Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 122946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“Close but not quite,” I muttered, following their gaze. Over the shock of seeing my own face, I walked up to examine them. “They are different from your other work.”
“How so?”
“It isn’t obvious?” I pointed to the older paintings he’d set aside as if they were of no importance at all. “Your earlier work is all neo-classical and steeped in the Renaissance school of art. But these, to me, are clearly from the Impressionist period, more Monet than Raphael. You had a heavy hand; the paint is thick, but there is more of a flow…” I drifted off, following the brushstrokes in the clouds. They looked so soft and full, almost lifting from the page, and I wanted to touch them.
“Druella.”
“Yes?” I put my hand down and spun around like I was a child caught trying to steal a cookie.
The corner of his mouth turned up into a smile, but I could still see he was bothered.
“I am quite glad you enjoy the artistry, but I am more concerned by their existence.” He stepped toward me. “Please tell me, do you ever recall meeting me? Before our encounter yesterday.”
“Never,” I said automatically.
“Not even passing on the street or have you forgotten anything—”
“I have a very good memory,” I said more than sure. “I’m sometimes terrible at names, but I never forget a face, and until yesterday, I had never seen yours.”
He nodded. “I guess I have no choice.”
“No choice but what?” I said wearily.
“Find out what happened to my memory.”
My shoulders dropped as I relaxed. “Of course, I told you that should be your number one priority.”
“And now it is because the mystery of my missing memory now involves you somehow.” He fully smiled, and I felt a hint of mischief in his gaze. “And as it involves you, I will need your help.”
“That’s just an excuse for you to stay around longer.” I knew it; he was pretty much telling me, now he just had to stay to figure this out. “How do I know you aren’t making all of this up, and you can recall everything but just want an excuse to stay by me?”
“And I would go so far as to send paintings of you to your work to pull you into this mystery?” He took another step closer.
“Exactly.” I lifted my head in defiance.
He glanced down at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “Then why would I paint things that you have no interest in? Surely, if that were my plot, then I would have chosen more relatable events?”
Good point. Nope, I’m not losing. “Maybe you were worried you’d come off looking like a stalker.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“And why would I fear being a stalker?” He snickered. “Would you file a police report against me? How would that go? ‘Excuse me, officer,’” he said in horribly high woman’s voice.
“I don’t sound like that!”
He went on as if he didn’t hear me in that same horrid voice. “There is this millennium-old vampire stalking me. I would like to file a restraining order.”
I stepped up closer, our noses almost touching. “It is not the police you would have to worry about but me.”
“You?”
“Yes, because what could possibly be worse for a stalker than for his prey to find out his actions? It would make me hate you, fear you, and avoid you. I would pick up my whole life to run from you. I would reject you outright.”
That left him silent. His eyes dropped to my lips, and the boldness I felt in stepping toward him vanished, but I couldn’t step back, either. He looked all over my face before he finally spoke again, his voice so soft it tickled my nose. “I fear I have lost this battle, but I am not accustomed to losing, so I must play the only card I have left.”
“And that is?”
“To throw myself upon your mercy.” His eyes finally back to mine. “I must appeal to your kindness.”
“That sounds like giving up to me.”
“It’s merely a regrouping strategy. I can see there shall be other battles between us in the future. I can’t lose them all.”
I grinned. “You haven’t dealt with me; you should just get used to losing.”
“But I just have, stubborn one.” He reached up and untucked the strand of hair from behind my ear. “I look forward to your help.”
“I haven’t agreed to help you.”
“But haven’t you? How else can I get used to losing if I’m not around you?” He mused and stepped around me to the older paintings.
I tilted my head, replaying our conversation before closing my eyes. I overplayed my hand. “I’ll help you find your memory,” I said, spinning back around, staring at his back. “But I’m not agreeing to be your mate.”
“Yet.”
“Ever—”
“What do you suggest we do with these?” He pressed on without waiting for me to finish my statement; I was sure he did it on purpose. “The older ones I am fine leaving here in your care, but these may be hard for you to explain to your superiors if they have not yet seen them.”