Without a word, she lifted her knapsack and exited the room, touching her lips in wonder.

Chapter Twenty-three

William strode to his library and shut the doors, locking them from the inside. Bookshelves ascended from the floor to the domed ceiling. A sliding metal staircase ran on a track that curved around the room, enabling one to climb to the tallest shelf.

Not that he needed the staircase.

Through the immense glass panes that formed the ceiling, he could see the moon, and the stars winking above him. Year after year, century after century, he’d gazed at that same sky. Its response was always the same—beautiful, cold indifference.

Just like God.

He growled at the thought.

He hadn’t chosen this life; it had been forced on him.

So much for the justice that governs the universe. Dante was a fool to believe such myths. Some of us are damned by the actions of others and exiled to hell through no fault of our own.

It was rare that he indulged himself with such thoughts. They stoked his anger and tested his discipline. On this evening, they could not be put aside.

He’d served God, even after God had taken what he treasured most. And in such a sick and twisted way.

Then God had taken from him again.

Twice he had seen goodness disappear from the world, watching the very life ebb away. Twice he’d been powerless to stop it. On the third occasion, when he came upon Cassita, he had the power to do something.

So do something he did.

Interestingly enough, Cassita’s goodness wasn’t cold and indifferent, as her tardy response to his kiss indicated.

The thought seared him.

He sat behind his wooden desk and opened the center drawer, withdrawing a small, black velvet box.

He opened it.

A pretty face looked up at him from behind glass.

The face was of a woman, young and fair, with large blue eyes and anabundance of long, reddish blond curls.

William remembered his anger, long since buried, as he stroked the girl’s cheek. He remembered the centuries of despair and hopelessness he’d weathered until the night he’d found the girl with the green eyes, slumped in an alley.

With her face firmly fixed in his mind, he closed the box and put it back in its place, sliding the drawer shut.

The next morning, Raven awoke late. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, her mind active and worried.

She found a card on her nightstand that indicated she should ring Lucia for breakfast. The card itself was unremarkable. What was remarkable was the fact that Raven found herself squinting in order to read Lucia’s elegant script.

Her heart sank as she realized that her eyesight, like all the other changes to her body, was reverting back to what it had been before William rescued her.

If, in fact, he had rescued her.

In the bright light of day, she wondered about his story. He claimed she’d had a head injury, but apart from a headache or two and her memory loss, there wasn’t any physical evidence.

Of course, there was the strange matter of her changed appearance. She wondered how William had been able to bring that about.

William.

The name, like the man, was deceptive. His attractive exterior and elegant name belied the criminal who was prone to violence.

The man who’d kissed her the evening before.

She had limited experience when it came to kisses, but she recognized his expertise. The recognition was accompanied by the cooling tide of guilt.

William was handsome and he could be charming. Certainly he’d helped her more than once. But he was an art thief, a member of almost the lowest form of humanity.

And I let him kiss me.

Raven told herself she hadn’t pushed him away because she’d been emotional. She’d been frightened. She couldn’t be attracted to a criminal.

More precisely, she wouldn’t allow herself to be attracted to a criminal. No matter what.

She pulled on a robe to greet Lucia and was delighted when the woman set her brunch out on the balcony that opened from the bedroom.

Raven was grateful that two aspirin had been left on the tray, since her leg and ankle were aching. If the pain worsened, she’d have to start taking her prescription pain medication again.

She sighed at the thought.

As she enjoyed the noon sunshine her mind naturally drifted to the evening before.

William York was behind the theft of the illustrations from the Uffizi Gallery. Whether they’d belonged to him in the past or not, Raven didn’t know. Certainly his story was at odds with the account the Emersons had given.

In addition, William seemed almost too young to be a serious art collector. The collection he’d amassed downstairs rivaled that of many museums in quality, if not quantity, leading Raven to believe it had been acquired over decades, if not centuries, by his family.

Since Professor Emerson had already mentioned William as a potential suspect, it was more than likely he’d been investigated. Knowing he was guilty, she wondered why he hadn’t fled the city and returned to England.

Raven looked down at her half-eaten sweet roll. She’d suddenly lost her appetite.

William claimed to have saved her life, and killed in order to do it. While it was possible he’d lied about that, too, she couldn’t explain the strange images that continued to flood her consciousness—images of a dark alley and blood and the faces of the man and woman she’d seen the night before.

And there was the fact that she’d sketched William’s face before seeing it. She must have met him before.

If he’d killed to protect her, she certainly didn’t condone it. But she knew her story would be too fantastic for the police to believe. She’d had enough trouble with them already.

She could try to persuade William to give the illustrations back, so they could be enjoyed by everyone and not relegated to a private room in his villa. Given his attitude and the way he’d spoken about the illustrations, this task would not be easy.

A shadow fell across the table.

“Good morning,” William greeted her. “Did you rest well?”

“I found it difficult to sleep.” She pulled the edges of her bathrobe closed. “Would you like to join me?”

“I’ve eaten already.” He stepped out of the sun and back into the master bedroom, hovering in the doorway.

She found the movement strange.

“Don’t you want to sit in the sun?”

“Not particularly.” He sounded prim.

She gestured to his fair skin. “Do you burn easily?”

“I find the sun uncomfortable and tend to avoid it. Is breakfast to your liking?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Raven felt conspicuous eating in front of him, especially since her waist had noticeably thickened overnight. She pushed the tray aside and sipped her coffee, looking out over the extensive gardens and trees at the back of his villa.

“You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you.”

Raven shifted in her chair in order to appraise him. His clothes were impeccable and clean, although he appeared to be wearing the same black shirt and jeans he’d worn the night before.

Raven inferred he was wearing new clothes that resembled the others.

“Do you always wear black?”

He seemed taken aback by her question. “Ah, yes.”

“It’s a warm, sunny day. Aren’t you hot?”

“Not really.” His body tensed.

His nearness reminded her of the kiss they’d shared the evening before. It also reminded her that he’d had to convince himself not to kill her. It was time to disentangle herself from this situation.

“Thank you for your hospitality and coming to my rescue last night. I really should be going. I’d like to visit Bruno in the hospital.” She placed her coffee cup on the tray and gave him a smile calculated to disarm him.