“Aubrey. I-I hadn’t expected to see you here.”
He smiled, allowing his gaze to drop over the vision of her. The wrist-length white gloves she wore looked out of place with the jeans and form-fitting scarlet T-shirt. He knew that Michael Lord, who maintained a network of contacts with the police on the surface world, had managed to clandestinely procure her purse and suitcase. Aubrey had been touched by her happiness upon receiving her familiar belongings and hadn’t seen fit to correct her in her belief that it had been his idea to get the things. In fact, her belongings had been retrieved under Blaise’s direction. The man was uncommonly concerned about her, even if he did carefully avoid her.
Aubrey preferred to see her in the sophisticated silks provided to her by Blaise, or even in her elaborate theatrical costumes. Nevertheless, he acknowledged her beauty at the moment, shower-fresh and clean-scrubbed as it was. Some day, he would drape her in richer robes than even the costume she’d removed just minutes ago.
One day, she would be the queen of his underground kingdom. He would make that bitch-demon Shirian, whom he regularly summoned and with whom he communed, serve her. He hid a smile at the fantasy.
Fortunately, he made a habit of making his fantasies reality.
“I’m sure you hadn’t meant to see me here,” he replied pleasantly. She caught the hint of sarcasm in his tone. Her gaze sharpened on him.
“How did you know I was planning to try and see Lord Delraven?” she asked.
Aubrey shrugged. “I saw the glint in your eyes when you were talking to Titurino about the perfect person to play Marc Antony.” He arched his brows when she gave him an innocent look. “Are you going to try and deny it? You’re carrying a script in your hand, Isabel.”
She glanced down and blushed. He laughed.
“You are a fool to attempt to persuade him to join your play. Even if you were to gain an audience with Blaise, it would be a lost cause. Blaise loves to watch a play, but he’d feel himself a fool strutting about on a stage.” He stepped closer, holding her stare. “I, on the other hand, would make an ideal conqueror and even better lover.” She gave him a glacial glance. “For Cleopatra,” he added.
Her scowl faded and she laughed. He chuckled along with her. He’d carefully cultivated her friendship in the past week.
“You’re impossible, do you know that?” she remonstrated as she glanced down the crested corridor distractedly. “Unfortunately, you’re probably also right. You might have to be my Marc Antony. I can’t seem to get close to Delraven.”
“May I ask, why this fever to see Blaise?”
She looked troubled.
“What is it, Isabel?” he asked, suddenly sober upon sensing her unrest. She gave him a flickering glance.
“I-I don’t know.” She hesitated and looked around, as if looking for eavesdroppers. “Can I trust you, Aubrey?”
“No one more.”
She bit at her lower lip with small, white teeth, the gesture mesmerizing him. He became hyperaware of her small breasts pressed tightly against the cotton fabric of the T-shirt, the swelling of her lungs with air, the seductive throb of the pulse at her white throat.
He blinked and looked away from the glory of her. The spell of her overcame him a lot—too much, in fact. It had been torture for him to court her this past week, to talk with her and spend time with her and gain her trust.
“It’s…it’s very odd about Lord Delraven,” she began haltingly. “Even though I’ve seen him only briefly, and he seems to be avoiding me, I feel as if…”
“Yes?” he prompted when she faded off.
“I feel as if I know him somehow. I-I have dreamed of him…or something,” she whispered.
He followed the trail of extra color that stained her cheeks with focused attention. Jealousy flared in his breast. He’d experienced the feeling only once before to any great degree—centuries ago when Elysse de Gennere got a similar look of longing in her eye when she spoke of Blaise, and when Blaise’s did the same.
And the feeling of jealousy burned much greater at the present moment.
Aubrey sensed Isabel wasn’t being completely honest, so he pressed with his ascendancy, urging her to open up and tell him her secret.
For there was a secret here.
“Lord Delraven is a singular creature, Isabel,” he murmured, using the power of his voice to hypnotize. “Not even he fully understands the origins of his power. It’s not surprising he has an effect on you, even from a distance. Many of the mortal women who have come to Sanctuary over the years have experienced his pull. He has had interactions with humans over the centuries—humans on the surface, that is,” he clarified, pointing upward, “and his magnetic aura has never failed to have an effect on men and women alike.”
“Are you trying to tell me I am experiencing what any mortal would in his presence?”
“I am saying that your obsession to see Delraven isn’t that unusual. You are behaving as most would—man or woman. It is why Delraven is so careful about not taking a lover on a long-term basis. Women become obsessed with him. You’re no different.”
Her chin went up after a few seconds and she met his stare levelly.