The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,14

believing she’d spent far too many hours watching that damned television program! If she’d met him before tonight, she would've remembered the event with absolute clarity. She wouldn’t forget a man as stunning as Luke Angeles, or his scintillating effect on her sex-starved nerves.

“I feel I should say the pleasure is mine.”

Dazed, she tried to focus on his face, and had to blink. She ran a trembling hand over the back of her neck, attempting to find something else to say.�

Her reaction appeared to have the oddest effect on him. After viewing three complete seasons of available video of his television show, Luke Angeles did the one thing Eva had never seen him do.

He gave her a sincere smile. His smile performed a miraculous transformation, lending a surreal quality to the coldness of the metallic color of his eyes.

“You didn't believe I would make an appearance?”�

“In reality, no,”�Eva responded, finding her voice. She shifted in her seat, trying to ease the uncomfortable ache in her lower regions.

“I would never leave you stranded on a live interview, Miss Keyes,” he affirmed, his soft tone teasing. “My absence would make for bad publicity.”�

“How considerate,” her brows lifted as she examined him. As suddenly as his smile appeared, it vanished.

“It would've been horrid exposure for you, as well as my people.” He reverted to his overly sober self, all preconceived warm-heartedness vanishing.

“It was gracious for you to think of possibility.” She couldn't contain her obvious bite of sarcasm and winced.

“My absolute pleasure,” he seemed unconcerned by her tone, and continued to stare at her with his intriguing eyes. She shifted again, grateful the urge to pounce on him had ebbed, and the analytical part of her mind shifted into gear.

“As I said, it was kind of you to show.” It was moments before her scheduled program would begin, and Eva was grateful he made an appearance. Out of the corner of her eye, she took note of the floor crew signaling the direction where her primary camera would be located.

“Kindness had nothing to do with the forethought,” She sensed he was merely passing pleasantries with her as he moved to the chair across from her.

“Still, Mr. Angeles,” she attempted to speak, her attention distracted.

“I would prefer it if you would use my given name.”�

…Luke

While he took his seat and arranged his long length into a comfortable position, Eva shuddered. She glanced at the bright set lights surrounding her and wondered about the set's chill. Normally, she would've been overheated, the radiant heat from the overhead bulbs resembling to a sauna's intensity.

Instead, her body quivered, attempting to keep warm. She lowered her eyes and repeated his name, unaware of the foggy breath escaping her. As the set became colder, she stifled another shudder. Her gaze focused on his expressionless features, and she experienced the most peculiar ringing in her inner ear. Somewhere in her conscious mind, she heard a male voice, whispering a suggestion she couldn't avoid.

…Luke

…perhaps it’s Lucas?

…no, that ain’t right

The voice within her head exhaled and could almost feel a whisper of chilled breath on her neck. She shivered again, nearly biting her tongue.

….Luke

“Luke,” she reiterated the name mechanically. The voice in her inner ear stilled, satisfied she pronounced the name aloud. She was pleased the sounds halted, and then stifled an unhappy groan. Just as unexpectedly, the same whisperings grumbled anew.�

…no, not Luke

“Tell me, Mr. Angeles, does Luke stand for a much longer name?”�

He focused on the play of lights beating overhead before shifting to the numerous television cameras. The floor crew appeared and there was a flurry of activity. Eva, after years of interviews, was immune to the noise.

Instead, she wondered if she’d be required to repeat her question as she waited for his response.

He rewarded her with an incredibly tight-lipped smile that barely succeeded in pulling at his mouth. The colorless shadow of his brows rose, and she blushed, grateful as a sound technician eased past. The tech dropped a lavaliere mike on the table closest to her guest. She noticed he appeared strangely agitated and eager to escape Angeles’ presence.

“Do you want me to wear this microphone?” Luke questioned and picked the item up from the table, the equipment’s dark plastic a sharp contrast against his flesh.

“Mr. Angeles, lav mikes are excellent devices for recording sound. Just about every news reporter on television uses them and their invaluable in the field,” she inserted with an edge of marked frustration. “Certainly, you wear them during your show?”

“I'm afraid not,