“Yes.”
She kept walking. “And these are new.”
“It’s a varied selection that I thought might interest you. The newest botanical treatises from various expeditions to the Amazon plus several ancient texts that I had recreated from the Library of Congress. I noticed in your collection that you particularly preferred the journals of Pedro Teixeira, but you only had bits and pieces.” I pulled a hand bound edition from the end of the middle shelf. “This is the recreated journal.” I grabbed the larger book adjacent to it. “And these are modern, cross-referenced maps that correspond with his discoveries.”
She stared at me as if I were speaking another language, confusion flirting with disbelief along her pleasant features.
I re-shelved the books I’d plucked. “The bottom two rows are mostly botany. The middle two are Amazon specific. And the top two are a smattering of texts hand-picked by the phytology scholar in residence at the National Archives.”
The fire crackled and hissed as she walked around the bookcase, her gaze flicking from spine to spine.
Another weird feeling erupted in my chest. Not the burning or the fissure, but something different. My palms turned clammy. Nerves? Was this nerves?
“This is…” She walked around to my side again and stared at the wide bookcase.
I waited, my world revolving around her response.
Her face softened, the flimsy mask she attempted to put up slipping off. She reached out and stroked the spine of the recreated Teixeira journal.
I’d tempted her curiosity, given her the smallest taste of what I could give her, what I wanted to give her.
“What do you think?” The words sounded odd coming from my mouth. I never cared what anyone—other than my dad—thought about anything.
She stepped back and shook her head, my spell broken. The soft look disappeared, and she scowled up at me. “I think an actual trip to the Amazon would have been a million times better.”
15
Camille
I wanted to push his buttons, to make him realize he didn’t want me around anymore. But the way he deflated when I insulted his amazing bookcase cut me. It shouldn’t have. After all, I was his prisoner. Even so, the disappointment in him ate at me.
“I’d hoped you would like it.” He shrugged. “But I suppose not. I’ll have Timothy get rid of it.” Turning on his heel, he strode to the door.
I stared at the priceless texts arrayed before me, many of which I’d never in my wildest dreams thought I’d get the chance to see firsthand. These were copies, but it didn’t matter. They were here at my fingertips.
“Wait.” The word slipped from my lips on a hasty breath.
He paused, but didn’t turn around. “Yes?”
“Don’t get rid of them.”
“I thought you didn’t care for them?” He turned and strode back to me, the fire in his eyes rekindled.
“I didn’t say that.”
He smiled, giving him an almost boyish look that couldn’t be further from the truth. “You didn’t. And I’m generally not so great at inferring emotion, but I could sense your disdain.”
“I guess if I have to be a prisoner, I may as well have something to do.” I kept my answer as nonchalant as possible despite the fact that I wanted to go over every text, scan every map, and read every scrap of information written by Teixeira.
He studied me, his eyes searching mine. “This is going to require a deal.”
“What?” I backed away a step. “You just said you were giving these to me.”
“That was before.” He followed. “Now that I have something I know you want, I need something from you in return.”
“No.” I shook my head.
“Fine.” His smile turned into a grin. “I’ll have Timothy start a bonfire outside our bedroom window so you can see it.”
Monster. “You wouldn’t.”
“I will.”
My insides twisted, and I ground my teeth. “What do you want?”
“Just a kiss.”
A thrill shot through me, and I hated myself for it. He was horrible, a kidnapper, a stalker—every bad guy rolled into one. So why did he bring my emotions to the surface far easier than Link ever did?
“No.” I despised the tremor in my voice.
“You sure?” He ran his fingers along the spines and grabbed one book from an upper shelf. “This one is Phytology of Iris sibirica.” He opened the front pages and stopped on a hand drawn, vividly colored portrait of a Siberian iris. “You likely wouldn’t miss it.” He pulled on the page, the beautiful drawing ripping under his deliberate destruction.
“Stop!” I steeled my spine. “One kiss on the cheek. That’s it.”
His hand paused. “Not quite.”
My throat tightened, and the air in the room seemed to dissipate.
“What then?” I wanted to snatch the book from his grasp.
He stepped toward me, and I backed up until I could feel the waves of heat from the fireplace.
“I want a kiss.” He reached out and dragged his thumb along my lower lip. “A real one. And then you can keep the books.”