Page 94 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
“I don’t want you to deal with him, Father, please! Just—just let m
e have another guard.
Tomorrow.”
He considered her in silence for several long, tense moments. Then his face softened and he said, “As you wish.”
Really? She couldn’t believe that had worked. She put a shaking hand to her face, adrenaline wreaking havoc on her nerves. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He bent and planted a kiss on the top of her head, then abruptly turned on his heel and walked toward the door. He paused just before passing over the threshold and said over his shoulder, “By the way, a very special guest will be arriving this morning. Someone who’ll be staying with us from now on, who I hope you’ll...like...as much as I do.”
His voice, low and husky, throbbed with emotion. Her ears pricked. “A guest?”
He turned slightly and met her curious gaze. That menacing smile of his made another appearance. “Yes. I’ll introduce you tomorrow morning, after the announcement.”
“Why not today?”
His face grew flushed, his eyes hot. “Because today we’ll be spending some time together, getting to know one another better.”
Eliana stared at him, confused. Was this why he was in such a state?
“Who is this guest?”
A gleam came into his eyes, one that made her scalp prickle with dread.
“Your new mother,” he answered. Then he turned and disappeared beyond the door, leaving Eliana gaping after him in shock.
By the time Morgan arrived at the Vatican, the morning sun had risen over the rooftop of St. Peter’s and bathed the vast cobblestone square in warm, golden light. It was too early for the tourists, but the Swiss Guard was ever present, and she made her way across the sun-washed square to a lone guard posted at the top of the stairs on the left side of the entrance to the basilica, hoping to draft him into her plan.
He was a large man, physically imposing even in that silly, striped Renaissance uniform with boot covers, white gloves, and white ruff around his throat. The rapier at his hip, however, looked more ominous than silly, as did the sidearm strapped to his other hip, and she approached with caution. When she finally stood directly in front of him, he made no indication he was aware of her presence except for a slight inhalation of breath. Looking up into his pale blue eyes—affixed on some point above her head—she saw his irises dilate.
Just as Xander’s had when he’d stared down at her as he pushed himself inside—
Stop! Morgan screamed at herself and bit her tongue hard to banish the thought. With her hands now trembling and her heart thrumming, she turned her attention back to the guard.
“Excuse me,” she said. He completely ignored her.
Hmmm.
She lifted both hands to pull her hair back from her face as if she were going to make a ponytail. It forced her rib cage to lift, and her breasts—unfettered by a bra—pressed against the clinging fabric of her dress. “Excuse me, signore? I think I’m a little lost. I’m looking for the tour that goes below the Vatican? The necropolis tour, I think?”
She’d heard of this from the cab driver on the way over. There was some guided tour of the rarely seen areas beneath the Vatican, ancient grottoes and catacombs with tombs of long-dead saints, including the tomb of St. Peter around which the entire church had been built. It sounded like the perfect place to start her search.
A muscle in the guard’s jaw twitched, but he still didn’t respond. Obviously he was well trained to ignore all manner of foolishness from the tourists. Or just stubborn as hell.
Either way he was dust, because now this was personal.
Morgan dropped her arms and shook her hair back, then slid both hands slowly down the front of her dress, over her waist and hips, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. She shifted her weight to one foot and thrust out her hip, then jauntily rested her hand on it, gazing at him with an intensity she knew he felt, because the faintest hint of color flushed his cheeks.
Thank God for peripheral vision.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed in a conspiratorial tone, stepping closer, making sure to exaggerate the roll of her hips, “I know you’re probably not supposed to talk and I don’t want to disturb you, but if you could just give me an idea? Maybe”—she coyly twirled a lock of her hair between her fingers
—“point me in the general direction?”
He swallowed but said nothing.
Mulish bastard. She pursed her lips. Leisurely, she lifted the lock of hair to her mouth and dragged it back and forth across her parted lips. “Per favore? ” she said, very throaty.
