor had a remarkable collection,” said a cool voice.
Emma jumped guiltily and spun around. She stared at Duncan, her mouth hanging open in shock, until she realized it and snapped her jaw shut hard enough that it hurt. The man standing there was Duncan, but it wasn’t him either. The t-shirt and jeans were gone, and didn’t he fill out a suit nicely? Maybe the ambassador required him to dress for visitors, even the uninvited ones.
She blinked, tilting her head curiously as his words caught up with her thoughts. “You said had a collection. Past tense. Did something happen to Ambassador Victor? Is that why your boss is here now?” Her heart began to race at the idea that something had happened to Victor. The party Lacey had gone to was one hosted by the vampire ambassador himself, or so Lacey had told Emma. It wasn’t the first time she’d gone to one of Victor’s parties, but this one was supposed to be something special, a long weekend at a house outside the city. Lacey had been so excited. She’d blown her share of the rent money on a new dress and shoes, knowing Emma would forgive her and cover the whole rent—as always.
And right now, Emma would happily pay the rent for the next five years if Lacey would just show up safe and sound.
“Emma?”
She blinked. “I’m sorry,” she told Duncan and shook her head to clear it. “Um, right. Past tense. Did something happen to the ambassador?” Or to Lacey?
“Nothing unexpected, no,” Duncan assured her calmly. “But the book collection goes with the residence, so it’s not really his anyway.”
“Oh, of course. I guess that makes it your boss’s now, right?”
Duncan smiled, seeming genuinely happy with her conclusion, or maybe it was more like he was amused. She scowled as he turned gracefully and strolled over to the heavy, ornate desk. Miguel slipped into the room like a dark ghost, making no more noise than Duncan had. He’d changed clothes, too, and now took up a position behind Duncan’s left shoulder as Duncan sat behind the desk.
“Have a seat, Ms. Duquet,” Duncan said, “and tell me what brings you here.”
Emma looked up in surprise as she settled into the chair. “Wait, I thought I was meeting . . .” Shit. Emma barely managed to keep from swearing out loud as she realized what was going on.
Duncan, meanwhile, turned sideways to the desk, leaning back in the big leather chair and crossing his legs at the knee, one arm on the desk in front of him. He didn’t fidget like some people would have, didn’t tap so much as a single finger on the desk. He just watched her intently, as if curious to see how she would react.
“You’re the ambassador?” Emma croaked.
“We don’t actually refer to it as an ambassador, but, yes.”
“That means . . . You’re a vampire? But that’s impossible. I mean, how old are you?”
Miguel stiffened and gave her an outraged glare, but Duncan tsked softly and said, “That’s a very rude question in vampire culture, Ms. Duquet. You work in this city. At least I assume you do. Surely they’ve taught you to be more delicate than that when dealing with other cultures.”
Emma narrowed her eyes in irritation. He was right, of course. She did know better than to ask a question like that, but he’d shocked her right out of her cultural awareness classes. And he knew it. He was toying with her, and she didn’t like to be toyed with.
“Look, Duncan, or whatever your name really is—”
Miguel actually growled at that, but Duncan raised a hand to stop him. “It’s all right, Miguel. She meant no insult, did you, Ms. Duquet?”
Emma didn’t answer for a moment. She was too busy staring at Miguel. She’d never heard a man actually growl before. A real, teeth-bared, saliva-dripping, I’m-going-to-rip-your-throat-out growl. Wow.
“Ms. Duquet?”
“Yes! I mean, no, I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m . . . I’m usually better than this.”
“But you’re worried about something. Something that brought you to see us, even though you’ve never been here before. Something important enough that you snuck through the gate and into our house without invitation.”
“The gate was open,” she protested.