Annja strode out from the guest bathroom. Vanilla-scented steam wafted behind her. From what she’d seen of the place so far, it was all done in gray slate tiles and gray walls with brushed-steel accents and black marble. Ultramacho.
She liked it. No lace or frills for this chick. But could a girl get a maid to stop by the loft once in a while?
A large red department store box sat on the high king-size bed. Tugging her towel tightly about her chest, she checked the bedroom doors. Closed. The curtains bunched to either side of the window did not hide any lurking forms.
“You never used to be so paranoid,” she said. With the gift of Joan’s sword had also come many a curse. And just plain suspicion.
The closet door was still open from when she’d entered and had done a cursory search of the room. The balcony doors were also latched.
With a resolute sigh Annja slid onto the bed and ran a hand over the glossy box. “If there’s silk or some kind of lacy stuff in here I’m going to stuff it down his throat,” she said, knowing it was quite possible Garin had the room bugged.
The only occasions that would see her close to dressed up were better forgotten, as far as she was concerned. High heels and nylons were not on Annja Creed’s radar. And yet, one of the few times she had been wearing just that had found her dancing the tango in Garin’s arms and accepting his kiss.
It was ironic the situations they found themselves in.
“That man has a way about him. A way I don’t like.”
On the other hand, that waydid challenge her every time she came up against it. And she’d never walk away from a good challenge.
Taking a breath, she opened the box and exhaled with relief. Inside a folded pair of khaki pants and long-sleeved turquoise shirt sat neatly folded. Beneath the pants, a slip of black lace revealed itself.
Annja tugged out the bra and read the tag. “Hmm, French. The man knows his lingerie, I’ll give him that.” Much better than she did, she thought.
After dressing, and combing her wet hair into a ponytail, Annja padded barefoot down the marble hallway in search of the kitchen. She wasn’t above rooting about for sustenance. Though she’d gargled plenty of water in the shower, the taste of earth still lingered in her throat.
The lack of food in the huge stainless-steel refrigerator didn’t surprise her. Garin ate most meals at fine restaurants, with the requisite sexy lady by his side. And when at home, he probably ordered in.
Evian water was stocked as well as vodka and pomegranate juice. A carton of eggs and half a dozen bright red apples sat beside a 9 mm SIG Sauer P-250.
Annja smirked at the storage place. She supposed it was necessary for a man like Garin. One could never be too careful of the strangers one allowed into their bed. She might be packing, a spy sent by the enemy to take him down.
Rolling her eyes at the thought, Annja helped herself to a curvy bottle of pomegranate juice. Twisting open the plastic lid, she closed the refrigerator door.
“Make yourself at home.”
She choked on the first swallow. Garin stood where the open door had been. Arms crossed high on his chest, he smirked, and delivered that patented full-body once-over he did so well. The heat rose in Annja’s cheeks.
“I guessed right on the sizes, I see.”
“You’ve had plenty of practice.” Annja slid onto a high stool before the stainless-steel freestanding counter.
“I have. But if you’ve followed women’s fashion through the ages, you’d be startled to know what passes as a size six today didn’t exist decades ago. Every year the manufacturers make the sizes fit a smaller woman. You’d think if they wanted to sell out they make a size twelve a ten.”
“Male logic at its finest. So, no food?”
“If you’re hungry I’ll order in. What’s your pleasure? Chinese? Thai? Tapas?”
“Actually, I could go for a burger.”
“Annja, the grease, and not to mention all that trans fat.”
“Look at you, Mr. Health Conscious. Didn’t think it would matter for a man who’s immortal.”
“As far as we know,” Garin said.
Annja looked at him carefully. The man didn’t look as if he’d aged much, since the sword had become whole—and hers. Of course, she had never noticed those fine creases at the corners of his eyes before.
“You thinking about investing in Botox, big boy?” she said with a laugh.
“Now that you bring it up, how isthe sword treating you? Keeping you from danger? From falling into coffin-size holes?” he taunted.
“It’s there when I need it. There have been a few times I’ve wanted it, though, and maybe for lack of space, it wouldn’t come to my grip.”
“Interesting. So it only appears when possible. Gotta watch those empty graves, Annja.”
“Yeah, so rub it in. Haven’t I done you enough favors to earn amnesty from your sarcasm?”
“If you’re keeping score, you’ll be disappointed to know I’ve racked up more brownie points than you have. But I don’t keep score. That’s so gauche.”
She was fairly certain that when the indignities she had suffered for the man’s favor were measured against the times he’d helped her she would come out ahead. But Garin was right, keeping score was just wrong.
But who said it couldn’t be fun? She’d take the points when she could.
“Let’s talk business,” Annja said. “You know about the skull and Serge. And Benjamin Ravenscroft is a name I’ve heard but know nothing about.”
“Let’s chat in the living room.”
She followed him into the long main room, which was lined with windows that looked out over Central Park. Snowflakes peppered the gray sky. They were supposed to get two inches of fresh snow.
The brown leather furniture didn’t overwhelm the large room. Huge ferns and a plant with a bright red flower gave it a tropical touch. Annja chose a chair, because she didn’t want to share the couch with the man.
She couldn’t be too cautious around Garin Braden. She just couldn’t let down her guard.
Settling onto the chair, she tugged her legs to her body and conformed to the hug of the supple leather. She felt very relaxed and too comfortable.
What are you doing, Annja? He’s the bad guy, remember?
Garin reclined on the couch, legs spread and arms stretched across the back. His crisp white business shirt and black trousers gave him an undeniably sensual aura. Though his features were rugged, not quite handsome, she bet most women did a double-take when this man walked by.
She hated that she struggled between despising the guy and wanting to learn more about him. But truly, there was so much to know. The man had walked through five hundred years of history. What archaeologist in her right mind would not grill him if given the chance?
“Whimsical thoughts dancing in those hazel eyes of yours, Annja?”
“Scholarly, actually.” She dropped her feet to the floor and propped her elbows on her knees. “Just give me something, Garin. One little nugget of history that the books and artifacts have never revealed.”
His eyes twinkled. Annja imagined that glint of mischief guarded the universe’s mysteries. Indiana Jones watch out, Annja Creed was going to nab this lost treasure.
“I don’t read history books, so how can I know what has been mentioned and what has not?”
“Avoid major wars, plagues or enlightenments. I want something tangible. Rumor-mill stuff.”
“Gossip, eh? Very well. Name a century,” he volleyed.
“Sixteenth.”
“Hmm.” He thumbed the corner of his mouth in thought. “Catherine of Aragon. Not so devoted to her good king husband as she wanted him to believe.”
“Hmm. Don’t believe it. She raged against Henry VIII’s infidelities.”
“As she should have. But their early married years were a struggle. Henry was quite the tightwad, and her father, King Ferdinand, refused to send Catherine money for her household. She sought compassion in the arms of a man who gave her brief love and a bit of coin to tide her through the tough times.”