The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,24

to be mocking her, repeating the same phrase he uttered at the studio.

Deciding to remain quiet, she watched him place the heavy material over the back of the leather sofa. He waved an imperious hand in her direction, wordlessly indicating a seat. Eva looked about and ran her hands uneasily over her skirt and wished the betraying color would leave her cheeks, since she didn't enjoy feeling like a bumbling teenager.

Uncomfortably, she perched on the couch, the black leather upholstery protesting loudly. She bit her lower lip and glanced about the room, the dim sunlight fading to the beginnings of twilight. In the glass of the mirror, she watched her host move into the streamlined kitchen. His actions were easy to view, since the two rooms were part of a more open and airy floor plan. Silent, he removed a cup from the carefully arranged assortment in the cabinet nearest him. There was a faint flicking sound when he switched on an appliance, and Eva inhaled appreciatively as the heady aroma of rich coffee filled the apartment.

She didn't have long to wait. On the otherwise spotless and barren glass table situated before her, he strategically placed the large mug of the steaming brew. Eva noticed he hadn’t brought one of his own before occupying the vacant seat across from her.

It was dreadfully unfair, she mused. The self-same leather never protested as he slid into the modern comfort.

She hoped her hand wouldn't shake overly much as she took the cup. Pleased when it didn't, Eva took a long and fortifying sip, allowing the strong brew to calm her scattered nerves. Warmth flooded her body, chasing away a bit of the chill had been so persistent the last few days. Satisfied, she placed her cup on the table, careful not to mar the spotless glass.

“Is the brew not to your specifications?” He questioned softly. “I assumed you prefer your coffee with a splash of hazelnut cream and two sugars.”�

“N…no,”� she hurried to respond, stuttering. Her frown deepened as she realized he had made the coffee precisely to her unspoken preferences.

Damn, he was going to make her wrinkle long before her time!

She wasn't aware the thought made her scowl more until he dealt her a slight grimace.

“I assume I frustrate you.”�

Embarrassed, another rush of heat rose in her cheeks and she wanted to curse. Eva didn't know how long she could endure him staring at her through those enigmatic eyes.

“Mr. Angeles,”� she longed to get to the point. She didn't want to have to make a larger apology than what she felt already necessary, and she was eager to leave.

“My name, as you're aware, is Lucien.”�

His interruption was smooth and her attention fell on his face. His pale skin appeared more pronounced against the chair's black leather, his flesh a beacon in the evening lighting. Eva wondered if he’d purposely used the upholstery and his attire to emphasize his astonishing skin and hair.

She winced, recalling the tabloid whispers. Maybe, each suggested, ghost hunting was the best occupation for someone truly a vampire. She swallowed audibly and pondered her stupidity. First, she was thinking lustful thoughts, then apparitions, followed by vampires. Her embarrassment grew to an overall height, and she looked away.

“Lucien,”� Eva began, clearing her throat. “I came to apologize.”

There, she said it.

“Apologize?” He appeared baffled, as if granted him something unexpected. At least, that was what Eva hoped. She hoped, as well, he wasn't going to make her apology more difficult.

“Yes, apologize,” she reiterated, the word more painful than she cared to admit. “I acted unprofessionally the other night.”�

“Ah.”�

The single word held a wealth of meaning. His hand lifted from the arm of the chair and stroked at his chin. Lucien seemed to mull over the words, unaware his hands were bare. He followed the direction of her eyes and, with a self-conscious air, lowered them back to his side.

“I may have offended you and I wanted to clear up any misunderstanding that may have occurred.”

“You didn't offend me.” His eyes narrowed and he seemed uncomfortable, unable to find where to place his hands on his lap. Instead, he clutched them together, his grip brutal.

There was an underlying intensity in his stare and, nervously, Eva shifted in her seat. The leather protested loudly and the incessant buzzing sound returned to her inner ear, reminding her of the innocuous whispers of several voices. She lifted her icy hand and pulled at her burning earlobe, hoping to reduce the drone.

“Still,” she attempted to continue,