The blonde batted her lashes.  “You’re hot.”

He smiled and held out a hand to her before he leaned over and let his lips feather across the neck of the slightly less crass brunette.  He inhaled her scent, ignoring the smell of cheap alcohol that tainted her blood.

He would drink deeply that night.

Chapter Seven

Houston, Texas

November 2003

“Oh, wow.”

“What do you think?”

“I tried to imagine, but—I mean…it’s so much more—”

“Think it’s large enough to keep you satisfied for a while?”

“It’s so much bigger than I expected.”

He backed away, leaving Beatrice to gaze in wonder at the library that took up half of the second floor.

“I think I’ll just leave you two alone for a bit,” he said with a chuckle.

“Okay,” she said.

“Would you like a fire?”

“Okay.”  She wandered toward the map case, peering into it with awe.

“How about something to drink?  Should I have Caspar bring something up?”

“Sure.”

“Mind if I just take a quick sip from your carotid before I go?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” she murmured as she stared at a sixteenth century map of South America.

“Right then,” he cleared his throat and ignored the low, hungry burn.  “I’ll be back later.  Enjoy.”

“Okay.  Gio?”

“Hmm?”

A small smile quirked her lips.  “I heard the carotid thing.  No.”

He smirked.  “No harm in asking.”

“But yes to the fire.  It’s cold in here.”

He chuckled, walking over to the small fireplace with the grouping of chairs surrounding it.  Leaning down, he turned on the gas valve and snapped his fingers, quickly tossing a blue flame toward the vents which filled the grate with a warm glow.  He saw Beatrice watching him.  He looked at her as he stood, and she grinned.

“Still very cool, Batman.”

He winked.  “Well, I have a library to compete with now.”

She sighed and looked at him sympathetically.  “Cool flame tricks aside, there’s no competition.”

He lifted his eyebrow.  “Library wins?”

“Every single time.”

He chuckled and walked toward the doorway.  “Feel free to wander around.  There’s only one locked case, which is of no importance to your work.  Everything else is made to be read.  Familiarize yourself with the computers tonight.  Caspar has created an account for you with your first name as the login identification and last name as the password.  Keep it that way.”

“You got it.  Your computers, your rules.”

He gave a curt nod.  “I’ll be downstairs in my study making some phone calls.”

She was already engrossed in a first edition Austen he had purchased in London in the late 1800s.  He smiled and left her with his books.

Giovanni walked downstairs, and asked Caspar to bring Beatrice a drink in the library.  Since they were working from his home, he could start soon after he rose and had no need to wait for sunset to leave the house.  He was surprised how much the idea of having a competent assistant invigorated him.  He’d spent the previous fifteen years watching the slow transfer of information from paper to electronic medium with dread, knowing that eventually, much of the information vital to his work would be out of his grasp.  Her agreement to work with him, knowing who and what he was, lifted an unanticipated weight off his shoulders.

Beatrice had agreed to work from five-thirty to nine o’clock, Mondays and Thursdays, leaving Tuesday free for some activity she did with her grandmother, and Wednesday for her regular library hours.

He was satisfied with the arrangement and found himself pleased with the prospect of seeing her three nights a week.  He knew he could hardly ask for more and was confident his research would go much faster than it had in the past.

He picked up the phone and dialed Carwyn’s number.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” the priest said.  “Why are you calling me again?  You’re like a child waiting for Father Christmas.  This girl can’t be that interesting.”

Giovanni chuckled and ignored his friend’s question.  “I thought you liked hearing my voice.”

“And you said she was interesting, not irresistible.”

“Stop making assumptions.”

“Oh?  So you’re not ‘interested’ in her that way?”

He frowned, and his mind flashed to the image of Beatrice in his library, browsing the books with a small smile and laughing eyes.  Then he remembered the feel of her soft body pressed against his as they jumped out of the broken elevator.

“She’s a student, an assistant.  A contact, in a manner of speaking.”

“Because you always take this kind of interest in students and assistants and contacts,” his friend said sarcastically.  “Just remember that I’m available for confession should the need arise.”

“Amusing.  I’ll keep that in mind,” he muttered, eager to change the subject.  “I was calling to let you know we’re having an unexpected cold spell, so you might need a sweater.”

“Your ‘cold spells’ are balmy spring weather compared to my mountains.  I’m packing my loudest Hawaiian shirts.”